Authors: Roberta Gellis
Mortimer and his friends had been taken to see the king on
December 13. In Leicester’s presence, Henry was sweet and smiling and seemed
utterly indifferent, approving the conditions, which he called most merciful,
almost without listening. More important, on December 14 they were given safe
conducts to visit Edward, who had been moved to Kenilworth, carrying with them
copies of the agreement.
Before he left Worcester, Mortimer sent a servant with a
note for Chacier to give privately to Alphonse with this news and with repeated
thanks for the jolt of hope that had freed him to see new paths through the
morass of defeat. There was a hint, too, that Mortimer would be very glad of
Alphonse’s future help, if he could see a way to give it.
What else, Alphonse wondered, would be included among the
rolls or sheaves of parchment that were supposed to detail the terms of
surrender to Edward? Did the prince speak any Welsh? Mortimer certainly spoke a
few words. Would that be enough to make plans for Edward’s escape? Perhaps they
would not need to be sly. Henry de Montfort, again saddled with overseeing the
prince after the fiasco at Wallingford, might be too trusting and allow them to
talk in private.
Alphonse called himself a fool for being flattered by
Mortimer’s praise, but he still felt frustrated at being excluded from the
stirring events that might take place. Nonetheless, he had already had one
mildly unpleasant confrontation with Guy, who was now also in Worcester, so he
held by his resolve and told Gloucester that he and Barbe wanted to leave for
France.
Gloucester was disappointed, insisting that winter was a bad
time for sailing. He had welcomed them into his lodging and told Alphonse
flatly that he enjoyed their company enough to play host as long as they were
willing to be his guests. When Alphonse reminded him that he was not beloved of
either Guy or Simon de Montfort and that his presence only added to the
friction already existing between Gloucester and Leicester’s younger sons,
Gloucester said angrily that it was time those two strutting cocks were shorn
of their combs.
Alphonse could not resist saying, “That is dangerous,” which
he knew would only increase Gloucester’s determination to deflate the pride of
the younger Montforts. But then he felt guilty at mixing a batch of trouble he
would not have to drink, and he added, “I do not wish to be a cause of
conflict, and it is not fair to Barbe. You and I do not need to hide away, as
she feels she must when Guy is nearby. It is better that we go.”
“If you must,” Gloucester said discontentedly. Then he
brightened and proposed, since a summons had been issued for a parliament in
London on January 20, that Alphonse and Barbara accompany him there.
To this Alphonse agreed readily and with thanks. They would
have a better choice of ships from London than from any place other than one of
the Cinque Ports, and several of those were closed to them because one or
another of Leicester’s sons had been made governor. As soon as Leicester had
left Worcester, they set out for London, but when they arrived there,
Gloucester complained bitterly that Christmas was less than a week away and he
had no one with whom to make merry. It was ridiculous for them to leave, possibly
to be caught aboard a ship on Christmas, waiting for good weather, when he
would also be alone. He looked so young and pathetic that Barbara’s heart was
softened and she agreed that they should go on to Tonbridge with him.
When they arrived in Tonbridge, however, they found that
Gloucester’s complaint was not literally true. His younger brother Thomas was
waiting for him at the keep. Not that Gloucester had deliberately lied to them,
for he cried out in surprise, “Why are you here instead of at St. Briavels?”
“I have come to hold Christmas with you, brother,” Thomas de
Clare said, his sharp blue eyes flickering to Alphonse and Barbara, who sat
their horses to the earl’s left.
Gloucester smiled and said, “This is Sieur Alphonse d’Aix
and his wife, Lady Barbara, Norfolk’s daughter. They have also done me the
kindness to assuage my loneliness.” He dismounted then and embraced Thomas,
adding, “I am sorry if I sounded unwelcoming. I was only surprised. I am very
glad to see you, Tom. I would have had to send for you if you had not come. But
it is too cold to talk out here. Let us all go in.”
Alphonse had dismounted while Gloucester was speaking and
helped Barbara down. “If you will permit,” he said to Gloucester, “Barbe and I
will go to our quarters. I am sure Barbe wants to rest and change her dress.”
