Alinor (57 page)

"Then they are inside Clyro Keep," Alinor said in a hard voice. "Men do not fade into the air like smoke." For a moment she sat silent, mastering the turmoil of rage and terror and regret that tore her. If Ian was dead, she would never be able to mend the breach she had opened between them. He would have died believing she did not love him. She closed her eyes, but the image of the pain in his face when she would not answer to his rage could not be shut out. Dead? What would she do if Ian were dead? Alinor drew a deep breath. One thing was sure. She would not sit here and weep. First she would take Clyro Keep down, stone by stone, and take Sir Peter apart, limb by limb, muscle by muscle, bone by bone. Alinor opened her eyes and looked at her messenger. The man whimpered and fell to his knees again.

"Go and summon Sir Guy to me," she said softly, and then, becoming aware of his fear, "It is not your fault, Bruse. You have done well enough."

As she dwelled lovingly on what she would do to Sir Peter, the man and her last visit to him flashed into Alinor's mind. Immediately, there was a strong smell of bad fish. Sir Peter might possibly have turned traitor, but he could not have turned idiot. If Ian was dead, the messenger would be dead also. There could be no difficulty in inviting Bruse in and slaying him if, as it seemed, the men-at-arms at Clyro had turned traitor with Sir Peter. Surely one more death on top of Ian's, his squires', and his troops' would be nothing—and it would have bought several weeks of time at a crucial time of the year. Soon would be the time for harvest, the time for fattening the cattle for winter. If Sir Peter had killed Ian, he would need that time to prepare for the retribution which he must know would follow. After all, Alinor would not have expected the messenger to return immediately, and even if she did, his disappearance would carry fewer tales than his living mouth. No, Sir Peter was not that kind of fool. Had he killed Ian, he would never have let the messenger go.

Then there must be a purpose for allowing the messenger to return to her, and that could only be to draw her out to her husband's rescue. Alinor examined that idea carefully, wondering whether it had been bred out of her desire to believe Ian was alive. After all, most women would not come themselves to pry a prisoner out. But Sir Peter knew her; he would know she would come herself. No matter how she turned it, however, the answer was still the same. Ian must still be alive. He must be both bait and hostage. Alinor began to laugh. It would be quite a fish that that bait would catch.

Sir Guy, entering the hall, stood stock-still and looked at her. He never thought he would fear a woman, but he feared this one. And the fear was worse because there was no outward reason for it. Lady Alinor was not large or overpowering; she was feminine in every way, beautiful, really; she was not vicious nor unreasonable. It was simply not possible for him to disobey her, and that was odd enough and fearful enough. A man did not obey a woman unless he loved her. Sir Guy looked at Alinor's exquisite face and shuddered. It would take a far stronger man than he to love her. Not the least of his admiration for Lord Ian was that the man was well able to stand up against his wife.

He remembered what Ian had said to him about the part he had played in the tourney. He had answered roundly enough. He did not fear Lord Ian, even though he freely acknowledged Ian could cut him to pieces in ten minutes' fighting. They had discussed the matter of his hatred against the king, and Ian had explained why it was necessary to remain faithful in spite of John's open and obvious attempts to harm them both. The logic had appealed to Guy, and a heavy burden had been lifted from him. He did not analyze it too carefully. It was enough that he was able to live with himself in peace. He did not need to know that Ian had provided him with a rationalization for ceasing to pursue a hopeless vendetta that could end only in his death. What Ian offered him permitted him to live a normal life, without guilt. There was a nobility about setting aside one's own right to vengeance for the good of the realm at large. It soothed the soul.

They had been in perfect agreement until Lord Ian asked for Guy's promise not to obey Alinor in ventures of that kind again. He had been forced to refuse and, when Ian had pressed him for a reason, had shrugged helplessly and said that he did not believe he was capable of keeping such a promise. To his surprise, Lord Ian had betrayed neither suspicion nor anger. He had been half irritated, half laughing, and had closed the discussion with an order that Sir Guy should at least do his best to turn his mistress from such purposes as he thought would be dangerous or dishonest.

