Off to one side he saw a group of four men, one struggling feebly as a second, riding behind, supported him in the saddle, and two on either side protected them. Alphonse checked Dadais, then as they passed, riding back toward Hereford, drove his horse between them and two members of his troop who clearly intended to pursue.
“Let them go,” he shouted. “Let them take their wounded back to Hereford.”
A few more blows were struck, but essentially that was the end of the fight. With their leader injured, with one half of the troop not knowing what the fight was about and the other half appalled by the thought of trying to take their own future king prisoner, with the facts evident, that they were outnumbered and that catching the two who had fled was plainly impossible, the offer of safety while they gathered up their wounded and returned to the town was too good to ignore.
Both troops, holding shields and swords ready but striking no blows, withdrew a cautious distance while the dead and wounded were separated and carried to either side. Then the men of Hereford turned south. If any had thought of turning back suddenly and catching the prince’s guards unaware, they soon put the idea out of their minds. Most of Alphonse’s troop followed them for more than a mile—well beyond the track the prince had taken, but they did not know that. Then they sat in the road watching until the last of the men of Hereford passed out of sight. Those who did not follow bandaged the hurt and tied the dead onto their horses. None were left behind to be questioned or identified as Mortimer’s.
After Alphonse’s troop had reassembled, they rode north again. Well before they reached Leominster, however, the troop broke up into small groups, most headed back to Weobly across country. Alphonse and Chacier alone passed through the town, where they stopped to eat a belated dinner, and then rode on. Although they did not hurry their meal, they heard no excitement, no criers calling out important news, and the gate guards did not even glance at them when they rode out. Alphonse bit his lip. Surely Henry de Montfort had not been so seriously injured he was unable to send out messengers to order the prince be apprehended.
Alphonse reviewed the blow he had struck and how Henry had acted when he last saw him, and concluded he could have done no permanent harm. So why— Then he shrugged. Alphonse accounted himself clever with words, but could not devise just how he, in Henry’s place, would phrase an order to capture the prince when the whole country had been told that Edward was free. Most likely Henry had decided Edward was beyond his reach and instead of taking action himself had sent the news to his father so that Leicester could decide what to do. That, Alphonse thought, was typical of Henry, or was it because Henry was not certain he wanted to recapture the prince?
When that idea first occurred to Alphonse, it came lightly, as near to a jest as one could come about so bitter a subject. He was thinking only in terms of Henry’s own weariness of spirit at having thrust on him a second time the heavy and unwelcome responsibility of controlling Edward. Later, near to midnight, when he finally rode into Wigmore and was told by the gate guard to go directly to the prince in the near tower, he began to be uneasy. And his welcome from Edward, who was still wide awake, brought to mind a different reason for Henry’s reluctance to recapture him.
Although Edward took Alphonse into a crushing hug and thanked and complimented him for his part in the escape, the prince also asked quite sharply why Alphonse had taken so long to arrive in Wigmore. Every line and twitch in Edward’s face was clearly visible because the small tower chamber was brightly lit. Torches flared in three wall holders and large candlesticks had been carried in and placed on either side of the small hearth.
With a slight sinking of heart at what he saw in the prince’s face, Alphonse answered calmly that he and his servant had stopped to eat in Leominster to provide evidence of two armed but harmless travelers, who were certainly not the fleeing prince, if someone asked questions about men arriving from the south. Then he had taken a slow and circuitous route to Wigmore. His answer satisfied the prince, but more, he thought, because Edward recognized and forced down his own unreasonable suspicion than because of the inherent logic of the answer.
It was then, seeing both the half-mad suspicion and the iron will that controlled it, that Alphonse began to wonder whether Henry de Montfort had welcomed the prince’s escape because he knew it would soon be too late. Long before his father could be brought to loose Edward’s bonds in fact rather than pretense—if he ever could be—the prince would be irretrievably mad and all the more dangerous because he would not seem mad. He would not gibber, probably not even rage, but he would see only evil and ill intent in every living being, even in those who were most loving and devoted to him.