“Your usual chamber should be ready,” Gloucester said,
nodding his thanks. And the next moment laughed at Barbara, who had looked at
her husband, and added, “Now do not take his head off, Barby. It was a nice,
polite excuse to give me and Thomas some privacy, and might even have been
true. Thomas would not know you can ride me into the ground and that you do not
care a bit about your dress.”
“You,” Barbara said, laughing also, “were not supposed to
notice that look. And what a shocking lie—to say I do not care about my dress!”
Alphonse flung up a hand, as he might have raised a sword to
stop a practice bout of swordplay. “That is a hit, Gilbert!” he cried. “You
must see that by denouncing one lie she has affirmed the other. Now, before she
makes worse fools of us all, I had better take her away.”
Gloucester smiled and nodded. “But do not be long. When you
are settled, you will find us in the hall.”
Some time later, when they rejoined the earl and his brother
in the hall, they found interesting news also. Thomas now smiled warmly at
Alphonse and Barbara. When they had seated themselves, he repeated to them that
he had come east to spend Christmas with his brother because he had a letter
from Mortimer, signed by Leybourne and Clifford, to say that no man of theirs
would offend against Clare lands—until they were forced to give up command of
their men by Leicester’s order—because they no longer considered Gloucester an
enemy.
“I was not sure whether I should believe them,” Thomas
said—and Barbara could have wept because the eyes were so old and wary in the
face still rounded with youth—”but I thought I should test their good faith by
absenting myself from our lands for a time.”
“I think you did exactly right,” Alphonse said in response
to Gloucester’s questioning look. “I am sure you warned your marshal, or
whoever you left in charge of the keep, to be extra alert.”
Thomas nodded and said grimly, “And I rode over to Strigul
and spoke to Norfolk’s man, who promised to come up on any attacker from the
rear and do what damage he could.”
“So,” Alphonse went on, “if they do attack, they will win
nothing and prove themselves no more than greedy curs. But I do not believe it.
I think they desire your goodwill, Gilbert.”
“I think so too,” Gloucester agreed, “since they could
accomplish nothing by seizing St. Briavels, but why do they desire my
goodwill?”
“To protect them against Leicester,” Alphonse said, and
squeezed Barbara’s hand, which he had been holding, hidden in the folds of her
skirt between them on the bench.
“Please,” Barbara protested, “if I hear another word about
the Earl of Leicester, I will rend my garments, put dried leaves in my hair,
and leap into the moat. Can we not, for an hour or two, talk of something that
does not depend on him?”
Alphonse squeezed her hand again. He could have kissed her
for her ready grasp of the situation and even more for her instant response.
Gloucester looked a little surprised, because Barbe was usually eager to talk
politics, but he obligingly changed the subject to the coming amusements during
the twelve days. In a little while, when Barbe was talking to Thomas, Alphonse
was able to go up to Gloucester’s chair and murmur in his ear that Barbe did
not think it wise to talk too much about Leicester in open hall.
Gloucester’s eyes flickered to her and away, and his hand
closed briefly on Alphonse’s arm. Alphonse felt guilty about that, knowing that
Barbe would murder him if she guessed how he was twisting her words to a
purpose she did not approve. He intended to explain to her why he seemed to be
encouraging Gloucester’s suspicion of Leicester, but by the time he and she
parted from Gloucester and Thomas to go to bed, he had changed his mind. Why
argue with Barbe about a few words she would soon forget? The next day would be
Christmas Eve and would be given over to getting in the Yule log with attendant
giving of food and drink. On Christmas Day they would doubtless ride to the
church at Penshurst and much time would be spent in prayer. And the feasting
and merrymaking would begin when they rode home.
The outer bailey would be open to all that day, and no one
would go hungry or thirsty. Whole oxen, sheep, and hogs would be roasted in
open pits. Tubs of pottage and every other sort of dish would be stewed up from
the Christmas dues that had been carried in for days by the tenants. Every
troupe of players for miles around would converge on the castle. The subject of
Leicester would be dead and forgotten, Alphonse thought, by the time the due
solemnities of Christ’s birth had been celebrated and the joyous feasting and
dancing of the twelve days was past.
