Alphonse laughed. “To avoid meeting him?” He raised his brows into a questioning look.
Barbara shrugged. “Papa may lose his temper, which I hope is what he wishes to avoid, but that would not affect his actions in the long run. But I was troubled by something else I saw while I was in Leicester’s apartment. Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester, was there—you remember that he was Leicester’s chief ally in the defeat of the Welsh Marcher lords—and he was alone mostly. Everyone seemed to look to Leicester.”
“Why should that trouble you? Leicester is the moving spirit in this quarrel with the king. Is Gloucester a longtime friend of yours?” Alphonse asked idly.
“No. Actually I did not remember him at first. I knew I had seen him somewhere—well, one does not forget that red hair but I could not think who he was. Later he said we had never met formally, but he remembered me.”
“Another gentleman against whom I must guard my back?” Alphonse laughed.
He seemed to be amused, but even the jesting implication of jealousy, though warming and exciting in one way, made Barbara uneasy. Alphonse was so calm and indifferent that she wondered whether he was hoping to find evidence of a wandering eye in her so as to excuse his own infidelities. She had been reconsidering her decision to tell him about Guy. Now she changed her mind again. If there was gossip, she must be the one to warn him of it before he heard it from others.
“No, not at all,” she said, also laughing lightly. “I am afraid the Earl of Gloucester, who is quite young, would not take me as a gift. He remembered me as the lady whose own spit might poison her, according to one of the queen’s women.”
“Yet he accosted you?”
“He thought he was rescuing me from that idiot Guy de Montfort, who for some reason known only to his feeble intellect decided I had returned to England for the sole purpose of making myself available to him.”
Barbara was braced for a bellow of outrage or a laugh of scorn, but Alphonse said nothing at all for a moment and then remarked, “He must have a very strong desire for you to flout his father’s order.”
“Guy has a very strong desire to have his own way,” Barbara snapped. “I doubt his desire would be nearly as strong had I thrown myself into his arms when he beckoned to me.” Then she sighed and added, “And I am not sure his father did order him to stay away from me. After all, Leicester thought I was safe in France, and he would wish to avoid, if he could, Guy’s blaming him for sending me there. Possibly he was also afraid Guy would whine and beg his mother for my recall.”
“What happened today, exactly?”
“Nothing.”
That was not the truth, but Barbara was disturbed by her husband’s lack of reaction. She would have taken it for total indifference, except that she knew, even if he hated her, Alphonse would not be indifferent. She was his wife, his possession, and Alphonse’s pride would permit no man to meddle with his possessions. She had a momentary regret that she had raised the subject.
“But the ‘nothing’ that happened seems to have stuck firmly in your mind,” Alphonse remarked, his lips twisting cynically.
“Yes—I mean, no.” Barbara swiftly decided to change the slant of her tale and reduce Guy de Montfort to a flea bite compared with a “real” worry. She laughed. “Naturally I was annoyed by that fool’s arrogance, but all he is is a puffed-up fool. What made his stupidity stick in my mind was that Gloucester came to my rescue. But Gloucester must have interfered because he wanted to spite Guy. I cannot believe he feared for my safety. After all, we were in a room full of people, and Leicester himself would have come to me if I had let out a single shriek for help.”
Alphonse had been looking into the hearth and now turned his head sharply. “Guy de Montfort actually laid his hands on you?” he asked.
About to deny it, Barbara remembered the grip on her arm, which likely as not would show in a bruise. “He grabbed my arm and bruised me. But I gave him as good as I got and tore up the skin of his hand. Everyone will see the scratches and laugh at him.”
“I think—” Alphonse began, and slowly started to get up from the chair.
Barbara jumped across the space between them and pushed him back. “You are not thinking at all,” she cried. “You are about to act just the way a cat chases a bit of string. If you challenge Guy, you will make something out of nothing. And he is more than ten years younger than you and not near your match in arms. You will certainly kill him or cut him to ribbons if you fight. No doubt everyone except his father and mother will be delighted, but they will still think you punished a stupid boy too severely—”
“Enough,” he said, and laughed. “I can see an open challenge would be a mistake. I will say nothing to Guy de Montfort if he does not approach me and if you will promise not to go out without my escort.” Before she could answer, he stood up and put an arm around her. “Come, I will kiss your bruise and make it well.”
