A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  “How came you to be betrothed in France?” The king’s surprise had changed to indignation. His smile was gone when he spoke.

  “My lands, sire, a small manor called Cruas with its farms, are beholden to King Louis. I have always been in his gift, but he was kind enough to allow me to come back to England with my father after my husband, Comte de le Pontet de Thouzan le Thor, died.”

  “Oh,” Henry said, smiling again and interested now that she had made clear that his right over her marriage had not been usurped. “I did not know that. I thought your dower would be from your father.”

  “No, Cruas was my mother’s, but it was through my father’s care that the lands came to me.” Barbara was not about to let pass the implication that her father was not willing to provide for her.

  “And she will have something handsome from me,” Norfolk put in, his hand on her shoulder. “Not lands. I am not one to break up an estate. The lands will go to my brother Hugh’s boy, my nephew Roger.”

  “Then I take it you are pleased with the man King Louis chose for Lady Barbara?” Henry sounded both sulky and uncertain.

  “How could I object to Sieur Alphonse d’Aix, nephew to our queen and also to Queen Marguerite?” Norfolk laughed at the open astonishment in Henry’s face. “I was as surprised as you, sire,” he admitted.

  Henry smiled back, flattered because Norfolk seemed to relish Alphonse’s relationship with Queen Eleanor. He spoke of Alphonse, whom he had met during his visits to the French court, and Norfolk replied, also with praise, mentioning that it was Alphonse who had arranged that Barbara have Cruas. Immediately interested, as he always was in personal events, Henry asked for details, seeming to have forgotten the spite that had earlier made him ignore Norfolk’s presence. He gestured for Barbara’s father to sit down on the bench to his left and listened, smiling and nodding.

  Silently blessing Alphonse for providing at least the possibility of easing the king’s resentment of her father, Barbara tactfully backed away. She had almost passed the half-circle of seated women when a tug at her skirt made her look down and smile with pleasure.

  “My Lord, what a shock you have given me,” Aliva le Despenser whispered. “Sit down at once and tell all. I thought you would be weeping and pleading with the king to find a way to free you, not smiling all over your face when you said you had been betrothed.”

  After a single glance that assured her that the conversation between her father and the king was progressing along pleasant lines and she would not need to step forward again to change the subject, Barbara spread her rug beside Aliva’s. Before she sat down, however, she leaned over to kiss the cheek of Alyce de Vere and reached beyond her to press the hand of Margaret Basset. Alyce, who was only sixteen, smiled at her shyly. Margaret, who was double that, lifted a brow.

  “I thought you too clever to be caught,” Margaret Basset said.

  “Oh, did you not hear what Papa said?” Barbara replied gaily. “How could I stand against King Louis’s will?”

  “Barby,” Aliva said warningly, “I will catch you in a dark corner and strangle you. You would stand up to God if you opposed His will. Why did you agree to this betrothal?”

  In private, Barbara might have confessed the truth to Aliva, but Alyce was too young and Margaret too sharp-tongued for her to admit she loved Alphonse. Aliva’s sympathy she might endure if Alphonse proved unfaithful, but Margaret’s and Alyce’s she did not want. She shrugged.

  “It seemed a good thing. Sieur Alphonse has a special relationship to Queen Marguerite, which always provides consideration at court. I am no longer so young—neither is my papa. I must think of the future. The proposal came from Alphonse, so I know I was not forced on him. Since we have known each other for a very long time and I am not rich enough for him to take out of greed, it must be me he desires. He is very clever and was lying in wait to snare me. If I must marry, he seemed best. He is a most elegant gentleman and will always be kind.” She smiled and lowered her voice. “Certainly he is a safe haven compared with Guy de Montfort. I am getting too old to keep running away. Suddenly it was too much trouble to run very fast, especially when I had so good a reason to be slow. Wait until you see Alphonse.”

