A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  Alphonse spoke as easily as if the utter blankness of her face had not turned the knife in his heart. His years as a courtier had taught him to expose only those emotions calculated to gain an end, so his dark eyes were half lidded, concealing pain, and his lips slightly curved. The expression of indolent indifference infuriated Barbara enough to dissipate the paralysis that had stricken her when John pointed out the guest he had brought with him.

  “Madame!” she exclaimed. “You cannot have forgotten me completely in only seven years, Sir Alphonse. You always called me Barbe. Have I changed so much?”

  “Not so much that I do not recognize you,’ he said, “but enough so that I would not dare use your name without permission.”

  “Oh, of course you two must know each other,” John put in quickly, hoping Barbara would control her quick temper. “I forgot that Barby was Queen Marguerite’s lady for four years. That was before she came to live with Hugh.”

  John was annoyed with Barbara, believing that her pride had been pricked because Alphonse had not recognized her at once. He turned more toward Alphonse, blocking their view of each other slightly, and pinched her arm to remind her that they needed Alphonse’s goodwill.

  “We know each other very well indeed,” Barbara said, smiling slightly now. “My father put my affairs into Sir Alphonse’s hands when he brought me to France in 1253 and had to leave almost at once to join King Henry in Gascony. And Sir Alphonse was always very kind to me, which is why I was so surprised when he addressed me formally. Madame, indeed!”

  “Good God, Barby, it is no sin to be polite,” John remarked, but he spoke lightly, adding, “well then, I will leave you to renew your old acquaintance while I go and tell Hugh my news.”

  It was safe enough and might even be profitable to leave them alone, John thought. Barbara’s voice and manner had become more cordial. Barbara could charm birds off trees when she wanted. Without waiting to see if either of them would object, John started toward a door at the back of the room.

  Barbara put out her hand. “Surely we are still good enough friends for you to call me Barbe again?” she said.

  She was very much ashamed of herself for jumping down Alphonse’s throat. He had made it clear long ago that he did not return any feeling warmer than friendship. It was not fair to blame him for being distantly polite after her absence of seven years. The years had all dropped away for her the moment she saw him, but she had no reason to be angry because they had not dropped away for him.

  “Of course,” Alphonse replied.

  He was actually somewhat annoyed at her insistence on being treated as an old friend. That would make it very difficult for him to avoid an intimacy rapidly growing too painful to endure. Also, he would have liked to know her current husband’s name in case the man had accompanied her. Alphonse was afraid that if he did not prepare himself, he would take the man by the throat instead of being polite when they met. His immediate problem, though, was his need to discover if she was also Bigod’s guest. He was about to ask, even if she thought him mad to do so, but she spoke first, suggesting that they sit down and turning to her chair by the empty hearth.

  He sat down opposite her, glad that his rear was less bedaubed than his front, and remarked, “You will think me a fool for being so surprised to see you that I did not hear what you said to John, but—”

  “I was surprised too,” she said, “which was much more foolish. I should have known you would be in Boulogne when I found King Louis and Queen Marguerite here.”

  As she cut off his second attempt to discover where she was lodging and whether her husband was with her, Alphonse forgot all about how much he desired Barbe and recalled instead how infuriating she could be. “I do not always follow the court,” he pointed out. “And I have little interest in English affairs because they usually do not affect my family. This time you would not have seen me if John had not caught me in Paris just before I started for home.”

  “John? What have you to do with John?”

  Alphonse cleared his throat, wondering uneasily how long he would need to continue this inane conversation before he could either leave or get back to the subject in which he was interested.

  “It is rather complicated,” he said. “Raymond, my elder brother, now Comte d’Aix, married an Englishwoman, Alys of Marlowe, and my niece, Raymond’s eldest daughter—not Alys’s child—oh, curse it!”

  “I am not sensitive about being a bastard,” Barbara remarked, easily picking out the cause for his embarrassment over an otherwise harmless statement. She also made herself smile, although she was hurt again because he seemed to remember so little about her. “Whatever else he has done right and wrong, at least my father made that easy for me.”