He kissed more than the bruise on her arm, but it took some time before Barbara was able to put aside the fright he had given her and enjoy his caresses. She now realized she had grown too accustomed to her father’s immediate loud vocal and physical reactions to what displeased him. Alphonse’s quiet had almost deceived her into thinking she had succeeded in distracting him from Guy’s behavior by dwelling on the political aspects of Gloucester’s actions.
Every time she thought anew of the consequences, had she not recognized when she did the fury that raged under Alphonse’s outward calm, her body went cold and stiff and poor Alphonse had to begin his lovemaking all over again. It seemed like hours before she was able to relax and let herself drift on the waves of sensual pleasure he created. And she did not fight his response this time as she often did to hide the fact that she was too eager. Still, she was more than usually exhausted after her pleasure peaked and ebbed, and she slept as if stunned.
Chapter Sixteen
Alphonse slept as heavily as his wife, but he woke at dawn by habit and slipped from the bed as he did every morning. He was in the solar before he remembered that he had nowhere to go. First he thought of going back to bed, but he had forgotten to tell the servants that his duty to the prince was ended. Clotilde was on her way to fetch his washing water, and Chacier had already gone out to get food for him to break his fast.
There could be no escape from his troubles by submerging them in Edward’s or in further sleep. Alphonse stood in the middle of the room remembering everything that had happened the previous day, most painfully recalling his suspicion after they made love on the riverbank that Barbe was hiding something from him. She had been ten times as hard to arouse last night after seeing Guy de Montfort. Because she was angry and frightened, as she confessed? Or because she had a secret desire for Guy? Alphonse wondered whether Barbe had taken him as a poor second choice after she realized that Leicester would not sanction a marriage between his son and a bastard, even Norfolk’s? Had her swift arguments against his intention of punishing Guy been born of her desire to protect the young man or, as they seemed, the honest fruit of logic and contempt?
He went through the motions of washing, dressing, and eating with the same questions presenting themselves to him in new forms, but in whatever form without answers, until Chacier reminded him it was growing late. Then he looked up from the depths of his cup of ale, swallowing down an impulse to smash in Chacier’s face. It was Guy he wished to smash, and he bitterly regretted having promised Barbe he would not challenge him.
Startled by his master’s expression, Chacier stepped back and said uncertainly, “Sieur?”
Alphonse shook his head and told his man that he would not be going to Prince Edward again. His servant’s immediate nod of understanding and his obvious relief, because he now knew the rage was not directed at him, brought Alphonse the rather surprising realization that he had never before hated an individual as he hated Guy de Montfort. But to explain that to Chacier was impossible. Alphonse looked down into his ale again. Let Chacier believe his anger was dire
cted at a political problem. That was what Barbe had tried to convince him, was it not?
Suddenly part of the tempest inside him stilled. He would not need to sit here with hot coals of doubt burning holes in his belly. Barbe had tried to divert him with the political red herring, Alphonse could not help chuckling in the midst of his misery over the word “red”, of the Earl of Gloucester. He could not challenge Guy de Montfort, but perhaps by talking with Gloucester he could get a clearer view of what had happened between Barbe and Guy.
“Bring Dadais, Chacier,” he said, then turned to Clotilde. “I must go to the castle for a little while. When Lady Barbe wakes, assure her that I have not gone to see Guy de Montfort and will avoid him if I possibly can and that I will return to escort her wherever she desires to go as soon as I can.”
At the castle Alphonse discovered without difficulty that the Earl of Gloucester was lodged in considerable, if somewhat isolated, splendor in the archbishop’s house. This had been empty, Alphonse knew, because the Archbishop of Canterbury was in France, neck deep in Queen Eleanor’s plans to destroy Leicester, and would not dare return to England until a firm settlement was made.
