Alinor (62 page)

It was just as well for Alinor's purposes that none knew that Lord Salisbury had started out for Clifford that very night. He carried with him an order he had wrung from the king, empowering him to command the services of the vassals of Roselynde. His knowledge of their place of meeting had come about simply enough. Once Lady Ela was over the worst of her shock, she remembered that Isobel of Clare was Alinor's closest friend and that, in her husband's absence, she commanded a number of strongholds in Wales and on the Welsh border. It was not impossible that Isobel knew where Alinor was going or where her men were to gather.

Lady Ela's messenger caught her husband soon after Salisbury had left the king, and the hope of direction her suggestion gave him contributed more to his ability to eat and rest than all his brother's assurances. The next day he asked for, and by evening obtained, the writ he desired. When John asked where he would find them, Salisbury did not really answer. He had no suspicion John was playing him false; he was only trying to avoid mention of the Countess of Pembroke. The less John was reminded of what Pembroke was accomplishing in Ireland, the more chance Pembroke would have to finish the work.

Isobel did not have a devious mind. She knew her husband liked Lord Salisbury and that Salisbury had spoken for William to the king many times. She knew also that Salisbury was Ian's friend and that Ian was fostering his son. It did not occur to her that Salisbury was also, and first, John's brother and might be playing a double game. She saw only the fear and pain in him when he spoke of Geoffrey. In any case, when he told her what Alinor was doing, she was so horrified that she probably would have told Satan where the men were, to prevent Alinor from leading them. Seeing how he had overset her, Salisbury spent a few hours calming Isobel and assuring her he would save Alinor from herself. It turned out to have been time well spent.

After evensong, Salisbury set out for Clifford, revolving expedients in his mind. He had learned from Isobel a piece of valuable information aside from where the men were to meet. That was that he would not be welcomed by them in the light of a savior from the whims of a silly woman.

"I am not sure what these men will do," Isobel had told him. "Old Sir Andre and Sir John would have tried to kill you outright if they thought your order conflicted with Alinor's good. I doubt Sir Giles, Sir Henry, or Sir Walter will go so far as that, but they may suddenly fall 'sick' or simply disappear so that you cannot give them orders they feel they cannot obey."

It was a valuable warning. Salisbury, who had been thinking he would need to urge the men to serve their mistress, turned his mind instead to ways of convincing them
he
wished to serve her. It was not so simple. Isobel might not associate him with the king, but these men, particularly Sir Walter and Sir Henry, who had fought in the tourney, would. He determined at last not to show the king's writ. Isobel's letter and seal opened Clifford to him without difficulty. Once within, he had reason to be grateful for Isobel's warning. Sir Giles of Iford, in bedrobe and slippers, came to greet him.

"How can we serve you, Lord Salisbury?" Sir Giles asked.

The tousled hair and sleep-heavy eyes gave evidence that the man had been roused from a sorely needed rest. The heavy lids, however, could not conceal the wary distrust in the tired eyes.

"By listening to what I have to say," Salisbury replied.

"Will you sit down? Can I offer you wine? Food?"

Salisbury sat, but to the other questions he shook his head. "I come to you as William Longespee, not as the king's brother," he began. "I come for two reasons. Ian de Vipont saved my life when we took Montauban castle in France. I owe him a life. More than that, my son is with him. Wherever Ian is, my Geoffrey is there also."

"I am sorry for that," Sir Giles said sincerely. "But I still ask, what do you desire from us?"

"To go with you. I have long experience of war, and I have broken open many keeps. I want my son out of there—if he is still alive."

"That is not unreasonable, but I can give you no answer."

"Why not?" Salisbury cried. "Is Geoffrey's danger not sufficient guarantee of my good will? If you do not command the men here, let me speak with Lady Alinor."

"I wish I could. Lady Alinor is not here. That was why I could give you no answer. We wait for her. I do not know what she intends. To break open a keep is not so hard, Lord Salisbury, but when the nutshell is cracked, sometimes the meat inside is crushed. I am not so ready to rush to attack when my lord—and your son also—are hostage within."

Salisbury rubbed his face and drew a shaken breath. "But what can we do?"

