ASilverMirror

A Silver Mirror

Roberta Gellis

Alphonse d’Aix gave his tourney
prize of a silver mirror to a lonely little girl. Since her affairs were also
left by her father in Alphonse’s hands, Barbara was quite sure he was the man
chosen to be her husband. Alphonse was too kind to laugh at an awkward, unhappy
thirteen-year-old, but he made it clear that she was not his chosen.

By the time Barbara returned to
France, fleeing the unwanted attentions of Guy de Montfort, Alphonse had long
regretted his refusal. His immediate proposal of marriage is swiftly accepted.
Barbara had hidden her pain but never recovered from her first love. Still,
thinking about Aphonse’s past life, Barbara decides a semblance of coldness
will be necessary to hold his attention.

However, Guy de Montfort had not
forgotten Barbara’s refusal, and was determined out of spite to have her, even
if it meant killing Alphonse. But Guy’s attacks drive Barbara and Alphonse into
the hands of the rebellious Welsh, and amid the tension and terror of freeing
Prince Edward from de Montfort’s prison, their true love is exposed.

Publisher’s Note:  Previously
published elsewhere in 1989.

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

A Silver Mirror

ISBN 9781419921766

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

A Silver Mirror Copyright 1989, 2010 Roberta Gellis

Cover art by Dar Albert

Electronic book Publication January 2010

The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are
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With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons,
living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The
characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

A Silver Mirror

Roberta Gellis

Author’s Note

In the Author’s Note I wrote for
The Rope Dancer
, I commented
on the problem of describing the conditions in which medieval people lived, and
whether it was inaccurate and unscholarly not to detail the filth, cold, heat,
lice, and other discomforts. I explained my infrequent and glancing references
to those conditions as reasonable because the people of the period did not find
them nearly as noxious as we would. Now I wish to comment on a problem coming
from the other direction—that is, modern metaphor.

A medieval person would never have thought or said, “I love
you with all my heart.” Aside from the fact that the characters in this book
spoke mostly what we call Old High French, they were more likely to associate
love with the liver, lights (lungs), womb (stomach), or belly than with the
heart. However, an author must consider her readers’ suspension of disbelief as
well as historical accuracy. If my characters were to cry, “My lights and liver
are broken!” or “I love you with all my womb!” or “My belly yearns for you!” I
suspect the romantic mood of the reader would be broken while he or she had a
good “belly laugh”. Thus, I use the modern idiom, regardless of accuracy.

There are other reasons to omit a known fact from a work of
fiction. There are, for example, too many kings in this book, King Henry of
England, King Louis of France, and King Richard of the Romans. Because King
Richard may be known to readers of my earlier works as Richard of Cornwall and
because his winning (largely by bribery) the title “king of the Romans” has no
effect whatsoever on the events that take place in this book, I have chosen to
refer to him here as Richard of Cornwall.

Also in this book I have mingled historical and fictional
characters more closely than I usually do. Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk (d.
1270), was a historical personage, as were his brother Hugh Bigod and Hugh’s
entire family. The story of Norfolk’s unhappy marriage is also true. In 1226,
at the age of twelve, Roger was married to Isabella, sister of the King of
Scotland. Clearly the marriage was not successful, although many marriages
arranged for political or financial reasons were, and in 1244 the earl began a
procedure to set aside his wife. Norfolk’s case was not accepted, and in 1253
an ecclesiastical court ordered him to take back Isabella.

I must point out, however, that there is no record of any
illegitimate child. Lady Barbara, Sieur Alphonse, and all their relatives
(aside from the Bigod family) are totally fictional as are any influences they
are said to have had on historical events. The events, however, including the
escape of Prince Edward and the movement of troops before the battle of Evesham
are historical and as accurately related as possible. The people with whom
Alphonse and Barbara associate, such as the Earl of Gloucester, John Giffard of
Brimsfield, Lord Mortimer of Wigmore, and the young Marcher lords, are also
historical personages. Only Barbara’s and Alphonse’s involvement in those
events is fiction.

Naturally the description of their wedding is fiction also.
I am afraid I have glossed over one custom in medieval weddings that was quite
different from our own by avoiding all mention of any gift except the groom’s
gift to the bride. Actually, everyone gave gifts at medieval weddings. Not only
did the guests give gifts to the bride and groom, but whoever made the wedding
gave gifts to all the guests. This custom could be a source of great anguish to
the giver of the gifts, both because of the financial strain and because the
gifts were graded in value by the status of the guest. Violent enmities could
be provoked by presenting the wrong gift to the wrong person. I wished to use
this custom as a plot device but, unfortunately, the book was rapidly growing
too long and too complex and I was obliged to abandon that idea and mention the
custom briefly here.

