Authors: Roberta Gellis
“Why?” Barbara asked. “Papa does not approve of everything
Leicester does either. He only opposes the king’s extravagance. I do not think
my father will regard you as an enemy unless you attack him—on his own lands.”
“You may be sure I will not do that,” Gloucester said,
smiling.
“And I think Barbe has proposed the perfect answer to
Mortimer’s request,” Alphonse remarked, bringing the subject back to the
hostage question.
Gloucester grumbled that he could not use his guests as
hostages, but Alphonse only laughed.
“If Mortimer will accept us,” he said, “you may take it as a
clear sign he
does
trust you and has asked for hostages for some reason
we cannot yet guess. Mortimer is no fool, you know, and must realize that hecan have no hold on you through us, who have neither blood bond with you
nor military value to you, unless you are a man of honor.”
Gloucester made another protest about exposing those under
his protection to danger, but Barbara could see that he spoke more for form’s
sake than out of conviction. And, since he was actually quite certain that
Alphonse and Barbara would only exchange one host for another, it did not take
much longer to bring him to agree to the arrangement. The talk then moved on to
expedients to be considered if Mortimer refused the proffered hostages.
Having gained her original objective, which was to do what
she could to isolate Alphonse with Mortimer in case Leicester and Gloucester
came to war, Barbara could relax. She took up her work basket and drew out her
embroidery—this time a neckband and front, to be sewn into a court gown for
Alphonse. Listening to the men’s talk, she pulled out the tail of the front
somewhat carelessly. The cloth caught on something heavy, and the basket
shifted, nearly tipping off Barbara’s knees.
Only as she caught the basket with half the yarn and bits of
cloth toppling out did Barbara remember that she had replaced the silver mirror
in it when Alphonse left St. Briavels. Color flooded her cheeks, and she bent
her body concealingly over the basket. A swift downward glance showed only a
glint of silver. A quick tuck, and the betraying symbol of her enslavement was
out of sight. Barbara chose a length of yarn, took the needle from the cloth,
and straightened up. When she raised the needle to thread it, she dared take a
quick look at Alphonse. He seemed unaware of her, intent on the men’s talk,
which had now shifted to the question of a meeting place both Gloucester and
Mortimer would consider safe.
A short, fervent prayer of thanks passed through her mind
and brought a sudden inspiration. “There is a better place to meet than a
town,” she said. “Llanthony Abbey.”
“Too close to Gloucester,” Thomas protested.
“No, I meant the older one, in the vale of Ewias. It is
right at the foot of Black Mountain.”
She then described the place, which she remembered vividly,
although she had been there only once, when King Henry and Queen Eleanor had
made a tour of especially holy foundations. The original Llanthony Abbey was
isolated and primitive, a poor, neglected mother of the flourishing daughter
abbey near Gloucester. Sir John groaned when Barbara mentioned how few visitors
ever dared the bare, narrow track that threaded the hills to the place and the
correspondingly limited and Spartan accommodations, but Gloucester nodded and
laughed.
“I think I am going to dismiss my marshal and appoint you
instead, Barby,” he said. “You have a very fine grasp of where places are and
the purposes to which they best lend themselves.”
“No, I have not,” Barbara protested. “But Llanthony is truly
very holy. No one would dare commit an act of treachery there. Even Mortimer
will feel the sanctity. Possibly he knows the place already, and he will
understand. To betray a man in Llanthony would be such an offense against God
that even Mary’s mercy would be strained to forgive.”
There was a slight pause, and then Gloucester said, “I hope
Mortimer is as sensitive as you.” He smiled faintly and looked around at his
male companions, each of whom nodded approval of Barbara’s proposal. “Well, we
have our offer for meeting ready. We have only to learn whether Mortimer is
interested enough to take a risk.”
“Then I will bid you all to have a good night,” Alphonse
said, standing up and holding out his hand to Barbara. “You may have nothing
better to do than sit and swill wine, but I… Well, wife?”
A spate of male humor covered Barbara’s first moment of
shock. So he had seen the mirror! She should have known Alphonse would not so
completely ignore her sudden physical movement if he had not seen the mirror
and her stupid attempt to conceal it. If only she had not tried to hide it. Now
what could she say?
Suppressing a horrid vision of Alphonse pulling out the
mirror and laughing at her if she carried the basket to their chamber, she
stuffed the embroidery back into it and pushed it under the bench. One of the
men asked a question, and she answered with a laugh—the sound seemed forced and
she had not the faintest notion whether her response was appropriate, but no
one seemed surprised. Then Alphonse put her cloak around her and pulled the
hood over her head. Their dash across the bailey through a sleety rain to the
west gate tower dispelled some of Barbara’s shock but brought no inspiration,
and she swallowed desperately as she turned to face her husband when he closed
the door of their chamber.
