ASilverMirror

by Roberta Gellis

  Henry’s expressive face grew sad and he put out his shaking hand to grasp hers. “How dreadful for you, my poor Barbara, to have your husband on one side in a battle and your father on the other. And how dreadful for them if they should have met on the field.”

  Barbara was touched by the sincere sympathy and murmured, “You are very kind, sire,” before she remembered how often she had railed against the way the king’s warmth seduced those who should have known better, and a wave of irritation replaced her gratitude. Simultaneously the sense of what Henry had said about her father caused a new clangor of alarm bells, and she added quickly, “But your kindness is wasted. My husband and father could never have met. My father did not answer Leicester’s summons and took no part in this battle. You must know, sire, that he has never approved of much that Leicester did and was very angry when he heard the terms of the Peace of Canterbury.”

  “But he did not repudiate the Provisions of Oxford,” Henry said, withdrawing his hand.

  “My lord, you yourself approved the provisions in their first form. It is the Earl of Leicester who has distorted them into something different from what was first intended.” Barbara felt a pang of guilt over those words, but she knew no power on earth could reconcile Leicester with the king now. It was better that the earl bear the onus and that her father, who also had the good of the realm at heart, should be free and restored to power so that some good might be salvaged from the wreck of Leicester’s plans. “You know my father loves you,” she went on. “I cannot tell you how often he has told me of your mischief together as boys and how your kindness saved him from his father’s anger. There was something about a horse, but I have forgotten exactly how it came about…”

  She let her voice drift away invitingly and hid her sigh of relief under a chuckle as Henry promptly began to retell the well-known story with details and embellishments that Barbara had not heard before. By the time the king’s soup was brought, Henry was more relaxed. Barbara served, holding the bowl so the king could eat in comfort, presenting the napkin when it was necessary, and talking gently of great state dinners in happier times. Now and again she managed to insert a reminder of occasions when her father had supported Henry, but she was careful that the remarks seemed to be made only in passing. If Henry noted what she said, he gave no sign of it, and when the bowl was empty and Barbara had held a basin for him to wash his hands, he dismissed her. He said only that he wished to rest, but he smiled warmly at her, patted her hand, and called her a good girl.

  At first as she walked down the stairs, Barbara was disappointed, rethinking the conversation and wondering whether she should have been more direct in her father’s defense. By the time she reached the outer door, she felt less dissatisfied. Had she harped on her father’s break with Leicester, every suspicion in the king’s devious mind would have wakened to combat her claims. And to have pointed out her father’s reasons for supporting Leicester would have forced her also to point out the king’s mistakes—a very foolish thing to do at any time.

  No, she had done just right, she thought. She had soothed the king, made him feel safe and happy, and made clear that her father had withdrawn his support from Leicester—whether or not that was true, it would betrue now. Best of all, she had tied her father’s absence from this battle to his love for the king, and Henry always wanted to be loved. If anything could ease the king’s spite against a man who had opposed him, it was the notion that the opposition had ended out of love. She could trust her father to say and do what was proper as soon as he knew— Barbara drew in a sharp breath. She had to send him the news of Leicester’s defeat and what she had said to the king at once.

  Becoming aware of her surroundings, Barbara found she was standing at the door of the prior’s guest house, looking into the courtyard. Now she saw with relief that the rain had diminished to little more than a drizzle, although there were still distant flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder. She ran hurriedly across the courtyard to her own chamber in the guest house. There she wiped dry her hair and gown while Clotilde ran out to buy from one of the lay brothers two quills, some ink, and a sheet of parchment. Taking a candle to the guests’ refectory, she sat down to write her letter while Bevis and Lewin made ready to carry it to Norfolk.

  The light grew brighter as she wrote, covering the parchment tightly with every detail of her conversation with Henry after writing the news of Leicester’s defeat. The storm was passing, but Barbara was too intent to notice the change in the light even when she had to move her head to avoid the last rays of the setting sun which glanced in through the narrow window. She reread her letter, adding a small point between the lines or in the margin, while the shaft of sunlight disappeared as the sun sank below the priory wall. The light from the window was so strong now that she absently pushed the candle aside.

