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  “I do not play at courtly love with young and innocent maidens, sire, for they might not know the game and be hurt. Moreover, Thouzan le Thor was my friend. The marriage was by my advice. Surely you cannot believe that because I had made a mistake, I would shame my friend and make a life of misery for his wife.”

  “No, you would not,” Louis said. “You are a man of honor.” His disapproval of the general frivolity of Alphonse’s life did not blind him to the fact that his wife’s nephew lived by a strict code.

  “I did not ask for her after Thouzan le Thor died,” Alphonse continued, “because she told me she was not willing to consider a second marriage at that time.”

  After a pause, Louis nodded. “I do not remember the terms under which Lady Barbe holds the manor,” he said, “and I must examine them, particularly since you are your brother’s vassal for other lands, but I see no reason to discourage your suit at present. I will give you my decision and we can talk about terms and fines in two or three days.”

  Although Alphonse had guessed that Louis wanted the few days to consider more than the fate of Cruas, foremost in his mind was the proof of Barbe’s willingness to marry him. He had been further lulled by Barbe’s eagerness to spend that first evening with him, just the two of them in a quiet corner of Princess Eleanor’s hall. He had obtained the princess’s permission to have his lady’s help in preparing a letter to his brother, who was his overlord. Barbe had been so serious and intent in devising arguments to convince Raymond she was a good match that Alphonse had not bothered to explain that he expected no protest from Raymond. His brother had himself married for love and had come near a falling-out with his father over the bride he had chosen.

  Raymond would be easily pacified, having long given up any hope that Alphonse would marry for money or influence. And Barbe was a good match for a younger son. The manor at Cruas was adequate. Norfolk might be of use to Alys’s family in England, and Barbe’s liking for and familiarity with court life would be a definite advantage. Alphonse’s only doubt was aroused when he mentioned to Barbe that Raymond might commit himself so heavily in men and money to Queen Eleanor’s invasion of England that he might be pinched when it came to paying the fee for Louis’s goodwill.

  “Then tell Raymond he will be wasting his men and money,” she had said.

  Since Alphonse had been glad of the excuse to express his doubts to his brother about the abilities of those planning the invasion, he simply agreed. He was troubled for a moment by the intense way she had spoken, however. So strong an opposition to the invasion seemed to mark a passionate attachment to the rebel cause. Then he had dismissed the problem as irrelevant. He and Barbe would live in France where she could feel as strongly as she liked without any consequences. Only the next day, when they had ridden out together, had he discovered that Barbe would not marry without her father’s approval.

  When Louis summoned him as promised two days later, Alphonse found that he had again been thinking too much of love and had lightly dismissed what should have worried him. Louis had said at once that there was nothing he could see to prevent the marriage and had named a fine that, although higher than Alphonse had expected, was not outrageous.

  “I will pay, of course, sire,” Alphonse said, “but I am afraid I will have to ask for time. As you know, I have little of my own. In other times, my brother would have provided the sum, but I fear he may have committed all that he can afford to Queen Eleanor. I have written to him, but I will not have any reply for another month.”

  Louis looked at him for a moment and then said, “You have written already? I had not expected you to write to Raymond before you had my leave to marry.”

  “I am very sorry if I offended, sire.” Alphonse was surprised. The king was not ordinarily proud and did not ordinarily demand ceremonial politeness. “I hope you will forgive my eagerness. As I explained, I have waited many years and I am impatient of delay now. I sent my messenger as soon as I could because Barbe insists that if you agree she must still obtain her father’s consent. She knows it is not his right to interfere, sire, but she loves him and he her. And considering her reason for coming here, I will not allow her to go to England alone.”

  “I am not offended.” Louis paused and then added, “In fact, both problems—I mean that of Madame Barbe’s desire for her father’s approval and that of your brother’s thin purse—might be solved if you are willing to undertake a task for me.”

  “I am always ready to serve you, sire.”

