Barbara was so full of political worries that she did not give a thought to what the servant’s remark might mean. She worried more about the king as she got into bed than about the man who would share that bed with her the next night, and she barely remembered in the morning to tell Clotilde to put the oldest and most worn sheet on the bed, just in case her father wanted evidence that she had been a virgin. She was about to send Bevis for her father when she heard him call to her from the solar and rushed out in her shift to tell him about her meeting with the king.
Norfolk put a hand to his head and squinted at her. “You told my servant to get me up before prime, after the night I had, to tell me that the king is a clever mischief maker who may or may not think fondly of me and that the Treasurer can be an idiot in the pursuit of a shilling?”
Barbara ignored the sarcasm. “You should have seen how Peter de Montfort’s wife looked at me—”
“I do not need to see it.” He frowned. “You are a good girl, Barby, and it was right that you tell me about the king’s invitation and why you think it was given. I am glad you have not adopted your Alphonse’s way of thinking. He has a mouth like a steel trap. It gapes in smiles, but when the teeth set, what he knows is caught inside for good.”
“He is trying to keep faith with two friends who are now in opposing camps,” Barbara pleaded. “Do not blame him.”
Norfolk smiled. “No. I cannot help but admire him. And you will be safe with him.” He drew her close, kissed her forehead, and groaned as he straightened up. “But you worry about me too much. I have told you before that I can manage my own affairs. I would have been as well warned if you told me this after the wedding instead of having me waked at dawn. I am going back to bed.”
“Father—” she cried.
But he only shook his head, winced and clutched at it, and went out, leaving Barbara even more worried. The assurances he had offered were rote, his actions contradicted the words. The only reason she could think of for his leaving instead of lying down on her bed to sleep off his wine was so that the ladies who would soon come to help her dress would not know he had come early to speak to her. Now she was almost grateful to Prince Edward for his silent defiance at the swearing. As long as the realm was in danger, no one would dare move against her father. But to hang forever on the brink of war was a catastrophe of another kind.
A knocking at the door of the shop, and Lewin’s voice replying, made Barbara flee to her bedchamber. She recalled that she had told her men to arrange that the shop be closed and as much as possible emptied for this one day to accommodate the prewedding guests and those who would accompany Alphonse and herself back for the bedding ceremony.
With that thought came a sudden recollection of what this day would bring. Barbara felt blood beating in her throat. Her breasts filled, the nipples suddenly sensitive to the touch of the fabric moving against them. All anxiety over her father flew out of her head, while the fears she had suppressed about whether she should or could hide her desire from Alphonse swelled into monsters.
The flood of women who soon entered the chamber was very welcome, even those like Eleanor de Bohun who came to prick and tease. One thing was sure, while they examined her garments and questioned her motives and loyalties under the guise of jests, she had no time to think of anything but the subject presented to her. Even remarks on the fine weather, which had now lasted five full days, acquired a double meaning.
A young priest from St. Margaret’s Church across the road came up to say a brief mass before the ladies broke their fast. Barbara ate and drank with stolid determination. She had not yet decided what she would do when she and Alphonse lay alone in bed, and she did not intend that any rumor of nervousness on her part come back to him. She was teased for being indifferent then, but that was safe. A man was always glad to learn he was his wife’s idol. He would gladly forget any contrary evidence.
The light meal finished, the ladies began to dress Barbara, pulling on her fine silk stockings and tying the garters below her knees with bows so they would easily come undone. A waste, Barbara remarked, laughing, since today it was the ladies themselves who would untie them to show the bride to the groom’s witnesses. A bushel of chaff flew about after that remark.
Her shoes went on then, bright red kidskin, polished to a high gloss, decorated with gilded bands and rosettes, and fastened around the ankle with pearl-set gold buttons. Barbara blinked.