Another fiction is the mention of Lagny-sur-Marne as the
site of regular tournaments. One great tournament was held in that town to
celebrate the coronation of Philip Augustus as king of France in November 1179.
I have no evidence that any others were held at that site; however, tournaments
on the Continent were better regulated than those in England and not as likely
to end in general riot and destruction of property. Thus, it is possible that a
French town with a tradition of being a tournament site might be eager for the
trade and money brought in by a large gathering of the nobility and might
welcome such events.

Last, but not at all least, is the difference in attitude
between a modern person and a medieval person toward the central political
conflict of the book, the control of a bad king by those better fit to govern.
No contemporary person in the Western world (and few anywhere else these days)
would have the slightest hesitation or doubt about supporting Simon de
Montfort, Earl of Leicester. This simply was not true in medieval times,
however. Joanna Bigod states the medieval case in the first chapter of this
book, and Alphonse d’Aix presents the typical nobleman’s opinion. In the last
few pages of the book, also, I point out why Leicester’s movement had little
chance of success even after the victory at Lewes. There is evidence that the
rapidly growing middle class had more “modern” opinions and many merchants and
craftsmen supported Leicester’s government, but in 1264-65 wealth and power,
and thus the ability to wage war, still lay in the hands of the nobility, and
it was their ambivalence that destroyed Leicester’s hope of reform.

I hope, without much confidence, that I have managed to make
these medieval attitudes comprehensible and believable.

Roberta Gellis

Lafayette, IN

Chapter One

“You are making too much of it, Joanna,” Barbara said idly,
watching the dancing shadows the rose leaves made as a soft breeze stirred
them.

The pretty patterns of the shadows made the warm,
sweet-smelling garden even more pleasant, Barbara thought. Although the manor
house beyond the garden wall was far more comfortable than her father’s great
keeps, where the walls breathed damp cold that called for a fire even in high
summer, the hall could not compete with a garden seat in the middle of May.

“I do not think I am making too much of Guy’s behavior.”
Joanna’s voice broke into Barbara’s thoughts.

“I can make Guy wish he had let me be,” Barbara snapped. “It
was only because he was my father’s guest that I felt I must be polite to him.”

Barbara was beginning to wish she had found some excuse
other than the unwelcome attentions of Guy de Montfort for her sudden visit to
Kirby Moorside. The walled manor was the favorite retreat of her uncle, Hugh
Bigod. Could she not have said simply that she wanted a few weeks there in her
aunt’s company? No, she could not. Despite their fondness for each other Joanna
would never have believed her.

“No, you must not do that,” Joanna Bigod said. “You would
make Guy hate you. And his father is so indulgent. It would be dangerous. You
must tell the earl.” Her soft voice trembled a little.

“I could not.” Barbara spoke equally softly, now remorseful
for her previous sharpness. She knew Joanna was harping on Guy’s behavior
because she could not bear to be silent and think. Then Barbara’s distinctive
brows drew together in surprise. It was not like Joanna to give bad advice no
matter how distracted she was. “You know my father,” Barbara said defensively.
“He would—”

“I did not mean Norfolk.” Joanna shuddered slightly at the
idea of the reaction of her brother-by-marriage. “I meant Leicester,” she added
hastily.

“Tell Leicester that his son Guy is pursuing me with
dishonorable intent?” This time Barbara’s brows rose as high as they could go
in disdain. Because they were thick and grew straight across without a curve
above her dark blue eyes, they made a distinct, burnished chestnut circumflex
within her forehead.

“You do not know that Guy’s intent is dishonorable.”

There was no inflection at all in the soft voice, and
Barbara was about to ask what kind of idiot Joanna took her for when the real
implications behind the remark burst on her. Barbara’s eyebrows went down again
into a straight, thick line that nearly met over her handsome nose, and she looked
at her aunt-by-marriage with considerable respect.

“You mean I should go to Leicester and warn him that I am
not a good match for his son,” Barbara said slowly, getting interested in the
subject herself. The Earl of Leicester had grown so powerful in the last few
months that she knew she must be wary. “That would do if I were trying to avoid
young Simon, since his father will not take less than a palatine estate for his
namesake, but what if he does not think me too far below the despicable Guy? It
is true that I am only a natural daughter with no more than small property in
France, however, I am also the Earl of Norfolk’s only child. My father is not
likely to have another, and everyone knows he loves me. In Leicester’s opinion
I might do quite well enough to bind Papa more tightly to his cause.”

“All true, but do you think Guy would be willing to marry
you even to please his father and ensure Norfolk’s support?” Joanna’s lips
twitched, but only once.

