A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  She was hesitating, seeking a way of saying, without shocking the princess, that she would not accept any other man even by God’s decree, when Queen Eleanor’s clerk bowed to the princess and said his mistress wished to speak to Lady Barbara. The princess nodded and Barbara rose without the smallest reluctance to follow him. On this most perfect of all days, the coincidence of the clerk’s appearance just in time to save her seemed right and natural.

  The feeling that nothing could go wrong that day upheld her, even though she was surprised by the sharpness of Queen Eleanor’s attack. Later she laughed at herself for being such a fool, but the searching questions the queen asked drew her mind firmly away from the yearnings of her body and the vague worry about how to bind Alphonse to her and reminded her of her coming interview with King Louis. She spent the rest of the day, when not forcibly called from her thoughts by the need to eat and answer conversation sensibly, planning what to say to him. She considered many approaches but came back each time to Louis’s essential goodness and to Alphonse’s warning that it was dangerous to lie to the king.

  Had she known that Alphonse would not be allowed to accompany her into King Louis’s presence, she would have come earlier to the conclusion she reached anyway, that she must tell Louis the truth—but carefully. Alphonse himself had not expected to be excluded and had begun to protest to the squire who summoned her to the audience, but Barbara stepped forward at once and put her hand on his arm.

  “My lord,” she said, “the king is very wise. You know and I know that we are in perfect accord and what I wish to say will be said freely of my own will whether you are there to hear me or not, but how can King Louis know this? You were with me, and you asked for this audience. Might I not fear to tell the truth in your presence? Will I not be more likely to say what is truly my own desire if the king can assure me of his protection in private?”

  Alphonse looked angry and worried, but Barbara pressed his hand and shook her head infinitesimally, and he recalled that further protest would do harm. He stepped back and let her go, oddly relieved after his surprise passed that she would break the ice of Louis’s fixed notion. The idea surprised him again, considering his doubts about her real willingness to marry him, but he had been reassured by her steady look and serious expression.

  Inside the small chamber that King Louis used for private business, Barbara saw a table had been set beside the king’s great chair. At right angles to the table, most convenient for easy talk, stood a stool. Barbara let her breath trickle out with relief; apparently the king had decided her business could be conducted without formality. No clerk with a writing desk was there, and the squire who had brought her into the room looked briefly at the table and then went out again.

  Barbara looked at the table, too. On an exquisite gold plate before the king lay untouched a thin wedge of cheese and an even narrower slice of meat pasty. Beside the plate stood a precious glass goblet filled with wine so pale that Barbara knew it was more than half water. As Barbara rose from her curtsy, Louis gestured toward a longer table against the wall and bade her take what she wished for her own meal. She would have to serve herself, he said smiling, since she had requested privacy. Barbara thanked him for his consideration, assuring him that serving herself was no burden.

  The selection offered, Barbara was glad to see, was far broader than Louis’s own ascetic taste. She helped herself liberally. She was not hungry, but she wanted to demonstrate the fact that she would not enjoy the meager diet of a convent. She had already silently displayed her lack of fitness for a life of renunciation by wearing her richest clothes. Her tunic was a glowing orange, the outer gown a deep gold with sleeves so wide their ends trailed nearly to the floor. Her fillet and crespine glittered with jewels, long golden earrings set with sapphires hung from her ears, and elaborately worked bracelets ringed both arms over her tight tunic sleeves. The bracelets shone in bold contrast to the blue lining exposed by turning back the wide sleeves of the golden gown.

  On a fine silver platter, she placed a selection of cold meat, two cheeses, and a good piece of the pasty. Nor did she add any water to the cup of wine she poured and carried back to the table. Balancing plate and cup carefully, she began another curtsy, but desisted when King Louis laughed, pointed to the stool, and told her to sit and stop bobbing up and down.

  “You are making me very suspicious,” he said, smiling kindly. “I do hope that you have not discovered any fault in the bailiff I charged with the management of Cruas.”

