“I am not an idiot,” she snapped, pulling off her cloak. “I heard him say so.”
Alphonse dropped his cloak on the chest by the wall and came forward, reaching for Barbara’s. She almost threw it at him. “Sorry,” he said. His voice was meek, his eyes wary. “I seem to have committed a most infantile sin, making too clear to a woman that she has changed her mind.”
“I have not changed my mind!”
“No, of course not.”
She stamped her foot and in the next moment burst out laughing. What a fool she was to sulk. She had lost nothing. A brief feeling of puzzlement filled her. Why should she be angry at having escaped exposure of her slavish devotion? But the silence was stretching, and she said quickly, “Oh, you monster, to hold your temper like an angel so I will be filled with remorse. And to say you committed a childish sin, implying that you had come to expect better of me than of other women… Monster of deceit!”
Alphonse put her cloak with his and came back toward her with hand outstretched. “No, I am not, Barbe, but I want to be sure you are clear in your own mind where this is leading. I value your loyalty to me more than I can say, but I do not want you to feel you have betrayed your friends to honor your marriage bond.”
Barbara sighed and gave him her hand. He pulled her close and she dropped her head to his shoulder. “I will not blame you, if that is what you fear.” She sighed again. “Mostly—as women so often do—I have spoken without really thinking of the result, but I do not regret it. I have seen that Leicester is losing the trust of those who supported him. Even when what he does is plainly just, like curbing the Earl of Derby, he is suspected of evil purposes.”
“It is because he does not have the right to rule, because he is no more or less than any other earl. Thus, whatever order he gives is resented. A king is set by God above other men, so they do not take offense when he commands them. Leicester knows this as well as any other, so he places his trust in those who are bound to obey him by nature—his sons and his blood kin.”
“Which makes the resentment of others worse and worse.” Barbara shivered. “But what else could he have done?” she cried. “The king was destroying us!”
“Come, sit down, love.” He led her to the bench by the small hearth, threw more wood on the fire, and sat down beside her, pulling her close again.
“God knows what Leicester should have done,” he went on. “In his place, I would have gone to Prince Edward after the battle of Lewes and asked him to persuade his father to let Edward rule in his stead. Then, with sufficient safeguards for my own and my allies’ safety—and they would need to be good safeguards because Edward holds grudges against those who have bested him and has a sly way of twisting words to mean what he wants them to mean—I would have left the prince to rule without any restriction other than ancient law and custom.” He shrugged. “But Leicester still thinks of Edward as a foolish boy, needing the guidance of those older and wiser. He made the same mistake with Gloucester.”
“Must it come to war again?” Barbara whispered.
“There is one small chance of avoiding another war. If Edward is freed and enough of the country rallies to him, Leicester may make a peace that simply protects him and his friends and, as he has done twice in the past, curse the fickle English and withdraw to France.”
Barbara lifted her head from Alphonse’s shoulder. “Do you think that likely?”
He hesitated and then said, “No. If Edward is freed, Leicester will move as fast as he can to retake him, and he will bring an army to the task. I do not think there will be any chance to negotiate. Of course, if he has lost so much support that he cannot raise an army—”
“He is weakest here in the west,” Barbara said.
Alphonse smiled. “Gloucester is right. You would do very well as a marshal. Yes, love. That is why we are all here in the west.”
“If, God forbid, war should be necessary, I do not think Papa would come all the way to Wales—”
“No, I am very sure he would not,” Alphonse assured her. “Nor will he be given any cause. Do you not remember that Gilbert just said he would not attack your father’s lands? He knows your father is as little trusted and as little satisfied with Leicester as he. Gilbert will do nothing to antagonize Norfolk. I am sure he will avoid damage to Strigul as he would avoid a plague.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Barbara again placing her head confidingly on Alphonse’s shoulder. He held her comfortingly while he looked at the flames, leaping high as they caught on the fresh logs. Though he did not look at her, he saw only his wife. She had told him so many times that she cared nothing for party, only for the safety of those she loved. Now he was coming to believe her. She trusted him, she clung to him, she was loyal. He even had reason to believe she was jealous of him. So what was she hiding from him? She kept some token which she carried everywhere with her. Chacier had mentioned how she hid something from him, and he had seen her do it more than once himself.
“Barbe,” he said.
She turned and put her arms around his neck. “And what of you?” she murmured. “Will you be safe? Are you pledged to Gloucester?”
Had she read his thoughts and deliberately diverted him from the question he had finally found courage to ask? He put aside the impossible suspicion and tasted the lips so close to his. After a moment, Barbe shivered, took his head gently in her hands, and broke the kiss.
“Alphonse, answer me.”
Grateful for the respite—his courage had melted with her kiss and he no longer wanted to know about the token she kept hidden—he said, “I have given no oaths—I cannot, being my brother’s man, as I am—but…” He drew a breath, and voice and face hardened. “Yes, I will do anything in my power to free Prince Edward, and if it comes to war, I will fight as Gloucester or Edward order.”
Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. He expected her to pull away, but she did not. Instead, still weeping, she pressed her mouth to his and then whispered against his lips, “Love me. Love me while we may.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
On the next day, the last of February, Mortimer’s messenger came again to say his master would be satisfied with the hostages Gloucester offered. On the first of March, a day that presaged spring one moment with brilliant sunshine and renewed winter with vicious winds and spitting hail the next, Alphonse, Barbara, and their four servants rode away from St. Briavels with the messenger. They went not to Wigmore but to Weobly, a strong fortified manor no more than four leagues from Hereford but well back along a narrow, easily defended road.
Mortimer came out to greet them like old friends, his long hair flying in the wind. He struck Alphonse a fond blow on the shoulder and then, most courteously, apologized to Barbara for the absence of his wife, who had remained to hold Wigmore for him if she could. Barbara replied politely, if not very truthfully, that she would miss Lady Matilda, and said with far greater sincerity that she hoped with all her heart that Lady Matilda would be left in peace. During the days that followed, she was glad enough to have no company other than Clotilde, even though Mortimer often drew Alphonse away to the second hearth in the great hall where she could not hear their talk.
Had Alphonse been of the same mind as Mortimer, Barbara might have been bored, but her amused expectation that she would hear everything was fulfilled. Alphonse had always enjoyed discussing his plans, ideas, and experiences with her. Sometimes he laughed, but more often he listened soberly—and took her advice. She thought with comfort that she could never lose him entirely. Even if he took another lover, he would always give her his confidences.
Not that there was much to confide in pillow talk at Weobly. Alphonse did most of the talking in the four days before they set out for Llanthony, explaining how and why Gloucester had decided to break with Leicester. Mortimer was very nearly convinced to trust the young earl and join forces with him before they came to the abbey. He had no difficulty making a final decision soon after they arrived.
“Because he intends to hold every royal stronghold in England, and every other that he can wrest from its lord on one pretext or another,” Mortimer said. “But he has the council behind him and the poor, captive king. If you do not obey, you will soon be in prison, like Derby. What will you do?”
“Lord Mortimer,” Alphonse said, half laughing and half reproving. “You are inciting to riot. From all I have heard, Derby deserved his fate. Let us not make ourselves like him.”
“So I should yield Bamburgh, as I gave up the tourney at Dunstable?”
Alphonse cocked his head at the tone of Gloucester’s question. It was more teasing than angry. He shrugged. “No, of course not. But there are reasons enough not to comply with the order besides outright defiance. You cannot go to Bamburgh and order the castellan to yield it up until you drive off the Welsh raiding parties. That was why you came to Wales. And surely it would be wise also to persuade Mortimer here to make an agreement that will protect your Welsh lands from his men before he leaves for Ireland.”
Gloucester laughed. “That is a better reason for this meeting than any I have come up with, in case Leicester should hear of it. But I cannot imagine any but squirrels and wolves are likely to notice us.” He smiled at Barbara. “You could not have chosen a better place—that is, if we do not all freeze or starve to death. I was unfortunate enough to have dinner here and stupid enough to take off my cloak.”
“I warned you,” Barbara said, then shivered. “But I was here in the summer.”
“Well, I have done my best. If we sit close,” he gestured to the benches on either side of the rough table on which low braziers of burning charcoal had been set, “we may catch a little of the warmth before the wind that seeps through the cracks in the walls carries it away.”
“My lord,” Mortimer said without moving, “you made no answer to Sieur Alphonse’s suggestion. If instead you have already sent a defiance to Leicester, there may not be time to sit. He will be marching west with his army while we are all scattered—”
“I am glad to hear you say ‘we’, Lord Mortimer, even when you think I have brought nothing but a call to arms.” Gloucester gestured to the benches again. “I have news from good friends. There is, as yet, no army marching toward us. Leicester is intent on ‘making the peace’, which will permit him to grasp every bit of Edward’s property. The final swearing is set for the tenth of this month—five days—”
“If you are hoping for delay, you will be disappointed,” Mortimer interrupted, his voice rough. “Edward will swear to the terms that Leicester is offering. When you gained permission for us to visit him in Kenilworth, I fulfilled my promise to you. I told him to agree—and I made some signs. He thinks his promise is part of a plan to free him, and I meant to keep that promise too, but in five days—”
“The prince is no fool,” Alphonse said. “He will not expect any attempt at rescue while he is in Kenilworth, so far from his friends. And he does not wish to escape to France—I know that.”
“And his promise will open the door,” Gloucester said.
“You do not believe Leicester will truly allow him any liberty, do you?” Mortimer asked bitterly.
“Such liberty as he allows the king, who may walk and ride abroad—surrounded by Leicester’s men. But,” Gloucester grinned at them triumphantly, “two, at least, of the men who guard the prince will be ours.”
“Can you arrange that?” Mortimer asked, trying to hide his skepticism.
Gloucester laughed aloud. “I have nothing to do with arranging the matter. It is Leicester himself who arranged it.” Then his mouth hardened. “He has written me a letter flavored with honey, saying that part of the prince’s agreement is that his household be purged of any ‘suspects’, though suspect of what Leicester does not say. What he does say is that my brother Thomas would be welcome to be one of the men serving the prince.”
