Alinor (55 page)

Not that Ian took any pleasure in seeing the land ravaged by war, but he could not bring himself to face Alinor again so soon. After a few weeks of separation or of being together, the pain dulled. When together, they sank into a polite, formal relationship in which they could discuss business matters pleasantly and even with enjoyment. The only difficulty was that they still slept together. Ian both hoped and feared that Alinor would tell him to move to another chamber. Many times he vowed he would initiate the move himself and take another woman to his bed, but there was no woman he wanted when Alinor was there. So he lay with her, and cursed himself when she pretended so ignorantly or responded and then wept hysterically, creeping out of the bed when she thought he was asleep, so that he would not offend her further by offering comfort.

It was with the bitterness of such a meeting in his mouth that Ian had ridden hastily north, accompanied by only a small troop. His troops lay in seige under Sir Robert de Remy's control around the last of the castles held by a rebellious castellan. The first had fallen quickly, the second had yielded without a fight. This keep, which, like Roselynde, fronted on the sea, was the best supplied, the hardest to take, and was ruled by the most stubborn castellan. Ian suspected that the man was receiving supplies, men and encouragement from "somewhere," but he was careful not to investigate the suspicion, and to order Sir Robert to ignore all hints on the subject.

They had still been probing and testing for weaknesses in the defenses when Ian had received the appeal for "justice" from his vassals in the north. With the message, which had been sent on from Roselynde, was a letter from Alinor asking that, if he decided to ride north, he would stop by Roselynde and give her his company as far as Monmouth, where Isobel expected to be confined within a week or two. Without more ado, Ian had abandoned the direction of the siege to Sir Robert and the eldest and steadiest of the loyal castellans, and had ridden home. It was unfortunate that he was so torn between hope and fear that he did not recognize the cold hand and averted eyes Alinor offered were a duplication of his own unhappy emotions. In that instant he had flown from disappointed hope to rage, and when he woke no more response in his wife than silence or a faltered apology for her inability to please him, despair had swallowed reason.

Perhaps it should have been as clear to Ian—who had known Alinor as long as Isobel had—that no clash of wills could produce such results. Alinor simply avoided contests of will by doing what she liked and facing the consequences when they came, or she argued loud and long. Ian knew it, but, in the throes of the pain, he never questioned
why
he was suffering. He endured what he could and ran away when he could endure no more. Now, with his affairs settled so unseasonably soon, he was faced with a renewal of his agony before his wounds had scabbed over. Moreover, he had not received word from Alinor, who would, he was sure, write to tell him of Isobel's condition and delivery. That meant the child had not yet been born. Ian had no intention of cooling his heels in Monmouth while he awaited this event.

Desperation lent spurs to memory, and Ian recalled Sir Peter at Clyro Hill. The man had received Alinor willingly enough when she went on progress and had made no other hostile move. Wales lay quiet also, so Ian had put the matter out of his mind. Now it seemed reasonable enough to stop at Clyro, which was only a few miles out of the direct route back to Monmouth, and test the welcome he would receive. He stopped a night at Caergwrle and spent the next night at Powys, making no secret of where he was going. He had no objection to Sir Peter receiving word that he was on his way. It would be interesting and significant, in fact, if news was sent from Powys to Clyro Hill.

Word of his coming had certainly gone before him, Ian decided, but he was welcomed with such obvious pleasure that, at first, his suspicions were allayed. Sir Peter was delighted to see him. He had been on the verge of bidding the castle chaplain to write to ask him to come. There was a matter, Sir Peter said, that needed to be carefully discussed. Ian professed himself very ready to listen, merely remarking that Sir Peter should remember final decision on any subject lay with Lady Alinor.

"But she will assuredly do as you bid her," Sir Peter said.

Ian smiled, about to say he would take no wager on that, but he repressed the words. He did not wonder at the moment why Sir Peter should assume something so foreign to the character of a mistress he knew very well, because a fascinating idea had come to him. It was the only thing he had not yet tried. Thus far he had only threatened to deal with Alinor's people on his own. Actually, he had not even accompanied her on her visitations to her own domains, and he had consulted with her on what he planned to do on Adam's property. Perhaps if he actually moved without doing her the courtesy of consulting her―-

"Very well. Let me hear what troubles you."