  Alphonse shrugged. “We have talked about this before, and you know I consider you very sensible—”

  “You did remember!” Barbara exclaimed.

  Alphonse smiled faintly, although he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from calling her a fool for not seeing that he remembered everything about her. Instead he raised his brows and said, “At least you are sensible on that subject.”

  Barbara was so shocked at the cruel reply, which seemed to her a plain warning not to hope he cared about her, that she gasped. His voice faltered, and he seemed about to say something more gentle. She feared she would burst into tears if he did that, and turned her head away.

  He seemed to understand, for after a brief check he rambled on, “After all, the sin your father and mother committed is nothing whatsoever to do with you. However, Fenice, my niece, married William’s son-by-law so that my family is bound closely to the family at Marlowe. If you add to that the fact that King Henry is our uncle-by-marriage—Raymond’s and mine, I mean—it was natural for John to seek help from Raymond and for Raymond to ask me to do what I could not only for William and Aubery but for Henry’s cause too.”

  “I hope no help will be needed,” Barbara said. “I have just come—the day before yesterday—from England. The Earl of Leicester has sent proposals for peace. If they are accepted this long misery will be over.”

  She was able to speak quite calmly by then. Barbara had made little sense of what Alphonse said, but his explanation had given her time to recover. He was not cruel, she told herself. Alphonse was never cruel. He was trying to protect her from herself, as he had all those years ago when she had flung herself at him. She had not known then that half the ladies of the court, some of them great heiresses, panted after him like bitches in heat because he was one of the great tourney champions, and was said to be as skillful with his lance in bed as on the tourney field. If she had only known, but no one had spoken of such things to her. They had thought her a child because her breasts had not yet budded, and she had not guessed how he drew women because he was not particularly handsome.

  If she had known, Barbara reminded herself, she would have understood he acted out of simple kindness, a desire to comfort one he thought of as a child, when he supported her through her first misery of being, as she believed however wrongly, cast away by her father. Barbara now knew she had interpreted wrongly Alphonse’s reasons for explaining that only great love and fear for her safety had forced her father to leave her with Queen Marguerite. But in 1253, as she recovered from the shock of being “abandoned” in the French court, she had assumed she had been sent there to be married. And, because her father said he was placing her affairs in Alphonse’s hands and that she was to go to Alphonse for help if she needed it, she also assumed that if she liked Alphonse, he would be chosen as her husband. He had even carried her sleeve in a tourney and given her the prize—her silver mirror.

  He had not even laughed at her when she offered her love, only said gently that he could never look so high for a wife, for she was an earl’s daughter and he only a landless younger son. She was to have a much better husband than he, he had told her then, a rich count who would settle on her her mother’s lands. Kind. Alphonse was always kind. It would have been far better for
her if he had not spared her feelings but laughed and called her a fool as her father would have done.

  Chapter Four

  “My dear Sieur Alphonse, do forgive me for not coming out to welcome you as soon as John told me you were here, but I was so eager to hear his news that I took for granted your good nature.”

  Hugh Bigod’s voice interrupted Alphonse’s surprise at Barbara’s statement, which seemed to imply, no matter how unlikely, that she had brought peace terms to Hugh from England. Both he and Barbara stood up, and as Hugh took his hand, he made a polite disclaimer of any offense taken. However, before he could say that he was sure Hugh’s house was too crowded to absorb another unexpected guest, Bigod pressed his forearm and turned to smile at Barbara, saying, “I will keep the new arguments against Leicester’s proposals Queen Eleanor has sent, if that will not inconvenience her.” He shrugged and added, “I will need some time to find answers that will content her.”

  “You may keep them. I am sure those copies are for you, but is there something I can tell her that will induce her not to insult Leicester’s emissaries? I do not think any harm will be done to Prince Edward, but I do believe that total confiscation of property and other very harsh measures will be taken against Leicester’s enemies if arbitration for peace is not begun.”

