Falls the Shadow (57 page)

She had eyes like her brother Amaury, a tawny hazel flecked with green. They were alight now with laughter, hers the serene self-confidence of a cherished only daughter in a family of sons. “Afraid of you, Papa? I am terrified,” she said, and giggled when Simon pulled her braid.

“No jokes, lass. I want the truth. Have I been as bad a patient as that?”

She nodded. “You’ve been just dreadful, Papa,” she confided.

Simon was taken aback. “Well, then, I suppose I shall have to mend my ways. I’d best begin by making peace with your mother, but I shall need your help. See that coffer in the corner? If you could fetch my sword—” He smiled, for she was already half-way across the room. “Leave it in the scabbard, Ellen, and take care, for it’s heavy. I want you to bring it to the great hall, present it to Nell.”

“I’ll go right now, Papa!” Holding his sword as if it were a divining rod, Ellen looked so incongruous and yet so appealing that Simon had to laugh, for the first time in weeks.

He was surprised when Nell failed to appear within the following quarter-hour, for as quick as she was to flare up, she was even quicker to laugh. As time passed, his initial puzzlement gave way to concern; it was not like her to hold a grudge. He kept listening for her, unable to concentrate upon his correspondence. Although he was growing sleepy again, he was loath to give in to it. It alarmed him that he tired so easily since his accident; it was his secret, unconfessed fear that he might not recover his full strength. Eventually he dozed, awakening an hour later at the sound of familiar footsteps.

“You’re a hard woman to impress. That was the first time I’ve ever made an unconditional surrender, and yet—Nell? What is it?”

Nell was ashen, her eyes dark and dazed, so dilated were her pupils. Leaning back against the door, she said, “Harry and Peter have returned from France.”

Simon frowned. “So soon? But they were to remain until Louis rendered his decision.”

“He did, Simon. On Wednesday last, he issued the Mise of Amiens.”

“What! In just a fortnight, he reached a decision that was not expected till June?” Simon sat up too abruptly, winced. “You’d not look so grim were the news good. Louis has found in Henry’s favor, then? How bad is it? Has he given Henry the sole right to appoint members of his council?”

“Simon…” Nell came forward, unexpectedly knelt by the bed, and reached for her husband’s hand. “Simon, the French King has annulled the Provisions. He has declared them to be invalid, and absolved Henry of his past promises to adhere to them.”

“No…no! He could not do that. He had not the right!”

“I know. But he did it, nonetheless. Peter says that even Henry seemed shocked by the extent of his victory. Louis found for Henry on all counts. He held that all the royal strongholds must be restored to Henry at once, that Henry alone has the right to appoint the ministers and officers of his realm. He even denied us the right to expel those of alien birth. He…Oh, God, Simon, it has all been for naught!”

“I thought,” he said bitterly, “that Louis was a man of honor. How could he rule upon the validity of the Provisions? We would never have agreed to arbitration had that been at issue. For five years, I’ve fought to safeguard the Provisions, fought for reform. Why would I allow Louis to pass judgment upon what we’ve already won?”

“We were betrayed,” Nell said, no less bitterly. “When Harry and Peter reached London, they encountered the Earl of Gloucester. Upon hearing their news, he insisted upon accompanying them on to Kenilworth. So, too, did Mayor Fitz Thomas. He says the Londoners are sorely distraught, implores you to see him. What shall I tell them? Shall I bid them wait?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll see them.”

Harry and Peter were disheveled and travel-stained, looked weary in body and soul. At sight of his father, Harry blurted out, “Christ, Papa, I’m so sorry!” as if the Mise of Amiens was somehow his fault.

The young Earl of Gloucester was uncomfortable and it showed. His relationship with Simon had chilled since the summer. This was their first encounter in several months, and Gloucester seemed ill at ease in the intimacy of Simon’s sickroom. The Mayor of London, too, appeared inhibited by his surroundings. He made an unobtrusive entrance, hung back as the others approached the bed.

“Do you have it?” Simon asked abruptly, and Peter nodded, silently handing over a parchment scroll. Simon rapidly unrolled the document. “Quash and annul the aforesaid Provisions.” The words seemed to leap off the page, as if written in blood. He read swiftly, betraying his emotions with an occasional indrawn breath. Once he quoted aloud, incredulously, “ ‘The said King shall be at liberty to call aliens to his counsel,’ ” and then, “ ‘The said King shall have full power and free rule within his realm—’ ”

Harry could restrain himself no longer. “Henry bribed the bastard,” he interrupted indignantly. “How else explain it?”

