Authors: Roberta Gellis
As if to hammer that point home, they drew no attention when
they passed through Tewkesbury even though they did not separate this time and
the town seemed too full of armed men. But Barbara had had a severe fright when
they first approached the town. As they turned a sharp corner screened by
woods, she suddenly saw a group of men-at-arms off to the left, resting near
the wall and watching the road. Since it was too late to hide and running would
only invite pursuit, Chacier and Bevis rode on slowly, giving Alphonse and
Lewin time to move forward. However, the armed men made no move toward their
horses and continued to look north, past the travelers. Barbara held her breath
as they rode by. The seeming lack of recognition could have been a trap. It was
not. Clearly the men-at-arms were waiting for someone.
Another group was lounging around an alehouse, and Barbara
caught a glimpse of a familiar shield against the wall. She did not turn for a
better view. If she was not mistaken and the shield belonged to Hamo le
Strange, the bearer would do no service for any Montfort, old or young.
However, she preferred not to have to make pleasant, civil conversation with
one of the rebel Marcher lords. Nonetheless, the troop added to Barbara’s sense
of security. No partisan of Montfort would pass unchallenged through
Tewkesbury, and she was quite at ease as they rode south toward the city of
Gloucester, now less than five leagues distant.
The feeling of relief seemed to grip everyone. Bevis almost
certainly recognized someone or something in the group at the alehouse. Barbara
saw the tension go out of his shoulders as they passed and later heard the word
“Cymry”—Welsh—drift back from a comment he made to Chacier. Perhaps Lewin had
passed the same information to Alphonse or he had some other reason to relax. A
glance behind showed her that he was half asleep in the saddle. Since even her
jealous mind could not conceive of a way he could have smuggled a woman into his
cot among the monks, Barbara had to assume he had been wakeful out of rage or
frustration. She became almost blind and deaf to her surroundings as she dwelt
on a variety of pleasurable plans for teasing Alphonse into a good humor
without admitting too much.
She was jolted out of her thoughts when they came over a
ridge and Chacier cried out with surprise at the sight of a small troop coming
toward them from the direction of Gloucester. Chacier and Bevis were not at
fault, the rise of ground had hidden the road beyond it for some distance and
the heavy rain had wet the earth between the stones of the road so that there
was no cloud of dust to warn them. Barbara pulled back on Frivole’s rein when
Chacier called out—but not with urgency, her mind had set on all danger being
past, and instinct, as often wrong as it is right, told her that pursuit would
come from behind, not from ahead—so the mare continued on for a few steps until
Barbara also topped the rise. For a moment she sat staring at the oncoming
group, not seeing anything to alarm her especially and not considering that if
she could see them, they could see her even better.
A shout, wordless, but frightening, made her back Frivole,
and Alphonse’s Dadais pushed past her. In that moment, the man in the front of
the troop spurred his horse hard and pulled his shield onto his arm. Barbara
gasped, at the flash of silver on red—Montfort colors—and Alphonse, who had
thrust his tilting lance into a similar shield only the previous morning,
seized Frivole’s cheekpiece and thrust the mare’s head around.
“Go!” he ordered. “Back to Tewkesbury and take shelter—with
the rebels if need be.”
“Come with me,” she cried. “Do not challenge them. What need
is there to fight? Do not be a fool.”
“You are the fool!” he snarled. “We are too close to turn
our backs on them. If you are out of the way, I can drive them off. Go!”
On the word, he brought the flat of the sword he had drawn
down on Frivole’s rump. The mare leapt forward, her neck stretching so suddenly
that the reins slid through Barbara’s fingers and it was impossible for her to
check her mount’s stride. Instantly, Barbara could hear behind her the
desperate pace of another animal shocked into a gallop. Doubtless it was only
Clotilde’s mule, but the sound, waking the herd animal’s instinct to flee when
others fled, added to the terror that noise and pain had caused in Frivole. She
became unresponsive to control even as Barbara gathered in the slack of the
rein.
As her first panic subsided, Barbara realized it was stupid
to try to go back and loosened the rein again. She and Clotilde would only be
an added danger to the four men, and Montfort’s troop had not been large—only
six or seven men. What she needed to decide was whether to call on Hamo le
Strange, if indeed it was Hamo’s shield she had seen at the alehouse, to come
to Alphonse’s aid or simply wait near the gate until she saw whether Alphonse
or Montfort, whichever one it was, came up the road.
