Falls the Shadow (16 page)

Nell nodded. “You are right. We do owe Henry a great deal, beloved.”

Simon leaned over, kissed her gently. “Look,” he said, and Nell smiled, for the baby had grasped Simon’s finger, was clinging tightly. But then she saw the tears in her husband’s eyes.

“You are a constant surprise to me, Simon,” she said slowly. “In truth, I did not think it would mean so much to you.”

Simon glanced up at her, then down again at his son. “In truth,” he confessed, “neither did I.”

The Welsh Princes had come to the Cistercian abbey of Ystrad Fflur in response to Llewelyn’s summons. There in the Chapter House of the monastery, they gathered to pledge oaths of fealty to Llewelyn’s son Davydd.

It should have been an occasion of great satisfaction to Llewelyn. It was not. He’d wanted more for Davydd, much more. It had been his intent to have the Welsh lords swear homage to Davydd. But the English had reacted with alarm, had forbidden Davydd to accept oaths of homage.

Llewelyn had once committed a tactical error of monumental proportions; he had overestimated his own power and underestimated that of the English Crown. It was a mistake that had almost cost him his life and the sovereignty of Gwynedd. He had been spared by the grace of God and a ruthless King’s love for his daughter, for Joanna had interceded with her father and John had listened. That memory was twenty-seven years past, but Llewelyn had not forgotten; nor had he made that mistake again.

He was troubled now not so much by the need to back down, to defer to the English Crown, as by the implications for Davydd. The other Welsh Princes had done homage to him in the past. That the English were applying two different standards—according him concessions they were not willing to concede to Davydd—did not bode well for Davydd’s future. Once he was dead and Davydd was in power, the English Crown would begin whittling away again at Gwynedd, seeking to reclaim all he’d won, to overthrow a lifetime’s work. What sort of a legacy was he leaving his son?

The Abbot had brought in heavy, oaken, high-backed chairs for Davydd and Llewelyn; they sat side by side as the Princes of Deheubarth and Powys and the lords of Llewelyn’s Gwynedd came forward, knelt and swore formal oaths of fealty to Llewelyn’s heir.

Gruffydd stood apart, watching as Ednyved and his sons pledged fealty to Davydd. His bitterness was twofold, that it was Davydd who was being acknowledged as the next Prince of Gwynedd, and that Llewelyn should have yielded to English pressure yet again. This was an old and festering grievance, for he would never understand how a man of his father’s proven courage could allow the English Crown to meddle in Welsh affairs. He had hated John, was scornful of Henry, would have defied them both had the power only been his.

“Gruffydd?” Senena had come quietly through the crowd, slid her hand into his. “Remember, beloved,” she said softly. “It is just empty words, no more than that.”

For a moment, his eyes held hers. “It is a holy oath,” he said, “sworn before God.”

Senena’s hand tightened. “An oath sworn under duress, Gruffydd. The Church does not hold a man to such an oath, beloved. Nor will the Almighty.”

He said nothing, but he knew she was right, knew what he must do. Near the dais, he saw his sons, Owain and Llelo. As unlike as they were, they shared now a remarkably similar expression, one of anxious unease. He smiled reassuringly at them, and then heard his name echoing across the chamber. He drew several steadying breaths, walked slowly toward the dais.

As he knelt before Davydd, his brother silently handed him a sword. It was specially crafted for such swearing ceremonies, with a hollowed hilt that contained the most sacred of relics, a tooth of St Davydd and a scrap of cloth from the mantle of the Blessed Mother Mary. Gruffydd’s fingers closed gingerly around the hilt, never quite making contact. He knew how Davydd must be relishing this moment, but the younger man’s face was utterly inscrutable. He had always envied Davydd that uncanny self-control, for he knew his every emotion blazed forth upon his own face for all the world to see.

The silence was becoming awkward. Never had Gruffydd been so preternaturally sensitive to his surroundings. No detail of the scene escaped him; he noticed how the floor tiles were patterned with pallid sunlight, how his father had leaned forward in his chair, even how mud was caking Davydd’s boots.

“Well?” Davydd said at last. “Are you going to swear?”

