A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  Alphonse shook his head in turn. “How much time does it take to strike down an unarmed man? And you know well there is nothing and no one worth trading for Edward’s freedom, except Leicester’s own life. And if he is there…” He hesitated, then said, “I will give my parole not to leave Bristol or try to escape from Sir Robert or whatever deputy he chooses, nor will I permit anyone else to send a message out until you either have Edward safe or have acknowledged it impossible to rescue him. I say this simply because I need to know what could endanger you, your plan, and your friends and because I wish you to be assured of my silence. I want to know if you have supporters inside Wallingford who will help you enter the keep and help you find Edward in it.”

  “No,” Walerand admitted, “but I do know the guard on Edward is very lax, and Wallingford is not unknown to me—”

  Alphonse held up a hand to silence him, not wishing to hear any further details that could make his knowledge more dangerous. “You know Wallingford and think a sudden thrust can win a way to Edward, lax guard or no? Well, perhaps you know more than I. I have never been in Wallingford, but Sir William of Marlowe, my brother’s father-by-marriage, spent much of his time there. I have heard him talk of Richard of Cornwall’s works on that stronghold, and I do not think you can get past the outer moat and walls unless a way is opened for you by one within.” He shrugged. “That is all I have to say, and truly, since I will not go with you, it is better that I hear no more.”

  Argument broke out again. Hamo le Strange and Robert Tybetot cast angry glances at Barbara, as if they thought it was her influence that had warped Alphonse. She saw the looks in a flickering glance. Mostly she kept her eyes down and went on eating steadily—”modest as a nun’s hen” was the saying—because she knew any comment from her would do more harm than good. Finally, Hugh Turberville, one of the Royalists who had taken shelter in Bristol after the battle of Lewes, said sneeringly to Alphonse that it was a bad friend who would not take a risk.

  Walerand made an angry gesture at Turberville, but Alphonse only smiled. “I do not mind risking my neck,” he remarked mildly. “It is Edward’s neck I do not want to see stretched on the block of my stupidity especially without his permission. Think about that.”

  “You mean to say the prince will be angry with us for trying to free him?” Leybourne asked sharply.

  “No.” Alphonse sighed. “I wish I could say it. I wish I could say anything to turn you from this venture, because I fear, I truly fear, for Edward’s safety. But no. Edward will admire your attempt. He will remember it and be grateful, even if you cost him the little liberty he has been granted.” He stood up. “I think my wife and I should leave you now. You will be more comfortable, and so will we.”

  Barbara and Alphonse passed two dull, anxious weeks confined with their servants in one of the towers facing out toward the town. From their window they could not see the inner bailey and thus could not guess what, if any, military action was taking place. Barbara had told Alphonse her fears that Leybourne might harbor a grudge against Prince Edward as soon as they were private. He considered what she said seriously, not dismissing it as woman’s nonsense, but decided that it would do no good to try to raise doubts in Walerand about Leybourne. The others were so set on the venture that doubts would not stop them. And Leybourne’s participation could not endanger Edward further. Leybourne could not harm the prince inside Wallingford, and certainly would have no reason to do so if they did free him.

  Barbara agreed, then sighed and said she had better have kept the worry to herself instead of adding it to Alphonse’s load. He looked at her oddly for a moment, but only begged her never to try to spare him. He took great joy in sharing, even troubles, with her, he said, and he smiled, but his eyes were sad. Later she wondered if he had glanced down at the work basket she had been holding. But that was ridiculous—unless he had seen the silver mirror, and why should that make him look sad?

  The answer to that question was too terrible to contemplate at length. Alphonse was kind. It would make him sad to know that she still cherished his gift after so many years while he felt his interest in her fading. Barbara pretended the thought had never occurred to her and tried to give her attention to other matters, first to making their quarters as comfortable as possible and, once they were settled, to pleasant ways of whiling away the time.

