As if to hammer that point home, they drew no attention when they passed through Tewkesbury even though they did not separate this time and the town seemed too full of armed men. But Barbara had had a severe fright when they first approached the town. As they turned a sharp corner screened by woods, she suddenly saw a group of men-at-arms off to the left, resting near the wall and watching the road. Since it was too late to hide and running would only invite pursuit, Chacier and Bevis rode on slowly, giving Alphonse and Lewin time to move forward. However, the armed men made no move toward their horses and continued to look north, past the travelers. Barbara held her breath as they rode by. The seeming lack of recognition could have been a trap. It was not. Clearly the men-at-arms were waiting for someone.
Another group was lounging around an alehouse, and Barbara caught a glimpse of a familiar shield against the wall. She did not turn for a better view. If she was not mistaken and the shield belonged to Hamo le Strange, the bearer would do no service for any Montfort, old or young. However, she preferred not to have to make pleasant, civil conversation with one of the rebel Marcher lords. Nonetheless, the troop added to Barbara’s sense of security. No partisan of Montfort would pass unchallenged through Tewkesbury, and she was quite at ease as they rode south toward the city of Gloucester, now less than five leagues distant.
The feeling of relief seemed to grip everyone. Bevis almost certainly recognized someone or something in the group at the alehouse. Barbara saw the tension go out of his shoulders as they passed and later heard the word “Cymry”—Welsh—drift back from a comment he made to Chacier. Perhaps Lewin had passed the same information to Alphonse or he had some other reason to relax. A glance behind showed her that he was half asleep in the saddle. Since even her jealous mind could not conceive of a way he could have smuggled a woman into his cot among the monks, Barbara had to assume he had been wakeful out of rage or frustration. She became almost blind and deaf to her surroundings as she dwelt on a variety of pleasurable plans for teasing Alphonse into a good humor without admitting too much.
She was jolted out of her thoughts when they came over a ridge and Chacier cried out with surprise at the sight of a small troop coming toward them from the direction of Gloucester. Chacier and Bevis were not at fault, the rise of ground had hidden the road beyond it for some distance and the heavy rain had wet the earth between the stones of the road so that there was no cloud of dust to warn them. Barbara pulled back on Frivole’s rein when Chacier called out—but not with urgency, her mind had set on all danger being past, and instinct, as often wrong as it is right, told her that pursuit would come from behind, not from ahead—so the mare continued on for a few steps until Barbara also topped the rise. For a moment she sat staring at the oncoming group, not seeing anything to alarm her especially and not considering that if she could see them, they could see her even better.
A shout, wordless, but frightening, made her back Frivole, and Alphonse’s Dadais pushed past her. In that moment, the man in the front of the troop spurred his horse hard and pulled his shield onto his arm. Barbara gasped, at the flash of silver on red—Montfort colors—and Alphonse, who had thrust his tilting lance into a similar shield only the previous morning, seized Frivole’s cheekpiece and thrust the mare’s head around.
“Go!” he ordered. “Back to Tewkesbury and take shelter—with the rebels if need be.”
“Come with me,” she cried. “Do not challenge them. What need is there to fight? Do not be a fool.”
“You are the fool!” he snarled. “We are too close to turn our backs on them. If you are out of the way, I can drive them off. Go!”
On the word, he brought the flat of the sword he had drawn down on Frivole’s rump. The mare leapt forward, her neck stretching so suddenly that the reins slid through Barbara’s fingers and it was impossible for her to check her mount’s stride. Instantly, Barbara could hear behind her the desperate pace of another animal shocked into a gallop. Doubtless it was only Clotilde’s mule, but the sound, waking the herd animal’s instinct to flee when others fled, added to the terror that noise and pain had caused in Frivole. She became unresponsive to control even as Barbara gathered in the slack of the rein.
As her first panic subsided, Barbara realized it was stupid to try to go back and loosened the rein again. She and Clotilde would only be an added danger to the four men, and Montfort’s troop had not been large—only six or seven men. What she needed to decide was whether to call on Hamo le Strange, if indeed it was Hamo’s shield she had seen at the alehouse, to come to Alphonse’s aid or simply wait near the gate until she saw whether Alphonse or Montfort, whichever one it was, came up the road.