“What now?” Edward asked sharply. “How long must I stay here?”
Alphonse started. The words, implying that Edward was afraid he was now in Mortimer’s power, hit too close to the uneasy thoughts they had interrupted. “Pardon, my lord,” he said, “I am tired. I was half asleep. As to how long you stay, that is a matter for you to judge. Lord Mortimer is at Ludlow. He will await you there or come here on your order or meet you at any other place you designate.”
A brusque nod showed that Edward had accepted the information, but there was no sign of relaxation. One part of Edward, Alphonse guessed, still suspected he was to be used, a tool in other men’s hands for purposes that were not his own, but another part was busy with saner, tactical considerations. These were the lands of Edward’s lordship, and Alphonse was sure he knew exactly where Ludlow was—well under four leagues from Wigmore—Alphonse had been told, and was calculating the reasons why Mortimer had chosen the place and the advantages and disadvantages of accepting Mortimer’s choice or designating a new place. What he said had nothing to do with the place of meeting, however.
“Thomas told me,” Edward remarked, his left eyelid drooping more than it had a moment earlier, “that his brother will answer my call to arms. Is that true, or is it the hope of a young zealot?”
“It is true, but there is a price.”
Edward sighed as he said, “There is always a price,” but the rigidity of his stance relaxed a trifle.
Alphonse relaxed also, knowing he had struck the right note. Certainly at present, and perhaps forever, Edward had lost all faith in professions of loyalty and generosity. To offer such reasons for supporting him, especially in his current weakness, would only stimulate his suspicion. Bargains, however, he was willing to credit as rational bases for action. The prince confirmed Alphonse’s thought by glancing around the small tower chamber and pointing to a stool that stood beside the cot holding a flagon and a cup in lieu of a table.
“Bring that to the hearth and sit down,” he said.
While Alphonse took the flagon and the cup in one hand and carried the stool over with the other, Edward threw a few more small logs on the fire. Then he laughed. “Lady Matilda was both shocked and grateful when I refused her chamber, her bed, Mortimer’s chair of state, and a passel of servants to wait on me and chose instead to lie in the tower alone.”
“You mean she thinks you wished to do her honor for her husband’s sake.” Alphonse spoke over his shoulder, as he set the stool down and placed the cup and flagon on the floor between the two stools. “That will do you no harm. She is very devoted to Mortimer,” he went on, as Edward seated himself and he followed suit.
The prince uttered a snort of laughter, filled the cup, and drank about half, offering the remainder to Alphonse. He accepted the cup, drank off what was left, and handed it back.
“I imagine,” Alphonse said, “that a luxurious prison might gall the spirit as badly as fetters in a stone cellar gall the body. I am sure, though, that any extended experience of the fetters on the body might make me think less ill of the gall of luxury.”
“Still trying to bring me to forgive Henry?” Edward said, his voice thinner and harder. “You need not worry. I appreciate fully that he could have made my life much more miserable, even though fetters in a cellar would not hav
e been politic or suited Leicester’s purpose of seeming virtuous and magnanimous.” He filled the cup again but did not drink; then, staring down into it, he asked softly, “Why did you take part in my rescue, Alphonse?”
“Not, I am sorry to admit, out of my pure love for you, my lord,” Alphonse said, smiling. “I am afraid I became involved partly by accident and partly because I have a personal grudge against Guy de Montfort.” He sighed. “Not very uplifting reasons.”
Edward raised the cup and sipped. Over the rim his eyes seemed to Alphonse to be sadder but less mad. Alphonse shrugged, hiding his intense pleasure at having said the right thing in the right way. He had guessed that to speak of his own grudge would make his support both intensely personal and totally comprehensible to the prince, who could hold a grudge with the best. Alphonse uttered a short laugh and spoke again. “Yet Guy is also my benefactor, in a way.”
