She wrenched their mouths apart. “You wretch!” she gasped. “You are laughing at me.”
“At you, at me, at the world,” he admitted, laughing openly. “But a certain lady, who has managed—she thinks—to avoid answering a perfectly fair question has no right to call me a wretch.” Barbara opened her mouth and he silenced her, but this time the kiss was as brief as it was hard. “However,” he continued, as soon as their mouths parted, “you never said a more sensible thing than that I was a fool to spend time talking. Off with you, quick, so we can be out of this place at once and find lodgings before dark.”
“Lodgings? But—”
“Barbe, do not start new games!” He chuckled evilly, spun her about, and sent her toward the women’s section of the abbey with a smart slap on the buttocks. “If you do not leave me at once, the poor brothers will need to purify their whole visitors’ quarters. You know we cannot stay here.”
She caught up the basket as she flew by, laughing herself. Alphonse was exaggerating. Carnal congress in the visitors’ quarters would not require purification, but the act would be a shocking ingratitude to the brothers who had housed her for two months without questions. Besides, Alphonse would have to sneak into her bed after everyone else was asleep and then sneak back to the men’s section before anyone woke. That would lend a spice of guilt to their lovemaking, and Barbara knew a spice of guilt could provide a fine flavor for the mild pleasure of the marriage bed—but not tonight. She and Alphonse had been apart too long. They needed no spice to whet their appetites. They needed a long, unbroken night and a lazy morning to play and rest and play again. “Quick, Clotilde,” she called as she ran into the large chamber where they took their meals but the maid was not there.
Barbara had to bite back another word the monks would not have approved. She hesitated, wondering whether she should run out to the courtyard to seek Clotilde or go along to her chamber and herself begin packing. Fortunately, a lay brother came in and Barbara asked him to tell her men to make the horses ready to leave and send her maid to her, explaining breathlessly that her husband had come to fetch her and wished to go at once.
She thought he looked surprised, and turned away before he had a chance to speak. Another time she might have been annoyed at his unquestioning acceptance of her husband’s right to order her to leave a proven shelter late in the afternoon. Just then she was too glad not to need to give a reason that she was grateful. A few minutes later another reason for the servant’s surprise came to her. Clotilde was already in her chamber and most of her clothes were packed away, only her riding dress lying on the bed.
“I saw Sieur Alphonse going through the courtyard like a storm wind,” the woman said, smiling at her astonishment. “I did not think he would be willing to stay here, confined to separate beds, after being parted from you for so long.”
Barbara had no answer for that and could only ignore Clotilde’s suggestive leer. Nor was she willing, for the sake of dignity, to allow any delay. She dressed quickly and even helped the maid carry out the traveling baskets, most of her mind busy with what she could say to the abbot. However, that was a task she did not need to face. She discovered Alphonse was taking care of that matter as soon as she came out into the courtyard.
Since Alphonse had expected to ride on as soon as he learned with whom, when, and in what direction she had left Evesham, Chacier had not even unsaddled their mounts. A word from his master, after his first meeting with the abbot, had sent him seeking Bevis and Lewin with orders to make ready to leave. Thus when Barbara came out into the courtyard, her men were waiting with the packhorses, Frivole, and their own mounts saddled and ready near Dadais. Chacier came forward to lift her to her saddle and tell her that Alphonse had gone to the abbot to make their farewells and leave a gift.
He came out more quickly than she expected, mounted, and said, “Since you did not see fit to obey me, I will now take you to your father myself.”
Until they were outside the gate, Barbara hung her head as if ashamed and did not speak. As soon as they were safe from being overheard, however, she looked up brightly and said admiringly, “What a clever excuse. It explained why you were angry when you learned I was still here, and because you were angry the abbot would not try to persuade you to stay at least the night. But where are we going?”
“To your father,” he replied, grinning. “I would not lie to the holy abbot, would I?”
A rich burst of pleasure filled Barbara. If Alphonse was taking her to Norfolk himself, he must have long leave or even better, have parted permanently from the prince. Her delight was so strong that she could not bear to have it snatched away, so she did not ask for confirmation of her hope. Instead she teased him by widening her eyes and asking, “Will you drag me all the way to Norfolk tonight? I thought—”
“Did you? Did you also think of a good lodging that we can reach before sunset? If not, you will find yourself used like a greensleeves in the nearest ditch.”
Barbara laughed, but although the setting sun gilded the road where it did not cast long shadows of the bordering trees, behind them, to the south, there were serried ranks of swollen clouds. That presaged heavy, steady rain during the night and possibly on into the next day. Had the sky told a different story, Barbara might have chosen to sleep out. Blankets on the grass in the shelter of a rough tent were preferable in the mild summer weather to the pest-ridden rooms of most inns. She might even have ignored signs of a sprinkling. A brief shower could not interfere with the urgent need that had been awakened by her husband’s presence. But a pouring rain, seeping through the fabric of the tent and soaking the ground they lay on would surely dampen any but the first fine fervor. And if it rained very hard, Chacier and Clotilde would have to come into the tent also, which would put a limit to some of the games she had in mind.
