Roselynde, page 6
“Make ready a plain white linen tunic, but of the better sort, and that pale green silk bliaut that is the color of new leaves—and a white veil, the thinnest you can find. And be quick, or I will be late to Mass.”
She was on time for Mass, a thing that gratified the family chaplain but had no effect on Sir Simon, who was not there. He had ridden out already with Sir Andre, Sir John informed her at breakfast.
“Am I to set places for them at dinner?” Alinor asked, concealing her chagrin as well as possible.
“Oh, yes, assuredly. Sir Simon expressed a wish to see the demesne lands.”
“And Sir Andre did not deem me fit to display them?”
The voice was so much like a shower of icy water that Sir John blinked. “It was so very early, my lady. They rode with the first dawn, before the sun.”
“And what needed this haste? Will the demesne vanish away like the mist when the sun rises?”
Sir John cleared his throat uneasily. Lady Alinor had the devil of a temper, although her rages did not last long, and was extremely tenacious of her authority as mistress. That, Sir John acknowledged, was most right. If she allowed Sir Andre to deputize for her and appear before the people for her in all things, she soon would have no authority. She was clever about it too. Mostly she sat silent while Sir Andre meted out justice or punishment, but often enough she prearranged with him that she would gainsay his decision. And she was clever enough to gainsay it as often on the side of severity as on the side of mercy. Thus when Sir Andre was afield and it was needful to hold court, Alinor sat alone, and her decision was accepted as final—more final than Sir Andre’s.
Naturally enough Sir Andre was not ignorant of this facet of his lady’s character. He had tried to suggest that they wait for Lady Alinor or send to have her wakened. Sir Simon had stared at him as if he were mad. “What, wake a lady at dawn to ride through mucky fields?” And Sir Andre, caught between the upper millstone of Alinor’s anger and the nether millstone of Sir Simon’s contempt, had decided to squeeze out between the two.
When Alinor asked him, no doubt in a voice dripping venom, whether he aspired to her honors, he would throw Sir Simon into the snake pit. He would admit at once that Sir Simon had not thought it fit to ask for her company and that he had not thought it fit to make suggestions to the king’s warden. Sir Andre liked Sir Simon, but he also acknowledged him as the better man. Then let the better man with the greater authority bear the shock of Lady Alinor’s displeasure.
“Well, Sir John?” Alinor prompted.
Sir John swallowed. It was ridiculous to be afraid of a sixteen-year-old chit whom he could break between his fingers, but he was. It was not a physical fear, of course. For fourteen years, since the death of Sir Adam, he had been trained to accept this child’s word as law. Besides that, she had eyes to see the sore spots in a man’s soul, and she could either prick at them or lay balm upon them. Sir Andre knew her better, and Sir Simon had the weight of the king’s authority behind him. Let them fight their own battles.
“I do not know how it was decided, my lady,” he mumbled.
There was a moment of silence while Alinor bit her lip, but her flash of rage was assuaged by Sir John’s obvious discomfort. It could not profit her to vent her spleen upon him. He was not at fault. It could not even profit her to vent her spleen where it was deserved—on Sir Simon. Not yet, not yet. If it killed her, she would enslave him. When she was done, he would ask her permission before he drew breath.
“Alack on me, Sir John,” Alinor said lightly, “I am in ill humor because the gay doings of the past days are over. I am spoiled already by these courtly things and wrinkle my nose at the dull needful tasks of every day. I wished to ride out and make merry. Forgive me.”
The scar-seamed, gray-haired warrior grinned with relief. If there was the sad necessity of a female heir, was much to be said for training her from infancy to justice and reason. Unlike most women, who were confined to the small tasks and petty problems of the inner keep, there was no spite in Lady Alinor. She had been taught to see all sides of a case and was as quick to see and acknowledge a fault in herself as in another.
“Well, well,” he rumbled cheerfully, “it is most understandable that the excitement of large affairs draws you. But I must say, my lady, that you are wise to see that the small are needful as well.”