And with that, Gruffydd’s tension was gone. He felt strangely calm, almost peaceful. “No,” he said, “I am not.” Rising without haste, he very deliberately dropped the sword at Davydd’s feet. “I will not swear fealty to you. Not now. Not ever.”

It was a moment of appalling familiarity to Llewelyn, as if time had somehow come full circle. Ten years ago an embittered quarrel with Gruffydd had flared into a harrowing test of will. Gruffydd had refused to recognize Davydd as the heir, had promised civil war, and he had responded as the Prince of Gwynedd, had ordered his eldest son’s confinement at Deganwy Castle. It had been the most difficult act of his life, and as he looked now upon his defiant, dangerous firstborn, he knew suddenly that he could not summon up the strength to do it again.

“That is your choice,” Davydd said, quite coolly, and Llewelyn realized that Davydd was not at all surprised. He had expected Gruffydd to balk, for he’d always understood Gruffydd better than Gruffydd understood him. “But every choice carries with it consequences. After defying our lord father and his council, you cannot expect to be entrusted with so much of Lower Powys. You may retain the lordship of Ll
n. But you have just forfeited the commotes of Arwystli, Ceri, Cyfeiliog, Mawddwy, Mochnant, and Caereinion.”

“I’ve forfeited nothing! It is my father who still wields the power in Gwynedd, not you!” Gruffydd took a step toward the dais, but toward Llewelyn, not Davydd. “Tell him, Papa. Remind him who is the Prince of Gwynedd!”

Llewelyn’s throat closed up. He swallowed, said as evenly as he could, “Davydd speaks for me in this.” Knowing he could say nothing else, but knowing, too, that he’d be haunted till the end of his days by the memory of his son’s stricken face.

Davydd was sitting in the window-seat of the abbey parlor, drinking directly from a flagon of highly spiced red wine. It stung his eyes, burned his throat. He glanced up as the door opened, then held out the flagon to Ednyved. “I could not find any wine cups.”

Ednyved came forward, reached for the flagon. “You handled that well,” he said, and Davydd’s mouth twisted.

“Liar,” he said amiably. “Since when do you approve of half-measures? You know as well as I what I ought to have done. I ought to have given the order then and there for his arrest.” He reclaimed the flagon, drank deeply. “But I just could not do that to Papa.”

Ednyved sat down beside him in the window-seat. “Pass the flagon,” he said, and they drank in silence.

When Llewelyn entered the parlor, Davydd rose to his feet. “I had no choice, Papa. I could not allow Gruffydd to defy me. If I had, I’d have forfeited the respect of every man in the chamber.”

“I know, Davydd.” Llewelyn lowered himself onto the closest bench. “These four years that he’s been free, I tried to mend the breach between us,” he said wearily. “I sought to convince him that I still loved him. And I succeeded too well. I saw that on his face this afternoon, saw that he’d persuaded himself I might relent. Instead…instead I betrayed him yet again.”

“You did not betray him, Papa.”

“He thinks I did. And he’ll not forgive me. Not this time.”

Davydd put his hand on his father’s shoulder. He would never know what meagre comfort he might have offered, for just then the door opened. Llelo was panting, as if he’d been running; he looked flushed and disheveled. “I can stay but a moment, Grandpapa. My father is leaving the abbey and…and I must go with him.”

“Yes,” Llewelyn said. “I know, lad.”

Llelo moved closer. “I do not think he will let me visit you again.”

“No, Llelo, I do not expect he will.”

Llelo was near enough now for Llewelyn to see his tears. “In less than four years,” he said, “I shall be fourteen. I’ll have the legal right then to make my own decisions, to see you as often as I want.”

Llewelyn nodded wordlessly. But four years seemed an eternity to a ten-year-old boy just at the beginning of his life and a sixty-five-year-old man coming to the end of his. Llelo flew forward into his grandfather’s arms, and for a long moment Llewelyn held him close. “Grandpapa, if you come to Cricieth,” he pleaded, “I can still see you. It is not far from Nefyn; I can slip away for a few hours, and none need know.”

He’d feared that Llewelyn might seek to dissuade him, to make an adult’s arguments about obedience and patience. But Llewelyn did not. “Till Cricieth, lad,” he said huskily, and gave Llelo one final farewell hug.

