ASilverMirror (59 page)

“Are you hurt?” she gasped, throwing aside the quill and
rushing around the end of the table, nearly tripping on the overturned bench.

“A little bruised,” he replied. “That is all.”

His voice was flat. His skin was gray, his head was turned
to her, his eyes fixed on her, but she thought he saw something far uglier. “My
love, my heart,” she whispered, coming to him and taking his hand, “what is
wrong?”

The affectionate words brought more sense into the eyes
fixed on her, and she stretched up and kissed his mouth. He wrenched his hand
free of hers, but only so that he could clutch her to him. He held her hard,
dropping his head and burying his face in her headdress. She felt him shake and
heard uneven breaths that might have been sobs, but the strength of his grip
reassured her. Though painful, it was a joy to her, confirming without words
that he had told the truth and was not injured. After a little while, he drew
one more long, shuddering breath and let her go.

Silently Barbara pressed him down to sit on the bench with
his back to the table and, when he had eased himself down like an old man with
sore joints, sat beside him. She took his hand again and stroked it gently,
lifted it and kissed his fingers and had to set her teeth because the
hand—dark-stained, she now saw—smelled of blood. But she did not jerk away. She
laid the hand against her cheek lovingly and waited without speaking.

“The war is over,” he said at last. “Leicester is dead and
all his supporters with him—Peter de Montfort, Despenser…”

Barbara bit her lip to hold back an exclamation. So
Despenser was dead! Aliva was free—and rich. And she would be in no danger even
as the widow of a rebel because young Roger Bigod would rush to her defense,
and Roger, who had not fought at Evesham and was the son of a faithful king’s
man, would also be safe. Her attention was jerked back to her husband. He had
been naming others killed and then had fallen silent and pulled his hand away
from her and rubbed it over his face.

“I do not think I have ever seen so many nobles dead,” he
went on. “And Leicester,” he shivered, “it was not right. He was a good man. I
thought him wrong to set his will over Henry, who had been anointed king, but
if I had caught the one who cut off his head and hands—”

“Oh, God,” Barbara breathed and shivered too.

“Edward was pleased.” Alphonse’s voice was even flatter, and
he stared straight ahead at the wall.

“Edward is a good hater,” Barbara said bleakly, then called
herself a fool. What kind of comfort was that remark to a heartsick man? She
touched her husband’s cheek to draw his attention and went on, “It is a
dreadful thing, but not all bad. You know, Alphonse, once Edward has his
satisfaction for an injury, he does not hold a grudge. Leicester’s death and
the manner of it may make the prince less harsh to the living.”

Alphonse turned his head and really looked at her, then
nodded slowly. “It will take time, but I think you may be right.” But he
shivered again. “War is no tourney,” he said. “I hate it. Henry de Montfort is
dead too.”

“Oh, I am
so
sorry,” Barbara cried, caught her breath
at Alphonse’s expression, and whispered, “By your hand?” She was horrified at
the thought that Alphonse could kill his own friend in the heat of battle.

He shook his head and told her how he had been trying to
kill Guy and Henry had come between them. “I wounded him. If I had not, perhaps
he would have lived. They pulled Humphrey de Bohun and Peter de Montfort’s two
sons out from among the dead—and Guy…Guy survived too.”

“Too bad,” Barbara remarked, “but that is proof that the
wound you dealt Henry made no difference. You wounded Guy also, and he lived.
Not that I really care. He is nothing, less than a worm without his father’s
power to back him.”

Alphonse’s full lips tightened, and he shook his head again.
“He is dangerous. I do not know why, but I feel he is. Not to you or me, but I
have a—a feeling of ill intent that hangs about him. I almost stabbed him when
I found him alive beside Henry’s body. I should have. He will do some great
evil… But I could not bring myself to kill a helpless man.”

“You did what was right. Whatever Guy is or does, there can
be no good in smearing yourself with filth.” Barbara sighed. “The priests tell
us that God works in mysterious ways and that we should not try to understand
Him, and they assure us that God is stronger than the devil, but Satan looks
after his own too. Let us forget Guy. He will not touch you or me again.”

