Alinor (48 page)

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.

Albini lowered his shield. "I will thank you for the courtesy if you will give me leave to mount."

"My lord, that horse is not fit," Ian replied, watching the destrier's struggle to rise. Then he laughed. "If you will have it no other way, I will yield to you."

That drew an answering laugh from Albini and assuaged his angry frustration. "If it could get me one of those gray devils you ride, I could almost bring myself to accept. But you teach me courtesy, de Vipont. I yield me."

"No you will not," Ian responded promptly, "for a mare's son has failed, not your mother's. You as near overmatched me as I do not like to admit. We will meet some other time."

The horse was now on its feet, but something had been severely strained, for it was limping. So, Ian realized, was Albini. He must have hurt his leg when the horse fell. Without more words, Ian accompanied him to the edge of the field to be sure no one would try to take advantage of his condition, and then took his leave with a few polite platitudes. He was in the best of spirits. The battle with Albini had been most stimulating, but also rather exhausting. It was very convenient that Albini's horse should fall. It had provided him with a needed restful interlude. He held his horse a moment, scanning the field. The dust was much worse. He had not the faintest idea where his friends were. On the other hand, most probably his enemies did not know where he was, either.

In the next few moments it was proved that the latter expectation was too sanguine. As soon as Ian realized he would not be able to pick a likely candidate for his attentions from the sidelines, he rode toward the nearest opening in the mass of battling men and moving horses. He was a little surprised when no one rode out to meet him. He had assumed that, since he could be seen, someone would hurry to make capital of the fatigue from his recent exertions. However, it was not until he was swallowed up into the dimmer air near the center of the field that anyone showed an interest in crossing swords with him. He was again challenged by two knights, and this time he had little hope of an easy or quick victory over them. Fulk de Cantelu and Henry of Cornhill were not novices, and they were seeking to revenge themselves for their unexpected loss in the jousting lists. If they were successful in their enterprise, Ian knew he would not come alive off the field.

Nonetheless, Ian had none of the sense of despair that had gripped him the previous day. His experience in war was wide and varied. He was still relatively fresh. The nick in his side was giving
him
no trouble. Cheerfully he shouted aloud the names of his attackers, swung his horse wide and spurred it sharply, so that it leapt forward toward Henry's right side, leaving Fulk, who was on Henry's left, blocked by his own partner. The surprise generated by this move and the unexpected angle of Ian's attack permitted him to land two mighty blows. One caught Henry on the helm, and the other smashed into his ribs. Both helm and mail held—the armor was of the best quality—but Ian heard the man cry out and knew he was hurt.

Wisely, Ian made no attempt to follow up that success with any further effort to belabor his opponent. Henry was hurt but by no means unable to fight back or defend himself. Prodding with his left knee and spurring with his right heel, Ian turned his mount still further in the direction he was headed so that he was now behind Cornhill. Meanwhile, Fulk had recovered from his surprise and ridden forward around Henry to come up on Ian's left side. The move was grossly unimaginative; in fact, it was exactly what Ian hoped and expected.

Because Ian had sense enough not to linger in his duel with Henry, even though it seemed to hold the promise of the quick elimination of one opponent, Fulk found himself behind his intended victim. His joy at seeing Ian's unprotected back did not last long. Ian had leaned forward, swung both legs back and prodded his stallion's haunches. Promptly the beast lashed out with both hind legs. It did not catch Fulk's mount in the head, as Ian hoped, but one shod hoof did make contact with the other stallion's shoulder. In response, the animal reared and Fulk's hopeful stroke went awry.

Shouting curses, Fulk wrestled his horse down, prepared to strike again at a man he thought unable to turn in time to defend himself. But the moment Ian's destrier had his back hooves on the ground, Ian made him rear upright and turn on his hind legs. Fulk's sword met a ready shield, and the horse, coming down, struck Cornhill's mount on the left hindquarter. Startled, Henry's destrier plunged away to the right, again leaving Ian momentarily with only one opponent.

