Alinor Read online

  In fact, the signature that rankled Alinor had cost Ian considerable thought. If Alinor had bothered to look, she would have seen that the area had been scratched out, smoothed over, and rewritten. Ian had tried “your lord and husband” first. That was what he had scratched out when he realized that it might well be taken as indicating that he was assuming authority over her. Of course, Ian fully intended to assume authority over Alinor, but in view of her passionate statement of independence, he had no desire to be crude or obvious about it. The next idea was “your loving husband”. He had thought that over for some time, trying to convince himself that Alinor would accept it as a formal ending without taking fright. It was too dangerous, he decided finally. The simplest was just to write “Ian”, there being little likelihood that Alinor could be mistaken as to who was writing to her on such a subject. By that time, however, Ian had so sensitized himself to reading obscure meanings into his signature that he decided the single name might suggest he was contemptuous. Thus, Ian, Lord de Vipont had come upon the page.

  The sentences which Alinor had thought to imply conceit had cost poor Ian more pain than the signature. Once the contract was signed, his impulse had been to clean out the reavers and rush back to Roselynde to admire the prize he had won. When he considered the violence of their last interview, however, and his growing inability to maintain a decent reserve to conceal his passion, he was forced to admit that such extended and intimate proximity would be most unwise. If they were apart, they could not quarrel. Once the wedding guests began to arrive, it would be safe to return. Not only was Alinor far too well bred to make public scenes, but there would be little opportunity for privacy or conflict.

  In the windowless, dark, dank, immensity of the floor below the great hall, Alinor was coming to the conclusion that there would not be room enough to stand upright, let alone lie down to sleep. Torches now lit the area and fires blazed in the hearth at each end. The stores of weapons and food had been removed, the stone floor spread thickly with rushes. Perhaps, packed together like fish, four or five hundred servants would be able to find places to lie down. Another hundred servants of the better sort would sleep on the floor above with their masters. Alinor shrugged, then shivered as the cold struck through her woolen gown and tunic. She gave instructions that the fires were to be kept going night and day. Eventually the walls would absorb some heat, and the atmosphere would become more livable.

  That was fine for those who would be there, but what about the four or five hundred others? The horses would have to be moved outside the keep with the other animals. The stables were the best of the outer buildings. Properly swept, there would be room for another few hundred. Then Alinor uttered an exclamation of annoyance. The weather had been remarkably fine, but it certainly could not be trusted at this time of year. She did not want her horses exposed continually if there were to be much rain, snow, or cold. Shelters would have to be constructed not only for her animals but for the mounts of her guests. And that, she realized with a sigh of relief, would solve her other problem also. The meaner servants—the grooms, horseboys, carters, and the like—could sleep with the horses. It was good enough for them and would rid the keep of their noise and smell.

  Alinor climbed the stairs to the great hall and sent a maid to fetch her furred cloak, while she warmed herself for a few minutes at the fire. When the maid returned, she went down the stairs again and out to inspect the stables, with a view to human habitation. Obviously it would not be safe to have fires here. Alinor told one of the gaggle of menservants who trailed behind her to go search out all the charcoal braziers in the keep. Of course, it was warm enough in the stable now, but once the great equine bodies were gone it would be a different story.

  Since she was there, Alinor went to look at one of the gray brood mares whose colt would be due in a few months. Two stalls away, an old mare whinnied. Alinor stopped and stepped into the stall to stroke the soft muzzle that was more silver now than golden. She looked sadly at the sunken temples, the too-prominent hip bones and ribs. The mare nuzzled her breast and danced a little stiffly.

  “Poor Honey,” Alinor crooned, “poor Honey.” Then suddenly she smiled. “Saddle her up,” she said to a groom.

  “Lady,” one of the menservants pleaded, “lady—” He dared say no more. No one would disobey the lady, but all knew of her near abduction.

  “I am not going out,” Alinor assured her anxious servants. “Poor Honey could not carry me far. I will only pleasure her by riding within the palisade to decide where to place the horses.”