Alphonse lifted his shoulders and let them fall, but did not
answer. Barbara hesitated, anxious over the unaccustomed expression of despair
in her husband’s face. Rarely did Alphonse take any matter, except what
concerned his family, deeply to heart. She searched her mind for something
cheerful to say, decided that cheerfulness was not appropriate, and at last
murmured, “At least Henry was not despoiled.”

“No.” Alphonse’s voice took on more life and he looked at
her again. “And there Edward held no grudge. He was truly grieved. He even
ordered that Henry’s body be taken to the abbey in honor and swore that he
would himself attend his internment.”

“I am glad of that,” Barbara said and, seeing that he looked
less distraught, thought she had better warn him of their illustrious fellow
guest. “Do you know that the king is here?” she asked.

“Here!” Alphonse exclaimed, opened his mouth, closed it
firmly, and opened it again to say urgently, “Barbe, I have taken my leave of
Edward. To say the truth, I do not wish to see him again, at least for some
while. We have a few hours of light left. Let us go.”

“But you are tired and sore,” she protested.

“I will be worse tomorrow,” he told her, then found a wry
smile. “And if I must lie up for a day or two, I want you near me.”

Barbara got up at once, recalling that in the priory she
would not be allowed to stay with her husband in the men’s part of the
dormitory. “You are not hurt?” she asked again. “It will do you no harm to
ride?”

He smiled at her. “I swear it.”

“What of Dadais and Chacier’s horse?”

“Tired, but for the few miles to Bidford, they will do well
enough.”

“Sit here and rest, then. I will tell Clotilde to pack what
little we have taken from the travel baskets.” She turned and, seeing her
letter lying on the table, swung back to Alphonse. “I must send Bevis or Lewin
to my father with the news. I would like to send both men so that he will be
sure to get my letter, but—”

“Send them,” Alphonse said. “So few fled the field that we
need not fear large bands of stragglers. Any who did escape will be intent only
on getting home without notice. We will not be attacked on the road, and I have
the prince’s letters to ensure our safe passage. The news of Leicester’s death
will have run before us. No official will dare disobey Edward’s order.”

They did not stay at Bidford. The alehouse was full and foul
and the light was holding. They rode on at the best pace Dadais could
keep—Chacier had put the baggage on his own horse and rode one of the pack
animals—and they came to Stratford just before the gates were closed at dark.
Because the terrible rain had washed the blood from Alphonse’s armor and since
he was with a woman and her maid, the gate guards had a good enough excuse not
to ask whether he had been in the battle, despite his own and his destrier’s
obvious weariness.

Alphonse was too tired to wonder why he was not challenged
for being a fugitive rebel so he could be brought back to face the king’s
justice, but Barbara knew. She had seen the ugly side of Leicester’s rule, had
seen his tyranny grow, but the common folk, especially the burghers of the
towns, still loved him. The battle was over, their champion was dead. They
would bow to the rule of king and prince, but if they could secretly help
Leicester’s partisans by looking the other way, they would do it.

More silent proof came. The inn in which they had stayed
before welcomed them back without questions about the two missing armsmen.
Barbara had a good reason ready if the innkeeper or the alewife asked why she
wanted a bath carried to their chamber when there was a bathhouse in the town.
But neither mentioned the bathhouse, where marks of battle could not be hidden
from public view and would betray a fugitive from Leicester’s army. Nor did the
alewife blink when Clotilde asked for the name of the nearest apothecary. The
maid was ready to say that her lady’s flux was painful, but she had her
directions as if she were asking the way to the privy or the well.

The eagerness of her host and hostess to serve her and the
little extra comforts they brought to her door with the evening meal she had
ordered—a new, fuller pillow, a small flask of
usquebaugh
, and under a
napkin, strips of old, soft linen for bandages—their looks of wordless sympathy
too, drew a few tears from Barbara. The unspoken sense of loss in the innkeeper
and alewife brought back to her all of Leicester’s dreams of justice and good
government. But the dreams had foundered because they had no sound base.
Leicester had no
right
to rule, so he gave power only to those he could
trust through love or blood—and that was exactly what the king had done. The
king’s reasons were less sound, but the act was the same.

