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  The next day provided enough ordinary reasons for Simon to be eager for his company that Alphonse almost dismissed his doubts. After mass—to miss a day was a grave sin in Leicester’s keep and one that was reported to its master even when the sinner was a son—and breaking their fast, Simon begged Alphonse to break a few lances. Alphonse laughed and agreed at once, and when they were armed and mounted they rode to the outer bailey where there was room enough for the destriers to find their stride. Both enjoyed themselves.

  Simon recognized that Alphonse’s ability was based on skill, not on an exaggerated reputation, because he was not able even once to make his lance catch on Alphonse’s shield. His best efforts were slatted off like those of a novice. Simultaneously he swelled with pride because he was not overset even once. Alphonse was particularly pleased with the delicacy of touch he was able to manage, which never allowed Simon to land a telling blow on him and concealed the fact that he was holding back much of his own power. Thus he salved the young man’s pride while saving him from overconfidence.

  From the thanks he received and the eager way Simon discussed each blow after they removed their armor and while waiting for dinner, Alphonse was certain that Simon sincerely loved martial exercise. It was equally clear that Simon preferred drinking and talking of fighting and hunting with a guest to other duties—not that Alphonse could detect that he had many. Once before and once after dinner a clerk approached Simon with a question and was waved away. Neither time did the clerk seem surprised nor dismayed. Alphonse assumed either that the matter was truly minor or that Simon’s behavior was not out of the ordinary, and the clerk was accustomed to dealing with problems himself. The third time the clerk came was late in the afternoon when Alphonse’s fount of small talk was running dry. He thanked God silently when the clerk insisted Simon accompany him and after a petulant protest Simon did so.

  Alphonse thought nothing of it. He was too glad to be rid of his young host for a while. Alone, he continued to stroll about in the well-kept garden, thinking idly how strange it was that he should be so soon bored by conversation with a man, many of whose interests he shared, while he had never been bored by Barbe in all the weeks they had done nothing much in Tonbridge. That led him to wonder how soon he could ask Simon again when Sir William would come back…or perhaps he should just say he wanted to go back to Warwick and wait there. But since he could not admit that Barbe was there, what excuse could he give for wanting to sleep at Warwick? He chuckled. Simon would scarcely believe he wanted to go to bed with Sir John.

  Simon returned before he had thought of any reason and after that Alphonse had enough to do to hide his boredom and irritation as young Montfort went over the same subjects. Still, as he lay on his cot that night wondering how long he would have to endure, he realized he might have been hearing false notes. That aimless and repetitive conversation might indicate a wandering mind rather than silly vanity. Alphonse began to suspect that Simon was worried about something—and not anything directly to do with him—although he might be affected indirectly. Had news arrived of the failure of the final effort to negotiate peace?

  If so, he might need to escape from Kenilworth. Alphonse sighed softly. That would not be easy. The walls of both inner and outer bailey were high and well guarded. There could be no question of climbing them, in armor or out of it. In any case he had no intention of leaving his fine armor or Dadais behind. That eliminated stealth. But force was equally useless. The keep was well manned, and for two men to fight their way out was impossible. Worse yet, Kenilworth was virtually an island, the outer walls were surrounded by water on three sides. The gatehouse closed one exit, and the other was over a long causeway. A shout at one end would close the other.

  Deception was his only hope. Alphonse was almost certain that Simon had given no orders yet that he was to be restrained. If Simon were absent or incapable, Alphonse thought, he could simply ride away. Simon would not leave without either telling him to go or making sure he could not go, whichever best suited his purposes. But incapable…that might be arranged. Alphonse smiled into the dark, then frowned. He did not wish to do the young man any real harm, so the timing would have to be very neat. Dadais was part of his scheme and would be with him, but Chacier… No, there would be no time to go back for him, so Chacier must leave first.