Barbara knew her aunt very well, however, and her own eyes
brightened with mischief. “Of course not!” she exclaimed, and then burst out
laughing and rose from her seat to embrace Joanna. “How clever you are, my
love! Guy will only accept a wife with great wealth, but Leicester will never
admit his son’s greed. Naturally the fond father will ask if I am really what
his dear sweet child desires. The dear sweet child will assure his doting papa
that he would not accept me on a platter, even stuffed with pigeons, and his
papa will then wonder how I came by my puffed-up notion and warn Guy to avoid
me lest I cry that he had made me an offer and then withdrawn.”

“Surely Leicester will warn both young Simon and Guy so that
you will not, in your ‘puffed-up notion’ of importance, begin to speak of
having a choice between the two brothers.”

Barbara was accustomed to her aunt’s subtle way of giving
instructions. She wondered with a flicker of amusement whether her forthright
uncle had ever come to understand how he was being manipulated. As Hugh came
into her thoughts, her glance dropped to the row of little gold and green
shields that Hugh’s wife was stitching into a neckband. Some were already
adorned with the red lion
passant guardant
that watched the enemy from
her uncle’s shield. Barbara looked away hastily and, having given Joanna a
brisk hug, returned to her end of the bench and picked up her own embroidery.
She would not think of war. It was better to think of Leicester’s sons.

“Young Simon is not spiteful and vicious like Guy.” Barbara
shrugged. “He is only spoiled and lazy, but still, God save me from such a
choice.”

“Taking a husband would save you more finally,” Joanna said.

Allowing the sleeve cuff she was decorating to drop into her
lap before she had taken a stitch, Barbara stared at her Uncle Hugh’s wife. The
one unfailing support she had had in resisting a second marriage during the
first few years after she returned from France had been Joanna’s. Of course,
her father had not really wanted her to marry. Even seven years ago in 1257 the
political situation had been so volatile that Norfolk had feared any choice of
husband he made for her would be the wrong choice. However, it had been Joanna
who soothed away his concern that he was being selfish and reassured him that
what was right for him politically was also best for Barbara. Why was Joanna
urging marriage now?

There was more color than usual in Joanna’s face, but she
kept her eyes fixed on her own work when she added, “I have learned at long
last that first loves may be sweet memories but are not always best, as a rich
stew is really more satisfying than a honeyed comfit.”

Barbara made a choked, wordless protest, but her angry
denial of any “first love” jammed in her throat. She had had a first love, to
deny it would be a lie, and she could not lie to Joanna. But was it a lie? It
had been so long ago, a child’s fancy, long forgotten. She shifted uneasily on
the bench and her foot touched the basket that held her embroidery silks,
pushing it into a ray of sunlight. The fresh green leaves of the rose trees, even
with their branches clipped and bent to form a bower over the bench on which
the ladies sat, provided only a dappled shade. Now the light glinted back at
Barbara from the basket, making her turn her head to clear the dazzle from her
eyes and reminding her of the small polished silver mirror that lay with her
matching comb in the basket. Barbara frowned.

The juxtaposition of Joanna’s remark about a first love and
the reminder of the silver mirror in her basket made her more uncomfortable.
Nonsense, she thought, when one has hair like mine, one needs a comb and
mirror. Her hand went up and sure enough, tendrils of her thick, curling hair
had worked free of her crespine and barbette and would have to be combed and
tucked away again. The mirror Alphonse had given her was small and pretty and
convenient to carry, that was all.

The silence was growing marked. Joanna had stopped working
and was staring blindly across the garden toward the open gate in the garden
wall. Barbara’s throat ached. Her uncle had been gone three weeks. News was
due—overdue.

“My distaste for a second marriage has nothing to do with my
first husband,” Barbara said hastily, knowing she was talking nonsense but
needing desperately to say something, anything, no matter how silly. “You know
I never even met Pierre de le Pontet de Thouzan le Thor. I told you we married
by proxy and he died on his way to consummate our marriage more than two years
later. I was so far from loving him that I almost decided to flee to England to
escape him. Why should I marry a second time and become some man’s chattel?”

Joanna had been about to say that she was not referring to
Barbara’s late husband, but the last word startled her so much she asked
instead, “Am I Hugh’s chattel?”

Barbara made a dismissive gesture. “Yes. You just do not
realize it because Uncle Hugh is Uncle Hugh. In any case our situations are
entirely different. You were a very rich widow with young sons to protect. You
had to have a strong man to fight for you. I am an aged virgin with a small manor
in France ably administered by an honest and faithful clerk and overseen by
that most selfless and honorable of all monarchs, Louis the Ninth.”

