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 guar
d 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.
Mortimer and his friends had been taken to see the king on December 13. In Leicester’s presence, Henry was sweet and smiling and seemed utterly indifferent, approving the conditions, which he called most merciful, almost without listening. More important, on December 14 they were given safe conducts to visit Edward, who had been moved to Kenilworth, carrying with them copies of the agreement.
Before he left Worcester, Mortimer sent a servant with a note for Chacier to give privately to Alphonse with this news and with repeated thanks for the jolt of hope that had freed him to see new paths through the morass of defeat. There was a hint, too, that Mortimer would be very glad of Alphonse’s future help, if he could see a way to give it.
What else, Alphonse wondered, would be included among the rolls or sheaves of parchment that were supposed to detail the terms of surrender to Edward? Did the prince speak any Welsh? Mortimer certainly spoke a few words. Would that be enough to make plans for Edward’s escape? Perhaps they would not need to be sly. Henry de Montfort, again saddled with overseeing the prince after the fiasco at Wallingford, might be too trusting and allow them to talk in private.
Alphonse called himself a fool for being flattered by Mortimer’s praise, but he still felt frustrated at being excluded from the stirring events that might take place. Nonetheless, he had already had one mildly unpleasant confrontation with Guy, who was now also in Worcester, so he held by his resolve and told Gloucester that he and Barbe wanted to leave for France.
Gloucester was disappointed, insisting that winter was a bad time for sailing. He had welcomed them into his lodging and told Alphonse flatly that he enjoyed their company enough to play host as long as they were willing to be his guests. When Alphonse reminded him that he was not beloved of either Guy or Simon de Montfort and that his presence only added to the friction already existing between Gloucester and Leicester’s younger sons, Gloucester said angrily that it was time those two strutting cocks were shorn of their combs.
Alphonse could not resist saying, “That is dangerous,” which he knew would only increase Gloucester’s determination to deflate the pride of the younger Montforts. But then he felt guilty at mixing a batch of trouble he would not have to drink, and he added, “I do not wish to be a cause of conflict, and it is not fair to Barbe. You and I do not need to hide away, as she feels she must when Guy is nearby. It is better that we go.”
“If you must,” Gloucester said discontentedly. Then he brightened and proposed, since a summons had been issued for a parliament in London on January 20, that Alphonse and Barbara accompany him there.
To this Alphonse agreed readily and with thanks. They would have a better choice of ships from London than from any place other than one of the Cinque Ports, and several of those were closed to them because one or another of Leicester’s sons had been made governor. As soon as Leicester had left Worcester, they set out for London, but when they arrived there, Gloucester complained bitterly that Christmas was less than a week away and he had no one with whom to make merry. It was ridiculous for them to leave, possibly to be caught aboard a ship on Christmas, waiting for good weather, when he would also be alone. He looked so young and pathetic that Barbara’s heart was softened and she agreed that they should go on to Tonbridge with him.
When they arrived in Tonbridge, however, they found that Gloucester’s complaint was not literally true. His younger brother Thomas was waiting for him at the keep. Not that Gloucester had deliberately lied to them, for he cried out in surprise, “Why are you here instead of at St. Briavels?”
“I have come to hold Christmas with you, brother,” Thomas de Clare said, his sharp blue eyes flickering to Alphonse and Barbara, who sat their horses to the earl’s left.
Gloucester smiled and said, “This is Sieur Alphonse d’Aix and his wife, Lady Barbara, Norfolk’s daughter. They have also done me the kindness to assuage my loneliness.” He dismounted then and embraced Thomas, adding, “I am sorry if I sounded unwelcoming. I was only surprised. I am very glad to see you, Tom. I would have had to send for you if you had not come. But it is too cold to talk out here. Let us all go in.”
Alphonse had dismounted while Gloucester was speaking and helped Barbara down. “If you will permit,” he said to Gloucester, “Barbe and I will go to our quarters. I am sure Barbe wants to rest and change her dress.”
