ASilverMirror (53 page)

“I cannot see any reason to stay here and listen to you seek
reasons to be angry with me,” she said, drawing herself up and dropping the
mirror into the basket. She reached for it, but Alphonse caught her wrist. She
shrugged and her eyebrows rose into the little peaked form on her brow that
marked puzzlement and scorn. “Oh, very well. I will leave the basket with you.
When you are through with it, you can send it—”

He pulled her so sharply that she fell against him. Because
her head had been lifted and tilted a little back in a posture of haughty
disdain, her chin struck his chest, slamming her mouth closed and angling her
head perfectly. Alphonse clasped her tight and kissed her brutally hard. The
step forward he had taken to reach her had opened the split front of his
hauberk, exposing the arming tunic underneath, and she felt a familiar
protrusion against her groin. She pushed against his chest, although not hard
enough to break their kiss, which pressed their lower bodies even tighter
together. The bulge pressing against her grew even harder, but there were
strange gurgles in Alphonse’s throat.

She wrenched their mouths apart. “You wretch!” she gasped.
“You are laughing at me.”

“At you, at me, at the world,” he admitted, laughing openly.
“But a certain lady, who has managed—she thinks—to avoid answering a perfectly
fair question has no right to call me a wretch.” Barbara opened her mouth and
he silenced her, but this time the kiss was as brief as it was hard. “However,”
he continued, as soon as their mouths parted, “you never said a more sensible
thing than that I was a fool to spend time talking. Off with you, quick, so we
can be out of this place at once and find lodgings before dark.”

“Lodgings? But—”

“Barbe, do not start new games!” He chuckled evilly, spun
her about, and sent her toward the women’s section of the abbey with a smart
slap on the buttocks. “If you do not leave me at once, the poor brothers will
need to purify their whole visitors’ quarters. You know we cannot stay here.”

She caught up the basket as she flew by, laughing herself.
Alphonse was exaggerating. Carnal congress in the visitors’ quarters would not
require purification, but the act would be a shocking ingratitude to the
brothers who had housed her for two months without questions. Besides, Alphonse
would have to sneak into her bed after everyone else was asleep and then sneak
back to the men’s section before anyone woke. That would lend a spice of guilt
to their lovemaking, and Barbara knew a spice of guilt could provide a fine
flavor for the mild pleasure of the marriage bed—but not tonight. She and
Alphonse had been apart too long. They needed no spice to whet their appetites.
They needed a long, unbroken night and a lazy morning to play and rest and play
again. “Quick, Clotilde,” she called as she ran into the large chamber where
they took their meals but the maid was not there.

Barbara had to bite back another word the monks would not
have approved. She hesitated, wondering whether she should run out to the
courtyard to seek Clotilde or go along to her chamber and herself begin
packing. Fortunately, a lay brother came in and Barbara asked him to tell her
men to make the horses ready to leave and send her maid to her, explaining
breathlessly that her husband had come to fetch her and wished to go at once.

She thought he looked surprised, and turned away before he
had a chance to speak. Another time she might have been annoyed at his
unquestioning acceptance of her husband’s right to order her to leave a proven
shelter late in the afternoon. Just then she was too glad not to need to give a
reason that she was grateful. A few minutes later another reason for the
servant’s surprise came to her. Clotilde was already in her chamber and most of
her clothes were packed away, only her riding dress lying on the bed.

“I saw Sieur Alphonse going through the courtyard like a
storm wind,” the woman said, smiling at her astonishment. “I did not think he
would be willing to stay here, confined to separate beds, after being parted
from you for so long.”

Barbara had no answer for that and could only ignore
Clotilde’s suggestive leer. Nor was she willing, for the sake of dignity, to
allow any delay. She dressed quickly and even helped the maid carry out the
traveling baskets, most of her mind busy with what she could say to the abbot.
However, that was a task she did not need to face. She discovered Alphonse was
taking care of that matter as soon as she came out into the courtyard.

