Alinor (56 page)

"I will leave you to your rest then," Sir Peter said, and virtually scurried from the room.

Ian stood stock-still, staring after the man. He was torn between a horrible desire to laugh at the incredible ineptness of Sir Peter's attempts to conceal that he was planning some wrong, and the alarm bells that were ringing louder and louder in his brain. Only he could not see where the danger lay. True, he was unarmed and without weapons—he glanced around, noting a sturdy table that would make an excellent shield and the tall, wrought-iron candleholder that would make an excellent, if unwieldly, weapon. But it was insane. Surely the man would not bring him to his own bedchamber to murder him. Nor, Ian thought, as one of the maids came forward to undo his belt, would he leave two women in the room with him.

With his mind elsewhere, Ian permitted the women to undress him, and then washed sketchily in the bowl of warm water that was provided. He drew on a proffered bedrobe, shaking his head when they asked if he desired anything else. When a pitcher of watered wine had been set by the bed in case he grew thirsty in the night, the maids curtsied and withdrew. Ian sat down by the fire, drawing the table close on his left and the candleholder close on his right. Sure that he could reach both easily, he left the question of defending himself to his subconscious and concentrated on the real problem. In ultimate terms, it was far less important what Sir Peter intended to do than why he intended to do it.

Ian took out his glimmering of an idea and looked at it. He went back to his wedding time and put together his relationship with Llewelyn and Alinor's remark that she had spoken to Sir Peter several times without really attending to what he said because her attention was all for her husband. What had happened? Ian asked himself, his mind instantly diverted from the life-and-death questions of Clyro Hill. What had come between him and Alinor? Could Alinor so long hold a grudge because he had reproved her? That was not possible, but what could—He checked the bitter round of thoughts angrily. He had been over that matter ten thousand times already.

The conclusion he and Alinor had come to was that Sir Peter might be considering rebellion, but Sir Peter was an old and loyal servant. Besides, after the fall of the keep in Sussex, it was unlikely that any vassal not yet in rebellion would begin now. Turn the suspicion around and add in Ian's near surety that Llewelyn was casting eyes at Powys and looking for a reason to attack Gwenwynwyn. If Sir Peter had warned Alinor of Llewelyn's intentions, which he might have heard of through Gwenwynwyn, and Alinor would not attend to him— what must Sir Peter think? If Ian himself were an unimportant castellan and saw the upper millstone of Llewelyn above him and the nether millstone of Llewelyn's clan brother below him—saw also that the wedge that kept the two stones apart, that is, Lady Alinor, was withdrawn—he would expect to be ground to dust between them.

One matter was not clear. If Sir Peter was convinced and rebellious, why did he not act at once? Why had he welcomed Alinor on progress? Why was he so glad to see Ian? But rebellion had never been in question— only ridding himself of the baleful influence of the Llewelyn-bound husband. Murder was the logical answer. Presumably, when Ian was dead Alinor would return to her normal self. But surely that would be to fall off the spit into the fire. Alinor would scarcely be grateful for the murder of her husband if, as Sir Peter must assume to make the argument tenable, she was so enamored of him. Besides, murder was surely an excessive reaction. Why had Sir Peter not repeated his warnings when Alinor came on progress? Suddenly, Ian grinned. He probably had broached the topic, but from the wrong direction. Instead of warning Alinor of Llewelyn's or Gwenwynwyn's intentions, he had warned her against Ian. That would have set the fat in the fire, Ian thought. Whatever trouble there was between himself and Alinor, there was no distrust involved. She would have scorched Sir Peter's ears right off his head if he implied that her husband was about to betray her. Probably she would have lashed out even before she heard the whole tale—and that was why Alinor had never mentioned the matter.

Obviously, Sir Peter had not quite decided what to do. Possibly he had hoped that if Alinor came he could confront them both with his suspicions. Now he was in doubt. He had sent his wife and children away to safety, but the luxurious treatment Ian was receiving indicated that he had not brought himself to the sticking point. Ian seized a candle and stood up. Even if Sir Peter was innocent of evil intentions, was merely worried and distressed, it was unhealthy to have such ideas festering in his brain. The best thing was to lay it out in the open and try to put the man's fears, whatever they were, to rest.