“I do not agree,” Peter objected mildly. “I think Louis reacted as a king, not a judge, I think he felt threatened by any limitations upon the powers of kingship—”

“He’s Henry’s brother by marriage and he’s French. If you’re looking for explanations, you need go no further than that,” Gloucester said tautly, forgetting for the moment that Simon, too, was French.

Harry bristled, but Simon was still intent upon the French King’s verdict. “Listen to this. ‘We further are unwilling, nor by this present ordinance do we intend, in any way to derogate from the royal privileges, charters, liberties, statutes, or praiseworthy customs, of the realm of England.’ He affirms the Runnymede Charter, and then disavows the Oxford Provisions! Sheer madness; one might as well chop down a tree whilst continuing to water the roots. The Provisions are the natural corollary of the Charter!”

He crumpled the parchment in his fist, flung it contemptuously to the floor, then looked up at the other men. “I cannot accept this. I have sworn to uphold the Provisions with my honor, with my life. Even if all forsake me, my sons and I will not abandon the Provisions, or those who put their faith in me.”

“You will not stand alone, my lord,” Fitz Thomas said quietly. “My Londoners will fight for the Provisions if need be.”

“So will I.” Gloucester startled them all by jerking his sword from its scabbard. “That I swear by the holy relics within this hilt.”

It was a dramatic gesture, enthusiastically emulated by Simon’s three sons. “Men will flock to your banners, Papa.” Bran spread his arms wide, as if to embrace hordes of unseen supporters. “The Earl of Derby and Humphrey de Bohun and Hugh le Despenser and Baldwin Wake and John Fitz John and—”

“And you can count upon Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Papa. He’ll throw his lot in with us for certes,” Harry exclaimed, as Fitz Thomas chimed in with his own assurances about the loyalties of the citizenry, the Cinque Ports, towns like Oxford and Northampton, all of which would follow London’s lead.

Simon heard them out in silence, and gradually they fell silent, too. Becoming aware of his obvious exhaustion, Simon’s sons exchanged uneasy glances. These sudden glimpses of their father’s vulnerability unnerved them in a way that sheer physical danger did not.

“We will have time to discuss our plans upon the morrow,” Simon said. “Now I would be alone with my wife.”

They had forgotten Nell, forgotten that their enemies were her brothers. Casting chagrined looks over their shoulders, they were relieved to withdraw, for not even Nell’s sons knew what to say to her.

Dusk was fast falling; the last of the candles had guttered out and only a hearth fire now held the dark at bay. “Shall I send for a cresset lamp?” Nell asked, and Simon shook his head, held out his hand. She came slowly from the shadows, sat beside him on the bed. Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss into her palm. After a time, he said:

“Henry may be God’s greatest fool, but he is still your brother. And Richard…he will likely oppose us, too, Nell.”

“I know,” she said softly. She’d never truly thought it would ever come to this, never thought the day might dawn when her husband and sons would face her brothers and nephews across a battlefield. She shared Simon’s confidence, but not his darker moods. Hers was a world of sunrises, not sunsets, a world in which hope flourished and faith was rewarded, and she clung to that comforting certainty all the more now that her need was so great.

“I trust in you, Simon,” she said, “and I trust in God. Whatever happens, it will be for the best, for us and for England.”

Trapped in Gloucester Castle by his de Montfort cousins, Edward offered to talk. Emerging unarmed, as a show of good faith, he and Hal were escorted through St Mary’s Gate into the precincts of the Benedictine abbey of St Peter, on to the Chapter House, where they were awaited by Harry and Bran, the Bishop of Worcester, and the Earl of Derby.

The meeting got off to an awkward start when Bran pointedly reminded Hal of his past promise not to bear arms against Simon, but Edward stepped smoothly into the breach. “Rumor has it that you got into the town with a variation of the Trojan Horse trick. Any truth to that?”

Harry and Bran exchanged grins. “We disguised two knights as wool merchants. Once they were admitted, they seized the gatehouse keys.”

Edward laughed approvingly. “Right clever, if I say it who should not!”

“At the risk of sounding overly suspicious, Ned, I’ve never known you to be such a gracious loser.”

Edward’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m not here to surrender, Harry. I want to arrange a truce.”

