A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  The memory of that kindness made Barbara feel more guilty about binding Alphonse to a marriage he had not really sought. She knew she must not even consider trying to make him change his way of life. Then there was only the choice of releasing him from his request to marry her or living with the knowledge that she would share him with other women.

  Sickness and fury churned so strongly in Barbara that she paused at the foot of the stairs she had descended. For a moment she looked sightlessly out over the hall, which took up almost the whole lower floor of the house. Servants passed to and fro, but Barbara was so accustomed to their presence and their many activities that she regarded them no more than she did the stools and benches standing here and there.

  A high and delicate titter of laughter—no servant’s voice that—finally drew Barbara’s eyes toward the open window at the far end of the room. There sat the ladies, grouped around Princess Eleanor. Among them, Barbara knew, were several, quite placid and contented, whose husbands were well known to seek entertainment abroad. Perhaps some hid suffering, but just as many, Barbara was sure, were well pleased to be relieved of marital attentions they found distasteful.

  Perhaps theirs was the wiser way, Barbara thought. Look at poor Eleanor, who adored her husband with good reason, for Edward was gentle and loving to her and very faithful. Her face was pale and drawn and her eyes dark ringed, although her lips were curved into the form of a smile and she nodded now and again to remarks made to her. Barbara’s mind flashed back to Joanna, to the pain and anxiety she suffered since her relationship with Hugh had changed. Perhaps it was worse to love one’s husband than not to love him.

  “You do look better, Lady Barbara,” a sharp voice called. “When you came in your disarray gave me some very strange ideas.”

  Barbara started forward toward the ladies, smiling sweetly at Lady Jeanne, who belonged to the French queen’s household. Another attack on her reputation demanded all of Barbara’s attention and left no room for musing on subjects that sent shivers over her skin. She blessed Clotilde, too, for having warned her about the jealousy among the ladies. Somewhere inside her she had been making ready, half expecting trouble. A few of the women, like Lady Ela seated to the left of the princess, her gaze fixed on nothing and her hands idle in her lap, had a real cause to be bitter. Lacking a better outlet for their fear for their menfolk, who had fought for the king, such a woman might feel a desire to torment the daughter of Leicester’s ally. But Lady Jeanne simply enjoyed pricking a victim. Barbara did not mind at all. She was an expert at knife-play with sharp words.

  “Your ideas could not have been as strange as the true reason, Lady Jeanne,” she said merrily as she paused just beyond the seated women. “My mare, who has a playful disposition, snatched my fillet from my head and my crespine with it.”

  “No, no,” Lady Jeanne said, “you cannot get away with that excuse. I saw you come in from riding earlier.”

  “Yes.” Seeing the sudden tension in the way Princess Eleanor looked at her, Barbara recalled that she might be thought to have carried back a message from Hugh Bigod. “I came with John of Hurley, my Uncle Hugh’s man. Sir Hugh needed more time to study the message sent by Queen Eleanor, and John had come with news from Comte Raymond d’Aix. I went back to the stable yard after John was taken to the queen to see that Frivole had been properly cared for.”

  “Do you not trust Queen Marguerite’s servants to tend your horse?” another French lady asked indignantly.

  “She does not trust any servants, even her own, about the care of her mare.” Princess Eleanor spoke more sharply than usual.

  The princess was indifferent to the implication that Barbara had been disheveled in a sexual encounter. For one thing, Princess Eleanor was not fond of malicious gossip. For another, she had known Barbara for a long time and was certain she would never have run through the hall as she had if her condition had anything to do with a man. More important, the princess had questions she wanted answered. She had lived in courts all her life, however, and she spent one sentence to placate Lady Jeanne, because she was aware of the need to be particularly gracious to ladies sent to attend her by the French queen, who was her hostess.

  “Lady Barbara is famous—or is it infamous?—for cosseting her animals,” the princess said, trying to smile.

