Alinor (51 page)

For three days this nightmare had continued, ever since he had awakened the morning after the melee. Ian stared sightlessly into the fire across the foot of the bed. Alinor was attentive, polite, kind, gentle in cleaning and dressing his maltreated body—and as distant as the moon. If he spoke to her, she replied—politely. If he cried out, she was there at once with a cool cloth or a soporific drink. If he chose to jest, she curved her lips. She was no shrew, for she did not quarrel; she was no nag, for she did not scold; she was not Alinor, for her soul had withdrawn from him.

Yet no matter what he suffered, Ian knew he could not yield to her in this battle of wills. He could understand her reasons; he could not approve her act. He could not say he was sorry he had berated her. He was not sorry. What she had done, however wise, was against his principles, and to yield would make him less than himself—less than a man. Some instinct told him that if he could prod Alinor into a rage, into any strong emotion, he could break through the wall that held her prisoner. Ian took no special note of the name his thought had given to Alinor's condition, because he was too absorbed by his own turmoil of emotions, but the name was the most significant point in his whole thought.

In fact, every other part of Ian's conjectures about his wife was wrong. Alinor never minded being berated and cared not a pin for either his approval or his principles. She never expected him to say he was sorry he had disapproved of her; had he beaten her, she would not have expected him to apologize. Her plans had been successful. She was pleased, and she dismissed all extraneous matters from her mind beyond taking wry note of Ian's delicate sensibilities, so that she could use better care not to affront them the next time. Actually, Alinor was more horrified by her own behavior than her husband was. At least half her abstraction was owing to her self-castigation and her effort to break through the ridiculous resentment that held her natural emotions in bonds.

Alinor was not jealous in any ordinary sense of the word. She knew Ian was faithful to her with his body, and even with his heart, in an everyday, practical way. She had little doubt that he would always be faithful, excepting, of course, for the whores or serf girls he might use when they were separated. To deny him that comfort, by Alinor's way of thinking, would be the same as telling him not to urinate or move his bowels when he was away from home. Nor was she angry. There was nothing to be angry about, beyond the crude way he had left the house the morning of the melee. That was a little thing, resulting from surprise and absence of mind, no intended slight. Alinor knew she had only to mention it and Ian would beg pardon—so it was not worth being angry about or mentioning.

Yet, no matter how Alinor strove with herself—telling herself how good her husband was, how loving, how honest; telling herself what a fool she was, how unreasonable, how unfair—she could not control that inner withdrawal. She had not said a cross word, she had smiled and served him with all compliance, yet he sensed the change in her. It broke her heart to see the hurt in his eyes, to hear him start a conversation or tell a joke and then drop it, and look away. She tried and tried to respond naturally, but the effort seemed to make her more wooden. As she sat by her embroidery, working with the frantic energy of frustration, Alinor was so angry with herself that she could not find a corner of her heart or mind to be angry at what Ian said.

The worst of it was that Alinor could not understand what was wrong with her. Never in her life had she been petty or spiteful. She had never blamed her grandfather or Simon for being what they were. She put up with their male idiocies, working around their quirks to accomplish her purpose—if possible with due care not to offend their upright souls. Why was this one small quirk of Ian's different? Obviously, he did not wish to spend his time sighing at his lady's feet; obviously, he wished with all his heart to live normally with his wife, enjoying her and pleasuring in her enjoyment of him. It was so unimportant—a dream that once in a while mistily haunted a man's mind.

But Alinor was spoiled in a deeper and more basic way than mere yielding to a woman's whims could spoil her. From the time she had had a woman's emotions, she had been the very center of her men's existence. They could revile her, beat her, fling themselves upon horses and ride away, vowing they would part from her, but they knew and Alinor knew that they could not live without her. She was the core of life, the beating heart in the body, the lodestar of the mind. That she was everything else in the world to Ian, his comfort and his happiness, made no difference. She had tasted the joy of being the light of a man's soul; if she could not have that, she did not want the man. Reason could tell her she was a fool; will could drive her to behave cheerfully and kindly; nothing could cure her inner shrinking.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was not yet dawn, but Ian was wide awake. He lay with his hands behind his head, watching the eastern border of the sky pearl just a trifle before the first faint streaks of pink appeared. The tent flap was drawn, and it moved a little in the mild breeze. It would be dry and hot, Ian thought, but probably that would not matter. If all went well, they should have the keep before the worst heat of the day. The weather, at least, had returned to normal. After a December and January of quite unusual mildness and dryness, February had concentrated all of winter into one blow.

