Alinor (44 page)

Because he knew there was no point in being first at the head of the list, Ian checked his stallion's pace and walked it back. He did not care what anyone thought now. Every man who had ever fought at all understood what his condition must be. To walk the horse might gain him a minute or two of rest, and that might gain him a victory. He was so close now. When he reached down to take the lance Owain held, he shook his head slightly. The squire could not have looked more worshipfully at God. And he has served with me long enough to know better, Ian thought. Nonetheless, even though he knew better himself, it was a spur to his pride. No matter how foolish, it was a more cogent reason to succeed than all the real good that might be accomplished by a successful run.

Ian fewtered his spear and, quite deliberately, allowed his shield to tip inward, as if his arm was too weary to hold it straight. This was near to the truth, but not quite true. He knew his left leg was beyond use to brace him. Thus, he could not endure the full impact of a tilting lance. He could only use the desperate device Simon had once shown him. He could hear the rich bass voice.

"Only if your arm be broken or your collarbone, and you cannot hold any blow off with the shield. Then, when the lance strikes, you must twist so, and lift your right elbow out so, and then, if the shield swing free enough and your timing is very nice, very nice, indeed, then the lance will slip off between your body and your right arm. Of course, if your timing is not so nice, you will have your belly ripped open or your right arm torn off. It is not a device I would recommend. In war, if death be the only other way, a man might use it—I have. In a tourney, better, far better, take your fall and pay your ransom; you can afford it."

Only the ransom to be paid this time was too high— King John's gloating satisfaction, the light in his squire's eyes, a whole day of battering and torment gone for nothing, Alinor's safety, or if not hers, that of some other innocent woman. No, Ian would not pay that ransom. He roweled his destrier and took as steady an aim on Fulk's shield as he could. He had to hit fair this time. One more time, he told his tired body. One more time pays for all.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Alinor did not know whether she wanted to kill or kiss Lady Ela. She never saw the last pass of tilting that overthrew Fulk and won Ian the rich prize the king had offered. Quite suddenly, when that pass had started, Lady Ela had cried out, "I am shivering! I am shivering!" Alinor's eyes had been drawn to the sharp sound involuntarily, and when she looked back toward the men, there was a maid standing right in front of her, blocking her view of the field while she rubbed Lady Ela's hands. By the time Alinor had shoved the maid aside, it was all over.

At least Alinor had no doubt, even momentarily, about what the outcome was. The roars of approval from the loges would never have been uttered for Fulk, nor, even if the man had been well-loved instead of well-hated, would they have been uttered for a fresh challenger who overthrew a much tried and overworn jouster. Besides, among the roars, she heard one angry mutter that the "stinking, slimy snake had what he deserved for so scurvy a trick." Alinor realized that Fulk had tried some device of which the noblemen disapproved. If Ela had known of that through some rumor, she had done what she could to save Alinor from seeing her husband struck down. She had also saved Alinor from displaying any overviolent pleasure in the outcome and thereby exacerbating the royal temper even more.

The latter problem was eliminated when Geoffrey came tearing across the field to summon Lady Alinor to her husband's assistance.

"My lady, he came down from his horse smiling and and then he fell, and we could not wake him," the boy whispered, trembling all over.

Alinor rose at once and curtsied to the king, who did not even bother to hide his satisfaction. Angry words rose to her tongue, but it was more necessary to get to Ian at once than to tell the king what she thought of him. And it did pass her mind also, that it would do Ian more harm than good to show John openly her hatred and contempt. She made some brief formal apology, which was accepted with a self-satisfied nod.

The king had hoped that Ian could be finished in the jousting, but he was not really surprised or disappointed when that did not happen. An experienced jouster, even a tired one, is seldom killed, although if Fulk's trick had worked, it might have been fatal. Had Ian been unhorsed, the chances for a sad outcome would have been much greater; for example, a man could be trampled when his opponent returns to help him. Ian's own horse had nearly killed a young jouster early in the day. However, John had far more elaborate plans laid than an "accident" while jousting. His one concern had been that Ian might be severely enough injured, instead of being killed, to prevent him from fighting in the melee the next day. He knew that had not happened. Everything was working out for the best. De Vipont would be sore and stiff and clumsy, but he would have no wound to which he could point as an excuse. Tomorrow, he would fight, and die, and no one would be able to point a finger of blame at anyone.