Not for long, Ian thought bitterly, as his eye caught half a dozen knights riding through the press of fighting men. They looked neither right nor left for opponents. They rode straight as an arrow's flight toward Ian and his two challengers. John's hired killers, Ian thought. Viciously he spurred forward. This was no time for the niceties of tourney fighting; this was war, where the only good enemy was a dead one. Invigorated by rage, he launched a fusillade of blows at Fulk while he spurred his horse unmercifully. Too busy guarding himself to prod his destrier forward and out of the way, Fulk came suddenly to the end Ian had planned for him. The gray horse struck Cantelu's mount just in the barrel of the belly. Instinctively, the stallion curved its neck to bite and tried to rear. Ian thrust hard. Fulk twisted to present his shield, leaned back—and the horse went over.

Never pausing a moment in his spurring, Ian charged toward the oncoming knights. Suddenly, from behind him, he heard his name called aloud twice. A rush of relief was immediately swamped by shock. The voice was not that of Leicester or Vesci. It was FitzWalter, who was shouting for reinforcements. Ian knew his one real fear had been realized. The two plots against him had been combined, either deliberately or by accident The bitter realization nearly undid him at once. Turning his head to see if it was really FitzWalter not only provided him with proof that it was, but added the unwelcome information that Saer de Quincy was already at FitzWalter's side. Ian had no delusions about how this must end. Six before and two behind were more than any one man could handle. And turning his head permitted Cornhill, who had mastered his horse and his own hurts, to strike a blow against which Ian was unguarded.

A shout of triumph from the oncoming knights was an unexpected blessing. Ian's sword came up in time to deflect Cornhill's blow, which would certainly have cut his throat if it had not completely severed his head from his body. It took him in the shoulder, but glancingly. The gasp Ian uttered had nothing to do with the pain of the blow. It was a sound of sheer surprise as the six-man ram that had been thundering toward him neatly split in two, detoured around Henry and himself and, three on a side, took on FitzWalter and de Quincy.

It took Ian ten minutes to finish off Cornhill instead of five, because he was so consumed by laughter that half his blows were ineffective. In spite of his amusement, he was horribly aware that his danger was not materially decreased. The fact that one set of plotters had eliminated the second set in the mistaken belief that they were corning to Ian's rescue, did not change the fact that there were six men behind him who intended to kill him. Finally, Ian struck the sword from Henry's hand and had the satisfaction of hearing him yell again and seeing that he made no move to reach for the mace fastened to his saddle. Ian let his horse run past, then wheeled it round.

Cornhill was already gone, hopefully to nurse his broken fingers. Saer de Quincy was just going down. Ian saw one of the attackers drag the shield from his arm, another seize his sword. He braced himself for a new onslaught, but there was no need. Without a glance in his direction, the three rode off, losing themselves in the mass of fighting men and clouds of dust. Thoroughly bemused, Ian looked toward FitzWalter, who was still heavily engaged. He was faced with a ridiculous point of honor. Technically it was his duty to attempt to rescue the man.

Like a gift from heaven came a single knight who called a challenge. Blessing the man, whoever he was, Ian caught the stroke he launched and attended to his own business—but not too energetically. Fortunately, his opponent was not his equal, because Ian was still shaken, now and again, with most untimely mirth. But, between fits of laughter, he watched FitzWalter's battle. It did not last long. Shield and sword were wrenched from him. Ian parried the blows his blessing aimed at him with inattentive precision. The behavior of the first trio of knights was suggestive but no guarantee of the behavior of this second group. And, for a moment it looked as if they were, indeed, of a different mind, for they turned from FitzWalter and rode toward Ian. However, they did not pause. Swerving off to the right, they left Ian to his mismatched fight.

With a few powerful strokes, Ian disarmed the country squire who had sought to try his strength. He did not listen to the man's name. All desire to laugh had left him. He had recognized one of the shields. Sir Robert de Remy was one of the second group of three.

"Now that," a pleasant voice behind Ian said, "was very odd, very odd indeed."

Ian ground his teeth. "I swear it was none of my doing. I—"

Leicester laughed aloud. "You need not tell me! Do I not know Lady Alinor's fine and elegant fingers stirring a pot of soup when I see them? But so far, so well done. Let us finish it now," Leicester said, not realizing he had stricken Ian mute with his insight. He raised his voice, calling at the top of a pair of healthy lungs, "A Vipont! A Vipont!"

