ASilverMirror

by Roberta Gellis

  As if the thought had summoned him, Guy de Montfort burst past the duelers. Alphonse shouted a challenge with the first pleasure he had felt in this battle and struck, warded off a blow, struck again, and parried the return thrust hard enough to drive Guy’s hand outward, which gave him a chance to bring his weapon down against Guy’s helmet. He heard a muffled cry, but knew his blow had not been strong enough to do more than dizzy Guy a little. Indeed, the young man slashed at him with commendable force. Alphonse caught the blow on his shield and forced Guy’s arm up and out, but the return cut he readied was never delivered.

  A voice just behind him cried, “Do not strike me! I am Henry of Winchester, your king! I am too old to fight!”

  For one moment, longer in mind than in reality, Alphonse’s left knee quivered, ready to prod Dadais in an instinctive response to go to the old man’s aid. Then the flat of Guy’s sword struck the point of his shoulder. Had he turned Dadais, the edge would have caught his neck from behind just below his helmet and killed him. As it was, pain speared up into his head and down along his arm. Alphonse gasped, the point of his sword tipping down as his grip weakened. Guy spurred his horse to push past Dadais and reach Alphonse’s unprotected back, but the older stallion knew his work and screamed and bit the younger destrier, who hesitated.

  The king shouted again, and Guy struck again. Alphonse got his sword up to parry but held his return blow as if he did not trust his sword arm, pulling his shield in toward his chest. Meanwhile, his right knee was prodding at Dadais and his left spur pricking the stallion’s flank. The horse turned to the left and surged forward. Guy cried out with triumph and cut violently, expecting his sword to pass over the curve of Alphonse’s shield and slice into his chest. With an even louder shout, Alphonse tilted his shield over, catching Guy’s weapon and forcing it down while he brought his own sword up and over in a slash that cut into Guy’s shoulder. Guy shrieked as Alphonse felt a resistance go soft. He raised his sword again, standing in his stirrups and taking the chance of being knocked from his saddle in his angry desire to add power to his stroke. He was very eager to deliver a killing blow before Guy toppled from his horse. Triumph and rage mingled in a hot flood as he struck down with all the strength in him—just as a new rider thrust between him and his victim.

  Alphonse could not stop the blow, and he shouted with shock as he saw the intruder’s shield. The stroke intended for Guy had hit Henry de Montfort. Henry did not cry out, but he reeled in the saddle. It was Alphonse who cried out again as he pulled his sword away and saw bright red stain Henry’s dull mail. He was so appalled that his sword hung useless for a long moment, but Henry did not strike back, only kept his horse between Alphonse and Guy, who had fallen forward on his stallion’s neck but still clung to the saddle. Alphonse could not tell whether Henry was incapable of attacking him or unwilling to do so, but he did not wish to harm his friend further. He turned Dadais so swiftly that the stallion collided with Chacier’s horse and the blow Charier had launched went awry. No harm was done. Alphonse struck Chacier’s opponent so hard he fell at once. Then he drove Dadais past, turning again. Henry and Guy had drawn back, and a defensive circle was forming around Leicester’s banner. Off to the side, he heard “I am your king, Henry of Winchester. Do not harm me!”

  This time Alphonse was not even tempted to pause. Let him die, he thought. Let him die, and this war will be over for good.

  As if drawn by a cord, Barbara had followed Alphonse as far as the garden gate. She went no farther, but stood watching him run light-footed under the weight of his mail and mount Dadais in a leap as if he were a young knight proving himself. Under the fear she felt for him was a great relief, a great gladness that she had nothing left to hide. There was a joy in it, like being naked before her lover.

  The smile he had given her when she confessed her jealousy held such delight—pure, astonished delight that had not a jot of smug satisfaction. For how long? the green-eyed demon inside Barbara asked. At the jealous thought, with tears streaming down her face, she chuckled. But pain like a knife stroke came with the answer. Perhaps as long as he lives—if he does not live out this day.

