Alphonse’s guess was wide of the mark. Three days later, having followed Roger Leybourne past the abbey of Wigmore and through the poor village, not large enough or rich enough to be called a town, they found Roger Mortimer, Baron of Wigmore, waiting at the bottom of the steep ridge on which his keep was set. Barbara did not realize who the leader of the small troop was at first. The man looked almost as wild as the Welsh chieftains she had sometimes welcomed when acting as her father’s hostess in Strigul. Mortimer’s hair flowed down his back and mingled with the shaggy fur he wore over his armor. His face was more Welsh than Norman too, dark and keen. She knew him when he spoke, however, and remembered that the looks, and the long, love-hate relationship he had with Llywelyn apGruffydd—the Welsh leader, came from his Welsh mother, Llywelyn’s aunt.
“I have a summons to appear at Oxford on the twenty-fifth,” Mortimer called, his voice harsh and loud. “What has Walerand to say to that, Leybourne?”
“He has sent out a summons to his own men and hopes to bar the Severn,” Leybourne answered and then, hastily, as if to prevent a demand for more information, he went on, “I have with me Sieur Alphonse d’Aix, Edward’s and Henry de Montfort’s jousting companion, and his wife, the Earl of Norfolk’s daughter.”
“Norfolk, eh?” Mortimer laughed. “Is he still sitting on his own lands looking out to sea so that he does not need to see what is happening in England?”
“Can you suggest something else Norfolk can do without violating his word of honor?” Alphonse asked.
His voice was as smooth and lazy as ever, but Mortimer turned his head sharply. “So…” he began, but did not finish. Instead he nodded at Barbara and said, with an attempt to moderate his tone, “You are welcome, my lady. My wife will be glad to see you. She misses the company of her sister and the ladies of the court.”
Barbara found a civil smile and reply, but she did not particularly look forward to intimacy with Matilda de Mortimer. Mortimer’s brusque nod and his gesture of invitation to the company at large to enter the lower bailey left her free to dredge from her mind what she could remember.
She had only met Matilda once or twice, Matilda never having served the queen at the same time she did, if she served at all. What Barbara recalled of the woman from those meetings was not inviting. Matilda had seemed too much like her proud, envious sister, Eleanor de Bohun, with an additional dollop of bitterness because Eleanor had married an earl whereas Matilda had been given to a mere baron. A damned foolish envy, Barbara thought, because Mortimer was more powerful and necessary than Bohun. Mortimer was so essential to maintaining the English border against the Welsh that Leicester had not dared keep him a prisoner after the battle of Lewes. Mortimer had been freed to prevent his cousin Llywelyn from overrunning the Welsh Marches. He had done that, but he had not kept his other promises to Leicester.
The horses went across a bridge over a deep ditch, through a gate, and into a half-moon-shaped bailey. Barbara was surprised at how small it was, knowing it to be the outer bailey because she could see above her the strong wall that surrounded the inner court and, even higher on a steep motte, still another wall, which enclosed the great keep and two more strong towers. Barbara could feel her heart sink, and she saw on either side of her Bevis and Lewin also looking up, their faces blank to hide their anxiety.
Once inside this fortress, would they ever come out again? Mortimer, she feared, was less dependent on Edward’s favor and would be less concerned with offending the prince’s friend—and still less concerned about offending her father—than Leybourne or Walerand. Mortimer’s escort stopped in the outer bailey, but Barbara shook her head when Lewin asked softly if he and Bevis should also dismount. She felt better when Mortimer made no objection as their whole party, including Chacier and her two armsmen, followed him through the outer bailey, across another bridge, and into the smaller inner court, which held a large hall, two small houses, and all the usual outbuildings, including a kitchen and a smithy.
