Roselynde, page 24
Isobel comforted her with soft assurances that time would heal Simon’s rage and bring him to a better way of thinking, but William said nothing, the puzzled frown remaining on his brow. Alinor guessed that William did not think Simon was angry. Something deeper and more important was the seat of his trouble.
That the trouble was indeed deep-seated and that time would not affect it became apparent as fall deepened into winter. Simon pursued his duties as sheriff and as warden of Alinor’s lands, often taking Sir Andre with him. It was a tacit admission that he would make Sir Andre his deputy as Alinor had requested. However, his attitude toward her did not change. His rare letters of business were as icily polite as his original thanks had been, and, even when the queen’s progresses brought Alinor within an easy day’s ride, Simon did not come.
That, she admitted, might have been her own fault. Although she notified him of her movements and wrote him all the news from Court, Alinor did not urge Simon to join her. It seemed to her that if he spoke to her face the words he wrote, she could not endure it. Perhaps face to face, when he saw her unhappiness, he would warm to her, but perhaps he would not. Fearful of putting the matter to the test, Alinor chose to wait, hoping that, as the hurt was deeper, a longer time might be all that was needed to cure it.
Her one comfort had been to write to him, and there was much to write about that was of great importance to them both without touching any personal matter. Unfortunately the Earl of Essex died, and Richard had given his post as joint chief justiciar to William Longchamp, who was already chancellor. The concentration of so much power in the hands of one who had only contempt for the English barons and their English traditions had raised so great an outcry that the queen had tried to remonstrate. When she raised the matter, Richard flew into a passion. That passion had outlasted their private interview and overflowed into a public dinner. To the assembled Court, Richard had said openly that he was much of Longchamp’s mind, and he pointed out how few and how reluctantly the English barons had taken the Cross.
“Not to wrap up a stinking thing in white linen,” Alinor had written, “he impugned the courage of our people and said further that he gave his authority into Longchamp’s hands because he could not trust the nobility of this land even to pay for the work of God to which they were so obviously unwilling to set their hands. The queen said no more, for to argue and draw forth publicly more of such sentiments could only do more harm than good. But I fear the Bishop of Durham will not be able to control Longchamp.”
The truth was worse than Alinor’s fear. Hugh Puiset, Bishop of Durham, was of an old, proud family. He would not recognize Longchamp’s precedence nor would he stoop to brangle with a cheap upstart, he said. He would withdraw to the north, where the king had set his authority. Unfortunately, it was not so simple as that. There were many matters on which the justiciars had to act together. What pleased one displeased the other so that whatever needed both seals went undone.
For a time the queen attempted to mediate between them. At first Alinor got an incident-by-incident description of the petty and gross insults both men flung at each other because William Marshal had the thankless task of the queen’s envoy. Soon, however, he had to beg to be excused from further duty. He told the queen, Alinor reported faithfully to Simon, that if he went again to Longchamp he would kill him. He had come to the limit of his ability to swallow open offense against himself and, worse, openly stated contempt for the queen.
That was the last letter Alinor had written, toward the end of January, and now, in the first week of February, Simon was returning to Court. The note in which he announced that decision and confirmed that Sir Andre would deputize for him in Sussex had held no more information. Alinor had read it and reread it, but she could find nothing in the terse lines beyond the strict performance of a duty, an accounting for a responsibility laid aside. That was what frightened her most. Had whatever insult he imagined she had cast upon him magnified instead of lessened with time? Was Simon coming to throw her “gift” back in her teeth?
Alinor was so absorbed in her fears that the brief scrape of a spur on stone as Simon stepped through the doorway and onto the carpet was all the warning she had. She had hardly leapt to her feet, eyes wide, cheeks flaming with excitement, when he was bending gracefully to kiss her hand. Her eyes ate him in the moment his own were downcast, but there was nothing to see. Simon looked exactly as she remembered, the gray velvet surcoat impeccable, his hair neatly brushed back. He was still in mail but had doffed his helm and pushed back his hood.
“You are welcome,” Alinor faltered, and her eyes filled with tears.
“What is it, Alinor?” Simon asked anxiously. “What is wrong?” Then the soft anxiety of the first two questions hardened into exasperation. “Are you in trouble again?”
Terrified of what she would see in them, Alinor had been avoiding Simon’s eyes. Now, however, she met his irritated glance openly. “No—well, yes, but it is nothing new or worse than usual. Oh, Simon, have you been summoned to Court?”
“Of course I have been summoned. What else could draw me from the duty you laid upon me?”
His voice had changed again, smooth, hard, cold as ice. Alinor’s breath caught. “Do not be so angry with me, Simon. Please. I meant no harm. I—”
“I am sure you did not. You meant only good and, in fact, only good will come of what you have done. I will grow rich. You made a good bargain for Sussex at one hundred marks. The people will have an honest sheriff—I dare pride myself upon my honesty—and you and yours will be protected against any unreasonable prosecution.”
“Simon—” the name was a whispered plea, but he did not seem to hear.
“I must go to the queen.”
