ASilverMirror (11 page)

The look of angry refusal—of what Barbara could not
guess—was replaced on Alphonse’s face by an expression of astonishment, which
melted into a smile. “I thought you were married already. I tried four or five
times to discover the name of your husband, but you seemed not to wish to speak
of him. Well, how was I to suspect that your father had not arranged a marriage
for you?”

There was a vague noise at the door of the church. They both
glanced toward the central aisle and saw that the priests and their acolytes
were entering.

Alphonse drew Barbara a little closer, speaking softly and
quickly but determined to finish what he wanted to say. “And Sir Hugh gave me
no time to ask any questions after you and John left to see Queen Eleanor. He
said, and I knew it was true, that she would be terribly hurt if I did not
appear. So I changed my clothes for an excuse to be late and followed. Then
when I found you near the stable and you spoke of your reason for remaining in
France, I thought your husband was trying to push you into accepting the
Montfort boy to curry favor with Leicester. But I told you the truth. You could
have had my protection without coming to my bed. Nonetheless, you agreed to be
my wife and I will keep you to your promise. I love you, Barbe.”

The chanting had begun by then, without the usual hum of
conversation and movement to blur the sound. The quiet was a warning that King
Louis was in the church. Neither Barbara nor Alphonse found anything peculiar
in a greater reluctance to offend the devout king with inattention to the mass
than to offend God. The king was closer, and the result of his anger would be
more direct. Together, they moved quietly toward the center aisle of the church
and some way forward. As they stopped, they glanced at each other, recognizing
that their thoughts were so much in tune that they had acted in concert without
a word or sign needed.

Alphonse was filled with an enormous sense of relief. If
Barbe wished to be seen with him at mass, it was very likely that she intended
in good faith to ask King Louis to permit her to marry him. Had she hoped that
the king would provide a way for her to escape her promise, she would have
stayed near the wall where Louis would have been unlikely to notice her. After
that, full of gratitude, Alphonse gave his attention to the service, sincerely
praying for forgiveness for the many times he had not done so.

The wisdom of showing themselves to King Louis also passed
through Barbara’s mind, but her response to the mass was otherwise the result
of endless repetitions. Her mind was fully engaged with the secular miracle she
had experienced. She went over and over every word Alphonse had said, savoring
her joy.

He had said he loved her, he had said he wanted her. At
first it was enough to cherish the idea and to glance at him as he knelt and
rose with her, catching fragmentary views of his black curls, the stubble of
dark beard on cheeks and jaw, the strong nose and bold cheekbones, his gleaming
dark eyes. But he did not look at her. Barbara was not hurt. It was clear that
he was truly attending to the mass and she was not such a fool as to be jealous
of his love of God. But the withdrawal that did not hurt reminded her that one
might come—despite his present declaration of love and need—that would hurt.

How did one hold a man? She had never tried, never had any
reason to want to hold one. She reviewed in her mind the men she knew to be
faithful to their wives, but none of them seemed ever to have been a hunter of
women like Alphonse. And then the word “hunter” provided a clue. In hunting a
doe, the pleasure was in the chase. The kill itself was nothing, and the dead
thing that remained was only meat for the table. It was the chase that was
thrilling. So if Alphonse went from woman to woman, was it not because having
“killed” his prey he lost interest in the dead meat?

Yet a wife, because she was bound to her husband’s will and
bed, was, by definition, dead meat. Only, he had believed she was laughing at
him when she said she had loved him for eleven long years. From everything he
had said, he believed he was forcing her into marriage—or, if not forcing, at
least urging an only partly willing woman to accept him. Then let him believe
it. There was no need to tell him the truth. Let him hunt her love.

Barbara choked back laughter. She would not hurt him by
seeming resentful, but she could admit she was tired of refusing suitors, tired
of being torn apart between her father and her uncle, and that, after
consideration, she had decided that being bound to an old, familiar friend was
the least of the evils that might attend marriage. Oh, what fun she would have,
leading him a wild dance—and what pleasure she would give him, yielding a smile
here, a kiss there. He would feel he was winning a rare prize.

Barbara was so busy planning into the future that she was
still kneeling, seemingly absorbed in prayer, when King Louis, coming back up
the aisle and nodding right and left to bowing courtiers suddenly stopped in
front of Alphonse.

“Ah, Sieur Alphonse,” he said. “Marguerite told me you had
asked to speak to me, but I had forgotten in the press of business.”

His voice startled Barbara out of her reverie. She jumped up
only to sink down again into a deep curtsy when she saw who was speaking. The
movement attracted Louis’s eye, and he stared for a moment, then said, “Lady
Barbe? Is it you?”

