If the queen reprimanded those who might have had a hand in the attempted abduction, Alinor saw no sign of it. Both Bigod and de Bohun continued to pay her particular attention, and Alinor was very polite, unnaturally so, anyone who knew her would have said, but very reserved. No one attempted any physical persuasion, however, for two hard-faced men-at-arms accompanied every step she took outside the women’s quarters and Simon rode close beside her as they traveled.

  Alinor was glad of that. She rode a soft foot pace and Simon, perforce, rode softly too. Night and morning she dressed the three wounds he had taken for her. The two small ones were nothing, scabbed over hard already; the gash, however, was still ugly, with moist yellowish edges marking the puffy red flesh where Alinor had stitched it together. There could be no scandal in Alinor’s attentions to Simon. The two men-at-arms were always present and, with the entire Court on the move, private chambers were only for the very greatest even in the huge royal castles. Simon slept in the Great Halls with the other lesser lords.

  On the thirteenth of August, a hard-riding courier brought word that Lord Richard had landed safely at Portsmouth and would be at Winchester on the next day. The people had turned out to welcome him, the courier said, and to bless his name. Alinor saw the satisfaction that filled the queen. By riding throughout the country, freeing political prisoners, relaxing the harsh hunting laws, giving justice—all in her son’s name—the queen had made Richard, totally unknown in England, welcome to his people. From the merchants and artisans and from the petty barons, there would be no opposition. There would always be trouble from the great lords, but that was unavoidable and must be dealt with case by case as the trouble arose.

  When they rode out from Winchester the next morning, it was clear that the courier had spoken the truth. The roads were lined with people from every hamlet and village within many miles. Alinor did not marvel at how fast the news had spread. She had seen word of her own progresses leap from mouth to mouth across her estates faster than the swiftest horse could bring the news. She merely rejoiced for the queen that the faces were happy and cheers followed them. Alinor had heard tales of times in which the crowd stood with faces like stone and curses, sometimes even clods and offal, were cast at the gentry.

  Among the Court the mood was not as wholeheartedly welcoming. It was not that there was any opposition to Richard. His claim was clear and unsullied by anything—except that he had hounded his father to death. It was not that which made the Court uneasy. Most had been glad to be rid of Henry, even those whose honor made them faithful. The Court’s mood was like the weather that day. First the sun of hope shone brightly. Then from nowhere a little wind of rumor brought clouds of doubt that emptied sprinkles of grief. But before the sorrow of drowning in the downpour, a new breath of rumor swept the clouds away to reveal the sunshine of hope again.

  Alinor was by no means exempt from the general mood, and she had more cause than most alternately to dread and hope for Richard’s coming. Simon had been grim and unsmiling when she came to him that morning, sitting or lying as she directed, with thinned lips and eyes mostly closed as she removed the soiled bandages, washed away the pus that had gathered overnight, and bound him anew. He had never behaved that way before.

  “Do you have pain, Simon?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You are ill?”

  “No.”

  She leaned closer, first laying her hand on his forehead to feel for fever and then touching his throat to feel the pulse. There was no fever, but under her fingertips his pulse leapt madly.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  Simon turned his face away and then back. “The queen will do for you what she can,” he said, “but do not think to play your tricks upon the king. Lord Richard is a courteous knight, but—”

  “But king first? I understand that.”

  Simon shook his head and turned away from her. “He is not fond of women,” he brought out softly, but as if every word cost him pain.

  All Alinor understood was that Simon was warning her against flirting with the king. She was puzzled both by the warning and by Simon’s distress, but when she had pressed him for more information, he had turned away completely, hissing through closed teeth, “Leave me be. Do you as the king orders and all will be well.” Alinor could only fear that Simon had been told something the queen had concealed from her.

  Nonetheless, it was hard to remember the doubts and fears when Lord Richard came into view. Alinor had found the Court finely dressed, but Richard’s cavalcade was as the sun is to the moon, and the king himself was the most magnificent. His armor shone with gilding, his surcoat was crimson embroidered in gold and set with precious stones, even his horse’s trappings were gilded and bejeweled. Yet the man himself outshone all.