Alinor returned some platitudinous reply and then asked a question about the Mersea fishing trade that would draw him out. Although she won rich revenues from it and was usually interested in its doings, this time Alinor merely wanted freedom to think. It was easy enough to say she would enslave Sir Simon, but it would be necessary to gain and hold his attention first. Since he owed her no allegiance nor even any explanation of what he did, there was little she could do to force him to take her with him or tell her anything, except—
“Will you excuse me for a little while, Sir John,” Alinor said suddenly. “I have bethought me of a small thing I overlooked in my pleasuring of the last few days.”
If her vassal was suspicious that the glint in Alinor’s eyes had little to do with a forgotten task in the kitchen or the women’s quarters, he was not inclined to make a point of it. He went on stolidly with his meal, grateful that he would very soon be free to go back to his charge in Mersea, to his docile wife and gentle daughters. He always looked forward to coming into Alinor’s company. She could be enlivening and amusing and he honored her and loved her too, but a man needed a little ease of mind. After a few weeks, Sir John felt he loved Alinor best when others had to deal with her.
Freed by her vassal’s nod and smile, Alinor made her way down to the guard room below. A young man-at-arms was sent scurrying to find her chief huntsman. There was little chance that Sir Simon would break off his efforts to gain some knowledge of the lands he must administer to go hunting, at least for this day, and the huntsman’s hirelings were accustomed to ranging abroad.
The huntsman came hurrying, wiping his mouth, for he too had been at breakfast, although he had been hard at work for hours. “You wish to hunt, lady?” he growled in the coarse English of the native. “It is full late. The beasts will have gone to earth.”
“No, no, huntsman,” Alinor replied in her own native French. “I desire that your men should bear messages for me.”
It was odd, each using a different language, but the English clung stubbornly to their own tongue and the Normans, except for a few, would not bother to learn to mouth the grunts and growls. Since each understood the other quite clearly, it worked well enough.
“Messages?” The huntsman was puzzled. “The men-at-arms are—”
“I do not wish it known that I have sent these messages. The men-at-arms could have no business in the villages or farms. There is a knight riding with Sir Andre. Your men must go to each headman of each fishing village and the bailiff of each farm and to each chief herdsman, and tell them—”
“You desire that this strange knight be slain, lady? The huntsmen themselves could better—”
“No! Sacred Heaven, no!”Alinor exclaimed. “He is the king’s warden. No harm of any kind must befall him.”
“Lady, we will do your will in all things. We do not fear the king’s warden.”
Alinor smiled. “You are good, loyal servants, and I love you for it, but Sir Simon is no enemy to me at this time. Only for the good of my people, there are things that he must hear from my mouth. If he hears a small thing here and another small thing there, when he puts those things together, he might learn—more than is good for us or more than is true, and thus he might wish to take from us more than is needful for the king’s share.”
The huntsman’s face was broad and flat, his nose snub, his hair as light as tow. To the hawk-nosed, thin-faced Normans, the physiognomy often spelled stupidity, but bright intelligence gleamed in his blue eyes now. He nodded quick comprehension.
“The headsmen, and herdsmen, and bailiffs are to tell the king’s warden nothing then. My men will bear the message swiftly.”
“Huntsman,” Alinor warned, “they must not refuse to answer. That might bring punishment upon them. No insolence or discourtesy must be offered Sir Simon. I would not have the king’s warden made angry. Only—only let them be as stupid as possible. Do you understand?”
“I understand, lady.”
She hoped he did understand and that his men would reach their goals before Sir Simon stopped asking questions—if he ever asked any. There was, of course, no way to stop Sir Andre’s mouth, but he understood the purpose of a king’s warden and would naturally be as reticent as possible. Besides, although Sir Andre was sometimes present when headsmen and bailiffs made their accountings, more often he was not. He knew far less than Alinor of what the lands brought in. Having done what she could to ensure the success of her campaign, Alinor went up to the women’s quarters to work off her impatience by harrying her maids.