They did not need to talk at all that night, he decided, as
Clotilde removed Barbe’s clothes and Chacier helped him disrobe. Barbe was
already in the warmed bed, staring at the gathered curtain, as the servants
went out, and he reached for her before she could speak. She stiffened, as she
always did. Against her resistance, Alphonse pulled her close. She tried to
turn her back, but he held her, stroking her shoulder and arm, kissing her
ears, nibbling on the lobes, tickling them with soft breaths. He did not think
about what he was doing, he was a practiced lover. He began to touch her
breasts at the first sign of yielding, and she warmed further, not even so
slowly that she tried his patience. Still, he could have wept. She was in every
other respect perfect. Why must there be this bitterness underlying the
sweetest part of their marriage? Why did she not come to him willingly? Why?
On January 10, Thomas de Clare left to return to his duty in
St. Briavels. The same day, Barbara and Alphonse set out for London with their
host. Gloucester had his own house in London and was not worried about lodging,
but Barbara had written to her father and hoped to spend some time with Norfolk
before the full business of the parliament began. The morning was clear and not
cold, although a little damp. However, as they rode north, the mist thickened
rather than clearing, and by noon it was raining. Gloucester politely asked if
Barbara wanted to find a place to stay, but she and Alphonse were both eager to
go on. As it grew colder, Barbara said, the rain could change to snow. If that
continued for long, they could be trapped in some small village.
The decision was fortunate. Although the snow did not begin
until late that night, the rain started to freeze on the ground as they entered
London. They were all grateful to find fires blazing in every hearth in
Gloucester’s house when they arrived. The next day was worse, all hail and
sleet, with snow again during the night. To walk was difficult, one could never
tell when a foot would go through the top layer of snow and slide on ice. To
ride a horse was to court disaster. Barbara was disappointed to find that her
father had not arrived before the weather changed, but glad when he did not
come while traveling was dangerous.
The cold held for five days longer, packing the ice and snow
hard. Gloucester was disturbed because so few of those summoned—especially the
northern lords—had appeared to attend the parliament, but he pushed the worry
aside to enjoy the winter sports with his guests. They played like grown
children, fastening bone runners to their boots and sliding about on the frozen
swamps near the city and careening down snowy slopes on wide boards.
Norfolk arrived in London on the seventeenth, and Barbara,
who claimed she was one large bruise from falling on the ice and off her sled,
was content to spend most of the next two days with him by the fireside in his
lodging. He told her he was not happy with the settlement Leicester was forcing
on the king and prince. The king needed restraint—Norfolk had no quarrel with
that—but the prince was another matter. Aside from provisions to protect those
who had fought to prevent the king from ruining the country, Norfolk did not
agree that Edward should be bound to the new form of government. He had
answered Leicester’s summons to the parliament only because its purpose was to
liberate Edward from his confinement—and, he said, he had told the king exactly
what he thought.
“Leicester intends to liberate Edward?” Barbara repeated.
“But Papa, the moment the prince is free he will—”
“I am not a fool.” He laughed at her. “There will be eyes on
him, and his household will be of our choosing. But he will be free to walk
around where he likes—he has been locked up since that business at
Wallingford—and ride out to hunt or to visit a fair. We will one day have a
madman for king if Edward is kept in prison too long.”
“So Alphonse says,” Barbara murmured thoughtfully, and then
quickly, before she told more than was safe about what she suspected the lords
Marcher might be planning, she turned the subject and asked how the king had
responded to what her father had said.
She felt sick with guilt over concealing anything from her
father—but she knew nothing for a fact, and she would be betraying Alphonse’s
confidence if she spoke. Bitterly she thought that half her pleasure in her
father’s company, the last she might have of it for years, was being ruined by
Leicester’s hope for good government. So far, from what she could see,
Leicester’s victory had produced more grief and trouble than the hope of better
government was worth. But she was somewhat comforted by her father’s response
to her question about the king’s reaction: Henry was less inclined to view
Norfolk as an enemy now than he had been in the past. She was also somewhat
surprised by the number of times her father began a statement with “Joanna
says”.