  Hugh sighed. “I can think of any number of things I would like to tell her, but—”

  “Uncle!”

  Barbara’s lips curved with amusement at the exasperation in Hugh’s voice and Alphonse set his teeth. He had forgotten something about his Barbe. He had forgotten how sensual her mouth looked when a half-smile bowed the lips, or he had never noticed before. There were so many reasons to want her, like the obvious lighthearted mockery behind her now solemn expression.

  “I shall tell the queen that you do not consider me fit to carry messages.”

  “Do not you dare!” Hugh exclaimed, half laughing and half concerned. “Eleanor will not realize you are accusing me of thinking all women empty-headed. Our poor queen has had too many shocks and sorrows, love. Her sense of humor is sadly worn away. She might think I meant that you were a rebel at heart and not trustworthy.”

  This time Barbara sighed. “I fear she thinks that already and has invited me to join her household so that she can watch me.”

  Bigod frowned. “You must not allow your sympathy for Eleanor to bind you to her if—”

  Barbara laughed, interrupting him. “Uncle, you always see the best in me. I am not nearly so self-sacrificing as you believe.”

  “Then accept Queen Marguerite’s invitation,” Bigod urged. “I understand she has offered you a place with her. You will be more comfortable in the French court where Leicester has as many friends as King Henry. I would have you here, love, but Queen Eleanor would take offense.”

  “I may join Queen Marguerite,” Barbara temporized, not yet willing to commit herself. “But so far I have mostly been with Prince Edward’s wife, and you know what a sweet soul she is. Princess Eleanor is frightened, too, since Edward offered to be hostage for his father’s behavior. She needs someone a bit livelier than the lachrymose ladies the queen has appointed to attend her.”

  A desire to attend Prince Edward’s wife, young Eleanor of Castile, was a reason no one would question for Barbara to remain nominally a member of Queen Eleanor’s household. Hugh Bigod’s expression softened immediately, as Barbara had known it would. Everyone adored the gentle Castilian princess and wished to make as easy as possible her exile and her separation from the husband she so obviously worshiped. And what Barbara said was perfectly true, but she had other reasons for wishing to delay her decision about whether to remain where she was or move to Queen Marguerite’s household. Her father would expect her to garner information, and Barbara did not yet know whether what she could learn in the English or the French queen’s household would be more useful. Nor, though she wished to serve her father, was she at all certain she wished to be useful to Leicester’s cause.

  Her other reason for indecision had a sudden broad smile on his face that Barbara could not at first understand. Then she realized Alphonse expected to stay with her uncle, and was pleased to learn that he would not need to share a lodging with her.

  “Well Uncle,” she said, “I have stayed long enough for a loving reunion and for you to decide that the questions raised by the queen are too weighty to be answered without long consideration. It is time for me to go back.”

  Hugh drew her to him and kissed her fondly. “I would bid you stay longer but perhaps young Eleanor needs you. John will see you safe, love, and you can tell Queen Eleanor that he is returned from Aix. If she wishes to speak to him, John can explain better than I could what the Comte d’Aix can and cannot do.” He looked purposefully at John, who had groaned. “You can explain how Lord Raymond’s hands are tied by the fact that Marlowe, his father-by-marriage, is a prisoner and might be mistreated in revenge for any overt action on Lord Raymond’s part.” John groaned again, and Bigod smiled very slightly. “You can also point out that Sieur Alphonse has already come to discover whether William of Marlowe can be freed for ransom.”

  “Ransom?” John echoed. “But Richard of Cornwall must already have offered to pay my father’s ransom, and my father no doubt refused to leave him. It is my brother Aubery who will need ransom.”

  “Why did I teach you to be so honest?” Hugh sighed. “If you are not asked a question, do not answer it. Doubtless Queen Eleanor will be glad to hear that the Comte d’Aix favors us enough to send his brother to help us.”