“A ditch will not do,” she said, pointing to the clouds.
“I had noticed,” Alphonse said. “I had to bite my tongue not to ask the abbot where to stay, but I thought you would know. Surely you have traveled this road with your father.”
She was silent for a moment, thinking, then smiled. “Stratford,” she said, remembering a place her father would ride hard to reach on his journey to and from Strigul. “There is a bridge across the Avon there as well as a good ford, and nigh by the gate to the bridge is an inn that has an upper chamber. The alewife thinks herself better than the common kind—I do not know why, but she speaks good French—and she keeps that chamber for the gentle born, and keeps it clean too.”
“How far?” Alphonse asked.
“I do not know,” Barbara admitted. “We did not come this way but rode west through Alcester to Worcester and then south.”
“How far is it from Alcester to Worcester?”
“An easy day’s ride, under ten leagues.”
“Stratford cannot be very far then, but I am not certain we can reach it before the sun sets.”
“Well, we can look at any other place we pass.”
They did not even stop at the next village. Offensham was little more than a cluster of huts. Bevis asked about the distance to Stratford, but even the ragged priest did not know. Evesham was as far abroad as he had been. The sun was down and the clouds were almost overhead by the time they reached Bidford. There was an alehouse there, but Bevis came out very quickly and shook his head.
“No good, my lord,” he said, “and for a better place she only named the priory at Cleeve. But at least I learned that we are halfway to Stratford and on the right road.”
“Then let us ride,” Barbara urged. “The light will last, if the rain does not catch us.”
They beat full darkness and the rain to Stratford but not by much. Large drops, gleaming fitfully as they caught the light of the night torches, were splatting on the hardened mud of the inn yard as Alphonse lifted Barbara down from Frivole and drew her under the eaves.
“If there is someone in the chamber,” she said, “I will try to buy them out—do you mind?”
“Not at all, my love,” Alphonse replied. “I am sure you will be successful, since I will prick them out,” he patted the hilt of his sword suggestively, “if they do not like the bargain you offer.”
He was smiling and his voice was soft, but Barbara drew a sharp breath. She was always astonished by how much threat her husband could convey without recourse to a loud voice or violent gestures. All she could hope was that no guest of great importance lay in that chamber. She had the feeling that Alphonse would evict the king himself. She shook her head and murmured some words of caution, but even while she was trying to think of an excuse to offer the alewife for taking the upper chamber from guests already settled in, she realized that very little sound was coming through the open door. She squeezed Alphonse’s hand.
“It is so quiet. Surely that means there is no meiny in the common room.”
He nodded. “You are right, but—”
He was interrupted by the alewife, who came running out, curtsying and begging pardon for being slow to welcome them. “I did not think anyone would come so late,” she said. “Come in, come in.”
Barbara frowned. It was not really very late. Travelers often rode until dusk, especially in summer when the mild weather and long, light evenings tempted them to cover more miles. She remembered that the outer gate to the inn yard had been closed and barred. Lewin had had to dismount and shout for a stable boy, who had asked the number of their party before he opened it. That was why she had been so sure the inn would be full of guests. How odd.
She had no time to comment, however, because the alewife had recognized her when they entered the common room and she began to apologize all over again, curtsying to the ground to Norfolk’s daughter. Barbara had to tell her she was married, which called forth another spate of words and curtsies to Alphonse. Then she called her husband and berated him for not having already brought the best from the kitchen for an evening meal, and she wiped the top of a table with her apron and curtsied Barbara and Alphonse onto the benches, ran away to bring cups of wine, assured them their meal would be laid out at once, and ran away again when her servant came in with the traveling baskets to see that the room was made ready. She knew, she said, still talking as she backed away, that Barbara would desire her own sheets on the bed.
“No,” Alphonse said softly before Barbara could ask. “Despite the good woman’s nervousness, I do not see that there is any immediate danger here.” He gestured with his head at the folk eating and drinking at other tables. “Those are decent merchants and craftsmen from the town. They would be guarding their houses or the walls if they expected trouble tonight.”
“Yes, but it is strange there are only townsfolk,” Barbara pointed out. “I have never been here when there were not at least a few men in travel-stained clothes.”
“I agree that trouble is brewing somewhere in this area.” Alphonse shrugged and grinned. “But not in this inn tonight, and tonight is all that interests me now.”
Since it was all that interested Barbara too, she dropped the subject to tell the innkeeper, carrying a tray of food toward them, to take the dinner up to the chamber where they could eat in private. Clotilde and Chacier only glanced at their master and mistress for the expected sign that they were not wanted and then gave their attention to the servant carrying in their own meals. Bevis took a swallow of the ale and said it was as good as ever. Chacier made a face and asked for wine, and Lewin began to argue that ale was better with food. Half listening, Barbara sighed. She felt as if several hours had passed since she first sat down. The alewife’s man came down the stair empty-handed. Barbara glanced at Alphonse who had started to drum his fingers on the table. His wine stood untouched. Again they waited, but the alewife did not appear.