  Louis laughed. “You almost look as if you mean it, but I know you too long and too well, my dear Alphonse. I can smell the wariness in you. I will not force this duty on you. I do not believe you could perform it if you were reluctant. I will say only that it concerns Prince Edward and depends somewhat on my remembering that he admired your skill on the tourney field. Is my memory correct?”

  “Yes, my lord, it is,” Alphonse replied. “And I liked the prince. He is young and rash—or was before so many misfortunes befell him—but I thought him clever and practical also and not likely to make the same mistake twice.”

  “Would he trust your word if you told him something?”

  “Yes, sire, he would.”

  Louis laughed again. “Do not look so troubled. I am not going to ask you to tell Edward any lies. In fact, quite the opposite. I want you to tell him the exact truth and discover his private feelings.”

  “But, sire,” Alphonse protested, “my exact truth may not be the same as yours.”

  “I understand that. I will tell you what I want you to say to Edward. Then you may add what you like.”

  “If I may say I am your messenger and only repeat your words, I am very willing,” Alphonse said. “But I am not at all sure I will be allowed to see him.”

  “You will have the best chance of anyone. Edward is in the keeping of Leicester’s eldest son, Henry de Montfort, whom you also know.”

  “Yes. We often companied together with the prince. God help them. It must be a bitter cud for both to chew for the friend now to become the gaoler. Edward has too much pride to swallow his fate easily, especially since he has no one but himself to blame, and Henry must feel the rage and anguish because he is a fine man and, I believe, truly loves Edward.”

  Louis nodded with satisfaction. “You have made a point that has been troubling me. Leicester is clever, but I am afraid he has underestimated the prince’s stubbornness and temper. No doubt one of Leicester’s reasons for choosing his eldest son to be Edward’s gaoler was his trust in young Henry and his desire to be sure that Edward was carefully watched without being mistreated. But another reason for Leicester’s choice may have been his hope that their past affection would make Edward more inclined to listen to Henry. What I fear is just the opposite, that Edward has taken as an insult what was meant to be a kindness.”

  “That is by no means impossible,” Alphonse agreed.

  “You understand that King Henry is not a young man and the trials that he has undergone may have affected his health. There is no sense in mediating a peace between the king and Leicester only to have King Henry die and Edward repudiate everything because he is too bitter to accept any terms except the earl’s abject surrender. I want to know how deep the gall has eaten into the prince’s soul, and I want him to know that I will make no peace if he cannot accept peace. I will trust you to judge how much you may say if you cannot speak without being overheard.”

  Alphonse nodded. “I will do my best. As a friend of both, I can ask Henry de Montfort to let me visit Prince Edward. He will allow it, unless Leicester has ordered that the prince be refused all visitors. As betrothed of the daughter of Norfolk, I might be thought favorable to Leicester’s party, so I might be allowed to see the prince in private. But I do not see,” Alphonse smiled, “how this can help my brother’s thin purse. Most likely I will need to extend my stay in England to see Edward, which would cost Raymond more.”

  “I will remit the fine for freedom to marry in return for servi
ce rendered.”

  Alphonse met Louis’s eyes squarely. “Barbe could be of help to me. I know she was allowed to speak to Edward at court, and she has been serving Princess Eleanor. She could give Edward assurance as to the princess’s and his child’s well-being as well as of the kindness you have shown them.”

  Louis smiled. “And for that you would expect me to remit Madame Barbe’s fine also.” Then he frowned thoughtfully. “Actually, it is well thought of, Alphonse. Edward cares deeply for his wife. To have small, intimate questions answered might well ease his heart and make him more patient of other troubles.” The king nodded. “Very well. Cruas is only a manor and I will not lose much by remitting that fee also.”

  Then Alphonse had bowed and thanked Louis sincerely. Now, remembering, he frowned out at the sea, noting absently the black dots that had appeared as some of the fishing boats made their way in. He had made a good bargain with King Louis, but if Barbe was a strong rebel she might well be angry, not so much over his undertaking a commission from King Louis but because he had committed her without asking. Surely she would understand that he had had to make the suggestion just then. Later, Louis would probably not have agreed, only at that moment, when he had already decided to remit one fine, would he be swept along and remit the other.

