A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  He caught Henry de Montfort at mass just after dawn the next morning and told him that he would like very much to speak to the prince but felt it would be foolish in the extreme for him to espouse the peace terms Henry’s father was demanding.

  “All that will accomplish is to make Edward angry with me too and even more bitter. What I am willing to do, and that gladly, is try to make him see that you are little happier than he and wish most sincerely to give him more freedom. If I can abate his rage, you can present your terms in the best light yourself.”

  “I cannot promise him more freedom unless he will agree—”

  “Henry, listen to me. I will sound like a traitor, and a fool too, if I urge him to accept terms I do not know, terms you are plainly not ready to tell me.”

  “I cannot,” Henry said unhappily. “The final form is not yet settled, but Edward already knows the major provisions. All I am asking you to do is beg him to consider them.”

  “Useless. I have told you why. And from what you have said to me, I can guess that Edward is too angry now to be reasonable, no matter who appeals to him. Do you not see that if his rage can be assuaged, he will be much more likely to look at the real merits of a proposal instead of rejecting it out of hand?”

  “But what can be done? You do not know what he is like now.”

  “I can guess,” Alphonse remarked. “I have seen Edward in a temper. Still, much can be done, at least to ease the strain between you and him. First, Barbe will tell him that his wife and child are safe and well. That will soften him at once. Then I can remind him in a private way of the misfortunes he has brought on himself by ungoverned rage. I can suggest that if he were more reasonable and gave a limited parole—say for an hour to walk on the walls or any other small liberty you think is safe and reasonable—you might approve it.”

  Henry de Montfort’s bright gray eyes narrowed in thought, but after a moment he shook his head. “No. If he asked for what I could not give, he would be angrier yet.”

  “Then you tell me what you would be willing to let him do and I will propose that,” Alphonse said at once. “Or, better yet, let us keep the first visit very short. Let Barbe soothe him with talk of Eleanor and the babe. I will come back in the evening after you know how our visit has affected him, and we can decide then whether I should speak to him again or not.”

  “God bless you,” Henry said. “I will be your debtor, and so will my father and all England, if you can pacify the prince.”

  After tierce that morning, Alphonse brought Barbara to the castle. She was shocked when Henry de Montfort asked, although he was plainly embarrassed by needing to do so, that she and Alphonse strip themselves of anything that could be used as a weapon, even their small eating knives. The fact that Alphonse was already unbuckling his sword belt, only shaking his head sadly as he did so, silenced her half-spoken protest. But she found very little to say to Henry after she handed him the bejeweled toy with which she speared her food.

  Later her indignation passed as Henry spoke on neutral subjects with Alphonse. She had always liked Henry de Montfort, who had his father’s strong conscience without Leicester’s pride and stiff righteousness. Then, because he was so uncomfortable and she was sorry for him, she managed to find a faint smile in response to his good wishes on her forthcoming marriage and another when he assured her that he would come with a glad heart to be a witness.

  The smile was gone by the time she passed the two guards standing at the head of the torchlit stair, and she could not repress a shudder when one of the guards outside Edward’s chamber lifted the heavy bar that locked the door. Inside, her tight grip on Alphonse’s arm relaxed. She had feared to see the prince shackled and filthy. The reality was not so bad. What could be done to make the dank chamber, ordinarily a storeroom, comfortable had been done. The floor was thickly strewn with fresh rushes, and the scent of the herbs mingled with them strove with the musty odor from the damp packed-earth floor and stone walls. Three rays of light from loopholes high in the eastern wall penetrated the gloom, which was further mitigated by several bunches of candles tied together and stuck into the wall brackets that were designed for torches.

  In these conditions, the huge chair of state in the middle of the room in which the prince was sitting was a mockery that made Barbara gasp. She let go of Alphonse’s arm and hurried forward to curtsy to the ground. Her vision was blurred by tears when she looked up, but the face that stared down at her seemed more like a marble effigy than a human countenance.

