Authors: Roberta Gellis
Her shoes went on then, bright red kidskin, polished to a
high gloss, decorated with gilded bands and rosettes, and fastened around the
ankle with pearl-set gold buttons. Barbara blinked.
Aliva le Despenser kissed her and murmured they were her gift.
She knew, she said, Barbara would not have had time to order new shoes. Then
her tunic was fitted on and laced, but the lavishly bejeweled and gilded girdle
that was Prince Edward’s gift drew surprised murmurs. The girdle would be
visible through the wide armholes of the surcoat that was slipped on over the
tunic, and every woman in the room would spread word of the costly gift.
That subject carried them along until it was dropped in
favor of a good deal of laughter and some envious comment over the attempts to
confine Barbara’s hair. Unfortunately the mood did not hold after the
glittering crespine was finally fastened, the barbette tied, and the fillet set
atop. Alice de Montfort’s presentation of a gift from King Henry—a gold band
set with gemstones to bind around the fillet—renewed the sidelong glances and
whispered remarks. Barbara credited the gift to Queen Eleanor, in whose
household she had served for many years, but she knew that so intense a show of
royal favor was politically significant.
Many of the women present had divided loyalties, however,
and the awkward moment soon passed. Then a different kind of uneasiness began
to steal over the group. Barbara suddenly realized it was growing late, and she
was about to suggest they make ready to go when the outside door slammed open.
“The groom’s gift, at last,” someone whispered.
The words were a shock. Barbara had completely forgotten the
custom of the groom marking his satisfaction in the marriage with a personal
gift to the bride. But Barbara knew there could be no groom’s gift. Alphonse
would never shame her with a paltry trinket, and he had had no opportunity to
obtain any better gift. Her heart sank at the idea she would need to explain
that
.
Alphonse was not at fault, but she would still suffer the shame of seeming
slighted.
“Poor Alphonse—” Barbara began, only to have the words
drowned by her father’s voice, which came up the stair in an irritable bellow.
Barbara smiled like the sun. All unwitting, perhaps, her
father had saved her. As he entered the room her eyes glinted with amusement
through tears of tenderness. She did not dare smile at him, for both would have
burst into laughter or into tears, both knowing the sacrifice he had made for
love of her. He was dressed in the highest fashion in a manner he loathed,
brilliant in a gold surcoat, all sewn with red crosses, over a crimson tunic,
his broad breast draped with gold chains, which he would ordinarily have worn
only to avoid shaming his king when he went on foreign embassies. Even his sword
with its plain wire-bound hilt looked strange. Although the weapon was
unchanged, he had hooked it to a bejeweled and gilded belt girded low on his
hips. His shoes were gilded, too—and must be stiff and hurt his feet, Barbara
thought—and huge golden spurs were fastened to them. Oh, poor Papa!
The women scattered before the Earl of Norfolk as he marched
forward. Barbara lifted her eyes, wanting to look her gratitude at him, but her
breath caught. His smile was fixed, his eyes were anxious and full of warning
as he thrust a carved wood box at her and growled, “Bride gift.”
Barbara had taken the box instinctively. She almost dropped
it at the words. The box was old and very familiar.
“Open it,” her father said.
She gasped when she saw the contents. She knew the necklet
and armbands well for they had lain in her father’s strongbox all her life.
They were Celtic gold work and very ancient, fantastically interlaced birds and
beasts. Each was collared, and from each collar hung a pendant pearl. The
necklet and armbands had belonged to her father’s mother.
Barbara’s faint protest was masked by the exclamations of
the closest ladies, who took her paralysis for joyful astonishment and removed
the jewels, holding them aloft to be admired by the whole group. By the time
the ladies had pressed forward to see, to touch and comment, and the gauds were
fastened around her neck and arms, Barbara had recovered her wits. She managed
a broad smile, particularly meant for her father, who grunted with relief,
patted her, and muttered, “Good girl.”