Simon turned away, features frozen, body rigid. Could he have misunderstood? Was it possible that Alinor still loved him? Was it possible that Alinor’s purchase of Sussex for him was not, on a larger scale, of course, the same dismissal of obligation that her gift of a fine horse and arms sent to Ian had been? It was impossible to pursue the thought, to try to determine what Alinor’s distress had signified. Once he made his bow to the queen and was invited to sit opposite her beside the fire, it was necessary to concentrate upon her. To answer absently even such polite questions as those about his health was to call forth far keener questioning. Simon felt he needed to understand what was happening before he answered any questions.
“And do you enjoy being a sheriff?” the queen asked.
Simon opened his mouth to give a reply as casual as the question and then shut it abruptly. When he opened his lips again, they were twisted wryly, and one brow lifted cynically. “It is so like the duty I have always done that it is neither pleasure nor pain—as you well know, madam, so why do you ask?”
“But I did not know,” the queen said. “I knew you served the late king, but I did not know how.”
“Is that a reproach?” Simon asked stiffly.
“No, no.” The queen laughed, then added in a half question, “You have grown very thin of the skin recently.”
“Perhaps. I was not overpleased at how the Welsh business was ended,” Simon replied flatly.
“For you it was well ended.” The queen’s response was sharp. “The king gives full credit to you, whatever came later, for avenging the insult done him.” Then she leaned forward and put a hand on Simon’s arm. “I am sorry for the Welsh lords, but I could not press Richard on that subject. I must tell you that we are like to have worse troubles here in England if Puiset and Longchamp cannot be brought to some accord.”
The frown that had gathered on Simon’s forehead at the queen’s reprimand grew blacker still, but it was no longer directed at the queen herself. “I know,” he said briefly.
“William sent you word?” the queen asked.
“No, Lady Alinor wrote, although she had the news from William and some from you.”
Suddenly the queen smiled. “Good. Then I am sure you have the full tale. Doubtless what William would have written was, ‘Trouble between the justiciars.’ And that would have been his whole news.”
Simon could not help but smile. “He is not so bad as that,” he protested. “However, I am sure I know anything that is not truly a secret.”
“What can be a secret when both parties cry aloud the foulest slanders—and sometimes truths too, which is more unforgivable,” the queen asked bitterly. “Things here have come to such a pass that Richard has bid me come to him in Normandy.”
“I hope you will tell him to rid us of this plague.”
Queen Alinor’s face froze. “No, because it would do no good. Richard trusts Longchamp, and indeed, the man is faithful to my son—”
“Such faithfulness may lose the king his realm!”
“It is useless to argue with Richard on this subject,” the queen snapped. “There are personal matters—”
She stopped abruptly and Simon looked away, his mouth setting tight. He had been hearing really disgusting rumors—that William Longchamp was pandering for the king, bringing him beautiful young boys that he had tried out himself. This Simon did not believe. Whatever Richard was, he did not need and would not employ such methods. However, doubtless the king would believe that Longchamp was hated for his perverted ways more than for his political actions and would stand by him and protect him so much the more for that reason.
Simon cleared his throat. “I am sure you have better advice than I can give on these matters, madam, so that you have not called me hither for that purpose. How can I serve you?”
“First with advice, although as you say, not on this subject. I will leave for Normandy next week and from there I expect to go south to see my own lands. I will be gone a considerable time. What I wish to know is whether I may safely leave Alinor here.”
It was fortunate that the king’s unmentionable difficulty had come up. Queen Alinor assumed that Simon’s slow response was because he was still occupied with that hateful idea, and the impression was heightened by the stupid way he repeated, “Safely? How do you mean safely?”
To Simon it was a miracle that he got words out at all. So many hopes and fears tore him that after the immediate anguish passed, he felt nothing. Numbly he wondered whether the queen had divined his illicit passion. If so, she did not disapprove, for there was nothing beyond simple inquiry in her voice. But what an inquiry! Was she asking whether he intended to dishonor his ward the moment her back was turned? Was she suggesting he should do so? How else to interpret such a question?
A flash of time set that lunacy out of his mind. It was far more likely that the queen had discovered that Alinor loved him. But it was not true! Not any longer. Clearly while he was absent in Wales Alinor had thought better of her infatuation. Perhaps the tales of the women he had used had cooled her. She had purchased the appointment in Sussex as a peace offering, as an apology, as a payment of an obligation. Had she not? Then why the tears? Why did she say his name in the same anguished whisper that came from him when he spoke her name in the night?
“What do you mean, how do I mean ‘safely’?” the queen said crossly. “Wherever that girl is, there is a hotbed of unrest. If she were ugly or stupid, the young men would not look at her. If she were less rich, the fathers would not egg them on. No, you need not fly into the boughs in her defense. Since that one foolish mistake, Alinor has been well behaved.” The queen paused. “In fact, there is something that weighs on her spirit of late. She has become very quiet and oppressed. When I question her, she denies it and is gay again—until she thinks I do not notice her. Do you think she yearns for her own keeps and lands?”
“How would I know?”
“I thought she might have written something of it to you.”
“No. I would have said, from her letters, that she enjoys the employment you give her and the life of the Court. Her letters were full only of gossip and politics. Sometimes she wrote a question of business, but there was no sign even in those questions that she wished to be at home.”
