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They had barely finished eating when Leicester’s messenger
arrived to say his lord’s answer to Mortimer was ready. The message did not
include Gloucester. It did not exclude him either, however, and Barbara said
several times she was sure that Leicester had meant it for both of them. But
Gloucester had not gotten over his hurt feelings, and he refused to accompany
her to the keep uninvited. She was afraid to insist. If Leicester was not
welcoming, the affront might be aggravated, and she herself forgot all about
Gloucester when she arrived at the castle and Leicester told her that he would
discuss terms of submission only if Mortimer and his allies came to Worcester
themselves.

“You have some objection?” he said, when Barbara’s lips
parted.

By the time he finished the question she had reminded
herself that Leicester was already suspicious of her, and she shook her head.

“And you wish to return to Wigmore yourself?”

“My husband is hostage for my return,” she said.

“Are you afraid for him?” Leicester’s voice was much
gentler.

“I am afraid,” Barbara repeated, and put out her hand to
take the pouch he held.

The words were not lies. True, she was not afraid that
Mortimer would harm Alphonse if she did not herself return to Wigmore, but she
was certainly afraid that Mortimer would reject Leicester’s conditions and
might drag Alphonse and her into an outlaw life in the hills or seal them into
Wigmore to fight to the death. Also, she felt vaguely guilty, as if she should
have done more, although what more she could have done she did not know.
Leicester would certainly not have listened to any plea she made for Mortimer
and his friends.

“Are you lodging with Gloucester?” Leicester asked then.

“No,” Barbara said. “I will set out for Wigmore at once. Our
horses are well rested. There are four hours of daylight still. I should be
able to go as far as Bramyarde.”

“Child, there is no need to start at once. You have three
days before your husband is in any danger. I will order that lodging be found
for you here.”

“Oh, please let me go!” Barbara exclaimed. “I cannot stay
here!”

She was thinking that Guy might turn up at any moment and in
the mood she was in she would stick a knife in him if he annoyed her.
Leicester, of course, associated her reaction with her earlier confession of
fear. He patted her shoulder and begged her to calm herself. Recalling some of
the emotional outbursts of his wife, Barbara bit her lip—and he misinterpreted
that too and said soothingly that if nothing would content her but to leave
that day, he would send an escort with her as far as Bramyarde so that she
would not be in danger riding the trail through the hills at dusk.

For that, Barbara offered heartfelt thanks, and for
providing messengers to find her servants and carry her farewell to Gloucester.
She was still thinking kindly of Leicester when they arrived at Bramyarde. But
she found she could not sleep after she lay down, wrapped in her fur cloak, on
her own folded blankets before the fire in the same alehouse she had slept in
the night before. Leicester nagged uneasily at her mind. Suddenly what
Leicester’s first messenger had said in Gloucester’s lodging came back to her.
He had spoken of “his lord’s decision”, not the king’s, and that recalled to
her Gloucester’s remark that Leicester held himself very high these days.
Gloucester had also said the king was there, in Worcester.

Barbara sat up and opened the pouch she had laid under her
blankets where it could be safe and serve as a rough pillow. In the light of
the fire she examined the seal on the folded parchment within—Leicester’s seal.
Was the earl no longer even pretending that the orders he gave came from King
Henry? If the safe conducts she carried were from Leicester rather than from
the king, would that permit the earl to violate them—on the king’s order? And
if she raised those questions with Mortimer, which honesty urged, would she
destroy all chance that peace would be made?

When she reached Wigmore late the next afternoon, Barbara
was taken at once to Mortimer and recited the verbal message she had been given
as close to word for word as she could manage. Roger de Mortimer, Roger
Leybourne, and a third lord of the Marches, Roger Clifford, were to appear on
December 12 at Worcester to discuss the terms of their submission to Leicester.
The three men were to come without any armed troop, however, they were granted
safe conduct—Barbara offered the pouch—to leave Worcester freely whether or not
terms were agreed.

A dead silence in the private chamber closed off from one
end of the great hall followed her little speech. Barbara was not surprised. To
offer safe conduct only out of Worcester, rather than to their own borders, was
like giving a prisoner permission to run free when he wore a chain that allowed
him three steps. If Mortimer and his allies refused the terms Leicester
offered, there was a whole army to chase them down and capture them between
Worcester and their own lands.

