Roselynde, page 11
I am the stupid one, she admitted. Simon warned me. She did not blame herself too much, however. She had remembered to hold herself lowly before the ladies of higher rank, even though some of them were paupers compared with herself. Partly that was the cause and partly she had given them a bad impression by exhibiting her masterful management of what she considered hers.
It had started innocently enough when she had taken a small account book, a ready-cut quill, and a stoppered horn of ink from the bottom of one of the baskets that held her possessions. With her eating knife she had trimmed off a strip of parchment and had penned a message on it. One of the younger ladies gasped a trifle. Alinor had ignored the mark of surprise, a little annoyed at the idea that her skill should cause any comment. Then she had sent Gertrude to fetch a page.
“What is your name?” Alinor inquired kindly of the fair-haired child that bowed to her.
“Guillaume, my lady.”
“And do you know your way to where the men-at-arms are quartered?”
The child looked a little startled, which should have warned Alinor that she was doing something unusual or forbidden, but she was tired and flurried, and the boy merely said, “Yes.”
“Good. Then find the men of Lady Alinor Devaux. They wear red and gold and my pennon has a red ship on a gold field. Ask for my master-at-arms. His name is Beorn Fisherman, and tell him to send a man to Sir Andre at Roselynde Keep with this message.”
Enlightenment had begun when the darker and sharper featured of the two Isobels said nastily, “One is not supposed to send messages out of the Tower of London.”
“Why not?” Alinor asked.
“It is not my business to question the queen’s commands.”
Alinor did not like the tone, so she turned to the fairer girl, whose large eyes looked fearful and haunted.” How then am I supposed to communicate my commands to my vassals?”
“Do you command them?” Isobel of Clare, Countess of Pembroke and Strigul, asked in a sad, slightly breathless voice.
Piqued by the titter the darker Isobel uttered, Alinor replied before she thought. “Of course I command them,” she said tartly. “A fine state I should be in if they did not obey me.” She could not, however, help an honest chuckle. “Sometimes there are high words between Sir Andre and myself, but most of the time, I win.”
“Perhaps that is why we are not supposed to send out messages,” Isobel of Gloucester retorted with a rather gloating satisfaction at relaying bad news.
For one moment Alinor’s eyes looked almost as haunted as those of Isobel of Clare. She could feel a prison closing around her in spite of all her care. Then the memory of Simon’s big body in its elegant if subdued gray surcoat and his hard, honest face freed her from fear. “Oh dear,” she sighed, “yes, I understand that. There is nothing in this message to which the queen could object, only to say we are safe arrived—Sir Andre does worry so—and to tell him to send me a chest of cloth to be made into new gowns. I am sadly behind the fashion.” She turned again to the page. “Guillaume, do you know Sir Simon Lemagne? No? Well, it does not matter. I am sure you know William Marshal.”
Isobel of Clare made a strangled sound. Alinor looked around at her. The girl had a hand at her throat and her face was suffused with a deep blush. In common politeness Alinor restored her attention to the page to give Isobel time to recover, but something twisted inside her breast. Was this the model of womanliness in Simon’s mind when he scolded her for her unmaidenly ways?
“Ask William Marshal where Sir Simon is, and give Sir Simon the message. Tell Sir Simon that he is to see that Sir Andre gets my letter. Tell him also that I send it to him because I was told it was not permitted for me to send messages freely. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Very well, then. Thank you.” She watched the boy leave, then turned to Isobel of Clare. “Do you know Sir Simon well?” she asked innocently, curbing a strange desire to tear out Isobel’s very lovely eyes with her fingernails.
“No, not at all,” the fair girl faltered, blushing even redder.
Isobel of Gloucester tittered. “It is the other name that has set her all aflutter. Of course, she does not know William the Marshal very well either—but she hopes to know him better.”
“Oh, hush, Isobel,” the fair girl said, her eyes filling with tears. “I do not hope for anything. I will marry as the king commands.”
Alinor opened her mouth and then shut it firmly. She deplored such a poor spirit, but she had sense enough not to make matters worse by saying openly that Alinor of Roselynde would marry to no one’s taste but her own and Isobel of Clare should have sufficient courage to feel the same. Nonetheless, she had already done enough to make the lesser maidens wary of her. Only the two Isobels were rich enough and well enough born not to fear contamination and she was constrained to their company. In it her taste for news and worldly talk could find little outlet.
They were almost diametrically opposite types, both, Alinor decided with disgust, full of the sweet womanliness Simon was always harping on. Or, she corrected herself grinning, not always—only when their opinions conflicted. Both Isobels were outwardly meek and mild and obedient. Isobel of Clare was naturally so. She seemed intelligent enough, but had never been taught to think and, because she was a greater lady than Alinor, had never even had the experience of managing own household. Alinor liked her, although she felt somewhat contemptuous of the gentle spirit that bent so easily under pressure.
Isobel of Gloucester was another variety of mead entirely, and one Alinor would not have cared to taste often had she any choice. The pressures that made the Countess of Pembroke pious and resigned made Isobel, Countess of Gloucester, sly, secretive, and cruel. In addition, Alinor discovered she was both shrewd and stupid—a dangerous combination. Isobel of Clare did not gossip because it was wrong. Isobel of Gloucester gossiped continuously, and every word was so colored with malice that it was as unrevealing as silence.