  A rough palisade of logs had been built outside the walls of the keep to confine the herds of animals that would be needed to feed the guests that would overflow the capacity of the outer bailey. Most of these animals had been driven in already and were being fattened with fodder that also came from outlying demesne farms in long trains of creaking wains. Alinor rode to and fro within the confines of the log wall, checking them and looking out the best ground. Suddenly, from the wall of the keep behind her, a shout of alarm came from a lookout. Alinor cursed, kicked Honey into a shambling canter, and was across the drawbridge before the servants could wrestle the gates of the palisade closed.

  By then, the precaution was seen to be unnecessary. The troop was small, and, more to the point, Beorn’s voice was calling for admittance. That meant news from Ian. Alinor had had no word since she had sent him those invitations and summonses meant for dispatching to his Welsh and northern friends and vassals. It would have been ridiculous to send her men on long journeys on which doubtless they would lose their way more than once when his men already knew both the roads and the destinations. She had written a polite little note explaining this, signed “Alinor”, and had received a polite note in return, agreeing that what she had done was best, signed “Ian”.

  Alinor had suffered a brief flash of temper over that note, which had not offered one word of information about Ian’s activities, but the anger had not dampened her spirits at all. It had merely hardened her resolve. Ian had known she would be angry, and why. After all, the lands were hers, and she had a right to know what was happening. The trouble was, nothing was happening. Ian had racked his brains for something to say, but if he did not write plain lies, he had nothing else. Could he tell Alinor he was idling the days away, most unpleasantly and in the greatest discomfort, just to avoid returning to Roselynde? There had been one or two minor clashes with the outlaws the first week. After that, they had not come again. Ian did not really expect them to become desperate and come to him. It was far safer for them to raid other lands that were not so well guarded. No doubt they hoped the Roselynde forces would tire of watching and would come to the conclusion they had left for good.

  The latter had been a possibility. Aside from the Roselynde farms, there was little to be had in the area. The Forest of Bere was large and, of course, totally uncultivated. There were beasts, but they were wary, and disenfranchised villeins were inexperienced huntsmen. Most men were fearful of raiding Church lands, and Peter of Winchester, who ruled Bishop’s Waltham, was no frail reed when it came to protecting his own. Ian’s Welshmen watched, but the outlaws did not make preparations to move. They were attacking Rowland’s property. The pickings were slim; Rowland was not as good a landlord as Alinor, but it would be longer than Ian was prepared to wait before the reavers starved.

  There was no need for Alinor to wait outside in the cold to greet her master-at-arms. A groom took Honey back to the stables from the forebuilding where Alinor dismounted; the old mare would not last much longer, she thought sadly as she settled herself into her chair by the fire, but nothing could keep her anticipation of news of Ian from the forefront of her mind. A maidservant hurried forward with a footstool, and another took her cloak and asked if she wanted her embroidery.

  “No, I do not think— Yes, bring it,” Alinor said.

  Embroidery was a very fine object on which to fix one’s eyes when one wished to veil their expression. It would not serve Ali
nor’s present purpose to display her pleasure at news of Ian’s imminent return. Beorn would never knowingly do anything to displease his mistress, but he was no hand at deception. If asked, he would blurt out the truth as he saw it. Better for him to know nothing than to need to practice concealment.

  Chapter Nine

  The embroidery frame was just in place, and Alinor had barely picked up her needle, when Beorn arrived in the hall. To Alinor’s surprise, he had not come alone. Leaning for support on his arm was a stocky, limping young man clad in rough and ragged garments. Alinor watched their slow progress down the hall with mild interest. She had had an initial qualm of fear when she saw the stranger’s battered appearance that he was one of Ian’s men who brought bad news. It was over almost as soon as it seized her. Beorn would not be matching the stranger’s slow pace if there was bad news of Ian. He would have come ahead at full speed with that information, even if his companion was the eyewitness.