Aliva le Despenser kissed her and murmured they were her gift. She knew, she said, Barbara would not have had time to order new shoes. Then her tunic was fitted on and laced, but the lavishly bejeweled and gilded girdle that was Prince Edward’s gift drew surprised murmurs. The girdle would be visible through the wide armholes of the surcoat that was slipped on over the tunic, and every woman in the room would spread word of the costly gift.
That subject carried them along until it was dropped in favor of a good deal of laughter and some envious comment over the attempts to confine Barbara’s hair. Unfortunately the mood did not hold after the glittering crespine was finally fastened, the barbette tied, and the fillet set atop. Alice de Montfort’s presentation of a gift from King Henry—a gold band set with gemstones to bind around the fillet—renewed the sidelong glances and whispered remarks. Barbara credited the gift to Queen Eleanor, in whose household she had served for many years, but she knew that so intense a show of royal favor was politically significant.
Many of the women present had divided loyalties, however, and the awkward moment soon passed. Then a different kind of uneasiness began to steal over the group. Barbara suddenly realized it was growing late, and she was about to suggest they make ready to go when the outside door slammed open.
“The groom’s gift, at last,” someone whispered.
The words were a shock. Barbara had completely forgotten the custom of the groom marking his satisfaction in the marriage with a personal gift to the bride. But Barbara knew there could be no groom’s gift. Alphonse would never shame her with a paltry trinket, and he had had no opportunity to obtain any better gift. Her heart sank at the idea she would need to explain that. Alphonse was not at fault, but she would still suffer the shame of seeming slighted.
“Poor Alphonse—” Barbara began, only to have the words drowned by her father’s voice, which came up the stair in an irritable bellow.
Barbara smiled like the sun. All unwitting, perhaps, her father had saved her. As he entered the room her eyes glinted with amusement through tears of tenderness. She did not dare smile at him, for both would have burst into laughter or into tears, both knowing the sacrifice he had made for love of her. He was dressed in the highest fashion in a manner he loathed, brilliant in a gold surcoat, all sewn with red crosses, over a crimson tunic, his broad breast draped with gold chains, which he would ordinarily have worn only to avoid shaming his king when he went on foreign embassies. Even his sword with its plain wire-bound hilt looked strange. Although the weapon was unchanged, he had hooked it to a bejeweled and gilded belt girded low on his hips. His shoes were gilded, too—and must be stiff and hurt his feet, Barbara thought—and huge golden spurs were fastened to them. Oh, poor Papa!
The women scattered before the Earl of Norfolk as he marched forward. Barbara lifted her eyes, wanting to look her gratitude at him, but her breath caught. His smile was fixed, his eyes were anxious and full of warning as he thrust a carved wood box at her and growled, “Bride gift.”
Barbara had taken the box instinctively. She almost dropped it at the words. The box was old and very familiar.
“Open it,” her father said.
She gasped when she saw the contents. She knew the necklet and armbands well for they had lain in her father’s strongbox all her life. They were Celtic gold work and very ancient, fantastically interlaced birds and beasts. Each was collared, and from each collar hung a pendant pearl. The necklet and armbands had belonged to her father’s mother.
Barbara’s faint protest was masked by the exclamations of the clos
est ladies, who took her paralysis for joyful astonishment and removed the jewels, holding them aloft to be admired by the whole group. By the time the ladies had pressed forward to see, to touch and comment, and the gauds were fastened around her neck and arms, Barbara had recovered her wits. She managed a broad smile, particularly meant for her father, who grunted with relief, patted her, and muttered, “Good girl.”
The rest of the day was one long confusion. The whole party had first to return to the castle because Henry and Peter de Montfort felt it too dangerous for the king and prince to stop in the street while the bride’s party joined the groom’s. For the same reason, the bridal procession from the castle to the cathedral at the other end of the town looked like the advance of an army, and the cathedral had as many men-at-arms in it as guests. There were so many guards preceding Alphonse and the prince and hemming them in from both sides, that Barbara never saw her betrothed until he took her hand at the altar. Even then she had no time for the hopes and fears of an ordinary bride. Though Alphonse held her hand very tight and smiled, his eyes were worried.
