A Silver Mirror

by Roberta Gellis

  “Thomas will give the message to Mortimer, if he responds to Gloucester’s letter before I return here, but I expect to be back from Dunstable by the twentieth or twenty-first of February.”

  “You will only encourage Gloucester to fight,” she said bitterly.

  “No.” Alphonse cupped her face in his hand. “I swear I will not. And though I do not wish to crow like a cock on a dung heap, if I am with Gilbert, the young Montforts are less likely to plead with their father to allow the tourney to take place. Not that I think their appeal would move Leicester, but why take the chance? And the last thing we need is another confrontation, so I hope to keep Gilbert from losing his temper again, if I can.”

  “And if you cannot? You will both end up in prison.”

  “Not I. The worst Leicester will do to me is expel me from the country.” He burst out laughing again at the expression on her face, lifted her from her seat beside the small hearth, crushed her to him, and kissed her.

  Taken by surprise, Barbara clung to him. When their lips parted, he said playfully, “I could swear from your sour look that you do not wish to part from me. Confess! Tell me you love me!”

  For once Alphonse had struck the wrong note. Later Barbara asked herself whether he was awkward and off balance because she was more important to him than other women, but at the moment the teasing infuriated her. She pushed at him, and his arms tightened brutally. When she failed to free herself, she tilted back her head and lifted her brows.

  “If you intend to ‘press’ a confession out of me, you are wasting your time. I told you before we married that I had loved you since I first laid eyes upon you—like every other woman.”

  He was hurt. The warmth and laughter disappeared from his voice and eyes, and though he made a light answer, he released her quickly. Then he had mumbled that he had forgotten to tell Chacier he thought a stirrup leather was wearing and should be replaced before they rode out again, and went away. Still angry, but more because her sense of fairness was in direct conflict with her jealousy, Barbara let him go.

  She could not think of a way to open the subject of his remaining in St. Briavels again either, because she did not really fear any harm would come to him in Dunstable. Had she been truly afraid, she would have used other devices, even admitting that she was jealous if it was the only way to keep him safe. But she could not try to force Alphonse into what he would believe was abandonment of a friend in need just to keep her private green-eyed devil at bay.

  Besides, he soon returned to her, seemingly cured of his hurt, in fact in a singularly good mood. Barbara guessed he might have put together her remark about every other woman with her reluctance to let him out of her sight to come to a conclusion too close to the truth. To betray her jealousy would be worse than letting him know she really did adore him. Thus, she was more yielding than usual when he began to caress her abed, and she let him ride off to Dunstable the next day with no more than an astringent reminder that he had promised to keep Gilbert from fighting, not goad him into it.

  Alphonse left St. Briavels on February 12. On the sixteenth, a messenger came from Mortimer with thanks for the extended leave to stay and a warning that he had yielded two of his fortified manors in Wales to Montfort’s deputies. If Thomas was wise, the messenger said, he would warn his brother that Montfort had sent far too few men. Mortimer, the message continued, was not sure whether this was a sign of weakness in Leicester or a sign that the earl did not wish to defend Mortimer’s property. Whichever was true, one thing was certain, the Montforts would not try to protect Gloucester’s nearby Welsh estates from raiding.

  “And what am I to do about this?” Thomas said to Barbara when he had dismissed the messenger to find a meal for himself in the kitchen. “No rider from here could reach Dunstable by tomorrow, and I have not the faintest notion where Gilbert will go afterward.”

  “You are not really worried about the lands, are you?” Barbara asked.

  Thomas shook his head. “What Mortimer says is very likely true, and I may send an extra troop to each manor, but Mortimer sent this warning to bring Gilbert west. You know Gilbert intends to meet Mortimer in March, but if I now suggest that meeting to Mortimer’s man, will it not sound as if Gilbert is too eager? But if I do not use this messenger, I may not find it so easy to discover where to send the invitation later. Mortimer is moving often and keeping his whereabouts secret to reduce the chance he might be arrested despite Gilbert’s order.”