"I do not know, but Lady Alinor will have some plan, I am sure."

That remark left Salisbury speechless for a few minutes. Then he said, "You mean you will sit here and wait for a woman to decide whether or not to attack a keep while your lord is prisoner inside it?"

"I have no quarrel with Lord Ian," Sir Giles replied steadily. "So long as Lady Alinor is content, I am content. But she is my lady. My oath is to her—you heard me swear it—and to Lady Joanna after her. I do not say I would not have preferred Master Adam, but Roselynde and Lady Alinor's other honors are hers to do with as she wills, and her will is to pass it in the female line. Lady Alinor has done nobly by us in the sixteen years she has held the honors. I would be the worst kind of fool to disobey her. She bid me wait—I wait."

"But where is she?"

"I told you, I do not know. Perhaps something detained her at Roselynde―"

"No. The messenger who came to my wife from her said she had left the keep almost at the same moment that he did. She is not at Roselynde."

A spark of concern showed in Sir Giles' eyes. "That is not welcome news." Then suspicion clouded his face. "How did you know where to find us?"

"I told you. Lady Alinor wrote to my wife. I learned you were at Clifford from Lady Pembroke. Sir Giles, it is well enough to wish to obey your lady, but what if she herself be taken prisoner? What if some accident or illness has befallen her."

"She is never ill—at least, no illness could stop her from coming here, I am sure," Sir Giles said, but his voice was absent. Plainly, his mind was elsewhere and his thoughts were making him uneasy.

"Listen, this Clyro Hill, it is not far from here, is it?" Salisbury asked.

"Some five to eight miles only, but over rough country."

"Let us go tomorrow," Salisbury urged, "not to attack the keep," he added hastily as he saw Sir Giles' face harden. "We can leave the men hid, but at least we can spy out the land, and perhaps we can hear some news of Ian and the boys."

"Not tomorrow," Sir Giles said hesitantly. "We only came today—I suppose it is yesterday by now—ourselves, and we came early only by riding through the night." He hesitated again, then added, "Of a truth, I was surprised my lady was not here before us. The summons said, 'with all haste.' But if she had some business we are not aware of— One day more we will wait. Perhaps I will ride out myself to look at the keep, but—"

In the midafternoon, Ian leaned against the breastwork, his whole body heaving with his breathing. For a short while he was aware of little beyond his gratitude for the respite, gratitude that he did not need to push his overdriven muscles to further effort. Soon other concerns touched him. He turned his head. Geoffrey was squatting limply just behind him, breathing as hard as he was. Ian's eye raked the boy, saw some blood but not much. Geoffrey had done a man's work this day and had come well out of it—thus far.

That thought brought another more urgent. How long would they have before the attack was renewed. Ian found an arrowslit and looked out. He smiled with satisfaction. They would need to construct a new ram before setting to work on the gates again. The pitch had not only burnt through the oxhide shield, but the ram itself was burning. Ian looked at the black-coated, burning forms sprawled under, around, and a little way from the ram. Most were very quiet; a few still writhed and made noise. He grinned again, wolfishly. It would not be so easy to find men to work the next ram, nor would their work be effective as they looked above and strained to hear whether another barrel of burning pitch was being dropped.

He looked to the other side along the wall and then farther out. There were not quite so many still bodies as he had hoped, but there seemed to be rather more limping and crawling away than he expected. Some of those would not fight again. Unfortunately, that was a nothing. They were still badly outnumbered. And that thought turned his ear to the groans and sobs that drifted to him along the wall.

"Geoffrey." He watched the boy struggle upright, supporting himself against the wall. As soon as he was sure the effort would not topple his squire unconscious, he said, "Go and see how Owain does. On your way, count the dead and the wounded who will not be able to fight again. If Owain is whole, bid him from me to send up the women with water and bandages—food and ale for the men also. If he is hurt, go yourself, but return to where you went down and, when you come up again, finish your count of the dead and wounded. As you pass, order the servingmen to carry down the bodies of the dead. They are to put them out of sight—in the storeroom of the keep would be best. The enemy also."

Geoffrey started to sheath his sword, which was still in his hand.