Another drawback of being honored by the king prevented Barbara from exchanging a private word with her new husband all through the interminable celebration that followed the wedding ceremony. No person save other royalty could be set above the king and prince in honor, so King Henry sat in his chair of state at the center of the table with Barbara at his left hand. Ordinarily Prince Edward would have graced a second table, but for some reason Barbara did not at first understand, the royal pair’s keepers wanted Edward and his father together. So Prince Edward sat at the king’s right with Alphonse beside him. Being kept apart from her husband was not all bad, Barbara thought. It saved her from touches and looks to which she still did not know how to respond, her head urging an appearance of polite indifference while her heart leapt in natural response. Had she not been distracted with the need to learn what was worrying Alphonse and the desire to tell him about the king’s behavior the previous day, she would have been grateful for the separation and have enjoyed the elaborate ceremony.
Each great dish of each course, whether it was a whole roast lamb kneeling in a field of fresh parsley or a huge haddock swimming in a sea of aspic among eels and other lesser fish, was carried around the room to be admired before being brought to the high table and presented to the king. Henry graciously praised the dish and directed it to someone he wished to honor—the first to Alphonse, the second to Simon de Claremont, the third to Peter the Chamberlain, and so on. The noblemen of the king’s own household carved and served, then pages and squires carried portions to those the guests wished to honor.
From the first dish of each course, the one carried to Alphonse, Barbara had the first and most delectable slice. The second went to the king. Barbara was startled. Custom decreed that honor be done the king first. She almost gestured the page to set the portion down in front of Henry, who was beside her, as if the young man had misunderstood Alphonse’s order, but then she remembered that Henry was not Alphonse’s king. Had Henry been setting some subtle trap to make it seem he had won Alphonse’s loyalty? she wondered. If so, then Alphonse’s flouting of custom had meaning and she must not interfere.
Most likely, she thought, she was seeing goblins in innocent shadows and Alphonse simply did not know the English custom. Nonetheless she smiled apologetically at the king and said, “I hope you will forgive him, sire. He told me he asked King Louis for me out of love. I think he must be trying to prove it, by valuing me above a king.”
The excuse was one that appealed to Henry, who was very sentimental, and he laughed, pleased when Alphonse sent the third portion to Edward and the fourth to Norfolk. By then so many pages and squires were carrying dishes to and fro that it was nearly impossible to know the order of service. And when Alphonse had the second course served in an identical manner, Henry laughed before the portion was set down and everyone laughed with him, for Barbara’s excuse had made the rounds of the hall while everyone ate.
Musicians played while the court ate, and between each course there was dancing. Naturally Alphonse partnered his new wife, but neither the wild carol dancing nor the lively tourdion permitted much conversation, and even during the more stately galliard, there were so many intricate steps that separated the partners and brought other couples into their figure that no personal matter could be discussed.
After the first dance, Barbara could barely meet Alphonse’s eyes. As soon as he got her on the floor, he had said, “Barbe, I am so sorry—” but could get no further because they had to stand at arm’s length. Then the dance parted them altogether, and he did not try again. Twice Barbara started to ask what was wrong, but once she swallowed the words and smiled instead, showing her teeth a little, when another couple came so close as nearly to tread on their heels. The second time she had barely caught her breath and gasped out “What—” when they were whisked apart by the next figure of the dance. Alphonse smiled and kissed her hand every chance he could, but his full lips seemed drawn apart by rictus rather than pleasure and the eyes under his tumbled black curls were so anxious that her heart was wrung.
All Barbara desired was to give Alphonse comfort, but her opportunity did not come soon. Having noted the way the bishops had galloped through the wedding service and the brisk pace maintained both going to the cathedral and returning, Barbara had hoped that the feast would be curtailed to enable the Montforts to return the prince to prison and the king to relative seclusion. However, she soon realized that once inside the security of the castle, whatever fears Peter and Henry de Montfort had had about their charges were gone.
