Apparently he had shown none of his doubts to Barbe, or if he had, she was indifferent to them. Alphonse responded with laughter to Norfolk’s continued teasing about his unsatisfied lust until the earl gave up, called him a damned courtier, and began to ask questions about Louis. Alphonse told him honestly that Louis could never approve the control of a king by those set beneath him by God, and Norfolk began a recitation of King Henry’s offenses.
Alphonse listened with half an ear. He had heard some of what Norfolk was telling him from Alys, and he was mildly sorry that Henry was a bad ruler. But the catalog of Henry’s sins did not change his mind or make him think that Louis’s judgment—that a king was subject only to God—was wrong. King Henry was old. In a few years he would be gone. What would really be wrong would be to tie Prince Edward’s hands and make him subject to the will of his nobles. That solution to King Henry’s weakness could easily breed anarchy, which was far worse than a bad ruler. He made what palliating remarks he could, but he was more alert to Barbe’s glance out of the window. He could guess she saw that the shadows were growing short. His stomach said it must be nearly sext, time for dinner.
A lift of Barbe’s head summoned Clotilde from her sewing in the doorway of the bedchamber, where she had skillfully effaced herself after she followed Barbe into the room. A good maid, Alphonse thought, and accustomed to living at court, thank God. He replied mildly to a bitter question from Norfolk that, of course, Louis desired to amend injustice and corruption, but not by a device likely to cause worse problems, adding hastily that this was all his own opinion, that King Louis had never made any statement to him of what he thought of England’s troubles.
Meanwhile, Barbe bade her maid take from her traveling basket the cloth for dining and two cups and spoons, the silver for her father and the horn for herself. Alphonse’s own cup and spoon she took from his saddlebag. He wondered why she stared at the cup so intently, for he did not think it anything unusual although it, too, was silver, beautifully shaped and engraved. He had forgotten that in the design were the date and name of the tourney where he had won it as a prize.
Alphonse’s attention was drawn fully back to Norfolk, who was asking about Simon de Claremont, Lord of Nesle, and Peter the Chamberlain, the envoys Louis was sending to Canterbury. His answer was interrupted when Chacier came in, leading one of the boys from the inn with their dinner, but he went back to what he had been saying while they ate. After the meal, with a hint of challenge in his voice, Norfolk asked about Queen Eleanor and the king’s half brothers and the invasion. Alphonse answered that he did not think it would come soon, if it came at all. And when Norfolk said doubtfully that he hoped that was true, Barbe defended Alphonse energetically, repeating to her father what Hugh Bigod had told her.
After that, although Norfolk seemed thoughtful, he willingly allowed Barbe to divert him to giving her news about Joanna and the children. When he had satisfied her, he heaved himself to his feet and said that if Alphonse was serious about getting married on the fifteenth, they had better get to the cathedral and see about making arrangements. Alphonse agreed with alacrity, only remembering to run back to ask Barbe whether she wanted Chacier to sleep at the lodging. He would not come back, he told her. He would stay at the castle, as he had done the previous night, since she had made it plain she was happier in his absence.
To his fury, she did not seem at all put out but smiled sweetly and said he should keep Chacier with him. Clotilde could do all she needed. But he thought there was a glint of laughter in her eyes, and in the end, he did come back. He saw Barbe as he entered the solar with the last of the day’s light. She was bathed in the rosy glow, which touched her cheeks with pink and created dark mysteries in the hollows of her eyes.
“I am sorry to intrude on you when you are at peace,” he said.
“Your coming is never an intrusion, never unwelcome,” she replied, setting aside her work and rising.
Her voice had been warm, her first few steps eager, but midway she halted, looking confused, almost frightened, so that he was torn between rage and a desire to comfort her. Instead he told her his reason for coming. Henry de Montfort had arrived at the castle with Prince Edward and other important prisoners and had asked that Barbara visit the prince to tell him of his wife and child.
Frowning, Barbe asked, “Is Henry de Montfort running errands for Edward? Could the prince not find a time to ask about Eleanor and her babe himself?”
Alphonse then had to admit that he had not seen Prince Edward, who was now treated as a prisoner, lodged on the lowest floor of the keep and heavily guarded. Barbe seemed distressed by that news, and Alphonse quickly seized on her sympathy for Edward to describe his own dilemma, telling her that Henry de Montfort had sought him out in the hall and had hardly greeted him before he began to plead with him to persuade Edward to accept the terms of the Peace of Canterbury.
She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment and asked, “Have you eaten yet?”
When he shook his head she suggested that they walk together to the inn and eat in the little garden. Alphonse was delighted that she had not agreed immediately with Henry de Montfort that he urge Edward to accept the peace terms. He had been so worried about her reaction to the request that she speak to the prince that he had not yet planned how much to tell her about his disturbing conversation with Henry.
“He will listen to you, Alphonse,” Henry de Montfort had said eagerly. “He has always looked up to you.”
“How can I urge Edward to accept terms I have not heard?” Alphonse had asked.
Henry looked uncomfortable and said, “It does not really matter what the terms are. There is no choice. Edward must accept.”