Llelo blinked back the last of his tears; as young as he was, he was already learning that tears were an indulgence he could ill afford. At the door he paused, dark eyes seeking Llewelyn’s face. “I do not understand,” he said, “why it must be like this.”

Simon looped his wife’s hair around his hand, slowly pulled it taut, until she laughed and rolled back into his arms. “Each time,” he said, “you always cry out my name, and you always sound surprised.”

“Do I?” Nell thought it a pity that none but she would ever know Simon’s smile could be so tender. “That proves I do not yet take you for granted,” she said. “But I daresay you’ve scandalized the entire household, seducing your wife in the middle of the day!”

“Was that a seduction? I rather thought it a reconciliation.”

Nell grimaced. “A deft thrust, my lord, right to the heart. I am sorry we quarreled, Simon; I always am. You must admit, though, that I did warn you. I cautioned you on our wedding day that I did not think I could be a dutiful wife.”

“Yes, you did,” he agreed, “but not until after we’d already said our vows,” and Nell hit him with a pillow. He grabbed for her, and she squealed, but then they heard a discreet cough; Simon pulled the bed hangings back, saw his squire standing in the doorway.

Adam coughed again; it never failed to amaze him that his serious-minded, prideful lord was the same man who indulged in pillow fights and tickling matches in the privacy of the marriage bed. Allowing himself one circumspect glimpse of Nell’s white shoulders and flaxen hair, he said politely, “Dame Mabel asked me to remind you, my lord, that the Queen’s churching is set for mid-afternoon, lest you be late.”

While Simon was scrupulously punctual, Nell was invariably tardy, and Simon’s squires often wagered as to whose habit would prevail. Now as Simon rose from the bed, signaling for his clothes, Nell settled back comfortably against the pillow, and Adam grinned, thinking his money was as good as won.

“Eleanor will have a magnificent churching,” she said, somewhat wistfully. “Henry will spare no expense now that she’s finally given him a son.” Sitting up, she shook her hair back. “I’ve never fully understood the churching ceremony, Simon. The priests say that until it is done, a woman is impure, that she cannot touch holy water or make bread or serve food. But why should childbirth make a woman unclean?”

Simon paused in the act of reaching for his shirt, momentarily diverted, for he was fascinated by theology. “I do not know,” he admitted. “I shall ask Bishop Robert when next we meet. Now bestir yourself, Nell. Your study of Scriptures can wait; your brother the King cannot.”

Henry had leased the Bishop of Winchester’s bankside manor house to Simon and Nell, and it was but a short journey upriver to Westminster Palace. Simon hastened his wife along the King’s wharf, across the New Palace yard, not slowing stride until they entered the great hall, saw that the procession to the abbey had yet to begin. Only then did Simon relax, pausing to speak to Richard Renger, London’s Mayor, for he was no less intrigued by political craft than he was by canon law. The Mayor greeted him warmly; when Simon’s interest was sparked, so, too, was his charm. Nell continued on toward the dais, where she curtsied to her brother’s teenage Queen.

Eleanor was dressed in regal splendor; Nell’s eyes moved hungrily over the iridescent cloth-of-gold gown, the plush velvet mantle, the necklet of emeralds and rubies. There was no ease, no affection between the two young women; each one envied the other’s hold upon Henry’s heart. They made stilted but courteous conversation, drawing upon their only common interest: motherhood. Eleanor spoke lovingly of her newly born son, Edward, and Nell no less proudly of her Harry, now entering his ninth robust month. A dark imp, she said fondly, who was already trying to stand erect. Eleanor smiled politely, thinking that for certes her little Ned would be no less forward than Nell’s wonder-child. She brightened at sight of Simon approaching, for she was like Nell in one other way, she preferred the company of men to that of women.

She extended her hand for Simon’s kiss, while feeling a twinge of conscience. She genuinely liked Simon, who was handsome and spoke the French of the Île-de-France, not the bastardized Norman-French of Henry’s court, and she hoped she had not gotten him into Henry’s bad graces. Favoring Simon with a dazzling smile, she began to complain of Henry’s tardiness.