The rest of the day was one long confusion. The whole party
had first to return to the castle because Henry and Peter de Montfort felt it
too dangerous for the king and prince to stop in the street while the bride’s
party joined the groom’s. For the same reason, the bridal procession from the
castle to the cathedral at the other end of the town looked like the advance of
an army, and the cathedral had as many men-at-arms in it as guests. There were
so many guards preceding Alphonse and the prince and hemming them in from both
sides, that Barbara never saw her betrothed until he took her hand at the
altar. Even then she had no time for the hopes and fears of an ordinary bride.
Though Alphonse held her hand very tight and smiled, his eyes were worried.
Another drawback of being honored by the king prevented
Barbara from exchanging a private word with her new husband all through the
interminable celebration that followed the wedding ceremony. No person save
other royalty could be set above the king and prince in honor, so King Henry
sat in his chair of state at the center of the table with Barbara at his left
hand. Ordinarily Prince Edward would have graced a second table, but for some
reason Barbara did not at first understand, the royal pair’s keepers wanted
Edward and his father together. So Prince Edward sat at the king’s right with
Alphonse beside him. Being kept apart from her husband was not all bad, Barbara
thought. It saved her from touches and looks to which she still did not know how
to respond, her head urging an appearance of polite indifference while her
heart leapt in natural response. Had she not been distracted with the need to
learn what was worrying Alphonse and the desire to tell him about the king’s
behavior the previous day, she would have been grateful for the separation and
have enjoyed the elaborate ceremony.
Each great dish of each course, whether it was a whole roast
lamb kneeling in a field of fresh parsley or a huge haddock swimming in a sea
of aspic among eels and other lesser fish, was carried around the room to be
admired before being brought to the high table and presented to the king. Henry
graciously praised the dish and directed it to someone he wished to honor—the
first to Alphonse, the second to Simon de Claremont, the third to Peter the
Chamberlain, and so on. The noblemen of the king’s own household carved and
served, then pages and squires carried portions to those the guests wished to
honor.
From the first dish of each course, the one carried to
Alphonse, Barbara had the first and most delectable slice. The second went to
the king. Barbara was startled. Custom decreed that honor be done the king
first. She almost gestured the page to set the portion down in front of Henry,
who was beside her, as if the young man had misunderstood Alphonse’s order, but
then she remembered that Henry was not Alphonse’s king. Had Henry been setting
some subtle trap to make it seem he had won Alphonse’s loyalty? she wondered.
If so, then Alphonse’s flouting of custom had meaning and she must not
interfere.
Most likely, she thought, she was seeing goblins in innocent
shadows and Alphonse simply did not know the English custom. Nonetheless she
smiled apologetically at the king and said, “I hope you will forgive him, sire.
He told me he asked King Louis for me out of love. I think he must be trying to
prove it, by valuing me above a king.”
The excuse was one that appealed to Henry, who was very
sentimental, and he laughed, pleased when Alphonse sent the third portion to
Edward and the fourth to Norfolk. By then so many pages and squires were
carrying dishes to and fro that it was nearly impossible to know the order of
service. And when Alphonse had the second course served in an identical manner,
Henry laughed before the portion was set down and everyone laughed with him,
for Barbara’s excuse had made the rounds of the hall while everyone ate.
Musicians played while the court ate, and between each
course there was dancing. Naturally Alphonse partnered his new wife, but
neither the wild carol dancing nor the lively tourdion permitted much
conversation, and even during the more stately galliard, there were so many
intricate steps that separated the partners and brought other couples into
their figure that no personal matter could be discussed.
After the first dance, Barbara could barely meet Alphonse’s
eyes. As soon as he got her on the floor, he had said, “Barbe, I am so sorry—”
but could get no further because they had to stand at arm’s length. Then the
dance parted them altogether, and he did not try again. Twice Barbara started
to ask what was wrong, but once she swallowed the words and smiled instead,
showing her teeth a little, when another couple came so close as nearly to
tread on their heels. The second time she had barely caught her breath and
gasped out “What—” when they were whisked apart by the next figure of the
dance. Alphonse smiled and kissed her hand every chance he could, but his full
lips seemed drawn apart by rictus rather than pleasure and the eyes under his
tumbled black curls were so anxious that her heart was wrung.