  They were denied nothing but freedom. Lavish meals were sent up to them. A young priest came daily so that their souls would not be in danger of neglect. Any amusement they desired was provided. Barbara almost wished that they had been treated harshly, for that would have given her some grievance to occupy her mind. She could not be bored while she was with Alphonse, but his behavior increased her anxiety.

  The only subject that could hold her attention away from the foolish, ugly fear that he was slipping away from her was the real concern she felt for Prince Edward. But that was no relief and, worse, it forced her to rethink the political situation. Henry was a terrible king. His foolishness and extravagance had been ruining England. But was what they had since Leicester had begun to rule in Henry’s name any improvement? This constant turmoil, these endless rebellions breaking out all over the country—was this better? She began to doubt more and more that any stable government could ever be established under the conditions Leicester had set. Yet the thought of Leicester’s fall terrified her because that might doom her father. Her uncle would doubtless attempt to protect his brother as he had been protected by his brother, but Hugh was in France. Could he come back to England to intercede for her father in time? Executions were quick and final.

  During the first few days of their gentle incarceration one problem or the other was always just below the surface of Barbara’s thoughts. By the end of the week a new puzzle, somewhat less painful and therefore welcome, presented itself. Despite Alphonse’s flattering remark that he would have enjoyed imprisonment in Dover if they had already been married—he spoke soothing compliments to women the way a dog wagged its tail when presented with a meaty bone—she suspected that her husband would grow more and more tense and irritable if she did not exert herself to divert him.

  Unlike her father, however, Alphonse did not worry at the subject that had made them virtual prisoners. He did not gnaw over what he had said and devise new, cleverer words that would have been more convincing. To her intense surprise, relief at first and then almost distress, Alphonse never mentioned Edward or what Walerand and his allies might be doing. He wrestled and fenced with Bevis, Lewin, and Chacier, sometimes taking all three as adversaries at once. He devised new and amusing rules and additions to the games he challenged Barbara to play. But most of all, like a sleek black cat, he preened himself, seeming to think of little beyond the sensations of his body—and hers.

  The frequency and intensity of his attentions, instead of reassuring Barbara, made her more fearful—when she was not too tired to think at all. She had no idea there were so many places on the body that would respond to a man’s tongue, lips, and teeth, or that such weird and wonderful twistings and turnings could bring pleasure instead of the pain of broken bones and torn muscles. Some days she was too limp to be afraid, but even then she was troubled because her husband seemed to dismiss so lightly the life of his friend and the good of his cause.

  That trouble was cured at the end of the second week of November when Chacier challenged a man entering the tower and was answered with a roar and a blow. Bevis cried a warning of an armed man and then fell suddenly silent. Into both Barbara’s and Alphonse’s minds came the same thought. If Edward was dead, there was no need to keep Alphonse alive.

  Barbara retreated to the wall, catching up in one hand a length of cloth she had been considering for a tunic and reaching with the other for the long spit on which two chickens had been roasted and sent up for dinner. The cloth, thrown over a man’s head, could blind him, or could catch a sword arm and make a thrust or parry go awry. The spit could trip a man, or go through his neck and kill him, if an opport
unity came for her to get close without being caught and used against Alphonse.

  He saw her and said softly, “Courage! God bless you!”

  The last words were muffled as he slid into his mail, and he did not look toward her again as he drew his sword and came forward so that whoever came up would have to stop in the doorway and could not swing a sword freely. Moreover, only one man at a time could enter, and there was only a small landing behind the doorway atop the steep, curving stair. But all the preparation was unnecessary.

  It was Roger Leybourne’s face that showed behind his helmet’s raised visor—explaining why Bevis had fallen silent. He had recognized the intruder. Leybourne’s sword was sheathed when he stopped in the doorway, but his face was black with anger. “You were right,” he snarled.

  “The prince is—” Alphonse could not say the word and his deep voice rose like a boy’s and broke.

