Roselynde (19 page)

"What?" Alinor laughed. "Without dogs?"

The young man shrugged. "We cannot ride far—that, the Queen
would see fault in—so dogs would do us no good. Will you come?"

"So close along the road, and with this rout, I doubt if you
can start even a hare," Alinor said.

She had a momentary doubt that the squire desired a little
dalliance behind the first bush he could find, but he was some two or three
years younger than she and did not look in the least amorous. In fact, some
minutes later he had started a hare. Alinor would not have ridden off alone,
but some two dozen ladies and gentlemen saw what the squire had and went
hallooing off after him. It seemed safe enough, and they all coursed it for ten
minutes or so, as long as it would run, for the sheer joy of galloping over the
fields. When the creature had found a thicket impenetrable to the horsemen,
although one or two gentlemen even dismounted to try to poke it out, the group
turned back. Alinor found the pleasant young squire beside her and held in her
mare to thank him for the sport.

"You should thank me," he said ruefully, "for you
will get back scot-free, but I will be whipped for laming my horse."

And, as they moved slowly forward, it was obvious that the poor
beast was limping. Alinor watched the halting gait for a moment. "Have you
looked to see if he has picked up something in his shoe?" she asked.
"It looks like trouble with the hoof rather than with the leg."

The boy dismounted at once and Alinor held the reins while he
examined the stallion's hoof. "You are right," he exclaimed,
"but I fear the damage has been done. There was a stone here I think. It
is gone now."

Alinor glanced around. The other riders were nearly out of sight.
"Come," she said, "you may ride pillion behind me. Without your
weight he will do better."

With a word of thanks, the young man sprang to Dawn's crupper.
Alinor reached back to give him his horse's rein, but instead of taking it, he
seized her about the arms and breast with one hand and about the mouth with the
other, loosing a wild hunting halloo. In spite of his youth, he was very
strong. For one moment, Alinor sat in stunned, paralyzed stillness. Then she
began to struggle. She bit the hand across her mouth with all the energy that
affronted rage afforded her; she dropped her reins, throwing them as well
forward as she could with her fingers so that her captor would not be able to
control her horse; she raised her sturdy legs and slammed the hard heels of her
riding shoes into her mare's sides.

At that final indignity—added to the loud noise in her ear, the
loose rein, and the double weight—Dawn rose on her hind legs and pawed the air.
She was as anxious to get rid of the strange weight on her crupper as Alinor
was. The bite had brought a shriek but no loosening of the boy's hand. Instead
of leaning into her mount's rise to force Dawn down, Alinor threw herself
backward. The boy uttered another shriek and started to slide, but he still did
not relax his grip. Dawn came down with a thud that threw her riders even more
off balance and loosened Alinor's feet from her stirrups. Indifferent to
anything beyond her need to free herself, Alinor twisted and tossed herself
back and forth. Dawn lifted again. Now Alinor could not have leaned into the
rise even if she wanted to. As she toppled backward, her captor cried out again
and fell, dragging her with him.

The fall finally broke the squire's grip. He had hit the ground
first with Alinor atop him. Although slender, Alinor was a sturdy young woman,
and though half stunned, she was able to roll away. She was not frightened.
There was no one in the world who wished her ill, and her death would profit no
one but the King who would gather in her heirless lands. The only thing any man
could desire was her broad acres and, perhaps, her person. To obtain either of
those—or both—she must be unharmed. And no man would hold her long enough for
that. Simon would come for her leading every vassal she had. No keep would hold
out long in the face of so angry and determined an army.

Alinor scrambled to her feet, her hand on her knife. The boy would
not dare use his, but there was nothing to stop her from using hers if he tried
to take her again. She gave a passing thought to killing him then, but he was
already stirring and she would not trust herself to be quick enough to avoid
his grasp.

As her head cleared, the more practical notion of catching Dawn
rose. Alinor glanced about and uttered a most unmaidenly oath. The mare had
taken fright in earnest and was well away and running hard. At least, Alinor
thought, she was running in the right direction. If she sensed the other horses
in the cavalcade, Dawn would head for them.

