ASilverMirror (23 page)

Barbara’s eyes went wide. “You mean Henry did not ask for
Edward’s promise not to try to escape?”

“He did not, and I see you know how Edward’s mind works.
After all, he would not be breaking any promise if he escaped during the
wedding and was not there to hear Henry ask him to return to prison. I knew
nothing about it because I was not there when the offer was made. I had been
sent off to King Henry, who wished to thank me for lifting up his son’s spirit.
But you know I had nothing—or little anyway—to do with that. And Edward laughed
when he told me of the promise he had made. Now what am I to do?”

The tense pose Barbara had held relaxed. “Laughed?” she
repeated. “No, if Edward intended to make trouble for you, he would not have
laughed.” Then she touched his face and smiled. “I think he was just bedeviling
you. I cannot see how he could escape. You must have asked Edward to be your
groomsman—” Alphonse nodded, and Barbara went on, “So Papa and I will ride
before him, you will ride beside him, and the whole court will be behind. No,
he would not ride over me, and he knows my father will be armed and would stop
him. Nor would he shame you so deeply,” she smiled, “especially when his
friends, the Marcher lords, are so far away, in Wales, across the whole width
of the widest part of England.”

“Oh, good God, what a fool I am!” Alphonse exclaimed. “I
myself told Edward this very morning that the lords Marcher are in no case to
help him. He will not try to reach them, but he might talk to people at the
wedding.”

“That is Henry de Montfort’s problem, not yours,” Barbara
said. “You cannot be expected to attend Edward at your own wedding. But what do
you mean the lords Marcher are in no case to help Edward?”

Alphonse then repeated the news he had had from Claremont
about Leicester’s defeat of the Marcher lords, and after a brief hesitation, he
told her how the papal legate had threatened to excommunicate Leicester,
Gloucester, and her father. “I did not mean to tell you and worry you,” he
finished, “but I think your father should know. I intended to tell him myself,
of course, only now I am not sure I will be free from one minute to the next.”

“Can they believe the legate’s threat will be the stick that
makes the ass balk?” Barbara muttered.

“They? Who? What ass?”

This time it was Barbara’s turn, and she hid nothing,
telling Alphonse how Peter de Montfort planned to turn their wedding into a
compliment to the French emissaries and King Louis.

“Nonsense,” Alphonse scoffed. “Marguerite loves me well, but
her influence with Louis is limited. Louis…ah…Louis knows me for what I am, so
he trusts me, but there is much about me Louis does not like.” He paused and
chuckled. “I never thought of it before, but you may be a great political
advantage to me in France. Once I am well married and bound to one woman, Louis
might come to like me much better.” Then he sobered and frowned. “No, unless
Peter de Montfort is an ass, he cannot think I am of any account to Claremont
and Peter the Chamberlain. He must understand that they know me as a clever
courtier who has nothing to gain or lose in this trouble in England. So they
can rely on me for as fair a picture as I can see, but they will certainly not
take as a compliment to themselves or to King Louis any honors bestowed on my
wedding.”

“Exactly what I thought. So the reason must be to keep Papa
from using my wedding as an excuse to invite a large gathering of folk to
Framlingham.”

Alphonse stood still, looking a little to one side of her.
Finally he said, “There might be other reasons, but I admit I cannot think of
any. Barbe, will you forgive me if I go about and hear what I can hear?”

“Forgive you? I will be grateful.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “God has blessed me in your
good sense as well as in your charm. If I hear something you should know, I
will send Chacier to you.”

“Or you can ask for Bevis or Lewin among my father’s
men-at-arms. They are to be with me as long as I need them.”

He kissed her, more lingeringly this time, and she had to
push him away to hold back too eager a response. He looked troubled, but she
touched his face again and said, with a shaky laugh, “Only two more days. Go
now.”

But when he was gone, Barbara sank down on the cot, her
thoughts spinning back and forth between her concern for her father and her
increasing difficulty in hiding her passion. She wondered hopelessly how she
could manage to conceal her feelings and still escape hurting Alphonse too
deeply. Norfolk’s voice from the doorway startled her and she looked up with an
intake of breath.

“What are you doing here, chick?” her father asked, coming
closer. “Bevis is in the hall, worried to death. He has been looking all over
for you.”