Bran burst out laughing. “I daresay you do! Tell me, Ned, do you also have a swaybacked, spavined nag you hope to pass off as a pure-blooded destrier? Any marshland to sell? We have you well and truly trapped, my lad. Why should we agree to uncork the bottle?”

“No reason at all…if you truly want war.” Edward rose from his chair, began to pace. “My father does not. Nor does my uncle Richard. I was the one who argued against compromise. But now that it has come to this, to facing the two of you across a battlefield…Christ Jesus, I do not want that! We’ve shared too much…” He stopped, shrugged self-consciously. “There must be another way. Let me find it. If you agree to a week’s truce, until the thirteenth, there’s a chance I can get my father to offer more generous terms than those of the French King.”

There was a prolonged silence, and then Bran slowly and deliberately began to clap. “Well said. Who could resist such a heartfelt appeal? I could. No offense, Cousin, but I’d sooner wager upon the true color of a chameleon than upon your honor.”

“I fear I must agree,” the Bishop of Worcester said coolly. “That was an eloquent plea for peace, but you spoke no less persuasively to me when you found yourself besieged by the citizens of Bristol, only to disavow all your promises once you were safe.”

Edward flushed. “That was different!”

“How?” Harry asked, and Edward strode toward him, reached out and grasped his wrist.

“Because,” he said, “I’d be swearing to you. To you, Harry. Do you truly think I’d give you my sworn word and then break it?”

Harry looked intently into his cousin’s face. “No,” he said. “No, I do not believe you’d lie, not to me. All right, Ned, you have your truce.”

The Earl of Derby had been listening in silence, amused by the back-and-forth banter. Now he was on his feet, face red with rage. “Have you gone mad?”

Bran was no less shocked. “Harry, you cannot do this! Think you that I want to see Ned come to grief? Jesú, he’s my kinsman, too! But he cannot be trusted, not anymore.”

“I think he can. And the decision, like the command, is mine. If he can make peace between our fathers, it’s well worth the risk.” Ignoring their outraged protests, Harry held out his hand to Edward. “Do not prove me wrong, Ned,” he said, and smiled. “You know how insufferable Bran can be when he gets to say ‘I told you so’!”

Neither Edward nor Hal spoke as they emerged into the cloister walkway. The inner garth was still powdered with the unsightly residue of the last storm; the once-white snow was now a dingy, begrimed grey. Hal reached down and scooped up a handful. There was awe in the glance he gave Edward, but there was unease, too, for at the moment he felt no less sullied and defiled than this fistful of dirty snow. Slowly he opened his fingers, let it trickle away as if he were scattering ashes to the wind.

“You know them full well,” he mumbled. “They each reacted just as you said they would.” He and Edward had even joked about it beforehand, quips that came back to haunt him now, that left a soured taste in his mouth. “Ned, I have to say this. I do not like what we did in there.”

He tensed, expecting a sharp stab of anger, or worse, a derisive gibe. But for once his cousin offered no mocking rejoinder, no taunts about his sentimentality, his naïveté. Edward stopped abruptly, turned to face him.

“Do you think that I liked it?” he demanded. “Harry is closer to me than my own brother. But there is too much at stake for scruples.”

By the time Harry and Bran dismounted in front of Kenilworth’s great hall, their sister had reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve missed you so much!” Ellen cried, flinging herself into Harry’s arms. Then it was Bran’s turn. He swung her up off the ground, whirled her around until she squealed with laughter. “What took you so long? And what did you bring me?”

Her brothers looked at each other in dismay. From Ellen’s earliest childhood years, they’d delighted in indulging her whims; this was the first time within memory that they’d forgotten to pick up some small trinket for her.

“Well, kitten, if you check Bran’s saddlebag, you might just find some green silk hair ribbons,” Harry suggested, earning himself a sunlit smile and another hug.

Watching as Ellen dashed toward the stables, Bran gave his brother a playful shove. “Good going, Harry. I promised Cassandra a keepsake. What do I tell her now?”

“You’ll think of something. Now we’d best—Amaury! When did you get back from France?”

“A fortnight ago.” Amaury fended off his brother’s exuberant welcome as best he could, being some inches the shorter of the two. Disentangling himself from Harry’s bear hug, he said accusingly, “Where in blazes have you two been?”

Bran cocked a quizzical brow. “You may be studying for the priesthood, lad, but you’re not my confessor!”

