A Silver Mirror Read online

  “So? Let us have the ill first.”

  Alphonse tightened his grip on the hand Edward had given him, then let go and stepped back a little. The prince was so tall that, although Alphonse was himself above the middle height, he could not see his face clearly if he was too near. Edward’s hair was very dark now, almost black because he had been out of the sun, or perhaps it had only darkened even more in the three years since he and the prince had gone the tourney route together. Alphonse could remember when Edward had first started to attend tourneys. His hair had been dark blond then.

  The prince still showed signs of what he had endured over the last three months. He was thinner than Alphonse remembered, and his eyes seemed somewhat sunken, however, the weak lid of his left eye was not lower than usual, as it had been the previous day. Indeed, that eye had barely shown a slit yesterday, a sure sign, Alphonse knew, that the prince was very tired or very sad. Now there was hardly a difference between the two eyes and they were very blue too, which usually meant the prince was up to deviltry of some kind. But playful deviltry was entirely impossible in this time and place, so Edward was planning something.

  A prick of conscience was easily dismissed. Alphonse had tried several times to warn Henry that whatever had changed Edward’s mood—whether it was his and Barbe’s visit or not—was dangerous to Montfort plans. Henry had ignored his warning.

  Alphonse moved, as if by accident, so that one of the rays of light from the loopholes high in the wall fell on his face instead of the prince’s and Edward was turned, exposing only his profile instead of his full face to the guards. Then Alphonse repeated exactly what Claremont had told him, including the source of the rumor that Edward’s friends on the Marches of Wales had been defeated. He saw the prince’s jaw square, but he thought Edward looked more thoughtful than defeated.

  When he spoke about the emissaries’ conclusion that the invasion was a lost hope, however, Edward burst out, “I do not consider that bad news. My mother is mistaken in what she is trying to do. I never favored the loosing of mercenary troops on this land under the control—or lack of control—of Lusignan and Valence.”

  “I cannot help but agree, my lord,” Alphonse said. “If Hugh Bigod had been given the leadership of the invasion—”

  “No,” Edward interrupted, instantly diverted from the main political subject by his passion for anything military. “Hugh is a fine man and would prevent the mercenaries from ravaging the land, but he is no battle leader. Neither is Norfolk, but for a different reason. Both of them are brave men and good fighters, but Hugh really hates war and Norfolk has a temper—” His voice failed suddenly.

  “You will never make that mistake again, my lord,” Alphonse said quietly. “I have never known you to repeat a mistake. It is one of your great virtues. Another is your ability to accept the fact that it is useless to beat a dead horse.”

  Edward stiffened a trifle, and Alphonse went on quickly to tell him about the legate’s declaration that the Provisions of Oxford must be renounced and he must be welcomed into England. By the time he was finished, Edward was staring at him with an intensity that Alphonse could only hope the guards would not notice. Both the prince’s eyes were wide open and quite brilliant. However, when he spoke, his voice was flat and indifferent.

  “I do not think Leicester will agree to the legate’s terms, since the form of government specified in the Peace of Canterbury is based on the Provisions of Oxford.”

  “That was my assumption also, my lord.”

  After an extended pause, the prince said, “You are a good friend, Alphonse.”

  “I thank you, my lord,” Alphonse replied, “but I hope you will not forget that Henry de Montfort urged me to bring you this news, not that about the troubles in the Marches or the possible failure of the invasion. I offered to tell you of those matters myself, but about the legate’s order to renounce the Provisions of Oxford.”

  There was another long pause before Edward said, “I will not forget.” Then he gripped Alphonse’s upper arm for a moment and offered his other hand, which Alphonse took and kissed, as the prince nodded, adding, “You may leave me now.”

  Nothing showed in Edward’s face or voice besides the lifting of the weak left lid and brilliance of his eyes, but Alphonse felt the prince was a man set for a desperate dare and braced against great pain. His manner made Alphonse so uneasy that he did not set out for Barbe’s lodging as he had intended. That, as it turned out, was just as well because one of Henry de Montfort’s pages rushed up to him breathlessly just as he was about to sit down to dinner and begged him to come above and dine with his lord.

  When the servants brought up the dishes, Henry acted as would any ordinary host, seating his guest and asking him to choose his cuts of meat and which of the stews he would like served, directing that wine be poured into a silver goblet. After the servants had laid the choices of meat on their trenchers and brought bowls of stew and pottage, Henry sent them away, even his young squires, and began to thank his guest.

  Alphonse waved away the thanks sincerely. He was relieved because he expected this would be the end of the matter. He felt his duty to Louis was finished also. He had told the emissaries that at the moment Edward would not truly accept any compromise, no matter what he was forced to swear, although time itself might induce him to do so. Louis’s presence with the legate in St. Mary’s at Boulogne implied to Alphonse that the French king had virtually given up any expectation of mediating a peace. Since Alphonse’s report could only support that intention, there was no more for him to do.

  While Alphonse was seeking a polite reason—aside from the oppression this unhappy land laid on his spirit—to go back to France as soon as possible after his wedding, Henry said, “How can I stop thanking you? I am sure it is your influence that convinced Edward to ratify the peace terms.”