  “No, no, not dead,” Leybourne said. He put out a hand and his mailed fingers clashed against Alphonse’s bared blade. He looked at the sword, then looked surprised, as if he had not noticed it before. Then he raised his eyes to Alphonse’s face again. “You are in no danger from us. Indeed, Edward might have died if we had not had your warning. When Tybetot and le Strange burst into the first court at Wallingford, the castellan came to the wall and said if we did not retreat, right out of the country, they would give our prince to us by casting him from the wall by a mangonel. Le Strange laughed and said they would not dare, and they brought Edward out, unarmed and bound. We had to stop our assault or endanger him. When the prince begged us to go…”

  Alphonse dropped the point of his sword and put his hand on Leybourne’s shoulder. “I am sorry, truly sorry. There was always some hope that you would succeed.” Then he brought his hand up and down in a light blow. “So, what is done is done. The meat of the matter is that Edward is alive and well. Look forward, man. What is to do next?”

  “You do not think the prince is still in danger?”

  “God, no! After showing him to all the men in Wallingford, and all hearing him bid you go. No. If harm comes to Edward now, Leicester will have the castellan, and the whole garrison too, skinned alive. But Walerand had better look to his defenses. The earl will consider what you have done a violation of the pact you made with him in August.”

  “That matter is in hand, of course.” Leybourne bit his lip. “We have no right, but we have a favor to ask of you, Sieur Alphonse—not for our sakes but for Edward’s.”

  “If I can help the prince, I will.”

  “It will delay your leaving for France some time.”

  Alphonse hesitated, then nodded.

  “Would you be willing to go with me and some others to speak with Roger Mortimer in Wigmore?” Leybourne asked. “Force, as you warned us, has failed, but we must have Edward. Without him we are nothing but outlaw barons. With him we are the true supporters of the Crown and many will rally to his standard.”

  Whatever doubts Barbara had felt about Leybourne’s attitude toward Edward were satisfied. Self-interest was the best guarantee of loyalty she knew, and this was an aspect of self-interest that she had not considered. It was not only money and favor that Leybourne needed but the feeling that he was part of the proper ordering of the realm. He did not wish to lead or to be a rebel, no matter how just the cause.

  Alphonse nodded. “You must have Edward,” he agreed. “I do not see what my speaking to Mortimer can do for you or for Edward, but I am willing to go to Wigmore.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The guards were gone when they came down from the tower for an evening meal in the great hall, but the back of Barbara’s neck prickled and Alphonse kept her close. Later, abed, when she said she had felt watched, he laughed.

  “So you were. Did you think we had become trusted allies just because I agreed to go to Wigmore? They know me to be Edward’s friend, but they know also I served Edward at Henry de Montfort’s order. Since they did not offer the alternative of putting us on a ship, we only had the choice of going to Wigmore or staying here.”

  “But sending us to France would only have been offered if you refused to go to Wigmore!” Barbara exclaimed. “Do you think it will be easier to escape when we are on the road?”

  Alphonse laughed again. “No, my love, I am not so silly as to see myself as the hero of an old romance, able to fight my way free of twenty or thirty men. But in fact I do not wish to escape. I do not know this man Mortimer, and I wish to meet him. There may be something I can do for Edward after all.”

  Barbara sighed. “I do not understand you. This morning you did not seem to care whether Edward was alive. Now you are ready to ride into Wales on the slightest hope you can do something for him.”

  “Whatever gave you the notion I did not care whether Edward was alive?” Alphonse levered himself up on an elbow to look into her face.

  “Are you trying to tell me you gave one thought to his welfare over the time we have been here?”

  “Perhaps one.” Alphonse was smiling as he lay down again. “What good would thinking about him have done? It was not as if by thinking about his fate I could have found a device to save him. All I could have accomplished was to ruin my digestion and make you miserable. My dear, it is like waiting for Louis to make up his mind or waiting for a tournament to start. Concern can only wear me out. I have learned to concentrate on whatever is closest to hand—on you, while we were trapped here.” He drew her close. “Did I not please you, my love?”