Joanna had started to giggle when Barbara called herself an
aged virgin and continued to do so at Barbara’s description of the King of
France. Not that it was untrue. In fact, Louis of France was so virtuous that
he was rather dull. Barbara thought him easy to deceive too, because she
herself had managed to do it but that was typical of Barbara.

Still chuckling, Joanna glanced across at Hugh’s niece,
seeing her for a moment as if she were a stranger. Nothing in Barbara’s
appearance betrayed either her age or her virginity. Possibly because she had
not been subjected to ten years of childbearing as most women of twenty-four
had been, Barbara’s body was as lithe and slender as that of a young girl. But
her manner was not in the least virginal, it was assured, almost bold.

No, Joanna thought, the boldness was more in the way
Barbara’s face was made than in her manner. She was not beautiful, her features
were too large and strong for beauty, but she had a fascinating face. The eyes,
responding to the sunlight of the bright May morning and to Barbara’s joining
her aunt’s laughter, shone blue instead of the dull black or sullen slate gray
they often appeared. The wide, mobile mouth, its lips when she was sad or
serious almost as free of any curve as her brows, had curled upward at the
corners, bringing the center of the long upper lip down into a temporary bow
that was eminently kissable.

The laughter did not last long. The two women glanced at
each other, feeling guilty for having forgotten in a private jest how dangerous
the outside world had become.

Joanna sighed. “Oh, well,” she said, “this is not a good
time to be choosing a husband unless you would consider going back to France.
And that would solve your problems with young Simon and Guy de Montfort. I know
you hate France, my love, but you must have seen the war coming. Why did you
not go with Queen Eleanor last September, Barbara?”

“I could not!” Barbara exclaimed indignantly. “Father was so
angry at Uncle Hugh. Surely you did not think I would run for safety when I
feared at any moment I would need to thrust myself between them physically to
keep them from one another’s throats. Why, oh, why, could they not agree on
whom to support?”

“Because,” Joanna said dryly, “Hugh believes that if God
chose Henry to be king, only God has the right to order the king’s behavior.”

There was a brief silence, in which Barbara made a wordless
sound, half amusement, half despair. Then Joanna went on, “Is it more
reasonable to believe that it is right for any group of men who are strong
enough to bend the king to their will? That way lies chaos.”

“Oh, Joanna,” Barbara sighed. “The king himself creates
chaos.”

Joanna sighed too. “As you well know, Hugh has done his best
to guide King Henry away from his errors. The attempt was not a success. The
king flew into a rage and dismissed Hugh from his service.”

But her voice had changed over the last sentence into a
dreamy softness, almost a purr of complacency. It was a most unsuitable tone
for the words. Barbara, who had picked up her work and begun to set stitches,
dropped it again and turned her head. “So that was why Uncle Hugh would not come
to the meeting father wanted. You were the one who calmed him. I will lay odds
that if you had not—”

“I never speak to your uncle about political matters,”
Joanna said. “It is not my place.”

“Pish-tush,” Barbara snapped. “I suppose you would not try
to stop him if he were going to do something stupid or dangerous.”

“No, I would not. He would do what he thought right anyway
and only be more miserable because of my tears and entreaties.”

“Joanna!” Barbara exclaimed, quite exasperated.

Joanna smiled. “Your uncle never does stupid things.”

“Never does stupid things!” Barbara echoed. “What do you
call his responding to King Henry’s call to arms after the way he has been
treated? Uncle Hugh should have spat in the king’s face instead of going off to
fight Leicester in his behalf. Henry is a selfish, petty, spiteful, vindictive,
spendthrift—”

“But he is the
king
,” Joanna interrupted softly. “God
chose Henry, and only he has the right to rule.”

But Joanna’s eyes had filled with tears and she put her work
aside and slid across the bench. Barbara put a sheltering arm around her aunt’s
shoulders. The sun had slipped behind a cloud, and a breeze was fluttering the
leaves of the rose trees, which was reason enough for Joanna to shiver. But
Barbara knew her aunt was not cold, Joanna was frightened. Barbara was
frightened herself. She could not bear to think of her uncle and the two armies
that might even now be rushing at each other somewhere in the south.

Joanna had slipped her arm around Barbara’s waist, and the
two women clung together. In a war, no matter who won, Barbara thought
bitterly, the women always lost. And Joanna’s situation, with her sons on one
side and her husband on the other, was heart-wrenching. Was everyone in England
so torn apart? Did everyone have some dear one who supported the king, as did
her Uncle Hugh, and another who was sworn to the Earl of Leicester, as was her
own father? There must be no battle, Barbara thought desperately. Surely
someone would find a way to make peace. She clutched Joanna closer, and Joanna
shuddered again.