  “My lord, I went to France with Princess Eleanor,” Barbara said. “She misses you and worries about you, but she and little Eleanor are in good health and have every comfort and consolation that King Louis and Queen Marguerite can provide. Your mother is well also and wants for nothing.”

  “I am sure my wife and mother sent some message for me,” Edward said, his voice utterly lifeless.

  “No,” Barbara replied, looking stricken. “I have no special message. Oh dear, what with my betrothal, which was very sudden, and the fact that I had to come back to England much sooner than I expected, I hardly saw either Queen Eleanor or Princess Eleanor the last few days I was in Boulogne. I did not think to ask for a message. Of course, I did not know then that I would see you, but I am so sorry. I was stupid and cruel. I beg your pardon—”

  “You need not,” Edward interrupted, a very slight curve now showing on his lips. “I am delighted. I was sure that you would have a message for me demanding that I make peace so that Princess Eleanor could come home.”

  Barbara was aware that Alphonse had moved closer and guessed he wished to warn her to be careful what she said, but she did not care. “The princess would never send you such a message,” she cried. “My lord, you must know her better than that. Even if she were suffering terribly—and she is not, I assure you, except for her fears for you—Princess Eleanor would never ask you to do for her what you would not do out of your own sense of right.”

  “I do indeed know my Eleanor better,” Edward said, his lips softening even more toward a smile and his voice taking on life. “I would have known such a message to be a lie, only a new device to break my will. I hope you will forgive me, Lady Barbara, for thinking you would lend yourself to such a scheme.”

  “I forgive you most readily, my lord.” Barbara barely stopped herself from saying that in the prince’s situation she might believe worse of the daughter of an enemy. But it was not fair for Edward to blame Henry de Montfort for a crime he had not committed. She smiled slightly and added, “It is true I would not agree to bring false messages for any purpose, but I feel I must tell you that I was not asked to do so, nor was I asked what I was going to say to you.”

  Edward laughed harshly. “There is no need for that. I am sure my guardian angels will relate the substance of our conversation to my gaoler.”

  The prince glanced over Barbara’s shoulder, and she turned her head and saw two more guards sitting on stools on either side of the door. She felt foolish not to have noticed them earlier or realized there must be watchers even if she did not see them. A quick review of what she had said rather pleased her and she looked back at Edward, but Alphonse’s voice made any remark from her unnecessary.

  “Henry de Montfort is not happy about the trust laid on him,” Alphonse said. “I hope you will not lose your knowledge of him any more than of your lady, my lord.”

  “Good God! Alphonse d’Aix!” Edward exclaimed. “What do you here?”

  Alphonse smiled. He was sure that in his abstraction the prince honestly had not realized who he was.

  “I am the partner of Lady Barbe’s hurried betrothal,” he said, “and the reason for her hurried return from France. She would not marry me without her father’s approval, and I felt I had waited long enough for her.”

  “Betrothal,” Edward repeated, then looked at Barbara again and really smiled. “Yes, you did say that. I was thinking of something else and it made no sense to me. Well! That is happy news.” He stood up
and extended a hand to help Barbara up from her curtsy. “I had thought you both hardened celibates… Ah…perhaps that is the wrong word, but I did believe you both averse to the married state.”

  “Oh, no, my lord,” Barbara said with a laugh. “I was only averse to marrying anyone but Alphonse.”

  The prince flashed a glance at Alphonse’s face, made an indistinct noise, and quickly gestured to the guards to bring forward the stools on which they had been sitting. Barbara was astonished when the men did not set the stools down until Edward had reseated himself, and further astonished when they kept a hand on each stool until she and Alphonse had actually sat down.

  Alphonse had also watched their behavior attentively. Then he looked hard at Edward, shook his head, and said, “Not wise, my lord. Not at all wise. The man who wins most often on the tourney field has a tight hold on his temper and never clings to a grudge over being defeated. Either fault can be his ruin.”

  “They have already been mine.”

