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“Gloucester told me,” Alphonse went on in a more uncertain
voice, “that he had been shamefully treated by your father when he came to
France as his father’s heir. My lord, as Gloucester’s lord-to-be, and as an
impartial judge—did he lie?”

The prince’s blue eyes, almost equally wide open with
surprise, regarded Alphonse thoughtfully for a long moment, assessing that
challenge. “I do not know what happened in France,” Edward said slowly, “but it
is true that my father put Gloucester’s lands into the hands of a warden
instead of giving him livery at once.” He shrugged. “That brought two years’
revenue from rich lands into my father’s always-empty purse.”

Alphonse felt tears of relief sting his eyes. Clearly, even
without the healing that freedom and the exercise of power might bring him in
time, Edward was not totally ruled by resentment and suspicion.

“I think Gloucester could have understood and accepted
that,” Alphonse said. “Not acknowledged that it was right or just, but not felt
so deep a bitterness—had he not been humiliated by the king’s handling.”

“My father was a little sore himself from ill handling,”
Edward snapped.

Another mistake. Alphonse passed a weary hand across his
eyes. “My lord,” he said, “I know that, and I never would have mentioned it,
except that I feel you should know what is still a key to Gloucester’s good or
ill will. He has not been treated with respect. Leicester dealt with him as if
he were a foolish little boy when he protested what he felt were injustices.
That was a grave mistake. Gloucester is a man with power and strong opinions.
He is, perhaps, not quite so strong a man of his hands as you in single combat,
my lord, but he is a remarkably astute battle leader. Still, Gloucester is
young and is easily offended.”

“He is only four years younger than I,” Edward said.

Alphonse stared, but Edward was looking into the cup again
and the profile he could see told him nothing. Alphonse thought with a sinking
heart that his warning had been misunderstood. He drew a breath and tried
again. “Gloucester is four years younger by the passing of the seasons, but a hundred
years younger in the grief that has taught you patience.”

Edward did not answer that, merely drained the cup of wine
he was holding, refilled it, and handed it to Alphonse who drank in turn.

“And what will you do now?” the prince asked, with another abrupt
change of subject.

“Whatever you command,” Alphonse replied and then,
desperately, added, “which I hope will be to go to bed tonight. Tomorrow I will
be ready for any more vigorous enterprise.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

For several days, Alphonse did not know whether his talk
with Edward had borne fruit. Much earlier—in fact, the following morning, when
he woke on a pallet on the floor of the uppermost tower chamber at Wigmore,
where Thomas de Clare sat sleepily grumbling on the edge of a cot—he realized
all at once and with a considerable shock that he had been outmanipulated by
Edward. The prince had deliberately kept him talking after he mentioned he was
half asleep from exhaustion, not only because he was himself tense and wakeful
but because he knew he was more likely to hear the bald and undecorated truth
that way.

Alphonse’s pride suffered a blow when he realized how easily
he had fallen into the trap laid for him. Not that he could have avoided
talking if Edward demanded he do so but because he had not understood sooner
what the prince was doing. When he reviewed the conversation, however, he began
to grin. Sly as a leopard, Edward had been called. Perhaps he was, but he was
now as much a victim of his own slyness as his prey had been. Alphonse knew he
had said exactly what he had intended to say, if not with his usual tact. And
because Edward himself had set the conditions to draw out blunt and unvarnished
statements, his lack of tact had been excused and his words had gained more
force.

The satisfaction was tempered by being unable to judge the
result. Later that morning, when Alphonse breakfasted with Edward, Thomas, and
Matilda, the prince seemed already less haunted and less in need of a constant
application of will to control himself. He was no less suspicious, however. He
cast out several lures to catch any hint that he was not utterly master of the
situation, but found no takers. When he asked Thomas whether he would return
now to his brother, the young man replied that he had taken Edward’s service
and would do as Edward bade him. Mortimer’s wife was, by her husband’s
direction, instantly ready to obey any order, to strip Wigmore of troops, to go
with Edward herself, to serve as messenger or hostage, or to fulfill any role
by the prince’s will. And Alphonse, when he was asked if he now wished to be
released to go home to France, was no longer too tired to think and smiled
lazily.

“Not at all, my lord. I am useless as a battle leader, for I
was never trained in that art and I have no troop to bring to your support.
Still, I hope you have enough value for my personal skill at arms to make a
place for me at your side in the coming battles. I still have my little
personal grudge to settle, and I am most likely to settle it to my satisfaction
if I am beside you.”

Edward smiled, a show of teeth with little humor, but his
eyes were clear and direct on Alphonse’s own as he promised that the
“settlement” would be presented to him on the battlefield if possible.
Actually, Alphonse cared little about Guy de Montfort. If he did meet him in
battle, he would kill him with no regret, but to Alphonse, Guy had become too
despicable to merit a deep and bitter hatred. Guy was an adequate excuse,
however, not to ask to leave Edward at the present moment and not to give his
true reasons for wishing to stay.