That hopeful idea was what- brought fear upon Alinor. If Dawn
should not reach the group or if the mare was not recognized as hers, no one
would know she was missing until they reached Windsor Castle. Actually it might
be hours after they arrived before her absence was noted. The confusion of
finding the correct quarters, unpacking and setting up furniture, cooking and
serving a meal, would be no less than the confusion of departure. Certainly the
Queen would not be writing personal letters, and Alinor had no other specific
duties that, remaining undone, would betray her absence. In those hours, she
might be taken anywhere.

How could Simon come for her when he did not know where to go—or
even who had taken her? Alinor realized with a shock that she did not know
herself. The boy was someone's squire; she had seen him accompanying someone at
Court, but she could not remember who. Now she understood why. He was not
wearing the colors of his house. That was why the face was only vaguely
familiar. One looked at the master, not at the man.

Run, Alinor thought. But run where? There was no place of
concealment for her among the open fields; she was no hare to creep in among
the low thickets and find a hole in the ground, and the woods were too far. She
could not outrun the boy in her full riding skirt. Outrun the boy! That was the
least of her troubles. She could hold him off with her knife, but he could not
be alone in this. That hunting halloo that had so startled Dawn was to summon
those who would really take her. Soon there would be men and horses.

Alinor cursed herself for not slitting the squire's throat at
once, but it was too late now. He was sitting up and shaking his head. Hopeless
as it was, Alinor took to her heels. On the other side of the thicket she would
be out of sight, at least temporarily. She drew her wimple up across her face
to shield it as much as possible from the branches and brambles and plunged in
where the brush seemed thinnest.

The eye of youthful love is very keen. Although he rode close
behind his master, as was his duty, Ian de Vipont was never unaware of Alinor.
He knew where she rode, to whom she spoke, and how long she had been away from
the Queen's vicinity when she went to talk to Beorn. Even though the distance
was considerable, he knew the gray mare and her green-habited rider when they
careened off in the chase. Thus Ian was also aware that Alinor was not among
the laughing group of hunters who returned.

For a few moments he hesitated, staring over the fields, hoping to
see her merely riding more slowly than the others. For a few moments more he
delayed because he feared to bring punishment upon her. Then he reproved
himself. Lady Alinor was no Lady Greensleeves. She would not ride apart to use
a ditch or a hedge like a common whore. Perhaps she had fallen and the others
had not noticed!

"My lord," he called.

Simon finished what he was saying to Lord de Mandeville and
dropped back so that Ian could come alongside. "Yes?"

"My lord—" Ian swallowed "—Lady Alinor is no longer
with us."

"No longer—What of that? Doubtless she has ridden back to
speak to Lady Isobel or—"

"No, lord. She went to speak with Beorn Fisherman, but then
she rode off with a party that was coursing a hare for sport. They have
returned, but not Lady Alinor."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, lord, I am sure."

Simon was about to ask sharply how Ian could be certain about one
girl in such a rout of riders when he caught the intent—and
unmistakeable—expression in the young man's eyes. He shut his mouth, feeling
decidedly uneasy. Alinor might be infuriating, but she was no fool. She had not
ridden off alone and—Ian was right—she would have returned with the others.
Simon pulled his helmet up over his mail hood, swung his shield forward, and
reached out to take his lance from Ian.

"I will murder that girl if she has stopped to pick
wildflowers," he growled. "Go and summon my troop and Beorn and his
men and follow me. Which way did she ride?"

Ian pointed. Simon clapped spurs to his horse and took off across
the fields. They were open except for the dividing hedges and first he saw
nothing. Just out of sight of the road, however, his heart rose in his throat
when he saw, off to his left, a riderless gray mare stumbling now and again on
her hanging reins. He turned his mount in that direction and Dawn came toward
him whinnying a welcome, for the loose rein and the empty saddle frightened
her. Simon spurred on more frantically, only seeing with the corner of his eye
that the mare was shining with sweat but not really lathered. Alinor could not
be far—but how to find her, one small girl in a green dress, lying in a green
field.