“Yes, sire.” Barbara smiled and dipped again. “How kind of
you to remember me after all these years.”

“I see you have not taken the veil after all,” he said with
mild disapproval.

“No, sire,” Barbara replied, looking down at her toes. “I
knew it was best, but I could not subdue my heart to the cloister. There was a
different desire buried too deep in it.” She looked at Alphonse.

Louis sighed. “It is true that God takes pleasure only in
willing sacrifices.” Then, although Barbara had bowed her head in acceptance of
the gentle rebuke, he seemed to remember how her eyes had gone to Alphonse and
also looked at him. “Does your business with me concern Lady Barbe?” he asked, frowning
but sounding relieved.

“Yes, sire, but—but not altogether.”

“If you have an appeal to make because of the trouble in
England, I must tell you that I can give you no answer. I cannot undertake to
listen to any private pleas until King Henry’s affairs are settled.”

“I understand that, my lord, but if you could find a few
moments for Lady Barbara to speak to you on a personal matter, we would be most
grateful.”

The king looked from one to the other and Barbara said, “You
are my overlord for the manor of Cruas, sire.”

Louis nodded. “If it is to do with Cruas, I will see you at
the evening meal.”

Barbara curtsied, Alphonse bowed, and the king passed on and
out of the church.

“That was clever, bringing in Cruas,” Alphonse said, urging
Barbara back into the side aisle, “and I am glad too that you made plain you no
longer wished to become a nun.”

“Yes, well, I was thinking how I could explain why I had not
married all these years,” Barbara said coolly. “If I do not find a better
reason before this evening, I will tell him I thought I would take the veil
because you refused me and I did not wish to marry any other man.” She shook
her head and smiled as Alphonse seized her hand. “But do not allow the notion
to take too strong a hold on you. It is not true.”

Alphonse frowned. “It is not safe to lie to King Louis,
Barbe. He is cleverer than you think.”

She shrugged. “Then give me a better reason to offer him for
my sudden request for permission to marry you. He cannot read inside my heart,
and appearances will support what I say. I did not marry in all the years after
Thouzan le Thor died, and I did accept you when you asked me.” A smile of pure
delight began to form, but Barbara managed to tighten her lips against it,
which gave her mouth a peculiarly flat, hard look. “Even if I did not expect to
be taken at my word.”

“I will not release you.” Alphonse’s voice was firm, but his
dark eyes were large and sad.

“I do not wish to be released,” Barbara assured him with a
little more warmth than she meant to show. “Women have not the same kind of
pride as men. Had taking you as my husband been horrible to me, I would not
have agreed for the sake of keeping a promise I did not mean to make.”

“But you did agree.” Most of the tension lines had eased in
Alphonse’s face and he smiled as Barbara nodded.

“Although I spoke in jest,” she said, “I did give the matter
some thought last night, and it seemed to me that, old friend that you are,
there might be advantages to marrying you.”

“Advantages you did not see before I asked?”

There was a growing assurance in his voice and Barbara began
to feel worried. It might not be easy to keep this man, who surely knew too
much about women, off balance.

“I never thought of it before you asked.” She took her hand
out of his. “I am hungry, and Princess Eleanor will wonder what has become of
me if I do not break my fast with the other ladies. And it has just occurred to
me that if you go and break your fast with Queen Eleanor, you would be able to
tell her about these plans. I do not think she can forbid the marriage, but she
does have some claim on me as a lady of her household.”

“Well thought of. If Queen Eleanor goes weeping to
Marguerite that I have stolen her lady without consideration for her, I will
have both my aunts around my neck.” Alphonse recaptured her hand and tucked it
into his arm. He seemed about to say something but did not, his brow furrowing
in thought as he led her to the door of the church.

”A word of warning,” Barbara said as they stepped out into
the rosy light of a beautiful morning.

She paused and looked around. A cool breeze had driven away
the stench of festering filth, and the colors of the garments of the ladies and
gentlemen making their way toward their morning meal in the great hall were
luminous in the early sunlight. Barbara could not help wondering whether it had
really been gray and sticky all yesterday or if the shadow in her soul had
befouled the weather.

“Warning?” Alphonse repeated a trifle stiffly.

“If Queen Eleanor thinks I desire you,” Barbara said, “she
might try to prevent our marrying. She is usually kind, but just now she is so
hurt and frightened herself that I fear she wishes to strike back at the world.
And I am the daughter of Leicester’s ally.”

