ASilverMirror (33 page)

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 out 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
face 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.