Authors: Roberta Gellis
One wordless yell made the men pick up speed, as if they
still hoped to get away. Alphonse glanced over his shoulder to make sure the
oncoming men were gaining. A second shout brought the troop to a halt, the men
putting on helmets and raising their shields as they brought their horses to
face the pursuers, except for two who had been ordered to ride on as fast as
they could. With any luck, someone in the oncoming troop would see them and
believe Edward and Thomas had fled toward Leominster.
Alphonse had just time enough to see the men from Hereford
sweep past the track the prince had taken before he shouted a third time and
gestured with his drawn sword. At the touch of the spur, Dadais leapt forward
toward the lead man in the pursuing party, who suddenly screamed, “Traitor! Traitor!”
Before he remembered that he carried a blank shield, wore no
colors, and could not be recognized with his helmet on, Alphonse aimed a
tremendous blow at the oncoming rider. Until Edward was safe and raising an
army, he did not want his name associated with this venture. Then he saw the
leader’s head was slightly turned. It was not he who was being called “traitor”
but the two fleeing away up the road. Simultaneously, he recognized Henry de
Montfort’s shield.
Alphonse cried out in distress, but it was too late to avoid
the encounter or even check his swing. All he could do was turn his sword so
that the flat of the blade, rather than the edge, hit. His shout had some
effect too. Henry started to lift his shield to catch the blow. He was too late
for that, but he did deflect Alphonse’s sword upward so that it landed on the
thick rim of his helmet. Alphonse heard the loud clang of metal on metal, saw
Henry reel in the saddle, and then was past him, into the body of the oncoming
troop. Furious at his bad luck and unable to look back to see what had become
of Henry, he slashed right and left. A shriek and a grunt told him of a hit
and, probably, a miss. He did not turn to see. From the noise, he knew the men
of his own troop were right on his heels. He caught a slashing blow on his
shield, pushed outward to hold his attacker’s sword, and delivered a vicious
chop to the man’s shoulder. Dadais shouldered the slighter mount aside, and
Alphonse burst through onto the clear road.
Off to one side he saw a group of four men, one struggling
feebly as a second, riding behind, supported him in the saddle, and two on
either side protected them. Alphonse checked Dadais, then as they passed,
riding back toward Hereford, drove his horse between them and two members of his
troop who clearly intended to pursue.
“Let them go,” he shouted. “Let them take their wounded back
to Hereford.”
A few more blows were struck, but essentially that was the
end of the fight. With their leader injured, with one half of the troop not
knowing what the fight was about and the other half appalled by the thought of
trying to take their own future king prisoner, with the facts evident, that
they were outnumbered and that catching the two who had fled was plainly
impossible, the offer of safety while they gathered up their wounded and
returned to the town was too good to ignore.
Both troops, holding shields and swords ready but striking
no blows, withdrew a cautious distance while the dead and wounded were
separated and carried to either side. Then the men of Hereford turned south. If
any had thought of turning back suddenly and catching the prince’s guards
unaware, they soon put the idea out of their minds. Most of Alphonse’s troop
followed them for more than a mile—well beyond the track the prince had taken,
but they did not know that. Then they sat in the road watching until the last
of the men of Hereford passed out of sight. Those who did not follow bandaged
the hurt and tied the dead onto their horses. None were left behind to be
questioned or identified as Mortimer’s.
After Alphonse’s troop had reassembled, they rode north
again. Well before they reached Leominster, however, the troop broke up into
small groups, most headed back to Weobly across country. Alphonse and Chacier
alone passed through the town, where they stopped to eat a belated dinner, and
then rode on. Although they did not hurry their meal, they heard no excitement,
no criers calling out important news, and the gate guards did not even glance
at them when they rode out. Alphonse bit his lip. Surely Henry de Montfort had
not been so seriously injured he was unable to send out messengers to order the
prince be apprehended.
Alphonse reviewed the blow he had struck and how Henry had
acted when he last saw him, and concluded he could have done no permanent harm.
So why— Then he shrugged. Alphonse accounted himself clever with words, but
could not devise just how he, in Henry’s place, would phrase an order to
capture the prince when the whole country had been told that Edward was free.