As he rode across the town from the castle toward the cathedral, Alphonse wondered whether Gloucester would be awake at so early an hour, but he was not left in doubt long. A grizzled steward came hurrying out to lead him into the house very soon after a guard had sent in his name. The steward said nothing unusual, but Alphonse guessed from his manner that the earl was up and about and would be glad of any guest.
Gloucester was still breaking his fast, but he rose politely to greet Alphonse and asked immediately whether he was indeed the Alphonse d’Aix who had taken the prize at Lagny-sur-Marne.
“Well, I have fought five times at Lagny over the past ten years and twice taken the prize there, so I suppose I am the one,” Alphonse said, smiling. “But I must warn you that every third man in Provence is named either Alphonse or Raymond, and there must be more than one Alphonse d’Aix.”
Gloucester laughed. “I doubt there were two who took the tourney prize at Lagny. Sit, please. Will you eat?”
“No, I thank you. I have broken my fast.”
“Wine then? Or ale?”
“Ale, I thank you.” Alphonse waited while a servant brought a cup and Gloucester filled it from the jack beside him. Then he said quickly, “And before we are diverted to talk of tourneys, let me thank you for your assistance to my wife yesterday.”
“Guy de Montfort thinks he owns the world,” Gloucester snarled, flushing redder. “That when he puts out a hand, whatever he reaches for will leap into it.” His teeth set and he held up a hand to stop Alphonse from speaking. “As you can see,” he said, after taking a deep breath, “you owe me no thanks. It shames me to say it, but when I interfered I was not thinking of Lady Barbara,” the tenseness in his expression eased and he grinned, “although now that I have spoken to her, she would be my first concern, I assure you.”
Alphonse shrugged. “Whatever your reason for protecting her, I must still thank you.” But he already felt much better than his casual tone implied, not less angry with Guy de Montfort but less fearful that Barbe was deceiving him. So far every word Gloucester had said was completely in accord with the tale Barbe had told, and his next words confirmed it further.
“I do not mean to be rude, Sir Alphonse, but I cannot allow you to feel any obligation. I am certain Lady Barbara would have freed herself in moments.”
The words were sweet as music to Alphonse. Clearly Gloucester had seen Barbe struggling to get away from Guy. Equally clearly the young earl was now embarrassed by the urge to annoy Guy that had involved him in their dispute, and perhaps he wished he had not so openly exposed his dislike for Leicester’s son. A good courtier could always cover not only his own mistakes but those of others.
Alphonse smiled. “But I doubt she could have gotten away from him without creating a near riot and making everyone in the room aware that Guy de Montfort was forcing his attentions on her,” he said smoothly. “Naturally, you would not want Leicester’s name smirched by the disgusting behavior of his thoughtless son.”
Gloucester’s pale eyes widened for a moment with surprise at so rational an explanation of his behavior. He then busied himself drinking from his cup and refilling it, after which he said carefully, “If that were true, then even less would you owe me thanks.” Then suddenly he frowned as the political implications Alphonse had suggested came into focus. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “You are not going to challenge him, are you? To have one of the French delegation—”
“I am not part of the French delegation,” Alphonse said, “but no, I am not going to challenge Guy de Montfort unless— My lord, by any chance is he famous for his strength in arms?”
“He thinks so.” Gloucester grinned. “But unless you have lost all the skill I saw you fight with at Lagny, you could swat him down like a slow-crawling bug.”
Alphonse groaned slightly with disappointment. “That is what Barbe said,” he confessed. “She said Guy and I were no fair match and that I would be accused of taking a cheap triumph over a young rival.”
“Leicester would never allow a challenge anyway, or he would make you put it off until after the peace.” A new frown creased Gloucester’s forehead. “But if you did not come here to ask my help in your challenge, why are you not with Prince Edward?”
“I have been relieved of that duty by the Earl of Leicester,” Alphonse said quietly.
Gloucester’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked down into his ale cup.