  As she spoke, Barbara had taken in the faces of all the women. Peter de Montfort’s wife, Alice, was seated on the bench to the king’s right, her husband was now sitting beside her and watching with no expression at all while Barbara’s father talked to the king. Sitting on a robe on the grass beside Lady Alice was Eleanor de Bohun, Humphrey de Bohun’s wife, her thin face sour with dissatisfaction. Eleanor was envious, Barbara thought, because Lady Alice had a bench—despite the fact that Lady Alice’s age would have made sitting on the ground difficult. Next were two women she did not know, sitting close together and talking in low voices.

  In answer to Barbara’s whispered question, Aliva said the two women were the sisters of Robert de Ferrars, Earl of Derby, who had fought at Lewes for Leicester. Whether Ferrars actually supported Leicester was another question. To Barbara the Earl of Derby seemed more like a wild beast, attacking anyone who tried to restrain him, rather than a man of principle who believed in Leicester’s cause.

  Just then a page in Henry de Montfort’s colors came into the garden and spoke to Peter de Montfort, who gestured him toward the king. Although she perked up her ears, Barbara could not hear what he said, but the king nodded and rose, gesturing for the ladies to remain seated. Barbara was pleased when he beckoned to her father as well as Peter de Montfort and Humphrey de Bohun to accompany him.

  “D’Aix,” Eleanor de Bohun said thoughtfully. “That is a bastard line, is it not?”

  Barbara smiled very sweetly. “Yes, but it is noble on both sides. Alphonse is very proud of his heritage. His shield carries the bar sinister across the Berenger colors—by choice. He could have chosen a different device after his father died. It is a powerful family, very powerful. His brother is vassal to King Louis, and held in very high esteem.”

  Alice de Montfort sniffed. “I suppose you are to be married in Aix?”

  “Oh, no,” Barbara said. “Papa would never hear of my going so far without the bond of blood being sealed by the Church. And he wishes to give me to my husband in person. I am to be married the day after tomorrow in Canterbury Cathedral. The Bishops of Chichester and London will both take part in the service.”

  “The day after tomorrow!” Aliva shrieked.

  “Are you with child already?” Eleanor de Bohun asked.

  Barbara had turned toward Aliva, laughing. Her head whipped back toward Eleanor, and for a moment she stared, her eyes a cold sleet gray under her heavy brows. Then a corner of her wide mouth lifted with disdain and her nostrils flared and contracted, seeming to reject a nasty stink.

  “I had no need to yield anything to make this marriage,” she said. “I am a maiden still, I assure you. You are invited, Lady Eleanor, to see the bloodstains on my sheets in the morning.”

  “Never mind such stupidities,” Margaret Basset put in sharply. “Since you have been married already, whether you have a maidenhead is your husband’s affair and of very little interest to anyone else. What is important is who is to attend you? Who will make the feast? Who is invited?”

  Barbara had to admit with a laugh that everything had happened so fast she had not yet had a chance to speak to her father about what arrangements he had made—if any. This set Aliva to giggling that Barbara meant she had not yet had a chance to tell him what she wanted. Margaret raised her brows at Aliva and said her levity would get her or someone else in trouble someday. To Barbara’s surprise Aliva’s beautiful brown eyes filled with tears and she looked guiltily down at her hands.

  Barbara thought she was the only one who noticed, because Margaret’s voice had continued smoothly, now asking Alice de Montfort whether the wedding might be of use in dealing with the French emissaries. Alice grew immediately thoughtful, clearly considering whether, since King Louis had arranged the marriage to his wife’s ne
phew, a grand celebration might not indirectly honor the French king and flatter his emissaries.

  “I will certainly mention the possibility to Peter,” she said, “and before dinner, so that he can announce at that time the hour of the wedding mass and the invitations to the feast if he thinks the notion good.” She nodded at Margaret Basset with approval, then turned to Barbara and asked, “And you will make no trouble, whatever is decided, Lady Barbara?”

  “Not of my own will, certainly, Lady Alice,” Barbara replied. “However, I must reserve the right to obey my father if he objects to a large celebration. He may be more pressed for money than I realize—”

  “And he will get no aide for a bastard daughter,” Eleanor de Bohun said.

  “He will need none,” Alice de Montfort retorted sharply. “The king’s guests must eat anyway. It will be less costly for Norfolk to add some delicacies to the feast than to pay for a whole wedding, including feeding and lodging the guests at his keep.”