Since Alphonse had expected to ride on as soon as he learned
with whom, when, and in what direction she had left Evesham, Chacier had not
even unsaddled their mounts. A word from his master, after his first meeting
with the abbot, had sent him seeking Bevis and Lewin with orders to make ready
to leave. Thus when Barbara came out into the courtyard, her men were waiting
with the packhorses, Frivole, and their own mounts saddled and ready near
Dadais. Chacier came forward to lift her to her saddle and tell her that
Alphonse had gone to the abbot to make their farewells and leave a gift.

He came out more quickly than she expected, mounted, and
said, “Since you did not see fit to obey me, I will now take you to your father
myself.”

Until they were outside the gate, Barbara hung her head as
if ashamed and did not speak. As soon as they were safe from being overheard,
however, she looked up brightly and said admiringly, “What a clever excuse. It explained
why you were angry when you learned I was still here, and because you were
angry the abbot would not try to persuade you to stay at least the night. But
where are we going?”

“To your father,” he replied, grinning. “I would not lie to
the holy abbot, would I?”

A rich burst of pleasure filled Barbara. If Alphonse was
taking her to Norfolk himself, he must have long leave or even better, have
parted permanently from the prince. Her delight was so strong that she could
not bear to have it snatched away, so she did not ask for confirmation of her
hope. Instead she teased him by widening her eyes and asking, “Will you drag me
all the way to Norfolk tonight? I thought—”

“Did you? Did you also think of a good lodging that we can
reach before sunset? If not, you will find yourself used like a greensleeves in
the nearest ditch.”

Barbara laughed, but although the setting sun gilded the
road where it did not cast long shadows of the bordering trees, behind them, to
the south, there were serried ranks of swollen clouds. That presaged heavy,
steady rain during the night and possibly on into the next day. Had the sky
told a different story, Barbara might have chosen to sleep out. Blankets on the
grass in the shelter of a rough tent were preferable in the mild summer weather
to the pest-ridden rooms of most inns. She might even have ignored signs of a
sprinkling. A brief shower could not interfere with the urgent need that had
been awakened by her husband’s presence. But a pouring rain, seeping through
the fabric of the tent and soaking the ground they lay on would surely dampen
any but the first fine fervor. And if it rained very hard, Chacier and Clotilde
would have to come into the tent also, which would put a limit to some of the
games she had in mind.

“A ditch will not do,” she said, pointing to the clouds.

“I had noticed,” Alphonse said. “I had to bite my tongue not
to ask the abbot where to stay, but I thought you would know. Surely you have
traveled this road with your father.”

She was silent for a moment, thinking, then smiled.
“Stratford,” she said, remembering a place her father would ride hard to reach
on his journey to and from Strigul. “There is a bridge across the Avon there as
well as a good ford, and nigh by the gate to the bridge is an inn that has an upper
chamber. The alewife thinks herself better than the common kind—I do not know
why, but she speaks good French—and she keeps that chamber for the gentle born,
and keeps it clean too.”

“How far?” Alphonse asked.

“I do not know,” Barbara admitted. “We did not come this way
but rode west through Alcester to Worcester and then south.”

“How far is it from Alcester to Worcester?”

“An easy day’s ride, under ten leagues.”

“Stratford cannot be very far then, but I am not certain we
can reach it before the sun sets.”

“Well, we can look at any other place we pass.”

They did not even stop at the next village. Offensham was
little more than a cluster of huts. Bevis asked about the distance to
Stratford, but even the ragged priest did not know. Evesham was as far abroad
as he had been. The sun was down and the clouds were almost overhead by the
time they reached Bidford. There was an alehouse there, but Bevis came out very
quickly and shook his head.

“No good, my lord,” he said, “and for a better place she
only named the priory at Cleeve. But at least I learned that we are halfway to
Stratford and on the right road.”

“Then let us ride,” Barbara urged. “The light will last, if
the rain does not catch us.”

They beat full darkness and the rain to Stratford but not by
much. Large drops, gleaming fitfully as they caught the light of the night
torches, were splatting on the hardened mud of the inn yard as Alphonse lifted
Barbara down from Frivole and drew her under the eaves.