A trace of anxiety made Barbara’s voice too flat and Alphonse
cocked his head at her. “I will tell her that you have accepted me because you
wish to use me as a defense against the unwelcome advances of Guy de Montfort.”

“She might believe that,” Barbara agreed slowly. “If more
important matters have not driven it from her mind, she will remember that I
was annoyed by Guy’s attentions.”

She pursed her lips, as she considered Queen Eleanor’s
reaction. The temptation when her lips formed a bow was too great. Alphonse
caught her chin and kissed her. She stood rigid, not resisting but responding
no more than a statue. He stepped back, angry at himself for going too fast,
and turned his head, thus missing the way Barbara put her hand on the wall
behind her for support. When he looked back she did not seem to have moved at
all and she simply stared at him without any expression.

“Well,” he said briskly, pretending he was not distressed by
her lack of response, “Aunt Eleanor is so bound up in her own woes just now
that I do not believe she will think of any objections. If she does, of course,
I will point out that, as a younger son, I have little of my own, and your
manor of Cruas is rich, well managed, and convenient to my property. If you
remember, that was how I knew Thouzan le Thor. The income will make a welcome
addition to my purse, a sound reason to choose a wife.”

“Yes, of course,” Barbara said vaguely.

Alphonse blinked with shock. He had expected a violent
reaction to his casual remark that the income of her manor would be a welcome
addition to his purse. He had said it only to take a little revenge on her, to
bring a little life into her frozen face. But her eyes had no color at all, and
they were so wide open that a rim of white showed all around the dark irises.

“Barbe—” he began, his head suddenly full of horrors.
Fathers could be too fond or some other man could have hurt her. But a kiss? In
a public place? How could that freeze her with fear?

She did not wait for him to find soothing words. “I am so
hungry,” she said, looking past him. “I will go now. No, do not come with me.
Go and speak to Queen Eleanor.”

Chapter Seven

Barbara’s parting words let Alphonse breathe again and
lifted the horrors off his spirit. If she was urging him to speak to Eleanor,
she intended to marry him no matter what she had felt when he kissed her. Now
that he could think, he realized her voice was too calm for her stillness to
have been caused by revulsion. It was more as if she had suddenly remembered
something so overwhelming that she had lost all consciousness of the present
time and place.

Another man’s kiss? Alphonse, who had not been a prey to
jealousy since his first love had betrayed him when he was still a silly boy,
suddenly felt the fangs of the green-eyed monster. Why had she yielded without
a struggle to his demand that she keep her word and marry him? Not because she
cared about being forsworn, she had made that clear. Had Guy de Montfort done
more than pursue her? Had he caught her and had his father sent her to France
to bear the child in secret?

Having asked himself this melodramatic question, Alphonse
began to chuckle. How ridiculous. When one came to bear a child secretly in
France, one did not come in the company of a princess and present oneself to
two queens. Besides, it was more likely that Leicester would welcome a marriage
between his third son and Norfolk’s only child, even if his lecherous son would
not. In any case, Leicester would not take a chance of mortally offending
Norfolk in the present political situation by rushing his betrayed daughter
into exile. Barbe was not a ditchling seller of favors, not even a common
knight’s daughter. Had she been with Guy’s child, Leicester would not only have
agreed to marriage, he would have insisted on it. And between them, he and
Norfolk would have found lands enough to cram into the maw of young Guy to make
him willing.

Alphonse went briskly down the steps, shaking his head over
the way love turned a man’s mind to thin gruel. The most important aspect of
his last few minutes with Barbe was not that she had not responded to his kiss.
What could he expect her to do in the church porch? It was significant that she
had urged him to go to Eleanor and smooth the way to their marriage. He was
hungry, too, and it occurred to him that he had to see Hugh as well as his Aunt
Eleanor. Hugh clearly loved Barbe very much, and she almost certainly returned
that affection, thus Hugh Bigod would be a strong ally and a bad enemy in
persuading Barbe to take her vows with joy.

In any case it was useless for him to rack his brains about
Barbe’s reaction. Most likely she had only been surprised, and perhaps shocked
and annoyed, that he should kiss her in public. No doubt when the shock passed,
she would suddenly remember what he had said about her manor and demand a
promise from him signed in blood that he would not interfere with the way the
manor was managed and would turn the income into her hands. He chuckled once
more as he climbed the steps to the hall of Queen Eleanor’s house.

