ASilverMirror (29 page)

“No.” Barbara chuckled. “You will not find a back door in
his refusal that the French emissaries can open for you. Leicester said William
of Marlowe is not his prisoner but his son Simon’s and promised to write a
letter asking Simon to allow us to visit William.”

Alphonse groaned and Barbara agreed that she had recognized
the delaying device and had done what she could to counter it, first by asking
if she could come for the letter and, when he said he would send it, by naming
their lodging.

“You did not press him too hard, I hope?”

Barbara asked first if Alphonse wanted wine or something to
eat, and when he shook his head went back to his question. “Leicester does not
permit persistence in asking. He dismissed me quite definitely before I could
approach the subject in a different way, not that I would have done so. It came
to me that he has not the skill of putting the petitioner in the wrong with
graciousness and thus avoiding blame.”

“His manner is not conciliating, which might have won him
admiration when he was standing up to King Henry and his brothers, but will
serve him ill when directed at his fellow earls and barons.”

“My father seems able—” Barbara began, and then hesitated.

Alphonse laughed. “To avoid meeting him?” He raised his
brows into a questioning look.

Barbara shrugged. “Papa may lose his temper, which I hope is
what he wishes to avoid, but that would not affect his actions in the long run.
But I was troubled by something else I saw while I was in Leicester’s
apartment. Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester, was there—you remember
that he was Leicester’s chief ally in the defeat of the Welsh Marcher lords—and
he was alone mostly. Everyone seemed to look to Leicester.”

“Why should that trouble you? Leicester is the moving spirit
in this quarrel with the king. Is Gloucester a longtime friend of yours?”
Alphonse asked idly.

“No. Actually I did not remember him at first. I knew I had
seen him somewhere—well, one does not forget that red hair but I could not
think who he was. Later he said we had never met formally, but he remembered
me.”

“Another gentleman against whom I must guard my back?”
Alphonse laughed.

He seemed to be amused, but even the jesting implication of
jealousy, though warming and exciting in one way, made Barbara uneasy. Alphonse
was so calm and indifferent that she wondered whether he was hoping to find
evidence of a wandering eye in her so as to excuse his own infidelities. She had
been reconsidering her decision to tell him about Guy. Now she changed her mind
again. If there was gossip, she must be the one to warn him of it before he
heard it from others.

“No, not at all,” she said, also laughing lightly. “I am
afraid the Earl of Gloucester, who is quite young, would not take me as a gift.
He remembered me as the lady whose own spit might poison her, according to one
of the queen’s women.”

“Yet he accosted you?”

“He thought he was rescuing me from that idiot Guy de
Montfort, who for some reason known only to his feeble intellect decided I had
returned to England for the sole purpose of making myself available to him.”

Barbara was braced for a bellow of outrage or a laugh of
scorn, but Alphonse said nothing at all for a moment and then remarked, “He
must have a very strong desire for you to flout his father’s order.”

“Guy has a very strong desire to have his own way,” Barbara
snapped. “I doubt his desire would be nearly as strong had I thrown myself into
his arms when he beckoned to me.” Then she sighed and added, “And I am not sure
his father did order him to stay away from me. After all, Leicester thought I
was safe in France, and he would wish to avoid, if he could, Guy’s blaming him
for sending me there. Possibly he was also afraid Guy would whine and beg his
mother for my recall.”

“What happened today, exactly?”

“Nothing.”

That was not the truth, but Barbara was disturbed by her
husband’s lack of reaction. She would have taken it for total indifference,
except that she knew, even if he hated her, Alphonse would not be indifferent.
She was his wife, his possession, and Alphonse’s pride would permit no man to
meddle with his possessions. She had a momentary regret that she had raised the
subject.

“But the ‘nothing’ that happened seems to have stuck firmly
in your mind,” Alphonse remarked, his lips twisting cynically.

“Yes—I mean, no.” Barbara swiftly decided to change the
slant of her tale and reduce Guy de Montfort to a flea bite compared with a
“real” worry. She laughed. “Naturally I was annoyed by that fool’s arrogance,
but all he is is a puffed-up fool. What made his stupidity stick in my mind was
that Gloucester came to my rescue. But Gloucester must have interfered because
he wanted to spite Guy. I cannot believe he feared for my safety. After all, we
were in a room full of people, and Leicester himself would have come to me if I
had let out a single shriek for help.”

Alphonse had been looking into the hearth and now turned his
head sharply. “Guy de Montfort actually laid his hands on you?” he asked.

About to deny it, Barbara remembered the grip on her arm,
which likely as not would show in a bruise. “He grabbed my arm and bruised me.
But I gave him as good as I got and tore up the skin of his hand. Everyone will
see the scratches and laugh at him.”