"Wipe it first," Ian said sharply. "Any dead man's shirt will do. If you sheath it bloodied, it is like to rust or, worse, to stick to the sheath so that you cannot draw again in haste when needful."

"Sorry, lord," Geoffrey muttered.

He knew that rule, of course. It was one of the earliest things he had been taught about the use and care of his weapon, but this was the first time he had practical need of the lesson. The mixture of pride, horror, excitement, fatigue, fear, and sickness had driven it—and everything else—out of his mind. As he started off around the wall, Geoffrey could only hope he would remember how to count. He was not sure, if Lord Ian had asked him his name instead of addressing him by it, that he would have remembered that.

Now, adding to his confusion, came anxiety. He was worried about Owain. What if Sir Peter had turned on him or deliberately failed to turn aside a blow from him? There had been no gratitude in Sir Peter's face when Lord Ian told him Owain would serve as his squire, since his own were gone. It had been clear enough, from Owain's lack of protest and his expression of grim satisfaction, that his real business was to make sure Sir Peter did not weaken his section of the wall by a half-hearted defense or premature yielding.

Owain was safe enough, however, even somewhat less exhausted than Geoffrey, because the attack on the rear had been lighter. That section was well away from the easy entrance of the great gates at which the ram had been battering. Scaling ladders had been used, but only enough men climbed them to ensure that no help could be sent to those who defended the forepart of the walls. Owain nodded at Geoffrey's message and walked a little way with him.

"Tell our lord that Sir Peter is firm enough in defense —or has been so far. He has not tried to rid himself of me, and he has done his best to shield me as I have done to shield him. Of course, I do not know whether this is a feint to convince us that he is true—but I think not. I do not think he is clever enough for such an idea. The only thing I do not like is that he is not trying to shield
himself.
I think—I think he would be well pleased to catch his death upon these walls."

They parted, and Geoffrey continued his round and his sad count. Ian was still standing when he returned, breathing much more easily, but staring anxiously toward the enemy camp.

"Pass the word," he said to Geoffrey as soon as he saw him, "no man save the sore wounded may leave the walls for any reason. Even if he must piss or shit, he must do it here. I think they will come on us again while they are still hot and eager and while they think we are disordered."

Geoffrey walked the few yards to the first knot of men-at-arms and repeated his message. He did not fear it would become garbled in transmission from one group to another. Men who cannot read and write have excellent memories for the spoken word and could repeat much longer and more complex orders word perfect. One of the men nodded, repeated the order, and set off to pass it further along. Geoffrey returned to Ian, to whom he gave Owain's comment on Sir Peter and then the count.

"Nine are dead, two of them only serving men, so we may count seven. Three more are like to die shortly and may be dead already. I think you must count ten dead, my lord."

Ian nodded. That was somewhat worse than he hoped, but not so bad as it might have been. His eyes, however, remained fixed upon the scurrying groups of enemy below. Geoffrey expected that and went on without urging.

"The wounded are even harder for me to judge, my lord. I would say fifteen cannot—or should not—fight again. Two that claimed to be sore hurt I think are malingerers. I spoke them softy in the ear and reminded them that if the keep were taken, everyone in it, even the women, would be slain. But the kind that will cry out 'death' for a scratch cannot, I think, be counted upon for much."

"Mayhap not, but you spoke the right words to draw from them the best of whatever is in them," Ian approved, glancing around for a moment to look at Geoffrey's face.

To expect the best of a man often brought just that from him. So had Simon reclaimed him from hell; and Geoffrey had also answered well to that method. Geoffrey's mind worked well and swiftly, even fuddled with pain and tiredness; and he had suffered no sickness in this fighting. Perhaps he will never match me in inches, Ian thought, but he may well match me in fighting skill—and not long from now.

"On the other hand," Geoffrey continued, smiling a little at the praise but intent on transmitting the necessary information, "there are three that insisted to me they were little hurt and could fight again, but I judge either that they do not yet feel their hurts or are of such spirit that they do not wish to yield. I counted them in with the sore hurt, my lord. I did not order that they be carried down, but those three will die, I judge, if they strive again."