Alphonse was right only about Barbara’s remembering what he
had said about her estate after her shock passed. When she did remember, all
she felt was a rush of pleasure at how clever he was. To hear that Barbara
would be deprived of the income of her dower property probably would seem like
a “fitting punishment” to Eleanor. The queen was not a cruel woman, she would
herself have protested if she thought Barbara would be reduced to rags or
starvation, but she would know that the deprivation would not be severe.
Alphonse would provide Barbara with everything she needed—all the proud lady
would need to do was ask. When Barbara thought of that, she smiled. She knew
Alphonse did not want her income. Either of his aunts could have provided him
with a far richer wife. But it would indeed seem appropriate to Queen Eleanor
for the daughter of a rebel to lose her “freedom”.

However, when Barbara first brushed by Alphonse and walked
quickly to Princess Eleanor’s house, she was in no state to consider the
question of her dower rights. All she wanted was a place to sit down before her
shaking knees gave way, and the only thought in her head, as she slipped into
the hall and braced herself against the wall, was that it must have been a
special dispensation of mercy that left her so surprised when Alphonse’s lips
touched hers that she felt nothing. Only after he had removed his mouth from
hers did desire flood her. God knew what would have happened if they had not
been in the open church porch. That and the memory of the people passing,
although all she could see was his face, had allowed her to resist the urge to
kiss him back.

If she had, her whole plan would be in ruins. She would have
betrayed her love for him. Or would she? Barbara knew from what she had
heard—it was quite surprising how many ladies offered her confidences in the
hope that she would spill her own secrets in return—that love and lust did not
necessarily go hand in hand. Barbara had listened and looked wise, but she had
had no secrets to tell. Now she regretted her lack of experience with lust. Too
fearful of being caught in the trap that had held her mother, she had avoided
kissing in corners and assignations in the woods. Her amorous activities had
been confined to words, looks, and sighs exchanged in public. That had been
amusing, but the faint stirrings of excitement had been easily quelled, nothing
like the attack of ravening hunger, the heat, hollowness, and fluttering in her
belly that had sprung to life at Alphonse’s kiss.

She had even told him she was hungry. Barbara suddenly
giggled, but then sobered. Could she allow him to see her desire for him, or
would that end his “hunt” for her love? There would be nothing funny about
losing his interest and his desire for her. Barbara knew she needed advice, but
there was no one she could ask. Queen Eleanor had held her husband, but King
Henry was no lecher. He lusted after beauty in art and music not in women.

Princess Eleanor… Barbara considered the princess. Prince
Edward certainly loved her. His voice and expression changed when he spoke to
her or she to him. Eleanor had been married to Edward as a child of ten when he
was fifteen, so he could not have fallen passionately in love with her at first
sight, as in the romances. And although fathers did not hide daughters from
him, as in the stories that were told of his grandfather, King John, Edward
certainly had played with the ladies of the court and with others less elegant.
Yet after he married Eleanor, his gallantries to women, except for common
politeness, had ended. Why? What had Eleanor done?
I could ask
, Barbara
thought,
not why Edward was faithful. The princess would say it was her
husband’s great kindness and perfect nature. I could ask what Eleanor does to
make her husband happy. The princess would be delighted to talk about Edward.

Barbara started forward into the hall without noticing that
the ladies who had attended mass with the princess and the queen in her private
chapel were coming in at that moment. One collided with her and exclaimed, “Oh,
I am sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Not at all,” Barbara replied, although she had cried out in
surprise. “I should have looked where I was going.”

Her voice drew the attention of Lady Jeanne. “You have
missed mass,” she said severely, “The princess noticed your absence.”

“I attended mass in the church,” Barbara said, smiling sweetly.
“Thank you very much for mentioning Princess Eleanor’s concern. I will go to
her at once and explain what happened.”

On her way to make her curtsy to Princess Eleanor, who was
seated at a table set up on the dais in the hall, Barbara gathered up bread and
cheese and wine, which she could eat while standing. For fast-breaking only the
princess’s table was set up. Others ate indoors or out, seated or standing, as
best suited the tasks of the day.

As she had assumed, Barbara had no trouble inducing Princess
Eleanor to talk about the early years of her marriage to Edward. In fact, the
princess was so eager to recall those happy years that she invited Barbara to
sit down beside her. Unfortunately Barbara soon found that what Eleanor had to
tell her was of very little value to her. She would have had to become a
different person to take the advice. Eleanor was by nature sweet, gentle, and
yielding. Barbara knew she was more tart than sweet, and she had been told
often enough that she was abrasive and stubborn as rock.