  He swung from his horse when they were close enough with the grace of a cat. Simon, dismounting a little more slowly, had barely set the queen upon her feet when Richard reached them. The king eagerly forestalled his mother’s curtsy and bent his knee to her instead to ask her blessing. Queen Alinor’s voice trembled when she gave it. It was the first time Alinor had ever heard those clear tones shaken. She kissed Richard’s hands when he placed them in hers and when he stood kissed his cheeks and then his lips.

  They spoke a little, a few murmurs too low for the crowd to hear. Then Richard turned to the queen’s cortege, who were all kneeling, and gestured for them to rise, smiling sweetly. Alinor’s breath caught at his beauty. He was as big as Simon or William Marshal, but somewhat more lithe and with a marvelous grace in movement. His hair was red-gold, worn just a trifle longer than the short crop now fashionable so that the edges curled under. The eyes were brilliantly blue, as bright as a clear summer sky, and his skin was pale and fair and unmarked by the ugly freckling so characteristic of the fair Angevins.

  He turned then and said a few words to Simon. Alinor was relieved to see Simon laugh easily and reply and then kiss the king’s hand with genuine warmth when it was held out to him. His mood had been so peculiar that she had feared—she knew not what, for Simon’s public manners were always excellent. Then the king moved forward into the mass of courtiers and churchmen, saying a pleasant word here and there where he recognized a face or a coat of arms. He spoke kindly to one or two ladies also, but not to Alinor who shrank back as a modest maiden should. She even looked away a trifle. The less she was noticed at this moment the better she would like it.

  The turn of her head showed her a second man who had bent his knee to the queen. By chance he glanced up also, and their eyes met. Without reason, Alinor recoiled. There was no personal threat in the glance, but she shrank from a rapacity that would eat the world if it could. Later, because of her reaction, she wondered whether she had really seen the queen hesitate before she lifted the young man to his feet and kissed him.

  The caress was affectionate more than politic, and Alinor realized that this was the youngest of the brood, Lord John, the favorite who had turned against his father when he saw the old eagle was failing. He could not have been more different from his brother. Richard had taken his father’s coloring and the height of his mother’s kin. John had exactly the opposite heritage. He was short and broad, like Henry, and dark of hair and eyes like his mother.

  John had raised his voice to greet Simon, whom he knew very well, and Alinor heard him speak. It was the most surprisingly thing yet—a beautiful voice, rich and sweet and smooth. The greeting was both warm and courteous, and Simon replied in kind, smiling. Only Alinor knew Simon now, not only the expressions of his face and voice but the tales told by the stance of his body. She had felt relief when Simon responded to Lord Richard; she felt apprehension anew now. Simon’s voice was smooth, his face was pleasant, but his body was poised, the shoulders tensed as if he were ready to ward off or launch a blow.

  That, of course, was impossible. It was only Simon’s unconscious response to his dislike and distrust of Lord John, and it communicated itself to Alinor to reinforce the shock John’s glance had given her. Nonetheless, she found her eyes drawn back to the queen’s youngest son. There was a deadly fascination about him, a kind of black charm that in the end might draw one as a willing sacrifice into that rapacious grasp.

  A new fear, bred by the queen’s slight hesitation in greeting this youngest of her fledglings and Simon’s peculiar behavior, seized upon Alinor. Ordinarily she would never have thought of herself in connection with John. Her estates were rich, but not a dower for the son of a king and the heir to England’s throne. Isobel of Gloucester certainly seemed sure enough of her marriage to John to have been given word of approval directly by the queen. Yet if the queen and Lord Richard did not trust John, they might not wish to yield into his hands the power Isobel’s lands would give him.