  Experience with an uncle and a father who moved often and rapidly around the country had taught Barbara the answer to that problem. “Mortimer cannot guess how uncertain Gilbert’s plans are. He will not know that Gilbert may be out of your reach, so thank him for his warning, tell him you are sending it on to Gilbert, and ask him to send a man again in six days—unless he wishes to tell you where he will be at that time—because you are sure Gilbert will want to thank him for the warning, perhaps in person.”

  “Now that is a clever notion.” Thomas smiled at her.

  “It is possible too,” Barbara added, “that before the six days are over, Alphonse will be back here with news of Gilbert’s whereabouts if he has gone elsewhere than Tonbridge or London.”

  In fact it was on the sixth day, only a few hours before Mortimer’s second messenger arrived in St. Briavels, that Barbara and Thomas learned Gilbert had gone to London after leaving Dunstable. They did not learn it from Alphonse, however. Alphonse had gone with Gloucester to London. It was Sir John Giffard who came with the news—and with a hundred men and more to follow.

  In response to Gloucester’s invitation to the proposed tourney, Sir John told them, he had gone first to Dunstable. While there, he had heard of the capture and arrest of Robert de Ferrars, the Earl of Derby, for lawlessness.

  “Good riddance,” Thomas muttered. “Who has Ferrars for a friend needs no enemies. That man is like a wild beast. Whatever he wants, he takes without regard to law or loyalty.”

  “But will the arrests stop with Derby?” Sir John asked. “Leicester said publicly that he hoped Derby’s arrest would prove that all men, whether or not they were his supporters, were equally subject to the law. If they had taken property—even in lieu of ransom from those who had been their prisoners—they must be prosecuted.”

  “That is not going to sit well with many,” Barbara remarked tartly. “But I cannot believe Leicester could be so unreasonable. There have been so many years of disorder. To speak of prosecuting every crime is crazy.”

  “Not if Leicester is seeking a legal excuse to rid himself of anyone who is not blindly obedient to his will and his vision,” Sir John pointed out bitterly.

  There was a brief, tense silence, then Thomas cried, “But if Gilbert thinks that too, why did he go back to London?”

  “For my sake, curse me,” Sir John groaned. “I went to Gilbert when I heard what Leicester said. In fact, I have taken land in lieu of ransom, as you know, Thomas, and I have had various other disagreements with Leicester. Then,” he nodded at Barbara, “there was that trouble with your husband. You could not know, but Guy rode up to Warwick at the end of October, foaming at the mouth, and accusing me of being party to making an attempt on his life. He said your husband laid an ambush for him, backed by a troop of the prince’s friends.”

  “That is not what happened!” Barbara exclaimed, and gave a brief explanation of the attack by Guy’s larger party on their smaller one and how Hamo le Strange had become involved. “But surely Guy cannot blame you for what happened outside of Gloucester. How could you know he would go to Gloucester?” she pointed out.

  Sir John shrugged. “One can be blamed for anything at all, when an excuse for blame is sought. Anyway, Gloucester said I should take my men and come here and he would try to find out exactly what Leicester planned. I argued until I was blue, but he would not listen to me.”

  Thomas only shook his head, but his young mouth looked so hard and grim that Barbara could have wept. Her anxiety increased when, over the n
ext few days, she realized Thomas and Sir John were quietly making ready for war. She feared any moment to see Gilbert and her husband come flying down the road pursued by an army, but no one came except the serfs whose service was due and Mortimer’s messenger. The messenger reported that Lord Mortimer did not wish to be offensive and did wish to speak to Gloucester in person, but he could not help fearing this suggested meeting was a trick to take him prisoner, like Derby, and he wanted hostages for his free coming and going to and from the place of meeting.

  Thomas threw up his hands in despair. He was offended that Mortimer would not trust his brother’s word of honor and wanted to refuse outright. Then recalling that they might be on the verge of a war, he realized he could not afford to cast away any ally. Sir John agreed, and began to ruminate on what was best to do. Barbara, eager to fix her mind on any problem that did not include a pitched battle between Leicester and Gloucester in which her husband was involved, came to a quick decision. She urged Thomas to offer her and Alphonse as hostages to Mortimer.