  As the men advanced, Alinor realized that, despite his clothes, Beorn’s companion was no commoner. She was not much surprised, therefore, when Beorn introduced the young man as Sir Guy of Hedingham.

  “He is paroled to you, lady, by Lord Ian. He was the leader of the reavers.”

  “Has Lord Ian suffered any hurt?” Alinor asked calmly.

  “No, lady.”

  “Excellent.” Alinor turned her eyes to Sir Guy. “You seem to have suffered some damage, Sir Guy. Sit down and tell me why my lord sent you to me.”

  “I do not know, madam,” the young man replied bitterly. “I begged his lordship to let me stay and suffer the same fate as my men. I led them. I chose the targets. I held them together when they would have taken a little and fled away. If anything, I am more guilty than they.”

  Alinor drew her embroidery frame forward and began to ply her needle. She was very glad she had sent for it. Otherwise she would have had considerable difficulty in concealing her amusement. It was obvious from Sir Guy’s first words why Ian had sent the young man to her on parole rather than hanging him out of hand. Any gentleman who had obviously fought bravely without proper arms, who demanded to suffer the fate of his common followers, and who loudly proclaimed his responsibility for his deeds in the face of threat, was well worth saving. Alinor controlled her impulse to smile at the unhappy captive and raised her eyes from her work. It was a rather charming face her eyes met, although not at all handsome. The hair was sandy and nondescript, the eyes blue, the nose snub, the mouth wide and generous. The young man did not appear very clever, but his face should have been laughing and open. The expression of bitterness and anxiety he wore sat very ill upon it.

  “Do not be so certain that your fate will be lighter than that of your men. I am the Lady of Roselynde, and it is my property you have despoiled and my servants you have oppressed. Moreover, I am of the kind who is quite expert in extracting every mil owed me.”

  “You will get nothing from my poor men. It was because they were starving that they turned outlaw. As for me, you will get no horse and armor ransom from this knight. My armor is long gone, my horse is a sorry nag stolen from some farmyard, and I have not a relative in the world who would admit he knows my name, much the less pay as much as a mil for my life.”

  Again Alinor had to suppress the urge to smile. “Suppose you tell me, Sir Guy, how you came to this sorry state.”

  “Through our beloved king.”

  The tone was so bitter, so vicious, that Alinor was startled and Beorn moved a step closer, his hand on his sword hilt. Alinor warned her master-at-arms back with a glance and then dropped her eyes to her work “Yes?” she said encouragingly while she lifted her needle again.

  “My father was one of the warders of Lord Arthur.”

  “My God!” Alinor exclaimed, dropping her needle. “Holy Mother Mary, be merciful.”

  King Richard had had a clear claim to the throne of England but the succession after him was not so plain. Between Richard and John there had been another brother, Geoffrey. Geoffrey had died many years past, but before he died he had married and produced two legitimate children—Arthur and Eleanor. By the strict rule of primogeniture, Arthur should have sat on the throne of England. But Arthur was only twelve years old when King Richard died, and Richard had clearly named John as his heir.

  Although John was not well-loved, his treacherous character already being uncomfortably well known, the barons had nevertheless opted for him. It was better, William of Pembroke said, to deal with the devil than to have continual, unremitting civil war. No one pretended that John would have accepted Arthur as king. He would have gathered every malcontent in England and on the continent and fought for the throne. John was no great military genius, but his half brother Salisbury was a very competent leader indeed. Possibly John, even with Salisbury supporting him, would have been beaten, but that would not stop him. Like the heads of the Hydra, he would breed two more rebellions for every one that was cut off.