Barbara knew Alphonse expected her only to wait. He had been annoyed, not worried, and he knew she would still have time to throw herself on Hamo’s mercy if he failed to drive the troop off. But then, Barbara thought with a sob of terror, it would be too late for Alphonse. He might be injured or dead. However, if she begged Hamo’s help, Alphonse would be furious, not only out of pride but because she would have generated a bad political situation, giving the rebels “just cause” to attack Leicester’s son.
The decision was not left to her. Scarcely a mile back, the road was filled with a large troop of men coming from Tewkesbury. Since they must have seen her and Clotilde at the same time, it was useless to consider avoiding them or pretending nothing had happened. A gentlewoman and her maid did not gallop madly down a road without an escort for no reason.
“Hamo,” Barbara called. “Is it Hamo le Strange?”
“Yes,” a man shouted, prodding his horse into a trot as Barbara slowed Frivole. “Lady Barbara!” he exclaimed as they came together. “What—”
“We were attacked on the road—”
“Forward!” le Strange bellowed, not waiting for her to finish, gesturing broadly ahead. “Arm and ride!”
The men at the front of the troop spurred their horses into a run, pushing on their helmets and lifting their shields onto their arms. As they approached, Hamo drove Frivole and Clotilde’s mule right toward the edge of the road and shouted, “Tybetot! Stay with her!”
Barbara bit her lip with disappointment. She had hoped to be forgotten in the excitement, but she dared waste no time in argument. She held Frivole on a tight rein, turning her broadside to Clotilde’s mule, while a group formed around them. Hamo galloped forward among his men. When the last of the troop passed them, she turned Frivole to follow, saying to the young man Hamo had called Tybetot, “My husband is there,” and he nodded and backed his horse so she could start down the road again toward Alphonse.
They arrived not five minutes behind the last of Hamo’s troop, but the action was over. From the top of the rise, Barbara saw six men and two horses flying away toward Gloucester. Most of Hamo’s troop had followed a little way, but the distance between them and Montfort’s men was growing, showing that the pursuit was not in earnest. Closest to her, about a third of the way down the rise, Alphonse was talking to Hamo, his sword already sheathed. Two men lay still and bloody by the side of the road, but both were simple men-at-arms. Barbara was not certain whether she was relieved or disappointed. She was so furious with all the Montforts that she would have enjoyed seeing one of them lying there bleeding, however, good sense told her that the last thing she or Alphonse needed was to be involved in the injury of one of Leicester’s sons.
“I have no idea,” Alphonse was saying blandly to Hamo when she rode up. “Perhaps he did not know who I was. I cannot imagine any reason for Guy de Montfort to attack me. I was in Kenilworth only yesterday. I had permission to visit Sir William of Marlowe who is a prisoner there—he is Richard of Cornwall’s man.”
“I know Sir William,” Hamo le Strange said.
Alphonse nodded. “He is my brother’s father-by-marriage. Having no more to do there, I left Kenilworth the next morning and Barbe and I decided to take a ship at Gloucester—”
“I am afraid you will not be able to do that now,” Hamo said. �
�Guy will take you if you go near Gloucester. Also, I am sorry, but I cannot let you go. You must come to Bristol with us.”
“Are we your prisoners?” Barbara asked.
“No, of course not,” Hamo said, but he looked uneasily at Alphonse. “I am truly sorry, Sir Alphonse, I must ask you to remain with me, but as much for your good as for mine. God knows what Guy will tell the castellan at Gloucester. He might send troops out to scour the countryside. My troop is strong enough to withstand them, but you and your three men, two lightly wounded already, cannot travel safely now. I know you are Prince Edward’s friend. On my honor, no ransom will be asked of you.”
Alphonse said nothing, and Hamo looked uncomfortable and shrugged. “I must also consider the good of our cause. Older and wiser heads will have to decide on what terms to release Norfolk’s daughter.”