“A parable?” Edward asked, his lips twisted, his voice flat and dangerous.
“Oh, no.” Alphonse laughed again. “Pure fact. If Guy had not pursued Barbe with dishonorable intent, which she was afraid to confess to her father lest he squash the little louse and enrage Leicester, she would not have fled to France. I would not have seen her again and been reminded of how desirable she was and that our lands run well together. Thus, it is owing to Guy’s lust that I have a wife entirely to my taste. In so much he is my benefactor.”
Edward laughed, the sound full and natural, and Alphonse took that as an invitation to tell the whole tale. His emphasis was on Guy’s attempts to cuckold him, first by invitation and, when Barbe refused, by guile and by force. Naturally, he mentioned in passing that Barbe would not involve her father because he and Leicester were already in disagreement and that she and Alphonse had become friends with Gloucester because he had defended Barbe from Guy.
Although he made no comment on it, Alphonse knew the prince had noted his remarks about the distrust between Leicester and Norfolk. He surely had other evidence of the strain in that relationship, but Alphonse was satisfied that his casual mention of the daughter’s anxiety was an interesting confirmation that Norfolk was no inveterate enemy.
Edward, however, was more interested in another casual comment. “Friends with Gloucester, are you?” he remarked. “I hardly know him. He did not come to court and some two years ago refused to swear fealty to me—”
“He refused to swear because he had not yet received title to his father’s lands,” Alphonse interrupted. “Is it not true that he was denied that title on a point of law—a point that was waived for others, some younger than he—that he was under age? Is it so strange, then, that he should refuse to swear on an equally technical point of law?”
Edward said nothing, staring down into the cup of wine he still held. Alphonse hesitated. This was one of the nastiest sticking points of the rapprochement between the prince and Gloucester. He knew it had to be brought into the open before the prince and Gloucester met, but he had already made a mistake by seeming to have accepted Gloucester’s interpretation of events without waiting to hear Edward’s defense. He wished he were not so tired that his head felt thick.
“Gloucester told me,” Alphonse went on in a more uncertain voice, “that he had been shamefully treated by your father when he came to France as his father’s heir. My lord, as Gloucester’s lord-to-be, and as an impartial judge—did he lie?”
The prince’s blue eyes, almost equally wide open with surprise, regarded Alphonse thoughtfully for a long moment, assessing that challenge. “I do not know what happened in France,” Edward said slowly, “but it is true that my father put Gloucester’s lands into the hands of a warden instead of giving him livery at once.” He shrugged. “That brought two years’ revenue from rich lands into my father’s always-empty purse.”
Alphonse felt tears of relief sting his eyes. Clearly, even without the healing that freedom and the exercise of power might bring him in time, Edward was not totally ruled by resentment and suspicion.
“I think Gloucester could have understood and accepted that,” Alphonse said. “Not acknowledged that it was right or just, but not felt so deep a bitterness—had he not been humiliated by the king’s handling.”
“My father was a little sore himself from ill handling,” Edward snapped.
Another mistake. Alphonse passed a weary hand across his eyes. “My lord,” he said, “I know that, and I never would have mentioned it, except that I feel you should know what is still a key to Gloucester’s good or ill will. He has not been treated with respect. Leicester dealt with him as if he were a foolish little boy when he protested what he felt were injustices. That was a grave mistake. Gloucester is a man with power and strong opinions. He is, perhaps, not quite so strong a man of his hands as you in single combat, my lord, but he is a remarkably astute battle leader. Still, Gloucester is young and is easily offended.”
“He is only four years younger than I,” Edward said.
Alphonse stared, but Edward was looking into the cup again and the profile he could see told him nothing. Alphonse thought with a sinking heart that his warning had been misunderstood. He drew a breath and tried again. “Gloucester is four years younger by the passing of the seasons, but a hundred years younger in the grief that has taught you patience.”
Edward did not answer that, merely drained the cup of wine he was holding, refilled it, and handed it to Alphonse who drank in turn.