Most likely Henry had decided Edward was beyond his reach and instead of taking
action himself had sent the news to his father so that Leicester could decide
what to do. That, Alphonse thought, was typical of Henry, or was it because
Henry was not certain he wanted to recapture the prince?
When that idea first occurred to Alphonse, it came lightly,
as near to a jest as one could come about so bitter a subject. He was thinking
only in terms of Henry’s own weariness of spirit at having thrust on him a
second time the heavy and unwelcome responsibility of controlling Edward.
Later, near to midnight, when he finally rode into Wigmore and was told by the
gate guard to go directly to the prince in the near tower, he began to be
uneasy. And his welcome from Edward, who was still wide awake, brought to mind
a different reason for Henry’s reluctance to recapture him.
Although Edward took Alphonse into a crushing hug and
thanked and complimented him for his part in the escape, the prince also asked
quite sharply why Alphonse had taken so long to arrive in Wigmore. Every line
and twitch in Edward’s face was clearly visible because the small tower chamber
was brightly lit. Torches flared in three wall holders and large candlesticks
had been carried in and placed on either side of the small hearth.
With a slight sinking of heart at what he saw in the
prince’s face, Alphonse answered calmly that he and his servant had stopped to
eat in Leominster to provide evidence of two armed but harmless travelers, who
were certainly not the fleeing prince, if someone asked questions about men
arriving from the south. Then he had taken a slow and circuitous route to
Wigmore. His answer satisfied the prince, but more, he thought, because Edward
recognized and forced down his own unreasonable suspicion than because of the
inherent logic of the answer.
It was then, seeing both the half-mad suspicion and the iron
will that controlled it, that Alphonse began to wonder whether Henry de
Montfort had welcomed the prince’s escape because he knew it would soon be too
late. Long before his father could be brought to loose Edward’s bonds in fact
rather than pretense—if he ever could be—the prince would be irretrievably mad
and all the more dangerous because he would not seem mad. He would not gibber,
probably not even rage, but he would see only evil and ill intent in every
living being, even in those who were most loving and devoted to him.
“What now?” Edward asked sharply. “How long must I stay
here?”
Alphonse started. The words, implying that Edward was afraid
he was now in Mortimer’s power, hit too close to the uneasy thoughts they had
interrupted. “Pardon, my lord,” he said, “I am tired. I was half asleep. As to
how long you stay, that is a matter for you to judge. Lord Mortimer is at
Ludlow. He will await you there or come here on your order or meet you at any
other place you designate.”
A brusque nod showed that Edward had accepted the
information, but there was no sign of relaxation. One part of Edward, Alphonse
guessed, still suspected he was to be used, a tool in other men’s hands for
purposes that were not his own, but another part was busy with saner, tactical
considerations. These were the lands of Edward’s lordship, and Alphonse was
sure he knew exactly where Ludlow was—well under four leagues from
Wigmore—Alphonse had been told, and was calculating the reasons why Mortimer
had chosen the place and the advantages and disadvantages of accepting
Mortimer’s choice or designating a new place. What he said had nothing to do
with the place of meeting, however.
“Thomas told me,” Edward remarked, his left eyelid drooping
more than it had a moment earlier, “that his brother will answer my call to
arms. Is that true, or is it the hope of a young zealot?”
“It is true, but there is a price.”
Edward sighed as he said, “There is always a price,” but the
rigidity of his stance relaxed a trifle.
Alphonse relaxed also, knowing he had struck the right note.
Certainly at present, and perhaps forever, Edward had lost all faith in
professions of loyalty and generosity. To offer such reasons for supporting
him, especially in his current weakness, would only stimulate his suspicion.
Bargains, however, he was willing to credit as rational bases for action. The
prince confirmed Alphonse’s thought by glancing around the small tower chamber
and pointing to a stool that stood beside the cot holding a flagon and a cup in
lieu of a table.
“Bring that to the hearth and sit down,” he said.