Barbara bit her lip and wiped the few tears away. The king,
she feared, would never change, but Edward was different now, truly a man, and
would curb his father’s worst excesses. She was almost tempted to offer that
reassurance to her host and hostess, but she did not. They probably would not
have believed her, and worse, she would have deprived them of the satisfaction
of striking a last blow for Leicester by helping one they thought to be his
man.

She warned Clotilde and Chacier to be careful of what they
said, even in French, and to avoid all mention of Leicester or the king. Then
she bade Clotilde to see to Chacier’s comfort and salve any hurts he had—he was
falling off his feet—and go to bed. She went to add hot water to the tub in
which Alphonse was soaking. His eyes were closed and he did not stir. She
dipped a folded bandage into the hot water and laid it on his shoulder, which
was turning blue. He stirred and sighed but did not open his eyes. Quietly
Barbara got the warming stones from the hearth and warmed the bed.

Alphonse opened his eyes when she came around the screen
that shielded the tub and kept in the heat from the small fire. “The water is
getting cool again,”he said and, as Barbara turned toward the pot on
the hob, added, “No, do not get more water. I had better go to bed or I will
fall asleep here.” He smiled at her. “Give me your hand.”

Barbara thought that he wanted her help in rising from the
tub and braced herself against his pull, turning her head to look for the
thick, soft drying cloth.

“Do not play that game with me any more,” Alphonse said,
pulling her down and toward him so sharply that she stubbed her toe on the tub
and almost fell into it.

“What game?” she asked, catching herself by one hand on the
tub to keep upright.

“The fleeing doe,” he snapped. “I am tired to death of
chasing coyly retreating temptresses—”

“And of dodging attacking lionesses too?”

“For Mary’s sweet sake, Barbe, will you not believe I love
you and do not desire any other woman, whether she flees me or runs after me? I
am no green boy who needs assurance that he is desirable. I want peace. I
desire only a woman who is one heart and one mind with me.”

“I am of one mind and heart with you—you know that—but you
have had a war to keep you occupied. Oh, Alphonse, I do not think you play with
women to salve your self-esteem. You do it to keep amused when you are bored.”

“That is not true—at least, it has not been so for many
years. I did it to fill the emptiness that was in me because I could not have
you.”

Barbara stood up. “I am playing no games with you. I was
only reaching for the drying cloth, not turning away. I have confessed my love
and I will not pretend that confession was a lie—but I wish you would not lie
to me either. Come, get out of the tub. You will take a chill.” Her voice was
flat and her face expressionless as she reached for the drying cloth again.

Alphonse got up slowly and let her dry him. When he was in
the bed, propped up by pillows, he ate the evening meal she put before him.
Having emptied his ale cup and put a hand over it to stop Barbara from
refilling it, he broke the long silence.

“Barbe, I was not lying. I am not trying to tell you that I
soaked my pillow with tears every night or that I had no joy in the women I
took. But I told you no lie. Soon after you married Thouzan le Thor I knew I
had made a terrible mistake in not taking you when you offered yourself. But
what could I do? Pierre was my friend. I could not cuckold him in his absence.
And besides that, I
loved
you. I did not want you only for my bed. Your
body is lovely, but it is the least part of you.”

“I am glad to know you enjoyed your consolations,” Barbara
said, and snatched up the tray. “I will try to remember,” she added over her
shoulder as she carried it to the door, “that my body is the least of my value
to you when you seek another, newer and lovelier.”

“God have mercy!” Alphonse groaned. “Why are jealous women
so stupid? Think what you are saying. Think of the women I took as lovers. Were
they all beautiful? With which did I keep faith the longest?”

Barbara stood stock still, clearly remembering—and she could
remember everything about each woman Alphonse had been rumored to love while
she was at the French court with him. Then she set the tray outside the door
and came back. She named the women, and over two of the seven he shook his
head, saying he had never had any relationship with those. Of the others, he
had had one mistress for two years, another for more than a year, and the three
great beauties for a month or two each.