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Worrying about the invasion could do her father no harm,
whereas assurances that there would not be an invasion could do harm if she was
mistaken. Besides, she needed more information. If it was Leicester he feared,
an invasion might not be so unwelcome to him now as in the past.

Norfolk laughed aloud at her plea. “I would not miss your
wedding for the world, chick, and I do not think Alphonse cares where he
marries you so long as it be soon. I will see about making arrangements.”

“Can it be in the cathedral, Father?” Barbara asked, and
Norfolk laughed again.

“Certainly,” he said. “I do not believe the chapter will
refuse my request even though their bishop is fled. Chichester will marry you,
or London.”

“Both!” Barbara exclaimed.

“Why not?” Norfolk agreed, still chuckling. He always
enjoyed it when Barbara behaved in what he thought of as a typically womanish
fashion, and he did his best to satisfy her desires. “It will be a pleasant
change for them, a wedding at which everyone is in agreement.”

Although he was still smiling, there was a tinge of
bitterness in his last words and Barbara hastily asked, “When can it be?”

He looked arch, and Barbara was already preparing an answer
for his expected remark on how eager she seemed to change her state. Before he
could speak, however, they heard footsteps on the stair. Gratefully, Barbara
rose to meet Alphonse at the door. “You are come most aptly to the time,” she
said. “My father says he will arrange for our wedding to be held in the
cathedral and for the Bishops of Chichester and London to perform the service.
We were just about to decide on the date.”

“Tomorrow,” Alphonse said.

“The bishops will not arrive until the twelfth,” Norfolk
pointed out, grinning, “and neither of them is young. You will have to give
them a day to catch their breath.” He laughed lewdly. “Hold it in your hand for
a little while longer, Alphonse. Let us say the fourteenth—to allow for delays
on the road.”

“No, the fifteenth,” Barbara said. “I do not think my gown
will be ready sooner. And also, one cannot forget an event that takes place on
the ides of the month.”

“I will not forget our wedding no matter what day—” Alphonse
began.

Laughing, Norfolk cut him off. “For God’s sake, man, do not
hand the girl a whip with which to beat you. She is hard enough to manage when
she does not hold any advantage. You will make her outrageous.”

Alphonse also laughed and said something about using a feint
to draw in an opponent. Clearly Norfolk was joking, and that was a tremendous
relief. Alphonse had not been at all sure what he would find when he returned.
He had half expected that Barbe would complain to her father that he had taken
unfair advantage of her and that Norfolk would have him expelled from the
country. The sensible half of him trusted her, and had been right. Whatever she
had said had calmed her father admirably, but Alphonse was more puzzled than
ever. What game was she playing? And why?

Alphonse had found Norfolk at the castle when he went there
the previous evening, not knowing where else to go and thinking that he might
be better off if he was locked up. Despite the years since they had seen each
other, he had recognized Norfolk at once and been recognized too. The earl had
demanded his daughter furiously as if he feared she was being kept from him. No
one could doubt he was very fond of Barbe. As soon as he heard that she was in
lodgings and Alphonse offered to take him there, he calmed down and said he
would wait until morning, since Barbara had probably gone to bed. But he had
asked questions half the night about how Alphonse thought a wife should be
governed, had almost threatened him about what would happen if any harm should
come to his girl, and had finally said outright that he would accept his
daughter back if she had any complaint about her husband.

He had made Alphonse swear up and down and back and forth
that King Louis had not forced Barbe to accept him. Alphonse had sworn with his
courtier’s smile in place, thanking God that Norfolk had been fixated on
Louis’s interest in settling Cruas and had not asked if he himself had used
some unfair device to make Barbe accept him. He had also sworn that he loved
Barbe, had told the whole story of when and how he learned he cared for her and
why he had not earlier asked for her hand. That seemed to impress Norfolk, and
when Alphonse explained why he had left the lodging, the earl had at last
relaxed enough to roar with laughter. Nonetheless, Alphonse was sure that if
Norfolk had not been very uneasy about the future in England, he would have
been even more disagreeable about the marriage.