  Although the princess had supported her statement, Barbara was aware that the purpose was not to save her but to cut off further remarks on a subject in which Princess Eleanor was not interested. And her expression, when she looked at Barbara, held reproach for Barbara’s long delay in coming to her.

  Barbara dropped a curtsy and seated herself on a bench near the princess at which Eleanor had gestured. “I am sorry, madam, I do not know what news John of Hurley brought,” she said, answering the expression rather than the words. “He was so anxious about his father-by-law, who had been taken prisoner with Richard of Cornwall, and asked me so many questions about Sir William, whom I had seen in London, that he gave me no chance to ask what news he brought from Aix. And I am not sure he would have told me if I did ask, partly because I am a woman but also because of my father’s alliance with Leicester. But I am sure, madam, that Lord Raymond d’Aix will do what he can to help Queen Eleanor.”

  “But what will he do?” the princess murmured, her eyes filling with tears. “King Henry’s letter threatens Leicester will hurt my darling Edward if Queen Eleanor does not stop gathering men for an invasion of England. Will Lord Raymond bring an army?”

  “No one will hurt Prince Edward,” Barbara said, not for the first or, she expected, the last time. “I swear to you that my father would never countenance that—nor would anyone else, not even Leicester himself. I do not know how King Henry came by such a notion. Madam, you know I saw the prince in London myself, well and strong, at several sessions of the court before I sailed for France. He was guarded, yes, but not chained, and he was treated with honor.”

  “Do you favor an invasion?” Lady Jeanne asked cynically.

  “No, of course not,” Barbara replied, a flick of her brows expressing her disdain for so cruel and clumsy a question. “How could I favor what would endanger my father and my uncle both?” she asked. And then added, “Besides, I am certain that King Louis will find a way to reconcile the parties if only both will have a little patience.”

  “Reconcile?” Lady Ela echoed, pricked out of apathy by indignation. “You would like that, would you not? Are we, who are loyal to King Henry, to have no recompense for the ill done us? My house in London was burned. My husband lies wounded in prison. Great harm has been done to all those who fought for what is right.”

  Aware that her own family had lost little, Barbara could not be pert. She shook her head and looked down. “There has been hurt on both sides,” she said. “It is my hope and my comfort that King Louis will find a middle path that will avoid further war.”

  “War is terrible, terrible,” the princess said, and stood up. “Pray pardon me. My babe was fretful this morning. I must go and see that she is well.”

  Barbara’s heart sank right into the suddenly hollow pit of her stomach. More than half of all babies born died before their second year, but for this babe to sicken now, after Princess Eleanor had been driven from Windsor where the child had been healthy, would be another blow, almost certainly fatal, to the frail hope of peace. If the infant died, the harsh treatment Princess Eleanor had received would be blamed. Neither Eleanor nor Edward, whose ferocity could be frightening and whose memory for injury was very long, would ever forgive the death of their first-born child. Then Barbara drew a deep breath. She had seen the baby herself after dinner. The child had been crowing happily then, and Eleanor’s face had been free of strain until Barbara had recalled her to present troubles. Likely, Barbara thought, Eleanor had gone to her baby in search of comfort rather than out of anxiety.

  The idea immediately brought Alphonse back to her mind because he was the only man she associated with marriage, and children could only be ha
d, as far as Barbara was concerned, within marriage. She sat staring at the chair from which Eleanor had risen, paying no attention to a voice in the background, until a Frenchwoman prodded her.

  “Lady Barbara, do you not hear Lady Jeanne ask how your mare gained so strong a hold on your affection?”

  Barbara swept her eyes over the company and allowed her mobile mouth to twist in distaste. “I am fond of my mare because she does not ask me stupid questions. My country is at war with itself, a princess I love is suffering, and you think my love for a horse is of grave importance?” She sighed. “I am not in the mood to play your games, Lady Jeanne. I will say this and no more. I am not a stupid woman and I do not have a lover. If I did, however, and tumbling him had caused my disarray, I assure you I would have managed to find a private place to set myself to rights rather than run through the hall where all could see me.”