“Your usual chamber should be ready,” Gloucester said, nodding his thanks. And the next moment laughed at Barbara, who had looked at her husband, and added, “Now do not take his head off, Barby. It was a nice, polite excuse to give me and Thomas some privacy, and might even have been true. Thomas would not know you can ride me into the ground and that you do not care a bit about your dress.”
“You,” Barbara said, laughing also, “were not supposed to notice that look. And what a shocking lie—to say I do not care about my dress!”
Alphonse flung up a hand, as he might have raised a sword to stop a practice bout of swordplay. “That is a hit, Gilbert!” he cried. “You must see that by denouncing one lie she has affirmed the other. Now, before she makes worse fools of us all, I had better take her away.”
Gloucester smiled and nodded. “But do not be long. When you are settled, you will find us in the hall.”
Some time later, when they rejoined the earl and his brother in the hall, they found interesting news also. Thomas now smiled warmly at Alphonse and Barbara. When they had seated themselves, he repeated to them that he had come east to spend Christmas with his brother because he had a letter from Mortimer, signed by Leybourne and Clifford, to say that no man of theirs would offend against Clare lands—until they were forced to give up command of their men by Leicester’s order—because they no longer considered Gloucester an enemy.
“I was not sure whether I should believe them,” Thomas said—and Barbara could have wept because the eyes were so old and wary in the face still rounded with youth—”but I thought I should test their good faith by absenting myself from our lands for a time.”
“I think you did exactly right,” Alphonse said in response to Gloucester’s questioning look. “I am sure you warned your marshal, or whoever you left in charge of the keep, to be extra alert.”
Thomas nodded and said grimly, “And I rode over to Strigul and spoke to Norfolk’s man, who promised to come up on any attacker from the rear and do what damage he could.”
“So,” Alphonse went on, “if they do attack, they will win nothing and prove themselves no more than greedy curs. But I do not believe it. I think they desire your goodwill, Gilbert.”
“I think so too,” Gloucester agreed, “since they could accomplish nothing by seizing St. Briavels, but why do they desire my goodwill?”
“To protect them against Leicester,” Alphonse said, and squeezed Barbara’s hand, which he had been holding, hidden in the folds of her skirt between them on the bench.
“Please,” Barbara protested, “if I hear another word about the Earl of Leicester, I will rend my garments, put dried lea
ves in my hair, and leap into the moat. Can we not, for an hour or two, talk of something that does not depend on him?”
Alphonse squeezed her hand again. He could have kissed her for her ready grasp of the situation and even more for her instant response. Gloucester looked a little surprised, because Barbe was usually eager to talk politics, but he obligingly changed the subject to the coming amusements during the twelve days. In a little while, when Barbe was talking to Thomas, Alphonse was able to go up to Gloucester’s chair and murmur in his ear that Barbe did not think it wise to talk too much about Leicester in open hall.
Gloucester’s eyes flickered to her and away, and his hand closed briefly on Alphonse’s arm. Alphonse felt guilty about that, knowing that Barbe would murder him if she guessed how he was twisting her words to a purpose she did not approve. He intended to explain to her why he seemed to be encouraging Gloucester’s suspicion of Leicester, but by the time he and she parted from Gloucester and Thomas to go to bed, he had changed his mind. Why argue with Barbe about a few words she would soon forget? The next day would be Christmas Eve and would be given over to getting in the Yule log with attendant giving of food and drink. On Christmas Day they would doubtless ride to the church at Penshurst and much time would be spent in prayer. And the feasting and merrymaking would begin when they rode home.
The outer bailey would be open to all that day, and no one would go hungry or thirsty. Whole oxen, sheep, and hogs would be roasted in open pits. Tubs of pottage and every other sort of dish would be stewed up from the Christmas dues that had been carried in for days by the tenants. Every troupe of players for miles around would converge on the castle. The subject of Leicester would be dead and forgotten, Alphonse thought, by the time the due solemnities of Christ’s birth had been celebrated and the joyous feasting and dancing of the twelve days was past.
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