Lady Ela watched as Alinor and Geoffrey moved toward the jouster's tent, but her eyes were on the boy. Alinor's hand rested comfortingly on his shoulder, and her head was bent as she spoke to him. He looked different than the glimpses Ela had caught of him when he was in Isabella's service. She had not helped him then, when he needed help so badly. Now she blamed herself bitterly for refusing to take him into her home, but at the time she had still been childless, and she had had some crazy fear that William would try to make Geoffrey heir to her father's lands and would come no more to her bed. Now she had a son of her own, and she could also judge her husband more rationally. She had been a fool to hate that poor woman, dead before Ela herself had married William, and to transfer her spite—as she had done—to the innocent child was unforgiveable.

William had accepted her refusal to take his bastard into her care without argument, but he had not really forgiven her—not until he saw the boy at Alinor's wedding. That was another debt Lady Ela owed Lord Ian and his wife. Her eyes slid sideways toward her brother-in-law. How she hated him! Sometimes when she and William sat beside John at state dinners, she became really ill with the passion of hate that burned in her. Somehow, someday, she would show William what that creature really was. Somehow, someday, she would destroy that doting love that still saw only an unhappy baby brother instead of the poisonous viper into which the child had grown. William still sought to save John from himself, but it was far too late for that. There was nothing left to save.

Meanwhile, Alinor was saying comfortingly to Geoffrey, "I watched most carefully. Lord Ian has taken no fatal hurt, I promise you."

The promise was easy enough to redeem. When she and Geoffrey arrived, Ian was already sitting on a campstool, cheerfully arguing with Salisbury and Pembroke about attending the king's feast that evening.

"What?" he was protesting, "will you deprive me of receiving in person the one and only tourney prize I am ever likely to achieve?"

His lips were smiling, but when his eyes moved to Alinor, their expression curbed the hot speech she was about to utter. Later that night, she called herself a fool a hundred times over for yielding to him. Had she known why he insisted on attending, she would have set her men on
him
to hold him down by force. When they first reached home, however, the idea did not seem so unreasonable. Although Ian's knee was swollen, and he groaned dismally on getting into a hot bath, he seemed lively enough. Alinor did wonder whether his eyes were too bright, but he was taking so much pleasure in recounting the maneuvers that had saved him one time or overthrown an opponent another time that she had not the heart to bid him be still.

Later, she blamed herself for not recognizing the feverish activity of exhaustion. She had seen it often enough in Adam, but she did not expect it in a grown man. It carried Ian through the ride back to the castle, which he made on a quiet palfrey with his left leg hanging out of the stirrup, and through the groups that rose from their places at the tables to greet and congratulate him and to ask anxious questions about why he was using a crutch. They were rather late; the meal was on the table and half eaten, but portions were eagerly provided for them. Alinor began to have doubts when Ian would not eat, but he was still talking and laughing feverishly. When the prize was brought to
him,
nervous energy lifted
him
to his feet to make a speech of acceptance.

"I thank you, my lord, for the honor you have done me, and I accept this prize as a token of the far greater prize I have won. Remember, my lord, that by overthrowing those who claimed her, I have won on the field of battle God's sanction to my marriage with Lady Alinor and, more than that, His sanction, to which I am sure you will add yours, that Lady Alinor will be forever free of any forced choice of husband. If I should die tomorrow, or the day after, or even ten years, or twenty, or fifty hence, Lady Alinor, by God's will, must be free to act as she chooses—to marry or not to marry, and if she marry, the man to be of her free choosing, not from any proffered list of suitors."

The hall was as silent as if it were empty. Men and women with food in their mouths forebore to chew; men and women with cups at their lips forebore to swallow. All waited on the silent, staring king.

"Come," Ian urged in ringing tones, "I have saved you a mort of money and contested lands this day. Will you confirm my prize to me before this honorable concourse of gentlefolk?"