Barbara knew Alphonse expected her only to wait. He had been
annoyed, not worried, and he knew she would still have time to throw herself on
Hamo’s mercy if he failed to drive the troop off. But then, Barbara thought
with a sob of terror, it would be too late for Alphonse. He might be injured or
dead. However, if she begged Hamo’s help, Alphonse would be furious, not only
out of pride but because she would have generated a bad political situation,
giving the rebels “just cause” to attack Leicester’s son.
The decision was not left to her. Scarcely a mile back, the
road was filled with a large troop of men coming from Tewkesbury. Since they
must have seen her and Clotilde at the same time, it was useless to consider
avoiding them or pretending nothing had happened. A gentlewoman and her maid
did not gallop madly down a road without an escort for no reason.
“Hamo,” Barbara called. “Is it Hamo le Strange?”
“Yes,” a man shouted, prodding his horse into a trot as
Barbara slowed Frivole. “Lady Barbara!” he exclaimed as they came together.
“What—”
“We were attacked on the road—”
“Forward!” le Strange bellowed, not waiting for her to
finish, gesturing broadly ahead. “Arm and ride!”
The men at the front of the troop spurred their horses into
a run, pushing on their helmets and lifting their shields onto their arms. As
they approached, Hamo drove Frivole and Clotilde’s mule right toward the edge
of the road and shouted, “Tybetot! Stay with her!”
Barbara bit her lip with disappointment. She had hoped to be
forgotten in the excitement, but she dared waste no time in argument. She held
Frivole on a tight rein, turning her broadside to Clotilde’s mule, while a
group formed around them. Hamo galloped forward among his men. When the last of
the troop passed them, she turned Frivole to follow, saying to the young man
Hamo had called Tybetot, “My husband is there,” and he nodded and backed his
horse so she could start down the road again toward Alphonse.
They arrived not five minutes behind the last of Hamo’s
troop, but the action was over. From the top of the rise, Barbara saw six men
and two horses flying away toward Gloucester. Most of Hamo’s troop had followed
a little way, but the distance between them and Montfort’s men was growing,
showing that the pursuit was not in earnest. Closest to her, about a third of
the way down the rise, Alphonse was talking to Hamo, his sword already
sheathed. Two men lay still and bloody by the side of the road, but both were
simple men-at-arms. Barbara was not certain whether she was relieved or
disappointed. She was so furious with all the Montforts that she would have
enjoyed seeing one of them lying there bleeding, however, good sense told her
that the last thing she or Alphonse needed was to be involved in the injury of
one of Leicester’s sons.
“I have no idea,” Alphonse was saying blandly to Hamo when
she rode up. “Perhaps he did not know who I was. I cannot imagine any reason
for Guy de Montfort to attack me. I was in Kenilworth only yesterday. I had
permission to visit Sir William of Marlowe who is a prisoner there—he is
Richard of Cornwall’s man.”
“I know Sir William,” Hamo le Strange said.
Alphonse nodded. “He is my brother’s father-by-marriage.
Having no more to do there, I left Kenilworth the next morning and Barbe and I
decided to take a ship at Gloucester—”
“I am afraid you will not be able to do that now,” Hamo
said. “Guy will take you if you go near Gloucester. Also, I am sorry, but I
cannot let you go. You must come to Bristol with us.”
“Are we your prisoners?” Barbara asked.
“No, of course not,” Hamo said, but he looked uneasily at
Alphonse. “I am truly sorry, Sir Alphonse, I must ask you to remain with me,
but as much for your good as for mine. God knows what Guy will tell the
castellan at Gloucester. He might send troops out to scour the countryside. My
troop is strong enough to withstand them, but you and your three men, two
lightly wounded already, cannot travel safely now. I know you are Prince
Edward’s friend. On my honor, no ransom will be asked of you.”
Alphonse said nothing, and Hamo looked uncomfortable and
shrugged. “I must also consider the good of our cause. Older and wiser heads
will have to decide on what terms to release Norfolk’s daughter.”
He glanced at Alphonse’s sword and Alphonse smiled. “You
might be able to take it from me while I am still alive,” he said, “but I doubt
it. And if you do not intend to kill Barbe also, you should consider exactly
how you will explain my death to the prince and to Richard of Cornwall.”