“If there is someone in the chamber,” she said, “I will try
to buy them out—do you mind?”

“Not at all, my love,” Alphonse replied. “I am sure you will
be successful, since I will prick them out,” he patted the hilt of his sword
suggestively, “if they do not like the bargain you offer.”

He was smiling and his voice was soft, but Barbara drew a
sharp breath. She was always astonished by how much threat her husband could
convey without recourse to a loud voice or violent gestures. All she could hope
was that no guest of great importance lay in that chamber. She had the feeling
that Alphonse would evict the king himself. She shook her head and murmured
some words of caution, but even while she was trying to think of an excuse to
offer the alewife for taking the upper chamber from guests already settled in,
she realized that very little sound was coming through the open door. She
squeezed Alphonse’s hand.

“It is so quiet. Surely that means there is no meiny in the
common room.”

He nodded. “You are right, but—”

He was interrupted by the alewife, who came running out,
curtsying and begging pardon for being slow to welcome them. “I did not think
anyone would come so late,” she said. “Come in, come in.”

Barbara frowned. It was not really very late. Travelers
often rode until dusk, especially in summer when the mild weather and long,
light evenings tempted them to cover more miles. She remembered that the outer
gate to the inn yard had been closed and barred. Lewin had had to dismount and
shout for a stable boy, who had asked the number of their party before he
opened it. That was why she had been so sure the inn would be full of guests.
How odd.

She had no time to comment, however, because the alewife had
recognized her when they entered the common room and she began to apologize all
over again, curtsying to the ground to Norfolk’s daughter. Barbara had to tell
her she was married, which called forth another spate of words and curtsies to
Alphonse. Then she called her husband and berated him for not having already
brought the best from the kitchen for an evening meal, and she wiped the top of
a table with her apron and curtsied Barbara and Alphonse onto the benches, ran
away to bring cups of wine, assured them their meal would be laid out at once,
and ran away again when her servant came in with the traveling baskets to see
that the room was made ready. She knew, she said, still talking as she backed
away, that Barbara would desire her own sheets on the bed.

“No,” Alphonse said softly before Barbara could ask.
“Despite the good woman’s nervousness, I do not see that there is any immediate
danger here.” He gestured with his head at the folk eating and drinking at
other tables. “Those are decent merchants and craftsmen from the town. They
would be guarding their houses or the walls if they expected trouble tonight.”

“Yes, but it is strange there are only townsfolk,” Barbara
pointed out. “I have never been here when there were not at least a few men in
travel-stained clothes.”

“I agree that trouble is brewing somewhere in this area.”
Alphonse shrugged and grinned. “But not in this inn tonight, and tonight is all
that interests me now.”

Since it was all that interested Barbara too, she dropped
the subject to tell the innkeeper, carrying a tray of food toward them, to take
the dinner up to the chamber where they could eat in private. Clotilde and
Chacier only glanced at their master and mistress for the expected sign that
they were not wanted and then gave their attention to the servant carrying in
their own meals. Bevis took a swallow of the ale and said it was as good as
ever. Chacier made a face and asked for wine, and Lewin began to argue that ale
was better with food. Half listening, Barbara sighed. She felt as if several
hours had passed since she first sat down. The alewife’s man came down the
stair empty-handed. Barbara glanced at Alphonse who had started to drum his
fingers on the table. His wine stood untouched. Again they waited, but the
alewife did not appear.

Suddenly Alphonse rose and stalked up the stair with Barbara
right on his heels. She thrust herself ahead of him entering the room, not
certain whether she would fling herself between him and the woman or shove her
officious hostess out the door with her own hands. Fortunately the alewife was
just pushing a sack of heated stones into the bed to drive the damp from the
sheets. She straightened as Barbara and Alphonse came in and looked bewildered
which made Barbara realize that no more than a quarter of an hour could have
passed since they entered the inn. She bit her lip and turned to Alphonse.