What answer the king would have made had he been left to his own choice was questionable. However, into the silence came a low whisper from the back of the room: "What was won today will be lost tomorrow." Had even a draught stirred the hangings that voice would have been lost, but in the aching silence that followed Ian's challenge to the king, the words hissed through the hall like the whisper of the Father of Evil.

Eustace de Vesci got to his feet. "Confirm his prize, my lord," he shouted.

And first half, then three quarters, of the men in the room were on their feet. "Confirm!" they roared. "Confirm!"

Old King Henry would never have gotten himself into such a situation. King Richard would have shouted the whole hall down. In the face of force, John yielded. With his yielding, the impetus that had driven Ian disappeared. He slid back into his seat, the fire fading from his eyes, the color from his skin. As surreptitiously as possible, Alinor put an arm behind him, fearing he would fall off the bench. After a little while, as the lesser prizes were being distributed, she coaxed him into drinking some wine, and that revived him enough to sit upright until the ceremonies were over. After that, stubborn courage lifted Ian to his feet. The courage might not have been quite enough to carry him out of the hall, however, had Robert of Leicester not come over, ostensibly to say a word about the melee the next day. A companionable arm around Ian's shoulders also managed to provide considerable support.

Outside, Alinor abandoned pretense, ordered Beorn and Jamie to lift their master into the saddle, and told Jamie to ride pillion behind him to keep him there. Ian began to protest, and she turned on him with blazing eyes.

"Shut your mouth, you fool!" she raged. "Well for you I am too well-bred to say what I think in public. What did you think you were doing in there? What did you expect to gain? Do you think the king more likely to keep this promise than any other?"

"No, you bad-tempered bitch, I do not," Ian responded, temporarily invigorated by fury. "But I do think he will be so angry at me that his spite against you will be pale by comparison."

This logical piece of insanity so enraged Alinor that she became quite speechless. She did not say another word nor, in fact, make any sound until, in their bedchamber, she had stripped off Ian's clothes. Then she uttered a cry of consternation. In the hours that had passed since Ian had been bathed, the redness Alinor had noted on his flesh—and put down to the warmth of the bath and the irritation of the heat in his armor— had darkened into hideous bruising. His left arm and breast, his right wrist, elbow, and rib cage were all blue and purple, shading to black. Ian's eyes followed Alinor's.

"Oh, hush," he sighed wearily. "What did you expect when I was battered nearly insensible. It is nothing, only bruises. Let me sleep."

Nothing, Alinor thought, as she pulled the bedcurtains closed, he says it is nothing. But he must fight again tomorrow. How will he lift a shield on that arm? How will he sit a saddle firmly when his knee will not hold him? Wildly she wondered whether she could give him some drug that would keep him out of the battle, but such an idea was only a mark of the temporary hysteria of fear that had gripped her. To do such a thing would be the end of their marriage. Ian would leave her. Love, if he loved her, would not outlive the dishonor she would bring upon him.

It was an interesting choice, Alinor thought, crouching shivering before the fire. Would I prefer to lose Ian by death or by hatred? But even as she posed the question, Alinor knew her preferences were irrelevant. It was Ian's life. Although she might manage that in small matters, she had no right to interfere in this. There was no doubt in Alinor's mind that Ian would far rather be dead than dishonored. Nor was he deceiving himself about the possibility he would die the next day, Alinor knew. That piece of divine lunacy about directing the king's hatred to himself was no more than a sugared comfit for her. Alinor was no fool, once her sudden rages abated. What Ian had done in the hall was to announce publicly that he knew there would be an attempt made to kill him and to pledge every man there to safeguard his wife's freedom.

Alinor whimpered aloud in her pain. Ian, too? Ian, too? She could not bear it. She had hardly finished weeping for Simon, and now she must begin to weep for Ian. And this weeping would be bitterer by far. Alinor had nothing to reproach herself for in Simon's death. He had died peacefully and willingly. But she had murdered Ian, as surely as if she wielded the sword or mace that would strike him down. In her lust and her fear and her loneliness, she had leapt at his offer of marriage—and now he would die for her weakness. And there was nothing she could do— nothing.