“You will be taken by Montfort if you leave us,” Hamo said
desperately, acknowledging that he really could not hold Alphonse if he decided
to fight for his freedom.
“I did not say I wished to leave you.” Alphonse lifted his
brows in simulated surprise. “I certainly prefer your company to Guy de
Montfort’s, and I will gladly give you my parole…until we reach Bristol.”
Barbara let out her breath, eased her hold on her rein and
relaxed the muscles in her legs. She had been prepared to drive Frivole between
Alphonse and Tybetot, who had managed to press in front of Lewin. The sighs
from the men-at-arms did not come until Hamo le Strange nodded and said, “Thank
you.” Having lifted his hand in a kind of salute, he rode off toward his troop.
Chapter Twenty
If Guy told the castellan at Gloucester what had happened,
they never saw any result of his complaint. A short distance ahead, they took a
side road to the east that led to Cheltenham. From there they rode south,
stopping at Cirencester for a late dinner and coming, just before the light
failed, to Malmesbury. Barbara did not know whether to laugh or cry when they
saw the great abbey, but Hamo le Strange told them at once he did not intend to
seek lodging there. His men, he said, would camp outside the town, he and
Tybetot would find an inn. He looked surprised, but very pleased, when Alphonse
said at once that he and his wife would prefer to stay at the inn also, if they
were welcome.
Although Barbara had to suppress giggles because Sir Hamo
had clearly taken as a compliment what had nothing to do with him, she wished
to encourage the idea. Smiling with spurious brightness, she spoke cheerfully
of how glad she was the rain had fallen at night instead of making their long
ride miserable. Hamo then apologized for tiring her and said he would not have
been so inconsiderate if he had any choice, but that he and Tybetot must meet
another troop near Bath before dinner the following day.
Barbara assured him that she was accustomed to long rides.
Alphonse, with a warm smile, thanked Hamo for his consideration. Hamo smiled
back and continued to ride beside them to the inn. He seemed to feel that all
was forgiven and forgotten, and told Alphonse eagerly that he had seen him
fight as one of the prince’s party at a tournament, describing his own
disappointment at not being able to join the party, having broken his
collarbone in a fall during the jousts the preceding day. Alphonse laughed and
said there would be other times, he was sure, but his eyes just barely flicked
to Barbara as Hamo snarled, “Not while our Lord Edward is penned like a beast.”
Ordinarily Barbara would have tried to put in a soothing
word, but Alphonse was neither careless nor stupid and could not have made that
remark by mistake. She heard her husband utter a platitude about hoping the
prince would soon regain his liberty. The words were formal and might have been
meaningless but Barbara saw Hamo’s eyes light and his lips part, saw the effort
with which he swallowed what he had been about to say. She thought it might be
her presence—at least, the presence of Norfolk’s daughter—that had held him
back, so, although she was burning with curiosity, she tightened Frivole’s rein
slightly and slowly fell behind, leaving the men to talk by themselves.
Before anything significant could be said, the inn came in
sight. With her ears still cocked toward the men, Barbara began an animated
discussion with Clotilde about whether they had stayed there before. After a
single glance at her mistress’s level brows and the blue gleam of her eyes,
Clotilde replied in kind, rambling on, so that Barbara could listen, about
whether it would be safe to put their sheets on the inn pallets or whether they
should have the servants remove the pallets and use only their own blankets.
They were too close to the inn for the device to work,
however. The innkeeper, running out to greet his guests, heard the end of Clotilde’s
remarks and, with deep bows and great pride, assured maid and mistress that the
mattress of the bed in his private chamber was clean and fresh, stuffed with
new straw only in September. He then looked doubtfully at the three men
clustered together beyond the entryway, who he now realized were not the lady’s
servants, and stammered that, unfortunately, there was only one bed and the
private chamber was very small.
Barbara expected Alphonse to lay claim to the room on the
heels of the landlord’s remark, but he did not, merely looked inquiringly at
Hamo le Strange. It was Hamo who uttered some graceful phrases about Lady
Barbara’s comfort and said that he and Tybetot would be content with pallets in
the large common room. Barbara thanked him warmly, as she must even if she
loathed the idea of being alone with Alphonse. By then her husband was beside
her, ready to lift her down from her saddle. Her heart skipped a beat at the
warning in his eyes and she gasped when he let go of her too soon, just before her
feet touched the ground, so that she came down hard enough to make her knees
bend.