“But Thomas would be hostage in Leicester’s power,” Barbara cried.
Gloucester covered her hand with his, but his eyes did not leave Mortimer’s. “Yes, Thomas would be hostage,” he agreed, “which means that our plan to free Edward must work or it will cost me my brother—or my own freedom.”
“He is so young—” Barbara whispered.
“That is one man,” Mortimer interrupted, his impatience with a woman’s weakness showing in his voice. “Who is the other?”
Gloucester turned his head now and smiled at her, but his eyes were very worried. “Barbe is right. Thomas is young, and that is my excuse for sending with him someone older.”
“Who?” Mortimer insisted.
Gloucester hesitated and Barbara was surprised when, instead of looking at Mortimer, he continued to watch her apprehensively, but his answer explained it. “Alphonse,” he said.
Barbara gasped and Alphonse laughed. “You could not have made a better choice,” he exclaimed. “If by ill luck we fail, I could perhaps remove the worst of the evil consequences. I could confess to having corrupted poor young Thomas, and I could put the blame on you, Lord Mortimer.”
Mortimer grunted. “Thank you.” His tone was caustic.
Alphonse laughed again. “You cannot be in worse trouble with Leicester than you already are, and he will believe you made a plot to free the prince. If he does not suspect Gilbert of that, you may gain another chance.”
“You are a brave and generous man,” Mortimer said.
“No I am not.” Alphonse grinned and shook his head. “You must know from my advice that I do not believe in taking risks.”
“Liar,” Barbara muttered under her breath.
Alphonse’s dark glance flicked to her, but it was Gloucester’s worried face his eyes fixed on. “No harm can come to me. Leicester will not want to offend my aunt, Queen Marguerite, since he still hopes some day to wring approval of his government from King Louis. And Leicester knows she will go weeping to Louis with the tale of any punishment meted out to me. Louis will have to act angry and demand my freedom because he does not want to offend my brother. So the worst Leicester can do is to expel me from the country—and you can send Barbe after me if that happens.”
“And where will Barbe go in the meanwhile?” she asked waspishly.
Mortimer seemed ready to tell her to hold her tongue, but Gloucester chuckled. “Barby will, of course, go to court with her husband.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I cannot believe there will be any danger for you. You are Norfolk’s daughter, and Alphonse would of course deny having revealed this plot to you. And you are our excuse for Alphonse to come and go freely from Edward’s guarded household—and to pass information on to me. Well, will you do it?”
Barbara thought of her father. Then she thought of the caged prince growing madder and madder, filled with hate. Leicester would die sooner or later, and the power he had gathered into his hands and molded to his use would fall apart. Henry de Montfort was good but had not his father’s strength. Then Edward would break free and loose the rage and hate that filled him—most likely on innocent and guilty alike. But the guilty, and her father would surely be counted among them, would not even escape with their lives. Fines would not content Edward. Not even her uncle would be able to save her father. Edward might have grown so mad by the time he freed himself that he would blame her uncle for fleeing the battle at Lewes or for not coming with an invading force… Barbara shuddered.
“Yes, I will help you free the prince, if I can.”
The feeling in the court, when Barbara and her companions arrived in Westminster, was strange. There was an outward air of triumph on March 11, as the “release” of Prince Edward was announced in Westminster Hall. According to the harsh terms of the peace, Leicester was utterly victorious. The king and his son agreed that the form of government established at Canterbury in June 1264 was to continue. All who took part in the battle of Lewes, and who were repudiated at that time by the king, were to be received back into Henry’s favor. Edward, although released from captivity, swore to accept the purging of his household, the replacement of his own servants by those of Leicester’s choosing, he must aid no invasion of England and swear also not to leave the country for three years. If he did not abide by these oaths, he might be disinherited—and on and on.
Under the surface of compliance, there were layers on layers of hope, fear, doubt, and distrust. Recalling the swearing that had preceded her wedding in Canterbury, Barbara did not know what to expect, but doubtless Leicester had heard enough about that swearing to take no chances. Neither Prince Edward nor King Henry appeared, only formal letters of sworn acceptance of the terms were read and recorded, in which both king and prince undertook to seek no absolution from their oaths.
“How ridiculous,” Barbara said later to Aliva le Despenser, who had accompanied her back to Gloucester’s house in London and now sat knee to knee with her by the fireplace in the solar. “They do not need to seek absolution. The new pope absolved them of all forced oaths when he was still the papal legate, and he absolutely forbade the new papal legate to accept any treaty of peace with Leicester.”
“I think my husband would like the king and prince to die,” Aliva whispered.
Barbara hesitated, surprised. She would never have expected Hugh le Despenser, justiciar of England, to voice such a thought. Barbara did not like Hugh. His rigid righteousness demanded perfect obedience from all lesser mortals, particularly from that sinful and aberrant type of being called womankind—and he was not averse to using a switch or a leather belt to get what he thought was right. Nonetheless, Hugh le Despenser was not the man to condone murder.
A Silver Mirror Page 45