Apparently he had shown none of his doubts to Barbe, or if
he had, she was indifferent to them. Alphonse responded with laughter to
Norfolk’s continued teasing about his unsatisfied lust until the earl gave up,
called him a damned courtier, and began to ask questions about Louis. Alphonse
told him honestly that Louis could never approve the control of a king by those
set beneath him by God, and Norfolk began a recitation of King Henry’s
offenses.

Alphonse listened with half an ear. He had heard some of
what Norfolk was telling him from Alys, and he was mildly sorry that Henry was
a bad ruler. But the catalog of Henry’s sins did not change his mind or make
him think that Louis’s judgment—that a king was subject only to God—was wrong.
King Henry was old. In a few years he would be gone. What would really be wrong
would be to tie Prince Edward’s hands and make him subject to the will of his
nobles. That solution to King Henry’s weakness could easily breed anarchy,
which was far worse than a bad ruler. He made what palliating remarks he could,
but he was more alert to Barbe’s glance out of the window. He could guess she
saw that the shadows were growing short. His stomach said it must be nearly
sext, time for dinner.

A lift of Barbe’s head summoned Clotilde from her sewing in
the doorway of the bedchamber, where she had skillfully effaced herself after
she followed Barbe into the room. A good maid, Alphonse thought, and accustomed
to living at court, thank God. He replied mildly to a bitter question from Norfolk
that, of course, Louis desired to amend injustice and corruption, but not by a
device likely to cause worse problems, adding hastily that this was all his own
opinion, that King Louis had never made any statement to him of what he thought
of England’s troubles.

Meanwhile, Barbe bade her maid take from her traveling
basket the cloth for dining and two cups and spoons, the silver for her father
and the horn for herself. Alphonse’s own cup and spoon she took from his
saddlebag. He wondered why she stared at the cup so intently, for he did not
think it anything unusual although it, too, was silver, beautifully shaped and
engraved. He had forgotten that in the design were the date and name of the
tourney where he had won it as a prize.

Alphonse’s attention was drawn fully back to Norfolk, who
was asking about Simon de Claremont, Lord of Nesle, and Peter the Chamberlain,
the envoys Louis was sending to Canterbury. His answer was interrupted when
Chacier came in, leading one of the boys from the inn with their dinner, but he
went back to what he had been saying while they ate. After the meal, with a
hint of challenge in his voice, Norfolk asked about Queen Eleanor and the
king’s half brothers and the invasion. Alphonse answered that he did not think
it would come soon, if it came at all. And when Norfolk said doubtfully that he
hoped that was true, Barbe defended Alphonse energetically, repeating to her
father what Hugh Bigod had told her.

After that, although Norfolk seemed thoughtful, he willingly
allowed Barbe to divert him to giving her news about Joanna and the children.
When he had satisfied her, he heaved himself to his feet and said that if
Alphonse was serious about getting married on the fifteenth, they had better
get to the cathedral and see about making arrangements. Alphonse agreed with
alacrity, only remembering to run back to ask Barbe whether she wanted Chacier
to sleep at the lodging. He would not come back, he told her. He would stay at
the castle, as he had done the previous night, since she had made it plain she
was happier in his absence.

To his fury, she did not seem at all put out but smiled
sweetly and said he should keep Chacier with him. Clotilde could do all she
needed. But he thought there was a glint of laughter in her eyes, and in the end,
he did come back. He saw Barbe as he entered the solar with the last of the
day’s light. She was bathed in the rosy glow, which touched her cheeks with
pink and created dark mysteries in the hollows of her eyes.

“I am sorry to intrude on you when you are at peace,” he
said.

“Your coming is never an intrusion, never unwelcome,” she
replied, setting aside her work and rising.

Her voice had been warm, her first few steps eager, but
midway she halted, looking confused, almost frightened, so that he was torn
between rage and a desire to comfort her. Instead he told her his reason for
coming. Henry de Montfort had arrived at the castle with Prince Edward and
other important prisoners and had asked that Barbara visit the prince to tell
him of his wife and child.