All Barbara desired was to give Alphonse comfort, but her
opportunity did not come soon. Having noted the way the bishops had galloped
through the wedding service and the brisk pace maintained both going to the
cathedral and returning, Barbara had hoped that the feast would be curtailed to
enable the Montforts to return the prince to prison and the king to relative
seclusion. However, she soon realized that once inside the security of the
castle, whatever fears Peter and Henry de Montfort had had about their charges
were gone.
Rather than trying to shorten the feast, Henry de Montfort,
at least, seemed eager to extend it. Barbara soon learned that he had given the
orders for the many rich dishes and for the elaborate ceremony with which they
were served. By his order also, when the dancers tired, players came into the
hall to juggle and cavort and a jongleur sang to amuse the guests. Even the
guards had been withdrawn, at least from inside the hall, giving the appearance
of an ordinary high celebration. Barbara could only grit her teeth and endure.
Eventually the hours passed. There came a time when the most
delicate dish could not tempt overgorged bellies or the slowest measure induce
tired legs to dance. The wildest antics of the players drew no more than thin
smiles or dull murmurs from jaded watchers. The jongleur came forward and sang,
waking a spark of interest, but as the light dulled, the audience did too. By
then, half the diners were sleeping, some with their heads on the tables, some
lying under them. As the jongleur’s song drew to a close, Henry de Montfort
came to the prince, bowed, and whispered in his ear. Edward stiffened, but he
turned to Alphonse without any other protest, said a few words, and squeezed
his shoulder. After that, he rose and bowed to his father, and then suddenly,
as if moved by irresistible impulse, the prince bent and kissed and hugged the
king. When he let go and followed Henry de Montfort, the king burst into tears.
That effectively ended the wedding feast. Barbara had just
put out her hand to offer comfort to the king when Alice de Montfort urged her
to rise. Barbara saw that Peter de Montfort had hurried to the king before
Eleanor de Bohun came up on her other side. As the two women led her down from
the dais and other ladies hurried to join them, Barbara saw Humphrey de Bohun
go to her father. Norfolk got up at once and Barbara was pleased that he was
sober enough to respond without urging or explanation. A last glance over her
shoulder as the women escorted her out of the hall showed her that her father
and Bohun were urging Simon de Claremont and Peter the Chamberlain to their
feet.
Alphonse let out a deep sigh of relief when he saw Claremont
and King Louis’s chamberlain rise without needing more than an invitation to do
so. He had been afraid that they might be too drunk to serve as his witnesses.
Although he had watered his wine and spent half the feast with one hand
covering his cup to keep the butler’s minions from refilling it, Alphonse
himself was not entirely sober. And he had been careful only to sip in response
to the many toasts, because he knew it was a common jest to make the groom so
drunk he would be incapable. The French emissaries had no reason to be wary,
however, and a wedding feast for a fellow countryman might have been thought a
good time to ply them with enough drink to make their tongues loose. But Peter
the Chamberlain and Claremont were old hands at being Louis’s envoys; Alphonse
knew he should have trusted them.
If he had not been so anxious, he would have done so.
Alphonse could not understand why it was so important to him that these men, so
close to the French king, be witness to his wedding and bedding. King Louis
would accept their word against any other, no matter who tried to find cause to
annul the marriage. Ridiculous, Alphonse thought. Who would want to interfere
with his marriage? He was allowing the political tensions of this accursed
realm to seep into his personal life.
Still he felt sick with doubt. Perhaps he should not have
allowed Norfolk to supply the bride gift. But during the celebration Barbe had
seemed hardly aware of it, not touching it or drawing attention to it. She had
been kind and gracious, not a hint of anger in her face or manner, not a hint
of a blush or a doubt either. Stupid, Alphonse told himself, Barbe was no
fearful maiden. She was a woman with years of experience in court. But she was
worried, her smiles had been as false as his. Why should she be worried?