“Then it will not be an unkindness to take her, if that seems best.”
“Take her?” Simon repeated.
“That is the alternative to leaving her here. What ails you, Simon? You repeat what I say like an idiot, and you have never answered as to the safety of leaving her upon her own domains. Would it be safe?”
Feeling restored, Simon had to bite his lip to contain a cry of pain. In all his dealings with greed and corruption, the reality of the Devil had never been so apparent to him. That scene in the moonlit garden that he could not banish from his mind and heart, that was truly temptation. And here again was temptation. He need only say that Alinor would be safe in Roselynde, and she would be his again—to laugh with and ride with, talk with and read with. So much he would have even if she did not love him, and, from what the queen said of an oppression of her spirits, perhaps she did. What might he not have then?
“It is not that I wish to leave her,” Queen Alinor added, trying to clarify matters. “I will miss her for she is useful to me. When I saw her growing so heavy of heart, I thought she might be one of those who pine when she is wrested from the place she knows best.”
Simon looked into the fire and rubbed his hands together slowly. “It is nowise safe to leave her unless she be well wedded and bedded before you go.”
“There is no time for that.”
“Then she must go even if she pines.” Simon wondered why his misery did not show in his voice. “With the two Isobels married, Alinor is now the greatest prize in England. The king is gone, and you will be gone also. The chief justiciars will doubtless remain at each other’s throats.” His pain temporarily repressed by the practical aspects of what he was saying, Simon looked up. “Longchamp is too hated to be much respected as chancellor. Who then can tell those who wish to pluck the juicy fruit ‘nay’? Madam, Alinor can be the little seed from which the spreading mustard of civil war will grow.”
“Well, then—” the queen began, and Simon shook his head at her.
“I can probably keep her from being taken by stuffing and garnishing Roselynde for siege, but will not those who besiege the keep soon flood over and raid others’ lands? And from that—”
“Simon, Simon,” the queen laughed, holding up a hand. “Do not be so passionate. I will take her, as I said, gladly. In any case, her care would not have been in your hands. I will need you with me. You must find a deputy for Sheriff in Sussex,” she began to laugh again, “but I think Alinor has that already arranged.”
“I? I am also to go?”
An expression of blank amazement on the queen’s face gave way to something much colder. “Do you think I called you here to answer questions I could have asked in a letter?” she asked. “What else would I summon you for but to serve as the leader of my escort as was your duty in times past? Have you grown so lofty in your new eminence as sheriff that you will not deign to—”
She cut off her diatribe mid-sentence since obviously it was not necessary nor doing any good. Simon could not have heard a word she said. An idiotic expression of sheer delight had spread over his features, and he stared off past her with the eyes of a man who sees the open gateway into Heaven. A qualm of real unease passed through the queen. Could his mind be disordered? She dismissed the notion. If it was, it had no effect on the performance of any normal duty. The Welsh expedition was no product of a disordered mind, nor was the smooth-running administration of the shire of Sussex.
At last Simon brought his eyes back to her face. “Forgive me,” he said. “I have been feeling these two months past like an old stallion, too beloved to kill but no longer worthy of his work. Alinor wrote me how kind you were in helping obtain Sussex for me by interceding with the king—and I thought you were setting me out to pasture. I thought perhaps I was grown too old—”
The queen’s laugh, still beautiful in spite of her age, belled out. “Oh, Simon. How can I think of you as old? In my mind you are still a boy.” Then she sobered. “But you are not. In truth, Simon, are you content to make this journey?”
“Content? Yes!” He stood up. “But, madam, you could have given me a little more warning. I must go, if you will give me leave, and make such preparations as I can in this short time.”
In the anteroom Alinor still sat by the fire, although she was no longer waiting. Her despair did not show on her well-schooled features, and her needle did not hesitate on the work with which she busied herself. All she could think of was that she must get away from the Court. If only she could be with Simon as she had been at Roselynde, she could mend the breach that had opened between them. When she heard his step, she lifted her head.
“Sir Simon,” she called imperiously. He hesitated, as if he wished to ignore her, then walked across to her quickly. Alinor drew in her breath. Something had happened. Simon’s eyes were alight. Alinor, however, felt no relief. She recognized that excited, leashed-in pleasure. Just so had Simon looked when the king ordered him to war in Wales. He looked at her, but Alinor thought he scarcely saw her until he smiled. The words she had prepared died upon her lips.
“What is it?” she asked breathlessly.
“I have no time to tell you,” he replied, his deep voice lighter than usual and almost laughing, “and I do not know whether I am permitted to speak in any case. I must ride back to Sussex, but I will return within the week.” He hesitated, the light in his eyes dimming a trifle as if some anger or doubt crossed his mind. “I need to talk to you, but for that I need leisure lest there be worse misunderstanding.” Suddenly he balled a fist and shook it in her face. “For God’s sake, Alinor, do not anger the queen. If you do, I will beat you witless.”
With that, he was gone, leaving Alinor half demented between rage and hope. Her condition was not improved when she was summoned to the queen. Having asked with genuine anxiety how she had offended, Alinor received a glance of surprise.
