Roselynde (25 page)

With his mind thus occupied, it did not occur to Richard that his
mother and Simon were suddenly babbling nonsense. That was because the "I
remember" Braose had uttered had no special significance to him. Simon and
the Queen, however, had both guessed that Braose had been about to describe the
disaster that had ensued when Henry had led an army into Wales "once and
for all to subdue the Welsh." To hint that the Welsh had beaten his father
was a sure way of pushing Richard into a full-scale war against them to prove
he was the better man.

Had there been any hope of success, the Queen might have been
willing that Richard begin a major struggle with the Welsh. A war there might
have kept his interest until his crusading fever died. There was always danger
in war, but less than from disease and treachery that would be found in the
Holy Land. An indemnity paid to the Pope to release Richard from his Crusader's
vow—no matter how enormous—would be cheaper than the cost of the Crusade
itself. What made the Queen anxious to keep Richard out of Wales was her
knowledge that no continental-style army could hope for success against them.
The Welsh merely took their goods, their herds, and their women and retreated
into the mountains. There were no open fields for pitched battles. The supply
carts could not be drawn up the often trackless hills. There were few farms to
raid so the army could not live off the land and would starve. And in the
ravines and narrow dells, small forces of Welsh could launch surprise attacks
that eventually broke the soldiers' morale because the Welsh could slip away
into the forests they knew so well before reprisals could be made.

Richard was a brilliant military strategist, but the strategy that
could beat the Welsh necessitated a new kind of fighting, a kind he would
consider petty and unchivalrous. He was not, in addition, likely to ask for
advice from men whom he wished to impress with his ability. Therefore, the
connection of Richard and Wales spelled disaster in the Queen's mind. Her
impression was reinforced by the haste with which Simon came to her support.
Apparently he, too, felt that Richard should stay well away from Wales.

When the Queen and Simon leapt hurriedly into the breach William
Braose was making in the wall of silence surrounding King Henry's defeat by the
Welsh, John ground his teeth. He well knew the effect that disclosure would
have upon his brother and nothing would have given him greater pleasure than
seeing Richard soundly trounced by the wild, uncivilized hillmen of Wales. If
they succeeded in killing Richard, his pleasure would be even greater.
Unfortunately he dared not supply the information himself for three reasons. First,
Richard—although not too clever—might realize he was being baited. Second, his
mother—who was altogether too clever—would most certainly recognize what he was
doing. Third, John was aware that he had played an exceptionally ignominious
role in the Welsh campaign his father had lost. His mother might publicly place
all the blame for the failure on him so that her dearly beloved Richard would
not feel a desire to accomplish more than his father could. Richard, John
thought, his hate so thick it nearly smothered him, would scorn to win a
campaign his brother had lost.

Unaware of the cross-currents swirling around him, Richard
considered the conflict between his need to be crowned on schedule and his need
to enforce the King's influence in Wales. He knew the response to the
rebellion—he still thought of it as rebellion—must be made at once. He knew,
too, that a coronation was not a one-day affair. After the crowning came the
feasting, and then the barons and prelates must be summoned to do public homage
in a grand concourse where all would be witness to the oath of fealty of each.

The solution was for a representative of the King rather than a
Marcher lord to lead the force sent to chastise the Welsh. Naturally enough
Richard thought first of William the Marshal. No, that would not do. William
was still not well, and, worse, Isobel of Clare was Countess of Pembroke, a
considerable shire in Wales. Richard did not for a moment think that William
would take advantage of his assignment to set himself up as a rival to his
King. Unfortunately the people would see William as the heir to the Clare
influence regardless of what William himself wanted. They would look upon
William as Lord Pembroke, even though he did not yet have the title, rather
than as an embodiment of the King.

Richard's eyes flicked over the group of noblemen. Of those with
no Welsh connections, a few were too old, a few too dangerous, a few simply
incompetent. Then his eyes fixed. "Simon," he said, "since all
seem to agree that I must not go myself, do you go and wipe out the affront to
my honor."

Not a muscle of Simon's face moved, but there could be no doubt of
his pleasure and satisfaction. "Yes, my lord."

Alinor saw the Queen's body relax and thought resentfully,
"Her son is safe and my love goes to war." She had no romantic
notions about war or its results, having been too close to it for a whole year.
Still the resentment did not last. Simon would have had to go in any case and,
recalling what her grandfather had told her about Welsh campaigns, it occurred
to her that Simon might well be safer leading his own force than being bound
instead to obey a glory-hungry leader.

Richard meanwhile had been watching his Marcher lords' faces and
was satisfied with what he saw. They were somewhat disappointed that he had not
left the matter completely in their hands, but there was no sign of anger or
rebellion. Apparently they knew Simon well of old and were willing to accept
his leadership. If the campaign was successful, some suitable reward must be
found for Simon. He had been shamefully treated by Henry, Richard thought.

A discussion of the levy to be made ensued, and here Richard found
himself at odds with his gentlemen again. A knightly force was useless, they
insisted, and the stronger the more useless. Enthusiastically and repeatedly
interrupting each other, they described the terrain and the need for archers
and light-armed footmen. Richard began to feel that he had done well to yield
the leadership of this campaign—if it could be called that. It would be an
ignominious, hole-and-corner affair with no glorious charges, no noble ransoms
to be collected, no honor to accrue to anyone's name. Sordid little sorties
against sordid, unkempt hillmen.

Losing interest in the type of army necessary to fight such an
inglorious action, Richard suggested that it was high time they all returned to
the dance. The bride would rightfully take it ill that many of her honorable
guests, and even her husband, were missing. An early hour was appointed for the
council to meet the next day. As soon as the Queen went forward on her son's
arm, Alinor moved to Simon. He glanced down at her warily, not sure whether she
would resent the King's use of the man who was—in her opinion—"hers, to
her." However, Alinor's expression was merely thoughtful. She had had more
than sufficient time to get her emotions under control and she was thinking
what she could do to reduce the danger Simon would face.