They had been very fortunate to escape with so little loss. In the beginning of the month, all the rain heaven had stored through the autumn and early winter seemed to fall, and on the 27th the wind had come. That had been a wind to end all winds. Serfs' huts had been lifted bodily and flung to earth miles away. There would be no lack of dry firewood for years. Trees, whole forests of them, had been uprooted. The greater fell where they stood, but the lesser had flown through the air like gigantic, bewitched besoms. Ian had seen one forced, roots first, through the wall of a house. And then, to add to the misery of the homeless and bereft, it had snowed and snowed and snowed.

Warm as he was, Ian shivered a little with memory. He had ridden home to Roselynde through it, his horse belly deep at times, so that he had to dismount and struggle along on foot. It was as well he had. Although his fears that even the great keep of Roselynde could not withstand that fury of wind and water had been groundless, he had found two frantic, terrified children who clung to him, begging assurance that their mother was safe. He had assured them, but he had passed two days of purgatory until a messenger had struggled through with the news that Alinor was indeed safe with Lady Ela at Salisbury.

It was just like Alinor, Ian thought, to have chosen that particular week to go to Salisbury to meet the woman Lady Ela suggested as a companion for Joanna. But that is not fair, he told himself. Alinor could not have known that God would send such a storm. She did not do it to spite him. There was little conviction in Ian's reproving thought. It seemed to him that anything Alinor did since that tourney was done to spite him. With an effort, Ian thought about the woman she had brought back to Roselynde with her and, after a moment, he smiled. Lady Margaret was a pleasant thought, one to induce smiles. Plump and cheerful, practical and placid, she was the ideal person to have charge of the children.

There was no tragedy about her story, although she was a widow with grown children. Her son had not cast her out, as sometimes happened. Her daughter-in-law adored her. Both had pleaded with her to stay, but Lady Margaret was no fool. As long as she remained, she managed the keep, and her daughter-in-law remained a child and a toy. Besides, Lady Margaret craved young ones to teach and to guide. When her grandchildren were of an age to need her and her daughter-in-law had more confidence, she would return. At present, she was happy to come to Roselynde.

Her coming had left Alinor free to go on progress. Ian was annoyed with himself for allowing Alinor's name to come back into his mind. That woman was like a sore, sharp-edged tooth. You could no more keep from cutting your mind on thoughts of her than you could keep from cutting your tongue on the bad tooth. Again he wrenched his mind away from his wife, concentrating instead on the dull, regular thuds of the trenchbuts as they flung boulders against the walls of the keep. There was a new sound to one place, a creaking screech that told of crumbling mortar and slipping stones. Ian listened and smiled again when a second blow produced a similar sound sooner than any trench-but could be reloaded. Someone had ordered that two or more be played on some weakening spot.

Yesterday had been a good day all around. The channel to drain the moat had been finished. During the night, the fragile dam that held back the waters had been breached. Nothing but a stinking ditch would be left now. The ramps to span the ditch were ready, as were the scaling ladders—six days from the time he had arrived and demanded that the castellan yield the keep. Not bad. Each leader of the troops he had summoned seemed sincere in his efforts. Ian suspected there was a feeling of righteous spite spurring them on. Doubtless, all had considered rebellion, at least passingly, when news of Simon's death had come to them. They had decided against it, some out of respect for their own oaths and honor, but some out of a fear of losing what they had. Possibly, as the months passed and the rebellious ones were not brought to heel, they had regretted their "cowardice." Now they would not only prove themselves brave but, more important, right.