  He had planned to tell her, but there had been no time for explanation. Having acknowledged his thanks, Louis had announced that a betrothal ceremony would be carried out before dinner and he and Barbe should be ready to leave for England the next morning. Alphonse remembered the king’s shrug and the hand he had raised to stem any protest. The quittances for the fines and a letter requesting that he be allowed to travel freely with his betrothed wife in England would be brought to his lodging.

  Once more Alphonse sighed. He should have told Barbe on the boat, he thought. Why had he been so reluctant? Now she would be angry unless he could somehow use his other task to explain how he had become involved in gathering information for Louis. He had not left the king when Louis plainly expected to end the interview. Despite the moment being wrong, Alphonse could not neglect his promise to John of Hurley.

  “There is another favor I must ask if we are to leave tomorrow, sire,” he had said reluctantly.

  A short pause followed, then Louis said, “Ask.” But his voice was less friendly.

  “This is not a great matter, sire, and will not touch your purse,” Alphonse began somewhat apologetically. “My brother’s father-by-marriage, Sir William Marlowe, was taken prisoner with Richard of Cornwall. My brother’s wife is making herself sick over her father’s well-being. Would you write a letter requesting permission for me to see Sir William and pay his ransom?”

  “Raymond cannot pay your marriage fine but can pay Sir William’s ransom?” Louis’s question was sharp.

  “The ransom is nothing to do with my brother, sire,” Alphonse assured him hurriedly. “I doubt Sir William would accept any offer to pay his ransom. He and Richard of Cornwall are childhood friends, and Sir William has been allowed to remain with his lord. I know he will not accept freedom until Richard himself is set free, unless Richard has some task for him and orders him to go. In that case, of course, Richard will pay Sir William’s ransom.”

  Louis frowned. “Then what is the purpose of this letter I am to write?”

  “To pacify my sister-by-marriage, sire. Her father almost died of wounds taken in battle some twelve or fifteen years ago and she has never gotten over it. I can send her a copy of your letter, which will convince her that Raymond and I are doing all we can for her father.”

  The king’s frown cleared. He now recalled that the Comte d’Aix’s wife did not come from a great family. Sir William had little wealth or power of his own and was not even King Henry’s man. A request for favorable treatment for him could be made on humanitarian grounds and would have no political overtones.

  “Very well,” Louis said, “so long as I am not made responsible for the ransom and Sir William, if he is ransomed, swears to take no action against Leicester’s party, you can have your letter.” Louis put up a hand as Alphonse bowed. “But Prince Edward and Richard of Cornwall will not be kept together. You are to do my business first if you can—even before you go to visit Norfolk.”

  One of the black dots had changed to a cockleshell of a ship. Alphonse watched it disappear into the town dock. He felt one of the guards move closer and turned his back on sea and dock to walk around to the other side of the tower, which overlooked the outer wall and the great ditch. Because of the height of the outer wall, Alphonse could not see the ditch, only the edge of the road that went around the keep and trailed dustily over the headland until it disappeared in a small wood.

  He had done his best to obey King Louis’s order, Alphonse thought. He had written to Henry de Montfort at the same time Barbe had written to Norfolk and Grey had accepted his letter, but he had had no more answer than Barbe had had from her father. Because all the letters had been sent on to Leicester himself? That seemed— The thought broke off suddenly as Alphonse sensed movement and turned sharply, his hand on his sword hilt. The sword was half out of its sheath when the intruder stopped abruptly and said, “Alphonse!”

  “I beg your pardon, my love.” He laughed. “That is not the weapon I wish to brandish at you.”

  Color flooded into her face, and then, to his delight, she said, “Your chance to show me your pride and joy may be coming closer. There is a messenger come from London, and he had a large packet. I have a letter from my father and there is one for you from Henry de Montfort.”

  “What does your father say?”