"I cannot say I am pleased with this news," she began
softly. "I will miss you. However," she added briskly before Simon
could take alarm at the personal note, "this campaign will solve a problem
for me."

"I am supposed to solve problems for you," Simon said,
laughing. He was delighted with Richard's order because it showed the King's
trust in him and, without doubting the King's military genius in matters of
siege and open battle, he knew he was far more likely to bring a campaign in
Wales to a successful conclusion. Under his pleasure, however, he had had
qualms about Alinor's reactions. Her practical remark— again Simon thanked God
for her grandfather's training—was such a relief that, all things considered,
he felt euphoric.

"Well, of course, it depends upon you," Alinor agreed.

They emerged into the bailey as she spoke, and a vagrant breeze brought
the odor of night-blooming flowers from the walled garden behind the house.
Alinor tightened the fingers she had laid on Simon's wrist. She had been very
particular to observe all the formalities since the King had commented so
sharply upon her satisfaction with her warden. Thus, when they walked together,
Alinor invariably walked at arm's length, her fingers on Simon's wrist as if he
were an escort she scarcely knew.

"Come into the garden for a moment," she said. "The
air is so sweet."

"Alinor—" Simon began suspiciously.

"No, no," she protested. "I think you will approve
of what I will suggest, but as it is a matter of war, you know I will not
contest with you."

That was true, she never did. Simon followed docilely. He would be
glad to fill his eyes with Alinor in the moonlight. It would be the kind of
memory he would need in the weeks and months to come. When she stopped beside a
bed of lavender, however, he stood well away. There was a dangerous temptation
in the time and place and the knowledge of parting. The birds were quiet, but
insects sang, and everything was a mystery of black and silver, even Alinor's
face from which all color had been blanched by the moon. Her eyes were black
pools when she raised them to him. Simon braced himself against he knew not
what.

"If it meets well with your will, my lord, I will write at
first light to Sir Andre and bid him bring to you, at what place and time you
shall designate, the extra men-at-arms from Roselynde Keep," Alinor said
in the flat, even tone she used to discuss business. "Since I have become
the King's ward, and I believe the Queen intends to keep me with her, there is
no need for so many men to defend Roselynde. They eat my substance and having
nothing to do, quarrel with each other or torment my serfs. It would be, I
think, a happy solution to send them off to fight the Welsh."

The lovely setting, the sweet-scented air, and Alinor's ethereal
beauty in the moonlight were so much at variance with the flat practicality of
voice and thought that Simon burst into laughter. Disarmed, he stepped closer.
Alinor moved closer, too, placing her hands flat on his breast and looking at
him in surprise. The touch, the gesture that mimicked resistance where no
resistance was intended, the lips half-parted for a question that would never
be asked—one or all acted to shut off Simon's conscience. His laughter stopped
abruptly and he dropped his head until his lips barely touched hers.

For ten long days and nights—since they had kissed with the three
dead men around them—Simon had seesawed between horrified rejection of the idea
that Alinor could love him and an almost equally horrified hope that she did.
Most of the time, he did not want to know. Tonight was different. Tonight there
could be no question of fear or force. Simon did not embrace Alinor. If she
gave him the kiss of peace, he would know one way; if she gave him more, he
would know the other.

Of Alinor's response there could be no doubt. Her arms came up and
round his neck at once. She needed no second lesson on when to part her lips or
what to do with her tongue. For a little while the kiss was sufficient for them
both. Although Simon knew passion well, love was as new to him as to Alinor.
For the first time in his life he was more concerned with his partner's reactions
than with his own.

To Alinor it was a marvelous renewal of a wonder. Often as she
danced with Simon, or spoke to him, or simply looked at him across a room full
of people, her heart would stir in her breast. But the warm, languorous
pleasure, the exquisite sensitivity of the flesh did not follow. She had begun
to doubt the reality of the sensations, almost to believe that she had imagined
them. Now she would never doubt again. A warmth from Simon's lips spread up her
arms making them all boneless, yet strong enough to cling round his neck. Then
the warmth spread down, across her breast, across her belly and loins and
thighs. This time it was Alinor's knees that trembled. As innocent as any young
female animal that responds by instinct, she pressed forward into her lover's
body.

Simon wore no armor this night; he and Alinor were dressed alike
in the thin silks of summer. The warmth of her body kindled his. His arms slid
from her back down to her buttocks and crushed her closer. Although Alinor had
never seen a man aroused, she had seen stallions in rut. She had no doubt as to
what was pressing against her, but Simon was too tall. Alinor strained upward,
striving to apply the pressure where she craved it. The movement made Simon
tear his mouth free to gasp for breath. Alinor's seeking lips found his throat.
Then even the thin silk was too much hindrance.

It was the need to think of a way to rid herself of her garments
that separated Alinor's mind from her body. As soon as the separation was made,
rationality returned. She could not permit Simon to take her in this garden.
Aside from the danger that some other couple would come across them, there
would be no way to explain the long delay in returning to the celebration, nor
the earth and grass stains on her gown, nor her total disarray. To add to that,
Simon would never forgive himself. In a brief flash Alinor wondered whether she
could yield and then use the act as a weapon to get them well married, but she
knew at once that it would not work. It might get them married, but the burden
of guilt would weigh always on Simon's mind and in the end would stain the
whole fabric of their lives.

Alinor unlocked her arms from around Simon's neck and took his
head in her hands. For a moment he pressed forward, blindly seeking her lips,
but only for a moment. His eyes opened; his arms dropped. He stood so still,
looking at her, he scarcely seemed to breathe. Alinor smiled up at him.