The silence was so complete that Barbara heard a stifled sob
so soft a whisper would have drowned it. Mortimer heard it too. His head jerked
infinitesimally toward the farthest corner of the room where his wife stood. He
did not complete the motion but opened the pouch and drew out its contents. His
head was bent toward the parchment, but Barbara did not think he saw what he
held, and before she thought, she cried out, “Do not break the seal before
looking at it.”

Every head turned to her, then to Mortimer, whose eyes had
already gone back to the parchment. “The king is in Worcester,” he said, “but
this is Leicester’s seal.” He stared into nothing briefly, then nodded at
Barbara. “I thank you.”

Barbara shivered, and Alphonse, who had been standing close
beside her, put his arm around her and said, “You must be chilled to the bone
by that long ride. These braziers do not warm the room enough. Come, I will
take you out to the fire in the hall.”

She went willingly, although she was still wearing her heavy
cloak and had not shivered from cold. Nor did she care that Alphonse’s purpose
was to get her out of Mortimer’s chamber politely so that the men could discuss
their problem in private. She wanted to be out of that chamber. Mortimer and
his wife were not her friends, and if fate saved them, it might doom her
father. But somehow that bleak thanks for pointing out one more danger, which
Mortimer gave courteously because he knew she had intended to be helpful,
mingled tragically with Matilda’s soft sob in her mind.

“Do you wish to go back?” she asked Alphonse.

He had been guiding her past servants and men-at-arms toward
a bench by the hearth, but he started slightly at her question as if his mind
had been elsewhere and shook his head. “No,” he said, changing direction as he
spoke and moving toward the door. “You are tired, love. Let us go instead to
our house where you can change your clothes and rest more comfortably.”

Barbara agreed with a sigh of relief. Although she doubted
that the servants and lesser captains who spent much of their time in the great
hall, knew the exact situation, all seemed to sense impending disaster. There
was an uneasy tension in the hall. Small knots of men gathered to whisper
anxiously together and glance over their shoulders to catch the expressions of
the greater men as they came and went. Some of those brief, worried glances had
been directed at her and Alphonse as they came from the private chamber.
Barbara tried to look calm and indifferent, to offer neither hope nor despair,
but she could feel eyes following her as she crossed the hall.

Neither she nor Alphonse spoke again until he had shut the
door of their small house behind them. Clotilde looked up from laying out
garments on the bed and smiled. Part of the weight of despair Barbara had felt
lifted, but not all. Against her will she felt anxious about those she should regard
as enemies.

“What will Mortimer and Leybourne do?” she asked.

Alphonse put his arms around her and kissed her. “I missed
you,” he said, then smiled over her shoulder at her maid. “Clotilde, go and ask
Lady Matilda, whenever she happens to come into the great hall, if you can
bring an evening meal here for Lady Barbara.”

“Will I help you change first, my lady?” Clotilde asked,
half laughing.

“No, you silly woman,” Alphonse said before Barbara could
reply. “I will help her change. Just go away.”

“Yes, go,” Barbara said.

Since Clotilde would put a desire for coupling on the most
tactful device, Barbara thought it clever of Alphonse not to waste time
concocting a more delicate suggestion to be rid of her. She did not think it
necessary. Although Clotilde loved to gossip, she usually made sure of what she
should and should not reveal. However, these secrets were not Alphonse’s own,
and Barbara accepted his caution as reasonable. Thus, when he kissed her again,
she embraced him warmly, until she heard the door close, when she expected he
would let her go.

To Barbara’s surprise, his kiss only deepened and his hands
began to move over her body. She pushed him away with considerable energy.
Partly she was chagrined at worrying about his allies when he seemed not to
care, partly she was ashamed because she had seized on an excuse openly to
welcome and enjoy his caress, but mostly she was infuriated by the same cause
that bred Gloucester’s resentment: She had ridden four days through wet and
cold, fearful of danger, had suffered all the hardships of winter travel, and
was not to be told what resulted from her labor.

“If you do not wish to tell me anything about Mortimer’s
plans, then say so,” she cried. “Do not try to cozen me with kisses.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Alphonse muttered, snatching her
back into his arms. “I will tell you anything I know later. At present I do not
care if Mortimer and all his friends and the prince, too, plan to be snatched
up to heaven in a fiery chariot.”