  All Barbara was aware of was a growing sense of relief. She had realized that being among the first to know of Edward’s victory would give her father time to gather his strength as well as to make peace overtures. If the king did not insist on punishing Norfolk—and she felt strongly hopeful that she had laid a ground for forgiveness there—the rest could be left to Edward’s good sense. The prince knew he would have to come to terms with most of those who had supported Leicester. Since her father had not fought at Lewes or Evesham, the prince would be willing to accept a new oath of fealty from Norfolk and perhaps a minor fine instead of waging a war to disseisin so powerful a man. Barbara closed her eyes for a moment as she breathed a prayer of thanks. She was sure her father’s peril was over, but another point came to mind and she opened her eyes to add that information to the letter.

  A shadow fell across the table. Barbara looked up, about to order sharply that her man stand out of the light. Instead she sprang to her feet so quickly that she knocked over the bench she had been sitting on. She stretched frantically over the table, but could not reach Alphonse, who was standing behind the bench on the other side, staring at her as if he could not remember who she was or could not think what to say.

  “Are you hurt?” she gasped, throwing aside the quill and rushing around the end of the table, nearly tripping on the overturned bench.

  “A little bruised,” he replied. “That is all.”

  His voice was flat. His skin was gray, his head was turned to her, his eyes fixed on her, but she thought he saw something far uglier. “My love, my heart,” she whispered, coming to him and taking his hand, “what is wrong?”

  The affectionate words brought more sense into the eyes fixed on her, and she stretched up and kissed his mouth. He wrenched his hand free of hers, but only so that he could clutch her to him. He held her hard, dropping his head and burying his face in her headdress. She felt him shake and heard uneven breaths that might have been sobs, but the strength of his grip reassured her. Though painful, it was a joy to her, confirming without words that he had told the truth and was not injured. After a little while, he drew one more long, shuddering breath and let her go.

  Silently Barbara pressed him down to sit on the bench with his back to the table and, when he had eased himself down like an old man with sore joints, sat beside him. She took his hand again and stroked it gently, lifted it and kissed his fingers and had to set her teeth because the hand—dark-stained, she now saw—smelled of blood. But she did not jerk away. She laid the hand against her cheek lovingly and waited without speaking.

  “The war is over,” he said at last. “Leicester is dead and all his supporters with him—Peter de Montfort, Despenser…”

  Barbara bit her lip to hold back an exclamation. So Despenser was dead! Aliva was free—and rich. And she would be in no danger even as the widow of a rebel because young Roger Bigod would rush to her defense, and Roger, who had not fought at Evesham and was the son of a faithful king’s man, would also be safe. Her attention was jerked back to her husband. He had been naming others killed and then had fallen silent and pulled his hand away from her and rubbed it over his face.

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p; “I do not think I have ever seen so many nobles dead,” he went on. “And Leicester,” he shivered, “it was not right. He was a good man. I thought him wrong to set his will over Henry, who had been anointed king, but if I had caught the one who cut off his head and hands—”

  “Oh, God,” Barbara breathed and shivered too.

  “Edward was pleased.” Alphonse’s voice was even flatter, and he stared straight ahead at the wall.

  “Edward is a good hater,” Barbara said bleakly, then called herself a fool. What kind of comfort was that remark to a heartsick man? She touched her husband’s cheek to draw his attention and went on, “It is a dreadful thing, but not all bad. You know, Alphonse, once Edward has his satisfaction for an injury, he does not hold a grudge. Leicester’s death and the manner of it may make the prince less harsh to the living.”

