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“Yes!” Henry de Montfort exclaimed. “That is the whole
point. Edward is
not
weak and foolish, so the provision that the king
take no action without the consent of the council would become meaningless. The
council would not interfere with Edward’s rule. Their purpose is only to
prevent the squandering of money and the royal estate. Edward would not do that
in any case. If only he would stop to think, he would soon realize that the
provisions designed to stop King Henry’s excesses and foolishness would not
really apply to him.”

Alphonse looked into the hopeful eyes, the open, almost
innocent face. Here was honor without the black warts of the father. He shook
his head. “That would be true if you were the council, but there are not two
like you in the world, Henry.” He hesitated, then added, “And Edward is not
like you, Henry.”

Henry de Montfort smiled. “I know what you mean, but I do
not care. If we can prevent King Henry from dragging us all to ruin, we will
not try to hold the King Edward of the future to the terms. By then the reform
of the courts and the sheriff’s office will be set, and I do not think Edward
was opposed to cleaning out the corruption anyway. He will not allow it to grow
again for his own sake. As to foreign ventures which cost so much because of
King Henry’s foolishness, I cannot imagine anyone, even the pope, getting the
better of Edward.”

“That is true enough,” Alphonse agreed, frowning. “You
should take it as a warning.”

“No, because Edward has looked on us as friends in the past
and will do so again.” Henry raised a hand to stem the protest Alphonse was
about to make. “He is trembling on the edge of agreeing already. I swear it.
You and Lady Barbara showed him that I did not wish him ill, and then his
father came and pleaded with him in tears to yield. I knew we were near winning
when King Henry began to whisper that force would be used, and the prince
assured him that no one would hurt either of them.”

Alphonse’s frown grew deeper. “I hope you do not think
another visit from me would push Edward into the decision you desire.”

“No, no. I know your coming to him again today would make
him suspicious, but tomorrow—” Henry hesitated and looked uncomfortable but
went on doggedly. “You know the guards report on what is said to Edward by
visitors. I know about Lady Barbara’s invitation to the prince and what you
said, also. I thank you for that. Would you tell him that I would be overjoyed
to allow his attendance at your wedding at no greater price than his promise to
return to his chamber in the castle without any delay at my request?”

“Yes, I am willing to do that.”

“Then will you hold yourself ready in the morning? I hope it
will be possible for you to visit the prince soon after breaking your fast so
that you may be free the rest of the day, but if there is other business…”

“That does not matter,” Alphonse said. “You will find me in
the great hall whenever you need me. Lady Barbe is busy with her wedding dress,
and I think she will wish to visit the ladies who have come to Canterbury. She
will not mind if I do not attend her.”

Henry de Montfort again offered his thanks and they parted.
Alphonse was uneasy. He could not believe that the small assurances he and
Barbe had offered could have had so large and immediate an effect on Prince
Edward, and he had tried to warn Henry. There were none so blind and deaf as
those who would not hear and see, however, and it was quite clear that Henry de
Montfort had deliberately pushed out of his mind the tenaciousness of his
prince’s nature.

The following morning Alphonse was wakened by Chacier, who
then drew aside while Claremont’s page said that his master wished to see
Alphonse at once. As soon as he was dressed, Alphonse followed the boy to the
lodging of Louis’s emissaries at the White Friars. There he learned that Barbara’s
warning about the legate’s attitude was all too accurate. The previous morning,
Claremont told him, in the Church of St. Mary in Boulogne—in King Louis’s
presence—the legate had publicly called on the Earls of Leicester, Gloucester,
and Norfolk and their accomplices to admit him to England by September 1 or
appear before him in Boulogne to show cause why he should not be admitted. He
had also set a fixed time for them to renounce formally the Provisions of
Oxford, on which the form of government they had devised was based, and to
suffer excommunication and interdict if they refused.

“Why? Why now?” Alphonse asked, and related what Henry de
Montfort had said the previous evening about not holding Edward to all the
terms when he became king.