“And what if the plan sends them down to hell?” Barbara
asked, leaning away from his kiss so she could speak.

“With my goodwill!” Alphonse exclaimed, beginning to laugh.
“Anything that will rid me of them so I can fix your attention on a matter more
important to me just now.”

The lure of believing herself more important to Alphonse
than politics was irresistible. Barbara also laughed and allowed her hands,
which had been braced against his chest, to slide over his shoulders. It was
not so dreadful to be cozened with kisses, she thought, as he pulled the pin
from her cloak and let it fall to the floor.

Chapter Twenty-Three

You are not a very efficient maid,” Barbara murmured later.
“Not only did it take you much longer than Clotilde to get my clothes off, but
you forgot to warm the bed.”

“I did not forget,” Alphonse said, tipping his head back so
he could look haughtily down his nose at her. The attempt was seriously
compromised because he did not let go of her and, close as they were, his eyes
crossed. “Can you not recognize a clever device? Think how the cold sheets made
you cling to me, even climb atop me.” He chuckled. “And you cannot complain of
being cold for long. Did I not warm you well—and quickly?”

“I can complain about anything I choose,” Barbara retorted.
“You might think me unreasonable—” She stopped suddenly, reminded of
Gloucester’s complaints about Leicester and said aloud, “I wonder if Gloucester
is unreasonable because he has given Leicester reason to distrust him.”

“What?” Alphonse lifted himself on one elbow.

Realizing that what she had said might lead Alphonse to
believe the rift between the earls was greater than in reality, Barbara
described her encounter with Gloucester.

“Gloucester said he had mediated Leicester’s agreement with
Llywelyn?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Barbara asked. “The Clares
were lords Marcher and had lands in Wales from the time of the first William.”

“How should I have known that?” Alphonse asked. “The only
place I knew Gloucester held was Tonbridge. To speak the truth I was not
interested to find out about his other lands, but even if I had been curious I
would not have asked. Would not Gilbert have suspected I was looking for a
position?”

She thought he was trying to draw her off the subject of the
rift between Gloucester and Leicester and made a dismissive gesture, her brows
drawn together into a thick, straight line. “But do you think Gilbert has given
Leicester cause to suspect him?” she insisted.

Alphonse sighed and dropped back flat. “In a way, yes, in a
way, no. The problem is like a snake biting its own tail. It seems to me from
this and that I have heard that there were reasons from the beginning for lack
of perfect trust. Gilbert was not originally of Leicester’s party, for example,
and there were, and still are, disagreements between them about prisoners and
ransoms. So Gilbert cannot help but wonder whether Leicester is suspicious of
him. And he may be, but even if he is not, as you yourself have said, Leicester
is so much older, with so much more experience, it is natural for him to make
decisions without consulting Gilbert, who is about the age of his third son.
Each time Leicester ignores Gilbert, however, he exacerbates Gilbert’s doubts.
Gilbert is young and passionate, but he respects Leicester too much to argue.
Thus, he sulks. Leicester sees him sulk, which increases his suspicion. And so,
round and round, with the snake’s teeth digging into its own tail, the tail
thrashing in pain, causing the teeth to dig in so much harder, causing more
pain—”

“And on and on forever,” Barbara said sadly. “Where can it
end?”

Alphonse did not answer, and Barbara shivered. Then he drew
her back into his arms and said slowly, “I am sorry, my love, but I think the
end was decreed when Leicester insisted the form of government he established
in the Peace of Canterbury must be extended into Edward’s reign. That made the
prince his implacable enemy, and everyone knows it. Everyone also knows that
any oath extracted from the prince is worthless because it is given under
compulsion. Edward will turn on Leicester the first chance he gets. So the
prince is a standard for the rallying of every enemy Leicester has…or
makes…forever. If he is pushed too hard, Gloucester will turn to Edward.”

Alphonse was surprised when Barbara did not react with more
than a resigned sigh. She had told him more than once that she did not care for
party, only that there be peace and her father and uncle both be safe, but she
had also spoken strongly about the king’s unfitness to rule. Thus he could not
decide whether to speak to her about the idea that had come to him. Mortimer,
he thought, might use the fact that Gloucester had lands in Wales and his
dissatisfaction with Leicester to save himself and his friends.