  Alphonse turned his head and really looked at her, then nodded slowly. “It will take time, but I think you may be right.” But he shivered again. “War is no tourney,” he said. “I hate it. Henry de Montfort is dead too.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” Barbara cried, caught her breath at Alphonse’s expression, and whispered, “By your hand?” She was horrified at the thought that Alphonse could kill his own friend in the heat of battle.

  He shook his head and told her how he had been trying to kill Guy and Henry had come between them. “I wounded him. If I had not, perhaps he would have lived. They pulled Humphrey de Bohun and Peter de Montfort’s two sons out from among the dead—and Guy…Guy survived too.”

  “Too bad,” Barbara remarked, “but that is proof that the wound you dealt Henry made no difference. You wounded Guy also, and he lived. Not that I really care. He is nothing, less than a worm without his father’s power to back him.”

  Alphonse’s full lips tightened, and he shook his head again. “He is dangerous. I do not know why, but I feel he is. Not to you or me, but I have a—a feeling of ill intent that hangs about him. I almost stabbed him when I found him alive beside Henry’s body. I should have. He will do some great evil… But I could not bring myself to kill a helpless man.”

  “You did what was right. Whatever Guy is or does, there can be no good in smearing yourself with filth.” Barbara sighed. “The priests tell us that God works in mysterious ways and that we should not try to understand Him, and they assure us that God is stronger than the devil, but Satan looks after his own too. Let us forget Guy. He will not touch you or me again.”

  Alphonse lifted his shoulders and let them fall, but did not answer. Barbara hesitated, anxious over the unaccustomed expression of despair in her husband’s face. Rarely did Alphonse take any matter, except what concerned his family, deeply to heart. She searched her mind for something cheerful to say, decided that cheerfulness was not appropriate, and at last murmured, “At least Henry was not despoiled.”

  “No.” Alphonse’s voice took on more life and he looked at her again. “And there Edward held no grudge. He was truly grieved. He even ordered that Henry’s body be taken to the abbey in honor and swore that he would himself attend his internment.”

  “I am glad of that,” Barbara said and, seeing that he looked less distraught, thought she had better warn him of their illustrious fellow guest. “Do you know that the king is here?” she asked.

  “Here!” Alphonse exclaimed, opened his mouth, closed it firmly, and opened it again to say urgently, “Barbe, I have taken my leave of Edward. To say the truth, I do not wish to see him again, at least for some while. We have a few hours of light left. Let us go.”

  “But you are tired and sore,” she protested.

  “I will be worse tomorrow,” he told her, then found a wry smile. “And if I must lie up for a day or two, I want you near me.”

  Barbara got up at once, recalling that in the priory she would not be allowed to stay with her husband in the men’s part of the dormitory. “You are not hurt?” she asked again. “It will do you no harm to ride?”

  He smiled at her. “I swear it.”

  “What of Dadais and Chacier’s horse?”

  “Tired, but for the few miles to Bidford, they will do well enough.”

  “Sit here and rest, then. I will tell Clotilde to pack what little we have taken from the travel baskets.” She turned and, seeing her letter lying on the table, swung back to Alphonse. “I must send Bevis or Lewin to my father with the news. I would like to send both men so that he will be sure to get my letter, but—”

  “Send them,” Alphonse said. “So few fled the field that we need not fear large bands of stragglers. Any who did escape will be intent only on getting home without notice. We will not be attacked on the road, and I have the prince’s letters to ensure our safe passage. The news of Leicester’s death will have run before us. No official will dare disobey Edward’s order.”

  They did not stay at Bidford. The alehouse was full and foul and the light was holding. They rode on at the best pace Dadais could keep—Chacier had put the baggage on his own horse and rode one of the pack animals—and they came to Stratford just before the gates were closed at dark. Because the terrible rain had washed the blood from Alphonse’s armor and since he was with a woman and her maid, the gate guards had a good enough excuse not to ask whether he had been in the battle, despite his own and his destrier’s obvious weariness.

