Excerpt of Roselynde by Roberta Gellis

LADY ALINOR, HEIRESS of the honors of Roselynde, Mersea, Kingsclere, Iford, and enough other estates to make her one of the wealthiest prizes in England, leaned forward to stroke the neck of her sidling and curvetting mount. The gesture did not calm the mare. Dawn continued to dance, and Alinor had to curb the desire to shriek at her. Since the animal was merely reacting to Alinor's own concealed fear, that would have set the fat in the fire — a not uncommon result of first impulses with Alinor. Controlling herself, she added a soothing murmur to her patting.

Above her own murmur, Alinor could hear a tuneless whistling. It was a sound to which she was well accustomed, yet it set her teeth on edge. When Sir Andre Fortesque, the chief of her vassals, whistled between his teeth like that, he was worried. And he has not even criticized my handling of Dawn, Alinor thought, her throat tightening with fear. Then why did he not permit me to close my keeps and fight?

But Alinor knew the answer to that. Sir Andre had been quick enough to call up the other vassals to defend his lady against all threats from her neighbors or any other magnate who wished to snap such a tasty (and wealthy) tidbit into marriage. He had fought endless skirmishes and two minor wars in her defense over the past year. This was different. This was a matter of the King's writ — or, at least, the Queen's writ. Lord Richard, soon to be crowned King of England, was still busy in Normandy, but his mighty mother, the Legendary Alinor of Aquitaine, was ruling as Regent in his stead.

The Dowager Queen had been sixteen years in restrictive custody for raising revolution against her husband, King Henry, but she had not lost contact with any event of note that took place in England or France. The death of Alinor's grandfather, Lord Rannulf, which left an unmarried sixteen-year-old girl as heiress, had certainly not escaped her notice. One of the earliest writs that went out as she gathered the threads of government into her capable hands had gone to Alinor. And now, on her way from Winchester to London, the Queen was riding some fifty miles out of her way to settle Alinor's affairs.

It was not a mark of royal affection for which Alinor was grateful, but she was resigned. The important thing was to keep her estates intact, and defiance of a royal writ amounted to treason, for which crime her estates, and those of the vassals who supported her, would be forfeit. If only Alinor had been able to marry while the old King and his sons had been locked in their death struggle. There had been plenty of offers — from penniless younger sons, with nothing but smooth tongues and a desire to eat Alinor's substance, to ancient magnates, with a brood of starveling young ones to divide Alinor's land among. Unfortunately not one of the smooth-tongued and beautiful youngsters was capable of holding her vassals together in Alinor's judgment and the older men were not capable of holding her.

Alinor had judged each offer on its merits, and she knew she had judged fairly because her opinion had been freely confirmed by Sir Andre and Sir John d'Alberin, who held the honor of Mersea for her. Now, of course, it was too late. She would be a royal ward, and the Queen or King would choose a husband for her. Alinor's soft lips firmed and her expressive eyes sparkled. Unless they chose wisely, she would be a widow almost before she was a wife.

The mare was quieter now. Alinor's lips curved a trifle. It was silly to be so nervous. Sir Andre and Sir John loved her dearly. Although they would curb the foolish impulses her youth bred, they would not permit her to be ill-used — even by the Queen. The faint smile faded. That very fact placed a heavy obligation upon her. Alinor knew she would need to be very clever and very circumspect, indeed, to get her own way and not bring harm upon her loyal vassals.

A flicker of movement drew her eye. From the rise of ground upon which Alinor's troop waited, the track snaked downward. Alinor strained her eyes and, in a moment, swallowed. The flicker had resolved itself into flashes of sunlight from the armor of a troop even larger than her own coming toward them at a brisk pace. Sir Andre's whistling stopped abruptly. A sharp word brought his men to full alert. Almost certainly the oncoming group was the Queen's cortege, but it was not impossible that a desperate last attempt by a neighboring baron might be made to capture so rich a prize before it fell into royal hands.

Another order brought a single man out of the troops to ride forward at a full gallop. Alinor took a firmer grip of her reins, listening to the familiar sounds of men loosening swords in their scabbards and swinging shields from shoulder to arm. The anxiety did not last long. A few minutes showed a single rider spurring forward from the oncoming group to meet Sir Andre's messenger. The riders stopped and spoke, then each continued on his way. Sir Andre's man knew his master too well to take another's word for evidence. He would see the Queen for himself before he assured Sir Andre it was she. And the men did not secure their weapons, even though they were virtually certain there would be no need for them. Alinor was too rich a prize to take even vanishingly small chances.

Soon enough confirmation brought the small sounds of shields being replaced and of men dismounting. Sir Andre lifted Alinor from her mare and she shook out her skirts and smoothed her wimple. The leading horse of the oncoming troop was snow-white, and its rider was not wearing the glittering mail of the others. Alinor sank in a deep curtsy into the dust of the road, bowing her head. She could hear the creak of the men's accoutrements as they knelt in their ranks behind her.

The Dowager Queen of England pulled her horse to a halt and looked down at her namesake. "Look up, child."

The voice was not young, but it was strong and full with none of the quaver that might have been expected in a woman three score years and eight. In fact, it was a voice that brought instant obedience. Alinor raised her head and her eyes. Old, certainly the Queen was old. There were deep lines graven around the mouth and the eyes, and the single strand of hair that escaped from her soft blue wimple was as white as snow. Nonetheless, the Queen's back was straight as a rod, the body in its blue gown was as slender, and the carriage in the saddle as lithe as a girl's. And the eyes — they were young, dark and bright, sparkling with interest and intelligence.