“Oh, heaven, I forgot about him,” Barbara cried, “but
Alphonse told me to warn you. The papal legate—”

Norfolk’s lips thinned. “I have heard about that. Do not
trouble your head…but I will thank Alphonse for wishing to warn me when I see
him. I suppose he heard the news from Louis’s men. Never mind that. Tell me
instead how you managed to persuade Alice de Montfort to urge her husband to
pay for your wedding.”

Barbara stood up and clutched her father’s arm. “I did
nothing,” she said, and she explained how Margaret Basset had suggested the
idea of flattering the French emissaries and how eagerly Alice had seized on
Margaret’s suggestion.

He was shaken with laughter, but got out, half choked, “I
swear I will give you in silver every penny you have saved me.”

“Father, it is no laughing matter.” She tightened her grip
on his arm. “Do you not see that either they are trying to bribe you to remain
loyal to King Henry, which means they do not trust you, or worse, they fear
that you will gather the doubtful about you for a wedding feast at Framlingham
and—”

“Do not
you
begin to take me for a fool,” he said
harshly. “And do not worry about me.”

Chapter Thirteen

Although it was impossible to dismiss her father’s troubles
m her mind completely, Barbara did not dwell on them. For one thing, she did
not take him for a fool and knew him well capable of caring for his own
interests. For another, so much happened the next day that she had no time to
think about him or even about her own marriage.

First, King Henry and Prince Edward were escorted under
heavy guard to the cathedral. There, after mass, in the presence of all the
bishops, the French emissaries, and all the people who could be crammed into
the great church, both swore to uphold the terms of the Peace of Canterbury.
Despite the general desire for a peace among those who attended, the occasion
was not joyous. The king had lost, at least temporarily, his usual buoyant
optimism. He swore with a lifeless lack of enthusiasm that boded ill for the
sincerity of his oath. Worse, Edward’s fury and hatred glared from his burning
eyes while every line of his tense body screamed rejection of the words he
obediently mouthed.

Barbara did not know whether to be appalled or relieved.
This silent rebellion almost certainly was what Edward had planned, not any
attempt to escape while a guest at her wedding. That was a relief. But as far
as Leicester’s cause went, the result of the prince’s swearing was appalling.
She was sure Edward’s absence would have been an advantage over the effect
produced by his manner, which cried aloud that he was being forced into
compliance by some threat too dangerous to ignore.

The prince’s frequent glances at his father and the way he
touched the king’s arm from time to time, as if for reassurance of his father’s
physical well-being, hinted strongly that the threat was against the feeble old
man. Angry as Barbara felt at the implication that Leicester’s supporters would
threaten harm to King Henry—no matter how often she prayed for the old king’s
death, to do more than pray was an abomination—she could not help but admire
Edward’s cleverness. Even the most devoted of Leicester’s adherents cast
questioning glances at Henry de Montfort and looked uncomfortably at one
another. Barbara was also sure that every nobleman present knew of the papal
legate’s opposition to the peace terms. Thus, Edward’s manner was virtually a
promise that as soon as his father was out of danger, he would repudiate the
oath he had sworn and the Church would support him.

Alphonse was one of four attendants grouped on the prince’s
right. Once he caught her eyes, for she was well forward in the crowd, standing
beside her father near the aisle down which the royal party had walked. He cast
his eyes up to heaven over Edward’s manner, but she could see he was amused
rather than troubled. Barbara stiffened angrily. Alphonse did not care that the
rejection displayed by Edward’s body and expression of every phrase he spoke
aloud might well bring renewed war. But after a moment she dismissed the anger.
First of all, Alphonse like most other men seemed to regard war—except on one’s
own lands—as a kind of pleasant, energetic sport. Second, she was sure what was
foremost in his mind was his fear that the prince might use their wedding for
his own purposes and welcomed any proof he would not.

Barbara hurried back to her lodging after the painful
ceremony, expecting a messenger to arrive at any moment to say that the prince
would not, after all, be permitted to serve as groomsman. The messenger
arrived, just as she expected, but she had barely time to wonder whom Alphonse
would ask to serve in Edward’s place when she realized the man was from the
king. Long practice as the queen’s lady allowed her to ask with seeming calm
what King Henry desired, to accept with the same seeming calm an invitation to
share the evening meal with the king, and to dismiss the messenger with thanks
and a small reward for being the bearer of good tidings.