“No man must do anything,” Alphonse retorted stiffly. “At worst he can die for his stubbornness.”
“Holy Christus, no!” Henry exclaimed. “There is no threat of harm to Edward. Alphonse, you cannot believe that. It is bad enough that Edward looks at me as if I were something that crawls on my belly under rocks. Do not you abandon me also.”
There were tears in Henry’s eyes, and Alphonse recalled that the young man was in an impossible situation, made responsible by his father for acting as gaoler of a friend. He also reminded himself that he had promised King Louis he would visit the prince and talk to him, which would be impossible if he offended Henry.
“Then I do not understand what you mean when you say that Edward must agree, regardless of what the terms are,” Alphonse said more gently.
“It is for his sake,” Henry de Montfort said eagerly, “so that he may be free, instead of being locked into a chamber and guarded by four men even when he goes to piss. He hates me, really hates me, who once called me the friend dearest to his heart. And I do not blame him.” Henry’s voice broke and he dropped his face into his hands. Then he looked up again. “I cannot bear it, Alphonse. When we rode here, I had to shackle his legs under his horse and lead the animal.”
“Surely that was not necessary,” Alphonse said, his voice cold again. “It was my understanding that Prince Edward agreed willingly to be a prisoner so that his father might be free. If he gave his word—”
A note of near hysteria had come through Henry de Montfort’s laugh. “He gave his word to take his father’s place as prisoner—and kept that word. But when my father asked him to swear he would not attempt to escape, he said he would gladly swear not to leave England and also swear to return to meet my father at a summoning if he were freed of all other restriction. Could we agree to that?”
Alphonse had not made any direct reply. It was as clear to him what Edward meant as it had been to Henry de Montfort and his father. Instead of giving the parole for which he had been asked, the prince had flung a gauntlet into Leicester’s face. By saying he would swear not to leave England, he had refused to accept exile and when he agreed to come to a summoning if no other restrictions were placed on him, he was threatening to bring an army to that summoning.
“I do not see why Edward
should be kept so close,” Barbe said, as she walked with Alphonse toward the inn. “He was watched when I was in London in June, before I sailed to France, but he was not locked up.”
Alphonse shrugged. “I suppose there is more danger now. The rebellion of the lords of the Welsh Marches and the threat of invasion have no doubt made Leicester more fearful of wider disturbances, particularly if Edward should escape or be freed by his friends.”
She said no more until they were settled in the inn garden, but she clearly was not happy about his answer and Alphonse was annoyed with himself for not having told her some innocent lie. As the servants withdrew after laying out the meal, he asked anxiously, “Will you not come and tell the prince that all is well with Princess Eleanor and his daughter?”
“Of course I will,” she replied, looking surprised at the question. “Worry will not break Prince Edward, only make him more bitter. I am sorry for Henry de Montfort too. He has a thankless task. I cannot imagine what was in his father’s head to put him in such a position. He would have done much better to give the responsibility for keeping Edward to his cousin, Peter de Montfort, or to one of the bishops.”
“No one could agree with you more heartily than Henry himself,” Alphonse said, stabbing at his trencher of bread with his eating knife.
Barbara laid her own knife down and covered his restless hand with hers, stopping its movement. “What worm is gnawing your belly, Alphonse?”
He looked at her squarely and said, “You know I am not of your opinion about Leicester’s right to force the king to bow to the will of his barons. I am not exactly overjoyed to have lost a husband’s usual right to demand that his wife think as he does, but I knew you were of Leicester’s party before I asked you to give me your hand—and it is stupid to demand a change of loyalty from a wife in any case. One cannot change beliefs as one changes gowns.”
“I am of no party,” Barbara said, gently pressing his hand before she let go of it. “I am sure I told you that before. Nonetheless, it is true that I think King Henry needs a keeper. He can be led by anyone, and for years he has been sucking the lifeblood out of this realm to feed the band of monsters that sprang from his accursed mother’s womb in her second marriage. I am not sorry to see the power in other hands. Since Leicester and his friends are the victors and my father supports Leicester, I am content that he should control the king.” She sighed. “Anything is better than more war. All I care for is that there be peace and that my father and uncle and cousins, all of whom I love, do not come to blows.”
Alphonse also sighed. “Then you would like Prince Edward to support the peace terms Leicester has proposed even if that means agreeing to give up his right to rule as a king should?”
“Why should Edward give up his right to rule freely? Edward will make a fine king.” Barbara lowered her voice, which had risen. “I pray nightly that King Henry will drop dead so we can be rid of this strife.” Then her expression changed and she said, “Oh, I see. Henry de Montfort asked you to talk to Edward about the peace terms and you want my help.”
Alphonse opened his mouth and shut it again. He was appalled at his carelessness and relieved at the same time. He had never felt comfortable about concealing his arrangement with King Louis from Barbe. And, though he did not look forward to the storm that might blast him if she disapproved, he was still glad no longer to need to watch his words. There might not even be a storm if what she had said about being of no party was true.
Seeing that Alphonse had decided not to speak, Barbara asked, “But why should Edward object to the peace proposal?” And then before he could answer, went on, “Are the terms different from those proposed at the parliament in June?”
