Alinor Read Free

eyes were fixed, and laughed.
    "Oh, that. A barrel of burning pitch blew apart. I was like to be a torch. My men doused me with water, but when it came to taking off my clothes, some of me went with them." His voice was normal, light, laughing at a stupid mishap. "I was ill enough pleased at it because we had taken the keep the day before, and I had not a mark on me from all the fighting. No one noticed that the barrel was afire, I suppose."
    "But that was in August," Alinor exclaimed, also completely back to normal. "You idiot! Did you not have anyone look to you?"
    "There were no physicians. The leeches treated me— for all the good they did. To whom should I have gone?" Ian snapped irritably. "To Queen Isabella?"
    Alinor made a contemptuous noise. "At least she is not so bad as the first queen. Isabella might refuse to soil her hands on such a common slave as a mere baron, but Isobel of Gloucester would have rubbed poison into your hurts. Oh, never mind, I will attend to that later. A warm soaking will do the sores good. First I want to wash your hair. Wait, you fool, do not lean back yet. Let me get a cushion to ease you. You will scrape your back against the tub."
    "You will ruin the cushion if you put it in the bath."
    "It can be dried. The maids are too idle anyway."
    She went out. Ian closed his eyes and sighed. An expression of indecision so intense as to amount to fear crossed his face, changed to a rather grim determination. Alinor returned with a maid at her heels. She slipped the cushion behind Ian, and he slid down against it and tipped his head back. He could hear the maid laying out fresh clothing and gathering up his soiled garments. Alinor reached over him to scoop up a ladleful of water, poured it over his head, and began to soap his hair.
    "Tell me something pleasant," she said.
    "Well, we took Montauban," Ian responded a little doubtfully, but at a loss for anything to say that Alinor would consider pleasant. "And a truce between Philip and John is being arranged."
    "What is pleasant about that?" Alinor asked disgustedly. "It means the king will return here. Oh, curse all the Angevins. Richard loved England too little, and John—" She gave Ian's hair a rough toweling so it would not drip in his face. "Sit up and lean forward."
    "Yes, Alinor, but John does love England." Ian elevated his knees, crossed his arms on them, and rested his forehead on his arms.
    "Most assuredly. Like a wolf loves little children. He could eat three a day."
    Alinor began to wash Ian's back very gently. She felt him wince under her hands, but his voice was steady.
    "That is his nature. Like a wolf, he is dangerous only when running loose."
    "And who will cage him?"
    There was a long pause. Ian jerked as Alinor touched a particularly painful spot and then said, a trifle breathlessly, "I have much to say about that, but not here and now. To speak the truth, Alinor, I am tired and sore, and that is no condition for me to match words with you."
    "With me? What have I— No, never mind. I see you are about to engage in some harebrained enterprise, but I will not fret you when you are so tired. There, I have done with you for the moment. Sit up. Do you wash the rest while I go and get my salves."
    Alinor handed Ian the cloth and soap. She could, of course, have told the maid to bring the medicinal salves she needed, but she was afraid to wash the rest of Ian's body. There was too much chance of arousing him and herself again. By the time she returned, he was out of the tub and had drawn on a pair of Simon's chausses. Alinor was surprised they fitted so well. She knew Ian and her late husband were much of a height, but Simon had always seemed to be a much heavier man. Perhaps it is the coloring, she thought, and the lack of body hair.
    "Sit," Alinor directed, and then, "no, go lie on the bed on your face. This will be a long piece of work, and there is no need for my knees to be sore from kneeling."
    "Do comfort me," Ian laughed.