Then there had been that letter from Alinor. Ian shifted on his camp bed and it creaked. He was aware from the corner of his eyes that Geoffrey had sat up, but he lay still in his new position and the squire lay down again. Owain still slept. Owain had been at more than one keep-taking; when he woke he would be eager and alert, but not as excited as Geoffrey. Alinor had asked after the squires and sent them kind messages and some small comforts—a new shirt for each and a pair of hose, and sugared plums. Ian laughed softly as he remembered how the boys had fallen upon the treat, making a fool of him who had wondered that Alinor should send his squires, who were nearly men, a child's sweetmeat. Clearly, she knew what would give them pleasure.

Ian shifted again. She knew what would give him pleasure also. Few and brief, but very kind words ended that letter. "Have a care to yourself, my lord, and write to me often. Joanna and Adam beg news of you ten times a day, and, as for me, I wish I had it as many times as that and more." Perhaps when this keep had fallen, he would ride back to Roselynde for a day or two. Sir Robert could be left to reorganize the defenses and see to the repair of whatever damage had been done. Perhaps their long separation, while she had been on progress and he had been gathering these men and examining the keeps for the best way to breach their defenses, had softened whatever core of anger she still nursed against him.

It would not do to think too much of that. Once before he had hoped and been cruelly disappointed. Ian listened to the sounds of the camp. Men were astir, but he had no desire to give any sign of nervousness or distrust by being too early abroad. He had given his orders and designed the attack the previous night. To meddle now would be a mistake. All should be ready, or near ready, before he came to oversee the results. The sky was lighter now, and pink. Ian turned his head on his arm.

"Go and get me some breakfast, Geoffrey, and kick that lazy slugabed awake."

"Lazy slugabed" woke other memories. The king had fallen into a lethargy again a few weeks after that dreadful storm in February. No one had really been surprised, for John had showed himself at his very best immediately after the storm struck. He had ridden madly all over the kingdom, directing rescue work, controlling the lawlessness that any disaster brought in its wake, and bringing aid and comfort to the deprived and bereft. It was only normal to rest after such exertions. Although the king continued to move from place to place after the crisis had passed, and had done the most necessary business that was pressed upon him by Salisbury and others, he had seemed content to sleep till the day was far advanced, talk idly to the queen, pat her swelling belly during the afternoon, and futter a remarkable number of women through the night.

Had Ian been given to thinking in those terms, he would have said that God was showing His favor to the righteous. The lazy fit could not have fallen at a better time. Pembroke had been able to gather men and leave for Ireland without the slightest hindrance. When Oxford announced his departure, John had said no more than, "Better he than I." Now, however, Alinor wrote, the monster seemed to be stirring. Ela had written to Alinor that John had been asking sharp questions about Pembroke's doings abroad. So far, according to Salisbury, he seemed merely interested, not angry, but Ela did not trust her husband's interpretations of his brother's moods.

Ian had been able to write reassuringly to Alinor. He did not trust Salisbury's perspicacity about John's intentions any more than Lady Ela did, but he had information on another event that would doubtless divert John from any consideration of Pembroke's doings. The Pope had kept his compact with the bishops and had definitely and positively annulled the election of both Reginald, subprior of Canterbury, and John, Bishop of Norwich, as prospective Archbishop of Canterbury. After considerable pressure had been applied to the monks of Canterbury, who had come to plead the case of the sub-prior by the Pontiff, he had secured the election of Stephen Langton and, to obviate any slip twixt the cup and the lip, had himself consecrated Langton as archbishop on June 17.

The news had come to Ian from Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester. Peter was the king's man and a very loyal servant to John, too loyal to allow the king to bring disaster upon himself by the appointment of a man like John Gray. He understood his master, understood that he must be curbed if he was not to drive the country into rebellion and chaos. John Gray would be nothing, a tool to bend the Church to the king's will. Without the hope that the Church would mediate fairly, the barons would be driven into despair. They would feel that there was no place they could turn to have justice and that the only solution to their troubles was to rid themselves of the king entirely.