  Alinor could not really believe the queen could be so stupid as to give someone she did not trust half the loaf he expected, particularly not half a loaf such as her own which commanded miles of the invadable coast. For those you did not trust there were only two paths. They must be destroyed or so stuffed that, for fear of losing what they had, they would be faithful. If John had not been flesh of their flesh, there might be some sense in starving his expectations. To give him Alinor instead of Isobel could be an attempt to draw him into open rebellion. In fact, Alinor could have credited that motive anyway—the Angevins were more prone to hunt their kin down than to cherish them—except that Lord Richard’s desire to leave on Crusade as soon as possible was an established fact. One does not incite rebellion and then go on Crusade, leaving that rebellion to brew.

  Still, Alinor felt herself sufficiently threatened by things she did not understand fully to make her hurry to the queen’s quarters soon after the cavalcade had returned to Winchester and the formal ceremonies of fealty and greeting were over. There she made herself very busy—but very small and quiet—in the niche that was her writing place in the chamber the queen gave over to business. It seemed to her that sons and mother must have private matters to discuss and that the logical place to go would be to the queen’s apartments. Perhaps strict formality would have decreed the king’s, but the queen was old and also, it seemed to Alinor, the sons were still in awe of their mother.

  Forethought was soon rewarded. There were footsteps and then the light, pleasant voice that Alinor already recognized as the king’s said solicitously, “But you must be tired, madam. Leave these matters for now and rest.”

  “Tired,” the queen replied sharply, “what has that to say to anything. I am not tired, as it happens, but if I were nigh to fainting with weariness it would be no excuse to neglect making—” Her voice checked and began again more questioning and less decisive. “To neglect discovering what your decision is.”

  “I have not been here. I know none of these people except William Marshal and you say he is at the limit of his obedience. I can do nothing but accept what you tell me is wise.”

  The light voice was not so pretty now. It was sulky.

  “My love, Richard my heart, I tried to do as you wished.”

  “If you had ordered it, they would have obeyed.”

  “Yes, and they would have hated me. Worse, they would have hated you. Nor would that hate have diminished. When William saw the Countess of Pembroke unhappy, that hate would have grown in him like a canker. The whole Court, moreover, believes she is promised to him. If you broke that promise, would they trust any other you made?”

  “Pish tush! Who cares what the barons of a Godforsaken corner of nowhere think. And as for William— William is not greedy. He would have been content with this other girl’s lands, and some title could have been found for him.”

  “Do not be so quick to pish tush the barons of England. Their blood may flow slower than that of Poitevins, but it flows very strong. I never said or thought that William was greedy. I tell you it would be Isobel’s wretchedness that would drive him mad. That would be true even if he came to love Alinor, which I doubt could be. William has no sense of humor. He could not deal happily with a masterful wife. I tell you, William feels responsible for Isobel—and he loves her, Richard.”

  There was an odd silence. Alinor wished she could see the speakers, but she dared not move. In a moment she heard the king’s quick footsteps somewhat muffled by the carpet. The queen must be sitting in her armed chair before the fire. Was Lord Richard leaving? The steps grew louder again. He was pacing the floor.

  “Then he must have her, I suppose.”

  There was a rich distaste in the tenor of the voice. Distaste? For William Marshal? William had fought for the old king, of course, but Richard had taken no offense at that. Indeed, Alinor knew he had richly rewarded many Norman barons who had clung faithfully to his father. Also, everyone said Lord Richard and William were fond of each other and, had William not been sworn to the old king, would have been natural companions.

  “Oh, do not look so put about, Mother.” The musical lilt was back in the king’s voice. “I will find something else for Baldwin.”

  “I suppose so,” the queen replied.

  Alinor was startled at the dry reproof in her voice. Naturally if a promised reward was not given, another must be found to replace it. How could the queen disapprove of that?

  “But there is a more important matter to be settled,” Queen Alinor continued.

  “John is to have Gloucester. I do not see what there is to be said about that,” Richard said hastily.

  “Much might be said,” the queen sighed, “but I see that there is nothing else to be done. That is not what I meant. What is to be done about Alais? Will you take her to wife?”

  “What?” Richard roared. “My father’s leavings?”