Frowning, Barbe asked, “Is Henry de Montfort running errands
for Edward? Could the prince not find a time to ask about Eleanor and her babe
himself?”

Alphonse then had to admit that he had not seen Prince
Edward, who was now treated as a prisoner, lodged on the lowest floor of the
keep and heavily guarded. Barbe seemed distressed by that news, and Alphonse
quickly seized on her sympathy for Edward to describe his own dilemma, telling
her that Henry de Montfort had sought him out in the hall and had hardly
greeted him before he began to plead with him to persuade Edward to accept the
terms of the Peace of Canterbury.

She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment and asked, “Have
you eaten yet?”

When he shook his head she suggested that they walk together
to the inn and eat in the little garden. Alphonse was delighted that she had
not agreed immediately with Henry de Montfort that he urge Edward to accept the
peace terms. He had been so worried about her reaction to the request that she
speak to the prince that he had not yet planned how much to tell her about his
disturbing conversation with Henry.

“He will listen to you, Alphonse,” Henry de Montfort had
said eagerly. “He has always looked up to you.”

“How can I urge Edward to accept terms I have not heard?” Alphonse
had asked.

Henry looked uncomfortable and said, “It does not really
matter what the terms are. There is no choice. Edward must accept.”

“No man
must
do anything,” Alphonse retorted stiffly.
“At worst he can die for his stubbornness.”

“Holy Christus, no!” Henry exclaimed. “There is no threat of
harm to Edward. Alphonse, you cannot believe that. It is bad enough that
Edward
looks at me as if I were something that crawls on my belly under rocks. Do
not you abandon me also.”

There were tears in Henry’s eyes, and Alphonse recalled that
the young man was in an impossible situation, made responsible by his father
for acting as gaoler of a friend. He also reminded himself that he had promised
King Louis he would visit the prince and talk to him, which would be impossible
if he offended Henry.

“Then I do not understand what you mean when you say that
Edward must agree, regardless of what the terms are,” Alphonse said more
gently.

“It is for his sake,” Henry de Montfort said eagerly, “so
that he may be free, instead of being locked into a chamber and guarded by four
men even when he goes to piss. He hates me, really hates me, who once called me
the friend dearest to his heart. And I do not blame him.” Henry’s voice broke
and he dropped his face into his hands. Then he looked up again. “I cannot bear
it, Alphonse. When we rode here, I had to shackle his legs under his horse and
lead the animal.”

“Surely that was not necessary,” Alphonse said, his voice
cold again. “It was my understanding that Prince Edward agreed willingly to be
a prisoner so that his father might be free. If he gave his word—”

A note of near hysteria had come through Henry de Montfort’s
laugh. “He gave his word to take his father’s place as prisoner—and kept that
word. But when my father asked him to swear he would not attempt to escape, he
said he would gladly swear not to leave England and also swear to return to
meet my father at a summoning if he were freed of all other restriction. Could
we agree to that?”

Alphonse had not made any direct reply. It was as clear to
him what Edward meant as it had been to Henry de Montfort and his father.
Instead of giving the parole for which he had been asked, the prince had flung
a gauntlet into Leicester’s face. By saying he would swear not to leave England,
he had refused to accept exile and when he agreed to come to a summoning if no
other restrictions were placed on him, he was threatening to bring an army to
that summoning.

“I do not see why Edward should be kept so close,” Barbe
said, as she walked with Alphonse toward the inn. “He was watched when I was in
London in June, before I sailed to France, but he was not locked up.”

Alphonse shrugged. “I suppose there is more danger now. The
rebellion of the lords of the Welsh Marches and the threat of invasion have no
doubt made Leicester more fearful of wider disturbances, particularly if Edward
should escape or be freed by his friends.”

She said no more until they were settled in the inn garden,
but she clearly was not happy about his answer and Alphonse was annoyed with
himself for not having told her some innocent lie. As the servants withdrew
after laying out the meal, he asked anxiously, “Will you not come and tell the
prince that all is well with Princess Eleanor and his daughter?”