"Oh, my lord, not tonight. You have had a long ride and doubtless are tired. The matter is not so pressing as that."

To Ian that sounded the first false note. When a man has a problem great enough to merit summoning or asking help from his overlord, it is a problem he is all too ready to speak about day or night, timely or untimely. Yet Ian could not doubt Sir Peter's real pleasure and relief at seeing him. Perhaps the problem was personal or embarrassing in some way, or perhaps Sir Peter knew it was a matter that would be displeasing, like an inability to pay what was due from the estate. In such cases, he might well wish to be sure his overlord was rested, fed, comfortable, and in the best humor. Poor man, Ian thought, if he wishes to wait until my mood grows merry he will have a long wait.

"I am not so frail a flower," Ian remarked, "but if you wish to leave it for tomorrow, I do not mind."

"You will stay a little while, I hope, my lord?" Sir Peter ventured. "When does Lady Alinor join you? You will stay a few days, at least?"

"A few days if you like, yes, but Lady Alinor will not come unless there is some special reason." Ian's voice almost checked, but he forced it on smoothly enough. "She is assisting at the lying in of the Countess of Pembroke."

Something was rotten, very rotten. Whatever it was had to do with Alinor. Sir Peter could not, even as much as the dictates of politeness ordered, conceal his intense chagrin when he heard that Alinor would not come. Ian's initial reaction was pique. Did Sir Peter account him for so little? Did he think Ian would not understand what Alinor would? As the first angry sensation subsided, Ian realized it was no generalized contempt for his powers and veneration of Alinor's. Sir Peter's assumption that Alinor would obey her husband was genuine. Perhaps there was the seat of the trouble— Sir Peter felt that Alinor was too much under Ian's influence. But in what way was that Sir Peter's affair? And how could it matter to him? And what would be changed if Alinor did join them? Ian knew his reputation was good, and if he had wished to influence Alinor to change her castellans, he would have done that before she renewed the oaths of fealty.

Ian answered polite enquiries about Isobel in which neither man was very interested. He had a substantial fund of small talk, as any courtier did, but made no effort to introduce it. Let Sir Peter choose the subject. Ian stretched his long legs toward the fire. Although it was mid-August now and even the nights were warm, summer never really passed the massive stone walls that wept moisture constantly from their rubble filling. Fires burned all year round, smaller in summer, but welcome nonetheless. Rolling his wine goblet between his hands and sniffing occasionally at the rising aroma, Ian looked as relaxed and contented as a big cat. And, like a cat, he was quite ready to spring from quiescence into activity on the instant.

The inner alertness seemed out of order when, having exhausted the subject of the Countess of Pembroke's family and childbearing, Sir Peter asked, "Do you think this quarrel between the king and the Pope is like to grow into a dangerous matter?"

"Yes," Ian replied soberly. "Both men have gone too far to retreat gracefully. I am sorry for it. I know Langton—the new archbishop—and he is such a man as should have that power. Also, I will say plain that I did not wish to see the Bishop of Norwich elevated to the primacy of the Church in England. He had neither the strength nor the courage to stand against the king at such times as it would be needful."

"You are concerned for tomorrow. I was thinking more about today."

"I do not see your meaning. It is true that King John has cast the monks out of Canterbury and seized the archepiscopal estates, but even if the Pope should condemn him roundly, even if he should punish him with interdict or excommunication—which I do not think he will until all hope of reconciliation is gone—that cannot be done today. All this must be matter for the future."

Something specific was in Sir Peter's mind, Ian knew, but the man did not seem to be able to come to the point.

"I meant that the king was much occupied with this matter. With his eyes fixed upon Rome, he may not see what is stirring under his nose."

Ian put down his goblet on the small table near his chair, and sat up. "What is stirring?" he asked sharply.

Sir Peter's eyes did not meet his. "Doubtless you know better than I, my lord," he said uneasily. "You are clan brother to Lord Llewelyn, are you not?"