“That man will be late for his own wake,” she sighed, and pouted prettily. “Simon, will you not go to his chamber, hasten him along? He listens to you.”

“Make yourself easy, Madame,” Simon said, and both women watched as he began to thread his way through the crowded hall, Nell with possessive pride and Eleanor with a satisfied smile.

“I think I managed that quite well,” she said. “Henry is rather vexed with Simon, and now they’ll have a chance to talk in private, to make peace ere the churching begins.”

“Why should Henry be vexed with Simon? You must be mistaken, Madame, for Simon has never stood higher in Henry’s favor.”

“Then why did Henry fly into such a rage when I made mention of the debt Simon owes my uncle?”

Nell was frowning. “What debt?”

Eleanor shrugged. “All I know is that Simon somehow owes my uncle Thomas a large sum of money, and he bade me ask Henry to seek payment from Simon. Which I did, and Henry became remarkably wroth.”

Nell was remembering. “You must be referring to the debt Simon owed his cousin Ranulf. He was the late Earl of Chester. John the Scot’s uncle,” she added, for even after three years in England, Eleanor had yet to untangle the bloodlines of the English aristocracy. “Upon Ranulf’s death, the debt passed to the Count of Brittany, and then to your uncle, the Count of Flanders. It was two hundred pounds at the outset, but with interest accrued, it is now more than two thousand marks. So much,” she said resentfully “for the Church’s stricture that Christians must never engage in usury! But why should Henry be angry over an old debt? That makes no sense.”

“That is why I wanted Simon and Henry to talk together, to—” Eleanor stopped in dismay, and Nell turned, saw her brother entering the hall.

Henry came to an abrupt halt at sight of his brother-in-law. “You are not welcome here,” he said, “not at my court and for certes not at my Queen’s churching.”

Simon’s smile faded. “My liege?” he said, sounding so astonished, so innocent that Henry’s rage—too long untended, smoldering in the dark—flared up like parched kindling, flaming out of control.

“This is a holy ceremony,” he snapped. “Only those who know God’s grace deserve to take part in it.”

Simon felt no anger yet, only disbelief. “How have I offended you?”

“You know full well how you have offended me! You do owe my wife’s uncle two thousand marks, and yet you refuse to pay, you—”

“That is not so,” Simon cut in sharply. “That matter is pending before the papal curia, and I will abide by whatever decision they render.”

“I am sure His Holiness the Pope will be relieved to hear that! But how do you expect to make payment? I gave you the earldom of Leicester, and yet your debts continue to mount, to—”

“And we both know why. King John took the earldom from my father in 1207; it was not returned to me until 1231.” Simon had not heard Nell’s approach, suddenly felt her hand upon his arm. But he could not stop himself; his grievance was too raw. “And in those twenty-four years, the lands were mortgaged, the revenues wasted, the forests cut down. Yes, you gave me back our earldom, well nigh ruined!”

Henry flushed. “Ah, no, you’re not going to blame me for your debts! If you did not keep such a princely household, if you curbed your wife’s lavish spending as you ought, your coffers would not be empty, and you could pay your debts as a man of honor should!”

Nell gasped; her extravagances were of minor moment when compared to those of Henry’s Queen. “If I find no fault with my wife’s spending, why should you?” Simon said coldly, and she gave him a grateful look, before turning indignantly upon her brother.

“It is your fault that Simon and I are so hard pressed,” she cried. “You are the King, my eldest brother, and yet you allowed the Marshals to cheat me of my dower rights. You still allow them to delay payments, to offer excuses instead of money. And then…when Simon and I were wed, you denied me my marriage portion!”

“You did not deserve it! That marriage was a mockery, a sinful—”

“My liege!” Simon’s voice was shaking with fury, for to challenge their marriage now was to cast a shadow upon their son’s legitimacy. “Need I remind you that the Pope did grant us a dispensation?”

“Only because you lied to him! You bribed his counselors, got them to give him false facts, else he never would have consented, and you know that! You lied to His Holiness, just as surely as you lied to me!” Henry swung about, faced his sister. “I would never have agreed to your marriage had you not deceived me, had you not sworn you carried this man’s child!”