“Sir Henry believes himself to be in his father’s
confidence,” Claremont replied with a shrug, “but I doubt Leicester would be
willing to yield the power to Edward. As to why the legate chose this time,
perhaps to prevent the compromise with Edward that young Henry hopes for. All I
can say for certain is that the legate wanted the news of his total rejection
of Leicester’s peace terms to come here before August seventeenth, which is the
date set for their formal presentation.”

“So that no matter what King Henry swears or before whom he
swears it, the legate can declare the oath void.”

Claremont nodded. “If his support cannot prevent King Henry
from swearing—and the legate knows Henry’s malleable nature—his denunciation of
the whole rebellion will make revocation of the oath easy. There is more news
too, although this is no more than a whisper from one of Queen Eleanor’s ladies
to her lover. The whisper is that the Marcher lords have been driven back by
Leicester and Gloucester. The Marchers have not yet yielded, but probably they
will be forced to ask for terms very soon.”

“
Peste!
” Alphonse exclaimed. “I can see my aunt’s
hand in this. She had the news about the defeats in Wales and set to work on
the legate. I suppose by now even she is convinced that no invasion will be possible.
It is too bad that King Louis did not wait a few days before sending you.
Surely this trip was a waste of time.”

To that Claremont agreed wryly. “I thought you had better
know everything,” he added. “The news may change Henry de Montfort’s desire for
you to see Edward, but if it does not, Peter and I wanted to be sure you were
aware of what has happened.”

Having thanked him, Alphonse returned to the castle and his
belated breakfast. As he ate he thought about how much to tell Barbe of what he
had heard and decided, when he saw a page in Montfort colors bearing down on
him, to tell her everything. She had a right to know her father was about to be
excommunicated and, more important, Alphonse was eager to hear what she thought
about the legate’s move.

As he expected, the page took him to Henry de Montfort, but
he was not told that it would not be necessary for him to see Edward. Instead,
Henry repeated what Claremont had already told him about the papal legate and
asked if Alphonse would be willing to break this news to the prince.

“You
want
me to tell Edward that the legate has again
condemned the Provisions of Oxford, that he is threatening to excommunicate
your father?” Alphonse asked. “Is there not the danger that news of the
legate’s support will make Edward more stubborn?”

“No, it will not,” Henry replied. “The legate’s ruling is a
death knell to any hope of compromise. Once Edward is aware of that, he will
set his mind to accepting the terms as they are.”

Alphonse opened his mouth to point out what had leapt
immediately to his mind—that swearing would be pointless because the Church
would certainly absolve the prince of his oath. But Henry was not stupid.
Alphonse had to assume, taking into consideration what Henry had said the
previous night, that he did not care whether Edward repudiated his oath in the
future so long as he swore it now.

So what he said was “I had this news earlier from Claremont.
He also told me that the rumor in France is that your father has all but
defeated the lords of the Welsh Marches. Is this true?” Henry nodded but did
not speak, only looked enquiring, so Alphonse went on, “Claremont also said
that any expectation of an invasion grows less each day. Do you want me to pass
this news also?”

Henry clasped Alphonse’s hand. “God bless you! I was afraid
to ask so much, but from me, Edward would take that news as a taunt.” He
hesitated and then said, “I do not wish to make trouble between you and the
prince. Are you sure it will not make Edward think you are betraying him?” His
hand tightened on Alphonse’s. “It will be best for him to yield, Alphonse. He
will be watched, of course, until he really does accept that we desire only the
good of the realm and his good too, but once peace is agreed he will be able to
ride and hunt and walk about as he wishes.”

Alphonse made one last attempt to warn Henry. “I do not
doubt it will be best for him,” he said, “but take time and think if it will be
best for you.”

Henry laughed and let go of Alphonse’s hand to clap him on
the shoulder. “Of course it will.” He beckoned to his clerk, who came to them.
“My man will take you down to the prince if you are ready now.”

Alphonse delayed only a few minutes to send Chacier to Barbe
with the news of the arrival of the court and Louis’s emissaries and a warning
that he was not sure when he would be free. He bade her keep Chacier by her
until she could beg a man from her father to run errands and escort her. “And
tell her,” he said to Chacier, “that unless the Second Coming intervenes, I
will be waiting by the altar of the cathedral at tierce on the fifteenth.”