Fortunately for Alinor’s plans, Simon had been more interested in seeing the bounds of the demesne to judge it in military terms than in asking questions that would define its worth in rents. It would be his duty not only to secure the revenues to the king but to protect the estate as well as the heiress in times of trouble. At present the nation appeared ready to accept Richard as king without protest, but, as Simon had said already to Sir Andre and Sir John, this happy condition might not survive Richard’s sojourn in the Holy Lands. Worse, if he should die there without an heir—an all too likely possibility—the succession was not clear. Between Richard and his brother John, there had been another son, Geoffrey. Geoffrey was dead, but he had married and had a son and heir—Arthur. By strict right of primogeniture, Arthur was the heir to Richard’s throne, but Arthur was only three years old. It was not rational to put a child on an uneasy throne. Unfortunately John—for good reason—was already disliked and distrusted. The situation spelled trouble.
There was another, more immediate, problem in terms of defense. Alinor’s estates ran for miles along the seacoast, and it was necessary for Simon to consider protection for the lands both from the pirate bands that periodically swarmed ashore to rape and loot and from the ever-present chance of French invasion. Theoretically Philip of France was Richard’s ally. He had helped Richard destroy his father and had also taken the Cross and promised to go on Crusade. However, Philip of France had a deep-seated and ineradicable hatred for all Angevins—with good cause. Philip’s father Louis had once been married to Alinor of Aquitaine and her huge possessions, a third of France, had once belonged to the French Crown. Then Henry the Angevin had tempted the queen to annul her marriage to her French husband and take him instead. With her went her enormous provinces. Philip would not rest, nor cease to hate the Angevins, until every stick and stone of Alinor’s dowry was back in French hands. He had tried by war, but Henry and Richard had beaten him. Then he worked by guile. First he allied with Richard to destroy Henry. Now, Simon knew, even if Richard did not, Philip of France would seek a way to destroy Richard. The south coast of England would need to be carefully watched.
Sir Andre watched Simon’s face grow bleaker and bleaker as the miles of beaches and inlets unfolded. “It is not as bad as it looks,” he suggested after a while.
“How so?” Simon asked testily. “A child could land a boat on these shores.”
“True enough, a child could land a boat. From time to time a band of sea rovers does succeed in putting in, and thus a fishing village is burned and a few fishermen die, but many men cannot land many boats—not unless the fisherfolk are willing to turn blind eyes to them.”
Simon turned his head, his graying red, short-cropped hair ruffled by the sea breeze. He was mailed and carried both sword and shield, but helmet and hood had been thrust back to leave his head bare for the sake of coolness. On the demesne lands, Sir Andre assured him, there was very little danger of attack.
“That sounds as if it has a meaning, but I do not spell it out,” he rumbled.
“Fisherfolk are different in a manner from the inland serfs. They are not so tied to the land. Their livelihood is in their craft, and those are not easy for an armored knight to reach nor, being what they are, for a great ship to find or catch.”
“They have the name of serf and the ways of free men. I see.”
“More,” Sir Andre continued soberly, “here they have the minds and wills of free men.” He watched Sir Simon’s face and when nothing more than thoughtful consideration appeared there, continued, “You might think it a weakness in Lord Rannulf and my Lady Alinor that they have condoned this freedom, but it has paid them well.”
At that Simon snorted with contempt. “You mean to tell me that freedom makes men more honest? That they pay their stones of fish or give their pennies or their service more willingly?”
“Even that may be, but I was not thinking of rents or corvee. They watch this coast by day and by night from land and from sea as no army could ever watch it. Perhaps a single child in a single boat might escape their notice, but little else.”
“Yet you say the reavers have come ashore to burn and loot.”
“It happens,” Sir Andre admitted, “but not often. Far more often my men and I lie waiting for them. They come ashore, but they do not put back to sea. The fisherfolk are then richer by another boat and we in the castle by whatever was in the boat.”
“You protect them and they—for their own safety and profit—protect you,” the deep voice mused. Then Simon shook his head. “It works until some fancied slight angers them.”