  When the priory gate shut behind Chacier and Alphonse, Barbara turned and leaned against the garden wall, sobbing bitterly. Then wearily she straightened her body and wiped her face. At least he had left in joy. A clear mind and a light heart were as strong a defense as armor and shield, her father had told her once when criticizing a friend’s wife who moaned and wailed whenever he went to fight.

  Before dark. Alphonse had said he would come to her before dark. But the storm was so near and so violent that it was dark already. Barbara laughed again, then clapped a hand to her mouth. There had been a hysterical shrillness to that laugh that frightened her. Her hand dropped and she looked up at the clouds, hanging lower and blacker every moment. The storm would be dreadful. Perhaps it would put an end to the battle. Perhaps Leicester would escape in the dark and the wind and reach Kenilworth and lock himself in. Then there would be a long siege, and Alphonse would be bored to death by a siege. He would take a polite leave of Edward if the prince besieged Kenilworth.

  She walked back to the guest house, almost smiling again. Somewhere inside was a little knot of doubt that said she was selfish to hope for such an outcome, that all of England would suffer if the war dragged on. But all of England would suffer if Leicester were defeated and King Henry were free to rule at his own will again, to throw lands and money down the maws of his voracious family or squander them on harebrained, fantastical adventures in the hope of winning his younger son a crown. Barbara shuddered and hurried inside the guest house.

  The realm could not be tormented by Henry for long, she told herself. He was old, and Edward had nothing of his father’s softness to the Lusignans. And Leicester’s rule had not been so different. The earl had spouted righteous rules and texts, but instead of Henry’s favors to his cruel and rapacious half brothers, Leicester heaped confiscated estates on his careless and greedy younger sons. At least Henry had tried to disarm his critics with grace and charm. He did not explain weightily why he was right to be wrong. A gasp—half laugh, half sob—escaped Barbara and she hid her face in her hands for a moment.

  Thunder rumbled again, muted by the walls of the guest house, but with the wind stilled, the air seemed thick and heavy. Barbara lifted her head and walked with determination to her small chamber. Before dark, Alphonse had said. At this time of year that meant she could not hope to see him before compline. She had been awake since before dawn and lay down on the narrow cot in her clothes in the hope that she could sleep away some of the long hours.

  At first her hope seemed vain. She lay still with her eyes closed for a while, trying to keep all thoughts out of her head. When that failed, she began to count sheep as she had been taught as a child, but the meek curly-fleeced ewes turned treacherously into shouting armed men waving swords as they leapt the gate. She turned to her right side and stared at the wall, trying to find figures or patterns in the rough stone to beguile her, but a red streak, like blood, kept drawing her eyes, so she turned her back and lay on her left side. Clotilde sat near the door, sewing, holding her work at an angle to see better in the dim light. At first Barbara found that soothing, but soon the cock of Clotilde’s head made her seem to be listening. Without wishing to, Barbara began to listen too, so intently that she thought she could make out the faint sigh of her maid’s breathing, a tiny creak coming from the corridor, a buzzing—no, that was inside her own ears.

  Barbara closed her eyes to hear better in the dark, listening harder and harder as the sounds receded. She felt peaceful as the dark grew thicker, so dense that it even muffled sound, and then her ears betrayed her. Where she had had to strain to hear, noises now rushed at her, ugly noises, human shouts and wails. Barbara tried not to listen, not realizing that she had been asleep and thinking in the confusion of waking that what she heard were the sounds of the growing storm making their way through the walls of the
guest house. Her eyes snapped open. Those were not dream noises. Clotilde was on her feet, shutting the door against the sound of voices in the corridor.

  “Wait,” Barbara cried, jumping up. “The cries! Someone is wounded. Alphonse! Alphonse!”

  She ran out into the corridor, jerking to a stop as she came fully awake and realized Alphonse would never wail. The sudden stop saved her from colliding with a man-at-arms, who turned with a snarl, his bared sword inches from her breast. Barbara shrieked, a man’s cry, thin and tremulous, blended with hers, and before either faded, a deeper voice overrode both, exclaiming, “Lady Barbara!”

