A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  Returning thoughtfully from the gate, to which he had insisted on accompanying his guest, Sir John came face to face with Alphonse. His eyes goggled.

  “Chacier tells me that he cannot find my wife or her maid,” Alphonse said.

  “She was hiding from that cow’s leaving,” Sir John remarked without the slightest hesitation, gesturing toward the gate out of which Guy had ridden. “Come to the hall and I will summon her down. I am glad to see you,” his lips twisted, “I think. It depends on what terms you left Kenilworth.”

  Alphonse removed his hand from his sword hilt, rather grateful that Sir John had not seemed to notice the threat. He laughed and shrugged. “I hope you will believe me when I say I do not know on what terms I left Kenilworth, but if you do not mind, I will tell the story of my departure only once. May I find Barbe myself and assure her all is well? She is very clever and would have understood that I might be in trouble when she saw Chacier alone.”

  Sir John agreed with enthusiasm that Alphonse should announce himself, having almost as little taste for joyful vapors as for tearful ones. But announcement was not necessary. As they approached the hall, Barbara came running out and threw herself into her husband’s arms. He clutched her to him and bent his head to kiss her temple, her nose, her lips. Sir John watched with considerable interest, then walked on into the hall aware of a mild uneasiness. He pushed it out of his mind before he was forced to consider whether he felt uncomfortable about so open an expression of love or regretted that he was not likely ever to be so greeted by his own wife.

  Only a few minutes later they followed him in, and enough of his discomfort lingered to make him question why, after begging him to hide her, Barbara had rushed out like that. “How did you know Guy had not decided to return?”

  She laughed aloud. “Because Clotilde and I have been on the watch from one or another window of the upper floor every moment since Guy left the hall. I saw you walk with him to the gate, and at first I did think he was coming back with you. I was fit to get a crossbow and shoot through the window, but then I recognized Alphonse.” She laughed again. “How could you think I could mistake him for any other man?”

  Her voice faltered on the last few words and her eyes flicked from Sir John to her husband. For a moment she wished she had shot him. There was a confident pleasure in the soft curve of Alphonse’s lips that filled her with equal joy and trepidation. She had exposed too much, and that had made him happy, which of course made her happy, and might cost her all her joy. So she raised her brows and added, “I have known Alphonse for over ten years. His size and walk and the fact that his hair is black and Guy’s much paler could not be mistaken.” Then she turned her eyes to her husband. “Far more important is why you sent Chacier out of Kenilworth. Were you mistaken in thinking you were in danger there?”

  “I was never in danger,” Alphonse replied, smiling. “I thought, in fact, that Simon was too enamored of my company.” He then described his treatment in Kenilworth, ending with his accidental encounter with Sir William and Simon’s reaction when told of it. “So,” he concluded, “I dropped Simon on his head in a practice joust and came quietly away before he recovered his senses.”

  “I hope you did not kill him,” Sir John said uneasily.

  “Oh, no, he was only stunned. The farrier had examined him before I left the course. He was breathing well and no blood had come from his nose or ears. Nor did I hear any outcry when I brought his horse to the stable, so I think he was probably showing signs of life already. I am sure I did Simon no lasting harm. The question is why should he want to hold me? It is ridiculous! I am nothing and no one in England.”

  “You are Prince Edward’s friend,” Sir John suggested.

  “But not so close a friend that Edward could be forced into any action by a threat to me. There are others, much closer to the prince, who are prisoners already and could be used in that manner.”

  They went on discussing the possibility that Simon’s behavior was by Leicester’s order and the political implications of the idea, but nothing they said made sense to Barbara, and not much to them either. Guy’s sudden appearance and her knowledge of his stubborn willfulness gave her an entirely different notion. Simon and Guy were very close, each was, paradoxically, the other’s bitterest rival and greatest support. Had Simon intended to keep Alphonse prisoner until Guy could lay hands on her?