“Barbe,” he said, throwing back his hood, “I had to talk to
you in private before Gloucester began to tell you what he hopes his meeting
with Mortimer will accomplish. I am very grateful to you for always seeming to
support me and to approve the choices I make, but I know your sympathies were
with Leicester and I do not want you burdened with secrets you feel it wrong to
keep.”
Barbara stood with one hand on the edge of her cloak, which
she had been about to remove, and stared at him without answering. He had not seen
the mirror. He had not been moved to leave the hall by guessing how much she
desired him. She should have been overjoyed, instead she was furious.
Alphonse stared back at her, frowning. “Barbe?” he urged
softly. “You do understand that Gloucester may break with Leicester—”
“I am not an idiot,” she snapped, pulling off her cloak. “I
heard him say so.”
Alphonse dropped his cloak on the chest by the wall and came
forward, reaching for Barbara’s. She almost threw it at him. “Sorry,” he said.
His voice was meek, his eyes wary. “I seem to have committed a most infantile
sin, making too clear to a woman that she has changed her mind.”
“I have not changed my mind!”
“No, of course not.”
She stamped her foot and in the next moment burst out
laughing. What a fool she was to sulk. She had lost nothing. A brief feeling of
puzzlement filled her. Why should she be angry at having escaped exposure of
her slavish devotion? But the silence was stretching, and she said quickly,
“Oh, you monster, to hold your temper like an angel so I will be filled with
remorse. And to say you committed a childish sin, implying that you had come to
expect better of me than of other women… Monster of deceit!”
Alphonse put her cloak with his and came back toward her
with hand outstretched. “No, I am not, Barbe, but I want to be sure you are
clear in your own mind where this is leading. I value your loyalty to me more
than I can say, but I do not want you to feel you have betrayed your friends to
honor your marriage bond.”
Barbara sighed and gave him her hand. He pulled her close
and she dropped her head to his shoulder. “I will not blame you, if that is
what you fear.” She sighed again. “Mostly—as women so often do—I have spoken
without really thinking of the result, but I do not regret it. I have seen that
Leicester is losing the trust of those who supported him. Even when what he
does is plainly just, like curbing the Earl of Derby, he is suspected of evil
purposes.”
“It is because he does not have the right to rule, because
he is no more or less than any other earl. Thus, whatever order he gives is
resented. A king is set by God above other men, so they do not take offense
when he commands them. Leicester knows this as well as any other, so he places
his trust in those who are bound to obey him by nature—his sons and his blood
kin.”
“Which makes the resentment of others worse and worse.”
Barbara shivered. “But what else could he have done?” she cried. “The king was
destroying us!”
“Come, sit down, love.” He led her to the bench by the small
hearth, threw more wood on the fire, and sat down beside her, pulling her close
again.
“God knows what Leicester should have done,” he went on. “In
his place, I would have gone to Prince Edward after the battle of Lewes and
asked him to persuade his father to let Edward rule in his stead. Then, with
sufficient safeguards for my own and my allies’ safety—and they would need to
be good safeguards because Edward holds grudges against those who have bested
him and has a sly way of twisting words to mean what he wants them to mean—I
would have left the prince to rule without any restriction other than ancient
law and custom.” He shrugged. “But Leicester still thinks of Edward as a
foolish boy, needing the guidance of those older and wiser. He made the same
mistake with Gloucester.”
“Must it come to war again?” Barbara whispered.
“There is one small chance of avoiding another war. If
Edward is freed and enough of the country rallies to him, Leicester may make a
peace that simply protects him and his friends and, as he has done twice in the
past, curse the fickle English and withdraw to France.”
Barbara lifted her head from Alphonse’s shoulder. “Do you
think that likely?”
He hesitated and then said, “No. If Edward is freed,
Leicester will move as fast as he can to retake him, and he will bring an army
to the task. I do not think there will be any chance to negotiate. Of course,
if he has lost so much support that he cannot raise an army—”
“He is weakest here in the west,” Barbara said.
Alphonse smiled. “Gloucester is right. You would do very
well as a marshal. Yes, love. That is why we are all here in the west.”
“If, God forbid, war should be necessary, I do not think
Papa would come all the way to Wales—”
“No, I am very sure he would not,” Alphonse assured her.