  “Leybourne,” Barbara gasped, then reached for the door frame to support herself and whispered, “Alphonse?”

  “Hale and well and enjoying himself when I last saw him, but Lady Barbara, here is the king.”

  “Sire!” Barbara cried as she sank into a curtsy and in the next instant leapt up, stretching out her hands as if to lend support. “Oh, heaven, you are wounded, sire.”

  Henry clutched at the hands held out to him, letting go of Roger Leybourne’s arm, to which he had been clinging. “Leicester’s men wanted me to be killed.” His hands trembled and his voice held a mixture of resentment and disbelief. “They dressed me in this common mail and gave me a blank shield and a helmet without even a crest. Leicester intended that I should die if he did.”

  “My dear lord,” Barbara said gently, completely forgetting in her pity for his hurt and bewilderment how often she herself had wished him dead. “Will you not come into my chamber and lie down until more fitting quarters can be readied for you?”

  The king cast a frightened glance at Leybourne, whose lips tightened as he said, “You may do as you please, sire. We have taken a wrong turn and are in the women’s dormitory, but a short exception will be made for you, I am sure. Rest in Lady Barbara’s chamber if you like. I will go and find the prior’s guest house.”

  As she and Leybourne led the king into the room and seated him on the cot, Barbara guessed he had been brought to Cleeve so that Leicester could not run off with him. Her guess was confirmed when she saw men-at-arms take positions along the wall of the corridor.

  “As soon as the prior’s guest house is ready, I will come for him,” Leybourne murmured.

  “First send the infirmarian to dress his wound,” Barbara said. As Leybourne nodded and went out, she gestured to Clotilde to shut the door, then knelt down beside the king. “Will you allow my maid and me to help you out of your armor, sire?”

  Henry looked at the closed door of the chamber, at Barbara on her knees, at Clotilde, who was curtsying. “Why did Roger Leybourne bring me here, away from my son?” he whispered.

  Barbara smiled, although her lips felt stiff. Dazed and confused as he was, it was apparent that Henry only remembered a long-ago quarrel between Leybourne and Edward, which he had made worse, and that for a short time Leybourne had become Leicester’s supporter. He seemed to have forgotten that the quarrel had been settled.

  “Leybourne is a most faithful servant to you now, my lord, and a loyal friend to Prince Edward,” Barbara said. “Perhaps you did not hear how Lord Edward came to escape from Leicester, but Roger Leybourne was among those who helped. And he has loyally fought for Lord Edward since May. Truly you may trust him.”

  “Leicester, my own brother-by-marriage, wanted me dead,” Henry said. “Whom, then, may I trust?”

  Part of Barbara felt so exasperated she could have screamed. Did Henry not remember the many offenses he had given Leicester? Did he expect to be loved despite his insults, his efforts to deprive his sister of her dowry, his accusations of treachery? But tears of pain and fatigue and bewilderment rolled down the king’s face, catching in glittering points on the gray stubble of his unshaven beard. That Henry, who was always so particular about his appearance, should be unshaven told how hard the old man had been driven. Despite herself, Barbara almost wept for him, despite her knowledge that he was the cause of all the trouble, the cause, perhaps, that her husband might be bleeding out his life in the mud. No, Leybourne had said Alphonse was well, and Henry’s blue eyes looked into hers like a lost child’s. Barbara put a hand on his.

  “Oh, no, my lord,” she soothed. “I cannot believe that Leicester wished any harm to come to you. I do not say he has not been wrong in how he acted, but that is because he deceived himself that he was doing what was best for your safety and honor. No one wishes to harm you. I am sure the earl gave you plain armor to save you from being seized by this one and that one and becoming the center of the battle, where you might be hurt.” She patted his hand. “Come, my lord, let us take off your armor. You will be more comfortable.”

  He agreed faintly, and Clotilde helped lift him while Barbara pulled the skirts of the hauberk out from under him. Then they had to lift the mail shirt over his head, easing it carefully over his cut shoulder. Barbara had just repeated the process with the arming tunic when a scratch on the door heralded the arrival of a breathless infirmarian. Barbara stepped back to allow him to look at the wound, and in a few moments he began to assure the king that the hurt was small and would soon be well, but to dress it properly he would prefer that the king be carried to the infirmary.