  That was not a question Barbara was prepared to answer, either positively, by responding to his embrace, or negatively, by pulling free. All she could do was say hastily, “But when we left Warwick, you were eager to leave England. You did not then feel you should stay to help Edward.”

  The pause that followed was so brief Barbara would not have noticed it except that she felt a faint tremor in the arm that held her. Then the arm relaxed, still embracing her but without the tension that implied lovemaking.

  “I did not know when we left Warwick that Edward’s old friends had joined into a party and were determined to free him,” Alphonse said. “I thought from what we heard in Canterbury that they were at odds with one another, scattered and beaten, and would either go into exile or make their peace with Leicester and wait for the prince’s release.”

  “But if Edward is freed, the war will begin again.”

  “Begin again? Is it not going on anyway, love?” Alphonse asked gently.

  Barbara was silent, remembering her own doubts on the subject, and after a moment Alphonse went on, “Whether or not you agree with me that only the king has the right to rule, you must see that Edward is the one hope this country has for peace. Can you not also see that hope will be lost if he is turned into a madman?”

  “You think they will punish Edward for this? Put him in the bottom of the donjon and load him with chains?” Barbara shuddered.

  “I hope not, but he must be held more straitly for a time. Think what that will do to him, atop seeing freedom so close and snatched away—having been forced to cut off the chance for freedom by his own order.”

  “But his life was at stake!”

  “Ah, but he cannot be sure of that. No more can I, although it is what I feared and warned against. Will he not wonder whether he threw away a last chance to be free? Whether what he did was cowardly? Whether his order will have broken his friends’ faith in him? He will tear himself apart. I do not wish to see my friend changed into a monster. And aside from my obligation as Edward’s friend, the prince is my brother’s overlord in Gascony. I do not think a man twisted with bitterness and hatred would make a good overlord. I want Edward freed while the lessons he has learned will make him reasonable, not mad. So, if there is any real hope of escape for the prince, I will do all I can to help.”

  “I am worried about my father,” Barbara said softly.

  She could feel Alphonse shrug. “I cannot help that,” he said. “I cannot even agree that there is any need to worry.
Norfolk is a wily old fox and will take good care of himself—as he has told you over and over.”

  Knowing protest was useless and that argument would more likely set Alphonse’s intention than change it, Barbara said nothing. Alphonse’s own stillness implied that her device was working properly and he was reconsidering Norfolk’s fate. She was thus shocked when he pulled her suddenly atop him and laughed.

  “We are both talking as if my going to Wigmore will make a difference,” he said between kisses on her chin and throat. “Likely it is only a device to keep us both safely in hand without a restraint that would wake enmity in us. It costs Leybourne nothing to take us, after all, and a use might be found for one or both of us. Mayhap I will never get to speak to Mortimer at all.”

  Alphonse’s guess was wide of the mark. Three days later, having followed Roger Leybourne past the abbey of Wigmore and through the poor village, not large enough or rich enough to be called a town, they found Roger Mortimer, Baron of Wigmore, waiting at the bottom of the steep ridge on which his keep was set. Barbara did not realize who the leader of the small troop was at first. The man looked almost as wild as the Welsh chieftains she had sometimes welcomed when acting as her father’s hostess in Strigul. Mortimer’s hair flowed down his back and mingled with the shaggy fur he wore over his armor. His face was more Welsh than Norman too, dark and keen. She knew him when he spoke, however, and remembered that the looks, and the long, love-hate relationship he had with Llywelyn apGruffydd—the Welsh leader, came from his Welsh mother, Llywelyn’s aunt.

  “I have a summons to appear at Oxford on the twenty-fifth,” Mortimer called, his voice harsh and loud. “What has Walerand to say to that, Leybourne?”

  “He has sent out a summons to his own men and hopes to bar the Severn,” Leybourne answered and then, hastily, as if to prevent a demand for more information, he went on, “I have with me Sieur Alphonse d’Aix, Edward’s and Henry de Montfort’s jousting companion, and his wife, the Earl of Norfolk’s daughter.”