A Silver Mirror Page 15

  That was true. The captain again advanced the notion of going to the castle, promising that a private chamber would be found for them. Barbara sighed.

  “No,” she said, “I have had enough of royal castles.” She turned her mare’s head right, toward the crossroad, and smiled at Alphonse. “Let us go to the inn at the end of the Mercery. We can have dinner there and inquire about lodging.”

  “You must come to the castle first,” the captain said.

  In a single practiced movement, Alphonse drew his sword and swung his shield from his shoulder to his arm. “My lady says she has had enough of castles. Now, sir, you may fight me until you have killed or disabled me or you may let me take my lady to the inn for dinner. If you wish to accompany us to the inn, you may do so. If you wish to accompany us to our lodgings, you may do that too, although I will not permit you to enter therein. I have nothing to hide, no secrets to keep or to ferret out, no desire at all to leave Canterbury before I can see my friend Henry de Montfort and marry my lady in her father’s presence, but I will come and go at my own will, not at yours.”

  There was a moment’s tense silence. A guardsman tried to edge his horse between Frivole and Dadais, and Barbara tightened her rein and kicked her mare, who promptly rose on her hind legs and flourished sharp iron-shod hooves at the guardsman’s gelding, which backed away nervously. A quick clatter of hooves behind them made Barbara glance over her shoulder, but that was no threat. Chacier was coming back with his sword drawn. Farther back, Clotilde, who had ridden pillion behind Alphonse’s servant, was standing in the street, pressing one hand to her lips and holding the rein of the lead packhorse with the other. Then Dadais screamed, lifting his black lips to show long, yellow teeth.

  Hurriedly, the captain backed his own horse north on Watling Street, signaling his men to clear an area around the stallion, who seemed about to charge.

  “Pas, pas, Dadais,” Alphonse murmured soothingly, pulling back on the reins, which were still caught in the tips of the fingers of his left hand. “Barbe, go ahead,” he said, louder, but in a carefully calm, quiet voice.

  She cautiously edged Frivole around the stallion, whose high-arched neck still betrayed tension, and stopped beside Clotilde, turning in time to hear the captain shout the names of six men and order them to follow Alphonse while he rode to the castle for assistance. Alphonse backed Dadais into the side street watching until, with a curse, the captain rode away up Watling Street. Then Alphonse sheathed his sword and slid his shield back on his shoulder. His face was completely blank as, with eyes on the six men ordered to follow them, he soothed Dadais into a more relaxed stand. Then he turned him and passed Chacier, who moved aside and fell in behind. By the time he reached Barbara, however, he was grinning broadly.

  “That felt good,” he remarked, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that the guardsmen were far enough behind not to overhear him. “I was almost hoping that Dadais, who is not named ‘idiot’ for nothing, would get away from me and charge. It would have been a real pleasure to drop that captain in the mud.”

  Barbara also looked back, assuring herself that Chacier had pulled Clotilde safely onto the pillion saddle. The guardsmen were just behind the packhorses. When she had touched Frivole with her heel and started forward, she chuckled. “That captain has a great deal in common with Dadais, I must say, but it was not his fault, after all. He must follow his orders, and if they are impossible to fulfill, then he cannot help looking like an idiot.”

  “You were not frightened, I hope.”

  “Oh, no,” she assured him, laughing again. “If the captain had been permitted to use force, Grey would never have allowed you to ride out armed on your destrier.”

  “You have a touching faith in me, my love, and I do not wish to discourage it, but eleven to two are bad odds, even for me and Chacier, and I am not sure Sir Richard de Grey is aware of my reputation.”

  “Do not be so silly. Grey could not afford to put even a bruise on you after Henry de Montfort invited you to Canterbury. And Henry must have written separately to him because he did not ask to see your letter.”

  “So you guessed that. I thought so too.”