  “No, indeed, sire,” she replied. “I suppose I should not have said only that you were my overlord for Cruas, but I did not know how to compress my request to you into few enough words. I am afraid I must go back many years to explain.”

  “Very well.” Louis sighed. “If you must, you must.”

  He broke off a bit of cheese and chewed slowly, while Barbara reminded him briefly how her father had brought her to France and placed the problem of getting back her manor of Cruas in Alphonse’s hands. “It was through Cruas that I became friendly with Sieur Alphonse and came to depend on him. I came back to France recently, sire, to escape the attentions of Guy de Montfort. When I met Sieur Alphonse again in my Uncle Hugh Bigod’s house, the years melted away and I told him my trouble. He offered at once to marry me to secure me from molestation. And when he did, I understood at once why I could not accept any other offer.”

  “Ah, you love him!”

  But Barbara did not fall into the trap of using that word. She knew that Louis distrusted emotions, and love, except of God, most of all. She smiled faintly.

  “If you mean that I grow faint and cannot speak in his presence or turn red and shake all over, as told in some lays and romances, I do not. Sire, I am not at all certain what is meant by love. I know comfort, I know friendship, I know what I feel for my father and for my uncle, and I know that I repose equal trust and affection in Sieur Alphonse. I have not found in all these years another man, other than those of my blood, of course, in whose hand I could put mine. I do not wish to take the veil. I do wish to have children, and Sieur Alphonse is the only man to whom I am willing to trust my own body and estate.”

  Louis looked at her with some surprise. “That is a most sensible view. Trust and affection are, indeed, a sound foundation for marriage, and children are a holy and natural desire in any woman.”

  Barbara bowed her head. “Sieur Alphonse and I are suited by birth, by estate, by age, and by long knowledge of each other. So I would like formally to ask for permission to take Sieur Alphonse as my husband.”

  “I cannot answer you at once, Madame Barbe,” Louis said thoughtfully. “I must look at the grant of Cruas and give a little thought to Sieur Alphonse’s lands and overlord. But without making any promise, I do not see any reason why I should withhold permission. Is Sieur Alphonse also waiting to speak to me?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Then if you have eaten your fill, Madame Barbe, you may send him in to me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Alphonse leaned on the crenel in the battlement of Dover Castle and looked down and to the west where lay the town of Dover. Despite the fine harbor in the mouth of the river—ah, yes, the Dour—the town had an unfinished, temporary look to it. Well, that was no surprise when one remembered that it was constantly overrun by enemies in any conflict. Always the party that had power and the party that desired it both wanted Dover. Whichever side held the keep, the other came and overran the town—a rather pointless action, since town and harbor were within range of the castle’s weapons and were thus useless.

  Swinging around so that his broad shoulders were supported by the merlon, Alphonse looked across to the other towers. Overrunning the keep was another matter entirely. Unless there was treachery within, Alphonse could not think of any way to take Dover keep without two armies—one to loose during fruitless attacks on the great castle, the other to be decimated while fighting its way in. He had been so awed when he first saw the huge walls and buildings cr
owning the shining cliffs that he had forgotten both his frustration and his mal de mer.

  The mal de mer was gone, of course, but the frustration was growing. He and Barbe had come to England with Sir William Charles, who carried a letter from King Louis stating his willingness to mediate a peace. Barbe had asked to come to explain in person to her father about her wish to be married. Although she did not need his permission, King Louis being her overlord, she was afraid Norfolk would think she had been forced to take Alphonse for some political purpose. She wanted to see her father to tell him she was truly happy and the agreement to marry had been of her own free will.

  Alphonse no longer saw the towers, though his eyes stared at the one closest. Barbe’s desire to put off the actual marriage until she could talk to her father seemed reasonable, but it had wakened all his suspicions. And she had gone to Louis with the request, without telling Alphonse first. King Louis had been delighted. Her desire fitted perfectly with a private purpose of his own, a purpose in which Alphonse was involved, so he had been most willing to send them to England ahead of the agents who were to be his negotiating team.

