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slate gray
they often appeared. The wide, mobile mouth, its lips when she was sad or
serious almost as free of any curve as her brows, had curled upward at the
corners, bringing the center of the long upper lip down into a temporary bow
that was eminently kissable.
    The laughter did not last long. The two women glanced at
each other, feeling guilty for having forgotten in a private jest how dangerous
the outside world had become.
    Joanna sighed. “Oh, well,” she said, “this is not a good
time to be choosing a husband unless you would consider going back to France.
And that would solve your problems with young Simon and Guy de Montfort. I know
you hate France, my love, but you must have seen the war coming. Why did you
not go with Queen Eleanor last September, Barbara?”
    “I could not!” Barbara exclaimed indignantly. “Father was so
angry at Uncle Hugh. Surely you did not think I would run for safety when I
feared at any moment I would need to thrust myself between them physically to
keep them from one another’s throats. Why, oh, why, could they not agree on
whom to support?”
    “Because,” Joanna said dryly, “Hugh believes that if God
chose Henry to be king, only God has the right to order the king’s behavior.”
    There was a brief silence, in which Barbara made a wordless
sound, half amusement, half despair. Then Joanna went on, “Is it more
reasonable to believe that it is right for any group of men who are strong
enough to bend the king to their will? That way lies chaos.”
    “Oh, Joanna,” Barbara sighed. “The king himself creates
chaos.”
    Joanna sighed too. “As you well know, Hugh has done his best
to guide King Henry away from his errors. The attempt was not a success. The
king flew into a rage and dismissed Hugh from his service.”
    But her voice had changed over the last sentence into a
dreamy softness, almost a purr of complacency. It was a most unsuitable tone
for the words. Barbara, who had picked up her work and begun to set stitches,
dropped it again and turned her head. “So that was why Uncle Hugh would not come
to the meeting father wanted. You were the one who calmed him. I will lay odds
that if you had not—”
    “I never speak to your uncle about political matters,”
Joanna said. “It is not my place.”
    “Pish-tush,” Barbara snapped. “I suppose you would not try
to stop him if he were going to do something stupid or dangerous.”
    “No, I would not. He would do what he thought right anyway
and only be more miserable because of my tears and entreaties.”
    “Joanna!” Barbara exclaimed, quite exasperated.
    Joanna smiled. “Your uncle never does stupid things.”
    “Never does stupid things!” Barbara echoed. “What do you
call his responding to King Henry’s call to arms after the way he has been
treated? Uncle Hugh should have spat in the king’s face instead of going off to
fight Leicester in his behalf. Henry is a selfish, petty, spiteful, vindictive,
spendthrift—”
    “But he is the king ,” Joanna interrupted softly. “God
chose Henry, and only he has the right to rule.”
    But Joanna’s eyes had filled with tears and she put her work
aside and slid across the bench. Barbara put a sheltering arm around her aunt’s
shoulders. The sun had slipped behind a cloud, and a breeze was fluttering the
leaves of the rose trees, which was reason enough for Joanna to shiver. But
Barbara knew her aunt was not cold, Joanna was frightened. Barbara was
frightened herself. She could not bear to think of her uncle and the two armies
that might even now be rushing at each other somewhere in the south.
    Joanna had slipped her arm around Barbara’s waist, and the
two women clung together. In a war, no matter who won, Barbara thought
bitterly, the women always lost. And Joanna’s situation, with her sons on one
side and her husband on the other, was heart-wrenching. Was everyone in England
so torn apart? Did everyone have some dear one who supported the king, as