So far, there had been no occasion to test his ability to obey that order. Lady Alinor had been little at Roselynde and, when she was, had given him no more than a passing glance and a smile. Now, however, listening to her laughter, Sir Guy realized that the time had come. Reluctantly, he got himself into motion again and presented himself to Alinor.

"Sit down," she said, waving him toward a chair. "I need advice on matters of war."

"My lady," he protested, "I am not fit to give such advice. Wait until Lord Ian returns home. He can far better―"

"If you do not give me what advice you can, Lord Ian will not come home at all," Alinor snapped. "He is held prisoner at Clyro Hill—for what reason I am not sure. We must go and crack that nut so I can have my meat out of it."

"We?" Guy gasped, so startled by the notion of a woman on a military expedition that he overlooked the crudity of the way Alinor referred to her husband. "Not you, my lady. Give me a letter to your vassals, and I will summon them for you, and―"

"Do not be a fool! Who is there to lead the vassals if Ian is inside Clyro Keep? Would they obey you? Sir John is scarce old enough to grow a beard, let alone direct a war. The others—one will say one thing, one another, and nothing will be accomplished. I know what to do, but there are things I do
not
know. Have you experience in taking keeps?"

"Experience? I know what any knight knows, but I am no great war lord, my lady. I am used to going where I am told and carrying out my orders."

"Well, I wish to hear whatever you know, no matter how little." Alinor then described most vividly the situation, construction, and defensive force of Clyro Keep. "How many men? What kind of war machines will I need?"

Sir Guy rubbed the back of his neck, and pulled his beard. "Men? Four or five hundred should do, but the machines are another matter. You see, because it is not a moated keep but stands on a hill, the force of your missiles is greatly spent only rising up the slope while theirs have that much greater force. Lady, I do not know how to explain such matters to you in words. From the wall, the trenchbut can cast―"

"You do not need to explain. I see that clearly enough. How large would our engines need to be?"

Sir Guy shook his head. "How can I say in words? Larger than any on Roselynde's walls except perhaps those that are made to throw stones out to ships on the sea."

"It is well wooded at Clyro. Will green timber do for construction?"

"For a while, perhaps. It warps, you see."

A nice young man, Alinor thought, but not too well taught. If he was to be useful, Ian would need to take him in hand. Ian— Her heart lurched. Alive, yes, but in what condition? Was he hurt? What did Sir Peter want? Would he hurt Ian if she came with an army? If he threatened to maim Ian in case of an attack, what should she do? What could she do? Perhaps she should go alone. She could promise anything. No, that would not do. If she were in Sir Peter's power, promises could be wrung from Ian—and he would keep his promises in spirit as well as in the letter, which Alinor, of course, had no intention of doing.

What could Sir Peter want? Only Clyro Hill and freedom from obligation. All that nonsense about Ian conspiring with Llewelyn, that must have been some kind of blind, but what? What? Let him have the land, Alinor thought—for as long as he lives, which would not be above a few days. Then her eyes narrowed. That would mean killing the sons also. Ian would not like that. He would be furious. Well, then, furious he must be. Ian was hers, and no one would be allowed to harm him. But the land was hers also, and she would not part with a rod of it. They were both hers! Neither Sir Peter nor any of his blood should have land or man.

Alinor sighed, and shook her head. There was more than one way of losing a man. She might achieve Sir Peter's death slyly enough to fool Ian—although he was sharper than Simon about seeing through her—but not the sons. And if she marched a small army halfway across England and into Wales, it was impossible that John would not hear of it. Of course, it was Alinor's right to deal with a disloyal castellan as she pleased, but God knew what interpretation John would twist the action to mean. Thought of the king brought Salisbury to mind. Dared she write to Ela and tell her? Could Salisbury keep the king from acting? Was Sir Peter's behavior somehow inspired by the king? No, that was not possible. He had been looking strange before John knew of her marriage.

Sir Guy had fallen silent when he realized that Alinor was no longer attending to what he said. He watched her expressionless face nervously. Her eyes looked right through him. Twice her lips moved slightly as though she was calculating, and both times she shook her head slightly as if what she had added was insufficient or unsatisfactory. Finally, she caught her breath as if an idea had occurred to her, and then she smiled.