Chapter Twelve

When Alphonse sent that message to Barbe, he was only
offering a jesting apology for not hanging about her as a lovesick swain was
supposed to do. Actually, he expected to eat his dinner with her or, if that
was not possible, to share their evening meal. He had no idea, even when Edward
welcomed him with unusual warmth, that he was about to become a royal
attendant.

“I am glad to see you again,” Edward said, rising from his
chair and stretching a hand to Alphonse. “Your earlier visit did me so much
good. I could always depend on you for sound advice without any honeyed
flavor.”

“As I sincerely respect and love you, my lord—and have no
reason either to fear you or hope for gain from you—you might well count on my
disinterestedness. Also, I would have come just to talk and give you what ease
I might; however, I have news, which I am permitted to tell you.” Alphonse
hesitated, then said slowly, staring steadily into Edward’s eyes, “Some you might
think good news and some you will think ill, but I beg you to consider very
carefully before you decide what to do, if anything.”

“So? Let us have the ill first.”

Alphonse tightened his grip on the hand Edward had given
him, then let go and stepped back a little. The prince was so tall that,
although Alphonse was himself above the middle height, he could not see his
face clearly if he was too near. Edward’s hair was very dark now, almost black
because he had been out of the sun, or perhaps it had only darkened even more
in the three years since he and the prince had gone the tourney route together.
Alphonse could remember when Edward had first started to attend tourneys. His
hair had been dark blond then.

The prince still showed signs of what he had endured over
the last three months. He was thinner than Alphonse remembered, and his eyes
seemed somewhat sunken, however, the weak lid of his left eye was not lower
than usual, as it had been the previous day. Indeed, that eye had barely shown
a slit yesterday, a sure sign, Alphonse knew, that the prince was very tired or
very sad. Now there was hardly a difference between the two eyes and they were
very blue too, which usually meant the prince was up to deviltry of some kind.
But playful deviltry was entirely impossible in this time and place, so Edward
was planning something.

A prick of conscience was easily dismissed. Alphonse had
tried several times to warn Henry that whatever had changed Edward’s
mood—whether it was his and Barbe’s visit or not—was dangerous to Montfort
plans. Henry had ignored his warning.

Alphonse moved, as if by accident, so that one of the rays
of light from the loopholes high in the wall fell on his face instead of the
prince’s and Edward was turned, exposing only his profile instead of his full
face to the guards. Then Alphonse repeated exactly what Claremont had told him,
including the source of the rumor that Edward’s friends on the Marches of Wales
had been defeated. He saw the prince’s jaw square, but he thought Edward looked
more thoughtful than defeated.

When he spoke about the emissaries’ conclusion that the
invasion was a lost hope, however, Edward burst out, “I do not consider that
bad news. My mother is mistaken in what she is trying to do. I never favored
the loosing of mercenary troops on this land under the control—or lack of
control—of Lusignan and Valence.”

“I cannot help but agree, my lord,” Alphonse said. “If Hugh
Bigod had been given the leadership of the invasion—”

“No,” Edward interrupted, instantly diverted from the main
political subject by his passion for anything military. “Hugh is a fine man and
would prevent the mercenaries from ravaging the land, but he is no battle
leader. Neither is Norfolk, but for a different reason. Both of them are brave
men and good fighters, but Hugh really hates war and Norfolk has a temper—” His
voice failed suddenly.

“You will never make that mistake again, my lord,” Alphonse
said quietly. “I have never known you to repeat a mistake. It is one of your
great virtues. Another is your ability to accept the fact that it is useless to
beat a dead horse.”

Edward stiffened a trifle, and Alphonse went on quickly to
tell him about the legate’s declaration that the Provisions of Oxford must be
renounced and he must be welcomed into England. By the time he was finished,
Edward was staring at him with an intensity that Alphonse could only hope the
guards would not notice. Both the prince’s eyes were wide open and quite
brilliant. However, when he spoke, his voice was flat and indifferent.