Meanwhile, Guillaume the page had faithfully run William Marshal to earth. Here he found his errand was done, for when he asked for Sir Simon, William gestured to the big man seated beside his bed. The page bowed respectfully.
“The Lady Alinor Devaux—” he began.
“Oh no!” Simon groaned. “What trouble can she have stirred up so soon?”
“She has sent a message—”
“To whom?” Simon cried, leaping to his feet. William stared open-mouthed at his friend. He had seen Simon receive news of treason and rebellion with less heat.
“Simon, what ails you?”
“Lady Alinor ails me,” Simon spat furiously, “Quick, child, what is the trouble?”
The page had begun to look very confused. “I do not know. The Duchess of Gloucester spoke of trouble, but Lady Alinor did not seem worried.”
“You see,” William said. “There is nothing—”
Simon dropped into his chair again and let out an exasperated breath. The page’s puzzlement indicated that he had come neither from enraged royalty nor from a weeping Alinor. Thus, William was probably correct in that there was no emergency.
Worried,” he said bitterly to William, interrupting him. “She might be worried if a full-sized dragon breathing fire appeared suddenly. I cannot think of anything lesser that would worry her. Go on, tell your tale, child.”
“Lady Alinor gave me this letter to be sent to Sir Andre at Roselynde Keep. She said to give it to you because she is not permitted to send messages freely.”
“What?” Simon turned to look at William. “What does this mean?” he asked thunderously.
“Softly. Softly.” William soothed. “It must be some women’s nonsense. It is not by my order. That I swear.”
“Alinor is not overgiven to women’s nonsense,” Simon remarked, taking the strip of parchment the page was holding out. “Very well, child, you may go.” It had occurred to him that she might be up to some new deviltry. He had to see that message, but if it were sealed— It was not. He scanned the few lines, held the note out to William, his eyes narrowed. “There is nothing here that she could wish to hide, and she is not one to ask any man to do for her what she can do for herself. Thus she truly believes to send messages is forbidden. William, could this be an order from the queen concerning the king’s wards?”
An arrested expression came into William’s eyes and he bit back an oath. “If so,” he said, his voice bitter now, “it is nothing to do with Lady Alinor. What I was saying to you just before, Simon, is that I do not see any way to avoid trouble. I had hoped with the old king and young Henry dead that the last two would cease from tearing each other apart. But it is not to be. The devil is in these Angevins.”
Simon laughed. “You mean you believe the old tales—that the queen’s grandmother was a witch who flew out of the church window when the Host was lifted, and—”
“I believe the queen’s grandmother was a bitch! And there can be no doubt that the old king’s mother was possessed of devils. Never have I seen such a family. Never! Scarcely could the young ones bear arms when they turned to rend their father.”
“They are all born rulers,” Simon replied, “and not one can endure that another of them should rule also—no, that is not really true of Richard. He would be content for John to rule what is John’s, but he will not give up a tittle of what is his. Richard is not evil.”
William put an arm across his chest, which was still very painful. “Evil? I do not even believe that little devil John is evil. They all have such a lust for power that all else pales beside it. I have watched them, the living and the dead, each one reaching so desperately for power that they slip into dishonor.”
It was true. Simon had seen it too, but this was no new facet of Henry Plantagenet’s wild brood. William and he had spent their lives balancing between the opposing demands of their lords, trying to remain loyal and keep their own oaths and honors unspotted. The only thing new was William’s bitterness. Simon cleared his throat.
“You know, William, that I do not wish to pry into your concerns, but—but I have seen that you are troubled. If there is something—”
“Nothing. Do you think I would hesitate to ask you? No man can help. The matter is in the hands of the king— Oh, hell and damnation take policies and treaties.” William bit his lip, took a deeper breath, and rubbed his chest impatiently.
Simon waited. William looked at the blank wall with great interest.
“You know,” he said, elaborately casual, “that King Henry was hard put to bind men fast in the last years. He doubted everyone, even those he knew he should not doubt.”
“I know,” Simon said dryly.
“Yes, well, you came to cuffs with him. I, thank God, had no need to contest his will. Truly, he asked nothing of me that I was not honor bound to give anyway. But when he offered me a prize, I did not scorn to take it. Why should it go to another who might take it and use it ill or take it and then turn on him? I, at least, would be faithful.”
“Do not be such a fool as to excuse yourself. You have a right to your reward.”
“Yes, but—but it is a thing I desire greatly. He—he offered me the hand and the lands of Isobel of Clare.”
Simon was, for a moment, speechless. The situation was so close to his own that his gut tightened. Then sense returned. There was no real similarity. William, because his service had been different, had enormous influence with the great barons in and around the heart of England. It was reasonable that the king should try to fix William’s loyalty with the offer of a great heiress. Moreover, William was nearly ten years younger than Simon, and Isobel of Clare was two or three years older than Alinor. Stop, Simon said to himself. There is no likeness in your case and his.