  Barbara nodded but did not reply. She had to give her full attention to her mare, who was less skittish than she had been when they started, but still had enough energy to take exception to a child running in the street and to the slamming of a door. In places the street narrowed too much for Alphonse and Barbara to ride abreast, and he took the destrier forward. Barbara had to hold Frivole well back. The mare did not like to follow and tried to nip Dadais, which would have been a disaster because the war-horse was still shaking his head and snorting, barely under control.

  The nameless lane they had been following curved north after a while and ran into the Mercery, but before they came to the end of the quieter street, they could hear the noise of the market. Alphonse muttered a curse. “I will never be able to ride Dadais through there without killing someone,” he told Barbara. “Either I must go around if you know a way or I must lead him.”

  Even as he spoke, Barbara was sliding from her saddle. “We must sacrifice our dignity,” she agreed, taking Frivole’s reins in a firm grip just under the mare’s jaw with her right hand and lifting her voluminous skirt to midcalf with her left. “There is no way that will not take us through one market or another. I do not think Frivole will kill anyone if I ride her, but she will kick over half the stalls just for fun.”

  The precautions were wise. Even with them, several disasters were narrowly averted and it was a relief to arrive at the inn that faced the cathedral on the southwest corner of the Mercery. Barbara was so annoyed with Frivole, who had jerked her arm half out of its socket and made her drop her skirt so that one edge was soaked in a gutter running with filth that she relinquished her without a word of precaution to the hostler who ran out. Alphonse did not need to say anything because Chacier had already thrust his own gelding’s reins and those of the first packhorse into another hostler’s hand so he could run to Dadais’s head.

  “That horse worries me,” Alphonse said mildly to Barbara, after watching Chacier lead the beast away and then glancing at the men-at-arms who had followed them into the inn yard.

  Barbara had just told Clotilde to arrange for dinner and for the innkeeper to set up a private table for her and Alphonse. Her mind was mostly on food, and she waved the maid on her errand before she looked up at Alphonse in considerable surprise. “Is he so intractable that you fear him?” she asked in a carefully neutral voice.

  “Of course not,” Alphonse replied, his eyes opening and his brows rising with astonishment at the notion of his fearing any horse. “He is not vicious at all. On the contrary, I believe he loves me and Chacier too with the idiot devotion of a dog. It is likely he thought he was protecting me back on Watling Street.” Alphonse sighed. “He is the strongest and bravest destrier I have ever ridden—and the stupidest too. What worries me is whether the three things always go together.”

  “Strong, brave, and stupid—like you?” Barbara laughed although she was annoyed with herself for not seeing the point, since she knew the horse’s name and Alphonse had already commented on his destrier’s stupidity.

  Alphonse put an arm around her waist and led her into the passage to the door of the inn. “Yes, like me,” he said softly. “Perhaps it was not so clever of me to refuse to go to the castle. Henry would have given us our freedom when he arrived anyhow. Now he is going to hear a strange tale about us before we can explain.”

  “Oh, no,” Barbara replied, equally softly, turning and lifting her head so she could speak near his ear.

  Her nose almost brushed the line of his jaw, and Alphonse’s sharp male smell of sweat, horse, and the oil and metal of armor—a smell that was subtly different from her father’s—sent a wave of arousal through her. For a moment she could not speak at all, and the hand she had laid over his at her waist tightened.

  In the next moment footsteps echoed under the o
verhanging second story of two sides of the inn as two of the men-at-arms hurried after them. Barbara could feel Alphonse’s hand stiffen under hers, and she let a small sigh of relief spill out. She had escaped betraying her desire for him again by the barest accident. He had taken her silence and the sudden pressure of her hand together with the sound of the men’s footsteps as a warning of the way sound carried in the passage.

  At the door the innkeeper was waiting, bowing low at the sight of Alphonse’s mail and Barbara’s rich silk riding dress. He backed into the low-ceilinged, dark room, which smelled of ale and roasting meat and many people. But the place was almost silent, the subdued voices of the few shadowy customers scattered around the heavy tables hardly a murmur, nothing like the raucous noise of a full room.

