Alinor Read online

  Ian’s lecture was automatic; he had listened to so many he could say the words by rote. What he was really thinking about was what to do with Geoffrey. He had forgotten to talk to Alinor about the boy and had been so distraught when he left Roselynde that he hardly realized Geoffrey was following him. Now he had an ill-prepared thirteen-year-old to protect as well as his fifteen-year-old squire. Of course, Owain was no longer much of a burden and would soon be a great asset. He was quick and cautious and knew how to hold his place. Although Owain was not yet as strong as a mature man, he was well taught, and could guard himself and get the best out of his weapons. All that was necessary was for one of Ian’s hard-bitten northerners to keep one eye on the young man to be sure he did not get carried away by his enthusiasm for fighting.

  Geoffrey was something else entirely. He had been well started and then totally neglected. Not only was he naturally slight, but he did not handle his sword and shield well, because no one had bothered to teach him. Ian had started to work with him in the few weeks of quiet after the end of the action in France and was pleased by the boy’s eagerness and progress, but that progress was not enough to make an efficient fighter of Geoffrey. It would be necessary to leave him behind in the care of some men or guard the boy during fighting. Ordinarily there would have been no question; Geoffrey would have to be left in safety. However, in this case, where the opposition was not well-trained men-at-arms but runaway serfs or villeins with stolen weapons, the danger would be less and it might be well to blood Geoffrey now.

  Having set his lookouts and decided that the farm showed no obvious signs of his troop, Ian returned to the serf’s hut. He sent Owain to check the horses, warning him to beware of the gray destrier. True, the horse was not as vicious once his saddle was removed; he had been trained to strike out at anything that ran away when there was no rider on his back. This was a device to prevent enemy men-at-arms from seizing a fallen knight. Unfortunately the horse had no way of knowing whether his rider had fallen in battle or simply had not yet mounted, although the smell of blood always heightened the animal’s fury. Nonetheless, Ian did not want Owain to take any chances; the stallions of Roselynde were never sweet-tempered.

  When Owain was gone, Ian gestured Geoffrey to sit at his feet and settled himself on the hut’s only stool. “Geoffrey, I need you to think like a man, for I have a choice to give you. You must try to think what will be best and safest, not for you but for me. Through no fault of your own, you are not well-skilled with weapons.”

  The boy flushed painfully. “I practice with Owain—”

  “It is not your blame. There is great promise in you, but you are young yet. Now think. Can you swallow your pride and remain well behind me, where I and Jamie the Scot can guard you, or will you forget yourself and thrust yourself forward, thus endangering us all? If you think your spirit will overcome your sense, I can set two men to guard you out of the fighting.”

  Geoffrey’s cheeks remained pinker, his eyes brighter than usual, but he took time to think over what Ian said. He was accustomed to weighing words, because many traps had been set for his unwary tongue in the past, and a misjudgment meant a beating. Here, however, Ian had stated the situation so cleverly that whatever choice he made was flattering. If he chose to go with the fighters, obviously there could be no question of his courage, and Ian had ordered him not to join the battle in such a way that no contemptuous implication about him could be made. If he did not wish to fight, Ian had stated the case to seem that remaining behind was the result of too-great courage.

  “Please, my lord,” Geoffrey said softly, “I will obey you exactly. I will not speak or move except by your order. Please let me come. I will not forget that it is you I would harm by a foolish act.”

  “Very well, Geoffrey, that will suit me excellently well,” Ian said noncommittally.

  In truth, he was delighted with the choice Geoffrey had made. However cleverly he had phrased the conditions to salve Geoffrey’s pride, to Ian it would have been a sign of cowardice if the boy had decided to remain behind. Good heart, Ian thought. Good blood will tell, and if it kills me, I will undo the damage that bitch has done the child. I will save him, and he will be a fine man. Ian stretched and yawned.

  “Tell Owain when he has seen the horses fed and watered to come back here and catch what sleep he can. You also. We will be watching most of the night.”