Suddenly Alphonse rose and stalked up the stair with Barbara right on his heels. She thrust herself ahead of him entering the room, not certain whether she would fling herself between him and the woman or shove her officious hostess out the door with her own hands. Fortunately the alewife was just pushing a sack of heated stones into the bed to drive the damp from the sheets. She straightened as Barbara and Alphonse came in and looked bewildered which made Barbara realize that no more than a quarter of an hour could have passed since they entered the inn. She bit her lip and turned to Alphonse.
“I am sorry your hauberk binds,” she said. “Let us take it off at once, and I will see to a better fitting of the arming tunic tomorrow.”
Alphonse opened his mouth in protest at the idea of his mail galling like that of some young or inexperienced knight who fought seldom. His armor had been worn so long and so hard that, from battering in battle and the adjustments of armorers, the steel rings had been subtly bent and twisted until they lay on him like a second skin. But he too had seen the alewife’s surprise and realized that impatience had made the time she was above-stairs readying the chamber seem much longer than it really was. So he shut his mouth and allowed Barbara to undo his belt and pull off his surcoat.
The alewife finished with the bed and came to the tray of food which had been set on a table. She reached for the flagon to pour wine into the empty cups. Alphonse drew his lips back from his teeth.
“We will serve ourselves,” Barbara said hastily, and moved toward the woman making shooing gestures with her hands and glancing significantly at Alphonse.
The alewife blinked, looked suddenly suspicious, and then left the room very quickly. Barbara burst out laughing. She was about to complain that the woman almost certainly now thought Alphonse was her lover rather than her husband, but he grabbed her and kissed her, then thrust her away and began to struggle out of his armor. Still laughing, Barbara started to undress herself, having a strong suspicion her clothing would get torn if she was not ready before her husband.
Had her shift had any ties, her suspicion would have proved correct. Fortunately, Alphonse could pull that light garment off in one swift motion without damage as he backed her toward the bed. They fell together, and the jolt seemed to snap the leash on which she had held some wild beast within her. She uttered a soft cry, her nails scoring his buttocks, her legs going around him and gripping as he found her nether mouth and thrust blindly. He groaned as he was lodged as if he had been stabbed instead of she and heaved away as if he would escape his confinement. But Barbara’s powerful legs contracted, and he slid into the warm and welcome prison once more. She held him fast, rocking against him, tearing at his back when he once tried to hold her still. Despairingly, he closed his eyes and threw back his head, but Barbara’s high, wavering cry brought his release, and he let his seed spring as he closed her mouth with his.
They rolled apart laughing over their haste, and Alphonse bruised his hip on the heating stones, which made them both laugh more. After a while they gathered strength enough to get up, use the chamberpot, find their bedrobes in the travel baskets, and begin to eat. Somehow neither had much to say.
Barbara knew she should use this moment, while echoes of past pleasure still coursed in the blood and glances and smiles exchanged promised new pleasure to come, to urge Alphonse to send a message back to Edward that he would not return. Surely Alphonse’s departure could work no hardship on the prince. If Edward could spare him for long enough to go to Norfolk, he could spare him for good. The argument was sound, but she dared not use it. She could not bear that any discord sour the sweetness of the moment or blur the memory of the piercing joy he had given her.
Alphonse’s thoughts echoed hers, although the subject was different. He had not forgotten the question she had avoided. Why had she hidden his own mirror from him? But he pushed it out of his mind, salving doubts with remembering how eagerly she had come to him, the feel of her full breasts pressed against him, her legs gripping his thighs, the heave of her body in response to his. He had been with too many women to be fooled by pretense. Barbe desired him and enjoyed him.
Naturally, with this trend of thought, they were in bed again before the meal was finished. Eventually they did ta
lk while they finished eating, but each had made essentially the same decision, so Barbara asked for details of the prince’s escape and Alphonse gave them eagerly. He also told her that Edward’s imprisonment had left him dangerously sensitive and suspicious, and that was why he felt he could not yet ask to go back to France. And before she could begin to argue, he changed the subject to their campaign down the Severn and the great importance of keeping Leicester penned in the west. If Edward could bring him to battle without support, though Leicester was a great soldier, he could be defeated.
Talk of war made Barbara shiver with fear. Her father was safe and so was her uncle, but to her horror she realized she would throw both into battle to keep Alphonse out. The wish would do her no more good, she knew, than would pleading or arguing with Alphonse, but the fear made Barbara push away the remains of her cheese. To change the subject, she commented that it was fortunate the meal had been cold to begin with. She did not understand why that made her husband drag her back to bed, although between sucking her breasts and tickling her lower lips until they were hard and wet he murmured something about proving her hot, not cold. It did not matter at all. She was as eager as he and she made no objections to what he was doing.
That time Barbara did not even remember their bodies coming apart. Alphonse remained awake just long enough to pull the cover over them, but he as well as she slept hard, unaware of the crashing thunder and violence of the wind, which banged the shutters against the window frames until Chacier, hearing the noise from downstairs, crept up and fastened all tight. When he told Clotilde in the morning that their lord and lady had not stirred, although their bedcurtains were lashing about them, she looked at the rain outside and agreed that they doubtless needed their rest, hoping they would sleep until the weather improved.
A Silver Mirror Page 53