  “Ratify—” Alphonse echoed, but Henry cut him off.

  “He told me himself, sent a message asking me to come to him. He was pleasant. He smiled at me and said he knew I had done my best for him. How can I stop thanking you? The guard told me what you said to him about me, how you reminded the prince of my goodwill.”

  “I will accept thanks for that,” Alphonse said, “for I know Edward would not bespeak you kindly if he did not mean what he said, but I certainly did not advise the prince to accept this peace.”

  “Whether you did or not, that was the outcome of your advice.” He smiled at Alphonse’s angry protest. “Oh, very well, then it was the outcome of the news you brought.” He shrugged and the smile disappeared. “Perhaps it was only the result of seeing you and remembering the joys of freedom. Perhaps it was nothing to do with you at all but Edward’s consideration of his father’s wishes. I do not know or care why Edward decided to make an oath of peace, but he did and he has asked one single favor of me—that you be one of the men chosen to serve him.”

  “I? But I am to be married in two days!”

  Henry burst out laughing. “You will be excused from night duty, I promise.”

  Alphonse did not smile in response. “Henry, it is impossible. I am sure you told me that one of the provisions of the Peace of Canterbury is that no foreigner be allowed to hold a place in the royal household.”

  “But Edward’s household is not the royal household,” Henry said, smiling.

  “That is a distinction without a real difference—at least I am sure that is the way many will see it. They will believe that you object to foreigners whom the king loves but appoint those whom you love.”

  “You are too honest for your own good,” Henry said, and when Alphonse shook his head impatiently, he went on. “I beg you to do this. It need not be for long, only until my father comes to Canterbury and the details of Edward’s regular household are agreed. Alphonse, it is the only thing he asked of me. He is swallowing a bitter potion. Will you not let me give him this one sweet comfit?”

  To protest further, Alphonse feared, would waken suspicion in Henry, which would be un
fair to Edward, who he was certain did not need a sweet comfit. Most reluctantly, Alphonse agreed to serve, but only without any official appointment. That was the best he could do to retain some measure of freedom for himself and to deflect the anger he was afraid some would feel at seeing a French “adventurer”—no more than a jousting companion of Henry de Montfort—chosen to hold a position that should have been given to an Englishman.

  Alphonse grew even more exasperated when he discovered that Edward’s submission was to have no immediate effect and that his first duty would be to explain this to the prince. He refused absolutely to serve unless some reward was provided, and then he bargained for the removal of the guards inside Edward’s chamber. This concession was granted in exchange for Alphonse’s promise not to discuss, or even permit the prince to speak of, present or future means of escape.

  He gave the promise gladly and with a strong sense of relief because the request told him Henry was aware that Edward’s submission might not be sincere. However he also stated that he would not, under any condition, report on any confidence the prince offered him. Clearly that provision disappointed Henry, and Alphonse again offered to explain to Edward personally why he did not wish to serve so that the onus of refusal would not fall on Henry.

  After a moment’s thought, to Alphonse’s intense disappointment, Henry began to smile again, said he should have known better than to think Alphonse would betray a confidence for any cause, and accepted the terms. Alphonse sighed with exasperation, shook his head, and voluntarily offered not to pass any news to Edward without first clearing it with Henry. That brought a burst of laughter followed by a shamefaced admission that Henry had forgotten that problem, and more grateful thanks. Plunging his spoon vengefully into his stew, Alphonse began to discuss the details of his service to the prince.

  Chacier’s entrance surprised Barbara and caused her instinctively to draw the folds of her skirt over the silver mirror she had been looking at. She did not realize that her surprise and the swift movement gave an impression of guilt. Chacier’s message produced a smile and a brightening of her eyes from a bleak gray to a glinting blue. With the morning meal, Clotilde had brought the news of the arrival of the court, and Barbara had delayed eating for some time, expecting Alphonse to come to break his fast with her and escort her to the castle. When he did not come she had felt sick with disappointment, fearing that this was the beginning of a life in which any better amusement would lead her husband to push her into the background.

  Now she realized that Alphonse had not simply been swept up into the general excitement and forgotten her. Indeed, he had not forgotten her at all, despite the demands that were being made on his time. Chacier’s answers to her questions awakened the liveliest curiosity in her. So the emissaries of King Louis had summoned Alphonse at first light, and then Henry de Montfort would not even allow him to finish breaking his fast before he called him. Having thanked Chacier and bidden him fetch her mare, Barbara put the silver mirror into her work basket without another glance. She no longer needed its comfort. After the briefest hesitation she laid her work—the end piece for the armhole edging of her wedding gown—atop the mirror. If necessary she could sit up all night to finish it, and if the birds on their branches were not perfect at the very bottom, no one would notice. Right now it was more important to discover what was going on.

  Barbara’s hope of finding Alphonse at the castle was frustrated. He was still with the prince when she entered, but she was fortunate enough to catch her father before he rode out. When he saw her, he clapped a hand to his head and admitted he had completely forgotten her. Then he stared at her for a moment, smiled, and said that he had better present her at once to the king, who would be eager to hear about Queen Eleanor. One roar canceled the excursion he was about to make, a second sent his older squire off to inform the king of Barbara’s presence and to determine whether Henry wanted to speak to her.