“Nor will he be given any cause. Do you not remember that Gilbert just said he
would not attack your father’s lands? He knows your father is as little trusted
and as little satisfied with Leicester as he. Gilbert will do nothing to
antagonize Norfolk. I am sure he will avoid damage to Strigul as he would avoid
a plague.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Barbara again placing
her head confidingly on Alphonse’s shoulder. He held her comfortingly while he
looked at the flames, leaping high as they caught on the fresh logs. Though he
did not look at her, he saw only his wife. She had told him so many times that
she cared nothing for party, only for the safety of those she loved. Now he was
coming to believe her. She trusted him, she clung to him, she was loyal. He even
had reason to believe she was jealous of him. So what was she hiding from him?
She kept some token which she carried everywhere with her. Chacier had
mentioned how she hid something from him, and he had seen her do it more than
once himself.
“Barbe,” he said.
She turned and put her arms around his neck. “And what of
you?” she murmured. “Will you be safe? Are you pledged to Gloucester?”
Had she read his thoughts and deliberately diverted him from
the question he had finally found courage to ask? He put aside the impossible
suspicion and tasted the lips so close to his. After a moment, Barbe shivered,
took his head gently in her hands, and broke the kiss.
“Alphonse, answer me.”
Grateful for the respite—his courage had melted with her
kiss and he no longer wanted to know about the token she kept hidden—he said,
“I have given no oaths—I cannot, being my brother’s man, as I am—but…” He drew
a breath, and voice and face hardened. “Yes, I will do anything in my power to
free Prince Edward, and if it comes to war, I will fight as Gloucester or
Edward order.”
Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. He
expected her to pull away, but she did not. Instead, still weeping, she pressed
her mouth to his and then whispered against his lips, “Love me. Love me while
we may.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
On the next day, the last of February, Mortimer’s messenger
came again to say his master would be satisfied with the hostages Gloucester
offered. On the first of March, a day that presaged spring one moment with
brilliant sunshine and renewed winter with vicious winds and spitting hail the
next, Alphonse, Barbara, and their four servants rode away from St. Briavels
with the messenger. They went not to Wigmore but to Weobly, a strong fortified
manor no more than four leagues from Hereford but well back along a narrow,
easily defended road.
Mortimer came out to greet them like old friends, his long
hair flying in the wind. He struck Alphonse a fond blow on the shoulder and
then, most courteously, apologized to Barbara for the absence of his wife, who
had remained to hold Wigmore for him if she could. Barbara replied politely, if
not very truthfully, that she would miss Lady Matilda, and said with far
greater sincerity that she hoped with all her heart that Lady Matilda would be left
in peace. During the days that followed, she was glad enough to have no company
other than Clotilde, even though Mortimer often drew Alphonse away to the
second hearth in the great hall where she could not hear their talk.
Had Alphonse been of the same mind as Mortimer, Barbara
might have been bored, but her amused expectation that she would hear
everything was fulfilled. Alphonse had always enjoyed discussing his plans,
ideas, and experiences with her. Sometimes he laughed, but more often he
listened soberly—and took her advice. She thought with comfort that she could
never lose him entirely. Even if he took another lover, he would always give
her his confidences.
Not that there was much to confide in pillow talk at Weobly.
Alphonse did most of the talking in the four days before they set out for
Llanthony, explaining how and why Gloucester had decided to break with
Leicester. Mortimer was very nearly convinced to trust the young earl and join
forces with him before they came to the abbey. He had no difficulty making a
final decision soon after they arrived.
Hardly had Gloucester greeted them when he drew them out of
the sharp wind into the abbey’s barren refectory. He stood just beyond the
door, holding Barbara affectionately by the hand, and told them he had received
an order to yield up Bamburgh Castle into Leicester’s hands. “Why?” he asked,
clearly not expecting any answer. “I gave oath that the castellan would return
Bamburgh to Prince Edward’s keeping when a settled peace was made—to Edward’s
keeping, not Leicester’s. If Leicester does not think it safe to put Bamburgh
back in Edward’s hands, why should he hold it rather than I?”
“Because he intends to hold every royal stronghold in
England, and every other that he can wrest from its lord on one pretext or
another,” Mortimer said. “But he has the council behind him and the poor,
captive king. If you do not obey, you will soon be in prison, like Derby. What
will you do?”
“Lord Mortimer,” Alphonse said, half laughing and half
reproving. “You are inciting to riot. From all I have heard, Derby deserved his
fate. Let us not make ourselves like him.”
“So I should yield Bamburgh, as I gave up the tourney at
Dunstable?”
Alphonse cocked his head at the tone of Gloucester’s
question. It was more teasing than angry. He shrugged. “No, of course not. But
there are reasons enough not to comply with the order besides outright
defiance. You cannot go to Bamburgh and order the castellan to yield it up
until you drive off the Welsh raiding parties. That was why you came to Wales.