“Just because you desire a thing, William,” Simon said quietly, “does not make it wrong. Then where is the trouble? I have heard that Lord Richard specially honors those who were loyal to the old king. Surely—”
“Oh, he says he will give her to me. I met him in the road when I went to tell him his father was dead and he accused me of trying to kill him. I laughed in his face and asked whether he thought I did not know the difference between the horse and the rider.”
“You laughed in his face?” Simon asked uneasily. If Richard had taken that as an insult, William would be in trouble.
“My heart was sore. It is not easy to see a man you have long served hounded to death. But I give Lord Richard credit. He did not take it amiss. He agreed when I killed his horse in that charge I could as easily have killed him. He said it was forgiven and that he honored me for my loyalty to his father.”
“So?”
“So I took the bull by the horns and spoke of the old king’s promise. It—it was not only greed, Simon. When King Henry promised Lady Isobel to me, I made it my business to see and speak to her. She is a good, sweet woman, gentle and pious. I would be a good husband to her. Her lands and her person would be safe with me.”
“William, William, with all the chances you have had, you would be rich as Croesus if you suffered from greed. Do not be so tender of a harsh word.” Simon shook his head. “Certainly you will have none from me,” he added, looking aside to conceal his own bitterness. “But you talk round in circles. Where is the trouble, I ask? Both kings have promised her to you.”
“Yes, but not a word more have I heard about it, and—and I later heard that, before he spoke with me, Richard had promised her elsewhere— To Baldwin of Bethune.”
“But Baldwin—” Simon began, and stopped when William’s hand clamped on his arm like a vise.
“There is also this. Baldwin has a great name and great estate of his own. How can I know but that Lady Isobel prefers him?”
“If so, it is purely a result of total ignorance,” Simon said, his lips twisting as if he had tasted something sour. “Whatever she prefers, for her sake it is best you should have her.”
“So I think also, but how can I tell her that.” William rolled a fist into his open palm. “And how do I know what she hears from others? If she were brought to say she prefers Baldwin, it might be cause enough to seek some other, perhaps lesser, prize for me.” William looked up from his hands, stared at his friend’s face, and exclaimed, “Good God, Simon, do not take it so to heart. I will not break my faith. I know kings are constrained to act with what, in other men, might be thought to be dishonor.”
The expression of horror on Simon’s face was not owing to any fear that William might be driven to rebellion. Alinor! Alinor was the perfect substitute for Isobel of Clare. Fool! he told himself. What better could befall her than William? No woman could have a kinder, more honorable husband. That was true, but at the same time it was also nonsense. William and Alinor would drive each other insane. William was everything that was good, but he did not laugh easily and he had never really liked the queen.
“Insofar as finding one to speak well of you and—and express doubts of Baldwin’s fitness as a husband, perhaps I can help,” Simon said thoughtfully.
The trouble began to clear from his eyes. He had an idea that might do good and could do no harm at all. If Alinor could persuade Isobel to express a preference for William, that would be best for everyone. Isobel would have a fine husband. William would have what he desired. And Alinor would remain free. She was not rich enough or important enough for Baldwin. And if it did not work— Simon swallowed. If it did not work, Alinor might have talked herself into a willingness to accept William.
“You? How? You mean you will talk to Lady Isobel? Or to the queen? The queen loves you well, Simon. She would not listen to me, but to you—”
“I will certainly talk to the queen—not that it will do much good except to make it clear to her that you will not lightly dismiss such a loss. And for me to try to convince Lady Isobel would be fruitless. Either she would be affronted at a stranger who thrust himself into her private affairs—”
“Not Isobel. She is gentle as a fawn.”
“Then I would affright her. No, I have a far better ambassador in mind.” Simon waved the parchment he still held. “Alinor can talk a mule into standing on its head—if she so desires.”
“Your ward?” William asked. Simon nodded. “Then all is easy,” William said eagerly, “tell her what to say, and she will tell Isobel.”
Simon looked at his friend blankly. “Tell her what to say? I hope, my friend, that you have not tried to employ any other woman as your messenger.” He studied William’s face, which showed a slight heightening of color, and sighed. “Who was it?”
“Isobel of Gloucester. They are the same age and have known each other long. I—”
“Oh, God!” Simon exclaimed. “No wonder you had no results. It is easy to see, William, that your service has been with men. The bitch of Gloucester will do any ill turn instead of a good even if she lose by it, such in her spite. Also, one does not tell a woman anything—at least, not unless you really desire the opposite of what you have told her.” Simon grinned. “And more especially one does not tell Lady Alinor. That is like to lead to the loss of one’s ears. They would doubtless be burned off by her reply.”
It was now William’s turn to look blank. “I had heard from the queen that you did not welcome this wardenship. If the woman is such a termagant—”
“She is not a termagant,” Simon replied shortly. “She is young and very strong willed.”
“Then a sharp lesson with the flat of your hand should be of great benefit to her—and to you also.”
Simon guffawed. “I have come near to it from pure bile, but it would benefit no one. Alinor would more likely take her knife to me than learn obedience. More important, her vassals would kill me. No, do not shake your head, I mean it. We had words in her keep, and before I knew what was happening, there were the two vassals that were in the keep and every servingman in hall.”