  Although Henry looked very frightened and clutched at Barbara’s hands when Clotilde opened the door, he relaxed as soon as he saw the Cistercian habit and endured the monk’s examination patiently. When the infirmarian wished to move him, however, he looked anxiously at Barbara, who could not resist the appeal. She asked if she might be allowed to accompany the king. This drew a spate of apologies from the infirmarian, who explained that women were not allowed in the infirmary, even that portion segregated for guests.

  In his excitement at having a king as a patient, his desire to do exactly what Henry wanted, his conflicting fear of breaking the rule, and his distress at being in the women’s dormitory, the infirmarian spoke so quickly and disjointedly that Henry did not understand and became even more confused. At that moment Leybourne returned. The king grabbed Barbara’s hand and would not let go.

  Eventually Barbara and the infirmarian accompanied Henry to the prior’s guest house, arriving not a moment too soon. As they left the dormitory, three brilliant flashes of lightning split the sky, making the courtyard brighter than the sun at noon, and as they reached the door of the guest house, came a crash of thunder so loud that all, even the warrior Leybourne, cried out. All hurried within as a cascade of water, like a river tumbling over a cliff, fell from the sky. In the bedchamber one lay brother was tending a small but lively fire while another was warming the sheets of a large, handsome bed. The infirmarian’s novice was also waiting, and the crowd of clerics seemed to calm the king so that he agreed to allow them to undress him and put him to bed. While that was being done, Leybourne drew Barbara down the stairs to the chamber below.

  “I will go back now,” he said. “I have left a troop who will defend the priory against stragglers if any should try to enter. You need have no fear. Leicester’s army is destroyed. The battle was all but over when I left.”

  “Over—” Barbara began, but Leybourne had turned on his heel and walked away.

  She followed for a step or two, her hand outstretched, unable to unlock her voice. If the battle was over, why should Leybourne ride back when one could scarcely see through the pouring rain? Why had not Alphonse come if the battle was over? The fear swelled so that her knees shook too badly to walk, and she had to stop. When it receded, she still went no farther. Leybourne would not even hear her if she called to him, the noise of the storm was terrible. And even if he heard her, he was unlikely to wait in the rain to explain. Besides, what could he tell her if he did wait? He had already said Alphonse was “enjoying himself”.

  Enjoying himself? Did that mean he no longer wished to return to France soon but would seek out more wars to fight in? Barbara stood staring at the empty doorway until the infirmarian’s novice approached and asked her to come to the king. She followed without thi
nking, sank into a curtsy, and murmured something proper and meaningless.

  “It is very strange of your father to bring you to a battle,” the king said querulously.

  “My father is not here, sire,” Barbara replied, only half absorbing what was said to her. “I was with my husband, Alphonse d’Aix.”

  Vaguely she recalled that the king had been confused when Leybourne brought him into the priory, and she thought he had forgotten she was married. She lifted her head as she spoke and saw that though Henry was still pale, he seemed perfectly composed. And the half-smile he wore, the sidelong glance he cast at her under the drooping eyelid, set off alarm bells in her head. Before she could say more, he told the second lay brother to bring her a stool so she could sit and talk to him. As Barbara rose from her curtsy, Henry said he was hungry, and the lay brother replied that he would bring some warm soup and went out.

  The delay had given Barbara time to think. A closer examination of Henry’s face as he sat propped among pillows made her doubt that the extra droop of his eyelid was owing to slyness. More likely, she thought, remembering the way his hand trembled when he gestured her to rise and the querulous voice, the slackness was owing to exhaustion. If he wished to talk, however, her long training as a court lady bade her never to lose an opportunity to lay an obligation on royalty.

  “Alphonse was one of those who helped Prince Edward escape,” Barbara went on as soon as the servant was gone. “For safety he sent me to Evesham Abbey, but I took fright when I heard that Leicester was coming there and—and fled here to Cleeve.”