  One of John’s first acts as king was to attack the stronghold in which Arthur was lodged and take the boy prisoner. That John’s attack was unprovoked did not disturb his barons. It was, they believed, a most reasonable move to ensure the peace of the kingdom. Doubtless, had John not taken him, Arthur would have fled to King Philip of France, and that would also have ended in civil war. Had old King Henry taken Arthur prisoner, he would have kept the child by him, cosseting him into love and obedience so that he would not wish to rebel on the one hand, and watching him very carefully so that he could not rebel on the other. King Richard would never have bothered. Certainly he would have invited Arthur to come to him—he did so several times during his life—and, unless his temper was somehow aroused, he would have treated his nephew with honor. If Arthur persisted in rebellion, however, Richard would have fought him in the field with the greatest pleasure as often and as fiercely as Arthur wished to fight until he was killed in battle or beaten into submission.

  Henry’s way was both kind and politically expedient, although it might have bred trouble in the future. Richard’s path was courageous and honorable, although it was very unwise in the sense that it would cause great bloodshed and suffering and economic loss, and still would not guarantee the future. John had seen things differently from either his father or his brother. John secured the future, but at a rather questionable price.

  After his capture, Arthur was brought before John in the presence of his barons at Falaise. There John had publicly promised his nephew his protection and kind treatment if he forswore any right to the throne and gave his oath to be an obedient subject. John was thirty-two; Arthur was twelve. It was not difficult to use such phrasing that a vainglorious and passionate child would refuse. John had Arthur removed to the great fortress of Rouen. All the nobles saw him leave in good health, if not in the best of spirits.

  Thus far, all was clear and open. What followed was all mystery—except for the fact that Arthur disappeared from Rouen. There were many tales, some clearly ridiculous and vindictive—such as the one that said John had dragged Arthur into a boat, stabbed him, thrown him into the river, and rowed back to the castle. Even Alinor laughed at that. Whatever else John was, he was not such an idiot as that. One does not conceal a murder by departing two in a boat—which could not be done secretly, because boat docks to great keeps are not left unguarded—and coming back alone.

  It was also said that John had gone secretly to Arthur’s prison cell to talk to him, had flown into a rage, and had drawn his knife and stabbed the boy in a passion of anger. That was more possible than the boat story, but not really reasonable. First of all, Arthur, a nephew of the king, would not be kept in a cell; second, he would not be without attendants; third, the king would not go to his prisoner, but would have his nephew brought to him, if he wanted to talk. If John went to Arthur in a cell, it was deliberate murder that had taken place, not manslaughter in a fit of rage.

  There had been still another set of rumors, and to these Alinor was most inclined. Arthur was said to have a
ttempted to escape and to have been killed in the attempt. William of Salisbury believed this, and it was what he had told Ian. Alinor was willing to believe it, too, because John was not such a fool that he did not know that outright murder of his only rival for the throne, and his only heir—specially since that heir and rival was still a child—would not endear him to anyone. An attempted escape and accidental death at the hands of the guards—death by misadventure—was the obvious solution.

  What Alinor could not understand was what had gone wrong. Why had these facts not been proclaimed? Why had Arthur’s body not been displayed and bewailed by his grieving uncle? It was impossible to hide the fact that Arthur had disappeared. To pretend it was not so and refuse to explain merely gave rise to even more disgusting rumors—like the boat story. Perhaps very few would believe in the accident, but the arrow wound or the body broken by a fall should have been used as evidence to support the claim of an “accident”.

  Sir Guy’s implication when he said his father had been one of Arthur’s wardens could be taken several ways. Possibly the man had withstood John’s attempt to murder Arthur or had refused to do it himself; perhaps he had been involved in an honest attempt to help Arthur escape; perhaps he had been told to allow Arthur to “escape”, and something had gone wrong. Before Alinor could ask, Sir Guy spoke again.

  “My father disappeared the night Lord Arthur—” The voice hesitated and Alinor wondered if Arthur had not been displayed because he had truly disappeared, but he went on after swallowing convulsively. “After Lord Arthur was murdered.”

  “How? How do you know this?”

  “I do not know how the murder was done, but a servant of ours, the only one left alive of all those who accompanied my father, told me that he saw my father, carrying a boy’s body, jump from the keep walls into the river. The reason he saw this was that he had been running to my father to tell him that my younger brother had fallen from the castle wall into the bailey and was dying.”