  Unfortunately none of their plans had worked properly. When they landed in England, they had become virtual prisoners in Dover. They were not chained or held in the black bottom floor of the keep. They were treated with courtesy and had every luxury Dover could supply, but they were not free to leave. Alphonse could not accomplish either the French king’s purpose or his own. Sir William Charles had not been permitted to carry Louis’s letter to King Henry. The letter was sent on—to whom, Alphonse was not ready to swear—by Richard de Grey, the castellan of Dover and an ardent supporter of Leicester. Barbara’s letter to her father had also been taken by Grey.

  Without moving his head, Alphonse checked the presence of the two men-at-arms who followed him everywhere. They were a pair of fools, bored and always off guard. He could have killed both in the time between two breaths. Then he almost laughed aloud. That was surely an extreme cure for his frustration, and it would not even accomplish its purpose. The worst thing he could do was to prove to Grey he wished to escape when he had nowhere to go.

  Even if he could get Barbe into Dover town without those damned guardsmen, would she be willing to write again to her father? She had refused to ask for a special license to travel in the letter she had asked Grey to send to Norfolk. She had not even told her father that she was holding off her marriage, which she desired to take place as soon as possible, until she could see and speak to him. All she had written was that she was back in England and desired his approval of her betrothal to Alphonse d’Aix at his convenience. Alphonse had been furious about the lack of urgency, but she said she was afraid that her letter would be read and misinterpreted by Grey and perhaps by others as well. And no matter what she wrote, would Norfolk come for them himself or send them a pass to travel?

  Alphonse uttered an irritated sigh. From what Barbe told him about the somewhat strained relations between her father and Leicester, a passport issued by Norfolk might not be honored. And Norfolk could not come himself. He was no doubt responsible for the defense of the east coast against invasion and being watched. Alphonse straightened and paced around the battlement until he was looking out to sea. It was that cursed invasion that Queen Eleanor and the king’s half brothers were so set on that had caused the trouble. That invasion was probably the only subject that the queen, Lusignan, and Valence had ever agreed on, but Alphonse could not believe the invasion would be successful or that it would ever take place.

  Eleanor and the king’s half brothers had agreed on battle rather than bargaining but on nothing else. There was too much bitterness, too much desire for revenge, too much greed and as far as Alphonse could tell from the few days he had been in Boulogne, a complete lack of common sense about how to manage an invasion. Hugh Bigod could have organized it for them, but none of them trusted him because his wife and lands were under his brother’s protection and Norfolk supported Leicester. And Bigod did not believe an invasion could succeed at this time and had not hidden his relief at being ignored.

  King Louis could also have supplied the organization that was lacking, but he had remained strictly neutral, aside from advising Eleanor to wait for the outcome of his negotiation with Leicester before committing herself and her limited funds to a war. Queen Eleanor, however, had rejected the idea of negotiation totally, and had used every shred of influence and every device to gather men and money for the invasion. Alphonse sighed again. He had hardly recognized his aunt when, on a hint from Louis, he reminded her of Henry’s letter warning that invasion could bring disaster to him and her beloved son, Prince Edward. She had laughed at the reminder, saying that Leicester had neither the strength nor the courage to harm Henry or Edward.

  Eleanor was wrong about that, Alphonse thought, staring sightlessly at the moving gray water. Leicester did not lack strength or courage for any purpose. He had too much honor to violate the terms under which prisoners had yielded. Leicester might have made the threat, however, hoping Eleanor, who loved both her husband and her son, would be frightened and give up the idea of invasion.

  Alphonse was annoyed with himself because he had not guessed that, with rumors of invasion rife, he and Barbe would be held at Dover. In fact, he had not given political matters a thought. His head was full of the need to get to Norfolk and obtain his enthusiastic support by explaining to him how much he loved Barbe and how indulgent a husband he would be to her.

  “Thin gruel,” Alphonse said aloud.

  “What, my lord?” one of the guardsmen asked.

  Alphonse laughed and shook his head. “Nothing. An idle thought spoken aloud.”