  Nonetheless, the innkeeper did not gesture them toward an empty table. He preceded them to a side door that opened into another small courtyard, walled off from the stableyard. The center of the area was grassed, and beds of flowers brightened the edges around all the walls. Servants were there already, setting up a table and placing two benches. Barbara smiled. Clotilde could always be relied upon to get the best. Sitting in this little garden would be much more pleasant than sitting in the dark inn.

  Meanwhile Alphonse had glanced around approvingly, noting that there was no gate in the wall—a reasonable precaution if the innkeeper did not want his guests to disappear without paying. He released Barbara and turned to face the two men-at-arms, who were just about to enter the garden.

  “You may come in and look about,” he said. “Make sure there is no one waiting to meet us. Check that there is no way out save through the door we entered. Then go. I will give you my word to go out only by the front door, but I would advise you to divide and let two men watch our horses and another two see that we do not climb the wall.”

  The men retreated hastily into the inn, not being made of the same stuff as the captain, and Alphonse seated himself on the bench opposite Barbara, lifting the tails of his mail so he would not be sitting on the metal rings. She giggled faintly, not loud enough to be heard inside the inn.

  “Climb the wall, indeed! I would like to see you do it in full armor, not to mention me in my best silks.”

  Alphonse shrugged. “I do not like to make people hate me. The men will be in trouble enough with their captain for not having forced themselves into our presence, even though the captain knows quite well they were powerless to do it. However, if they set a guard on the door, on our horses, and on the wall, no one can punish them for a real oversight. So if their captain’s bad temper results in their being lash-bitten, they will be angry with him, not with me who gave them good advice.”

  Barbara nodded. “Very clever. And if they escape punishment, those men will certainly be willing to talk to you or perhaps even do you a small favor.” She smiled. “I do not think you need worry about too close a resemblance to Dadais,” she said, then nodded again. “And I do not think you need worry that Henry de Montfort will think your behavior suspicious. He will understand how you felt about being penned up like an animal. Remember, his brother Simon was taken prisoner at Northampton, and perhaps kept more straitly than we. Simon was only released two months ago. Henry will not have forgotten Simon’s fury.”

  “I hope you are right,” Alphonse replied, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, his eyes passing around the garden, deserted now except for them. He asked suddenly, “Why are we alone here? I do not know English ways, but when the French court is coming to a town, the place is full long before Louis himself arrives. In France an inn like this would be bursting at the seams four days before the king’s arrival.”

  “It should be the same here,” Barbara assured him, and mentioned her uneasiness about how quiet the roads had been. “Half the country should be in Canterbury applying for writs for the king’s court.”

  “Not if they do not trust any judgment that would be given when the king is under duress,” Alphonse remarked.

  “More likely they would not come because Leicester is known to be in Wales,” Barbara riposted. “The king’s judgments are notoriously based on favoritism rather than justice, and many prefer Leicester’s.”

  Although the answer was sharp, her voice held more challenge than anger and Alphonse laughed. “Not when an appeal to Leicester’s judgment is likely to get the favored suitor hanged when the king takes power again, but—”

  “If such a thing should happen—” Barbara interrupted.

  She was interrupted in turn. “Sorry.” Alphonse raised a hand in a fighter’s gesture for temporary truce. “Let us not argue about what may happen. I am more interested in what is taking place now. Remember how I needed to show Montfort’s seal at the gate? Can the guard have been told to turn away anyone who does not have a direct invitation?”

  “It is possible, but I do not believe it,” Barbara replied. “Would there not be a camp near every gate, full of those who had traveled here and been stopped? Even if the guard bade them be gone, most would only move farther out along the road, waiting to importune those of power as they approached the city. And I do not think Leicester would give such an order.”

  “Then no court has been announced,” Alphonse said. “There will be no pleadings of justice. Those who are wanted for the negotiations with Louis have been summoned, no one else. Of course.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I should have thought of that. To announce holding a court now might draw defenders away from the coast.” He smiled. “We should have no trouble finding lodgings.”