He glanced at Alphonse’s sword and Alphonse smiled. “You might be able to take it from me while I am still alive,” he said, “but I doubt it. And if you do not intend to kill Barbe also, you should consider exactly how you will explain my death to the prince and to Richard of Cornwall.”
“You will be taken by Montfort if you leave us,” Hamo said desperately, acknowledging that he really could not hold Alphonse if he decided to fight for his freedom.
“I did not say I wished to leave you.” Alphonse lifted his brows in simulated surprise. “I certainly prefer your company to Guy de Montfort’s, and I will gladly give you my parole…until we reach Bristol.”
Barbara let out her breath, eased her hold on her rein and relaxed the muscles in her legs. She had been prepared to drive Frivole between Alphonse and Tybetot, who had managed to press in front of Lewin. The sighs from the men-at-arms did not come until Hamo le Strange nodded and said, “Thank you.” Having lifted his hand in a kind of salute, he rode off toward his troop.
Chapter Twenty
If Guy told the castellan at Gloucester what had happened, they never saw any result of his complaint. A short distance ahead, they took a side road to the east that led to Cheltenham. From there they rode south, stopping at Cirencester for a late dinner and coming, just before the light failed, to Malmesbury. Barbara did not know whether to laugh or cry when they saw the great abbey, but Hamo le Strange told them at once he did not intend to seek lodging there. His men, he said, would camp outside the town, he and Tybetot would find an inn. He looked surprised, but very pleased, when Alphonse said at once that he and his wife would prefer to stay at the inn also, if they were welcome.
Although Barbara had to suppress giggles because Sir Hamo had clearly taken as a compliment what had nothing to do with him, she wished to encourage the idea. Smiling with spurious brightness, she spoke cheerfully of how glad she was the rain had fallen at night instead of making their long ride miserable. Hamo then apologized for tiring her and said he would not have been so inconsiderate if he had any choice, but that he and Tybetot must meet another troop near Bath before dinner the following day.
Barbara assured him that she was accustomed to long rides. Alphonse, with a warm smile, thanked Hamo for his consideration. Hamo smiled back and continued to ride beside them to the inn. He seemed to feel that all was forgiven and forgotten, and told Alphonse eagerly that he had seen him fight as one of the prince’s party at a tournament, describing his own disappointment at not being able to join the party, having broken his collarbone in a fall during the jousts the preceding day. Alphonse laughed and said there would be other times, he was sure, but his eyes just barely flicked to Barbara as Hamo snarled, “Not while our Lord Edward is penned like a beast.”
Ordinarily Barbara would have tried to put in a soothing word, but Alphonse was neither careless nor stupid and could not have made that remark by mistake. She heard her husband utter a platitude about hoping the prince would soon regain his liberty. The words were formal and might have been meaningless but Barbara saw Hamo’s eyes light and his lips part, saw the effort with which he swallowed what he had been about to say. She thought it might be her presence—at least, the presence of Norfolk’s daughter—that had held him back, so, although she was burning with curiosity, she tightened Frivole’s rein slightly and slowly fell behind, leaving the men to talk by themselves.
Before anything significant could be said, the inn came in sight. With her ears still cocked toward the men, Barbara began an animated discussion with Clotilde about whether they had stayed there before. After a single glance at her mistress’s level brows and the blue gleam of her eyes, Clotilde replied in kind, rambling on, so that Barbara could listen, about whether it would be safe to put their sheets on the inn pallets or whether they should have the servants remove the pallets and use only their own blankets.
They were too close to the inn for the device to work, however. The innkeeper, running out to greet his guests, heard the end of Clotilde’s remarks and, with deep bows and great pride, assured maid and mistress that the mattress of the bed in his private chamber was clean and fresh, stuffed with new straw only in September. He then looked doubtfully at the three men clustered together beyond the entryway, who he now realized were not the lady’s servants, and stammered that, unfortunately, there was only one bed and the private chamber was very small.
