Alinor (7 page)

She watched him turn away. Even staggering slightly with sleepiness, he was as graceful as a big cat. "Ian." He stopped abruptly, stiffening a little, turned his head. "Do not you dare dress in the morning before I have seen to that back again."

The stiffness melted. He offered a last, sleepy smile. "Yes, madam."

CHAPTER THREE

The year and a half since Simon had fallen ill had seemed like a thousand, thousand years to Alinor. Each day had passed on leaden feet filled with terror, with an ear always cocked for Simon's laboring breath. And when that breath was stilled, time seemed to stop altogether. There were periods of light and dark that Alinor knew were days and nights; there were sounds that she knew were her voice; sometimes there was even a sound that she recognized as laughter. None of it had any particular meaning. Then time began to move again, but it had gone all wrong. Each day was endless, and yet the things that needed doing never seemed to be done.

Ian's arrival broke the dull round of "I should"— "I cannot." Somehow his physical presence brought urgency and reality to problems, and somehow Alinor found herself able to cope with them. This was not because Ian himself was of any particular help. In a reaction to three months of grief, indecision and anxiety, coupled with enormous physical effort, Ian quietly collapsed. He slept the day through, waking only long enough to eat enormously, have his sore back dressed, and go meekly back to bed when he was told to do so. He was so sodden with exhaustion that he did not see the terror in the children's eyes. So had their father been for a time, and then he had never played with them again. Alinor herself would have been worried except for the fact that Ian was eating for three men. She was able to comfort Adam and Joanna with the assurance that he was only tired; in two days or three he would be well and strong.

Meanwhile, life seemed to come into focus. There was a reason to drive the children out to play; if she did not, they would wake Ian. There was a reason to talk to the cooks about meals, to be sure the laundresses were attending properly to the linens and Ian's soiled clothing. Alinor picked through his baggage, discarding things that were damaged and soiled beyond repair by neglect while on the field. Some could be replaced from Simon's clothing—shirts and chausses and the rough, homespun tunics worn under mail. The outer garments, however— Life blurred a little again as Alinor folded away the gray gowns and surcoats. Simon had always worn gray. No one would ever wear those garments again. It was not sentiment. Merely, no shade would fit Ian worse. His coloring was designed for the jewel tints—ruby, emerald, sapphire would make his dark beauty glow.

Chests long unused were sought for and turned out. Alinor cut the wine-red velvet, the soft, thick, green-woolen cloth. Her maids were wakened at first dawn and harried through the day. With half an ear she noted, as she bent over her embroidery, that the maids were chattering and singing and laughing again. The sounds were strange to her; she had not realized how long it had been since there were other than hushed whispers in the women's quarters.

On the fourth day Ian woke of himself at dawn. A boy was sent running, and Alinor came sleepily down in a hastily donned bedrobe to clean and bandage Ian's back.

"Where do you go?" she asked as she worked over him.

The question gave him pleasure and reassurance. It was no polite inquiry of a departing guest but a demand that bespoke the right to such information.

"Where I am needed first. When I came, I had the feeling that Beorn wished to speak to me, but I gave him no opportunity. There were more important matters to settle."

"You have the time to give him?"

Ian twisted his neck to look at her. "Why not?"

Alinor's lips tightened, and she made a gesture that sent maids and squires scurrying out of the chamber. "I had the impression that you had stopped only for a brief visit, that you were on your way somewhere."

Annoyed for the moment by Alinor's casual assumption of authority over his servants, Ian was now grateful. "Oh, well—" He replaced his head on his folded arms. "I was not sure how angry you would be when I proposed we should be married. That excuse was for the children, in case you should order me to leave."

There was a silence that soon struck Ian as unnatural. He lifted his head again and was shocked to see hurt and real anger in Alinor's face. He curled around, sat up, and seized her hands. "Alinor, what have I said?"

"Ask instead what you have not said."