"Llewelyn? I am his clan brother, yes, but Llewelyn does not tell any man all his secrets—especially me, when he knows I will argue against him. Anyway, I have not seen Llewelyn since my wedding. If you have heard rumors of trouble in Wales, you were ill-advised to keep silent. Why did you not send me word?"

"I have heard nothing," Sir Peter replied defensively. "I only thought that trouble in England spells trouble here."

That was false. The tone, the averted eyes, everything was wrong. Sir Peter had news, and definite news. But why should he keep it to himself? Ian's first reaction was to wonder whether it was news of more mischief the king was planning against him. In a moment he dismissed that notion. None of Alinor's men, whatever they felt about Ian, wanted their lady to fall into the king's hands. Even the few who had no concern for Alinor personally, preferred her management to John's. The news Sir Peter had heard must concern himself. Ian wondered if a report of the conversation he had had with Alinor about their suspicions of Sir Peter had somehow reached the man. If it had, no doubt it came in a distorted and exaggerated form, relayed from maid to maid, and then from man to man.

There was no doubt in Ian's mind that Sir Peter had friendly relations with Lord Gwenwynwyn. There was nothing wrong in that. It would be foolish to be at daggers drawn with the most powerful Welsh lord in the area. Certainly Gwenwynwyn had sent word from Powys that Ian was on his way to Clyro Hill. But if Sir Peter intended to defy Alinor and break his oath, surely he would have done it while Ian was engaged with Simon's rebellious castellans. He was not planning rebellion; he
had
been glad to see Ian come riding in, and he had been very sorry Alinor was not also on her way. A glimmering of an idea began to emerge, but Ian needed to work it over in peace, undistracted by small talk and verbal fencing. He stretched and yawned.

"So far," he assured Sir Peter, "there is no trouble— no more than usual, I mean—in England. Besides, any day there should be news that will settle the country more firmly. The queen should be lightened—God willing, of an heir—very soon." The last words were somewhat indistinct, lost in another yawn.

"You are more weary than you thought, my lord," Sir Peter remarked with poorly concealed relief. "Let me show you to your chamber."

"You must be right," Ian said, smiling and yawning still again, but a sudden cold had descended upon him.

It struck him with sharp warning that he had not seen any woman, except maidservants, in the keep, yet he knew Sir Peter had a wife and children. The absence of the lady and the children had not troubled him at first. He had ridden in after dark, and without thinking consciously about it, had assumed the children were abed and the wife busied with them or simply withdrawn into the women's quarters. Later, his mind had been on Sir Peter and their talk. Now, the lack of female attention was baldly apparent. A lady must offer her husband's overlord the normal courtesies—a bath if he wanted one, help in disrobing, an inspection of the chamber, bed and linen to be sure all was clean and proper, a pleasant word or two wishing him easy sleep. There were any number of innocent reasons why the lady of the keep would fail to appear, but her husband would have been quick to offer such explanations.

Unsure of whether or not his asking for Sir Peter's wife would arouse suspicion, Ian followed Sir Peter without comment, even when they turned into the stairwell. Normally, a guest, even an honored guest, would be housed in a chamber on the main floor. Women did not like strange men in the upper chambers where the maids and, if they were present, gently born maidens, were too available.

When they emerged from the stairwell, Sir Peter turned. "My wife is away," he said. "Her mother ails and she has taken the children to see their grandmother. I am no hand at housewifery, so I hope you will pardon me for making things easy for myself. I have given you our chamber. I know it is comfortable."

"I would have been comfortable anywhere, but I thank you."

The excuse was reasonable. Ian felt it would have had more of a ring of truth if it had been mentioned earlier, but altogether Sir Peter was so poor a liar that Ian grew more uncertain about his ill intentions the more lies he told. Sir Peter shepherded him solicitously through the doorway and into the bedchamber, gesturing toward the waiting maids and telling Ian to ask them for anything that was lacking.

"I did not know what to tell them to prepare. I suppose they know, but if there is more you need or want, tell them and they will fetch it for you." He paused a moment and looked away. "Do you want a woman?"

"No," Ian replied promptly, not because he was celibate when parted from his wife but because, more than ever, he needed privacy to think. It was an odd suggestion. His friends might make him such an offer, but it was a little unexpected from his wife's castellan.