CHAPTER TWENTY

The remainder of the tourney was an anticlimax to both Ian and Alinor. Although she had been spared the sight of Ian being prepared for the slaughter by Cantelu and Cornhill, she knew when the worst danger to her husband was past because she saw his enemies ride and limp from the field. When FitzWalter and de Quincy followed soon after, stripped of both swords and shields, it was apparent to her that her plan had worked. Relief from fear should have brought her joy; the king's barely controlled chagrin should have given her pleasure; instead the only emotion that seemed to remain within her was rage.

That emotion had its benefits. She sat in a rigid silence, giving no indication that she knew her husband was now safe—or as safe as one could be in the midst of a tourney. No matter when he glanced at her, John could not find any sign of relaxation or satisfaction. As much as he hated it, the king was forced to believe that Alinor had no knowledge of any special reason for her husband's good fortune. Pure accident or his own skill had saved Ian de Vipont. Had there been tampering with the tourney, John might have found a way to turn it against Ian. He could not bring himself to believe that so besotted a loon as de Vipont could keep any plan he made from his wife. In fact, it was obvious from the strain Alinor was laboring under that she knew the rumored plot against him.

That thought made John utter a faint, high-pitched whine of rage. When he found out who had fouled his plans with so asinine an arrangement, he would inflict such tortures on them as had not yet been devised even in hell. The phrase, a mere outlet for his current frustration, led to an idea that might be profitable and certainly was pleasant. He could and would make open search for those inept plotters. He would catch them and punish them so that damnation and an eternal sojourn in hell would be a pleasant reprieve from his attentions—and thereby he would clean his own name from any stain of treachery against de Vipont. Good! That was very good. Moreover, Salisbury could do the hunting. Salisbury's affection for de Vipont was well known. No one would doubt he was honest in his search, or that the king was in earnest about catching and punishing the guilty. And William's heart would be made easy, too.

All in all, John decided, the black look easing from his face, perhaps this was for the best. After that scene at dinner last night, if de Vipont had not come safe away, nothing could have stopped men from believing the worst. I should not have allowed my rage to push me into desiring so quick a revenge, John thought. Sooner or later, and it could not be much later, de Vipont would be embroiled in some war or other. Had not William said something about rebellious castellans? Could not the king send help to a loyal vassal? If the help was rejected, perhaps with violence, would not that be treason? Details would need to be arranged—a call for help, perhaps—to lend verisimilitude, but that did not discourage John at all. It was exactly the kind of planning he enjoyed most.

Despite his total lack of interest in it, Ian was a strong runner-up for the melee prize as well as the prize for jousting. His battle with Albini had been in the heroic style of the romances all loved to hear, and after he had absorbed Leicester's remark, he was so furious that he hewed down everyone who crossed his path. In the end, the prize went to Arundel, largely because of the unspoken agreement between Pembroke and Salisbury that it would be unwise to cast two days of success for Ian into John's teeth. It was just as well they made that decision, because Ian did not even wait to hear the results. As soon as the trumpets sounded the end of battle, he rode off the field and directly to his house without even stopping to tell his squires.

Behind him he left consternation. Owain and Geoffrey had come with Alinor. They saw their master ride off at a spanking pace and had no idea whether to follow him or wait upon his lady. If they left her to come home alone, he would slay them; if her vassals were to accompany her, however, it was their duty to follow Lord Ian. Worse still, if he wanted service and no one was at hand, there would be trouble. Before they could even discuss the matter, a number of bruised and bedraggled combatants were converging on Ian's colors to render up their pledges for horse and armor ransom. The situation was one neither squire had ever faced before. Was it their duty to take the pledges? How should they explain their lord's absence?

Salvation came to them. As welcome as the Mother of Heaven, Lady Alinor rode up just ahead of the slower, more reluctant, defeated knights. A swift question and a frightened answer made the situation all too clear to Alinor. He had gone off to tell his lady he was alive—so delicate a lady, too refined to gird her spirit to see her love die, if that was what was needful. Alinor's face was set like marble, her eyes and smile as blank and empty as any statue when she greeted Ian's defeated opponents. To each man she apologized for Ian's absence, pleading some urgent and unexpected business and begging that they do them the favor of calling at their house on the next day.