  Barbara bit her lips and then let herself grin. She had been accusing the wrong man of neglecting her. She was amused because she realized she no longer cared that her father called her to mind only when she was useful to him. So long as Alphonse remembered her, she did not care who else forgot. Then it occurred to her that her father’s riding out when there must be state business to transact was very odd, and she guessed that the reception accorded him by the king must have been cold, and that by Peter de Montfort not much better.

  Anxiety and anger wiped out the little flicker of resentment she had felt. Of course he had forgotten her! As a small diversion while they waited, Barbara repeated to her father Alphonse’s message—that the French emissaries and Henry de Montfort had detained him and that he thought she should ask her father for a man to run her errands and serve as escort—whereupon her father cocked an inquiring brow at her.

  “So Alphonse expects to be kept on a short leash,” he said, adding absently, “I can spare you five men if you want—”

  “No,” Barbara said, “two will do. If they are here, I would like Bevis and Lewin.”

  Norfolk nodded at his younger squire, who ran off to tell the men-at-arms, and asked, “What is Alphonse up to?”

  “I have not the vaguest notion,” Barbara admitted, “but I do not think any of this is his idea. Both the French emissaries and Henry de Montfort sent for him. He did not apply to them for audience. It may not mean anything, father. He and Henry de Montfort and Prince Edward have been friends for years. They hunted and fought in tourneys together. And Alphonse is Queen Marguerite’s nephew and well known in the French court. It is not surprising that the emissaries should ask him for news—”

  “Before he had broken his fast?”

  Norfolk stared hard at his daughter, and a sharp pang of guilt racked Barbara because she found herself unwilling to tell him about Alphonse’s agreement with the French king. In the next moment she realized that her father was staring through her rather than at her, and after another moment he nodded. Before he could speak, however, a royal page was bowing gracefully and inviting them to follow him.

  The king was in the castle garden, to which Barbara and her father were admitted by two fully armed guards. One looked at the broadsword at Norfolk’s hip, but he did not speak, and the breath that had caught in Barbara’s throat eased out. There were other men-at-arms, she saw, standing quietly around the walls. The king, she thought, was little less a prisoner than Edward. She saw him then, seated on a bench in the shade of a small fruit tree, with Peter de Montfort to one side and Henry de Bohun just turning toward her. Seven ladies were also in attendance, one seated on another bench placed at an angle to the king’s and six sitting on robes laid on the grass.

  Barbara hardly noticed the ladies because she was so stunned by King Henry’s expression. The evidence of confinement combined with the effect of her visit to the prince the previous day had led her to expect helpless rage, impotent frustration, or the kind of dead despair that Edward had shown. Henry, however, gave her a sunny smile and extended his hand eagerly. As she sank to the ground and kissed the king’s fingers, Barbara almost laughed at herself. She had expected to see in King Henry what she herself would have felt, what she knew her father or Alphonse would have felt, what she imagined any man would feel in similar circumstances. What she actually saw was typical of King Henry, whose incurable optimism, when he was not wallowing in self-pity and hysteria, had brought about the terrible situation in England.

  “How is it with my beloved Eleanor?” Henry asked as soon as Barbara raised her head.

  “Very well, my lord, except that she frets over your well-being,” Barbara replied. “She is treated with the greatest honor and courtesy by King Louis and with most loving affection by Queen Marguerite.’’

  That was no lie. No matter how annoyed Louis was with his sister-by-marriage, his rigid sense of what was owing to his own noblesse oblige and to her position as a foreign queen provided her with honor and courtesy. And Queen Eleanor in need and sorrow was far dearer to her sister Marguerite
than when she had been happy. Now Marguerite could feel superior instead of resenting Eleanor’s power over her husband, a power Marguerite had never had.

  A gleam woke in the king’s right eye—the left was half hidden, like Edward’s, by a weak lid—and for a moment Barbara was afraid Henry would ask her whether the honor and courtesy of King Louis would be translated into help for him, but he did not. Instead he called for another rug to be spread on the grass and invited her to sit. Then he questioned her on every detail of the queen’s health and appearance.

  When she had at last satisfied him, he nodded to her and suggested she might like to join the other ladies. Barbara rose at once and gathered up the rug, about to refuse the invitation because none had been offered to her father, who was standing beside her, but before she could speak, the king said, “Wait,” smiled a little, flicked a sly glance at Peter de Montfort, and added, “I thought you had gone to France to take up your place in Eleanor’s household. Why do you come back so soon?”

  “To obtain my father’s blessing on my betrothal,” Barbara replied smoothly, with a cold smile.

  The revelation called forth some feminine sounds, a gasp, a soft exclamation, and from her right a sniff, but Barbara was too intent on King Henry’s expression to do more than mentally record what she heard. She was glad to see the sly look on Henry’s face change to open surprise, a confirmation of her guess that the king had made the remark about her early return to taunt his gaolers. Henry believed she had been sent as a spy by Leicester to ferret out the queen’s secrets and that she had come back because Eleanor was too clever for her.