There was a sudden and utter silence, remarkable in a hall that size. For a moment frozen in time, Henry looked no less horrified than Nell and Simon. He seemed to hear his own words, echoing over and over in the eerie stillness. His sister was staring at him, but he could not meet her eyes. “Get out.” He swallowed, said more loudly, “I want you both gone from my sight, from my court.” He looked at Simon as he spoke; it was easier that way. “Get out!”

Simon reached for Nell’s hand. She was trembling, but she matched her step to his. Holding hands, they walked slowly toward the door, as if oblivious of the whispers, the stares, the scandal.

Simon poured red wine into a cup, passed it to Nell. “Drink,” he said, and she obediently took a swallow, then set the cup down.

“How can I ever return to court?” she whispered. “How could he do it, Simon? How could he shame me like that?”

He gave her one brief, burning glance. “Hold me,” she entreated, and he took her in his arms, but for a few moments only, no more than that. He could not be still, paced the chamber as if it were a cage, and as she watched, she discovered that his pain was harder to bear than her own.

“My lord…” Adam stood in the doorway, and Simon whirled, for he’d given orders that none were to enter the solar. “Do not be angry, my lord,” the boy pleaded. “I had to seek you out, for the city sheriffs have come. They await you in the great hall.”

Simon knew both of the sheriffs, John de Coudres and John de Wylehale. They looked surprisingly ill at ease, for he knew them to be men not easily discomfited. But before he could speak, John de Coudres said hastily, “You should know, my lord, that we are here at the King’s will, not our own.”

Nell was standing beside Simon. She regarded the sheriffs with composure, with polite curiosity, but her fingers were digging into Simon’s arm. “And what,” he asked, “is the King’s will?”

De Coudres glanced at his companion, back at Simon. “I might as well say it straight out. You cannot stay here any longer, my lord. This is the King’s house, and he has ordered us to turn you out.”

“My God…” Nell had never felt faint in her life, but she did now, was suddenly dizzy and light-headed. She caught the back of a chair, leaned on it till her breathing slowed. The King could do that, could take from them all that was theirs. The King had the power. But where was her brother? How had she lost Henry?

Simon had turned away, moved to the window. After some moments, Nell followed. “Beloved, listen to me,” she said softly. “We must return to court. We must see Henry, must seek to put this right.” He looked at her, saying nothing. His eyes glinted, took the shadows but none of the light. She knew what he was feeling; without words, she knew. “Please,” she said.

Eleanor had been anticipating the churching for weeks. But the ceremony was utterly overshadowed by Henry’s shocking public quarrel with his sister and her husband. Instead of being the center of attention, Eleanor found herself all but ignored. Upon their return from the abbey, she fled to her own chamber, where she threw herself down upon the bed, heedless of her new finery, and burst into tears. Henry retreated to his private apartment, the sunlit green room known as the Painted Chamber, and all others dispersed to discuss the astonishing scene so many had witnessed in Westminster’s great hall.

As Simon and Nell approached the entrance of the Painted Chamber, an embarrassed usher stepped forward to bar the way. “I am sorry, my lord of Leicester,” he said. “The King’s Grace has given orders that you are not to be admitted to his presence.”

“I see.” Never had Simon felt such rage; never had he felt so frighteningly impotent. All knew Fortune was a fickle bitch, but had any man ever lost her favor so fast?

Nell was gazing coolly at the usher. “Did my brother the King issue any order barring me?” And when he shook his head, she said, “You may announce me, then.” Her eyes cut quickly to Simon, eyes full of entreaty. “Will you wait for me?” she asked, and he nodded, for he knew what was at stake, too much for false pride.

The Painted Chamber, the lesser hall, and St Stephen’s Chapel intersected to form a spacious courtyard. Beyond, the ground stretched down to the river wall. People were wandering about in the late afternoon sun; as he walked down a graveled pathway, Simon could feel their eyes following him. None were neutral about Simon. Men either liked him very much or not at all, and more than a few were taking satisfaction in his sudden fall. But even those who sympathized did not dare to express it in so public a setting. He was left alone in the garden, gazing up at the oriel windows of the Painted Chamber, windows defaced by incongruous iron bars, installed in all of Henry’s manors after the assassination attempt at Woodstock.