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A Silver Mirror
ISBN 9781419921766
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A Silver Mirror Copyright 1989, 2010 Roberta Gellis
Cover art by Dar Albert
Electronic book Publication January 2010
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
A Silver Mirror
Roberta Gellis
Author’s Note
In the Author’s Note I wrote for The Rope Dancer, I commented on the problem of describing the conditions in which medieval people lived, and whether it was inaccurate and unscholarly not to detail the filth, cold, heat, lice, and other discomforts. I explained my infrequent and glancing references to those conditions as reasonable because the people of the period did not find them nearly as noxious as we would. Now I wish to comment on a problem coming from the other direction—that is, modern metaphor.
A medieval person would never have thought or said, “I love you with all my heart.” Aside from the fact that the characters in this book spoke mostly what we call Old High French, they were more likely to associate love with the liver, lights (lungs), womb (stomach), or belly than with the heart. However, an author must consider her readers’ suspension of disbelief as well as historical accuracy. If my characters were to cry, “My lights and liver are broken!” or “I love you with all my womb!” or “My belly yearns for you!” I suspect the romantic mood of the reader would be broken while he or she had a good “belly laugh”. Thus, I use the modern idiom, regardless of accuracy.
There are other reasons to omit a known fact from a work of fiction. There are, for example, too many kings in this book, King Henry of England, King Louis of France, and King Richard of the Romans. Because King Richard may be known to readers of my earlier works as Richard of Cornwall and because his winning (largely by bribery) the title “king of the Romans” has no effect whatsoever on the events that take place in this book, I have chosen to refer to him here as Richard of Cornwall.
Also in this book I have mingled historical and fictional characters more closely than I usually do. Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk (d. 1270), was a historical personage, as were his brother Hugh Bigod and Hugh’s entire family. The story of Norfolk’s unhappy marriage is also true. In 1226, at the age of twelve, Roger was married to Isabella, sister of the King of Scotland. Clearly the marriage was not successful, although many marriages arranged for political or financial reasons were, and in 1244 the earl began a procedure to set aside his wife. Norfolk’s case was not accepted, and in 1253 an ecclesiastical court ordered him to take back Isabella.
I must point out, however, that there is no record of any illegitimate child. Lady Barbara, Sieur Alphonse, and all their relatives (aside from the Bigod family) are totally fictional as are any influences they are said to have had on historical events. The events, however, including the escape of Prince Edward and the movement of troops before the battle of Evesham are historical and as accurately related as possible. The people with whom Alphonse and Barbara associate, such as the Earl of Gloucester, John Giffard of Brimsfield, Lord Mortimer of Wigmore, and the young Marcher lords, are also historical personages. Only Barbara’s and Alphonse’s involvement in those events is fiction.
Naturally the description of their wedding is fiction also. I am afraid I have glossed over one custom in medieval weddings that was quite different from our own by avoiding all mention of any gift except the groom’s gift to the bride. Actually, everyone gave gifts at medieval weddings. Not only did the guests give gifts to the bride and groom, but whoever made the wedding gave gifts to all the guests. This custom could be a source of great anguish to the giver of the gifts, both because of the financial strain and because the gifts were graded in value by the status of the guest. Violent enmities could be provoked by presenting the wrong gift to the wrong person. I wished to use this custom as a plot device but, unfortunately, the book was rapidly growing too long and too complex and I was obliged to abandon that idea and mention the custom briefly here.
Another fiction is the mention of Lagny-sur-Marne as the site of regular tournaments. One great tournament was held in that town to celebrate the coronation of Philip Augustus as king of France in November 1179. I have no evidence that any others were held at that site; however, tournaments on the Continent were better regulated than those in England and not as likely to end in general riot and destruction of property. Thus, it is possible that a French town with a tradition of being a tournament site might be eager for the trade and money brought in by a large gathering of the nobility and might welcome such events.
Last, but not at all least, is the difference in attitude between a modern person and a medieval person toward the central political conflict of the book, the control of a bad king by those better fit to govern. No contemporary person in the Western world (and few anywhere else these days) would have the slightest hesitation or doubt about supporting Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester. This simply was not true in medieval times, however. Joanna Bigod states the medieval case in the first chapter of this book, and Alphonse d’Aix presents the typical nobleman’s opinion. In the last few pages of the book, also, I point out why Leicester’s movement had little chance of success even after the victory at Lewes. There is evidence that the rapidly growing middle class had more “modern” opinions and many merchants and craftsmen supported Leicester’s government, but in 1264-65 wealth and power, and thus the ability to wage war, still lay in the hands of the nobility, and it was their ambivalence that destroyed Leicester’s hope of reform.
I hope, without much confidence, that I have managed to make these medieval attitudes comprehensible and believable.