  There was a shocked silence, which was broken by a brief chuckle from Lady Ela. “I think you must be greatly distressed by something,” she said. “It is not at all like you, Barbara, to apply a bludgeon when you could draw blood with a poniard. Do not lose your sense of humor. You may have need of it.” And then she turned away deliberately to speak to another.

  Barbara did not hear more than the words addressed to her. It was most excellent advice, she thought, and though she knew it was almost a threat on the political level, coming from the source it did, she sincerely wished she knew a way to take it on the personal level. Whether she released Alphonse and thus lost all chance of him forever or kept him to his unwilling offer and looked forward to a life of ignoring his mistresses and remarks about them from such kind ladies as Lady Jeanne, she would certainly need her sense of humor. Surely it would be better to release him, she thought. She would thus save herself the agonies of jealousy and of fear for any danger he might face.

  Even as the logical ideas formed in her mind, she was struck by a pang of loss and came to a startling conclusion. She had not been as content as she told herself she was during her years in England. She had been empty and wanting. Only now when she had seen Alphonse again and felt all of herself alive and awake did she realize what she had been lacking. And if she did not fill that emptiness now—her skin grew cold—it would be in her forever.

  To have him, even partly, and to have his children, surely that was worth suffering the green fever. If she kept the peace, if she did not rail at him for playing with other women, surely he would grow to love her, to depend on her. But what if he did not? What if he sent her to Aix to be out of his way? No, she could bargain about that, and anyhow, if they could not live together, if she found it too hard to bear his unfaithfulness, she could always go back to her father in England. So she would keep him to the offer he had made. At least she could sip some of the honey of that beautiful mouth and play with the curls in his private places, which must be even blacker and glossier than those on his head. Unless he was so furious with her for tricking him into a proposal that he would not even consummate the marriage. No, that was silly. Why should he leave lying what was freely offered and would cost him nothing?

  The thoughts went round and round, back and forth, and Barbara came no closer to a decision than she had been when she first ran back to her lodging. Before the long day ended, she regretted bitterly her use of the bludgeon. She would have been glad of any diversion from her thoughts, but Princess Eleanor stayed in her own chamber with her infant daughter and none of the other ladies would speak to her.

  One piece of good came out of her misery. She was exhausted by the endless turnings of her mind and the images of eternal unhappiness she painted for herself. So when she was free to go to her bed, one pallet among the long row of pallets in the women’s quarters—the large influx of ladies with two queens and a princess having exhausted the available cots—Barbara fell asleep before the first two tears she allowed herself to shed rolled from her eyes.

  If she dreamed, no memory of the dreams haunted her, and the rest did her good in that she regained some control of her thoughts. At least when she woke she was able to ignore the problem of what she would say to Alphonse if he repeated his proposal and to consider instead what she should do if he did not approach her at all. If he avoided her, should she accept that and lose even his friendship, or should she approach him and make clear that she had taken his offer only as a jest? But would that save their friendship? She heard Clotilde’s voice and guessed that she had asked what her mistress wished to wear. Barbara asked in turn about the weather.

  What should she wear? If she dressed like a lady ready to receive a lover and he did not come, the women would tease her to madness, especially after her rudeness the previous day. She would have no armor against their cruelty, which had only amused her before. Now for the first time the barbs would strike a sore place in her heart. But if she wore no finery and he did come, that would be an insult.

  Clotilde asked a question, and Barbara, having forgotten completely the question and answer already exchanged, again thought the maid had asked what dress to prepare. To avoid an answer, Barbara asked what the weather was like, realizing only when Clotilde looked at her very strangely that she had already asked and been answered. In desperation, Barbara, who still did not know whether it was sunny or raining, had got as far as saying, “I will wear—” without having the faintest idea what words would follow, when a little page came up and whispered to Clotilde, who cocked her head in a puzzled way, following the child with her eyes as he ran off, before she turned to Barbara and said, “I am called below, my lady. May I go?”