“I think—” Alphonse began, and slowly started to get up from
the chair.

Barbara jumped across the space between them and pushed him
back. “You are not thinking at all,” she cried. “You are about to act just the
way a cat chases a bit of string. If you challenge Guy, you will make something
out of nothing. And he is more than ten years younger than you and not near
your match in arms. You will certainly kill him or cut him to ribbons if you
fight. No doubt everyone except his father and mother will be delighted, but
they will still think you punished a stupid boy too severely—”

“Enough,” he said, and laughed. “I can see an open challenge
would be a mistake. I will say nothing to Guy de Montfort if he does not
approach me and if you will promise not to go out without my escort.” Before
she could answer, he stood up and put an arm around her. “Come, I will kiss
your bruise and make it well.”

He kissed more than the bruise on her arm, but it took some
time before Barbara was able to put aside the fright he had given her and enjoy
his caresses. She now realized she had grown too accustomed to her father’s
immediate loud vocal and physical reactions to what displeased him. Alphonse’s
quiet had almost deceived her into thinking she had succeeded in distracting
him from Guy’s behavior by dwelling on the political aspects of Gloucester’s
actions.

Every time she thought anew of the consequences, had she not
recognized when she did the fury that raged under Alphonse’s outward calm, her
body went cold and stiff and poor Alphonse had to begin his lovemaking all over
again. It seemed like hours before she was able to relax and let herself drift
on the waves of sensual pleasure he created. And she did not fight his response
this time as she often did to hide the fact that she was too eager. Still, she
was more than usually exhausted after her pleasure peaked and ebbed, and she
slept as if stunned.

Chapter Sixteen

Alphonse slept as heavily as his wife, but he woke at dawn
by habit and slipped from the bed as he did every morning. He was in the solar
before he remembered that he had nowhere to go. First he thought of going back
to bed, but he had forgotten to tell the servants that his duty to the prince
was ended. Clotilde was on her way to fetch his washing water, and Chacier had
already gone out to get food for him to break his fast.

There could be no escape from his troubles by submerging
them in Edward’s or in further sleep. Alphonse stood in the middle of the room
remembering everything that had happened the previous day, most painfully
recalling his suspicion after they made love on the riverbank that Barbe was
hiding something from him. She had been ten times as hard to arouse last night
after seeing Guy de Montfort. Because she was angry and frightened, as she
confessed? Or because she had a secret desire for Guy? Alphonse wondered
whether Barbe had taken him as a poor second choice after she realized that
Leicester would not sanction a marriage between his son and a bastard, even
Norfolk’s? Had her swift arguments against his intention of punishing Guy been
born of her desire to protect the young man or, as they seemed, the honest
fruit of logic and contempt?

He went through the motions of washing, dressing, and eating
with the same questions presenting themselves to him in new forms, but in
whatever form without answers, until Chacier reminded him it was growing late.
Then he looked up from the depths of his cup of ale, swallowing down an impulse
to smash in Chacier’s face. It was Guy he wished to smash, and he bitterly
regretted having promised Barbe he would not challenge him.

Startled by his master’s expression, Chacier stepped back
and said uncertainly, “Sieur?”

Alphonse shook his head and told his man that he would not
be going to Prince Edward again. His servant’s immediate nod of understanding
and his obvious relief, because he now knew the rage was not directed at him,
brought Alphonse the rather surprising realization that he had never before
hated an individual as he hated Guy de Montfort. But to explain that to Chacier
was impossible. Alphonse looked down into his ale again. Let Chacier believe
his anger was directed at a political problem. That was what Barbe had tried to
convince him, was it not?

Suddenly part of the tempest inside him stilled. He would
not need to sit here with hot coals of doubt burning holes in his belly. Barbe
had tried to divert him with the political red herring, Alphonse could not help
chuckling in the midst of his misery over the word “red”, of the Earl of
Gloucester. He could not challenge Guy de Montfort, but perhaps by talking with
Gloucester he could get a clearer view of what had happened between Barbe and
Guy.

“Bring Dadais, Chacier,” he said, then turned to Clotilde.
“I must go to the castle for a little while. When Lady Barbe wakes, assure her
that I have
not
gone to see Guy de Montfort and will avoid him if I
possibly can and that I will return to escort her wherever she desires to go as
soon as I can.”

At the castle Alphonse discovered without difficulty that
the Earl of Gloucester was lodged in considerable, if somewhat isolated,
splendor in the archbishop’s house. This had been empty, Alphonse knew, because
the Archbishop of Canterbury was in France, neck deep in Queen Eleanor’s plans
to destroy Leicester, and would not dare return to England until a firm
settlement was made.