  The notion was so wild that Barbara dared not mention it. Both men would think her puffed up with conceit and would laugh at her. But the more she listened to what they said, the more convinced she became that Leicester was not involved in this business and knew nothing about it. Either it was all a mistake—Simon was totally innocent and only wanted the company of a man he admired, just as Gloucester had—or two thoughtless and spoiled young men were engaged in a private game. However, their private game was likely to turn nasty.

  “I do not think it is safe for Sir John for us to remain here,” Barbara put in at the first pause. It was a polite way of telling Alphonse of her fear of being trapped in Warwick and handed over to Simon or Guy as the lesser of the evils facing Sir John.

  “I agree,” Alphonse said.

  “But where will you go?” Sir John asked, trying to hide his relief at being rid of the bone of contention.

  “Home, to France,” Alphonse said at once. “We have Gloucester’s letter of permission to travel and to leave the country—”

  “Our best route would be to ride south,” Barbara suggested eagerly, cutting Alphonse off. “We could get a ship at Portsmouth. And it might be wise, Sir John, for you to send messages to my father and to Gloucester. I would not want either of them to worry about us.”

  She saw Alphonse’s dark eyes flick in her direction, but he was looking directly at Sir John when he said, “That makes sense to me, and I think we should pack and leave at once. It occurs to me that even if Simon is still too shaken to act against me, the moment Guy arrives and hears what befell his brother he may try to have me brought back to Kenilworth.”

  “Yes, and that might be true even if there never was any intention of holding you there.” Sir John seized gratefully on the idea, pleased that his knowledge fitted it so well. “Simon might not hold a grudge over a hard fall, but Guy is a spiteful devil and might inflame his brother’s pride and convince him he was tricked and ill used. I do not wish to be inhospitable, but I think you will be safer away from here.”

  No more time was wasted in politeness after that, and little spent on packing, clothing and supplies being bundled any which way into baskets and pouches. Sir John did not suggest that Barbara and Alphonse stay for dinner, even though the tables were being set as they passed out of the gate. He felt kindly enough toward them, however, to make sure that two substantial hampers of food, more than enough for them and the servants and the two men-at-arms, traveled with them. However, they did not pause to take advantage of the bounty for some time, riding fast along the road by the river until they could see Stratford in the distance.

  At that point Alphonse signaled for a stop, came up beside Barbara, and said, “I hope you have good reason to trust Sir John.”

  “Why do you say that?” Barbara asked.

  “Why?” Alphonse repeated. “You told him our plans—”

  “Oh, no, I did not,” Barbara said indignantly. “I just said we would go to Portsmouth to stop you from asking his advice.” She smiled and put out a placatory hand. “After all, Alphonse, you cannot know the country and surely Sir John does, but I know it well too because my father often traveled to Castle Strigul through these parts and because the king and queen also traveled this way to Gloucester.”

  “I see.” He sighed with exaggerated resignation. “It is sad to know your wife thinks you a lackwit—”

  “I do not!” Barbara exclaimed. “I think you far too likely to welcome a pursuit so that you can have an amusing little battle. You would not care—”

  Alphonse laughed. “So where do we go?”

 
“Not to Portsmouth, which is fifty leagues or more overland. Nor do I think it safe to travel toward Norfolk or toward London or on any of the great roads. I think we should follow the river to the city of Gloucester where I am sure we can find a ship. I think a letter of safe passage from the Earl of Gloucester might have more influence among the ship captains of Gloucester town too.”

  “But from so far west, will not the ship take us to Brittany rather than France?”

  Barbara shrugged. “What if it does? Are you not well known to the Count of Brittany? But actually it is more likely that the first ship to leave will be a coastal vessel with cargo for London.”