Rather than trying to shorten the feast, Henry de Montfort, at least, seemed eager to extend it. Barbara soon learned that he had given the orders for the many rich dishes and for the elaborate ceremony with which they were served. By his order also, when the dancers tired, players came into the hall to juggle and cavort and a jongleur sang to amuse the guests. Even the guards had been withdrawn, at least from inside the hall, giving the appearance of an ordinary high celebration. Barbara could only grit her teeth and endure.
Eventually the hours passed. There came a time when the most delicate dish could not tempt overgorged bellies or the slowest measure induce tired legs to dance. The wildest antics of the players drew no more than thin smiles or dull murmurs from jaded watchers. The jongleur came forward and sang, waking a spark of interest, but as the light dulled, the audience did too. By then, half the diners were sleeping, some with their heads on the tables, some lying under them. As the jongleur’s song drew to a close, Henry de Montfort came to the prince, bowed, and whispered in his ear. Edward stiffened, but he turned to Alphonse without any other protest, said a few words, and squeezed his shoulder. After that, he rose and bowed to his father, and then suddenly, as if moved by irresistible impulse, the prince bent and kissed and hugged the king. When he let go and followed Henry de Montfort, the king burst into tears.
That effectively ended the wedding feast. Barbara had just put out her hand to offer comfort to the king when Alice de Montfort urged her to rise. Barbara saw that Peter de Montfort had hurried to the king before Eleanor de Bohun came up on her other side. As the two women led her down from the dais and other ladies hurried to join them, Barbara saw Humphrey de Bohun go to her father. Norfolk got up at once and Barbara was pleased that he was sober enough to respond without urging or explanation. A last glance over her shoulder as the women escorted her out of the hall showed her that her father and Bohun were urging Simon de Claremont and Peter the Chamberlain to their feet.
Alphonse let out a deep sigh of relief when he saw Claremont and King Louis’s chamberlain rise without needing more than an invitation to do so. He had been afraid that they might be too drunk to serve as his witnesses. Although he had watered his wine and spent half the feast with one hand covering his cup to keep the butler’s minions from refilling it, Alphonse himself was not entirely sober. And he had been careful only to sip in response to the ma
ny toasts, because he knew it was a common jest to make the groom so drunk he would be incapable. The French emissaries had no reason to be wary, however, and a wedding feast for a fellow countryman might have been thought a good time to ply them with enough drink to make their tongues loose. But Peter the Chamberlain and Claremont were old hands at being Louis’s envoys; Alphonse knew he should have trusted them.
If he had not been so anxious, he would have done so. Alphonse could not understand why it was so important to him that these men, so close to the French king, be witness to his wedding and bedding. King Louis would accept their word against any other, no matter who tried to find cause to annul the marriage. Ridiculous, Alphonse thought. Who would want to interfere with his marriage? He was allowing the political tensions of this accursed realm to seep into his personal life.
Still he felt sick with doubt. Perhaps he should not have allowed Norfolk to supply the bride gift. But during the celebration Barbe had seemed hardly aware of it, not touching it or drawing attention to it. She had been kind and gracious, not a hint of anger in her face or manner, not a hint of a blush or a doubt either. Stupid, Alphonse told himself, Barbe was no fearful maiden. She was a woman with years of experience in court. But she was worried, her smiles had been as false as his. Why should she be worried?
Even as King Henry was led toward his private chamber, Bohun, Norfolk, and the two French emissaries came toward Alphonse. Others rose to follow, throwing off the shock and doubt the king’s emotion had caused them and beginning to laugh and jest as they approached. The increasing levity assured Alphonse that King Henry was gone, and he buried his own doubts and anxieties, smiling and shaking his head at his father-by-marriage who was asking dryly if he needed help to stand.
A Silver Mirror Page 23
