ASilverMirror (57 page)

“I am Alphonse d’Aix,” he shouted, “in Prince Edward’s
service. Can you tell me where I may find the prince or my lord of Gloucester?”

“Not far.” The horseman pointed. “In the river meadow just
beyond the trees.”

Alphonse followed a rough trail to an open area where a
group of horsemen sat together. To the left, in the direction from which
Alphonse had come, brush and young saplings had been cleared away so that the
road was visible. Footmen were filling the meadow. Beyond them a troop of
horses clattered down the road. Alphonse rode across, bowed in the saddle to
the prince, and lifted his hand to Gloucester.

“As always, Alphonse, you appear the moment you are needed,”
Edward said. “How far to Evesham?”

“No more than one league from here, my lord. And Mortimer
said to me that Leicester has not seized the high ground north of the town. We
should make all haste.”

“That is where the horsemen are going,” Edward said, but he
sounded pleased, not impatient.

Alphonse laughed. “I should not try to teach an expert to
suck eggs,” he said. “I am no trained battle leader.”

“It takes no trained battle leader to know the advantage of
holding that ridge,” Gloucester remarked.

There was a brief, uneasy silence. The Earl of Leicester was
a great soldier, yet he had not sent his army up to hold the ridge. No one knew
why. And no one knew why Leicester had stopped to eat and rest in Evesham,
which was a natural trap.

“Mortimer’s second message was that we outnumbered them, and
I have sent the banners we took from Simon with our forward troops of horse.”
Edward smiled when he said that, his right eye like blue glass and the left
glinting under its drooping lid. “Let Leicester think his son is coming. I
would not want him to cut short his meal or leave before we serve the
subtlety.”

Gloucester’s destrier snorted and pranced. Alphonse thought
his hand had moved uneasily on the rein. Before the earl could speak, however,
Edward had continued, “Will you hold the right center, Gilbert, and send a good
man to the river on that side?”

“Yes, my lord. Sir John Giffard will hold the far right.
Leicester will not pass him.”

Gilbert started to give further details about how he would
arrange his battle, but Alphonse did not listen. He thought instead of how
quick and clever the prince had been in distracting Gilbert from his trick with
the banners of Leicester’s allies. He had made a little mistake, Alphonse
thought, in believing Gilbert would enjoy the deception—no, he had not! Edward
had known exactly what he was doing. If Gilbert had seen those banners without
being told, he would have been far more distressed.

Dadais sidled and Alphonse curbed him automatically, while
he swiftly looked for what had startled his horse. Roger Leybourne and his two
squires were riding away, and Alphonse realized he had missed the rest of
Edward’s battle plan while he was thinking about Gilbert. It did not matter. He
had no troops to lead. He needed only to follow the prince wherever he went.
Edward set off toward the road and Alphonse grinned. At least with Edward he
would be in the heart of the battle, not sitting on the ridge and listening to
his leader yell orders as he once had done when he went to war with Louis.

Chapter Thirty-Two

As events transpired, Alphonse did not follow Edward into
battle. Because he was well known to all the leaders and was free of
responsibility for any troops, Alphonse was the ideal messenger. It was he,
when the army was in place and beginning to grow impatient as the wind rose and
the thunder growled louder and louder, who rode off to tell each commander not
to be tempted to rush down on Leicester’s men as soon as they appeared. He had
started with Sir John Giffard, on the right, and had just given Edward’s order
to Roger Leybourne on the left flank, when the shouting of a charge rose over
the wind and rumbling in the sky.

“There was no trick,” Leybourne bellowed. “Look! Leicester
is charging straight up the hill, hoping to force a way between Lord Edward and
Gloucester.”

Alphonse turned Dadais, for his back had been toward the
valley. He could see Edward beginning to move and knew he could not reach the
prince before the armies met. He would have to fight his way through. His right
hand went out, and Chacier put his lance into it as he settled his shield more
firmly. Then Leicester’s men crashed into Edward’s. Leybourne shouted his
battle cry and spurred his horse. Alphonse had never led a battle, but he knew
Leybourne intended to hit Leicester’s force in the middle and take the pressure
off Edward’s front lines. He raked Dadais lightly with his spurs and set off
too.

The horse’s power was enhanced by the downward tilt of the
land, and the first man he struck fell from his mount, not pierced by the lance
but swept aside. Another was shouldered away by Dadais’s speeding bulk, his
lance jolted harmlessly skyward. Alphonse steadied his own weapon just in time
to slide it across the haft of a third man’s spear. A twist to avoid his blow
failed. The man screamed as the steel head pierced his side. In instinctive
response Alphonse thrust hard to drive the point in farther and then let go
because there was no way to pull the lance out. From the corner of his eye he
saw the wooden shaft rise up and knew his opponent had fallen. A waste, he
thought. War was all waste. In a tourney that lance would have a blunt head,
and the man he had struck would be cursing the need to pay ransom, but he would
be alive to fight again.

The thought did not distract Alphonse’s body. He tilted his
shield to slat off a lance that came at him and drew his sword, struck at the
man whose lance he had cast off. He felt the jar as his weapon landed but had
no time to judge the harm his blow had done. Dadais was past too swiftly, but
his pace was slowing.