  Barbara was sure the smile was false, a cover for some idea he did not wish to express, but she gave no sign of her suspicion. She had not the smallest desire to argue with Alphonse about this political situation. To him “king” meant a man like Louis of France, whose faults were too great seriousness and attention to his duties, not carelessness and favoritism and moral cowardice. If they stayed long in England, Alphonse would learn what King Henry was.

  However, Alphonse’s guess about lodging proved only partly accurate. After an excellent dinner, a question to the innkeeper provided directions to only two merchants who held the living quarters above their shops free for rental. Most lodgings, the innkeeper said, were being held by servants for their masters.

  Without giving a reason, Alphonse shook his head at the first place they visited, which was only a few doors south of the inn. Barbara protested that it was a most inviting chamber, large and cool and well lit by several windows. And the horses could remain in the inn stable. Alphonse smiled, lips tight against his teeth, and she said no more. They took the second place, the solar of a grocer’s shop on St. Margaret’s Lane, diagonally across from the church. This house was also near enough to the inn to leave their horses there, and the large chamber had a walled-off section at the back, furnished with a handsome bed.

  Barbara felt like bursting into tears when she saw the place and saw Alphonse nod curtly at the landlord. The separate bedchamber deprived her of any excuse to seek a lodging with the White Friars. She peeped in at the doorway, stared at the bed with dilated eyes, and then backed up precipitately to stand with hands clasped before her near the empty hearth. Alphonse did not seem to notice her odd behavior, although the merchant did glance at her uneasily once or twice.

  Alphonse recalled his attention sharply by bargaining hard. The result was that he paid three silver pennies for a week’s lodging, which included the use of the apprentice for any light chores of fetching and carrying and of the merchant’s own maid for cleaning as Chacier and Clotilde should direct, as well as the right to rent for the rest of the month at the same rate.

  Once the merchant had departed, Alphonse bade Chacier and Clotilde bring their baggage from the inn. As soon as he saw them in the street below the front window, he shut the door rather hard and turned on Barbara.

  “What the devil is wrong with you?” he snarled. “You made our landlord think that getting into bed with me is equal to being sent to a nether hell. And even if it were, do you
expect me to fling you down and force you if you should approach a bed in my presence?”

  Barbara barely strangled the hysterical laughter that welled up in her. What she feared was exactly the opposite, that some word or gesture would escape her to betray her own impulse to fling him down on the bed. Not that she expected to have to force him. From what she had heard in the past, Alphonse had never failed a lady in need. More comical yet was the fact that Alphonse’s pride had been injured because her behavior made the merchant think he was a brutal or ineffectual lover. And funniest of all was Barbara’s own deep regret that he, who would enjoy the jest so much, could not be invited to share it.

  “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I do not fear you.”

  “Do you not?” he asked. “Then I beg you to tell me what game you are playing with me.”

  “I cannot.”

  Barbara gulped down another gust of hysterical laughter as she spoke the literal truth. She had wondered how to make herself seem remote and mysterious, but she did not even need to try. Alphonse was creating a strange simulacrum of her all by himself. Then the impulse to laugh died. His dark face had grown even darker as blood rose under his skin and his eyes looked suffused.

  “Then you do not intend to marry me at all!”

  “I do! I do! I swear it!”

  He stood staring at her and then said, very softly, “Go into the bedchamber, Barbe, and close the door, and do not come out again until your maid comes to fetch you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Alphonse was gone when Clotilde came in, rather wide-eyed and more silent than usual, to tell her mistress she was free to do as she pleased. Barbara could guess where he had gone and spent the remainder of the day alternately feeling sorry for the pain she had caused him and suppressing giggles. She was not jealous of his easing his need on a common whore of the town. He was too proud and too fastidious to be interested in any woman who sold her body to keep food in her mouth and a roof over her head. Alphonse, she thought, grinning, would be outraged. He was more accustomed to being offered bribes for his favors than having to pay for use of a woman. He knew his own worth.