  Edward’s voice broke on the words, and Barbara looked from one man to the other, totally bewildered.

  Alphonse’s smiling reply, “Nonsense, you will see many new tourney fields,” seemed to her like meaningless soothing, but the prince glanced at him and then away in a flash.

  Only then did Barbara realize that the chair of state, too heavy for one man to move without great effort, had been set so that the guards could watch the prince’s face. Swift as thought is, that flick of the eyes was swifter. Edward was shrugging away Alphonse’s remark, as if that wild hope had not come and gone in an eye-blink, and asking Barbara, “And does your father approve your betrothal?”

  Although she had no idea what information had been exchanged between the men, it was clear enough to Barbara that Edward wanted her to talk to mislead the listeners. Without stopping to think of party, she burbled of Norfolk’s satisfaction with her choice and King Louis’s kindness in waiving the fines for Alphonse and herself to marry as they chose. As she said that, her voice faltered. She had forgotten until she spoke that one of the complaints against Edward’s father was that, in his desperate need for money, he levied unreasonable fines. But Alphonse, whose back was to the guards, was grinning fit to split his head and nodding, as if in approval of what she was saying, only Barbara was sure it was another signal to Edward.

  “And we are to be married here in the cathedral on the fifteenth,” she finished. “I would be greatly honored, my lord, if you would come.”

  Edward’s eyes flashed up to Alphonse’s face. The guards could have seen nothing except perhaps a faint puzzlement, but Alphonse wished he could cheer aloud, and he longed to embrace his clever betrothed. Barbe had provided the perfect circumstance to loosen Edward’s leash for at least a few hours. Possibly she meant it as a temptation, a reminder of the freedoms yielding could bring, but the device could also be used to ease Edward’s violent resentment of Henry de Montfort. If Henry was willing to suggest, or to allow Alphonse to suggest, that Edward be permitted to attend the wedding, Henry’s goodwill toward his prisoner would be clear. And Edward’s concession would be minimal, merely a promise to return to his prison after the celebration. That would cost him nothing at all.

  “I, too, would be greatly honored by your presence,” Alphonse said. He paused significantly, nodded again, and added, “It might be arranged.”

  Now Edward shrugged and lowered his eyes, but before he could speak, a sharp knock sounded on the door. Alphonse stood up and the two guards rushed forward, one to seize the stool he had vacated and the other to reach for the one from which Barbara was rising more slowly.

  “What—” Barbara began, turning angrily on the guard. But she fell silent as Alphonse seized her elbow and squeezed it.

  Edward laughed aloud as the guards interposed themselves between the prince and his visitors when the door opened. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, “do not be such fools,” and turned away to walk toward the back of his prison.

  Barbara would have spoken to him, but Alphonse pulled her toward the door. Having been warned, she asked no questions until they had retrieved their possessions and left the castle. She was aware that Henry de Montfort had wanted to speak to Alphonse before they left and that Alphonse had warned him away with a glance at her and a promise to return.

  Her voice was angry when they were past the gates and she said, “You do not need to take me to my lodging. Please feel perfectly free to go back and tell Henry what you wanted to say but could not where I could hear.”

  “You are a little confused, my love.” Alphonse chuckled. “Do you not recall that you are the one who is supposed to be conspiring with Henry. I am supposed to be Edward’s ally. And, in truth, I thank God you were there and I was able to use you as an excuse to leave.”

  “So you were passing messages to Edward!” Barbara exclaimed. And then added hotly, “Well, I do not care. It is cruel to keep him penned like a wild beast. And what in the world were those guards doing with the stools?”

  Although he felt elated by the clear indication that Barbe would not be angry about any attempt he made to help the prince, Alphonse uttered an exasperated “Zut!” and then went on to explain, “Edward is penned like a wild beast because he has been behaving like one. The guards will not let him touch the stools, no doubt, because he must have seized one and tried to kill someone with it—likely poor Henry. That is also why the chair of state is there. He cannot throw that.”