  God smiles on the just, Alphonse thought the next morning when Simon told him that his huntsmen had been waiting at dawn with news of a fine boar. He let his eyes light and a smile of pure delight give emphasis to his hope that Simon would let him join the hunt. He enjoyed every minute of the chase too, taking a particular pleasure in getting totally filthy and arranging for every twig and thorn to catch his garments. And when the boar tore and bled all over the clothes Simon had lent him, Alphonse felt a definite impulse to kiss the bristly and ugly snout of his kill.

  “Enough is enough,” he said to Simon when they returned to the keep and he chose new clothes so he could strip off what was now nearly rags. “You are generous to a fault, but I think I must send Chacier back to Warwick to bring my clothing here. If you intend to let me help you chase that stag we saw in the forest, I think it time to make rags of my own tunics.”

  Simon laughed and agreed. He seemed to have forgotten why Alphonse had come to Kenilworth, but Alphonse suspected that was only a convenient pose and wondered whether the young man would find it suspicious if he did not mention Sir William. Still, hunting was a passion nearly beyond reason for many, so he talked eagerly about the stag in the forest and when they could hope to ride in chase.

  Laughing again, Simon started to say “Tomorrow,” but some idea occurred to him and he shook his head and said, “No, not tomorrow. I must be here in Kenilworth all day tomorrow. But the day after tomorrow we can hunt, and the day after that also.”

  “I love to hunt,” Alphonse said.

  The words were perfectly truthful but committed Alphonse to nothing. Either Simon did not understand that or he did not care because he excused himself to attend to a few “little matters” when he had changed out of his hunting clothes. Under his breath, Alphonse blessed him and went out through the gate of the inner bailey with Chacier, giving him grateful messages for Sir John until he was sure they would not be overheard. Then he told his servant not to return to Kenilworth.

  “If a message comes asking why you have not returned, make any reasonable excuse, but do not come yourself. If you must, send some of my clothing here with one of Warwick’s servants. I do not think it will be necessary. I believe I will be in Warwick myself some time tomorrow. If I have not come by the day after, let Warwick send a servant with a message to me asking when I will meet Gloucester. My answer will be that I will meet Lord Gilbert in Tonbridge as arranged. If the words are different, you will know I am in trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Chacier echoed, clearly startled. “But there is no woman—”

  Alphonse laughed. “There are other kinds of trouble.”

  “For you?” Then Chacier shrugged. “This is a crazy country.”

  After Chacier was gone, Alphonse walked back toward the hall, but the servant’s words troubled him. Was there truly any ground for his suspicion that Simon might keep him by force if he could not hold him by temptation? He looked at the open door and turned away, heading back toward the gateway that led out of the inner bailey. He was simply not in a temper to listen to Simon’s talk of idle sports if the “little matters” were settled.

  By necessity Alphonse crossed from the living quarters toward the great keep itself. The guards at the entrance to the forebuilding tensed, but Alphonse hardly glanced at them. There was little slackness anywhere in Kenilworth at all, but the men who watched the keep were always sharply alert. Alphonse was very certain that Richard of Cornwall and any other important prisoners were there, but he had no interest in them and walked by.

  In contrast, the guard on the gate to the outer bailey only smiled at him when he passed through, and he recalled that he had just before gone o
ut with Chacier. So was all his scheming and planning unnecessary? Should he simply ask Simon outright whether he would be permitted to see Sir William soon, and, if not, say he wished to leave? Why did he ever think for a moment that Simon wished to hold him? Only because Barbe did not want him to stay in Kenilworth?

  Although it was almost dusk and drizzling slightly, Alphonse turned into the garden. He felt an urgent need to be where Simon’s constant chatter could not interrupt him. What ailed him, that Barbe’s unease distorted his thinking? To love was not to become a mindless slave with no thought or will of one’s own. He walked slowly beside the espaliered trees that grew against the east wall, recalling to mind what she had said, how she had said it. A last leaf pulled from a branch by a small gust of wind blew against his face and touched his lips before it fell, a damp, chill kiss.