As he rode across the town from the castle toward the
cathedral, Alphonse wondered whether Gloucester would be awake at so early an
hour, but he was not left in doubt long. A grizzled steward came hurrying out
to lead him into the house very soon after a guard had sent in his name. The
steward said nothing unusual, but Alphonse guessed from his manner that the
earl was up and about and would be glad of any guest.

Gloucester was still breaking his fast, but he rose politely
to greet Alphonse and asked immediately whether he was indeed the Alphonse
d’Aix who had taken the prize at Lagny-sur-Marne.

“Well, I have fought five times at Lagny over the past ten
years and twice taken the prize there, so I suppose I am the one,” Alphonse
said, smiling. “But I must warn you that every third man in Provence is named
either Alphonse or Raymond, and there must be more than one Alphonse d’Aix.”

Gloucester laughed. “I doubt there were two who took the
tourney prize at Lagny. Sit, please. Will you eat?”

“No, I thank you. I have broken my fast.”

“Wine then? Or ale?”

“Ale, I thank you.” Alphonse waited while a servant brought
a cup and Gloucester filled it from the jack beside him. Then he said quickly,
“And before we are diverted to talk of tourneys, let me thank you for your
assistance to my wife yesterday.”

“Guy de Montfort thinks he owns the world,” Gloucester
snarled, flushing redder. “That when he puts out a hand, whatever he reaches
for will leap into it.” His teeth set and he held up a hand to stop Alphonse
from speaking. “As you can see,” he said, after taking a deep breath, “you owe
me no thanks. It shames me to say it, but when I interfered I was not thinking
of Lady Barbara,” the tenseness in his expression eased and he grinned,
“although now that I have spoken to her, she would be my first concern, I
assure you.”

Alphonse shrugged. “Whatever your reason for protecting her,
I must still thank you.” But he already felt much better than his casual tone
implied, not less angry with Guy de Montfort but less fearful that Barbe was
deceiving him. So far every word Gloucester had said was completely in accord
with the tale Barbe had told, and his next words confirmed it further.

“I do not mean to be rude, Sir Alphonse, but I cannot allow
you to feel any obligation. I am certain Lady Barbara would have freed herself
in moments.”

The words were sweet as music to Alphonse. Clearly
Gloucester had seen Barbe struggling to get away from Guy. Equally clearly the
young earl was now embarrassed by the urge to annoy Guy that had involved him
in their dispute, and perhaps he wished he had not so openly exposed his
dislike for Leicester’s son. A good courtier could always cover not only his
own mistakes but those of others.

Alphonse smiled. “But I doubt she could have gotten away
from him without creating a near riot and making everyone in the room aware
that Guy de Montfort was forcing his attentions on her,” he said smoothly.
“Naturally, you would not want Leicester’s name smirched by the disgusting
behavior of his thoughtless son.”

Gloucester’s pale eyes widened for a moment with surprise at
so rational an explanation of his behavior. He then busied himself drinking
from his cup and refilling it, after which he said carefully, “If that were
true, then even less would you owe me thanks.” Then suddenly he frowned as the
political implications Alphonse had suggested came into focus. “Good God!” he
exclaimed. “You are not going to challenge him, are you? To have one of the
French delegation—”

“I am not part of the French delegation,” Alphonse said,
“but no, I am not going to challenge Guy de Montfort unless— My lord, by any
chance is he famous for his strength in arms?”

“He thinks so.” Gloucester grinned. “But unless you have
lost all the skill I saw you fight with at Lagny, you could swat him down like
a slow-crawling bug.”

Alphonse groaned slightly with disappointment. “That is what
Barbe said,” he confessed. “She said Guy and I were no fair match and that I
would be accused of taking a cheap triumph over a young rival.”

“Leicester would never allow a challenge anyway, or he would
make you put it off until after the peace.” A new frown creased Gloucester’s
forehead. “But if you did not come here to ask my help in your challenge, why are
you not with Prince Edward?”

“I have been relieved of that duty by the Earl of
Leicester,” Alphonse said quietly.

Gloucester’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked down into
his ale cup.

“I was not sorry to be relieved of my duty,” Alphonse went
on quickly. “Although I have known the prince for a long time and was glad to
be of help, it was not a service I desired. And I believe the Earl of Leicester
relieved me of the duty only to be sure there was no misunderstanding. I
refused any official appointment, but you know, my lord, it might still seem to
some that Henry de Montfort had placed a foreign favorite in Prince Edward’s
household.”