  Alphonse was too tired to wonder why he was not challenged for being a fugitive rebel so he could be brought back to face the king’s justice, but Barbara knew. She had seen the ugly side of Leicester’s rule, had seen his tyranny grow, but the common folk, especially the burghers of the towns, still loved him. The battle was over, their champion was dead. They would bow to the rule of king and prince, but if they could secretly help Leicester’s partisans by looking the other way, they would do it.

  More silent proof came. The inn in which they had stayed before welcomed them back without questions about the two missing armsmen. Barbara had a good reason ready if the innkeeper or the alewife asked why she wanted a bath carried to their chamber when there was a bathhouse in the town. But neither mentioned the bathhouse, where marks of battle could not be hidden from public view and would betray a fugitive from Leicester’s army. Nor did the alewife blink when Clotilde asked for the name of the nearest apothecary. The maid was ready to say that her lady’s flux was painful, but she had her directions as if she were asking the way to the privy or the well.

  The eagerness of her host and hostess to serve her and the little extra comforts they brought to her door with the evening meal she had ordered—a new, fuller pillow, a small flask of usquebaugh, and under a napkin, strips of old, soft linen for bandages—their looks of wordless sympathy too, drew a few tears from Barbara. The unspoken sense of loss in the innkeeper and alewife brought back to her all of Leicester’s dreams of justice and good government. But the dreams had foundered because they had no sound base. Leicester had no right to rule, so he gave power only to those he could trust through love or blood—and that was exactly what the king had done. The king’s reasons were less sound, but the act was the same.

  Barbara bit her lip and wiped the few tears away. The king, she feared, would never change, but Edward was different now, truly a man, and would curb his father’s worst excesses. She was almost tempted to offer that reassurance to her host and hostess, but she did not. They probably would not have believed her, and worse, she would have deprived them of the satisfaction of striking a last blow for Leicester by helping one they thought to be his man.

  She warned Clotilde and Chacier to be careful of what they said, even in French, and to avoid all mention of Leicester or the king. Then she bade Clotilde to see to Chacier’s comfort and salve any hurts he had—he was falling off his feet—and go to bed. She went to add hot water to the tub in which Alphonse was soaking. His eyes were closed and he did not stir. She dipped a folded bandage into the hot water and laid it on his shoulder, which was turning blue. He stirred and sighed but did not open his eyes. Quietly Barbara got the warming stones from th
e hearth and warmed the bed.

  Alphonse opened his eyes when she came around the screen that shielded the tub and kept in the heat from the small fire. “The water is getting cool again,”he said and, as Barbara turned toward the pot on the hob, added, “No, do not get more water. I had better go to bed or I will fall asleep here.” He smiled at her. “Give me your hand.”

  Barbara thought that he wanted her help in rising from the tub and braced herself against his pull, turning her head to look for the thick, soft drying cloth.

  “Do not play that game with me any more,” Alphonse said, pulling her down and toward him so sharply that she stubbed her toe on the tub and almost fell into it.

  “What game?” she asked, catching herself by one hand on the tub to keep upright.

  “The fleeing doe,” he snapped. “I am tired to death of chasing coyly retreating temptresses—”

  “And of dodging attacking lionesses too?”

  “For Mary’s sweet sake, Barbe, will you not believe I love you and do not desire any other woman, whether she flees me or runs after me? I am no green boy who needs assurance that he is desirable. I want peace. I desire only a woman who is one heart and one mind with me.”

  “I am of one mind and heart with you—you know that—but you have had a war to keep you occupied. Oh, Alphonse, I do not think you play with women to salve your self-esteem. You do it to keep amused when you are bored.”

  “That is not true—at least, it has not been so for many years. I did it to fill the emptiness that was in me because I could not have you.”

  Barbara stood up. “I am playing no games with you. I was only reaching for the drying cloth, not turning away. I have confessed my love and I will not pretend that confession was a lie—but I wish you would not lie to me either. Come, get out of the tub. You will take a chill.” Her voice was flat and her face expressionless as she reached for the drying cloth again.