Free Roselynde by Roberta Gellis

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."
    Simon had become a competent penman and reader—as any high-level
servant of Henry II's had to be. The King was violently addicted to sending
notes and receiving answers. If Simon had not learned how to read and write
fluently himself, he would have been at the mercy of the clerks who served him.
By the misinterpretation of a word or two—innocently or deliberately—a man
might come to grief. Simon had thought it better to make his own mistakes, and
he had learned to read and write. He had learned, incidentally, that much
pleasure might be had from books, but he was beginning to develop a strong
aversion toward "my lady's book."
    He was also developing strong suspicions about the clerk who kept
that book and about his influence on Alinor and her vassals. Sir Andre, for
example, seemed startlingly ignorant about "my lady's book." Of
course, Sir Andre could not read or write, but such a loyal vassal should be more
attentive, more wary. Clerks did not always take their religious vows—
especially that of poverty—as seriously as they should. It was not unknown for
a clerk to feather his own nest with purloined feathers. In fact, it was all
too common, for a dishonest clerk had an out. Discovered in his crime, he could
escape the just retribution of the lord he had cheated by fleeing to the arms
of the Church where, by disgorging some of his ill-gotten gains, he could buy
safety from civil prosecution.
    It never occurred to Simon that Sir Andre's trusting indifference
was owing to the fact that Alinor kept her own books. Women did not read and
write. The Queen did, of course, but the Queen was not "a woman." And
there were nuns who had the skill and a few of the younger ladies of the Court
who were addicted to the Court of Love ethos and wished to read and even reply
to the poetic effusions of their "troubadours." But that "this
innocent child," as Simon persisted in thinking of Alinor in spite of Sir
Andre's protestations, should not only read but cipher and keep accounts did
not ever cross his mind.
    What grew in Simon was a feeling that, dearly beloved as Alinor
was by her vassals and the serfs and villeins of the demesne land, she was not
loved in the right way. He became grimly satisfied with the impulse that had
precipitated him into being King's warden against his better judgment. Now he
had a real purpose. Someone was cheating his ward, and he seemed to be the only
one who noticed. A fierce protectiveness surrounded the lovely image of Alinor
in his mind.
    When they returned to the keep, the reality of Alinor magnified
that feeling. She came lightfooted and smiling to greet them, her hair shining
under its soft veil, her eyes lightened with laughter and showing flecks of
green picked up from her bliaut. Not a trace of her earlier anger remained, for
swift-footed huntsmen, trained to endurance by tracking and coursing game, had
come sidling into the keep to confirm breathlessly the