  “Poor man,” Barbara said softly. “How desperate he must be. And poor Henry too. I was so angry when he asked for your sword and even my knife. I thought he did not trust your word not to help the prince unlawfully. But if Edward has been behaving like a madman—”

  “He has, I am sure, although Henry did not say more than that the prince hated him.” Alphonse stopped suddenly in the middle of the street and took Barbara’s hands, his dark eyes glowing. “You are a marvel, Barbe. What you said to him was perfect, masterly. You made him understand that Henry was not trying to manipulate him without adding to his rage.”

  “Now you are confused,” she said, smiling. “I am supposed to make Edward think well of Henry.”

  An irritable shout behind them and muffled curses from people who were trying to squeeze by between them and a shop counter made Barbara start forward again. She sighed and shook her head.

  “I do not know what I want,” she said so softly that Alphonse had to bend toward her to hear. “I cannot bear to see Edward imprisoned, but if he is not brought to some terms, he cannot be freed. As he is now, if he were free, he would surely start the war again.”

  Neither spoke again until they were at the door of the lodging. Barbara glanced at it and walked on, saying, “It is nearly time for dinner—” Then she hesitated, looked sidelong at Alphonse, and uttered a soft, exasperated laugh. “I do not wish to send you away, but if we go to the inn to eat—”

  “I am sorry about yesterday evening,” he said, his full lips twitching as he controlled a grin. “I was only trying to praise you for your rational attitude toward Prince Edward.” He raised a hand, palm up as if offering the excuse. “If you misunderstood… Well, I cannot say I am sorry,” he chuckled softly, “but I will promise most faithfully not to kiss you again when there is a table full of food between us.”

  “Or at all, if I invite you into our lodging?”

  Alphonse tucked an errant curl back into her crespine. The laughter was gone from his voice and he looked troubled, but all he said was “Yes, at least until the fifteenth.”

  When they were settled with the meal ordered from the inn between them, Alphonse regretted his promise, even though he suspected that Barbe would have refused to go up with him if he had not given it. As a safety measure, he decided that the time had come to clear his conscience.

  “Louis did not grant remission of our marriage fines for nothing,” he said.

  Barbara smiled. “I am not an idiot,” she retorted. “No king remits fines without receiving value in kind.” Then she
reached across the table and touched his hand. “I trust you, Alphonse. I know you would not agree to what could hurt me.”

  “Nor would King Louis ask what was not honest,” he said, covering her hand with his. “I should have told you at once, of course, but we were so busy until we took ship and then neither of us was fit for much talk.”

  “No.” Barbara laughed. “Besides, on the ship I would not have believed that I would live to perform whatever promise you made.”

  Alphonse smiled in response. “You have already done your part, which was only to tell Edward that his wife and child were well and in no need.”

  Barbara’s thick brows rose to make their little tent on her forehead. “You are a masterly bargainer if Louis remitted my marriage fine for that. I would have done it gladly without recompense.”

  “But King Louis did not know that. Still—”

  Suddenly Alphonse nodded, and a black curl fell over his forehead. Barbara had some difficulty resisting the urge to push it back among its fellows, but the intensity of his stare and the way the corners of his lips tucked back corrected her wandering thoughts. Then he laughed shortly and shrugged.

  “Perhaps Queen Eleanor told Marguerite you had come to France to spy for the rebels. I did think Louis yielded your fine more easily than I expected. It may be that he thought he was ridding his court of a clever spy.”

  Barbara laughed aloud at that. “You seemed to think so too. I do not care, since we are the gainers, unless… What did you promise Louis?”

  “Nothing of which even Leicester would disapprove. I only promised to discover, if I could, what Edward would consider reasonable terms for peace and, if peace was made with fairness, whether he would keep that peace after his father’s death.”

  “Are you going to tell Louis that Edward will neither make nor keep any peace with Leicester?” Barbara’s eyes were wide with distress.