  He was almost tempted to tell the man that thin gruel was what desire for a woman could make of a man’s brains, but he did not want to be regarded as demented as well as untrustworthy. He cursed himself briefly, but silently this time. He and Barbe had been in Dover less than two weeks. If they had been married, or even lovers, he would not have cared if they were immured in the place for months.

  Why did Barbe have to be so terrified of yielding her body before marriage? They were betrothed, for most women that was good enough. Did she intend ever to marry him or was all of this some kind of elaborate ruse? Ridiculous! What kind of ruse? For what purpose? She had certainly enjoyed his caresses and responded avidly the one time he had managed to get her alone. They were all but coupled when she suddenly pulled away frantically, almost hysterically. And here in Dover, where they could have found an empty wall chamber and shut out the guardsmen, she would not come near him except in company.

  Barbe had given him a reason, and a good one, for refusing to share his bed. She said she would not bear a child out of wedlock and that betrothal was not enough in such parlous times. She was right. Alphonse knew it, but suspicions that her real reason was different troubled him and his frustration sent him to walk the walls, ready to tear out his hair.

  Alphonse did not even dare go into the town without her to work off his rut on a whore. Barbe already knew too much about his past habits. She had made a remark or two about expecting him to be discreet and not shame her. He had tried to explain that if he had her he would desire no other, but she had raised those thick brows into their enchanting peak and bade him make no promises he would regret. Certainly to go whoring in Dover with two thick-headed and probably loose-mouthed guardsmen on his tail would not be wise.

  Part of his problem was that he had been too sure of her once he discovered how cleverly she had paved the way for their marriage with King Louis. Alphonse’s first meeting with the king had been very short. Louis had asked him whether he was aware of Lady Barbe’s request to him to sanction a marriage between them, and when he said he was indeed aware and had proposed the idea himself, the king had given him a summary of what Barbe had said.

  “Lady Barbe has good reasons for accepting your offer,” Louis had said then. “What is not so clear to me is why you made the offer.”

 
; “Because I desire her for my wife,” Alphonse replied without pretense. “I have desired her for many years, since shortly after I, like a fool, suggested to Queen Marguerite that the simplest way to settle the matter of the manor of Cruas was to arrange a marriage between Thouzan le Thor and Lady Barbe.”

  Louis said nothing, but the doubt was clear in his eyes. Alphonse shrugged irritably. Usually he found his reputation as irresistible to women an advantage. It made his prey so curious they were easy to catch, but he was annoyed by the king’s lack of perception.

  “I do not play at courtly love with young and innocent maidens, sire, for they might not know the game and be hurt. Moreover, Thouzan le Thor was my friend. The marriage was by my advice. Surely you cannot believe that because I had made a mistake, I would shame my friend and make a life of misery for his wife.”

  “No, you would not,” Louis said. “You are a man of honor.” His disapproval of the general frivolity of Alphonse’s life did not blind him to the fact that his wife’s nephew lived by a strict code.

  “I did not ask for her after Thouzan le Thor died,” Alphonse continued, “because she told me she was not willing to consider a second marriage at that time.”

  After a pause, Louis nodded. “I do not remember the terms under which Lady Barbe holds the manor,” he said, “and I must examine them, particularly since you are your brother’s vassal for other lands, but I see no reason to discourage your suit at present. I will give you my decision and we can talk about terms and fines in two or three days.”

  Although Alphonse had guessed that Louis wanted the few days to consider more than the fate of Cruas, foremost in his mind was the proof of Barbe’s willingness to marry him. He had been further lulled by Barbe’s eagerness to spend that first evening with him, just the two of them in a quiet corner of Princess Eleanor’s hall. He had obtained the princess’s permission to have his lady’s help in preparing a letter to his brother, who was his overlord. Barbe had been so serious and intent in devising arguments to convince Raymond she was a good match that Alphonse had not bothered to explain that he expected no protest from Raymond. His brother had himself married for love and had come near a falling-out with his father over the bride he had chosen.