Barbara herself made it unnecessary for Alphonse to mention
the subject by saying, “You must remind Mortimer that Gilbert now knows we are
prisoners in Wigmore and will be displeased if we are detained longer.” Then
she sighed and added, “I am so sorry for Mortimer and for his poor wife, who
will be dragged down with him, but I do not see that our remaining with him can
do the slightest good. I think it is time for us to go to France.”

Since it was not Alphonse’s habit to look a gift horse in
the mouth, he accepted Barbe’s turn of subject. They had a delightful evening—a
pleasant meal together, which Clotilde brought from the kitchen—serious yet
soothing subjects to discuss, like whether they should retain Alphonse’s
lodging in Paris or try to buy a house, and whether Barbara should seek a place
as a lady of Queen Marguerite, which had many political and financial
advantages, or keep her total independence and come to court only as Alphonse’s
wife, which led to a discussion on whether the interests of Alphonse’s brother
and Aix might conflict with those of Queen Marguerite. The talk lifted
Barbara’s spirits so much that she had almost forgotten England’s problems when
they went to bed—and had a delightful night.

The talk had its effect on Alphonse, too, increasing the
conflict between his desire to protect his wife by taking her away from the
torments of this divided realm and his desire to help Edward escape his
imprisonment before he was irretrievably embittered. For himself, he had rather
enjoyed taking part in the dangerous attempts Mortimer had made to block the
Severn so that Leicester could not attack in force, and he had also enjoyed
riding deep into Wales to try to arrange a meeting with Mortimer’s cousin,
Prince Llywelyn.

The failure of both efforts had not affected him much
because he had not believed Edward could be freed by force or that any
effective resistance could be made against Leicester without Edward as its
leader. Now he felt a trifle guilty over his indifference to Mortimer’s fate
and to the pain it gave Barbe, and her remark that they could do no good by staying
in England took on force. In all honesty, Alphonse had to admit that anything
he could do to help Edward could be done as well or better by anyone else.

Thus to remain in England was mere self-indulgence—and Barbe
was paying the cost of his amusement.

The next day, therefore, Alphonse sought Mortimer in the
great hall and, when he did not find him, asked for admission to his private
chamber. There he found Leybourne and Clifford as well. All three looked at him
with the dull eyes of men who have not slept. “I have two suggestions to
offer,” he said. “The first is that when you bring Barbe and me to Worcester—”

“And why should we allow you to benefit from our
misfortune?” Leybourne asked bitterly.

Alphonse lifted his dark brows. “I did not think I needed to
explain that there is no purpose at all in holding us any longer. I am
worthless to Leicester and you could not get any ransom—or any favors—for Barbe
from Norfolk. You must plead your case with Leicester before you could even get
a message to Norfolk. Moreover, you do not know Norfolk if you think he would
ask mercy for you or pay ransom. More likely, when Norfolk heard Barbe was a
prisoner, he would come roaring to Leicester’s support and demand you all be
hanged.”

Mortimer made an angry gesture at Leybourne. “You are not a
prisoner, Alphonse, and you know it. When we leave for Worcester, you may come
with us or ride where else you will. It cannot matter. Roger is only at his
wit’s end.”

“And I am trying to extend his wit,” Alphonse said, his lips
thinning in irritation. “You must treat us as prisoners so that you may yield
us up openly, where all may know of it. Freeing us—you may say we were the only
prisoners you could bring in the short time you were given to obey Leicester’s
summons to Worcester—will show your good intention of freeing all your other
prisoners and will cost you nothing at all.”

A spark of interest showed in Leybourne’s eyes. “By God,
that is clever.”

“Not really,” Alphonse said. “I beg your pardon all, but I
fear you are so deep in the rut of defeat that you are not thinking, just
chewing the bitter cud over and over. Which brings me to what I had intended to
say when I began. I think it would be most to your benefit to release us to
Gloucester, not Leicester.”

Mortimer’s mouth twisted. “It is Leicester we must find a
way to cozen.”

“I do not think you can succeed again. Leicester is a
generous enemy but not a fool. You have twice failed to fulfill agreements with
him. What can you now offer that he will believe? No, your one hope, as I see
it, is to try to gain Gloucester’s sympathy—”

He was interrupted by harsh laughter and looked around at
the three faces with surprise. Clifford said, “I am afraid Gloucester does not
love us much. We raided and looted his Welsh lands.”