To Barbara’s intense relief, Mortimer dismounted there, grooms running forward to take the horses, and a moment later Matilda de Mortimer came to the door of the hall to speak a formal welcome. Although Barbara’s memory of the woman proved partly accurate, she discovered there were ameliorating circumstances. What Mortimer had said about his wife missing the company of her social equals seemed true. Matilda greeted her with considerable enthusiasm, removing Barbara’s cloak with her own hands and kissing her cheek. When she had offered refreshment to the company and seen the men unarmed and at ease, clustered around the leaping fire on the hearth in the center of the hall, she drew Barbara with her to the other side and sat with her on a bench, asking eagerly for news.
Barbara thought her a fool at first, knowing she would have learned more from listening to the talk of the men. Then, leaning too much on what Mortimer had said, she guessed that Matilda was hungry for court gossip rather than political news. Later she realized that her hostess was urging her to gossip to extract information about Leicester and his party, and her opinion of Matilda rose. She almost forgot the precariousness of the situation in the pleasure of seeming to spill tales at random while she really picked and chose not only what was harmless but what would lead to more revelations if and when she thought them safe.
By the next day the situation seemed much less precarious. Perhaps because he had less to fear himself, perhaps because he cared less, or perhaps because he trusted his people to bring them back if they ran, Mortimer treated them as guests rather than as prisoners. Barbara was delighted to learn after the evening meal that she, Alphonse, and their servants would have one of the small houses in the inner bailey to themselves. She was less delighted when she discovered that Mortimer, even more than her father, kept men’s and women’s business separate and expected women to keep well out of the way and be submissively obedient. If she had not known Eleanor de Bohun, who seemed mean and envious without reason, Barbara might have assumed her sister Matilda to be a sweet woman whose husband had turned her sour.
In comparison, Alphonse seemed more precious by the moment, even if he did have the morals of a prowling tomcat. However, not love talk but politics was whispered into her ears in the privacy of their bed that first night. She and Alphonse had discussed thoroughly what each would reveal because, as Alphonse pointed out, it would be dangerous if their stories conflicted. They agreed on almost everything except exposure of the possible rift between Gloucester and Leicester. Barbara was uneasy about that, feeling it came close to treachery, but Alphonse said, with a kind of flat indifference that Barbara now recognized as his form of rage, that he had given no oath of loyalty to Leicester and felt no particular fondness for either Simon or Guy.
Her own anger and disgust sprang to life anew, soothing Barbara’s conscience, and she let hints of Gloucester’s dissatisfaction slip to Matilda the very next day. Since she could do nothing to stop Alphonse from describing the situation, why should Matilda not gain praise and trust from her husband for discovering information he would be given anyway? Yet, although she was willing to help Matilda, as any woman would help another, Barbara never warmed into friendship for her. There was something harsh and bitter in Matilda that rejected fondness.
Fortunately Matilda was also interesting, which was of considerable benefit because they stayed in Wigmore almost a month, and Alphonse was much absent during that time. Barbara had been frightened the first few times he armed and rode out, despite his assurances, but he returned safely and custom dulls fear. Sometimes he rode out with Mortimer, sometimes with one or another of the group, thus Barbara was not surprised or alarmed when Matilda came to her house soon after Alphonse had left one morning early in December and said Mortimer wished to speak to her. Feeling no more than curiosity, Barbara caught up her cloak and followed Matilda to the hall.
“It is necessary for me to make terms with Leicester,” Mortimer said abruptly when she was close enough. “I wish you to arrange a place of meeting and safeguards with him.�
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Barbara stopped and stared, surprised but also relieved. She had feared daily to see the keep emptied as the men all marched away to fight. She knew, of course, that Mortimer and his allies had not responded to the summons to Oxford on the twenty-fifth of November, and Alphonse had told her that Walerand had not been successful in blocking the passages of the Severn River. That meant Leicester could bring his army across the river into the Marchers’ territory and attack them on their own lands. If Mortimer came to terms with Leicester, there would be no fighting, and she had never been certain—partly because she was afraid to ask directly—whether Alphonse intended to go to war with the Marchers.
“Very well, my lord,” Barbara said after a moment. “When do you want us to go?”
“Now.”
“But my husband has just ridden—” Barbara drew a sharp breath. “No.” She shook her head. “I will not go without Alphonse.”