  The respite was so welcome that Barbara gave permission without once thinking how strange it was that Clotilde should be summoned. The maid had no family, for her mother had died before she came into Barbara’s service, and she was, like her mistress, a love child. Nor was it likely that Clotilde had retained any friends in France over the seven years she had lived with Barbara in England. However, all Barbara felt was relief that Clotilde’s quizzical gaze had left her, and the relief made it possible for her to go to her chest and take out a dark gold tunic and a bright blue silk gown of especially fine fabric. By omitting all jewelry and the embroidered collar she usually wore over the low, wide neck of the gown, she felt she had struck a fair compromise.

  The decision had been made just in time, for Clotilde came back wearing no expression at all, which Barbara did not notice until the maid said, “Sieur Alphonse is waiting below to take you to mass.”

  Chapter Six

  Alphonse had a better day than Barbara because he spent it talking to Hugh Bigod and John of Hurley about the situation in England. He had prepared a full salt cellar in his imagination to have sufficient pinches of salt to sprinkle on what he expected Sir Hugh to say about Leicester’s ingratitude and selfishness and the king’s long-suffering. What he heard seemed to him instead a measured and impartial recounting of the quarrel between the king and his barons, with Leicester more sinned against than sinning, although Hugh did state that Leicester’s abrupt manner and tactlessness had added to troubles already present.

  “I do not know the answer,” Hugh said, staring down into the wine in his cup after the evening meal. “King Henry’s extravagance and the greed and cruelty of his half brothers constantly incite rebellion. We can have no peace in the realm while these offenses continue, and war is bringing us all to ruin. Yet, Henry is the king. It is his right to rule and to choose those he wants to be his councilors and officers.”

  “Is it not time,” Alphonse asked, “for Prince Edward to take a greater part in the government? I have heard that his father is more willing to take his advice than that of many others. I know the prince from the tourney field, both as ally and as adversary, and I liked what I saw. He had a cool head in the joust and in the melee, was generous to those of his party without extravagance, and was fair to the defeated. He lives up to his rank, too, but with no unnecessary display.”

  “Edward may be cool on the tourney field,” John said bitterly, “but
in battle, where it counts, his temper leads him into disaster.”

  Hugh put his hand on John’s arm. “It was a special case,” he explained to Alphonse. “At Lewes Edward held the eastern flank and, unfortunately, opposed the troops from London. When he saw their standard, he forgot everything except the attack on his mother. The Londoners broke so easily, he must have thought the entire battle would go the same way. After all, he probably saw Richard of Cornwall’s banner going forward up the hill and believed Leicester’s center had also been destroyed. So he chased the Londoners.” Hugh sighed.

  “He chased them until the battle was lost,” John said sourly.

  Alphonse shrugged. “A bad time and place for a mistake, but I have seen worse mistakes made in battles that were victories in the end. And you may put too much blame on Prince Edward. Leicester has exceptional skill as a battle leader. There is this too. I have known the prince from when he first began to fight in tourneys, and I have seen him make mistakes, but never the same one twice.”

  Hugh smiled. “That is a strong hope for the future. God give us all strength to live through the present without wounds so deep and bitter that they can never be healed. I have no right to complain, since I am the least injured of any by this trouble. My brother may curse me and shake his fist at me, but he has placed his own body and honor between me and any loss. That was what Barbara came to France to say—that my wife is safe and her only anxiety is for me, her only grief our separation.”

  Another silence fell. Alphonse, suddenly reminded of Barbara, had his need for her doubled and redoubled by what he saw in Hugh Bigod’s face when he spoke of his wife. Nor did Alphonse fail to notice that Hugh had not even mentioned what nine out of ten men would have put first, that his property had also been protected by his brother. From the long discussion of English affairs, Alphonse had come to a good understanding of Hugh and knew carelessness about material matters was not characteristic of him. Only in this case, the value of the woman was so great that everything else paled to nothing in comparison.