Alphonse had watched Gloucester carefully, but seeing the
young man’s relief when he realized that Alphonse had not come to beg for the
restoration of his position needed no keen eye. So Gloucester was in
considerable awe of Leicester. If Barbe was right about Gloucester’s pride,
that awe undoubtedly rubbed him the wrong way. Interesting, Alphonse thought.
It would not be difficult to drive a wedge between Leicester and Gloucester.
However, advancing the Royalist cause by seeding dissension among Leicester’s
followers was not his affair. Then, to make clear once and for all that he was
not in England to seek advancement, Alphonse described his relationship to the
Comte d’Aix and his services as his brother’s agent in the French court.

“But if she was not petitioning Leicester to restore your
place,” Gloucester burst out, “why the devil did you send Lady Barbara to him
when you must have known she would run afoul of Guy there?” Then he blushed
furiously and muttered, “I beg your pardon. It is not my business.”

Gloucester’s obvious embarrassment took the sting from his
question and Alphonse said simply, “I did not know that Guy had come to
Canterbury with his father, and I do not think Barbe knew either. I had spent
all my time with the prince and she with the ladies of her acquaintance. As for
what she was doing there, she was asking for permission to visit a prisoner,
William of Marlowe.”

“Whose prisoner?” Gloucester asked.

“Simon de Montfort’s, Leicester told my wife,” Alphonse
replied. “I only knew he had been taken with Richard of Cornwall—”

“If he was taken with Cornwall he is not Simon’s prisoner!”
Gloucester bellowed, slamming the cup he had half lifted back down on the
table. “
I
took Richard of Cornwall prisoner at Lewes.”

“No offense meant, my lord,” Alphonse said, raising a brow.
“I may not have heard correctly what Barbe told me, or, indeed, she may not
have repeated precisely what Leicester said to her. If he said Cornwall was in
young Simon’s keeping, Barbe would have assumed he was Simon’s prisoner. Women
are not much interested in precise rules of ransom.”

“No offense taken, Sieur Alphonse,” Gloucester said, visibly
clamping restraint over resentment, “and certainly not against you or Lady
Barbara. But visiting Sir William can be no difficulty.” The resentment grated
in his voice again. “I will be glad to write an order arranging it.”

“I will be most grateful,” Alphonse said, “but I do not wish
to create any difficulties, not that Sir William is a great or important man.”
He went on to explain briefly the relationship, and ended, “Nonetheless,
Leicester did not wish to give Barbe a letter to young Simon.”

“Why?” Gloucester asked, frowning.

Alphonse smiled. “I am afraid Lord Leicester is reluctant to
allow Barbe or me to leave Canterbury at present.” He shrugged. “Perhaps
because he thinks I am a secret agent for King Louis, but more likely because
he wants me ready to hand as a bribe for Prince Edward’s compliance. If so, he
overestimates my influence with the prince greatly. However, I would not like
to set you and Leicester at odds over a silly misunderstanding.”

Gloucester nodded, his color, which had faded as his anger
calmed, becoming minimally redder again. Alphonse blessed his own dark
complexion, which he knew changed only slightly with his feelings and wondered
irrelevantly how a fair-skinned man could conceal anything.

He voiced that question aloud when, some time later, he had
returned to his lodging and reached that point in relating his morning’s
adventures to Barbara.

She laughed and leaned forward to touch his cheek. “Foolish
man, most have no feelings but anger to display, and they seldom wish to hide
that. It is only younglings like Gloucester, who can still be embarrassed, and
men with hearts who need to worry about showing what they feel.”

Warmth coursed through him at the tenderness of her touch
and words, but she leaned back and looked down at the work in her hands before
he could respond, asking, “Are you sure he understood you? A blush can mean
anything.”

“Oh, yes, he understood. Gloucester may be young but he is
no fool. I think Leicester is making a big mistake in not pushing every task he
can onto that young man and keeping him very busy instead of offering him empty
honor. Gloucester said he would speak to Leicester and determine whether there
was any real reason, beyond those I had suggested, for denying us the right to
leave Canterbury and visit Sir William.”

There was a minute pause, and then without looking up
Barbara asked sharply, “Are you trying to make mischief between Leicester and
Gloucester?”

Alphonse laughed. “No. It would be so easy, but why should
I?”

“To spite Leicester?” Her voice wavered uncertainly.

“I do not act out of spite,” he snapped, “and you should say
what you mean to me. If you wish to accuse me of causing a political disaster
because I am angry with a lecherous little worm—”

He stopped abruptly as Barbara giggled, looking up at him
under her lashes while her head was still bent toward the embroidery in her
hands. It was an extraordinarily provocative look and, oddly, removed any
lingering doubt in Alphonse’s mind about her opinion of Guy de Montfort.
Unfortunately, it also increased his anger at Guy, who would have had some
excuse for what he had done if Barbara had invited his attentions. To hide the
rage, he admitted it.