“I do not know,” Alphonse answered. “But I think they must be, partly because Henry would not tell me what they were.”
Barbara stared fixedly at the table and then said slowly, “If it is so important that Edward give his public approval to the peace and not merely submit to his father’s acceptance of the terms, it must be because the barons’ control of the king—Leicester’s, really—will not end with Henry’s death but be extended into Edward’s reign.” She stabbed a piece of cheese with her knife. “That is not fair.”
“And also unnecessary,” Alphonse said. “Edward was not very happy with the way his father ruled, you know. He was careful not to say anything disrespectful, but from remarks he made when we were touring France doing the tourneys two or three years ago, I believe he would amend many of Henry’s injustices out of simple good sense. And he does not love the Lusignan brood much more than his mother does.”
“Who could?” Barbara snapped. “You would not believe how cruel and greedy they are, and they all but spit publicly on English law.” She popped the piece of cheese into her mouth and chewed vindictively for a while. Then her gaze, which had gone out of focus, sharpened. “You will have to agree to persuade Edward to sign the terms, though.”
“I do not have to do anything,” Alphonse said sharply.
Barbara drew in her breath. “I did not mean to give an order.” She smiled. “You should know that I am far too clever to give orders to a man if I want a thing done. When I command and stamp my foot, you may be sure that what I demand is the last thing I truly desire.”
Alphonse laughed aloud. “You devil! Now I will never know which way to jump when you say ‘leap’.“
“Is that not as it should be?” she asked blandly. “Not knowing will leave you free to do as you think best, which you would do in any case, I am sure.”
“Flatterer,” he growled. “What do you want of me?”
“I want you to dismount from the destrier Dudgeon and think of what is best, without regard for your pride.”
Alphonse laughed again. “You mean you were giving me an order when you said I would have to persuade Edward to accept whatever terms are offered.”
“Will you just hold the reins of the high horse while you listen to me instead of galloping off on it at speed? After all, you can mount it at any time.” Barbara sighed with ostentatious patience. “I do not see why you will not listen. I cannot force you to do anything, can I?”
“Can you not?” he asked, the humor gone from eyes and voice.
“No, I cannot,” Barbara said, looking down at her hands. Then, raising her eyes, she added, “And I would not if I could. You were my teacher for too long for me to set your opinion at naught. If I explain and you still do not agree, then I will know there is a fault in my reasoning.”
Intense pleasure swamped Alphonse’s normal caution, and he nodded. “Very well.”
“First is my private reason. I have told you already that my father is not completely trusted. If you refuse to talk to Edward, and if we then marry, I fear that will reflect more suspicion on Papa. Second, I fear for Edward. Not for his life or limb, but for him to refuse to agree to Leicester’s terms can only make his situation worse, and harsh usage may sour him beyond saving. Edward has a long memory and can be vindictive. Third, we do not know that the terms of the peace will be too harsh. And last, and most important of all, what difference does it make what Edward promises? No oath given under duress can be held binding. I am quite sure either the archbishop or the pope will absolve him.”
“Barbe!” Alphonse exclaimed, horrified. “To swear falsely is dishonest.”
She shrugged impatiently. “To force a man to swear to his own disadvantage is dishonest too.”
“Women!” Alphonse groaned.
“Men!” Barbara retorted.
Barbara was surprised as the word came from her lips. She would not have used that tone to her father. If she had, he would have slapped her. Alphonse only cast up his eyes to heaven and prepared to argue her around to his position. She was beginning to believe that her marriage to Alphonse—if she did not allow jealousy to destroy it and her—might be the gateway to heaven.
Alphonse had been demolishing her first reason, which she admitted was not compelling. As she yielded the ground and saw h
is satisfaction, she was tempted to yield all. It was Alphonse who yielded on the second point, however, confessing that Edward was already very bitter and that part of Henry’s purpose in inviting her to visit the prince was to soothe him. Still, Barbara realized she would never get Alphonse to agree to urge Edward to confirm a peace without knowing the terms. Edward had not contested the terms proposed by the parliament after the battle of Lewes. Perhaps he had yielded to that proposal out of guilt or fear, but Barbara thought it was partly because the agreement only bound him to obey his father and when the king died he would be free.
If the new terms made Edward subservient to the council and bound him—except not to wreak vengeance on those who had defeated him, after his father’s death—Barbara was not at all sure that was right. Henry was a hopeless ruler and must be prevented from driving the realm further into ruin, but to try to control Edward was entirely unfair.
“I am sorry, Alphonse,” she said as he paused, realizing she was not listening. “I seem to have said something I did not mean at all. Naturally you cannot promise to persuade the prince to agree to anything, no matter what. If you did, he would simply class you among his enemies and ignore you. All I meant was that you should try to soothe him so that he does not refuse to do what would be best for him and the realm out of bitterness and rage.”
Instead of answering, Alphonse leaned forward and kissed her. Taken unaware, Barbara pulled him closer, her lips parting naturally under his. His arm tightened around her shoulders and he began to rise so that he could bring their bodies together. With a clash and a clatter, the table went over, cups and flagon spilling their contents amid the scattered cold meats and broken pasty.
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