“And what will you do now?” the prince asked, with another abrupt change of subject.
“Whatever you command,” Alphonse replied and then, desperately, added, “which I hope will be to go to bed tonight. Tomorrow I will be ready for any more vigorous enterprise.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
For several days, Alphonse did not know whether his talk with Edward had borne fruit. Much earlier—in fact, the following morning, when he woke on a pallet on the floor of the uppermost tower chamber at Wigmore, where Thomas de Clare sat sleepily grumbling on the edge of a cot—he realized all at once and with a considerable shock that he had been outmanipulated by Edward. The prince had deliberately kept him talking after he mentioned he was half asleep from exhaustion, not only because he was himself tense and wakeful but because he knew he was more likely to hear the bald and undecorated truth that way.
Alphonse’s pride suffered a blow when he realized how easily he had fallen into the trap laid for him. Not that he could have avoided talking if Edward demanded he do so but because he had not understood sooner what the prince was doing. When he reviewed the conversation, however, he began to grin. Sly as a leopard, Edward had been called. Perhaps he was, but he was now as much a victim of his own slyness as his prey had been. Alphonse knew he had said exactly what he had intended to say, if not with his usual tact. And because Edward himself had set the conditions to draw out blunt and unvarnished statements, his lack of tact had been excused and his words had gained more force.
The satisfaction was tempered by being unable to judge the result. Later that morning, when Alphonse breakfasted with Edward, Thomas, and Matilda, the prince seemed already less haunted and less in need of a constant application of will to control himself. He was no less suspicious, however. He cast out several lures to catch any hint that he was not utterly master of the situation, but found no takers. When he asked Thomas whether he would return now to his brother, the young man replied that he had taken Edward’s service and would do as Edward bade him. Mortimer’s wife was, by her husband’s direction, instantly ready to obey any order, to strip Wigmore of troops, to go with Edward herself, to serve as messenger or hostage, or to fulfill any role by the prince’s will. And Alphonse, when he was asked if he now wished to be released to go home to France, was no longer too tired to think and smiled lazily.
“Not at all, my lord. I am useless as a battle leader, for I was never trained in that art and I have no troop to bring to your support. Still, I hope you have enough value for my personal skill at arms to make a place for me at your side in the com
ing battles. I still have my little personal grudge to settle, and I am most likely to settle it to my satisfaction if I am beside you.”
Edward smiled, a show of teeth with little humor, but his eyes were clear and direct on Alphonse’s own as he promised that the “settlement” would be presented to him on the battlefield if possible. Actually, Alphonse cared little about Guy de Montfort. If he did meet him in battle, he would kill him with no regret, but to Alphonse, Guy had become too despicable to merit a deep and bitter hatred. Guy was an adequate excuse, however, not to ask to leave Edward at the present moment and not to give his true reasons for wishing to stay.
None of the reasons was particularly complimentary to the prince. The primary one was that Alphonse suspected Edward was still unbalanced enough to hold a grudge against him if he “abandoned him in his need”. The second was that Alphonse regarded the coming fighting with lively anticipation, if with no real seriousness. The war was a matter of life and death to Edward, he knew. For himself it had as little true meaning as a tournament. Alphonse hoped Edward would win because he felt what Leicester had done in wresting the rule of a realm from its king was wrong—even if the king was unfit to rule. Third, he did not like Leicester’s young sons. Fourth, this was all an amusing adventure to him. And last, he had to fill the time until Barbe wrote and told him where to meet her, and fighting with Edward was as good a way to fill it as any other.
“So you may stay beside me, and welcome,” Edward was concluding. “And though you are no experienced battle leader, my dear Alphonse, you have your own wisdom. Now, tell me, what do you think about my going to Ludlow?”
Alphonse smiled again, but he called himself a fool for allowing his mind to wander while the prince was talking to him. Fortunately he had heard enough to sense the hook trolling for an opinion of Mortimer, and to avoid it.
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