“My dear,” he murmured, putting an arm around her waist,
“you are more tired than you will admit. Let your maid help you up to the
chamber. Perhaps you will want to lie down and rest.”
“Yes, yes, I will be glad to go up.” Barbara got out, as she
pulled free of his grip and shook her head at Clotilde, saying to the maid, “I
am steady now. I do not need help in walking. Do you find our baggage animals
and have unloaded what we will need for tonight.”
A gesture sent the innkeeper scurrying inside, and Barbara
followed close behind, eyes lowered, teeth gritted over the laughter that
bubbled up in her throat. She hoped Alphonse would have self-control enough to
wait for Clotilde to get their linens and make the bed before he followed.
Until that was done, she thought alternately of how cleverly he had provided an
excuse for seeking privacy with her and wondered whether she should seize on
that excuse to remove her clothing and lie ready for him in the bed. She had
not decided the question when a thump on the door brought so shameful a flood
of desire on her that she turned her back on the door and went to the small
window.
A coarse English voice made her spin around. A thick-bodied
woman was handing a flagon and horn cup to Clotilde, saying in broken French,
“Drink. Rest. Soon meat, bread, cheese.”
Barbara’s first reaction was terror. She rushed to the door
the woman had closed behind her, expecting to find it locked—but it was not.
Carefully she opened it and listened. Male voices drifted up to her—three male
voices all calm, although she could not make out any words, and then Alphonse
laughed.
Fury replaced terror, the heat of the rage fueled by her
burning need, but fury soon supplanted the need as well as the terror and then,
slowly, even the heat of the fury ebbed, leaving her bitterly amused at herself
for laughing at Hamo for self-deception. Shame for her craving sparked rage
again, an old, old rage in response to an old, old pain. Barbara walked slowly
toward the bench by the small hearth and picked up from atop her cloak at the
foot of the bed the embroidery basket that Clotilde had unpacked among the
“necessary” items, as she had done for years. Absently Barbara took out what
she wanted and set the basket by her feet. But, with the silver mirror in her
lap, in the midst of repeating to herself bitterly that Alphonse did not want
her, had never wanted her, she began to chuckle. That was nonsense. Alphonse
certainly did want her. She had had frequent and urgent proof of that since the
ides of August when they were married.
Idiot
, she said to herself,
do not go back to
being thirteen years old. You no longer fear he does not desire you. You fear
he desires every other woman just as much
.
As the thought passed her mind, the serving woman opened the
door again carrying in a liberal selection of cold meat, poultry, pasty,
cheese, bread, and both ale and wine for Barbara’s evening meal. The creature
was so unappetizing herself that Barbara had to chuckle again. No, Alphonse did
not want
every
woman, and it was beyond even her jealous fear to imagine
there was any female in this inn more desirable than she. Beyond that, sending
up so complete an evening meal was clearly a signal that she was not to come
down.
No flicker of anger stirred at that conclusion. She knew
Alphonse trusted her social skill. When they were with Gloucester and Sir John,
he had always found a way for her to join him, particularly when he hoped to
get information in casual talk. He could easily have arranged for her to come
down by making a poor selection of food or omitting some essential like bread.
But unlike Gloucester or Sir John, Sir Hamo and Tybetot were opponents of
Leicester’s party—friends of the prince. The signal was political, not
personal. It was Norfolk’s daughter who was unwelcome, not Alphonse’s wife.
Barbara signed Clotilde to take the tray from the servant
and send her away. Having made a choice—of what foods she did not know—she said
to Clotilde, “Take the rest down and share it with our men.”
She felt Clotilde’s questioning glance but shook her head
irritably, and the maid sighed and went away. Barbara guessed her maid thought
she had cleared the way for an unwise, angry confrontation with her inattentive
husband, but she could not bother to explain. She was too busy recalling what
she had seen and heard from the time they met Hamo’s troop near Tewkesbury.
While she went over the evidence, she ate slowly and methodically, indifferent
to what she chewed and swallowed. By the time Alphonse opened the door, she had
come to a frightening conclusion.