Sir Andre shrugged. “Oh, it is not all faith upon our part. My men patrol the coast close to the keep, and further—as you saw—there are watchtowers. I spoke of it because I could see you thought the defenses thin. For many years—as long as there has been no sharp threat of war—it has been sufficient.”
It might well be so, Simon thought, but he was cautious by long experience and reluctant to agree to what he had not tested himself. “You have been here many years?” he asked, turning the conversation without seeming too obviously to avoid approval.
“Oh no. My keep is in the north, at Donnington. My son holds it now. After my Mary died, I was glad enough to leave it to him and come to serve my lord, who was growing feeble. Toward the end he was forgetful too. It was Lady Alinor mostly who showed me the way of things in these parts.”
“But she is little more than a child!”
Sir Andre looked hard into Simon’s face. “Not so much of a child. She is all of sixteen, and should have been wedded and bedded two years since, like any other girl. But she saw no man who took her fancy and my lord—well, aside from the fact that he could never bring himself to say her nay, I think he could not bear the thought of any man touching her.”
“There is little wisdom in such indulgence,” Simon growled. “See what she has come to through his doting.”
“Has she come to ill?” Sir Andre asked, laughing. “I will say no more, for I am in some way kin to her. It will be better if you answer this question for yourself.”
When Simon finally had seen what he felt was enough of the coast, they stopped in a village. Most of the men were at sea, but a graybeard came from a hut readily to greet them and to offer refreshment. Simon controlled a shudder with some difficulty and, having mastered his tendency to choke in the overpowering stench of fish, refused with considerable courtesy.
“I am the king’s warden, set to oversee this land,” he said then. “How many boats go out from this village?”
“How many?” the old man repeated. “I cannot tell numbers, master. How can I know?”
“As many as the houses?” Simon prompted.
“Oh no, not so many as that—at least, I think not.”
It was fortunate that Simon’s attention was given to the old man. Had he seen the expression of blank surprise on Sir Andre’s face, he would have realized that there was more here than the usual reluctance of the serf to answer any question.
“You mean you would not know if a boat did not return?” Simon asked more sharply. He was experienced in trapping liars.
The old man met Simon’s eyes steadily. “I know every man and boy in this village. I would know if some of them did not return.”
Simon did not lose his patience. He had dealt with this kind of thing too often before. He tried a new tack. “How much tithe goes to your priest?”
A shrug.
Simon’s voice grew harsher. “You must know the number of stones weight given to the priest. Where are your tally sticks?”
“But I do not know. Why should I?” The expression was surprised, Simon noted, not sullen. “It is written in mistress’s book and she comes with the priest. Mistress would not let him cheat us.” The old man smiled and nodded vigorously. “Mistress will know the number of ships also. Ask the mistress. She will speak true. The old master and the mistress never cheat us.”
Light dawned on Sir Andre. He ground his teeth together to suppress the laughter that rose in his throat. Alinor had doubtless sent word that her people were to hold their tongues. Then the impulse to laugh died. If she intended to cheat the king, she would get into trouble. Sir Simon was no fool.
That was true enough, but Sir Simon’s experience had been with ill-run estates and corrupt administrations. He was accustomed to cringing and lying and evasion. Thus, the only unnatural thing he noted was the fearlessness of the old man and his trust that his mistress would not cheat him. Perhaps, he thought, Sir Andre’s notion—or, rather. Lord Rannulf’s—was not so farfetched as it seemed. Unfortunately it could only be tested in time of stress and then, if the fearless and free-thinking fisherfolk were not faithful, it would be too late to begin anew and build a proper terror that induced respect for authority.
However, if the fisherfolk were “different” in their manner, Simon found when they turned inland that he obtained no more information from the herdsmen or farm bailiffs. The herdsmen also “could not tell numbers,” the tally sticks were “away yon,” and the farm bailiffs, who dared not use those excuses, scratched their heads and blamed the varying weather of the coast for their inability to say how many bushels of grain were reaped. Oh, yes, last year it was so much, and the sticks were here, but the year before it was much less—or, perhaps, much more— There was no need to keep tally sticks or remember such matters. It was “written in my lady’s book.”