  “Richard,” the queen exclaimed, “you know that is not true!”

  “How do I know it? It is whispered all over Europe and spoken aloud here in England.”

  “Yes,” the queen said bitterly, “because Harry did not wish you to marry her and have anything that was truly your own. Do not you be a fool, Richard. Your father may have been a lecherous old goat, but he was never, never the kind of fool that would let a woman interfere with his political purposes. There were women enough to come running at the crook of his finger—women many times more beautiful than the Capetian.”

  “He hated me enough to take her, then push her on me and laugh that I had been cuckolded even before marriage.”

  There was another silence. Then the queen said slowly. “I do not believe he ever hated you. It was a kind of fear, mixed up with the desire to keep you in his power, like a child. He could not let his children go. But I will swear to you Alais is a clean maid.”

  “Well, what if she is?” Richard replied, the sulky note clearer and more dangerous. “I cannot marry her anyway. The rumors were enough to make me the laughingstock of the world if I took her now. And,” he added hastily, “you need not read me a long lecture on political necessity. I will find a way to keep Alais’ dowered lands, Gisors and the Vexin, do not fear for that.”

  “Light of my eyes!” the queen’s voice broke and then continued wavering, “I do not doubt your strength and skill to keep anything you desire. But neither strength nor skill can keep you safe from what I fear. You do not know the heat that can strike a man dead in the saddle without a wound on him, and the strange diseases that waste men to bones, or eat them up with sores, or make them vomit their lives away.”

  “I have taken God’s Cross and do God’s work. He will protect me. Do you doubt the Divine Power, madam?”

  He believes it, Alinor thought. He believes it the way Brother Philip believes. Yet I know that if it were not for me, Brother Philip would be dead many times over. Perhaps, as Brother Philip says, I was God’s instrument to keep him alive, but I believe also what my grandfather said. “God helps those who, with righteousness, help themselves.” The dictum of the Church that Alinor found hardest to accept was the one that insisted the meek would inherit the earth. Whenever she was reminded of it, a little rebellious thought—let them inherit it, I will keep what is mine now—flicked across her mind.

  “I do not doubt the Divine Power,” the queen said heavily, “but neither do I doubt that we are not meant to understand the ways of the Lord God. We are given understanding of our own needs and powers and we are given free will so that we may use that understanding. To leave in the hands of God what is within our own power to do for ourselves is as sinful as refusing to accept the will of God when it is made manifest to us. You do not say, ‘The Saracens have taken Jerusalem, it is the will of God,’ you—”

  “The pope had bidden us all take up arms against this blasphemy!”

  “Indeed, indeed. I am not urging you to abandon God’s City.”

  She would, Alinor thought cynically, if she thought it would do any good. For all the queen cares God’s City could rot in the hands of the Saracens forever, or crumple to dust, or take wing and fly to heaven. In fact, if it were within her power she would destroy it herself to keep King Richard here.

  “I am only telling you it is equally your duty to arrange all matters here so that if God’s mysterious will does not send you back to us—” The queen’s voice broke again. She sobbed once and then said huskily but firmly, “You must marry and you must breed up an heir to your throne.”

  “Oh, Mother, there is time enough for that,” Richard said lightly.

  “There is no time,” the queen rejoined passionately. “Do you think you will set your seed into a maiden the first time of your going in unto her? Are you so certain a manchild will be vouchsafed you for your firstborn? Richard, Richard, you must set aside these—” her voice faltered again and then went on as if she were choking, “these appetites of yours and take a woman to your bed. If it is not Alais, name another, any other, that pleases you.”

  Alinor almost fell off her stool. So that was what Simon meant when he said the king was not fond of women! That was why Baldwin, the king’s favorite, would be no good to any woman! Alinor’s eyes ranged frantically round the tiny alcove in which she sat for a place to hide. She had not feared being discovered before. The queen knew she could hold her tongue. But this! For hearing this dark secret she would be imprisoned in the deepest dungeon of the strongest keep the queen could find—if she were not slain outright.

 

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