One must always pretend that a summons from the king was
good tidings, but this summons was so unexpected and so inexplicable to her
that Barbara fell a prey to formless fears. For one crazy moment she even
wondered if the king had gone mad and thought he had seigneurial rights over
her. The contrast of that silly notion with her knowledge of the real Henry was
so great that she felt relieved and laughed aloud. Even as a young man, Henry
had no reputation as a lecher, and once he married he had been startlingly
faithful to his Eleanor. At the king’s present age the idea that he would force
himself on an unwilling woman was truly ludicrous.

Curiosity and concern, because she could not conceive of any
reason for the king to summon her to a private meeting, filled the rest of her
day, pushing Alphonse and her father right out of her mind. And though her
assumption about the innocence of King Henry’s sexual intentions was proved
correct—she found Alice de Montfort present when she was shown into the king’s
presence—the time she spent with him furnished no answers that did not raise
even more puzzling questions.

Henry greeted her with smiles and the information that he
intended to honor her wedding with his presence. This brought Barbara down
again into the full curtsy from which she had just risen as she gave polite but
insincere thanks. She enjoyed court functions and had looked forward to a
cathedral wedding presided over by two bishops. However, she had not welcomed
the information that Edward would attend, although she had tried to soothe
Alphonse’s worries about the prince’s intentions. The addition of the king to
the guest list only multiplied the chances for disaster. Despite the defeat of
Edward’s Welsh friends, could there be plans for royal supporters to rush the
church and try to free the king or the prince?

Other equally unlikely notions drifted in and out of her
head while she half listened to the king’s fulsome compliments throughout the
meal—when he was not asking her to repeat what she had already told him about
Queen Eleanor. Their talk seemed totally meaningless to Barbara until she
picked out one theme: The praise Henry lavished on Alphonse was even more
fulsome than the compliments paid her. The king seemed to have fallen more in love
with Alphonse than she had. If there was any purpose to his invitation, it
seemed to be to urge her to ask Alphonse to remain in England.

To these remarks, Barbara replied as ambiguously as she
could, stating that she loved England and adding similar platitudes but also
reminding the king that Alphonse owed a duty to his brother that required his
presence at the French court. At first she was annoyed with Henry, but then she
realized from Alice de Montfort’s nods and smiles that the pressure to keep Alphonse
in England was not from the king at all but from the Montfort party.

They were toying with the sweet and the sharp at the very
end of the meal, when Henry went back to the subject of her wedding, blandly
assuring her that his pleasure in honoring the celebration with his presence
was increased by his hope of an opportunity for a better understanding with her
father. Since a cry of protest would have done more damage than good, Barbara
was fortunate in being struck mute by surprise.

Once she was alert, however, the sly gleam in the king’s
eyes assured her that what he said was no innocent compliment. Henry’s
political blunders were most often caused by selfishness, sometimes by
misplaced generosity or blind affection, they were not owing to stupidity. Doubtless
the king knew his compliment would increase the distrust felt for her father by
Leicester’s supporters. What Barbara could not guess was whether the remark
really had anything to do with Norfolk at all.

Henry might have spoken in pure spite, taking revenge on his
enemies for using him as a tool for their purposes. That would show his very
worst side, the childish pettiness that took no account of the harm done to
others—in this case to her father, who honestly loved him and only wished to
restrain him to prevent him from harming himself as well as the realm. But
there had been no spite in the king’s face, the slyness had looked mischievous.
So, more likely, it was not aimless spite but an attempt to foment discord
among Leicester’s party that the king intended.

Barbara managed to murmur some meaningless reply, to which
Henry responded by remarking that he and Norfolk had been children together, he
five years the elder. Then she remembered how animated the king had been in
talking over old times with her father the day before. In addition to his
desire to arouse suspicion among his enemies, could King Henry suspect that
Norfolk still felt some sympathy for the Royalist cause? It would be typical of
the king to think he could win her father to his party by offering him
affection and by making him unpopular with Leicester and his friends.

Because she could think of no way to change the subject,
Barbara felt quite grateful to the Treasurer, who came to discuss with the king
an unexpected diversion of Treasury receipts and exasperatedly gave the ladies
leave to depart.