“I was not sorry to be relieved of my duty,” Alphonse went on quickly. “Although I have known the prince for a long time and was glad to be of help, it was not a service I desired. And I believe the Earl of Leicester relieved me of the duty only to be sure there was no misunderstanding. I refused any official appointment, but you know, my lord, it might still seem to some that Henry de Montfort had placed a foreign favorite in Prince Edward’s household.”
Alphonse had watched Gloucester carefully, but seeing the young man’s relief when he realized that Alphonse had not come to beg for the restoration of his position needed no keen eye. So Gloucester was in considerable awe of Leicester. If Barbe was right about Gloucester’s pride, that awe undoubtedly rubbed him the wrong way. Interesting, Alphonse thought. It would not be difficult to drive a wedge between Leicester and Gloucester. However, advancing the Royalist cause by seeding dissension among Leicester’s followers was not his affair. Then, to make clear once and for all that he was not in England to seek advancement, Alphonse described his relationship to the Comte d’Aix and his services as his brother’s agent in the French court.
“But if she was not petitioning Leicester to restore your place,” Gloucester burst out, “why the devil did you send Lady Barbara to him when you must have known she would run afoul of Guy there?” Then he blushed furiously and muttered, “I beg your pardon. It is not my business.”
Gloucester’s obvious embarrassment took the sting from his question and Alphonse said simply, “I did not know that Guy had come to Canterbury with his father, and I do not think Barbe knew either. I had spent all my time with the prince and she with the ladies of her acquaintance. As for what she was doing there, she was asking for permission to visit a prisoner, William of Marlowe.”
“Whose prisoner?” Gloucester asked.
“Simon de Montfort’s, Leicester told my wife,” Alphonse replied. “I only knew he had been taken with Richard of Cornwall—”
“If he was taken with Cornwall he is not Simon’s prisoner!” Gloucester bellowed, slamming the cup he had half lifted back down on the table. “I took Richard of Cornwall prisoner at Lewes.”
“No offense meant, my lord,” Alphonse said, raising a brow. “I may not have heard correctly what Barbe told me, or, indeed, she may not have repeated precisely what Leicester said to her. If he said Cornwall was in young Simon’s keeping, Barbe would have assumed he was Simon’s prisoner
. Women are not much interested in precise rules of ransom.”
“No offense taken, Sieur Alphonse,” Gloucester said, visibly clamping restraint over resentment, “and certainly not against you or Lady Barbara. But visiting Sir William can be no difficulty.” The resentment grated in his voice again. “I will be glad to write an order arranging it.”
“I will be most grateful,” Alphonse said, “but I do not wish to create any difficulties, not that Sir William is a great or important man.” He went on to explain briefly the relationship, and ended, “Nonetheless, Leicester did not wish to give Barbe a letter to young Simon.”
“Why?” Gloucester asked, frowning.
Alphonse smiled. “I am afraid Lord Leicester is reluctant to allow Barbe or me to leave Canterbury at present.” He shrugged. “Perhaps because he thinks I am a secret agent for King Louis, but more likely because he wants me ready to hand as a bribe for Prince Edward’s compliance. If so, he overestimates my influence with the prince greatly. However, I would not like to set you and Leicester at odds over a silly misunderstanding.”
Gloucester nodded, his color, which had faded as his anger calmed, becoming minimally redder again. Alphonse blessed his own dark complexion, which he knew changed only slightly with his feelings and wondered irrelevantly how a fair-skinned man could conceal anything.
He voiced that question aloud when, some time later, he had returned to his lodging and reached that point in relating his morning’s adventures to Barbara.
She laughed and leaned forward to touch his cheek. “Foolish man, most have no feelings but anger to display, and they seldom wish to hide that. It is only younglings like Gloucester, who can still be embarrassed, and men with hearts who need to worry about showing what they feel.”
Warmth coursed through him at the tenderness of her touch and words, but she leaned back and looked down at the work in her hands before he could respond, asking, “Are you sure he understood you? A blush can mean anything.”
A Silver Mirror Page 28