A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  If a revulsion against touching Guy as strong as her fear of falling had not made Barbara twist away, she would have looked as if she had tried to fling herself into his arms. Instead, her right hand struck his shoulder, propelling him a step backward, deeper into the window embrasure, while her forward movement was checked. She nearly whirled around to slap his face, but became aware of the shocked stare of a young man standing a few yards away. Distressed as she was, he was striking enough to catch Barbara’s attention, with an unruly thatch of flaming red hair and a face almost equally red from exposure to sun and wind. The face was vaguely familiar and the dress very rich, so Barbara dropped a half-curtsy as she hurried past him toward the center of the chamber where any further tricks by Guy would be impossible.

  She heard the redhead call out to Guy, who snarled a reply, but the brief delay saved her from another immediate confrontation because she found the page. The boy looked startled when he saw her and asked, “To where did you disappear? I have been looking for you.”

  “Someone stopped me for a word,” Barbara said, relieved when her voice did not come out as a croak or a squeak. “I am sorry. I did not know you intended to take me right to Leicester.”

  “Well, he was with someone, but said you should wait and he would—” The boy stopped, sighed with relief when he saw Leicester still talking to a short man in clerical garb, and whispered, “Stand here, Lady Barbara. The earl will gesture to you when he is ready.”

  Barbara nodded to the page and smiled pleasantly in Leicester’s direction. He looked bored to death, she thought, which surely meant the cleric was making some political or financial plea rather than talking about a matter of faith. Leicester adored theology and knew more about it than any except the greatest religious scholars, like Grosseteste. However, a cleric making a political plea probably meant she should not need to wait long, and indeed, before a quarter of an hour had passed, the earl had pointed her out to his companion, clearly excusing himself.

  The priest retired with a bow, and Leicester gestured to Barbara, who came forward and dropped a brief curtsy. He looked at her severely as he said, “You are quickly returned from France, Lady Barbara, and without permission.”

  Barbara’s eyes opened wide, and then she almost laughed. Her marriage was a matter of the greatest moment to her, but because it had not the smallest significance in the present crisis in England, probably no one had bothered even to mention it to the earl.

  “I came to obtain my father’s approval of the husband King Louis chose for me,” Barbara said. “My father has been too good to me to let me send such news in a letter and disregard his will, even on the order of a king.”

  “Husband—” Leicester repeated.

  He stared at her but clearly without seeing her, and Barbara realized that failure to mention her wedding was impossible. Henry de Montfort might have forgotten to do so even when he talked about Alphonse, because he was concentrating on Alphonse’s effect on Edward, but Peter de Montfort would not have dared to neglect mention of her father’s arrival and departure or to explain why Norfolk had come to Canterbury. Then as if he had suddenly remembered why she had been sent to France, Leicester looked troubled and patted her on the shoulder.

  Barbara flushed slightly, guessing now why he was so reluctant to talk about her marriage. He must be thinking that she had been desperate for a husband, any husband, after he denied her Guy. No doubt he also thought she had come down greatly in her expectations. She was infuriated by this and at the same time amused by the man’s blindness. As if any woman in her right mind would take Guy, no matter what his father’s position, when she could have a man like Alphonse. The thought restored her good humor, but she was still out of sympathy with Leicester for being so blind and doting a father, so she again explained about her dower lands being in France and her marriage always having been in King Louis’s gift.

  “One of the reasons I was not willing to go to France while I was Queen Eleanor’s lady was that I did not wish to remind King Louis of my existence and perhaps be married out of hand,” she ended with an utterly false sigh.

  Leicester now looked wary, as if he expected her to make some plea he would need to refuse, but plainly he also felt he had done her harm, and he asked politely, as she had hoped he would, “How can I be of service to you, Lady Barbara?”

  “Oh, I am not a petitioner for myself, my lord,” she assured him with wide-eyed earnestness. “I have a letter from King Louis requesting that some consideration be given to William of Marlowe, who is the father-by-marriage of a kinsman of Queen Marguerite. Sir William is a vassal of Richard of Cornwall and was taken prisoner with him.” Barbara then explained in as few words as she could manage about Alys d’Aix’s fear for her father’s well-being and then presented King Louis’s letter.

  A slight relaxation of body and expression showed the earl’s relief that Barbara was not going to ask him to save her from an unwelcome marriage or change his mind and offer her Guy. But he was not so relieved that he would agree to anything. He opened and read Louis’s brief letter before he made any answer. Then he shook his head, though his voice was regretful when he spoke.

  “No exceptions can be made, Lady Barbara. I cannot order that this one man be freed while my own supporters are still prisoners of the lords Marcher.”

  “I never expected you to free Sir William, my lord, nor, I am sure, did King Louis or Queen Marguerite,” Barbara assured him. “And I fear that if you were willing to make the exception, Sir William would refuse freedom. Everyone knows that he wishes to remain with Cornwall, even his daughter, Lady Alys, though she is too distraught with worry to acknowledge it.”

  “Then what is the purpose of this letter?” Leicester asked.