Fury at the usurpation of his power flooded the king’s face
with red. Barbara was appalled, but to protest would have made matters worse.
All she could do was to curtsy right down to the floor with bent head, and that
won her a black look from Alice, who assumed she was currying favor. When they
reached the great hall, Barbara tried to find her father but had to leave with
his servant a message that he come early to her lodging. The servant was a
little the worse for wine and told her that Norfolk and a number of others had
taken her betrothed out to enjoy his last night of single blessedness.

Barbara was so full of political worries that she did not
give a thought to what the servant’s remark might mean. She worried more about
the king as she got into bed than about the man who would share that bed with
her the next night, and she barely remembered in the morning to tell Clotilde
to put the oldest and most worn sheet on the bed, just in case her father
wanted evidence that she had been a virgin. She was about to send Bevis for her
father when she heard him call to her from the solar and rushed out in her
shift to tell him about her meeting with the king.

Norfolk put a hand to his head and squinted at her. “You
told my servant to get me up before prime, after the night I had, to tell me
that the king is a clever mischief maker who may or may not think fondly of me
and that the Treasurer can be an idiot in the pursuit of a shilling?”

Barbara ignored the sarcasm. “You should have seen how Peter
de Montfort’s wife looked at me—”

“I do not need to see it.” He frowned. “You are a good girl,
Barby, and it was right that you tell me about the king’s invitation and why
you think it was given. I am glad you have not adopted your Alphonse’s way of
thinking. He has a mouth like a steel trap. It gapes in smiles, but when the
teeth set, what he knows is caught inside for good.”

“He is trying to keep faith with two friends who are now in
opposing camps,” Barbara pleaded. “Do not blame him.”

Norfolk smiled. “No. I cannot help but admire him. And you
will be safe with him.” He drew her close, kissed her forehead, and groaned as
he straightened up. “But you worry about me too much. I have told you before
that I can manage my own affairs. I would have been as well warned if you told
me this after the wedding instead of having me waked at dawn. I am going back
to bed.”

“Father—” she cried.

But he only shook his head, winced and clutched at it, and
went out, leaving Barbara even more worried. The assurances he had offered were
rote, his actions contradicted the words. The only reason she could think of
for his leaving instead of lying down on her bed to sleep off his wine was so
that the ladies who would soon come to help her dress would not know he had
come early to speak to her. Now she was almost grateful to Prince Edward for
his silent defiance at the swearing. As long as the realm was in danger, no one
would dare move against her father. But to hang forever on the brink of war was
a catastrophe of another kind.

A knocking at the door of the shop, and Lewin’s voice
replying, made Barbara flee to her bedchamber. She recalled that she had told
her men to arrange that the shop be closed and as much as possible emptied for
this one day to accommodate the prewedding guests and those who would accompany
Alphonse and herself back for the bedding ceremony.

With that thought came a sudden recollection of what this
day would bring. Barbara felt blood beating in her throat. Her breasts filled,
the nipples suddenly sensitive to the touch of the fabric moving against them.
All anxiety over her father flew out of her head, while the fears she had
suppressed about whether she should or could hide her desire from Alphonse
swelled into monsters.

The flood of women who soon entered the chamber was very
welcome, even those like Eleanor de Bohun who came to prick and tease. One
thing was sure, while they examined her garments and questioned her motives and
loyalties under the guise of jests, she had no time to think of anything but
the subject presented to her. Even remarks on the fine weather, which had now
lasted five full days, acquired a double meaning.

A young priest from St. Margaret’s Church across the road
came up to say a brief mass before the ladies broke their fast. Barbara ate and
drank with stolid determination. She had not yet decided what she would do when
she and Alphonse lay alone in bed, and she did not intend that any rumor of
nervousness on her part come back to him. She was teased for being indifferent
then, but that was safe. A man was always glad to learn he was his wife’s idol.
He would gladly forget any contrary evidence.

The light meal finished, the ladies began to dress Barbara,
pulling on her fine silk stockings and tying the garters below her knees with
bows so they would easily come undone. A waste, Barbara remarked, laughing,
since today it was the ladies themselves who would untie them to show the bride
to the groom’s witnesses. A bushel of chaff flew about after that remark.