Off to his left he heard Leybourne’s battle cry again, and
urged Dadais to the right. Because of the angle at which they had come, they
had struck Leicester’s column well below the place where his men had met the
prince’s. Alphonse knew he would have to move uphill to find Edward. Once more
he struck and passed. Then Dadais was barely moving and Alphonse caught a sword
on his shield, hammered at the helm of the man in return, and saw him fall. He
was exchanging blows with a man whose shield was quartered silver and red when
someone thrust between them shouting curses. Alphonse drew away, guessing there
was a private quarrel there.

As if the thought had summoned him, Guy de Montfort burst
past the duelers. Alphonse shouted a challenge with the first pleasure he had
felt in this battle and struck, warded off a blow, struck again, and parried
the return thrust hard enough to drive Guy’s hand outward, which gave him a
chance to bring his weapon down against Guy’s helmet. He heard a muffled cry,
but knew his blow had not been strong enough to do more than dizzy Guy a
little. Indeed, the young man slashed at him with commendable force. Alphonse
caught the blow on his shield and forced Guy’s arm up and out, but the return
cut he readied was never delivered.

A voice just behind him cried, “Do not strike me! I am Henry
of Winchester, your king! I am too old to fight!”

For one moment, longer in mind than in reality, Alphonse’s
left knee quivered, ready to prod Dadais in an instinctive response to go to
the old man’s aid. Then the flat of Guy’s sword struck the point of his
shoulder. Had he turned Dadais, the edge would have caught his neck from behind
just below his helmet and killed him. As it was, pain speared up into his head
and down along his arm. Alphonse gasped, the point of his sword tipping down as
his grip weakened. Guy spurred his horse to push past Dadais and reach
Alphonse’s unprotected back, but the older stallion knew his work and screamed
and bit the younger destrier, who hesitated.

The king shouted again, and Guy struck again. Alphonse got
his sword up to parry but held his return blow as if he did not trust his sword
arm, pulling his shield in toward his chest. Meanwhile, his right knee was
prodding at Dadais and his left spur pricking the stallion’s flank. The horse
turned to the left and surged forward. Guy cried out with triumph and cut
violently, expecting his sword to pass over the curve of Alphonse’s shield and
slice into his chest. With an even louder shout, Alphonse tilted his shield
over, catching Guy’s weapon and forcing it down while he brought his own sword
up and over in a slash that cut into Guy’s shoulder. Guy shrieked as Alphonse
felt a resistance go soft. He raised his sword again, standing in his stirrups
and taking the chance of being knocked from his saddle in his angry desire to
add power to his stroke. He was very eager to deliver a killing blow before Guy
toppled from his horse. Triumph and rage mingled in a hot flood as he struck
down with all the strength in him—just as a new rider thrust between him and
his victim.

Alphonse could not stop the blow, and he shouted with shock
as he saw the intruder’s shield. The stroke intended for Guy had hit Henry de
Montfort. Henry did not cry out, but he reeled in the saddle. It was Alphonse
who cried out again as he pulled his sword away and saw bright red stain
Henry’s dull mail. He was so appalled that his sword hung useless for a long
moment, but Henry did not strike back, only kept his horse between Alphonse and
Guy, who had fallen forward on his stallion’s neck but still clung to the
saddle. Alphonse could not tell whether Henry was incapable of attacking him or
unwilling to do so, but he did not wish to harm his friend further. He turned
Dadais so swiftly that the stallion collided with Chacier’s horse and the blow
Charier had launched went awry. No harm was done. Alphonse struck Chacier’s
opponent so hard he fell at once. Then he drove Dadais past, turning again.
Henry and Guy had drawn back, and a defensive circle was forming around
Leicester’s banner. Off to the side, he heard “I am your king, Henry of
Winchester. Do not harm me!”

This time Alphonse was not even tempted to pause.
Let him
die
, he thought.
Let him die, and this war will be over for good.

As if drawn by a cord, Barbara had followed Alphonse as far
as the garden gate. She went no farther, but stood watching him run
light-footed under the weight of his mail and mount Dadais in a leap as if he
were a young knight proving himself. Under the fear she felt for him was a
great relief, a great gladness that she had nothing left to hide. There was a
joy in it, like being naked before her lover.

The smile he had given her when she confessed her jealousy
held such delight—pure, astonished delight that had not a jot of smug
satisfaction.
For how long
? the green-eyed demon inside Barbara asked.
At the jealous thought, with tears streaming down her face, she chuckled. But
pain like a knife stroke came with the answer. Perhaps as long as he lives—if
he does not live out this day.

When the priory gate shut behind Chacier and Alphonse,
Barbara turned and leaned against the garden wall, sobbing bitterly. Then
wearily she straightened her body and wiped her face. At least he had left in
joy. A clear mind and a light heart were as strong a defense as armor and
shield, her father had told her once when criticizing a friend’s wife who
moaned and wailed whenever he went to fight.