None of the reasons was particularly complimentary to the
prince. The primary one was that Alphonse suspected Edward was still unbalanced
enough to hold a grudge against him if he “abandoned him in his need”. The second
was that Alphonse regarded the coming fighting with lively anticipation, if
with no real seriousness. The war was a matter of life and death to Edward, he
knew. For himself it had as little true meaning as a tournament. Alphonse hoped
Edward would win because he felt what Leicester had done in wresting the rule
of a realm from its king was wrong—even if the king was unfit to rule. Third,
he did not like Leicester’s young sons. Fourth, this was all an amusing
adventure to him. And last, he had to fill the time until Barbe wrote and told
him where to meet her, and fighting with Edward was as good a way to fill it as
any other.

“So you may stay beside me, and welcome,” Edward was
concluding. “And though you are no experienced battle leader, my dear Alphonse,
you have your own wisdom. Now, tell me, what do you think about my going to
Ludlow?”

Alphonse smiled again, but he called himself a fool for
allowing his mind to wander while the prince was talking to him. Fortunately he
had heard enough to sense the hook trolling for an opinion of Mortimer, and to
avoid it.

“How can I have any useful thoughts on that subject?” he
asked, opening his eyes to demonstrate his surprise at the question. “It was my
idea that Lord Mortimer should leave Wigmore to make this place less suspect as
your first haven, but that is where my contribution ended. I am totally
ignorant of the country and the people here. It would have done me no good to
ask Lord Mortimer’s purpose in choosing Ludlow because I would have been none
the wiser when I heard it.”

“My lord,” Lady Matilda put in, “my lord explained to me why
he chose Ludlow. I was concerned because it is my cousin’s property and her
husband, Geoffrey de Genevill, has gone to Ireland. There is no mystery in the
choice, only that Ludlow is close, large, and strong enough so that the
addition of my lord’s troops to the garrison would not be too obvious, and with
Genevill gone there would be nothing surprising or notable if my cousin should
shut the keep against all comers, including Leicester or his sheriff.”

“You and your cousin are both de Braose, are you not?”
Edward asked.

“We are indeed, my lord.” She smiled. “We are both named
Matilda de Braose.”

Edward smiled too. “And both courageous women as befits your
heritage.”

The gallant remark, a little spark of the old Edward, raised
Alphonse’s hopes that reason would conquer the prince’s irrational suspicions.
His decision to go to Ludlow, made that morning, improved those hopes, as did
his seemingly warm and grateful greeting to Mortimer when they arrived at
Ludlow later in the day.

From what Alphonse could judge, Edward’s spirits rose and
lightened as soon as he began to make active plans. Over the next few days, the
prince was able to discuss with Mortimer, at least with outward calm, the
all-important problems of inducing men to rally to his banner and the form
their campaign must take. Now, Alphonse thought, if Edward could handle
Gloucester with tact, there might be a good chance of success.

So far all signs were favorable. Thomas had been sent, not
with an order but with a courteously worded invitation to his brother to join
them at Ludlow.

To Alphonse’s intense relief, Edward was every inch the
prince when he greeted Gloucester but with it courteous and attentive, his
manner admitting Gloucester’s importance without diminishing his own. Some
delicate subjects could be barely touched on and set aside—such as the fact
that both had made sworn agreements with Leicester and violated them—with a
glancing reference to Leicester’s almost overpowering attractiveness and
growing tyranny. Both were equally guilty which gave them a kind of bond of
sympathy.

As the goodwill each brought to the meeting became apparent,
tensions eased. Nonetheless, there were some bad moments, particularly when
Gloucester demanded of Edward a promise to uphold the good laws of Magna Carta
and to exclude all foreigners from king and council.

“You put me in a hard position,” Edward said with gentle
reasonableness. “My uncle, William de Valence, is even now in Pembroke fighting
Leicester. Am I to exile him as thanks for his service?”

“I did not ask that his lands be reft from him or that he be
forbidden residence here,” Gloucester replied. “He may hold what is his in
peace, as long as he obeys English law. What I asked is that we who know the
ways of this land be the counselors who advise the king and that no foreign law
take precedence over English people.”

“I have no quarrel with that,” Edward said. “But how will
you take your assurance? Must I swear oaths and sign letters—”

“No!” Gloucester exclaimed, his color rising as he
remembered how many oaths and useless proclamations had been wrung from Edward.
“You are my lord, and if I cannot trust you, I cannot serve you. Give me your
word, with your hand in mine that you will observe the good old laws and ban
from the king’s council those who scoff at them, and I will be content.”

Edward’s hand came out without the smallest hesitation and
Gloucester laid his own in it. “I swear,” the prince said.