  “I cannot do that,” the young man cried, looking horrified. “Gilbert would kill me if I suggested that his guests be turned into prisoners.”

  “Not if the offer came from the guests. And who else can Gilbert send? Besides, I am not at all sure Mortimer will accept us. He may not think we are of enough value to Gilbert, but to make the offer will gain time. The messenger will have to go and come back again. I am sure Gilbert will be here by then…”

  Her voice faltered. She was beginning to have visions of Alphonse dead on the road instead of fleeing before an army, but both visions turned out to be false. In the late afternoon of February 27, one day before Mortimer’s messenger made his fourth appearance, Gloucester and Alphonse rode into St. Briavels. They were cold and muddy, but that was the worst danger they had suffered on their journey. The red-brown stains on their armor and surcoats, which had made Barbara bite her lip when they shed their cloaks, were rust, not blood.

  At first everyone asked questions and no one answered, but once mail and wet cloaks had been shed, dry clothes donned, and the whole party settled around the roaring fire, little by little everything was made clear. Gloucester had had no open confrontation with Leicester, but neither had he obtained any assurance that Sir John—or anyone else—would be pardoned for past offenses. He had thus been very glad to use the excuse of danger to his Welsh lands to leave London for St. Briavels. Then Thomas brought him up to date on Mortimer’s demands.

  “Hostages!” Gloucester exclaimed. “After I have put myself at risk to delay his banishment to Ireland—”

  “Gilbert,” Barbara interrupted, “do not take at face value anything Mortimer does or says. I cannot swear that fear of capture has not overpowered his real knowledge that you can be trusted, but equally I cannot swear that the hostages you send will not serve some far cleverer purpose than ensuring Mortimer’s safety. In any case, do not take as an insult what cannot have been meant as one.”

  “Cannot?” Gloucester asked, but more curiously than angrily.

  “Oh, Gilbert, a man who wishes to insult another does not send messengers back and forth a half-dozen times. Mortimer made the first moves toward reconciliation too. And you may as well know that by my advice and urging Thomas has already offered him hostages—me and Alphonse.”

  Gloucester looked at Alphonse, who was sitting beside Barbara. He had taken her hand in his own and, after she spoke, raised and kissed it. Then Gloucester looked back at Barbara.

  “I think you should know, Barby, that Alphonse has already confessed to me that you were not really held as prisoners at Wigmore. I must tell you also that I am no longer satisfied with the Earl of Leicester’s control of the king, the prince, the government—everything. I may be forced to oppose him openly, and that would perhaps make me your father’s enemy.”

  “Why?” Barbara asked. “Papa does not approve of everything Leicester does either. He only opposes the king’s extravagance. I do not think my father will regard you as an enemy unless you attack him—on his own lands.”

  “You may be sure I will not do that,” Gloucester said, smiling.

  “And I think Barbe has proposed the perfect answer to Mortimer’s request,” Alphonse remarked, bringing the subject back to the hostage question.

  Gloucester grumbled that he could not use his guests as hostages, but Alphonse only laughed.

  “If Mortimer will accept us,” he said, “you may take it as a clear sign he does trust you and has asked for hostages for some reason we cannot yet guess. Mortimer is no fool, you know, and must realize that he can have no hold on you through us, who have neither blood bond with you nor military value to you, unless you are a man of honor.”

  Gloucester made another protest about exposing those under his protection to danger, but Barbara could see that he spoke more for form’s sake than out of conviction. And, since he was actually quite certain that Alphonse and Barbara would only exchange one host for another, it did not take much longer to bring him to agree to the arrangement. The talk then moved on to expedients to be considered if Mortimer refused the proffered hostages.