The antechamber was empty. Ian looked at it blankly, wondering where Owain and Geoffrey were. His own surprise annoyed him. He should have realized he was alone. He had been listening for a step that presaged an attack. He would have heard the boys enter. Ian turned toward the door, but he did not move forward. Instead he stared at it with open-mouthed surprise. Slowly his skin darkened to an ugly mahogany, as the blood of rage filled his head.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! How could he have walked past that door and not seen it? How? Whatever Sir Peter's motives or intentions, they had been long thought upon and long planned. He had hung the door of a prison cell on the entrance to his bedchamber. There was the small barred opening through which a guard could speak to or observe a prisoner. There on the floor was the slot through which food could be pushed. Ian gritted his teeth to prevent himself from screaming with fury. Then, without hope, but because—too late—he would leave no small thing overlooked, he walked to the door, lifted the latch, and threw his weight against it. He might as well have put his shoulder to the 12-foot-thick castle walls. The door was not only locked but barred.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Alinor's messenger missed Ian by one day. The news he carried was happy and not urgent, so he stayed the night where he was and turned south again to follow his lord's track the next morning. In the afternoon, a terrific thunderstorm delayed him for several hours. He rode more quickly after that, fearing lest his lord arrive ahead of him at Monmouth. That would not please his lady in the least. It was near morning when he came to Caergwrle, but he waited only until his horse was rested and rode on again. He was still, they told him, a full day behind Lord Ian. He had asked anxiously whether his lord had turned east, and had been answered that Lord Ian had taken the road that ran south. If he turned east after that, they would not know, of course.

The messenger made the best time he could to Powys, and arrived some time before the sun set. The day had been hot, and neither he nor the horse could go further. He was very glad to hear that his lord had left only that morning, and had said definitely that he would stop at Clyro Hill. In the cool of the early evening, the messenger set out again. The moon was near full, and there would be light enough. He should come to Clyro Keep well before dawn and be able to deliver the letter he carried as soon as his lord woke.

That plan, all but the very last part, was fulfilled without difficulty. The track was easy enough to follow, and he had no other trouble until he came to the tight-shut castle. Energetic pounding upon the small postern gate brought a night guard. The first hint that all was not well came when the guard would not speak to him. He said no more than to stop his noise and that someone would come. It was a rather long wait, but at last a man of authoritative manner arrived. The messenger said at once that he came from Lady Alinor with letters for her lord. Instead of instantly opening the gate, as the messenger expected, the man spoke softly through the wicket. Lord Ian had not come, he said, nor was he expected, nor was the lord or lady of the manor at home. Try for his lordship at Bulith Wells, or perhaps he had taken the road east to Leominster or Worcester.

"He said at Powys he was coming here."

Even in the dim light, the messenger could see that the man's face was tense and troubled. Nonetheless, he only shook his head positively. "Perhaps he heard on the road that the keep was empty. He is not here, and I will allow no one to enter."

Before the messenger could protest that he needed rest and food and shelter, that any man from Lady Alinor had a right to so much in one of the lady's keeps, the wicket slammed shut. For a moment or two he stood staring at the blind door, with the realization creeping in on him that the whole thing stank to high heaven. Why should the guard not have said his lord was away? How could a messenger be denied a night's lodging even if only serfs lay in the keep—he was only one man, how could he endanger anyone? Wales was a mad place. Who knew what had happened at Clyro Hill? The messenger did not remount his horse. He tugged the animal's bridle and walked away toward the shelter of the woods, carefully keeping the beast between him and the wall. Probably no arrow would fly out after him. If they had wanted to kill him, it would have been easier to let him in and fall upon him there, but he would take no chances.