“You have no choice,” Mortimer said, getting to his feet. “When I say you go from Wigmore, you go, and you do as I bid you do.”
Barbara backed up a step, but her eyes were defiant and her voice steady. “You can beat me unconscious and tie me to a horse, but you cannot make me say what you want me to say once I am in Leicester’s presence.”
Mortimer clenched a fist and raised it.
“Go ahead.” Barbara’s voice rose in challenge. “Break my nose. Knock out my teeth. Send me thus to Leicester who treats his wife as if she were a jewel. Do you think I will not tell him who beat me? Do you think I will beg for just terms? I will tell him you are not to be trusted, that you are a traitor and a liar, and a murderer too! Where is my husband?”
“My lord,” Matilda cried as Mortimer advanced and Barbara backed away, shaking with fear but still defiant. “You will have to kill her husband if you hurt her.”
Mortimer knew that himself. He had been much surprised and amused by Alphonse’s steady refusal to avail himself of female companionship when they were away from Wigmore for several days. Until this moment he had felt somewhat contemptuous of the respect he detected in Alphonse when he spoke of his wife, which was more often than Mortimer felt necessary. He was furious because it had never occurred to him that Barbara would refuse to obey a direct order from him, but he was not furious enough to forget how desperate his situation was and how little he could afford to make it worse by losing an emissary who could get quickly into Leicester’s presence and might have real influence. He stopped and dropped his hand.
“Shut your mouth and listen,” he snarled.
Barbara clapped her hands over her ears. “Where is my husband?” she screamed.
“Curse you! He is only ridden out. He will be back by nightfall. You must be gone by then.”
“No! I do not believe you! I will not go, leaving him hostage. Since you will doubtless torture or kill him if I cannot make Leicester meet your terms—”
“No I will not!” Mortimer bellowed indignantly.
“Then why keep him hostage? I will not go without him. I will cry of murder and rape if you put me out.”
“I will kill you!”
“Then kill me!” Barbara shrieked, knowing either that the words were a toothless threat or that Alphonse was dead already. “Kill me! I am sure that will ease your terms with Leicester and give pleasure to Leybourne, le Strange, Tybetot, and all the others. Think of their pride in being led by a murderer of women.”
“My lord, bring back her husband,” Matilda cried. “She will not listen to anything until she sees him.”
Mortimer turned on his wife with a snarl, and she backed away, but he was too clever a man to be ruled by rage. He swung his head back to Barbara, snarling again with frustration, like a baited bear. There were ways to break a spirit so completely that what was left of the person would be obedient even when far from the master, but that took time and more time for healing, and sometimes left the subject wanting in wits. He needed an emissary who could ride hard and soon, and one who would be convincing in his behalf.
“Sit!” he roared, pointing at Barbara. “Watch her!” he barked at his wife.
Barbara gladly sank down on the nearest bench. She was weak and sick with relief, since Mortimer’s behavior virtually guaranteed that Alphonse was alive and probably uninjured too. For some time she just stared blankly at her hands in her lap, but as the shock Mortimer’s order had given her receded, she began to feel warm so close to the fire, and she pulled the pin from her cloak, slid it off her shoulders, and folded it across her lap. When she moved, Matilda drew closer.
The movement seemed to release her mind, which had been frozen, but the idea that popped into her head was a surprise. Matilda had understood her desperate, uncaring defiance when she thought Alphonse was in danger or dead. If so, Matilda loved Mortimer. How strange, and yet was it so strange? Mortimer was not nearly so bad as his loud voice and wild appearance might suggest. He had not hit Matilda, although many men who could not vent their fury on its real object would have beaten a wife nearly to death for speaking when Matilda had spoken and, worse, for making unwanted suggestions.
Barbara wondered why such an irrelevant idea should occupy her mind, and then realized it was not really irrelevant. If Mortimer was not a monster, then perhaps he had never intended harm to Alphonse. So why did he not send them both to Leicester? That was easy, he liked Alphonse but did not trust him completely. Yet Alphonse trusted Mortimer, Barbara realized. Alphonse had not let her out of his sight in Walerand’s keep, but he had gone out, even stayed away from Wigmore several days at a time.