  No. There was nothing damp or chill in the way Barbe had wished him Godspeed. In fact, he had wondered whether she was trying to drain him out so thoroughly that he would be incapable of coupling again before returning to her. He had not been uneasy when he first came to Kenilworth, and his present doubts, he was suddenly sure, had nothing to do with Barbe. Then the thought that had driven him into the garden returned—he had wished to avoid Simon’s constant chatter. Simon talked and Simon laughed, but it was from Simon that the unease came. Something…Alphonse could not say what, but he had spent nearly his whole life judging the fine shades of meaning in the tones and glances of subtle men, and something about Simon hinted at hidden purposes.

  Feeling much better, Alphonse turned and walked back toward the garden gate far more briskly than he had walked away. He was sorry that if his escape was successful he would not be able to see Sir William, but he had much he could tell Alys that would soothe her. Her heart would be lightened by the news that her father was out riding around the country rather than being chained in a dungeon, that Lady Elizabeth and Fenice were safe and comfortable, and that Aubery was free.

  As Alphonse lingered by the gate, still reluctant to swallow another undiluted dose of Simon, he saw a party of seven men enter from the causeway. Six of the men were armed, the one without armor did not hold his mount’s reins. Alphonse could not make out the faces, but the chance was too good a one to neglect, so he set out across the bailey toward the stable. He reached the door just before the party arrived and began to dismount. As anyone would, Alphonse glanced over his shoulder, spun on his heel, and called out, “Sir William!”

  The unarmed man now dismounted, pushed back his hood and looked around. “Alphonse!” he exclaimed. “Of all men! What do you here?”

  “I came to England to marry the Earl of Norfolk’s daughter, but once in the country, I asked and was given permission by the Earl of Gloucester to pay you a visit.”

  The captain of the little troop had thrust his rein into a groom’s hand and started toward them, but hearing the illustrious names—both of his master’s party—he hesitated. That gave him time to take the measure of Alphonse’s easy, smiling manner and see that Alphonse was unarmed. He decided there was no reason to offend this gentleman just as Alphonse smiled at him.

  “I know you must wish to hand over your charge, and I do not wish to delay your relief,” he said, nodding to the man. “The guards and grooms know I am a guest here. May I walk to the inner bailey with Sir William?”

  “Why not?” the captain said.

  Having smiled his thanks, Alphonse turned his eyes to Sir William. “I visited the Abbey of Hurley on my way here,” he said in a bland, indifferent voice, “and saw Lady Elizabeth and Lady Fenice.” Sir William’s eyes flicked to him and then away. He knew it was impossible for his wife and daughter-by-marriage to be in Hurley Abbey. “They were in the highest spirits and made my wife very welcome while I went hunting for a few days,” Alphonse added.

  “Fenice is happy?” Sir William asked, trying to sound indifferent also, but unable to hide a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Yes, she is,” Alphonse assured him. “Why not? None of the children was hurt, and the abbot is taking charge of everything that he can.” A great light dawned in William’s eyes and he drew a deep breath, but before he could speak Alphonse said, “I am glad to see that you are well. John went to Alys in Aix, and she was frightened when she heard you were Montfort’s prisoner. She begged me to visit you and assure you that Raymond will pay your ransom as soon as you send him news of the amount.”

  In fact, until Alphonse issued the oblique warning mixed with the news in those two last sentences, Sir William briefly appeared to have cast off ten years. Reminded that he should not display more than moderate relief, certainly not the kind of joy a man would feel on learning that both his sons—by love if not by blood—had escaped the battle unwounded and were still free, he sighed heavily and shook his head.

  “There is no need for ransom,” he said. “I will not buy my freedom while Cornwall is still prisoner, and when Richard is freed he will take me with him. You must tell Alys that I am well, very well, and we are very kindly treated here. Tell Alys not to worry.” He smiled suddenly. “If boredom does not kill us both, Richard and I will live forever.”