Once out of range, he did remount, but now he did not know where to go. Should he ride back to Monmouth in all haste and tell his lady this strange tale? But what if it was true? What if Lord Ian were at Bulith Wells or at Worcester? No, he would not ride so far east as Worcester. And the messenger knew he could not go much further without rest. Back up the road was a track that might run east. There was a village of sorts there. It was nearly dawn. Perhaps he could get some refreshment and a place to rest. He could ask, too, if they had seen his lord's troop go by.

In Monmouth, Alinor was enjoying herself heartily. Isobel had had a quick and easy delivery; the child was large and lusty and gave every sign of doing well. It was sheer pleasure to talk to Isobel, sheer pleasure to hold the strong infant and play with the older children. Alinor made no attempt to understand her lightness of heart, but now and again a phrase that Ian had used, or a quirk of his brow that betokened some thought that did not please her, crossed her mind. Then her eyes grew bright, gold fires and green sparks lighting the dark hazel to brilliance, as her mind formed phrases that would prick him into a fury. No burden of guilt dulled the flashing ripostes that she imagined. When she felt any emotion besides anticipation, it was a flicker of shame that she had permitted her vision to become so clouded that Isobel needed to tell her how to manage her man.

Partly for that reason and partly because, no matter how well she loved Isobel, Alinor preferred to quarrel in the privacy of her own home, she had decided not to wait for Ian at Monmouth. That was what she had written to him, in addition to the news of Isobel's safe delivery, but she had also asked him to stop at Roselynde on his way back to the siege at Kemp. There was something of particular note that she wished to discuss with him that was better not written in a letter, she had said. Exactly what this particular matter was to be, Alinor had no idea. She trusted to the invention of the moment or to bedeviling Ian so much that he would not remember—at least until things were well enough between them for her to admit that the matter of particular note had been no more than her desire to see him.

Thus, when Alinor was sure Isobel was well on her way to recovery and would be leaving for Ireland in a few weeks' time, she rode off with the men Ian had left for her. Once on the road, she did not hurry. She stopped for a day at Iford and came late in the evening of the next day safely into Roselynde.

There were two days in which Alinor's delighted children rediscovered the gay mother of whom they had only seen flashes since January. Then Alinor's messenger rode into Roselynde, fearful and exhausted. Alinor needed no more than one look at his face when he came into the hall.

"What is amiss?" she cried.

The man dropped to his knees. "I could not find him, lady. I could not find him."

"What? What nonsense is this? What do you mean you could not find him?"

"Lady, between Powys Castle and Clyro Hill, Lord Ian and his men disappeared like smoke in the air."

Alinor's first impulse was to berate her man for a fool of the worst kind, but she mastered that self-deceptive desire. The man was not a fool. He had carried messages for her without failing many times. To call him a fool was only to deny her own fears.

"Rise up, and tell me exactly what you did."

"From Monmouth, lady, I rode―"

"Begin from when you came to Lord Ian's vassal's keep. What befell there?"

"Naught. I was welcomed in and told that Lord Ian had ridden south the day before."

"What of the matter he went to settle there? Were there signs of war? Of a truce?"

"A wedding, lady. The servants told me. The maiden's father had been a little reluctant to make good his contract, but he thought better of it, and Lord Ian was in time for the wedding. He stayed the full guesting period there."

"Very well, did he say to them where he would ride?"

"No, lady, but he took the south road—that was seen, and I followed. They rode quickly. I could not come up with them, but there was sufficient word of their passage, and Lord Ian stayed one night at Caergwrle in good spirits. I baited my horse there and followed again to Powys."

"Powys? Was Lord Gwenwynwyn at the keep?"

"Not when I came, lady, but he had left only that morning, just after Lord Ian rode out. The master-at-arms told me that Lord Ian had again taken the south road and that he had said openly he would go to Clyro Hill."

Alinor stared straight out across the hall while her frightened retainer described how he had been turned away from Clyro Keep.

"I did not know what to do, lady. I was of one mind to ride at once for Monmouth, but then I bethought me that Clyro is not a step, even from Monmouth, so I went round about asking for who had seen Lord Ian and his troop. Lady, lady, they are gone like smoke. From Powys to Clyro Hill they were seen. East, west, and south, no man had sight or sound of their passing."