Mortimer returned to the hall but did not come near or speak to her, busying himself with his clerk by one of the windows. Time passed slowly as Barbara worried at the puzzle of why Mortimer had tried to send her to Leicester while her husband was away. Finally she began to wonder whether the plan had been set up between Mortimer and Alphonse to make her think Alphonse was a hostage and thus frighten her into pleading the rebel’s case more passionately.
The unwelcome notion stuck firmly in her mind because it fit. Alphonse believed she was of Leicester’s party and would need pressure applied to her before she helped the Royalist cause. He also had good reason to believe he was God’s gift to women, and she, had she not forgotten at least half the time to seem cold and indifferent? So he had reason to believe she would do almost anything to get him back safe. The logic made her so angry that she almost stood up and told Mortimer she would go to Leicester and he could keep Alphonse—for good—but with Mortimer’s name came the question of why he had not simply said at once that her husband knew and approved of the plan.
By the time Alphonse entered the hall, the question of whether he had been party to the plan was more important to Barbara than the politics. She was aware of him the moment he stepped into the doorway, but he did not see her at first and walked toward Mortimer, who was still involved with his clerk. Barbara sat still, as if she intended to allow him to speak first to Mortimer. As he came near the hearth, she jumped to her feet and ran forward to confront him. Matilda cried out with surprise or alarm, but Barbara’s voice overrode hers.
“Lord Roger ordered me to go to Leicester without your permission, but I would not go.”
Alphonse stopped when she stepped into his path, and his face, which had been wearing an expression of lively interest, clearly he had expected that some important news or event had occasioned his recall, went utterly blank. Now Barbara had the answer she had hoped for, and she wished heartily that she had never asked the question. Alphonse had been shocked beyond concealment. He had known nothing about Mortimer’s intention and he was very angry. Barbara swallowed, but his eyes had gone past her. He came forward again, catching Barbara around the waist and bringing her with him as he advanced on Mortimer.
“Why do you wish to separate me from my wife?” he asked softly.
Barbara’s breath caught with terror. She could feel her husband’s arm slipping around in front of her so he could thrust her behind him when he drew
his sword, but Mortimer only growled, “Do not be a fool. She would have been back here before you if she had only done as she was bidden instead of screaming that I had murdered you and planned to torture you and God knows what other nonsense.”
There was a brief silence in which Alphonse’s arm once again encircled her waist and briefly pulled her tight against him. Barbara did not know whom she wished to murder more, Mortimer or Alphonse, the one for betraying her and the other for understanding too clearly and too quickly what her terror meant. She settled on Alphonse as the guilty party in the next moment when he chuckled and said, “Ah, you bade her go, did you? That is not the way to obtain compliance from my Barbe.”
“I am not accustomed to pleading with women.” Mortimer’s lips twisted with contempt.
Alphonse chuckled again. “Pleading would have got you no further than shouting. Barbe, bless her, is not a fool and needs to know why she does something.”
Barbara promptly forgave Alphonse all his sins.
“You are proposing I tell Norfolk’s daughter why I am asking for a truce to discuss terms and then send her off to Leicester?” Mortimer’s voice was strained.
“Hmmm.” Alphonse looked thoughtful. “You have a point.”
“If Alphonse goes with me,” Barbara said, “I will not need to know any more than I do now. I will even promise to say nothing beyond what you bid me say.”
“No!” The double shout made Barbara’s ears ring.
Mortimer’s voice was louder, but Barbara was closer to Alphonse. His objection was as quick and emphatic as Mortimer’s. The green fiend that lay coiled inside her rose up and hissed, He wants you gone. He wants to be loose of you. She knew it was ridiculous. Everything that had gone before—Alphonse’s fury at the idea Mortimer wished to separate them in particular—gave the lie to the jealous thought. Nonetheless she shook her head furiously.
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