ASilverMirror (28 page)

Barbara flushed slightly, guessing now why he was so
reluctant to talk about her marriage. He must be thinking that she had been
desperate for a husband, any husband, after he denied her Guy. No doubt he also
thought she had come down greatly in her expectations. She was infuriated by
this and at the same time amused by the man’s blindness. As if any woman in her
right mind would take Guy, no matter what his father’s position, when she could
have a man like Alphonse. The thought restored her good humor, but she was
still out of sympathy with Leicester for being so blind and doting a father, so
she again explained about her dower lands being in France and her marriage always
having been in King Louis’s gift.

“One of the reasons I was not willing to go to France while
I was Queen Eleanor’s lady was that I did not wish to remind King Louis of my
existence and perhaps be married out of hand,” she ended with an utterly false
sigh.

Leicester now looked wary, as if he expected her to make
some plea he would need to refuse, but plainly he also felt he had done her
harm, and he asked politely, as she had hoped he would, “How can I be of
service to you, Lady Barbara?”

“Oh, I am not a petitioner for myself, my lord,” she assured
him with wide-eyed earnestness. “I have a letter from King Louis requesting
that some consideration be given to William of Marlowe, who is the
father-by-marriage of a kinsman of Queen Marguerite. Sir William is a vassal of
Richard of Cornwall and was taken prisoner with him.” Barbara then explained in
as few words as she could manage about Alys d’Aix’s fear for her father’s
well-being and then presented King Louis’s letter.

A slight relaxation of body and expression showed the earl’s
relief that Barbara was not going to ask him to save her from an unwelcome
marriage or change his mind and offer her Guy. But he was not so relieved that
he would agree to anything. He opened and read Louis’s brief letter before he made
any answer. Then he shook his head, though his voice was regretful when he
spoke.

“No exceptions can be made, Lady Barbara. I cannot order
that this one man be freed while my own supporters are still prisoners of the
lords Marcher.”

“I never expected you to free Sir William, my lord, nor, I
am sure, did King Louis or Queen Marguerite,” Barbara assured him. “And I fear
that if you were willing to make the exception, Sir William would refuse
freedom. Everyone knows that he wishes to remain with Cornwall, even his
daughter, Lady Alys, though she is too distraught with worry to acknowledge
it.”

“Then what is the purpose of this letter?” Leicester asked.

“What I hope is that you will give me permission to visit
Sir William in prison so that when I return to France I can give eyewitness to
his good treatment. That, I am sure, will show your goodwill to King Louis, and
if it will not content Lady Alys, at least it will lighten her heart enough so
that she will cease plaguing her husband, and he will cease plaguing Queen
Marguerite, and she will cease plaguing King Louis, so everyone will be at
least partly content.”

Leicester could not help smiling, but Barbara noticed that
his eyes were still wary. “That seems much good to be had from a small favor,”
he said. “Unfortunately the favor is not mine to grant. Although Richard of
Cornwall is in my keep at Kenilworth, he is not my prisoner but my son Simon’s.
However, I will give you a letter for Simon asking that you be allowed to see
Sir William. I am sure my son will grant the request if there is no special
reason to deny Sir William a visitor.”

“Lady Alys and the Comte d’Aix will be most grateful,”
Barbara said. “May I come for the letter tomorrow?”

“I will send it to you—”

“We are lodged opposite the Church of St. Margaret in the
house of a mercer,” Barbara interrupted sweetly, meeting with a look she
allowed to grow more anxious, as if she did not understand the steely gaze
directed at her.

“As soon as I can,” Leicester ended.

Having no other choice, Barbara curtsied and withdrew,
making sure her retreat took her behind Leicester, where he would have to turn
to see her. Since the next petitioner was already approaching him, Barbara did
not think he would bother, and she allowed her lips to turn down with
irritation. What kind of idiot did he think she was not to know an order from
him would open his own keep of Kenilworth to her no matter whose prisoner
William of Marlowe was? And anyhow, had she not heard that the Earl of
Gloucester, not young Simon de Montfort, had taken Cornwall and his men
prisoner? Not that that mattered. Leicester might not be able to order William
of Marlowe freed, but he was certainly powerful enough to arrange a visit and
have that request honored.