Before she won through the thicket, Alinor's wimple was in shreds,
her dress had several rents, and her face and hands were trickling blood from
scratches. Despite her hurts, she had considered staying in the brush, but if
she moved the sound would betray her and if she did not her pursuers would find
her and pick her out in minutes. Confined by the brambles, she would not even
be able to use her knife. She had heard, as she struggled, the renewed
hallooing of the squire, and when she looked around the result of his calls
began to show. By twos and threes, men were riding from the distant woods.

Her roving glance had caught something else previously hidden by
the thicket—a low mud and wattle hut, perhaps a shepherd's shelter. It was no
safe hiding place, but perhaps it had a door she could bar, which would delay
her captors making off with her. The few minutes it would take for them to
break in might be worthless, but one could not tell. It was possible someone
would notice the riderless mare. Alinor lifted her skirts and began to run.
Behind her she could hear the boy thrashing his way through the brush. Ahead, the
riders were closer; they, too, were hallooing. It was a clever device. Even if
some trick of wind should carry the sound to the Queen's cavalcade, it would
not arouse any interest. A petty baron hunting with a party of friends would
utter just such cries in excitement or to keep the party together.

When Simon first heard the hallooing he thought just that and
uttered a heartfelt thanksgiving. There would be others to help him search, and
probably others that knew these fields well. He turned toward the sound,
roweling his horse unmercifully because in his mind's eye he saw Alinor weeping
with the pain of broken bones or stunned, helpless, and frightened. He was
indeed so immersed in his mental image that even when the riders were in sight
he did not at once perceive the oddity of the fact that there were no hounds.
Only the long-ingrained habit of danger, which had made him put his shield on
his arm, saved him from being cut down when he came upon the first pair.

The truth burst upon him when he saw the glitter of a lifted sword
so that he was able to ward off the stroke of one man with his shield. The
other, however, opened a nasty gash along his ribs as he threw down his lance,
useless for such close work, slipped his wrist through the loop of his morningstar,
and freed it from his saddlebow. The morningstar was not a weapon Simon
favored. It did not make clean wounds like a sword but crushed and tore. Now,
however, he sought it instinctively. Clean wounds or death were too good for
those who threatened Alinor.

The sick, wet crunch, the choked-off scream, the thud of a man's
fall when the spiked steel ball at the end of the brutal, barbed chain
connected were sweet music. The back-swing caught the top of the other rider's
shield with such an impact that it forced the metal edge back into his face.
His sword stroke, aimed at Simon's head, fell awry on the shoulder. There was
enough force left in it to cut the surcoat and drive the mail through shirt and
tunic and open the flesh. Another trickle of blood began to stain the gray
surcoat. Simon laughed and swung his arm. The ball flew wide. The barbs of the
chain caught the nape, below the helmet, pierced through the links of mail
hood. Simon pulled. Jaw and neck tore away. The man fell without crying out,
gagged by his own blood.

The horse hardly needed spurring now. Melee-trained, it charged
toward the oncoming riders. Simon swung the morningstar forward, caught it by
the short steel handle to which the chain was attached. Blood dripped down onto
his gauntlet and glistened redly wet on his stallion's hide. He regretted the
loss of his lance now. He could have slain out of hand two of the three who had
turned aside from their original target, which Simon could not yet see.

Accustomed to fighting in larger groups, the men-at-arms rode
bunched together. Bred to tourney fighting, where each knight fought for
himself. Simon swung wide, turned his destrier sharply, and took on the man on
the far right. His shield went up to block a wild sword thrust. The morningstar
swung up and then straight ahead, as a man would thrust with a sword. At the
point of greatest momentum, Simon released the handle. The steel ball shot
forward, struck the helmeted face, thrusting the man sideways. Instinctively
his arms swung out to seek support, and the shield on his left struck his horse
in the side. The beast shied, fouling the mount of the middle rider.