  “What I hope is that you will give me permission to visit Sir William in prison so that when I return to France I can give eyewitness to his good treatment. That, I am sure, will show your goodwill to King Louis, and if it will not content Lady Alys, at least it will lighten her heart enough so that she will cease plaguing her husband, and he will cease plaguing Queen Marguerite, and she will cease plaguing King Louis, so everyone will be at least partly content.”

  Leicester could not help smiling, but Barbara noticed that his eyes were still wary. “That seems much good to be had from a small favor,” he said. “Unfortunately the favor is not mine to grant. Although Richard of Cornwall is in my keep at Kenilworth, he is not my prisoner but my son Simon’s. However, I will give you a letter for Simon asking that you be allowed to see Sir William. I am sure my son will grant the request if there is no special reason to deny Sir William a visitor.”

  “Lady Alys and the Comte d’Aix will be most grateful,” Barbara said. “May I come for the letter tomorrow?”

  “I will send it to you—”

  “We are lodged opposite the Church of St. Margaret in the house of a mercer,” Barbara interrupted sweetly, meeting with a look she allowed to grow more anxious, as if she did not understand the steely gaze directed at her.

  “As soon as I can,” Leicester ended.

  Having no other choice, Barbara curtsied and withdrew, making sure her retreat took her behind Leicester, where he would have to turn to see her. Since the next petitioner was already approaching him, Barbara did not think he would bother, and she allowed her lips to turn down with irritation. What kind of idiot did he think she was not to know an order from him would open his own keep of Kenilworth to her no matter whose prisoner William of Marlowe was? And anyhow, had she not heard that the Earl of Gloucester, not young Simon de Montfort, had taken Cornwall and his men prisoner? Not that that mattered. Leicester might not be able to order William of Marlowe freed, but he was certainly powerful enough to arrange a visit and have that request honored.

  At least she had managed to deprive Leicester of the excuse that he did not know where to send his letter. She was thoroughly annoyed with the earl, who seemed to have learned all of royalty’s tricks for delaying even the most reasonable req
uest, until some profit could be wrung from granting it, without troubling also to learn the graciousness with which Queen Eleanor and King Henry softened their delays and refusals.

  “Barby, I want—”

  Again her arm had been seized and Guy’s confident voice was close to her ear. She tried to wrench away, but this time he was ready and she could not break his grip. In fact his hand tightened enough to hurt her, and he began to draw her toward the end of the room, away from his father. Barbara had no idea whether he intended to stop in the semiprivacy of a deep window embrasure or to seek some more private place, but she was determined to get away. However, she also did not want to draw Leicester’s attention, so she let him pull her along. Then, before they reached the door to which he seemed to be headed, she leaned back hard against his pull so that he was jerked to a stop.

  “My name is Lady Barbara,” she said, and her voice would have made a blizzard seem warm. “I never gave you leave to call me Barby, and I will not shame my husband by allowing that intimacy to you now. Let me go.”

  “You hot bitch,” Guy said. “You are the one drawing attention—apurpose, I am sure. All you need say is where I should meet you, and—”

  “God forbid!” Barbara exclaimed. “If I never meet you again as long as I live, it will be too soon.”

  His hand tightened still more on her arm, and the pain made her forget scandal and tear at his hand, her nails digging in hard. He uttered an oath and brought up his free hand, making a fist to strike her, but his wrist was caught by the red-haired young man who had stared at her earlier.

  “A gentleman does not bruise a lady’s arm or strike her in public,” the redhead said with a baring of teeth that was not really a smile, “even when the lady deserves it, and I am sure Lady Barbara does not. Please release her, Guy.”

  “Mind your own business!” Guy hissed furiously. “I know her. She wants—”

  “No!” Barbara exclaimed. “I want nothing from you save your absence.” And turning to the redhead she added, “I give you leave and welcome to mind my business at this moment. My arm is my business, Guy. Let it go.”

  Guy laughed as if she had made a joke, then shrugged and said, “I thought you had more common sense.” But he released her arm.

  Barbara promptly stepped to one side so she could turn her back on him and curtsied deeply to the redhead. “I thank you, my lord. Would you do me the favor of accompanying me into the hall and waiting with me until my men can be summoned?”

  “Women!” Guy snarled, and turned away.

  The redhead watched Guy go, his face so expressionless that he might as well have shouted his dislike of the young Montfort aloud.

  “You do not really need to come with me,” Barbara said, smiling.

  “But I will be glad to do so.” He really smiled then and said, “You do not remember me. I am Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester. Actually, I do not think we have ever met formally. I remember you because you were the wittiest of Queen Eleanor’s ladies. One of the others told me your name and said— Oh, I beg your pardon.”

  His face got even redder, and Barbara laughed aloud. “Was that the one who said, ‘It’s a wonder ‘er own spit don’t poison ‘er’ or the one who said, ‘May one of her little jests only drop on her head like the gift of a pigeon’?”

  He laughed then too, and accompanied her right to the stable. They talked easily while her mare was saddled and her men summoned, and he lifted her to Frivole’s saddle himself before he took a courteous leave. By then Barbara had connected his name with his sunburned face. The Earl of Gloucester had been in the field with Leicester in his recent campaign against the Marcher lords of Wales. Apparently Gloucester did not do his commanding from inside a keep but rode and camped with his men, and his fair skin suffered for his military devotion.