A weird mixture of hope and disappointment gripped Ian. The only thing he knew he had not said was that he loved her. The need that grew larger in him as he grew surer Alinor would marry him was the need to be loved by her. He had thought it was the last thing Alinor wanted to hear. If she could love him, that would be heaven. If she had loved Simon, could she change so soon? So soon wipe out so many years of love? How long would her love for him last? Did it matter? If she would look at him once with the eyes that had dwelt on Simon, it would be enough. The warring emotions made him hesitate.

"Did you think I had forgotten your talk of caging the wolf?" Alinor asked coldly.

"What wolf?" Ian got out, totally confused, except for the conviction that his initial instinct had been right. Alinor wanted no talk of love from him.

"The wolf that loves England."

That could only be John, Ian realized, but what had he said? All his memories of that first day in Roselynde were blurred by fatigue, and completely unimportant compared with Alinor's acceptance of him.

"You may remember, Alinor, but I do not. I was half dead on my feet."

"You said you had much to say to me on the subject of caging the wolf but pleaded tiredness not to match words with me. You had better match them now or reconsider your offer to take me to wife. I am no meek and obedient slave. Where my lands and my people are concerned, I will see where I go before I set a foot forward. I will not be dragged, will I nill I, into treason. If I saw a reason for it—or rather, some hope of success, because the reason is self-evident―"

"Alinor," Ian snapped. "There is
no
treason in my heart or my mind. John is King of England, and I will do my uttermost to preserve him in that state with my mouth or with my body."

The sincerity of that statement could not be mistaken. Alinor was annoyed with herself. She knew Ian had done fealty to John. Honorable idiot that he was, he would not break that oath. She had gone the wrong way about finding out what she wished to know.

"I know you do not wish to supplant the king," she said pacifically, "but are there not other forms of treason?"

"In my mind, no."

That was flat and clear. As far as Ian was concerned, it ended the discussion. He began to loosen his grip on Alinor's hands, but she turned them and gripped his. Ian thought he knew Alinor; he had been her friend for many years. He had argued with her before, but her argument had always been maintained for his good. He had yet to learn what Alinor was like when she felt her own good was at stake. He had yet to learn that when she agreed to marry him, he had become "hers, to her." That meant not only that his good and hers were inextricably bound together in her mind, but also that no part of his mind or soul would be left in peace until Alinor had picked it apart and understood it thoroughly.

"Ian," she said softly but insistently, "what of the king's mind?"

His lips twisted bitterly. "What of it? To his mind there is no word or act, except "yea," that is
not
treason. Has he not deprived Pembroke of every honor he could strip from him for giving him good advice? That, too, is treason in King John's mind. If it is not by his order, it is treason. And what was by his order yesterday may be treason tomorrow."

Alinor folded Ian's hands together and held them between hers. "And yet you will follow him and obey him?"

"There is no one else!" Ian cried. "Do you not understand? Since Normandy was lost to Philip three years ago, England is all there is for the English lords. We must have a king who understands that"

"You believe John understands that? His whole mind is fixed upon making his provinces in France safe and winning back Normandy," Alinor remarked caustically.

Ian's lean cheeks showed bunches of muscle as his jaw clamped. "It is true and yet not true. John would not see his patrimony eaten—well, Alinor, what of you? Would you sit and see someone take what was yours? Would I?"

It was an honest and reasonable point. Alinor nodded.

"But for all of that, John knows England is most important," Ian continued. "It is England that is his home and the place he best loves. Here he comes to rest and take his pleasures―"

"And to collect the taxes to pay for them and to pay for his wars in France," replied Alinor.

"What of that? To whom would you prefer to pay? To Philip's son Louis?" Ian asked coldly. Frustration made Alinor stamp her foot, and Ian laughed. "Well?" he insisted. "Who else is there? The sons of Stephen of Blois' daughters?"

"There is Salisbury," Alinor said softly.