“I do not think Leicester will agree to the legate’s terms,
since the form of government specified in the Peace of Canterbury is based on
the Provisions of Oxford.”

“That was my assumption also, my lord.”

After an extended pause, the prince said, “You are a good friend,
Alphonse.”

“I thank you, my lord,” Alphonse replied, “but I hope you
will not forget that Henry de Montfort urged me to bring you this news, not
that about the troubles in the Marches or the possible failure of the invasion.
I offered to tell you of those matters myself, but about the legate’s order to
renounce the Provisions of Oxford.”

There was another long pause before Edward said, “I will not
forget.” Then he gripped Alphonse’s upper arm for a moment and offered his
other hand, which Alphonse took and kissed, as the prince nodded, adding, “You
may leave me now.”

Nothing showed in Edward’s face or voice besides the lifting
of the weak left lid and brilliance of his eyes, but Alphonse felt the prince
was a man set for a desperate dare and braced against great pain. His manner
made Alphonse so uneasy that he did not set out for Barbe’s lodging as he had
intended. That, as it turned out, was just as well because one of Henry de
Montfort’s pages rushed up to him breathlessly just as he was about to sit down
to dinner and begged him to come above and dine with his lord.

When the servants brought up the dishes, Henry acted as
would any ordinary host, seating his guest and asking him to choose his cuts of
meat and which of the stews he would like served, directing that wine be poured
into a silver goblet. After the servants had laid the choices of meat on their
trenchers and brought bowls of stew and pottage, Henry sent them away, even his
young squires, and began to thank his guest.

Alphonse waved away the thanks sincerely. He was relieved
because he expected this would be the end of the matter. He felt his duty to
Louis was finished also. He had told the emissaries that at the moment Edward
would not truly accept any compromise, no matter what he was forced to swear,
although time itself might induce him to do so. Louis’s presence with the
legate in St. Mary’s at Boulogne implied to Alphonse that the French king had
virtually given up any expectation of mediating a peace. Since Alphonse’s
report could only support that intention, there was no more for him to do.

While Alphonse was seeking a polite reason—aside from the
oppression this unhappy land laid on his spirit—to go back to France as soon as
possible after his wedding, Henry said, “How can I stop thanking you? I am sure
it is your influence that convinced Edward to ratify the peace terms.”

“Ratify—” Alphonse echoed, but Henry cut him off.

“He told me himself, sent a message asking me to come to
him. He was pleasant. He smiled at me and said he knew I had done my best for
him. How can I stop thanking you? The guard told me what you said to him about
me, how you reminded the prince of my goodwill.”

“I will accept thanks for that,” Alphonse said, “for I know
Edward would not bespeak you kindly if he did not mean what he said, but I
certainly did not advise the prince to accept this peace.”

“Whether you did or not, that was the outcome of your
advice.” He smiled at Alphonse’s angry protest. “Oh, very well, then it was the
outcome of the news you brought.” He shrugged and the smile disappeared.
“Perhaps it was only the result of seeing you and remembering the joys of
freedom. Perhaps it was nothing to do with you at all but Edward’s
consideration of his father’s wishes. I do not know or care why Edward decided to
make an oath of peace, but he did and he has asked one single favor of me—that
you be one of the men chosen to serve him.”

“I? But I am to be married in two days!”

Henry burst out laughing. “You will be excused from night
duty, I promise.”

Alphonse did not smile in response. “Henry, it is
impossible. I am sure you told me that one of the provisions of the Peace of
Canterbury is that no foreigner be allowed to hold a place in the royal
household.”

“But Edward’s household is not the royal household,” Henry
said, smiling.

“That is a distinction without a real difference—at least I
am sure that is the way many will see it. They will believe that you object to
foreigners whom the king loves but appoint those whom you love.”

“You are too honest for your own good,” Henry said, and when
Alphonse shook his head impatiently, he went on. “I beg you to do this. It need
not be for long, only until my father comes to Canterbury and the details of
Edward’s regular household are agreed. Alphonse, it is the only thing he asked
of me. He is swallowing a bitter potion. Will you not let me give him this one
sweet comfit?”