  Having gained her original objective, which was to do what she could to isolate Alphonse with Mortimer in case Leicester and Gloucester came to war, Barbara could relax. She took up her work basket and drew out her embroidery—this time a neckband and front, to be sewn into a court gown for Alphonse. Listening to the men’s talk, she pulled out the tail of the front somewhat carelessly. The cloth caught on something heavy, and the basket shifted, nearly tipping off Barbara’s knees.

  Only as she caught the basket with half the yarn and bits of cloth toppling out did Barbara remember that she had replaced the silver mirror in it when Alphonse left St. Briavels. Color flooded her cheeks, and she bent her body concealingly over the basket. A swift downward glance showed only a glint of silver. A quick tuck, and the betraying symbol of her enslavement was out of sight. Barbara chose a length of yarn, took the needle from the cloth, and straightened up. When she raised the needle to thread it, she dared take a quick look at Alphonse. He seemed unaware of her, intent on the men’s talk, which had now shifted to the question of a meeting place both Gloucester and Mortimer would consider safe.

  A short, fervent prayer of thanks passed through her mind and brought a sudden inspiration. “There is a better place to meet than a town,” she said. “Llanthony Abbey.”

  “Too close to Gloucester,” Thomas protested.

  “No, I meant the older one, in the vale of Ewias. It is right at the foot of Black Mountain.”

  She then described the place, which she remembered vividly, although she had been there only once, when King Henry and Queen Eleanor had made a tour of especially holy foundations. The original Llanthony Abbey was isolated and primitive, a poor, neglected mother of the flourishing daughter abbey near Gloucester. Sir John groaned when Barbara mentioned how few visitors ever dared the bare, narrow track that threaded the hills to the place and the correspondingly limited and Spartan accommodations, but Gloucester nodded and laughed.

  “I think I am going to dismiss my marshal and appoint you instead, Barby,” he said. “You have a very fine grasp of where places are and the purposes to which they best lend themselves.”

  “No, I have not,” Barbara protested. “But Llanthony is truly very holy. No one would dare commit an act of treachery there. Even Mortimer will feel the sanctity. Possibly he knows the place already, and he will understand. To betray a man in Llanthony would be such an offense against God that even Mary’s mercy would be strained to forgive.”

  There was a slight pause, and then Gloucester said, “I hope Mortimer is as sensitive as you.” He smiled faintly and looked around at his male companions, each of whom nodded approval of Barbara’s proposal. “Well, we have our offer for meeting ready. We have only to learn whether Mortimer is interested enough to take a risk.”

  “Then I will bid you all to have a good night,” Alphonse said, standing up and holding
out his hand to Barbara. “You may have nothing better to do than sit and swill wine, but I… Well, wife?”

  A spate of male humor covered Barbara’s first moment of shock. So he had seen the mirror! She should have known Alphonse would not so completely ignore her sudden physical movement if he had not seen the mirror and her stupid attempt to conceal it. If only she had not tried to hide it. Now what could she say?

  Suppressing a horrid vision of Alphonse pulling out the mirror and laughing at her if she carried the basket to their chamber, she stuffed the embroidery back into it and pushed it under the bench. One of the men asked a question, and she answered with a laugh—the sound seemed forced and she had not the faintest notion whether her response was appropriate, but no one seemed surprised. Then Alphonse put her cloak around her and pulled the hood over her head. Their dash across the bailey through a sleety rain to the west gate tower dispelled some of Barbara’s shock but brought no inspiration, and she swallowed desperately as she turned to face her husband when he closed the door of their chamber.

  “Barbe,” he said, throwing back his hood, “I had to talk to you in private before Gloucester began to tell you what he hopes his meeting with Mortimer will accomplish. I am very grateful to you for always seeming to support me and to approve the choices I make, but I know your sympathies were with Leicester and I do not want you burdened with secrets you feel it wrong to keep.”

  Barbara stood with one hand on the edge of her cloak, which she had been about to remove, and stared at him without answering. He had not seen the mirror. He had not been moved to leave the hall by guessing how much she desired him. She should have been overjoyed, instead she was furious.

  Alphonse stared back at her, frowning. “Barbe?” he urged softly. “You do understand that Gloucester may break with Leicester—”