Barbara expected Alphonse to lay claim to the room on the heels of the landlord’s remark, but he did not, merely looked inquiringly at Hamo le Strange. It was Hamo who uttered some graceful phrases about Lady Barbara’s comfort and said that he and Tybetot would be content with pallets in the large common room. Barbara thanked him warmly, as she must even if she loathed the idea of being alone with Alphonse. By then her husband was beside her, ready to lift her down from her saddle. Her heart skipped a beat at the warning in his eyes and she gasped when he let go of her too soon, just before her feet touched the ground, so that she came down hard enough to make her knees bend.
“My dear,” he murmured, putting an arm around her waist, “you are more tired than you will admit. Let your maid help you up to the chamber. Perhaps you will want to lie down and rest.”
“Yes, yes, I will be glad to go up.” Barbara got out, as she pulled free of his grip and shook her head at Clotilde, saying to the maid, “I am steady now. I do not need help in walking. Do you find our baggage animals and have unloaded what we will need for tonight.”
A gesture sent the innkeeper scurrying inside, and Barbara followed close behind, eyes lowered, teeth gritted over the laughter that bubbled up in her throat. She hoped Alphonse would have self-control enough to wait for Clotilde to get their linens and make the bed before he followed. Until that was done, she thought alternately of how cleverly he had provided an excuse for seeking privacy with her and wondered whether she should seize on that excuse to remove her clothing and lie ready for him in the bed. She had not decided the question when a thump on the door brought so shameful a flood of desire on her that she turned her back on the door and went to the small window.
A coarse English voice made her spin around. A thick-bodied woman was handing a flagon and horn cup to Clotilde, saying in broken French, “Drink. Rest. Soon meat, bread, cheese.”
Barbara’s first reaction was terror. She rushed to the door the woman had closed behind her, expecting to find it locked—but it was not. Carefully she opened it and listened. Male voices drifted up to her—three male voices all calm, although she could not make out any words, and then Alphonse laughed.
Fury replaced terror, the heat of the rage fueled by her burning need, but fury soon supplanted the need as well as the terror and then, slowly, even the heat of the fury ebbed, leaving her bitterly amused at herself for laughing at Hamo for self-deception. Shame for her craving sparked rage again, an old, old rage in response to an old, old pain. Barbara walked slowly toward the bench by the small hearth and picked up from atop her cloak at the foot of the bed the embroidery basket that Clotilde had unpacked among the “necessary” items, as she had done for years. Absently Barbara took out what she wanted and set the basket by her feet. But, with th
e silver mirror in her lap, in the midst of repeating to herself bitterly that Alphonse did not want her, had never wanted her, she began to chuckle. That was nonsense. Alphonse certainly did want her. She had had frequent and urgent proof of that since the ides of August when they were married.
Idiot, she said to herself, do not go back to being thirteen years old. You no longer fear he does not desire you. You fear he desires every other woman just as much.
As the thought passed her mind, the serving woman opened the door again carrying in a liberal selection of cold meat, poultry, pasty, cheese, bread, and both ale and wine for Barbara’s evening meal. The creature was so unappetizing herself that Barbara had to chuckle again. No, Alphonse did not want every woman, and it was beyond even her jealous fear to imagine there was any female in this inn more desirable than she. Beyond that, sending up so complete an evening meal was clearly a signal that she was not to come down.
No flicker of anger stirred at that conclusion. She knew Alphonse trusted her social skill. When they were with Gloucester and Sir John, he had always found a way for her to join him, particularly when he hoped to get information in casual talk. He could easily have arranged for her to come down by making a poor selection of food or omitting some essential like bread. But unlike Gloucester or Sir John, Sir Hamo and Tybetot were opponents of Leicester’s party—friends of the prince. The signal was political, not personal. It was Norfolk’s daughter who was unwelcome, not Alphonse’s wife.
Barbara signed Clotilde to take the tray from the servant and send her away. Having made a choice—of what foods she did not know—she said to Clotilde, “Take the rest down and share it with our men.”
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