Roberta Gellis
Lafayette, IN
Chapter One
“You are making too much of it, Joanna,” Barbara said idly, watching the dancing shadows the rose leaves made as a soft breeze stirred them.
The pretty patterns of the shadows made the warm, sweet-smelling garden even more pleasant, Barbara thought. Although the manor house beyond the garden wall was far more comfortable than her father’s great keeps, where the walls breathed damp cold that called for a fire even in high summer, the hall could not compete with a garden seat in the middle of May.
“I do not think I am making too much of Guy’s behavior.” Joanna’s voice broke into Barbara’s thoughts.
“I can make Guy wish he had let me be,” Barbara snapped. “It was only because he was my father’s guest that I felt I must be polite to him.”
Barbara was beginning to wish she had found some excuse other than the un
welcome attentions of Guy de Montfort for her sudden visit to Kirby Moorside. The walled manor was the favorite retreat of her uncle, Hugh Bigod. Could she not have said simply that she wanted a few weeks there in her aunt’s company? No, she could not. Despite their fondness for each other Joanna would never have believed her.
“No, you must not do that,” Joanna Bigod said. “You would make Guy hate you. And his father is so indulgent. It would be dangerous. You must tell the earl.” Her soft voice trembled a little.
“I could not.” Barbara spoke equally softly, now remorseful for her previous sharpness. She knew Joanna was harping on Guy’s behavior because she could not bear to be silent and think. Then Barbara’s distinctive brows drew together in surprise. It was not like Joanna to give bad advice no matter how distracted she was. “You know my father,” Barbara said defensively. “He would—”
“I did not mean Norfolk.” Joanna shuddered slightly at the idea of the reaction of her brother-by-marriage. “I meant Leicester,” she added hastily.
“Tell Leicester that his son Guy is pursuing me with dishonorable intent?” This time Barbara’s brows rose as high as they could go in disdain. Because they were thick and grew straight across without a curve above her dark blue eyes, they made a distinct, burnished chestnut circumflex within her forehead.
“You do not know that Guy’s intent is dishonorable.”
There was no inflection at all in the soft voice, and Barbara was about to ask what kind of idiot Joanna took her for when the real implications behind the remark burst on her. Barbara’s eyebrows went down again into a straight, thick line that nearly met over her handsome nose, and she looked at her aunt-by-marriage with considerable respect.
“You mean I should go to Leicester and warn him that I am not a good match for his son,” Barbara said slowly, getting interested in the subject herself. The Earl of Leicester had grown so powerful in the last few months that she knew she must be wary. “That would do if I were trying to avoid young Simon, since his father will not take less than a palatine estate for his namesake, but what if he does not think me too far below the despicable Guy? It is true that I am only a natural daughter with no more than small property in France, however, I am also the Earl of Norfolk’s only child. My father is not likely to have another, and everyone knows he loves me. In Leicester’s opinion I might do quite well enough to bind Papa more tightly to his cause.”
“All true, but do you think Guy would be willing to marry you even to please his father and ensure Norfolk’s support?” Joanna’s lips twitched, but only once.
Barbara knew her aunt very well, however, and her own eyes brightened with mischief. “Of course not!” she exclaimed, and then burst out laughing and rose from her seat to embrace Joanna. “How clever you are, my love! Guy will only accept a wife with great wealth, but Leicester will never admit his son’s greed. Naturally the fond father will ask if I am really what his dear sweet child desires. The dear sweet child will assure his doting papa that he would not accept me on a platter, even stuffed with pigeons, and his papa will then wonder how I came by my puffed-up notion and warn Guy to avoid me lest I cry that he had made me an offer and then withdrawn.”
“Surely Leicester will warn both young Simon and Guy so that you will not, in your ‘puffed-up notion’ of importance, begin to speak of having a choice between the two brothers.”
Barbara was accustomed to her aunt’s subtle way of giving instructions. She wondered with a flicker of amusement whether her forthright uncle had ever come to understand how he was being manipulated. As Hugh came into her thoughts, her glance dropped to the row of little gold and green shields that Hugh’s wife was stitching into a neckband. Some were already adorned with the red lion passant guardant that watched the enemy from her uncle’s shield. Barbara looked away hastily and, having given Joanna a brisk hug, returned to her end of the bench and picked up her own embroidery. She would not think of war. It was better to think of Leicester’s sons.
“Young Simon is not spiteful and vicious like Guy.” Barbara shrugged. “He is only spoiled and lazy, but still, God save me from such a choice.”
“Taking a husband would save you more finally,” Joanna said.