  “How clever you are!” Alphonse’s eyes lit with his smile. “If few ships sail from Gloucester to France, we are not likely to be expected to go there. Gloucester it is, then.” He began to signal Barbara ahead with Bevis and Clotilde so he could again take up rearguard position with Chacier and Lewin, but then said, “Wait. Let us muddy the trail a little more.” He beckoned Chacier and the man closer so they could hear and went on, “If anyone reports a party leaving Warwick, it will be a party of six. When we were seen on the road we were still a party of six. But if you go ahead with Bevis and Chacier, Barbe, taking two of the pack-horses, and I follow with Lewin, Clotilde, and the other pack-horse, no party of six will be seen entering Stratford and I hope we will be thought to have left the road earlier to avoid pursuit.”

  Barbara elaborated the plan somewhat further by pointing out that if Alphonse struck out west and south from where they were, he would come to the road to Alcester Abbey. Once on it, he could turn back and enter Stratford from the east. He should then head south along the river. She and her party would enter Stratford from the north and take the road west toward the abbey, turn south across the meadows when it was safe to do so, and meet Alphonse on the road.

  Although it wasted nearly an hour in traveling time, the plan worked faultlessly. The two parties met a few hundred yards past a roadside shrine on a deserted stretch of road where Barbara’s party had waited for Alphonse’s to come slowly south. No one had shown the least interest in them. By now all were ravenous, so they stopped in the first likely spot, where a large tree had come down beyond the road making a small clearing. So much confidence had been generated, even in Barbara who was beginning to doubt her own suspicion that Simon had tried to make her available to Guy, that she did not harry her maid to hurry in serving or urge her husband to eat faster. Alphonse, too, was beginning to believe that even if Simon had wished to detain him, his reason was not strong or important enough to merit pursuit. He said that aloud. Barbara did not reply directly but glanced at the sun, which was dipping into a dense bank of clouds in the west, and remarked that they could never reach Gloucester in daylight and before it rained. They would have to find somewhere to stay for the night. However, when they came to Evesham, the sun was still above the clouds.

  Dividing again they entered Evesham separately, this time Barbara with Bevis and Clotilde and Alphonse with Chacier and Lewin. Less time was wasted because they took the same roads in and out of the city, Barbara entering first but spending time in the Chepe while Alphonse rode out ahead. Still, only streaks of westering sun cut the clouds and made long shadows when Barbara’s party overtook Alphonse’s, and the sun was gone, although the clouds showed red and yellow edges, as they approached the short side road that led to Pershore Abbey. Barbara suggested they stay there. Alphonse agreed with enthusiasm. A long evening with Barbe was more important than any pursuit. His appetite had been whetted by four nights of sleeping alone and by the way Barbe had greeted him at Warwick.

  “By all means,” he said. “I am very willing to give up the hour or so that remains for traveling and go early to bed.”

  Unfortunately, the slow smile that curved his lips not only sent a flush of warmth over Barbara but reminded her of how she had betrayed herself by running into his arms when he returned to Warwick. She looked away without answering and no more was said until they arrived at the abbey, where Alphonse explained his needs to the elderly porter. Only then did he learn that the abbot was of that strict variety who would not even permit a woman to enter the abbey itself. A guest house within a special walled enclosure was maintained for that accursed sex.

  Alphonse first laughed and said that he would stay in the guest house also, but when the porter replied, in a horrified voice, that it was forbidden for a man to enter that place, he cast a puzzled glance at Barbara, and said no, meaning to add he would prefer to camp in the open despite the chance of rain. But Barbara, who was looking in the direction the porter had gestured, agreed to accept that lodging and bade Clotilde choose a cell in the guest house and make it ready.

  Fury strangled Alphonse for a moment, and before he found his voice, the porter was telling him that there was no other hostel until Tewkesbury and that, as he could see by the fact that the abbey’s gate was closed in daylight, the area was not safe.

  “There is much looting and pillaging hereabout because many were put off their lands by the war and have turned to outlawry,” he said. “You should not be on the road after dark. And this news that the king of France will not uphold Leicester’s peace will put heart into those who oppose the earl. A party from Wigmore Abbey came in today and one of the brothers told me that there is much stirring in Roger de Mortimer’s keep.”

  “I am sure we have nothing to fear from Mortimer,” Alphonse said. “We are of no party, only visitors to this land.”