And surely it would be wise also to persuade Mortimer here to make an agreement
that will protect your Welsh lands from his men before he leaves for Ireland.”
Gloucester laughed. “That is a better reason for this
meeting than any I have come up with, in case Leicester should hear of it. But
I cannot imagine any but squirrels and wolves are likely to notice us.” He
smiled at Barbara. “You could not have chosen a better place—that is, if we do
not all freeze or starve to death. I was unfortunate enough to have dinner here
and stupid enough to take off my cloak.”
“I warned you,” Barbara said, then shivered. “But I was here
in the summer.”
“Well, I have done my best. If we sit close,” he gestured to
the benches on either side of the rough table on which low braziers of burning
charcoal had been set, “we may catch a little of the warmth before the wind
that seeps through the cracks in the walls carries it away.”
“My lord,” Mortimer said without moving, “you made no answer
to Sieur Alphonse’s suggestion. If instead you have already sent a defiance to
Leicester, there may not be time to sit. He will be marching west with his army
while we are all scattered—”
“I am glad to hear you say ‘we’, Lord Mortimer, even when
you think I have brought nothing but a call to arms.” Gloucester gestured to
the benches again. “I have news from good friends. There is, as yet, no army
marching toward us. Leicester is intent on ‘making the peace’, which will
permit him to grasp every bit of Edward’s property. The final swearing is set
for the tenth of this month—five days—”
“If you are hoping for delay, you will be disappointed,”
Mortimer interrupted, his voice rough. “Edward will swear to the terms that
Leicester is offering. When you gained permission for us to visit him in Kenilworth,
I fulfilled my promise to you. I told him to agree—and I made some signs. He
thinks his promise is part of a plan to free him, and I meant to keep that
promise too, but in five days—”
“The prince is no fool,” Alphonse said. “He will not expect
any attempt at rescue while he is in Kenilworth, so far from his friends. And
he does not wish to escape to France—I know that.”
“And his promise will open the door,” Gloucester said.
“You do not believe Leicester will truly allow him any
liberty, do you?” Mortimer asked bitterly.
“Such liberty as he allows the king, who may walk and ride
abroad—surrounded by Leicester’s men. But,” Gloucester grinned at them
triumphantly, “two, at least, of the men who guard the prince will be ours.”
“Can you arrange that?” Mortimer asked, trying to hide his
skepticism.
Gloucester laughed aloud. “I have nothing to do with
arranging the matter. It is Leicester himself who arranged it.” Then his mouth
hardened. “He has written me a letter flavored with honey, saying that part of
the prince’s agreement is that his household be purged of any ‘suspects’,
though suspect of what Leicester does not say. What he does say is that my
brother Thomas would be welcome to be one of the men serving the prince.”
“But Thomas would be hostage in Leicester’s power,” Barbara
cried.
Gloucester covered her hand with his, but his eyes did not
leave Mortimer’s. “Yes, Thomas would be hostage,” he agreed, “which means that
our plan to free Edward must work or it will cost me my brother—or my own
freedom.”
“He is so young—” Barbara whispered.
“That is one man,” Mortimer interrupted, his impatience with
a woman’s weakness showing in his voice. “Who is the other?”
Gloucester turned his head now and smiled at her, but his
eyes were very worried. “Barbe is right. Thomas is young, and that is my excuse
for sending with him someone older.”
“Who?” Mortimer insisted.
Gloucester hesitated and Barbara was surprised when, instead
of looking at Mortimer, he continued to watch her apprehensively, but his
answer explained it. “Alphonse,” he said.
Barbara gasped and Alphonse laughed. “You could not have
made a better choice,” he exclaimed. “If by ill luck we fail, I could perhaps
remove the worst of the evil consequences. I could confess to having corrupted
poor young Thomas, and I could put the blame on you, Lord Mortimer.”
Mortimer grunted. “Thank you.” His tone was caustic.
Alphonse laughed again. “You cannot be in worse trouble with
Leicester than you already are, and he will believe you made a plot to free the
prince. If he does not suspect Gilbert of that, you may gain another chance.”
“You are a brave and generous man,” Mortimer said.
“No I am not.” Alphonse grinned and shook his head. “You
must know from my advice that I do not believe in taking risks.”
“Liar,” Barbara muttered under her breath.
Alphonse’s dark glance flicked to her, but it was
Gloucester’s worried face his eyes fixed on. “No harm can come to me. Leicester
will not want to offend my aunt, Queen Marguerite, since he still hopes some
day to wring approval of his government from King Louis. And Leicester knows
she will go weeping to Louis with the tale of any punishment meted out to me.