To protest further, Alphonse feared, would waken suspicion
in Henry, which would be unfair to Edward, who he was certain did not need a
sweet comfit. Most reluctantly, Alphonse agreed to serve, but only without any
official appointment. That was the best he could do to retain some measure of
freedom for himself and to deflect the anger he was afraid some would feel at
seeing a French “adventurer”—no more than a jousting companion of Henry de
Montfort—chosen to hold a position that should have been given to an
Englishman.

Alphonse grew even more exasperated when he discovered that
Edward’s submission was to have no immediate effect and that his first duty
would be to explain this to the prince. He refused absolutely to serve unless
some reward was provided, and then he bargained for the removal of the guards
inside Edward’s chamber. This concession was granted in exchange for Alphonse’s
promise not to discuss, or even permit the prince to speak of, present or
future means of escape.

He gave the promise gladly and with a strong sense of relief
because the request told him Henry was aware that Edward’s submission might not
be sincere. However he also stated that he would not, under any condition,
report on any confidence the prince offered him. Clearly that provision
disappointed Henry, and Alphonse again offered to explain to Edward personally
why he did not wish to serve so that the onus of refusal would not fall on
Henry.

After a moment’s thought, to Alphonse’s intense
disappointment, Henry began to smile again, said he should have known better
than to think Alphonse would betray a confidence for any cause, and accepted
the terms. Alphonse sighed with exasperation, shook his head, and voluntarily
offered not to pass any news to Edward without first clearing it with Henry.
That brought a burst of laughter followed by a shamefaced admission that Henry
had forgotten that problem, and more grateful thanks. Plunging his spoon
vengefully into his stew, Alphonse began to discuss the details of his service
to the prince.

Chacier’s entrance surprised Barbara and caused her
instinctively to draw the folds of her skirt over the silver mirror she had
been looking at. She did not realize that her surprise and the swift movement
gave an impression of guilt. Chacier’s message produced a smile and a
brightening of her eyes from a bleak gray to a glinting blue. With the morning
meal, Clotilde had brought the news of the arrival of the court, and Barbara
had delayed eating for some time, expecting Alphonse to come to break his fast
with her and escort her to the castle. When he did not come she had felt sick
with disappointment, fearing that this was the beginning of a life in which any
better amusement would lead her husband to push her into the background.

Now she realized that Alphonse had not simply been swept up
into the general excitement and forgotten her. Indeed, he had not forgotten her
at all, despite the demands that were being made on his time. Chacier’s answers
to her questions awakened the liveliest curiosity in her. So the emissaries of
King Louis had summoned Alphonse at first light, and then Henry de Montfort
would not even allow him to finish breaking his fast before he called him.
Having thanked Chacier and bidden him fetch her mare, Barbara put the silver
mirror into her work basket without another glance. She no longer needed its
comfort. After the briefest hesitation she laid her work—the end piece for the
armhole edging of her wedding gown—atop the mirror. If necessary she could sit
up all night to finish it, and if the birds on their branches were not perfect
at the very bottom, no one would notice. Right now it was more important to
discover what was going on.

Barbara’s hope of finding Alphonse at the castle was
frustrated. He was still with the prince when she entered, but she was
fortunate enough to catch her father before he rode out. When he saw her, he
clapped a hand to his head and admitted he had completely forgotten her. Then
he stared at her for a moment, smiled, and said that he had better present her
at once to the king, who would be eager to hear about Queen Eleanor. One roar
canceled the excursion he was about to make, a second sent his older squire off
to inform the king of Barbara’s presence and to determine whether Henry wanted
to speak to her.

Barbara bit her lips and then let herself grin. She had been
accusing the wrong man of neglecting her. She was amused because she realized
she no longer cared that her father called her to mind only when she was useful
to him. So long as Alphonse remembered her, she did not care who else forgot.
Then it occurred to her that her father’s riding out when there must be state
business to transact was very odd, and she guessed that the reception accorded
him by the king must have been cold, and that by Peter de Montfort not much
better.