At least she had managed to deprive Leicester of the excuse
that he did not know where to send his letter. She was thoroughly annoyed with
the earl, who seemed to have learned all of royalty’s tricks for delaying even
the most reasonable request, until some profit could be wrung from granting it,
without troubling also to learn the graciousness with which Queen Eleanor and
King Henry softened their delays and refusals.

“Barby, I want—”

Again her arm had been seized and Guy’s confident voice was
close to her ear. She tried to wrench away, but this time he was ready and she
could not break his grip. In fact his hand tightened enough to hurt her, and he
began to draw her toward the end of the room, away from his father. Barbara had
no idea whether he intended to stop in the semiprivacy of a deep window embrasure
or to seek some more private place, but she was determined to get away.
However, she also did not want to draw Leicester’s attention, so she let him
pull her along. Then, before they reached the door to which he seemed to be
headed, she leaned back hard against his pull so that he was jerked to a stop.

“My name is Lady Barbara,” she said, and her voice would
have made a blizzard seem warm. “I never gave
you
leave to call me
Barby, and I will not shame my husband by allowing that intimacy to you now. Let
me go.”

“You hot bitch,” Guy said. “You are the one drawing
attention—apurpose, I am sure. All you need say is where I should meet you,
and—”

“God forbid!” Barbara exclaimed. “If I never meet you again
as long as I live, it will be too soon.”

His hand tightened still more on her arm, and the pain made
her forget scandal and tear at his hand, her nails digging in hard. He uttered
an oath and brought up his free hand, making a fist to strike her, but his
wrist was caught by the red-haired young man who had stared at her earlier.

“A gentleman does not bruise a lady’s arm or strike her in
public,” the redhead said with a baring of teeth that was not really a smile,
“even when the lady deserves it, and I am sure Lady Barbara does not. Please
release her, Guy.”

“Mind your own business!” Guy hissed furiously. “I know her.
She wants—”

“No!” Barbara exclaimed. “I want nothing from you save your
absence.” And turning to the redhead she added, “I give you leave and welcome
to mind my business at this moment. My arm is my business, Guy. Let it go.”

Guy laughed as if she had made a joke, then shrugged and
said, “I thought you had more common sense.” But he released her arm.

Barbara promptly stepped to one side so she could turn her
back on him and curtsied deeply to the redhead. “I thank you, my lord. Would
you do me the favor of accompanying me into the hall and waiting with me until
my men can be summoned?”

“Women!” Guy snarled, and turned away.

The redhead watched Guy go, his face so expressionless that
he might as well have shouted his dislike of the young Montfort aloud.

“You do not really need to come with me,” Barbara said,
smiling.

“But I will be glad to do so.” He really smiled then and
said, “You do not remember me. I am Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester. Actually,
I do not think we have ever met formally. I remember you because you were the
wittiest of Queen Eleanor’s ladies. One of the others told me your name and
said— Oh, I beg your pardon.”

His face got even redder, and Barbara laughed aloud. “Was
that the one who said, ‘It’s a wonder ‘er own spit don’t poison ‘er’ or the one
who said, ‘May one of her little jests only drop on her head like the gift of a
pigeon’?”

He laughed then too, and accompanied her right to the
stable. They talked easily while her mare was saddled and her men summoned, and
he lifted her to Frivole’s saddle himself before he took a courteous leave. By
then Barbara had connected his name with his sunburned face. The Earl of
Gloucester had been in the field with Leicester in his recent campaign against
the Marcher lords of Wales. Apparently Gloucester did not do his commanding
from inside a keep but rode and camped with his men, and his fair skin suffered
for his military devotion.

Then, as she rode toward St. Margaret’s Lane Barbara recalled
why his face was familiar. He was right about not having been formally
presented to her. She remembered him because the last time she had seen him,
less than two years ago, his face had been as red with fury as it now was with
exposure. He had been saying he would refuse to do homage to the king and
Prince Edward, claiming that on his father’s death he had been unjustly denied
his heritage, which had been given to one of the king’s half brothers to
despoil.