  With no more ado, Ian drew his sword and laid it beside one of the stinking straw pallets on the floor, rolled himself into his furred cloak, and dropped off to sleep. His last thought was that he would have to tell Alinor to delouse him as soon as he came back to Roselynde. He had considered lying on the floor instead of on the infested pallet, but he knew from sad experience that the creatures would be attracted to him wherever he lay, so that he might as well seek what comfort he could find to compensate for the discomfort of the bites to come.

  When the boys came in they shut the door, and there was little difference between day and night inside the hut. For a while a circle of light came in through the smoke hole, but it did not disturb the sleepers and soon began to fade. Ian stirred into part wakefulness a little while later, but his half-conscious mind soon identified the sounds that had disturbed him. They were the cowherds bringing the beasts in from the field to the newly repaired pens for milking. He drifted into the depths again, unaware of the steady darkening of the smoke hole or, later, the single star that peered in through it.

  Before the lone star had moved out of position, Ian was as instantly and completely awake as he had been asleep a moment before. His sword was in his hand before he was upright or really aware of what had wakened him. Then he heard it.

  “Eaorling! Eaorling!”

  Something was wrong. The northerners would cry “thegn,” the Welshmen “pendeuic”, Alinor’s men-at-arms “lord”. Ian applied his foot firmly to Owain and Geoffrey to rouse them, flung open the door, and hurried out. Three shadows were converging upon him. The foremost was still gasping “eaorling”; the other two were gabbling at each other in broken French, of which Ian caught the words “guard…warn,” in one voice and “huntsman” in another.

  “Quiet!” Ian ordered.

  The men were close upon him now, and the foremost tumbled down to his knees. Ian could see his body heaving even in the dim light.

  “The leuedy! The leuedy!” the kneeling man gasped.

  Ian went cold. There was only one “lady” in Roselynde. Something had happened to Alinor. Had John, with that sudden unpredictability of his, arrived at Roselynde?

  “Take hold of yourself, man,” Ian said harshly in English. “Speak slow. Tell me what has befallen the lady.”

  Alinor had visited two fishing villages and was well satisfied with the result of her efforts. The headmen had assured her that if they could not arrange to remove any messenger headed for Roselynde from the boat he had hired, they would mark where the boat came ashore. Whether they would attempt to take him themselves, seek the help of the innkeeper of Roselynde Town or the help of the huntsmen would depend upon circumstances. In any case, they assured her, no messenger would reach Roselynde Keep from the sea. They would pass the word along and warn all the other fisherfolk up and down the coast.

  The light was failing by the time Alinor and her men were on the road home, but she expected to reach Roselynde before full dark without trouble. Absorbed in her own thoughts and not particularly alert, because she was in the very heart of her own holding, Alinor did not notice the troop of men that emerged from the little wood. She continued to ride toward them until the group moved to block the road. Then one of her men cried a warning just as Alinor herself pulled sharply on her reins. Almost before she had completed the movement, she comprehended the trap into which she had fallen. The men coming toward her could not be her people.

  “Back!” she cried.

  The men-at-arms parted to make way for her and formed again behind her when she had turned her horse. All whipped their mounts into a gal
lop. If they could reach the village, it might be possible to hold off their attackers until help could be summoned. That hope lived for only a very few minutes. Voices cried out for them to halt, promising no harm would come to them, but little time was wasted waiting for a response. Hardly had the sound of the order died than one of Alinor’s men cried out in pain. He clung to his saddle for a few moments, then fell.

  Too far. The village was much too far. Even though her horses were far better than those of the men who followed, they could never outstrip the arrows. The shot that hit her man might have been an accidental accuracy, but a similar accident might strike her. There were too many in the group that followed them to chance it. Of twelve to fourteen quarrels, at least one or two were bound to hit something in so compact a fleeing group. It was also useless for Alinor to tell her men to spread out in different directions. That might save the men from injury, but it would mean certain capture for her. There was no hope that the pursuers might follow a wrong lead. The light was more than strong enough for them to make out the difference between her dress and the clothing of the men-at-arms.