“Recently?” Alphonse asked. “Since you fought him in June
and July?”

“No, not since then.”

Alphonse smiled. “Then the ‘insults’ he has suffered from
Leicester are fresher in his mind and far more painful than any damage you may
have done to his purse. Remember, I told you of the cracks in the alliance
between Gloucester and Leicester. Barbe says these are wider now. If you can
use the excuse of handing us over to Gloucester to speak to him, you can say
you are sorry that, because he is an enemy to your overlord, the prince, you
were forced to attack him even though he is a fellow Marcher lord.”

“And what good will that do?” Clifford asked angrily. “Will
we not seem like beaten dogs, licking his hand for favor?”

“Not if you speak with dignity and ask no favor. You must
say, of course, that you released my wife and me to him at our request. The
apology will pave the way for me to speak well of you to Gloucester, to say you
are not unruly robber barons but only fixedly loyal to your prince, and to
suggest to him that Leicester does not understand the problems of the Marches
and that the punishment he proposes to inflict on you—whatever it is—will
increase those problems.”

Leybourne shifted on his bench. “You have seen and heard a
great deal since you met Hamo on the road…” His voice was apologetic, and he
did not seem to know how to finish the sentence.

“What could a prisoner have seen or heard?” Alphonse asked,
then smiled. And added, “And surely if I had given my parole and been free to
go about the keep or even ride out with a guard, you would make me swear an
oath to be silent about what I had learned by chance. Gloucester would not
wonder at that or question me. He is a most honorable young man.”

Mortimer sat up straighter in his chair. His eyes were
bright now and his expression thoughtful. “You offer us a thin thread of hope,
but a thin thread can trail a thicker line behind it. We should have some way
of passing information to each other privately without compromising your
position—if we survive this submission.”

“I do not think I will be in England much longer,” Alphonse
said. “I suspect that Leicester will order me to go home to France. And I have
no excuse to stay.”

Alphonse sounded sincerely regretful, and in a sense he was.
He knew he would enjoy the kind of intrigue he foresaw—slowly convincing
Gloucester that the good of his country rested with Edward, not Leicester,
followed by some exciting adventures in arranging the prince’s escape, and
capped by some hard fighting when Edward’s forces confronted Leicester’s. This
was exactly the kind of enterprise he most enjoyed. However, he knew Barbe
would not see it his way. She was too deeply, too personally, involved and
would suffer if he embroiled himself in these events. And half the fun would be
gone from the enterprise if he could not talk it over with her.

At the end of the following week, Alphonse was patting
himself on the back because the meetings with Gloucester and Leicester had
proceeded smoothly just as he had hoped—in some ways even better. Leicester’s
terms of surrender were harsh. Mortimer, Clifford, and Leybourne’s estates were
forfeit for a year and they were to be exiled to Ireland for that time.
However, the severity was not unexpected, and the Marchers had already bemoaned
to Gloucester the certain overrunning of their lands during that time by the
Welsh. Gilbert had made no promises, aside from granting them a month’s grace
before leaving for Ireland, and agreeing to speak to them again before they set
sail.

Gloucester had been very thoughtful after Mortimer and his
two friends left Worcester, however, and pointed out to Alphonse that whoever
Leicester appointed to oversee the Marcher lords’ estates—most probably one of
his sons, he remarked with a grimace—had no particular reason to guard the
property too carefully. That meant Gloucester’s lands would be overrun along
with theirs. Alphonse, who already knew this, nonetheless exclaimed
sympathetically. And, Gloucester went on, he had less faith in Llywelyn’s
promise not to raid than in the Marchers’ promises to abide by this new
agreement. Not that Llywelyn was himself likely to lead the raiding parties,
Gloucester admitted. However, he was even less likely to hunt down other
raiders. Alphonse laughed and agreed. Frowning thoughtfully, Gloucester, who
had been treated with considerable respect by Mortimer and his friends, had
talked at length to Alphonse about working out a way to avoid exiling the lords
Marcher to Ireland and at the same time prevent them from starting the war a
third time.

Of equal advantage was that Leicester had not been as
inflexible as he might. His strict view of abiding by legal forms outwardly,
whatever the reality, led him to grant the Marchers’ plea that they could not
go into exile until the king and also the prince, their particular overlord,
had given them permission to leave the country.