wanted to know. It was a knowledge that she and Alice shared and it had estranged them until Alice's need of her had been greater than their mutual angers; but the shadow of their past angers and of what they knew still lay dark between them, and it was at the hazard of opening a wound only a little healed that Frevisse said carefully, "You're afraid this Hampden's death has to do with his having gone to France."
A taut moment passed before Alice snapped, "Yes."
"That his going to France had to do with Suffolk's ..." She hesitated over the word, then said it. ". . . treason."
Alice drew a short, sharp breath. "You're bold to say that to my face."
"Did you want my companionship so I could lie to you?"
Alice put out a sudden hand and took hard hold on Frevisse's arm. "No." She spoke with something of the gasp of someone drowning. "No. I need your truth. It's only that sometimes the pain ..."
She freed Frevisse and started to pace the arbor again. Again Frevisse went with her but now beside her as Alice went on, low-voiced. "No, it's not the pain so much as the fear. I know Suffolk set up with Somerset to lose France because the war was becoming nothing but a drain down which England was endlessly pouring its wealth, but people were unwilling to let it go."
Frevisse forbore to point out that much of that English wealth had come from the pillaging of France through the years of the war. Nor did she say that Suffolk's ill and greedy governing of England had been as costly to England's good as the war had been. No purpose would be served by saying it, and she settled for only, "We had the truce with the French. There could have been treaty made. That would have settled much."
But then that slight truce, when there should have been a full treaty, was another of Suffolk's failures. When he had made the king's marriage to the French princess Margaret of Anjou, he had settled for a few years' truce when a treaty for full peace should have been part of the marriage agreement, the more especially since he had also settled for no dowry to come with the girl. All of that was among the reasons for all the angers at him, but Alice said defensively, "There still would have been the on-going cost of keeping our garrisons and maintaining the government there in Normandy."
"With a treaty that ended the fighting there, Normandy could have settled back to what it was—rich and prospering," Frevisse returned. "It would have come to support and defend itself."
"Not for years. The costs until then . . ."
"Were honestly England's to pay, considering we robbed and stripped everything we could from there when we claimed and seized the country," Frevisse said; but she heard the sharpening edge of anger in her voice and said quickly, "Alice, I'm sorry. That's not something worth debating between us. It's all beyond our help and always was. Nor is it what has you frightened here and now."
Alice had been drawing breath for probably an angry reply, but stopped, was silent a moment, and at last said, very low, as if her brief flare of anger was burned out, "No. It isn't. But the other thing . . . It's maybe nothing."
"Or it's maybe not," Frevisse said.
"Or it's maybe not. I only wish I knew where Edward Burgate is!" There was no anger, only despair in that cry, and wearily she went on, "I didn't tell you all the reason I sent Nicholas to fetch Hampden to me. It was more than to see if he would stay in my service. I wanted to warn him to say nothing about whatever reason he went to Normandy last year." She heaved a trembling sigh. "Well, he won't. I can only hope he never did."
Somewhere away across the garden John gave a happy shout. Alice lifted her head toward it. "That's better, anyway," she said, a sob of half-laughter in her voice. "It's him I have to save from all of this. I want him happy, not robbed of everything that should be his." Her words sank into bitterness again.
A taut moment passed before Alice snapped, "Yes."
"That his going to France had to do with Suffolk's ..." She hesitated over the word, then said it. ". . . treason."
Alice drew a short, sharp breath. "You're bold to say that to my face."
"Did you want my companionship so I could lie to you?"
Alice put out a sudden hand and took hard hold on Frevisse's arm. "No." She spoke with something of the gasp of someone drowning. "No. I need your truth. It's only that sometimes the pain ..."
She freed Frevisse and started to pace the arbor again. Again Frevisse went with her but now beside her as Alice went on, low-voiced. "No, it's not the pain so much as the fear. I know Suffolk set up with Somerset to lose France because the war was becoming nothing but a drain down which England was endlessly pouring its wealth, but people were unwilling to let it go."
Frevisse forbore to point out that much of that English wealth had come from the pillaging of France through the years of the war. Nor did she say that Suffolk's ill and greedy governing of England had been as costly to England's good as the war had been. No purpose would be served by saying it, and she settled for only, "We had the truce with the French. There could have been treaty made. That would have settled much."
But then that slight truce, when there should have been a full treaty, was another of Suffolk's failures. When he had made the king's marriage to the French princess Margaret of Anjou, he had settled for a few years' truce when a treaty for full peace should have been part of the marriage agreement, the more especially since he had also settled for no dowry to come with the girl. All of that was among the reasons for all the angers at him, but Alice said defensively, "There still would have been the on-going cost of keeping our garrisons and maintaining the government there in Normandy."
"With a treaty that ended the fighting there, Normandy could have settled back to what it was—rich and prospering," Frevisse returned. "It would have come to support and defend itself."
"Not for years. The costs until then . . ."
"Were honestly England's to pay, considering we robbed and stripped everything we could from there when we claimed and seized the country," Frevisse said; but she heard the sharpening edge of anger in her voice and said quickly, "Alice, I'm sorry. That's not something worth debating between us. It's all beyond our help and always was. Nor is it what has you frightened here and now."
Alice had been drawing breath for probably an angry reply, but stopped, was silent a moment, and at last said, very low, as if her brief flare of anger was burned out, "No. It isn't. But the other thing . . . It's maybe nothing."
"Or it's maybe not," Frevisse said.
"Or it's maybe not. I only wish I knew where Edward Burgate is!" There was no anger, only despair in that cry, and wearily she went on, "I didn't tell you all the reason I sent Nicholas to fetch Hampden to me. It was more than to see if he would stay in my service. I wanted to warn him to say nothing about whatever reason he went to Normandy last year." She heaved a trembling sigh. "Well, he won't. I can only hope he never did."
Somewhere away across the garden John gave a happy shout. Alice lifted her head toward it. "That's better, anyway," she said, a sob of half-laughter in her voice. "It's him I have to save from all of this. I want him happy, not robbed of everything that should be his." Her words sank into bitterness again.
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