"Lovely," the old Queen said, her voice softer and smiling now. "Why, you are lovely, my child."

Alinor blushed with pleasure. In spite of the fact that her hair was black as a raven's plumage and her eyes a dark enough hazel to appear brown, her skin was white as skimmed milk and crimsoned readily. Alinor knew that the words of praise might be drawn forth more by policy than by her beauty; nonetheless, the Queen's voice was so warm that she could not help smiling.

"I thank you, Your Grace," she murmured.

"Simon —" the Queen turned her head toward the mailed and helmeted knight who rode behind her " — raise Lady Alinor to her mount."

The man moved no more than the graven images in a church, and he looked a bit like one, the gray-silver mail blending with the gray surcoat he wore to give him an appearance of granitelike solidity. His left hand, empty of the lance his squire carried, rested on his hip. His right hand held his reins in so iron a grip that his stallion, head curved into its neck, was immobile as he. Alinor's breath drew in sharply with mingled hurt and surprise. Who was this who was so proud he would not dismount at the Queen's command to assist a lady?

In the moment that her eyes found his face, the hurt was almost fully salved. His expression was only slightly obscured by the nosepiece of his old-fashioned helmet. It was clear enough that this was no proud princeling, simply a man so stricken by amazement that he was frozen. The Queen could not see Simon's face without moving her horse or twisting her body uncomfortably, but she could see enough to know he had not moved.

"Simon!" she exclaimed, and then, very peremptorily,

"Simon, what ails you?"

Sunlight flashed on mail as the frozen figure jerked to life. The horse backed and lashed out when the reins tightened convulsively. Alinor bit her lip to suppress a giggle.

"I beg pardon, Madam. What did you say?"

At that the Queen laid aside her dignity, slewed herself around, and stared. Now, however, no more than a slight frown of anxious chagrin appeared on Sir Simon's face.

"What ails you?" the Queen repeated, more of concern than anger in the question.

"Naught." The rich basso rumble hesitated; the man's face closed into careful expressionlessness. "I was dreaming."

Dreaming? Surely, Alinor thought as she heard the Queen's command repeated, that is not the face of a dreamer. It was the face of a Norman reaver, square and hard, with a determined chin and a hard mouth.

The nose was hidden by the nosepiece, but after Sir Simon had swung down from his horse and lifted her, first to her feet and then into her saddle, her conviction was a little shaken. Perhaps the eyes, a misty gray-blue, held dreams. They were remarkably innocent eyes — more innocent, I would guess, than my own, Alinor thought, and smiled enchantingly.

The smile won little response. The face remained closed, but perhaps Sir Simon's glance lingered a moment longer than necessary on her. The explanation, however, was more prosaic than Alinor had counted on hearing.

"Your men," Simon reminded her.

Alinor woke to her responsibilities with a faint gasp of irritation. Sir Andre and Sir John, together with the whole troop, were still kneeling in the hot, dusty road.

"I beg, Your Grace," Alinor began, both grateful to and annoyed with her prompter, "that I be allowed to present my vassals, Sir Andre Fortesque and Sir John d'Alberin."

The Queen inclined her head graciously. "You may rise and mount, gentlemen." Then she smiled, not a bit less enchantingly than Alinor, despite the more than fifty years' difference in their ages. "You must be melting in your armor, and I confess I will be happy to take my ease. Let us return to the keep as quickly as possible."

Alinor backed her mare and the Queen rode past, signaling to the girl to fall in behind her. Sir Simon retrieved his reins from the squire holding them, sprang into the saddle and gestured to Sir Andre and Sir John, who had mounted as soon as the Queen passed them, to join him. The men in the road scrambled out of the way as the Queen went forward with Alinor just behind.

"Ride forward, child," the Queen ordered. "I cannot speak with you if you trail behind. Do you know that you and I bear the same name?"

"Yes, indeed, Your Grace. My mother was named for you, and I also."

"You also? How old are you?"

"This spring I completed my sixteenth year."

Alinor hesitated fractionally. She knew quite well that sixteen years ago Queen Alinor was not in good odor in England. She was then in the south of France leading a rebellion against her husband, the King of England, and English barons had been summoned to fight the Queen's vassals in France. And English gold had paid the heavy expenses of that campaign. Alinor was divided between her reluctance to remind the Queen of those unhappy years and her desire that the Queen know she was not simply ignorant of these facts and trying to curry favor with a stupid remark.

"Perhaps not many Alinors were named in that year," Alinor continued boldly, having decided it was more important to remind the Queen of an old relationship with her family than to be ultimately tactful, "but you had done my father some great service — I do not know what it was, only that he felt great obligation to you — and so I am Alinor."

"Your father —"

Alinor was quick to pick that up. "Adam Devaux, Sire of Roselynde," she prompted. Although well aware of her family's worth — even though they bore no high title such as earl or duke — she was not naïve enough to believe the Queen would remember the name of a single man or an incident nearly twenty years past. Alinor's father had been dead for fourteen years.

"Adam Devaux," the Queen repeated softly, musing. Then to Alinor's surprise her lips twitched and laughter rose in her eyes. "Adam Devaux, Sire of Roselynde," she said again.

"Oh, yes, I remember." And then, softly again, "What befell him, Alinor? He was a preux chevalier."

"He and my mother were drowned coming home from Ireland when I was two years old,"Alinor responded calmly. "I am glad you remember him kindly,Your Grace. I do not remember my parents at all. My grandfather and grandmother raised me."

"Yes, Lord Rannulf I knew well. A fine man also. There is good blood in you, child."