  Alinor was not afraid of being harmed deliberately, but she cursed herself bitterly for having forgotten that Simon’s death again made her a marriage prize. Ian might cry out with perfect truth that he did not desire her lands, but lands were few and far between in this land at this time. Many men would cheerfully dishonor themselves and her to gain control of her property—and Simon’s, too, because Adam was a child. An arrow passed between two of her men and missed her horse very nearly before it flew ahead of her onto the road.

  “Halt,” Alinor ordered.

  “Lady—” Cedric protested.

  “They will do me no harm,” Alinor assured her man. “My unharmed person is necessary to their purpose.”

  She reined in her mount and came forward to face the pursuers. Whoever had taken her was going to receive a very rude surprise, she thought. There was no need, however, to give him warning. Alinor lowered her blazing eyes and set her teeth into her full lower lip while she struggled with her temper. By the time her small party was surrounded, she had won her battle.

  “You have made a mistake,” she said quietly. “Go your way and allow me to go mine, and I will not recount this incident to my betrothed husband, Lord Ian de Vipont.”

  Alinor had spoken deliberately to inform her captors that she was useless as a marriage prize. If she were already betrothed, the Church would readily annul any forced marriage. Moreover, Ian’s name would give weight to the idea. Any nobleman would know that Ian de Vipont was a familiar of the king’s and had long served him. Thus, it might be expected that John had approved the marriage between Ian and Alinor and would press the annulment of any other union. Alinor had a brief qualm as the thought crossed her mind that the abductor might be one of John’s henchmen.

  “Norman bitch,” one of the captors snarled in English.

  “Peace!” Alinor hissed as her men stiffened with outrage.

  The remark was momentarily incomprehensible to her. Her reaction in restraining her men had been instinctive, a response to the hopelessness of their position. Slowly it dawned upon Alinor that no servant of a nobleman in England in this day and age would use “Norman” in that derogatory sense. This was no abduction to gain a marriage prize. These were the reavers—or, at least, a part of that group. What did they want? Could they be mad enough to desire to take revenge upon her for the hurts done them by others? Alinor stared down at her mare’s braided mane to hide her expression. She hoped her captors were too busy disarming her men-at-arms to notice her quickened breathing and the slight tremor of her hands. Then her tension eased. Ransom! That was what they wanted—ransom.

  “Cedric,” Alinor said, “ask if we may go back so that I can see to my man’s hurts, if he be still alive.”

  Cedric’s guttural question sparked an argument that Alinor followed with interest, although she kept her eyes on her saddle so that the men would not guess she understood them. There were two differing parties—a bolder one, which had suggested abducting her and was now willing to go back for the wounded man-at-arms, and a more timid one, which had opposed her abduction in the first place and now only wished to retreat to the safety of the woods with all speed. The more cautious group was now in the ascendant. The whole party was put into motion and hustled toward the shelter of the wood, where they would be concealed from the eyes of any chance traveler.

  Soon they stopped again at a place that gave evidence of previous habitation. At first, Alinor promised herself that she would have her huntsman’s head off for overlooking a nest of thieves so close to the town and keep. In a few minutes, however, she realized that this was no camp, merely a place the group had stopped to rest and probably to wait for news of prey. It was almost full dark now. Alinor wondered whether they would stay the night, but it was quickly apparent that was not their purpose. Alinor’s men were pulled from their horses, stripped of their armor and tied hand and foot to the sorriest of the beasts the outlaws had been riding.