  Barbara felt almost dizzied by the many implications in Alice de Montfort’s remark. She had never thought for a moment of the exchequer bearing the cost of her wedding. For a single instant she had been ready to rise and cheer. Then doubts damped the pleasure she had felt when she first thought her father would be relieved of the expense. Why should Peter de Montfort overlook the opportunity to have her father pay the cost of supporting the court for one day? To flatter the French emissaries? No, that was ridiculous. How could Claremont and Peter the Chamberlain know who had paid for the feast? And why should they care? The purpose must be to prevent her father from holding a feast on his own lands to celebrate her marriage.

  Barbara was about to lodge a protest against Peter de Montfort taking over the plans for her wedding, but Margaret Basset reached out and pinched her hard. Margaret’s hand was innocently behind her by the time Alice de Montfort stood and looked down.

  “You were about to say?” she asked Barbara.

  “Only not to set the wedding mass too early, please.” Barbara smiled. “I have been so rushed from here to there and back again that my dress is not completely finished.”

  “Well, do not run back to your lodging to work on it until I give you leave,” Alice said. “You may be needed to support this decision or give your agreement to it.”

  “If I ask for leave, Lady Alice, I will ask it of my father,” Barbara retorted. “There is none other here who has any right over me, except my betrothed—and he has already given me leave to come and go as I please while he is prevented by business from attending me.”

  “Oh, for the holy saints’ sake, Alice,” Margaret exclaimed when Alice drew an indignant breath. “Do you not yet know it is fatal to give Barby an order? I promise you she will not go if you will hold your tongue until you need it to speak to your husband and Norfolk.”

  “Well!” Eleanor de Bohun got to her feet. “I had no idea that a hasty little betrothal between two bastards was going to turn into a state wedding. I’m sure you should reconsider, Alice. I doubt my husband will approve of a grand celebration.”

  “Do not be such a goose, Eleanor,” Alice snapped. “Humphrey will be delighted. Why do you not come along with me now and ask him?”

  As the two women started off, a soft, almost tremulous voice asked, “What will your gown be like?”

  The fairer of the two Ferrars sisters had spoken, and she shrank back a trifle when Barbara turned to her rather abruptly. Barbara smiled. “Not very grand. Not grand enough, I am afraid, but I never expected my marriage to become a state affair. The tunic is a darkish cream color, almost the shade of undyed wool, but with a gloss because it is silk—a gift from Queen Eleanor. The overgown will be blue. It has a wide, low neck and very deep armholes. Actually, it is the embroidery of the armholes that is not finished.”

  “We are very good at embroidery,” the darker sister said eagerly. “Do send for the work. We would gladly help with it. Oh, I am Agnes and my sister is Isabel.”

  Barbara at once exclaimed gratefully. A servant was sent to the lodging with instructions for Clotilde to bring the dress, and the half-hour until the maid arrived was filled with idle chatter. Barbara disappointed the ladies a little. They did not know she had been confined at Dover and thought she would have more gossip about the French court to impart. Still, she was a prized audience because she was ignorant of the gossip in England of the past two months. She listened gladly, although she soon realized that Aliva was strangely silent, except when Margaret prodded her.

  When Clotilde came, Margaret rose, shook her head, and said she would go since embroidery was not the greatest of her pleasures. She would see Barby later, she remarked, with a meaningful glance. To Barbara’s amazement, Aliva blushed.

  Soon Agnes and Isabel were talking enthusiastically to Alyce about what they would wear themselves while they worked away at Barbara’s wedding gown. Barbara and Aliva sat apart from the others, quiet until Barbara was sure the younger women were deeply absorbed in their own subject.

  “What has happened, Aliva?” Barbara asked. “I can see something is very wrong. Oh, I am so sorry I will not be able to offer you a refuge with my father anymore.”

  “I could not come, even if you were still living at home and not being married,” Aliva said. “The trouble is that Roger—”

  “Papa?” Barbara gasped.