  Then, as she rode toward St. Margaret’s Lane Barbara recalled why his face was familiar. He was right about not having been formally presented to her. She remembered him because the last time she had seen him, less than two years ago, his face had been as red with fury as it now was with exposure. He had been saying he would refuse to do homage to the king and Prince Edward, claiming that on his father’s death he had been unjustly denied his heritage, which had been given to one of the king’s half brothers to despoil.

  The rest of the story began to come back to her. Gloucester had not been as unjustly treated as he said. He was underage when his father died, and it was King Henry’s right to appoint a warden for his estates. But Gilbert de Clare’s pride had been hurt by the way the king had made the arrangements, Barbara recalled, and suddenly drew in a sharp breath.

  If Gloucester was hot-tempered and proud, which went with his red hair and complexion, and if he was as important a military ally of Leicester’s as Barbara believed, she was now recalling recent talk about him among the women, why had Gloucester not been standing beside Leicester on the dais receiving petitioners and adulation? Why was he walking about as if he were no one in particular?

  Possibly it was by Gloucester’s own desire because he was shy or modest. As the thought came, Barbara rejected it. Aside from that one blush when he almost repeated an unflattering comment to her, nothing in Gloucester’s manner indicated shyness or a retiring nature. In fact, his interference with Guy showed either arrogance or self-confidence.

  Then might not Gloucester’s pride also be hurt by the great attention paid to Leicester while little was paid to him? He was still very young, and Leicester, although inspiring to the young, was also high-handed with them and tactless. For Leicester to allow Gloucester to develop a grudge against him would be dangerous. It was a discomforting thought, particularly when coupled with the dislike Barbara had seen between Gloucester and Guy.

  A church bell ringing for vespers startled her, and she looked about and found herself at St. Margaret’s Church, opposite her lodging. Her first thought was that Alphonse would be at the White Friars monastery with Henry de Montfort and she would not be able to talk to him about Gloucester. Her second thought was an instant horrified recoil. If she talked to Alphonse about Gloucester, she would sooner or later have to mention Guy.

  The bell for vespers rang again, and Barbara signaled to her men to help her down from Frivole. She told them to stable the mare and that she would be in the church attending the evensong mass. The interior was dim, lit only by small, high windows and by the candles at the saint’s shrine and altar. The church already held some people when Barbara entered. When the bell rang once again a few more straggled in, passing Barbara, who stood well back and away from the door, near the southern wall. By the time the echoes of the bell had died away, all had found places and become still, patient, faceless shadows waiting to draw into themselves the comfort of the mass.

  The familiar, sonorous music of the chanted Latin did soothe Barbara’s nervous qualms. Although her mind, more intent on her immediate problem than on her soul’s future good, did not consciously make sense of the prayers, she felt a benefit. Her presence in the church helped her come to a decision she knew was right. She must not try to conceal Guy’s attentions from Alphonse. If anyone besides Gloucester saw her struggle with Guy, and she had been too much engaged in it herself to have noticed outside interest, gossip might present Alphonse with a far more lurid description of the events than she would.

  When mass was over, Barbara returned to her lodging, changed out of court dress into a plain loose robe, and sat down to eat her evening meal beside the small fire Clotilde had lit to chase out the dampness of the late summer evening. The weather had not yet turned chilly and Barbara would have been warm enough without the fire, but the crackling was cheerful and she was grateful for the lift the bright flames gave her spirits.

  Alphonse was not as late as she expected, but he plainly considered even the few hours he had spent with Henry de Montfort a waste of time. “I asked him outright whether, if I must remain in England, I could leave Canterbury and attend to some personal business for my brother Raymond,
” he told Barbara, as Chacier helped him off with his clothes and Clotilde brought a comfortable old robe for him too. “I have a craw full of apologies and excuses, but no answer. Did you do any better?” he asked as he sat down opposite her, letting out a sigh.

  “No,” Barbara admitted. “Leicester saw me at once—he has a guilty conscience with regard to me, I think—and he even admitted that the small favor I asked might do much good, but he would not grant it.”

  “Did he refuse outright?” Alphonse asked eagerly. “If he did—”

  “No.” Barbara chuckled. “You will not find a back door in his refusal that the French emissaries can open for you. Leicester said William of Marlowe is not his prisoner but his son Simon’s and promised to write a letter asking Simon to allow us to visit William.”

  Alphonse groaned and Barbara agreed that she had recognized the delaying device and had done what she could to counter it, first by asking if she could come for the letter and, when he said he would send it, by naming their lodging.

  “You did not press him too hard, I hope?”

  Barbara asked first if Alphonse wanted wine or something to eat, and when he shook his head went back to his question. “Leicester does not permit persistence in asking. He dismissed me quite definitely before I could approach the subject in a different way, not that I would have done so. It came to me that he has not the skill of putting the petitioner in the wrong with graciousness and thus avoiding blame.”

  “His manner is not conciliating, which might have won him admiration when he was standing up to King Henry and his brothers, but will serve him ill when directed at his fellow earls and barons.”

  “My father seems able—” Barbara began, and then hesitated.