She started to jump to her feet as soon as she saw him, felt
the mirror sliding from her lap, and gasped with fear that he might see it,
guess how she clung to it and fondled it whenever she was troubled, and learn
from that how abject was her slavery. She turned away, bending and thrusting
the mirror into her basket, under her work, and in the same movement grasped a
small log and threw it on the fire. Then she stood up slowly, still looking
away hoping her pretended displeasure would provide a diversion.
A swift glance over her shoulder showed her that the door
was again closed and that Alphonse, unarmed, was standing with his hand still
on the latch, staring at her. “Well? When is the next war to start?” she asked,
keeping her voice low but injecting all the anger she could into it.
“No war,” Alphonse said, taking the few strides that brought
him beside her. “I thought I would find you abed already. I saw Clotilde go
down.”
“Are you taking sides with my father’s enemies?” she asked,
suddenly startled and fearful of a problem she had not considered.
“I am taking sides with no one.” His mouth was stiff, his
throat worked as the words came through. “Never mind that now. I will tell you
later. I have held off long enough. I am dying for you.”
The passion that had earlier dried up in the heat of rage
burst into flame like oiled tinder at the spark of his words. Barbara’s
reaction was so strong that she drew in a sharp breath and took half a step
backward, one hand coming up. Later she realized he might have feared that hand
was to ward him off, for he seized it and pulled her hard against him, kissing
her so fiercely that she could not have protested had she been cold with
revulsion. As it was, all sense but that of pleasure was swept away. Caution
and self-awareness were lost in eagerness, and she allowed her husband to strip
off her clothing and helped him strip off his without pretending reluctance.
Both were too eager for lingering love play. He had barely
entered when she began to writhe in fulfillment and he, who had watched so many
women naked in their joy and held back his own to bring a second and even third
renewal to his partner, became entangled and fell with her into that red pit of
pleasure. Enchanted by the raw pulse of natural, uncalculated release, he
murmured her name—only that, over and over.
That touched her in a way that love words would not, and she
did not withdraw herself but lay quietly beside him, letting her hand rest in
his. She had forgotten the danger in that gentle after-love communion. Having
begun, she craved, as much as she craved the wilder pleasure of coupling, to
offer up everything.
Soft words rose to her lips. She closed her teeth over them
and said instead, “A troop came with Hamo, and they were waiting in Tewkesbury,
likely for Tybetot and his men, who came from the north I think, because of
what the porter of Pershore Abbey said, Tybetot came from Mortimer’s keep in
Wigmore. And Hamo said they would meet another troop near Bath. You said there
will be no war. But how can you be sure the Welsh Marchers do not plan to start
the war anew now they know Louis will not support the peace?”
Alphonse groaned. “Did I not sacrifice myself on the altar
of duty? Instead of coming to you at once, did I not sit there listening while
those silly young men talked? Did I not even deny myself the pleasure of
looking at you during the evening meal for fear your father’s relationship to
Leicester would stop their tongues?”
“Do not dare to talk to me of your sacrifice.” Barbara
laughed and sat up. “You may have had a conflict between your lust and your
curiosity for the length of a heartbeat, but I know which is stronger in us
both. Lust can be wakened and contented any time, but news…ah…a chance to hear
news seldom comes twice. It is I who was the sacrifice,” Barbara sniffed
melodramatically, “sent away to bite my nails while my curiosity ate me alive.”
“I am glad you understood.” Alphonse smiled. “I was not sure
the food and drink I chose so carefully would not come flying around my ears
when I came up.”
But Barbara did not smile back. “I understood and you knew I
would. So do not talk about food flying. Satisfy my curiosity. Why are you so
sure this gathering of men does not betoken a new attack on Leicester’s allies
in this area?” Alphonse hesitated, looking troubled, and Barbara stiffened.
“Did you think I would forget what I had seen and heard just because you
futtered me?”
“I have never known it to affect any woman’s memory,”
Alphonse snapped back, then shrugged. “Barbe, you
are
your father’s
daughter. If I tell you what I have learned and you get word to him, to my mind
I
will have violated a confidence, even if you do not think so.”
“Is there danger to my father?” she asked. “Good God, Papa
has not come to Strigul, has he?”
“No, no. Not one word was said or hinted about your father.
He has nothing to do with this at all.”