Before dark. Alphonse had said he would come to her before
dark. But the storm was so near and so violent that it was dark already.
Barbara laughed again, then clapped a hand to her mouth. There had been a
hysterical shrillness to that laugh that frightened her. Her hand dropped and
she looked up at the clouds, hanging lower and blacker every moment. The storm
would be dreadful. Perhaps it would put an end to the battle. Perhaps Leicester
would escape in the dark and the wind and reach Kenilworth and lock himself in.
Then there would be a long siege, and Alphonse would be bored to death by a
siege. He would take a polite leave of Edward if the prince besieged
Kenilworth.

She walked back to the guest house, almost smiling again.
Somewhere inside was a little knot of doubt that said she was selfish to hope
for such an outcome, that all of England would suffer if the war dragged on.
But all of England would suffer if Leicester were defeated and King Henry were
free to rule at his own will again, to throw lands and money down the maws of
his voracious family or squander them on harebrained, fantastical adventures in
the hope of winning his younger son a crown. Barbara shuddered and hurried
inside the guest house.

The realm could not be tormented by Henry for long, she told
herself. He was old, and Edward had nothing of his father’s softness to the
Lusignans. And Leicester’s rule had not been so different. The earl had spouted
righteous rules and texts, but instead of Henry’s favors to his cruel and
rapacious half brothers, Leicester heaped confiscated estates on his careless
and greedy younger sons. At least Henry had tried to disarm his critics with
grace and charm. He did not explain weightily why he was right to be wrong. A
gasp—half laugh, half sob—escaped Barbara and she hid her face in her hands for
a moment.

Thunder rumbled again, muted by the walls of the guest
house, but with the wind stilled, the air seemed thick and heavy. Barbara
lifted her head and walked with determination to her small chamber. Before
dark, Alphonse had said. At this time of year that meant she could not hope to
see him before compline. She had been awake since before dawn and lay down on
the narrow cot in her clothes in the hope that she could sleep away some of the
long hours.

At first her hope seemed vain. She lay still with her eyes
closed for a while, trying to keep all thoughts out of her head. When that
failed, she began to count sheep as she had been taught as a child, but the
meek curly-fleeced ewes turned treacherously into shouting armed men waving swords
as they leapt the gate. She turned to her right side and stared at the wall,
trying to find figures or patterns in the rough stone to beguile her, but a red
streak, like blood, kept drawing her eyes, so she turned her back and lay on
her left side. Clotilde sat near the door, sewing, holding her work at an angle
to see better in the dim light. At first Barbara found that soothing, but soon
the cock of Clotilde’s head made her seem to be listening. Without wishing to,
Barbara began to listen too, so intently that she thought she could make out
the faint sigh of her maid’s breathing, a tiny creak coming from the corridor,
a buzzing—no, that was inside her own ears.

Barbara closed her eyes to hear better in the dark,
listening harder and harder as the sounds receded. She felt peaceful as the
dark grew thicker, so dense that it even muffled sound, and then her ears
betrayed her. Where she had had to strain to hear, noises now rushed at her,
ugly noises, human shouts and wails. Barbara tried not to listen, not realizing
that she had been asleep and thinking in the confusion of waking that what she
heard were the sounds of the growing storm making their way through the walls
of the guest house. Her eyes snapped open. Those were not dream noises.
Clotilde was on her feet, shutting the door against the sound of voices in the
corridor.

“Wait,” Barbara cried, jumping up. “The cries! Someone is
wounded. Alphonse! Alphonse!”

She ran out into the corridor, jerking to a stop as she came
fully awake and realized Alphonse would never wail. The sudden stop saved her
from colliding with a man-at-arms, who turned with a snarl, his bared sword
inches from her breast. Barbara shrieked, a man’s cry, thin and tremulous,
blended with hers, and before either faded, a deeper voice overrode both,
exclaiming, “Lady Barbara!”

“Leybourne,” Barbara gasped, then reached for the door frame
to support herself and whispered, “Alphonse?”

“Hale and well and enjoying himself when I last saw him, but
Lady Barbara, here is the king.”

“Sire!” Barbara cried as she sank into a curtsy and in the
next instant leapt up, stretching out her hands as if to lend support. “Oh,
heaven, you are wounded, sire.”

Henry clutched at the hands held out to him, letting go of
Roger Leybourne’s arm, to which he had been clinging. “Leicester’s men wanted
me to be killed.” His hands trembled and his voice held a mixture of resentment
and disbelief. “They dressed me in this common mail and gave me a blank shield
and a helmet without even a crest. Leicester intended that I should die if he
did.”

“My dear lord,” Barbara said gently, completely forgetting
in her pity for his hurt and bewilderment how often she herself had wished him
dead. “Will you not come into my chamber and lie down until more fitting
quarters can be readied for you?”

The king cast a frightened glance at Leybourne, whose lips
tightened as he said, “You may do as you please, sire. We have taken a wrong
turn and are in the women’s dormitory, but a short exception will be made for
you, I am sure. Rest in Lady Barbara’s chamber if you like. I will go and find
the prior’s guest house.”

As she and Leybourne led the king into the room and seated
him on the cot, Barbara guessed he had been brought to Cleeve so that Leicester
could not run off with him. Her guess was confirmed when she saw men-at-arms
take positions along the wall of the corridor.