  As they talked, they had been walking, surrounded by the armed guardsmen, and had come through the gate of the inner bailey to the door of the forebuilding. Sir William looked at the doorway and sighed again, then shrugged, lifted his hand in farewell, and walked inside briskly, both duty and affection drawing him with little regret back to confinement.

  Alphonse turned away without hesitation too. He liked Sir William and was sorry he was bored, but that was scarcely a fate that could wring his heart or inspire him to hopeless heroics. What he felt was a strong lift of spirits. He had fulfilled all his obligations and was free to return home and forget the miseries of this unhappy land. Indifferent now to a few hours more of Simon’s talk, whether it covered a plot or mere silliness, Alphonse crossed the bailey and entered the hall.

  “So there you are!” Simon’s voice rang across the space between the door and the dais with so much relief that all Alphonse’s suspicions returned in a rush.

  By the time he had walked across and stepped up on the dais to join his host, his expression was empty and his voice mild and lazy. “I could not decide whether to have Chacier pack everything or leave some with Sir John, so I walked down to the stable with him talking about it. If the Earl of Gloucester should come to Warwick, which he said he might if he traveled west, I would have to return there and it would be silly to pack and repack the clothes. And since I was in the stable I looked over Dadais’s legs. I thought I felt him favor his right fore on the way home from the hunt, but there was no sign of any hurt—”

  “Gloucester is coming to Warwick?” Simon asked.

  A man interested first in sport and war would have asked anxiously about the horse. Even a man interested in politics should not have been concerned to hear that his father’s most powerful supporter might visit his longtime friend and vassal, who happened to be a neighbor. Simon had fallen into the trap Alphonse had laid, so it was possible that Simon’s sharp question meant he did not want Gloucester to inquire about Alphonse who had gone into Kenilworth and not come out. But why? In the name of all that was holy, why should Simon want to detain him? Seating himself on a bench, Alphonse shrugged indifference to Simon’s question.

  “Only perhaps and if and if.” He smiled. “But not until the result of the embassy sent to France is known, and there is no news of that yet, is there?”

  “Yes, and it is all bad,” Simon replied promptly and angrily.

  Although he did not elaborate, Alphonse could tell that he had not intended to hide the news and had failed to talk about it only because it was an unpleasant subject to him. Self-indulgent as he was, Simon simply put out of his mind any distasteful news, never thinking that it might have importance to someone else.

  “I am sorry to hear it,” Alphonse said, sighing pensively and looking away across the hall but in a way that allowed him to catch Simon’s f
ace at the far edge of his vision. “As Louis’s man, I suppose I must think of ending my stay in England very soon, so it is just as well that I chanced to meet Sir William at the stable and walked with him back to the keep—”

  When Alphonse said he had met Sir William, a flash of rage drew back Simon’s lips. A brief struggle with himself produced a grimace that was supposed to be a smile. “But that is scarcely a visit!” Simon exclaimed.

  Alphonse turned his head to look at Simon fully. “I told him that my brother Raymond would pay his ransom, saw that he looked well, and he assured me himself that he was well treated.” He smiled. “There is nothing more I have to say to him or he to me. We are not plotting any change in government, you know.”

  Not even a blink disturbed Simon’s frozen face or the set smile behind which his teeth were clenched when Alphonse made his jest about political plotting. So that finally eliminated the idea that Simon had a political reason for wishing to keep him from meeting Sir William, not that the idea had ever been very likely. Yet it was clear Simon had intended to conceal the fact that Sir William had come back so that Alphonse would stay at Kenilworth. That meant either that Leicester had ordered his son to detain him or that Simon had some private reason for wishing to do so. There was no evidence that Simon would try to keep him by force if he simply said he wanted to leave, but Alphonse had lost all patience and decided Simon deserved what would happen to him.

  “The ransom,” Simon said with such open desperation that Alphonse had to make an effort not to laugh at the young man’s inability to conceal his thoughts. “I am not empowered to talk about that. Will you not wait until I can write to my father and ask if a figure can be set?”