Allowing the sleeve cuff she was decorating to drop into her lap before she had taken a stitch, Barbara stared at her Uncle Hugh’s wife. The one unfailing support she had had in resisting a second marriage during the first few years after she returned from France had been Joanna’s. Of course, her father had not really wanted her to marry. Even seven years ago in 1257 the political situation had been so volatile that Norfolk had feared any choice of husband he made for her would be the wrong choice. However, it had been Joanna who soothed away his concern that he was being selfish and reassured him that what was right for him politically was also best for Barbara. Why was Joanna urging marriage now?
There was more color than usual in Joanna’s face, but she kept her eyes fixed on her own work when she added, “I have learned at long last that first loves may be sweet memories but are not always best, as a rich stew is really more satisfying than a honeyed comfit.”
Barbara made a choked, wordless protest, but her angry denial of any “first love” jammed in her throat. She had had a first love, to deny it would be a lie, and she could not lie to Joanna. But was it a lie? It had been so long ago, a child’s fancy, long forgotten. She shifted uneasily on the bench and her foot touched the basket that held her embroidery silks, pushing it into a ray of sunlight. The fresh green leaves of the rose trees, even with their branches clipped and bent to form a bower over the bench on which the ladies sat, provided only a dappled shade. Now the light glinted back at Barbara from the basket, making her turn her head to clear the dazzle from her eyes and reminding her of the small polished silver mirror that lay with her matching comb in the basket. Barbara frowned.
The juxtaposition of Joanna’s remark about a first love and the reminder of the silver mirror in her basket made her more uncomfortable. Nonsense, she thought, when one has hair like mine, one needs a comb and mirror. Her hand went up and sure enough, tendrils of her thick, curling hair had worked free of her crespine and barbette and would have to be combed and tucked away again. The mirror Alphonse had given her was small and pretty and convenient to carry, that was all.
The silence was growing marked. Joanna had stopped working and was staring blindly across the garden toward the open gate in the garden wall. Barbara’s throat ached. Her uncle had been gone three weeks. News was due—overdue.
“My distaste for a second marriage has nothing to do with my first husband,” Barbara said hastily, knowing she was talking nonsense but needing desperately to say something, anything, no matter how silly. “You know I never even met Pierre de le Pontet de Thouzan le Thor. I told you we married by proxy and he died on his way to consummate our marriage more than two years later. I was so far from loving him that I almost decided to flee to England to escape him. Why should I marry a second time and become some man’s chattel?”
Joanna had been about to say that she was not referring to Barbara’s late husband, but the last word startled her so much she asked instead, “Am I Hugh’s chattel?”
Barbara made a dismissive gesture. “Yes. You just do not realize it because Uncle Hugh is Uncle Hugh. In any case our situations are entirely different. You were a very rich widow with young sons to protect. You had to have a strong man to fight for you. I am an aged virgin with a small manor in France ably administered by an honest and faithful clerk and overseen by that most selfless and honorable of all monarchs, Louis the Ninth.”
Joanna had started to giggle when Barbara called herself an aged virgin and continued to do so at Barbara’s description of the King of France. Not that it was untrue. In fact, Louis of France was so virtuous that he was rather dull. Barbara thought him easy to deceive too, because she herself had managed to do it but that was typical of Barbara.
Still chuckling, Joanna glanced across at Hugh’s niece, seeing her for
a moment as if she were a stranger. Nothing in Barbara’s appearance betrayed either her age or her virginity. Possibly because she had not been subjected to ten years of childbearing as most women of twenty-four had been, Barbara’s body was as lithe and slender as that of a young girl. But her manner was not in the least virginal, it was assured, almost bold.
No, Joanna thought, the boldness was more in the way Barbara’s face was made than in her manner. She was not beautiful, her features were too large and strong for beauty, but she had a fascinating face. The eyes, responding to the sunlight of the bright May morning and to Barbara’s joining her aunt’s laughter, shone blue instead of the dull black or sullen slate gray they often appeared. The wide, mobile mouth, its lips when she was sad or serious almost as free of any curve as her brows, had curled upward at the corners, bringing the center of the long upper lip down into a temporary bow that was eminently kissable.
The laughter did not last long. The two women glanced at each other, feeling guilty for having forgotten in a private jest how dangerous the outside world had become.
Joanna sighed. “Oh, well,” she said, “this is not a good time to be choosing a husband unless you would consider going back to France. And that would solve your problems with young Simon and Guy de Montfort. I know you hate France, my love, but you must have seen the war coming. Why did you not go with Queen Eleanor last September, Barbara?”
“I could not!” Barbara exclaimed indignantly. “Father was so angry at Uncle Hugh. Surely you did not think I would run for safety when I feared at any moment I would need to thrust myself between them physically to keep them from one another’s throats. Why, oh, why, could they not agree on whom to support?”
“Because,” Joanna said dryly, “Hugh believes that if God chose Henry to be king, only God has the right to order the king’s behavior.”
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