Later in the day, as Edward, Gilbert, and Mortimer settled
down to discuss the military objectives that must be attained and their
priority, a genuine feeling of respect and cooperation began to emerge.
Edward’s drooping eyelid lifted, Gloucester’s normally ruddy complexion lost
the pallor of discomfort and concentration and the lines of bitter hopelessness
on Mortimer’s face smoothed as his mouth relaxed and his eyes lit.

Alphonse felt a surge of enthusiasm himself and a prick of
hopeful superstition. For once, forces totally outside of their control seemed
to be working for them. Leicester himself had inadvertently done Edward a good
turn. Conveniently, on May 30, two days before Gloucester arrived in Ludlow,
Leicester had announced the prince’s escape by proclamation and summoned the whole
feudal army of England to assemble at Worcester to fight the invaders in
Pembroke, where he assumed Edward had fled.

Once the proclamation was spread abroad, no one could doubt
that Edward was free and intended to fight. On the next day, Mortimer’s men had
carried letters under Edward’s seal all up through Cheshire and Shropshire. The
letters repudiated as forced the prince’s agreement to yield his lands to
Leicester and summoned his vassals, not to join the invaders but to free the
king from Leicester’s tyranny under his son’s banner. By June 2, when
Gloucester arrived in Ludlow, a small army was assembling north of the village
on the east bank of the Teme.

Counting on the news of the prince’s release to restore
their enthusiasm, Mortimer had also sent out summonses to his vassals and
invitations to his fellow lords Marcher to join the prince. Most, like Mortimer
himself, were so stained with rebellion that they had little to lose, but
Edward’s recognition gave a new legitimacy and a new hope to the war they were
waging. They responded swiftly and were assembled near Wigmore by June 2.

To show his trust in Edward and to display his own goodwill,
Gloucester had left at Leominster that portion of his army which he had brought
with him. They were only four leagues from Ludlow, however, and as ready to
move as the other forces on June 2. In addition, Gloucester had other troops
encamped or holding keeps and manors in various positions southward all the way
to the river Usk. Messengers came frequently up the chain of armed camps and
brought during the night of June 2 an essential piece of news. Although he had
summoned his army to Worcester, Leicester had not yet left the town of
Gloucester, perhaps because he hoped that Edward would be retaken on his way south
to join his uncles in Pembroke.

There were other possible reasons for Leicester’s inaction,
but no one wasted time speculating on why he did not move. It was enough that
his behavior gave them a chance to achieve what Mortimer had failed to do in
his last rebellion, close off the crossings of the river Severn. Unless the
whole country rose at Leicester’s summons, in which case the Royalists’ cause
was hopeless anyway, most of the forces loyal to Leicester would come from
London and the southeast. These men must be kept from reaching Leicester, a
general objective too clear to all to raise a single contrary opinion. What
pleased Alphonse, who quite properly had taken no part at all in the
discussion, was that the method of achieving that objective had also been
agreed on with refreshing unanimity.

On June 3 the leaders left Ludlow, separating to join the
men who had come at their orders. They had agreed to meet at Worcester to take
the town and destroy the bridges over the river Severn. If the crossing of the
Severn was blocked, no army could reach Leicester, and he would be isolated
with a relatively small force and no strong base west of the river.

Alphonse rode at Edward’s side, thanking God that he had had
the foresight to ask for a formal release from his promise to serve Gilbert
when he had been sent with Thomas to join the prince. To ask for his freedom
during the making of the pact between the prince and the earl might have added
another bone of contention, small perhaps, but even a trifle was too much when
a mixed force such as the prince now headed was in the field.

The contest for Worcester was brief, so brief Alphonse
almost felt cheated. Leicester’s supporters closed the city gates and cried
defiance to Gloucester’s army, which arrived first, but when the prince’s
banner was unfurled on June 5, the chief men of the city came out to make
submission. Of course, the bridges had already been torn down—Edward had driven
away the defenders and ordered demolished those north of the town, and
Gloucester had burned the wooden portions of the bridges at the western gate—so
there was not much purpose to resistance.

The prince could have ordered the sacking of the town for
spite, but he did not. There was no need this early in the campaign, Alphonse
thought cynically. The men were not yet starving for loot. There was also
goodwill to be gained by accepting the town’s submission graciously and
demanding nothing beyond the right to replace the garrison of the keep, which
was readily granted. No major victory could be claimed, but the event made
clear the benefit of being an army under a royal banner instead of lawless
rebels against Leicester. Everyone’s spirits rose.

With one accord the army turned south, destroying bridges
and leaving guards at most good fords to prevent the enemy from crossing the
Severn. On June 7 new orders from Leicester made clear that news of the barring
of the passages of the Severn had been carried to him by those faithful to his
party. The feudal host was commanded to gather at the city of Gloucester rather
than at Worcester. That Leicester had partisans was no surprise and little
disappointment. None of the Royalist leaders deluded himself that the whole
country was ready to abandon the new government.