  Another argument then ensued, the cautious party desiring to leave Alinor alone and warning that laying a hand on her, even to tie her wrists, would worsen their situation. Any insult would make pursuit more determined. They nearly won again, but the man who had called her a Norman bitch burst into a passionate tirade. Alinor could not follow all of it, but she caught enough to realize he was recalling the men’s wrongs to them and urging them not to give even such comfort as the smooth gait of her own horse to one of the hated oppressors. There were murmurs of protest, but doubtful ones. Alinor was wrenched from her saddle. Her men struggled fruitlessly with their bonds at the insult.

  “Norman bitch!” the man who held her spat again.

  Alinor’s breath caught at the expression on his face. Hatred was rapidly overcoming good sense. Although she had little concern with the purity of the body, Alinor certainly did not wish to be raped by fourteen men. It would be an act of insanity. They would be hunted the length and breadth of England for such an act, but the danger was that they had no acknowledged leader. Any idea presented forcibly enough to their minds could sway them. The grip on Alinor tightened.

  “If you harm me, your own captain will kill you,” Alinor remarked quietly.

  Before the man could make any response, one of the most nervous of the party started. “Something moved,” he whispered tensely. “There is someone in the wood.”

  Quarrels were trained in one direction, then in another. Now all was silent except the hard breathing of the men, who stared nervously this way and that.

  “Let us go. For God’s sake, let us go. They may gather wood for the town here. Someone may have gone to get help.”

  “If someone has gone,” the “Norman bitch” man snarled, “it is not for help. No one wishes to help these masters of ours.”

  “So you say, but I had a good lord—‘til the king ruined him,” another replied. “I would have helped him, if I could. I say leave the lady here and let us fly.”

  “That would be even worse. Do you think she would hesitate a minute to put the whole castlefolk on our tails? You should have thought of that before,” the timid man spat. “Let us go farther into the woods and kill them all and bury them deep. No one will know.”

  “Fool! What is the profit in that?” asked the man who had proposed the abduction in the first place.

  “Our lives are the profit. They will not hang us for this—they will draw and quarter us.”

  “They will draw and quarter us anyway,” the “Norman bitch” man laughed. “Let us use her first and bury her after. Thus we will have a little profit. It will be no small pleasure to lay a Norman bitch. I wonder if their little holes are daintier than those of our women.”

  “That is not the kind of profit I meant, you swine.”

  “Fools! Fools! To stand here and argue about doing this or that. Let us go, I say. When we are safe off this land, then we will have time to talk of what to do.”

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nbsp; Ian did not permit himself to give a single thought to Alinor. If he did, he would run mad. He concentrated instead upon each individual step of what he had to do. The cowherds had to be told to take their cattle out to pasture again and scatter them so that they could serve as bait for the reavers another time. The men had to be roused and called to arms. The huntsman was fordone. He could run no further. Wulf of the Lea must take him up to ride pillion to direct them.

  Everything seemed to take a million years to accomplish, but Ian did not scream at his men or threaten them. To acknowledge the need for haste would break the blankness that he was keeping in his mind. Any crack in that blankness would somehow connect with what lay behind the black wall that covered his childhood. Something would come out through a crack in that wall that would destroy him utterly, changing him so that he, in turn, would destroy everything and every one around him. Ian’s hand trembled a little on the rein of his mount. The gray destrier reared and pawed the air and neighed. Ian swallowed and tightened his grip. The horrors gnawing away at the black wall were coming closer.

  Actually, the time between Ian’s comprehension of what the huntsman told him and the time the troop started was between ten and fifteen minutes. It took much longer to ride across the fields and pastures that separated them from the forest, but it was a far shorter time than was safe. Ian led the troop at a full gallop, and they followed, cursing and praying under their breaths that the horses would not spill them in the dark. By God’s grace, only two men were lost to the troop. More took falls, but neither they nor their mounts were badly injured, and they remounted and followed. The gray horse never missed a step.

  The moon rose. To the men who had been straining their eyes in what luminosity the starlight gave, it was light. Ahead, however, blackness loomed. Ian stared at it without comprehension, aware only of the little writhing things in the corners of his mind.