  Barbara looked at him meaningfully. “I do not yet know. The clerk who was sorting the packet put those two aside. I came to fetch you at once so you could read both letters.”

  She meant, Alphonse thought, that the clerk did not realize she could read and therefore did not try to hide the contents of the packet from her. And she had come away partly to let him know and partly to give Grey a chance to open and read the letters addressed to them if he wished to do so.

  “How clever you are, my love,” he said. And then with spurious innocence, “How strange it is that all our answers should come at the same time.”

  “Not so strange,” she answered, the angry slate gray of her eyes suddenly brightening to a lighter blue with amusement at the game they were playing. “My father,” she went on sententiously and most untruthfully, “would never think of inviting us to come to him without gaining the Earl of Leicester’s approval. And I am sure Sir Henry de Montfort would wish to let his father know that a close friend of his had come to England and was taking the daughter of an ally to wife.”

  “True,” Alphonse agreed. “How unfortunate that Leicester was called away to Wales just when King Louis was brought to agree to be mediator,”

  As he spoke, the jest lost its humor for Alphonse, and his lips thinned. Even if Norfolk’s letter was an invitation for him and Barbe to come to him, it might not be honored, and Leicester was just as far away as ever. There might be more weeks of waiting before Norfolk’s consent could be obtained.

  Barbara saw his anger and put a placating hand on his arm. She was in no doubt as to the real cause of his bad temper and was growing frightened by the way he had begun to avoid her over the last few days. Had she taken the right path when she insisted on being a wife before she gave Alphonse the right to love her? It was true that their betrothal had been hasty, but it had been complete and formal, announced in the chapel of the castle and witnessed by King Louis, Queen Marguerite, Queen Eleanor, and Princess Eleanor as well as her uncle Hugh Bigod and the king’s half brothers, Lusignan and Valence.

  God knew few betrothals had more illustrious and more conscientious witnesses. She had no fear that Alphonse would fail to marry her, but when he had taken her to a sheltered spot in the garden and began to caress her, she had had to fight him off. It was either that or tear off his clothes and leap atop him. Even a whore would not do that, nor would the b
oldest and lewdest of his mistresses. Her lust for him was shameful and would surely disgust him. Or if it did not, it would expose her need for him and remove any check on his interest in other women.

  “Leicester did not go to Wales to spite us,” she said, her eyes pleading for patience. “It is not the earl’s fault that the lords of the Welsh Marches did not honor the oaths they swore when they were freed after Lewes.”

  Alphonse put his hand over hers and became aware that it was trembling. Why was she so concerned? “The fault may lie with neither Leicester nor the lords Marcher,” he said, deciding then and there that he would tell her nothing about his plan to meet with Edward until he could wean her away from what he considered too great a sympathy for Leicester’s cause.

  “But when Grey explained why we were to be held here at Dover, that Leicester and the Earl of Gloucester too were in Wales, did he not tell us that the Marcher lords had refused to give up the prisoners taken at Northampton and had attacked Leicester’s allies in the west?”

  “I fear those prisoners are the bone of the contention,” Alphonse said smoothly, tightening his grip on the hand that was trying to slip out from under his. “When a man is taken in battle, his captor has a right to ransom. The custom is very old and very strong, and a defeat of the captor’s allies does not diminish his right. He might agree to exchange his prisoner for another captive out of love or duty, or he might agree that his prisoner be yielded in return for his own freedom, but the mere fact that his party were the losers in a later battle is no reason that his captive should be freed on command without payment of ransom.”

  “Did the Marchers not agree to free the men they captured at Northampton in order to regain their own freedom?”

  Barbara was only partly aware of what she had said. She had stopped trying to extricate her hand, and warmth seemed to flow into it from Alphonse’s touch. That warmth was spreading insidiously through her body, making her wonder whether it was worthwhile to torture them both for the uncertain purpose of fixing her betrothed’s attention on her. What proof did she have that seeming cool and indifferent would spur Alphonse into a more intense pursuit?