  “It is going to rain soon, and there is no sense in chancing an attack by outlaws,” Barbara said flatly. “I will see you in the morning.”

  Alphonse was still so angry in the morning that he was grateful to go to mass in a church that completely screened off the section where women were permitted and to break his fast afterward with the monks. He did not see Barbara again until he was mounted and outside the gate of Pershore Abbey, and when he did, he did not speak a word, only gestured her ahead on the road. His rage was a little abated when he saw the ditches by the road still running with water. The rain had been harder than he thought, misled by muting of the sound of the storm by the thick-walled abbey. They would have been soaked and had little pleasure lying on the ground. And the porter had spoken the truth, there was no other shelter. The area was indeed desolate, mostly wooded with only a few ruined farms, blackened beams marking the sites of houses and sheds and testifying to recent violence. Probably the porter was also right about the lonely track being no road to travel after dark. But they could have stayed in Evesham, he thought resentfully. Barbe had not really been afraid of pursuit. She had known they would be kept separate in Pershore Abbey.

  Riding along as silently as her husband behind Chacier and Bevis, who were in the lead, Barbara wavered between frustration and amusement. She had been as disappointed as Alphonse when the porter made clear the guesting arrangements. Separation of the sexes in an abbey hospice was common enough, but for married couples, where there was a guest house outside the abbey proper, such strictness was excessive and she had not expected it. Fear of revealing too much disappointment had kept her from admitting any, and self-discipline—because she knew if she allowed any discussion she would agree to ride on in the dark just to satisfy her lust—had made her rush off to the guest house.

  Thus, Barbara understood Alphonse’s bad temper. At the same time, she was grateful that he was riding rearguard position. She knew she would have to make her peace with him by explaining that she had never stayed before in Pershore and had no idea the abbot was so strict, but she did not want to do it too soon. The eagerness he displayed to lie with her delighted her. It gave her hope that he had not even tumbled a maidservant while he was away from her bed. However, it also made her fear he would propose they go aside and take their pleasure as soon as she soothed his anger. If she agreed, would he not think her too eager? As eager as she really was, she thought, her mobile mouth flattening even more as the corners of her lips turned down. And if she did not agree, he
would be even angrier.

  When Chacier rode back to tell Alphonse they had come to a main road, the old high road just north of Tewkesbury, Alphonse did not consult with Barbara. He bade Chacier take the main road—saying acidly and loud enough for Barbara to hear—that on that route they would be in less danger from mud and outlaws. She cocked her head impudently and giggled, which naturally earned her a black look. But when Alphonse gestured her angrily ahead without speaking, she turned onto the wider, stone-paved road without argument. She was not going to raise the subject of pursuit by Guy or Simon. By now she felt embarrassed over her conceited notion that she was the prize to be taken.

  As if to hammer that point home, they drew no attention when they passed through Tewkesbury even though they did not separate this time and the town seemed too full of armed men. But Barbara had had a severe fright when they first approached the town. As they turned a sharp corner screened by woods, she suddenly saw a group of men-at-arms off to the left, resting near the wall and watching the road. Since it was too late to hide and running would only invite pursuit, Chacier and Bevis rode on slowly, giving Alphonse and Lewin time to move forward. However, the armed men made no move toward their horses and continued to look north, past the travelers. Barbara held her breath as they rode by. The seeming lack of recognition could have been a trap. It was not. Clearly the men-at-arms were waiting for someone.

  Another group was lounging around an alehouse, and Barbara caught a glimpse of a familiar shield against the wall. She did not turn for a better view. If she was not mistaken and the shield belonged to Hamo le Strange, the bearer would do no service for any Montfort, old or young. However, she preferred not to have to make pleasant, civil conversation with one of the rebel Marcher lords. Nonetheless, the troop added to Barbara’s sense of security. No partisan of Montfort would pass unchallenged through Tewkesbury, and she was quite at ease as they rode south toward the city of Gloucester, now less than five leagues distant.