"Please go and tell Father Francis that I desire parchment and pens to be readied. I will need to write seven letters. When you have done that, ride down into Roselynde town and tell the mayor that I will have need of twenty men armed and mounted. Ten will be the town's service to me, and ten I will hire at six pence a day, the extra two pence for the use of the horses. He will have my order for it tomorrow, and the men must be ready to ride tomorrow also. When you have returned, choose thirty of the men-at-arms and see that they are fitted and ready to ride."

"We are going to Clyro Hill with fifty men-at-arms, my lady?" Sir Guy breathed.

"No, we are going to Penrwyn or Llanrwst."

Sir Guy's mouth opened, and closed. It was not his business to question his lady. That the names meant nothing to him was not important. At least he had talked her out of going to war—maybe. More likely, she was going to gather men in Wales; the names sounded like Welsh. If so, there would be castellans or vassals there, men with more authority. Let them argue with her. Sir Guy went to do his mistress' bidding with a slightly lessened foreboding.

Alinor went to write her letters with such eyes that Father Francis began to remonstrate with her even though he did not know what to say. He counseled patience and forbearing, submission to God's will, at which point Alinor spat at him that she
was
submissive to God's will. She was, as was written, helping herself as best she could and thus was counting on God to fulfill his promise and help her. And a good priest would pray for her, instead of hindering her. At that point Father Francis did retire to pray, knowing that his lady was beyond remonstrance. His prayers were a little confused between the well-doing of her body and of her soul, but at the moment Alinor would not have cared if he was praying for her damnation, so long as he let her alone.

The first few letters were easy. She gave a brief explanation of what had happened and summoned those vassals who were near enough to meet her at Clifford, with those men they were obligated to bring to her defense, in two weeks' time. To Isobel she wrote a short note, containing the same information, and requesting her permission to use Clifford as a gathering point for her men. Isobel would certainly offer men also. Refusal or acceptance would depend upon the outcome of the rest of Alinor's plans. Only the last letter was difficult. Alinor trusted Ela well enough, and even Salisbury, insofar as his intentions went. What she did not trust was Salisbury's blindness to his brother's real viciousness. Therefore, the whole story of Alinor's intentions could not be told. She wrote as if she were in a furious hurry, dwelling largely on the treachery of her castellan. For the rest, she left all vague, beyond saying she was gathering men either to free her husband or to take vengeance for him. She named no names and no places. There might be some danger in that, but probably it was less than providing too definite information, which could give the king focal points for interference.

Bruse passed his letter into Lady Ela's hands just after Mass the following morning. He did not bow himself out of her presence at once. Seeing him stand waiting, Lady Ela broke the seal immediately. She had been about to put the letter away until after breakfast. She always enjoyed Alinor's letters and had intended to indulge herself with a relaxed half hour over it. However, if the messenger was waiting, Alinor must expect an immediate answer. Perhaps she intended to make a visit. Ela's eyes brightened.

"Your lady desires an answer?" she asked.

"I do not think so, madam," Bruse replied in crude and halting French. "The lady bid me wait to answer whatever questions you should ask of me."

Questions? Ela ripped open the scroll and began to read. What questions could she have to ask a servant? Unless it was trouble—and bad trouble at that. It was.

"How long did you seek your lord? How far did you go from Clyro? How do you know he did not go to visit Lord Llewelyn?"

"I beg you," Bruse faltered, "please, slower."

Ela repeated her questions more clearly, and Bruse told his story again, beginning with the suspicions raised in him by the odd manner in which he was turned away from Clyro and pointing out how impossible it would be for his lord's troop to pass absolutely unseen by everyone after having been well-noted on the road south. Yes, he had covered every road and track westward. After his first fright had abated, he also had thought Lord Ian might have gone to Llewelyn, and he spent some time searching. "Was it a large troop?"

"No, madam, ten men and the two squires. It was all friendly land. All men he knew. He did not fear outlaws. They would never attack ten armed men who carried no goods."