  “You had better phrase that another way, John,” Alphonse said. “Raymond and I are both Queen Eleanor’s nephews, after all. Say Alys has made herself ill and forced Raymond to promise he would do nothing to endanger her father.”

  “I will step on John’s toes if he opens his mouth too wide,” Barbara said. And then to John, “Come along.”

  Usually John was impervious to her teasing and temper, and Barbara did not give him a thought during the time it took the servants to bring their horses and for them to ride farther up the hill toward the castle. Before Barbara realized how rude she had been, she and John had reached the area between the castle walls and the church which enclosed several houses. These had been lent to Queen Eleanor when it was known that Edward’s wife, Princess Eleanor, and a party of her servants would join the English queen in Boulogne. When she had spoken as if John were a feebleminded child, Barbara had been aware only of her need to get away, to be free of the flickering glances Alphonse cast at her. She did not understand why he should look at her as if he could not help it and then pull his eyes away, but she felt those glances, like butterfly touches on her skin, although no physical source for the sensation existed.

  It only occurred to Barbara as John helped her down from her mare and told the groom who took the horses to unsaddle her mount, but not his, that he had not said a word to her all the time they waited for their horses at Hugh’s house and rode through the town. The knowledge that she had offended him lowered her spirits even further. It took considerable effort not to burst into tears, but that would have made John feel worse. And it was not John’s fault that Alphonse found her company unpleasant, Barbara reminded herself severely, even if John had brought him to Boulogne.

  “Do not be angry with me, John,” she said, touching his arm as they walked toward Queen Eleanor’s lodging. “I did not mean to offend you. I am out of sorts.”

  “I am aware of it,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Are you worse off here than you wanted Hugh to know?”

  “You mean is the queen unkind to me? No. I told the truth about being much with Edward’s wife, Princess Eleanor.”

  John stared at her for a moment and then drew her around beside the stone stair where they were half hidden. “I know something is eating you, Barby. If I can help, let me know. I am as eager as you to spare Hugh any further worry, although your good news about his wife and his lands has made a new man of him. It is kind of your father to pro
tect Joanna and try to save Hugh loss when they have been so sharply at odds for so long.”

  Barbara laughed. “Oh, Papa loves Hugh,” she said, while looking around for anyone close enough to overhear, and continuing in a lower voice when it was clear no one was interested in them. “But it is not all for love that he acted. Do not underestimate my father because he has a red face and a loud voice. He is a clever man, and subtle. Do you not see that he has put Hugh under a deep obligation? By shielding Hugh’s wife and lands from any threat of harm, thus tying Leicester’s hands with regard to any hold on Hugh, Papa has made himself guilty of any act against Leicester Hugh might commit. How eager do you think Hugh will be to take part in an invasion of England when he knows his brother is likely to lose his own lands if he does?”

  “By God’s—”

  Barbara’s hand flashed up and stopped John’s mouth. “Do not blaspheme!” she hissed. “King Louis is a little mad on the subject of dismembering the Lord to express surprise or disapproval and does not hesitate to order a whipping for the highest lord as well as the meanest peasant. Usually out of his hearing none pay mind to his harmless lunacy, except those who desire a mean revenge on some enemy and carry an accusation to his proctors, but Leicester’s friends watch to carry word to Louis of any fault in King Henry’s supporters, and of course Queen Eleanor’s friends watch Leicester’s friends, and—”

  John took her hand away from his mouth. “I will be careful. I should have remembered the trouble we had over blasphemers during the peace negotiation in 1257.” Then he looked quizzically at Barbara. “Thank you for warning me, and for pointing out your father’s purpose. With whom do you stand, Barbara?”

  “With Joanna,” she said sharply, “and Princess Eleanor and all women who are driven from their homes with their babes in their arms because you men cannot decide how best a realm should be ruled.” She bit her lip. “Come, let us go in before I scold you again for what is not your fault. You have told me already that you do not follow your own will in this matter.”