While Alphonse took the flagon and the cup in one hand and
carried the stool over with the other, Edward threw a few more small logs on
the fire. Then he laughed. “Lady Matilda was both shocked and grateful when I
refused her chamber, her bed, Mortimer’s chair of state, and a passel of
servants to wait on me and chose instead to lie in the tower alone.”
“You mean she thinks you wished to do her honor for her
husband’s sake.” Alphonse spoke over his shoulder, as he set the stool down and
placed the cup and flagon on the floor between the two stools. “That will do
you no harm. She is very devoted to Mortimer,” he went on, as Edward seated
himself and he followed suit.
The prince uttered a snort of laughter, filled the cup, and
drank about half, offering the remainder to Alphonse. He accepted the cup,
drank off what was left, and handed it back.
“I imagine,” Alphonse said, “that a luxurious prison might
gall the spirit as badly as fetters in a stone cellar gall the body. I am sure,
though, that any extended experience of the fetters on the body might make me
think less ill of the gall of luxury.”
“Still trying to bring me to forgive Henry?” Edward said,
his voice thinner and harder. “You need not worry. I appreciate fully that he
could have made my life much more miserable, even though fetters in a cellar
would not have been politic or suited Leicester’s purpose of seeming virtuous
and magnanimous.” He filled the cup again but did not drink; then, staring down
into it, he asked softly, “Why did you take part in my rescue, Alphonse?”
“Not, I am sorry to admit, out of my pure love for you, my
lord,” Alphonse said, smiling. “I am afraid I became involved partly by
accident and partly because I have a personal grudge against Guy de Montfort.”
He sighed. “Not very uplifting reasons.”
Edward raised the cup and sipped. Over the rim his eyes
seemed to Alphonse to be sadder but less mad. Alphonse shrugged, hiding his
intense pleasure at having said the right thing in the right way. He had
guessed that to speak of his own grudge would make his support both intensely
personal and totally comprehensible to the prince, who could hold a grudge with
the best. Alphonse uttered a short laugh and spoke again. “Yet Guy is also my
benefactor, in a way.”
“A parable?” Edward asked, his lips twisted, his voice flat
and dangerous.
“Oh, no.” Alphonse laughed again. “Pure fact. If Guy had not
pursued Barbe with dishonorable intent, which she was afraid to confess to her
father lest he squash the little louse and enrage Leicester, she would not have
fled to France. I would not have seen her again and been reminded of how
desirable she was and that our lands run well together. Thus, it is owing to
Guy’s lust that I have a wife entirely to my taste. In so much he is my
benefactor.”
Edward laughed, the sound full and natural, and Alphonse
took that as an invitation to tell the whole tale. His emphasis was on Guy’s
attempts to cuckold him, first by invitation and, when Barbe refused, by guile
and by force. Naturally, he mentioned in passing that Barbe would not involve
her father because he and Leicester were already in disagreement and that she
and Alphonse had become friends with Gloucester because he had defended Barbe
from Guy.
Although he made no comment on it, Alphonse knew the prince
had noted his remarks about the distrust between Leicester and Norfolk. He
surely had other evidence of the strain in that relationship, but Alphonse was
satisfied that his casual mention of the daughter’s anxiety was an interesting
confirmation that Norfolk was no inveterate enemy.
Edward, however, was more interested in another casual
comment. “Friends with Gloucester, are you?” he remarked. “I hardly know him.
He did not come to court and some two years ago refused to swear fealty to me—”
“He refused to swear because he had not yet received title
to his father’s lands,” Alphonse interrupted. “Is it not true that he was
denied that title on a point of law—a point that was waived for others, some
younger than he—that he was under age? Is it so strange, then, that he should
refuse to swear on an equally technical point of law?”
Edward said nothing, staring down into the cup of wine he
still held. Alphonse hesitated. This was one of the nastiest sticking points of
the rapprochement between the prince and Gloucester. He knew it had to be
brought into the open before the prince and Gloucester met, but he had already
made a mistake by seeming to have accepted Gloucester’s interpretation of
events without waiting to hear Edward’s defense. He wished he were not so tired
that his head felt thick.