To her surprise, Ian did not roar a protest or tell her to hold her tongue. He shrugged and sighed. "Who has not thought of it? It is hopeless. Salisbury would not agree. He has been sounded. Old King Henry did his work well on Salisbury. The idea that he cannot be king is bred deep into the bone. Do not shake your head at me, I know him, and you do not. More important even than that—once you open that door, on whom can you close it? Do not the bastards of the first Henry have even better claim? Do you not see that a dozen 'kings' would spring up? John may be a running sore, but to overset him would bring on a plague."

He was right, and Alinor knew it. "Then what will you do to cage the wolf?" she asked tartly, reverting to her original question.

"You know that the trouble has become much worse since Hubert Walter died last year. Thus, the first step is a man as great as Walter to be Archbishop of Canterbury, a man who can stand against John if need be."

Alinor had been prepared for some vague generality or some hopeful, illusory nonsense. This flat, practical statement woke an instant response in her. "I thought the king had already chosen that ass-licker Gray to be archbishop. How can another be appointed? Who?" she asked eagerly.

Ian freed his hands gently and lay down again. "Finish with me, Alinor," he suggested, "while I tell you. There are matters closer to us that I must see to also."

"Of course. Turn a little this way." She swabbed another spot and then sighed. "It is an excellent thought, but I do not see―"

"You have been taken up with another matter," Ian reminded her. "You must call to mind that the monks of Canterbury had long been dissatisfied with Walter, who, they felt, gave more thought to the kingdom than to their church or to God. Thus, as soon as Walter was dead, they elected their subprior, one called Reginald, to be archbishop and sent him off secretly to Rome. Fortunately for us, the man was as foolish as proud, and no sooner out of England than he put on airs and announced his election to the world."

"You are right, I had forgotten," Alinor agreed.

"Well, as you can guess, that did not suit John. He needs the weight of the Church behind him, since the barons are not overwilling servants. And, to speak the truth, many bishops do not love the king any better than do the barons. Peter des Roches―"

"The bishop of Winchester. He is John's creature."

"Not so much a creature. Peter of Winchester is no man's creature. Like me, he is John's man. The king advanced him, and he is decently grateful, but he also sees that to allow the king free rein is to drive the barons into rebellion. John does not see it. He believes if he has the Archbishop of Canterbury to back him, he will be able to control both barons and bishops."

"Doubtless. Sit up, Ian, and let me bandage you."

He came upright and lifted his arms as instructed, but his mind remained with what he was saying. "The king made haste to Canterbury and so terrorized the monks that they repudiated Reginald and elected Gray as John demanded. Another delegation was sent posthaste to Rome with this new election."

"That I did remember. So where is your hope?"

"Wait, wait, that is not all. The bishops subordinate to Canterbury also sent a protest that they, who are most nearly concerned in the appointment, were not consulted, as is their right. That muddied the waters so thoroughly that the Pope has called all parties fo Rome and has put off judgment until December. Now, Innocent III is no Celestine. He is a learned and scholarly man, but strong and ambitious―"

"That sounds more dangerous to me―"

An eager assent cut her off. "Oh yes, we are playing with fire, but Winchester says—and the bishops of Bath and London, too, and they are not John's creatures— all say that Innocent is intelligent as well as ambitious. He will try, of course, to tighten his grip upon the country, but in order to do so he must needs offer us an archbishop who is really acceptable to all and a worthy man."

Alinor shook her head. "He might be a saint and yet be worse than useless. If Innocent should appoint one of his Italians—" Then she drew breath sharply. "Think, Ian, what would be if he should appoint a Frenchman."

"I said he was not an idiot. Do you think the Pope does not know how things are between the English and the French? An Italian would be unfortunate, but not a disaster. Certainly for our purposes he would be better than Gray. He would owe nothing to John and be more inclined to listen to the advice of the bishops. I do not think that will happen, and neither do Winchester, London, and Bath. I am not sure, but I think there have been letters offering a compromise. The bishops do not really have a right to participate in the election of Canterbury, but they have done so in the past and could continue to complain and appeal and hold up Peter's pence. Winchester hinted to me that the subordinate bishops implied they would make no protest over the Pope's decision to exclude them from the election if Stephen Langton were preferred."