The rest of the story began to come back to her. Gloucester
had not been as unjustly treated as he said. He was underage when his father
died, and it was King Henry’s right to appoint a warden for his estates. But
Gilbert de Clare’s pride had been hurt by the way the king had made the
arrangements, Barbara recalled, and suddenly drew in a sharp breath.

If Gloucester was hot-tempered and proud, which went with
his red hair and complexion, and if he was as important a military ally of
Leicester’s as Barbara believed, she was now recalling recent talk about him
among the women, why had Gloucester not been standing beside Leicester on the
dais receiving petitioners and adulation? Why was he walking about as if he
were no one in particular?

Possibly it was by Gloucester’s own desire because he was
shy or modest. As the thought came, Barbara rejected it. Aside from that one
blush when he almost repeated an unflattering comment to her, nothing in
Gloucester’s manner indicated shyness or a retiring nature. In fact, his
interference with Guy showed either arrogance or self-confidence.

Then might not Gloucester’s pride also be hurt by the great
attention paid to Leicester while little was paid to him? He was still very
young, and Leicester, although inspiring to the young, was also high-handed
with them and tactless. For Leicester to allow Gloucester to develop a grudge
against him would be dangerous. It was a discomforting thought, particularly
when coupled with the dislike Barbara had seen between Gloucester and Guy.

A church bell ringing for vespers startled her, and she
looked about and found herself at St. Margaret’s Church, opposite her lodging.
Her first thought was that Alphonse would be at the White Friars monastery with
Henry de Montfort and she would not be able to talk to him about Gloucester.
Her second thought was an instant horrified recoil. If she talked to Alphonse
about Gloucester, she would sooner or later have to mention Guy.

The bell for vespers rang again, and Barbara signaled to her
men to help her down from Frivole. She told them to stable the mare and that
she would be in the church attending the evensong mass. The interior was dim,
lit only by small, high windows and by the candles at the saint’s shrine and
altar. The church already held some people when Barbara entered. When the bell
rang once again a few more straggled in, passing Barbara, who stood well back
and away from the door, near the southern wall. By the time the echoes of the
bell had died away, all had found places and become still, patient, faceless
shadows waiting to draw into themselves the comfort of the mass.

The familiar, sonorous music of the chanted Latin did soothe
Barbara’s nervous qualms. Although her mind, more intent on her immediate
problem than on her soul’s future good, did not consciously make sense of the
prayers, she felt a benefit. Her presence in the church helped her come to a
decision she knew was right. She must not try to conceal Guy’s attentions from
Alphonse. If anyone besides Gloucester saw her struggle with Guy, and she had
been too much engaged in it herself to have noticed outside interest, gossip
might present Alphonse with a far more lurid description of the events than she
would.

When mass was over, Barbara returned to her lodging, changed
out of court dress into a plain loose robe, and sat down to eat her evening
meal beside the small fire Clotilde had lit to chase out the dampness of the
late summer evening. The weather had not yet turned chilly and Barbara would
have been warm enough without the fire, but the crackling was cheerful and she
was grateful for the lift the bright flames gave her spirits.

Alphonse was not as late as she expected, but he plainly
considered even the few hours he had spent with Henry de Montfort a waste of
time. “I asked him outright whether, if I must remain in England, I could leave
Canterbury and attend to some personal business for my brother Raymond,” he
told Barbara, as Chacier helped him off with his clothes and Clotilde brought a
comfortable old robe for him too. “I have a craw full of apologies and excuses,
but no answer. Did you do any better?” he asked as he sat down opposite her,
letting out a sigh.

“No,” Barbara admitted. “Leicester saw me at once—he has a
guilty conscience with regard to me, I think—and he even admitted that the
small favor I asked might do much good, but he would not grant it.”

“Did he refuse outright?” Alphonse asked eagerly. “If he
did—”