  As far as Barbara knew, since her mother’s death her father had confined his need for women to whores, maidservants, and a girl in a field now and again. Even though Aliva was spectacularly beautiful, just like the descriptions in the romances—blonde, with strawberry lips, milk-skin, but brown rather than blue eyes—Barbara could not believe her father would have made a dishonorable proposal to her friend. In the next moment Norfolk was redeemed.

  “No. Oh no.” Aliva gave a watery smile. “Your father pats me kindly on the head, just as he does you—when he notices me at all.”

  “My cousin?” Barbara was almost as horrified to think that young Roger Bigod would offer dishonor to a decent woman.

  Eleven years earlier she would not have felt that way. She would have been glad to hear any evil of young Roger Bigod. At that time Barbara had hated Hugh Bigod’s eldest son, who was her father’s namesake and heir. Young Roger had come to live with her father from the time he was eight years of age, serving first as page and then as squire to the earl. In 1253, a child herself, Barbara had felt he had replaced her in her father’s affections. Roger had come and she had been cast out, exiled to France. By the time Barbara returned to England in 1257 she had come to understand that her sojourn in France had nothing whatever to do with young Roger and that what her father felt for her was hers and no one could ever take it from her. Then, having come to know her cousin well, Barbara had grown fond of Roger, who was very like both her father and her uncle.

  “Roger was trying to help me,” Aliva said faintly. “Simon was forever pawing me and trying to catch me alone. He cannot believe that I would never cuckold my husband, no matter how little I love him. Roger does understand and he knows that Hugh will make no effort to protect me, partly because he trusts me and partly,” she laughed bitterly, “because he does not care. Hugh would be as glad to declare me a whore and put me aside.”

  Barbara took Aliva’s hand but did not say anything. Hugh le Despenser was not an evil man, but to him a woman, no matter how beautiful or clever, was less than a horse—even less than a good dog. One could always get a new woman, and property or goods would come with her, whereas one had to pay for a horse or a dog.

  After a little silence, Aliva went on. “Please do not be angry at Roger. I think he simply felt he should continue the good work he had started before you left for France, when you engaged him to keep Guy and Simon away from us. Anyway, Roger took to escorting me about. While he was with me, Simon could only hint, not touch me and try to drag me into dark corners. Only…only…we began to enjoy being together. We laugh at the same things…”

  Her voice trembled into silence an
d all Barbara could say was “Oh, how dreadful.”

  Aliva looked up, shocked, and then burst out laughing. Barbara could not help but join her. The remark seemed singularly inappropriate, but it was all too true. Had Roger merely been smitten by Aliva’s beauty, the attraction could easily have been a passing fancy. But if they laughed at the same things, just as she and Alphonse did, their desire for each other went deeper than the flesh. If so, Roger might refuse to marry, as she herself had refused, and that was dreadful for he was heir to her father’s estates and must have heirs of his own.

  Alyce turned to the laughter and asked about the jest. Barbara said desperately that she had just admitted that her mare had made her marriage and described Frivole’s behavior in the stableyard at Boulogne. The girls laughed heartily, and Aliva pressed her arm. The conversation then became general, and despite her worries about Aliva and her father, Barbara had to concentrate on the light talk in order to avoid making her young companions suspicious. She was relieved when a page came to summon them to dinner.

  As soon as Barbara entered the castle, she saw Alphonse at the other end of the great hall, but before she could excuse herself to her companions and make her way to him, a Montfort page plucked him by the sleeve and Alphonse followed the boy to the stairs. Barbara tried to hold back from choosing a seat, expecting every minute that Henry de Montfort and Alphonse would come down and she could join her betrothed, however, Margaret Basset drew her away, refused to listen to her reason for wanting to speak to Alphonse, saying sharply that she could sit beside the man for the rest of her life if she wished and right now to plan the wedding was more important, and led her to a seat beside Alice de Montfort.

  Alice told her she had received her husband’s approval and Barbara’s father’s agreement to arrange all matters concerning the wedding. From that moment until the end of the meal, Barbara was deeply involved in a discussion of the details of her marriage and wedding feast. She could not be indifferent or ungrateful about the trouble Alice was taking, nor could she forget for a moment that taking that trouble meant a lack of trust in her father.