Louis will have to act angry and demand my freedom because he does not want to
offend my brother. So the worst Leicester can do is to expel me from the
country—and you can send Barbe after me if that happens.”
“And where will Barbe go in the meanwhile?” she asked
waspishly.
Mortimer seemed ready to tell her to hold her tongue, but
Gloucester chuckled. “Barby will, of course, go to court with her husband.” He
lifted her hand and kissed it. “I cannot believe there will be any danger for
you. You are Norfolk’s daughter, and Alphonse would of course deny having
revealed this plot to you. And you are our excuse for Alphonse to come and go
freely from Edward’s guarded household—and to pass information on to me. Well,
will you do it?”
Barbara thought of her father. Then she thought of the caged
prince growing madder and madder, filled with hate. Leicester would die sooner
or later, and the power he had gathered into his hands and molded to his use
would fall apart. Henry de Montfort was good but had not his father’s strength.
Then Edward would break free and loose the rage and hate that filled him—most
likely on innocent and guilty alike. But the guilty, and her father would
surely be counted among them, would not even escape with their lives. Fines
would not content Edward. Not even her uncle would be able to save her father.
Edward might have grown so mad by the time he freed himself that he would blame
her uncle for fleeing the battle at Lewes or for not coming with an invading
force… Barbara shuddered.
“Yes, I will help you free the prince, if I can.”
The feeling in the court, when Barbara and her companions
arrived in Westminster, was strange. There was an outward air of triumph on
March 11, as the “release” of Prince Edward was announced in Westminster Hall.
According to the harsh terms of the peace, Leicester was utterly victorious.
The king and his son agreed that the form of government established at
Canterbury in June 1264 was to continue. All who took part in the battle of
Lewes, and who were repudiated at that time by the king, were to be received
back into Henry’s favor. Edward, although released from captivity, swore to accept
the purging of his household, the replacement of his own servants by those of
Leicester’s choosing, he must aid no invasion of England and swear also not to
leave the country for three years. If he did not abide by these oaths, he might
be disinherited—and on and on.
Under the surface of compliance, there were layers on layers
of hope, fear, doubt, and distrust. Recalling the swearing that had preceded
her wedding in Canterbury, Barbara did not know what to expect, but doubtless
Leicester had heard enough about that swearing to take no chances. Neither
Prince Edward nor King Henry appeared, only formal letters of sworn acceptance
of the terms were read and recorded, in which both king and prince undertook to
seek no absolution from their oaths.
“How ridiculous,” Barbara said later to Aliva le Despenser,
who had accompanied her back to Gloucester’s house in London and now sat knee
to knee with her by the fireplace in the solar. “They do not need to seek
absolution. The new pope absolved them of all forced oaths when he was still
the papal legate, and he absolutely forbade the new papal legate to accept any
treaty of peace with Leicester.”
“I think my husband would like the king and prince to die,”
Aliva whispered.
Barbara hesitated, surprised. She would never have expected
Hugh le Despenser, justiciar of England, to voice such a thought. Barbara did
not like Hugh. His rigid righteousness demanded perfect obedience from all
lesser mortals, particularly from that sinful and aberrant type of being called
womankind—and he was not averse to using a switch or a leather belt to get what
he thought was right. Nonetheless, Hugh le Despenser was not the man to condone
murder.
“He might like it, but he would never do any harm to them,”
Barbara said.
“Oh, yes, you are right about that. Hugh is too holy to
commit a crime without an order. But he is worried sick and has been ever since
the Marchers got Gloucester’s permission to delay their exile.” She held up a
hand before Barbara could speak, or, more significantly, not speak. “I do not
want to hear anything about Gloucester. What I do not know, I cannot tell—and
you know Hugh can make me babble.”
Barbara was silent for a moment, sick at heart. “Then you
must have something to tell him,” she said. “Why not say I talked of how kind
Gilbert is to me, and of how all the women’s tasks in St. Briavels had been
left undone after the old castellan’s wife had retired to a convent, so I was
utterly taken up with that work. You can say that no one came to visit Gilbert
at St. Briavels—that is true—and that he kept Alphonse with him to practice
jousting and swordplay. That is less true, but they certainly spent a good part
of their time pounding at each other. Men are all mad, I think. They come in
all black-and-blue with bruises, caroling of how much they enjoyed themselves.”
Aliva did not smile at Barbara’s attempt to lighten the mood
or lift her eyes from her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. “I will
tell you what I have heard,” she said. “Hugh is angry because your father has
not come to court. He says Norfolk is currying favor with the king, just
waiting for a chance to stab Leicester in the back. Your cousin Roger has not
come to London either.”