One piece of information Eleanor provided
was
very
interesting. Barbara knew the consummation of the princess’s marriage had been
long delayed because of Eleanor’s youth. Now, bright-eyed with joyful memory,
which had temporarily relieved her present fears, Eleanor rambled on about her
husband’s kindness, saying at last that it had made him hesitate to ask of her
more than she wished to give. But Edward had finally confessed he was
displeased with her passive yielding when they coupled. Not that he wished her
to refuse, she admitted, with a faint, genuine smile. He wanted her to
participate.

She had, of course, spoken her doubts about sins of the
flesh, Eleanor whispered confidentially, but Edward had told her that what he
asked was no sin, for he did not ask it for the sake of pleasure. God bade all
his creatures to be fruitful and multiply, and that was especially the duty of
the heir to a throne. Some priests did not understand, he had pointed out, that
unless she helped, she would not get with child.

Five years had passed between the consummation of the
prince’s marriage and the conception of his first child, but Barbara had heard
too much talk among women to believe their active participation was needed to
get them pregnant. Barbara’s doubt must have shown on her face.

The princess leaned even closer to her. “But it was true,”
she said earnestly. “There was no sin in it, for what my dearling taught me to
do made his seed come forth more strongly and so I did get with child.”

There were a number of odd noises in the background that
Barbara knew quite well were smothered laughter and, possibly, strangled
cynicisms, but she paid no heed. It had occurred to her that desire might be
quenched in a man of tender heart—and Edward, while not in general soft-hearted,
was certainly tender toward his wife—by what seemed like fear or indifference.
Also, a few actions beyond simple compliance, especially those that might seem
accidental at first, might lend spice to what would be to Alphonse too common
and familiar an activity.

So Barbara asked eagerly, “What was it that your husband
desired of you?”

But, recalled out of her own sweet memories, Eleanor looked
troubled. “Is it fitting that I tell you such things, you who are a maiden?”

Barbara made a quick calculation. Alphonse must have already
broken the news to the queen, so it was safe to tell the princess even if she
rushed right out to talk over the idea with her mother-by-marriage. Princess
Eleanor would be pleased to receive the confidence, and she would have
something pleasant about which to think and gossip.

“I ask,” Barbara said, lowering her voice even further,
although neither of them had been speaking loudly, “because I may not be a
maiden very long,” and explained about her French property and being in King
Louis’s gift.

Eleanor smiled again, this time with a touch of archness.
“And you have no one at all in mind that you would like to marry?”

Many thought of the princess as simple, but Barbara reminded
herself that Eleanor’s nature was simple, not her mind. “I did not think of
marriage at all when I came back to France,” Barbara replied quite truthfully.
“Then I only wished to escape Leicester’s son, whose attentions I knew could
not be wholesome for me.”

The princess stiffened and drew back. “You did not wish to
marry a de Montfort?” she asked with a lifted brow. Clearly she thought Barbara
was lying to make herself seem less a rebel. “I heard that Guy’s mother felt
you were not the equal of her son.”

Barbara smiled. The disdainful remark, made deliberately to
quash her pretension, was the princess’s revenge because she thought Barbara
took her for a gullible fool. “Madam,” she said, “I am sure that is true, but
the question of marriage did not arise. Guy never suggested he wanted me for
his wife, and I had no desire at all to be any de Montfort’s whore. You know
well enough that I was born out of wedlock. That state is not a happy one, even
for such as I, loved and recognized by my father. I will never lay that burden
on a child of my body.”

“I am very sorry,” the princess whispered. “I did not know
Guy planned such evil.” Tears rose in her eyes. “I never guessed any of them
planned such evil. I thought Leicester a kind and honorable man, and yet—”

“But he
is
kind and honorable, madam.” Barbara
hastened to interrupt before Princess Eleanor converted Guy’s lechery into a
murderous intent toward Edward on Leicester’s part. “Leicester is too fond a
father to see ill in his son,” she explained,
“so
he assumed Guy’s
intent was marriage. That is why he sent me away. He wished to spare both his
son and me any pain. But when I came here, an old friend who took care of my
affairs years ago when my father left me here in France with Queen Marguerite,
discovered my problem. He suggested that I would be safe from molestation as
his wife. Also, his lands and mine march well together, so I agreed that if
King Louis was willing, I would accept his suit to me.”

“A friend of your father’s?” The kind princess began to look
worried again. She knew she had been greatly favored of God when her brother
found a royal match for her with a prince only five years her senior. Sixteen
years separated Queen Eleanor and King Henry, and there were marriages far more
disparate than that. Some were happy despite the difference in ages, but others
were not.

It was easy to read the train of thought that must follow
the question the princess had asked, and Barbara smiled again. “He is not as
old as my father, and, madam, I am maiden in body, but not in years.”