“A pity, for you’ve never been more in need of absolution.” They turned at the sound of this new voice, saw Guy leaning against the door, regarding them with an odd smile, one that managed to be both sardonic and sympathetic. As their eyes met, Bran felt a vague, uneasy premonition. Although Guy was always there if needed, he sometimes suspected that Guy took a perverse satisfaction in seeing their sins catch up with them. Harry, less observant, greeted his brother blithely, moved on into the hall. Bran followed, more warily. But there he forgot his qualms, so pleased was he at the sight that met their eyes.

“Papa! You’re up and about!” Harry hastened toward the fire, detouring briefly to give Nell a quick kiss. “This is the best news we could have gotten! Did you make a sacrificial bonfire to burn your splints? We have good news, too. First of all, we settled your debt with that whoreson de Mortimer. With some help from Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, we laid waste to Mortimer’s lordship of Radnor, seized his manors at—”

Simon held up a hand for silence. “I would speak with my sons alone,” he said, and the hall rapidly emptied; only Nell remained, standing just behind Simon’s chair. As the door closed after the last of their servants, Simon turned glittering grey eyes upon his sons. “Now,” he said, “tell me what happened at Gloucester.”

“You know about Gloucester?” Harry asked in surprise. “You mean the news beat us back to Kenilworth? Well…I suppose I’d best begin at the beginning. The town gates were barred to us, but two of our knights pretended—”

“I was told that you had Edward trapped within the castle. True?”

Harry nodded slowly, and Simon reached for a crutch, maneuvered himself upright, brushing aside their efforts to help. “With Edward in our hands, the war would have begun and ended there at Gloucester. And you let him go?”

Bran froze, then gave his brother a look of appalled pity. But Harry did not yet understand. “We agreed to a truce, Papa,” he said calmly. “Ned promised to do all he could to stave off war, to persuade his father—”

“And you believed him?” Simon interrupted incredulously, and Harry nodded again.

“Yes,” he said. “He gave me his sworn word. He—”

“He played you both for fools. He kept your truce only as long as your army was within sight of Gloucester. Then he seized the town, imposed harsh fines and penalties upon the citizens, and rode straight for the royal encampment at Oxford—no doubt laughing all the way!”

Bran made an involuntary gesture, his hand brushing his brother’s sleeve. Harry jerked away from the touch. Darkness lurked in the corners of the hall, beyond the reach of rush-light, and Harry turned instinctively toward the shadows, plunged into their depths as if seeking sanctuary. But there he paused. “Bran is not to blame,” he said, his voice muffled, all but inaudible. “He tried to warn me, but I would not listen. I failed you, Papa, not Bran.”

At Simon’s silent query, Bran nodded, before blurting out, “There are worse mistakes, Papa, than one made from the heart.”

“Bran is right, Simon,” Nell said softly, keeping her eyes all the while upon her eldest son. “You taught our sons that a man’s life counts for naught without honor. Mayhap Harry learned that lesson too well, but my love, he learned it from you.”

Simon’s anger still burned at white heat, but as he looked upon that solitary figure deep in shadow, he found his fury changing focus, away from Harry and onto the man who’d so cruelly duped him. Shifting his crutch, he limped toward his son.

“Harry.” The younger man turned, reluctantly; Simon thought he caught a glimmer of tears beneath Harry’s lashes. “I’ll not lie to you, not deny that you disappointed me. But you did not shame me, Harry. The shame is Edward’s, not yours. Now we’ll say no more on this. You made a mistake, lad. Just be sure you learn from it.”

“I will,” Harry said tautly. “As God is my witness, I will.”

The prospect of English civil war dismayed the French King, who opposed on principle all strife between Christians. He hastily dispatched an envoy, who prevailed upon Henry and Simon to make one final attempt at negotiation. A truce was declared on March 18, and Simon and his supporters offered to accept the Mise of Amiens if Henry agreed to banish aliens from his service. Henry refused.

When war did come, though, the fire was kindled by neither Henry nor Simon, but by the Londoners. On March 31, they rioted, burning the town houses of the hated William de Lusignan and a prominent royalist baron, Philip Basset. Then the mob turned its fury upon the Westminster mansion of Henry’s brother Richard. Not content with that, they marched the seven miles to Isleworth. There they demolished Richard’s cherished fish ponds, destroyed his orchards, reduced his favorite manor to a charred ruin.

Richard was outraged. Overnight, he was transformed from a man arguing for moderation to one hellbent upon vengeance. He, too, now echoed Edward’s insistence upon a battlefield resolution, and Henry heeded them. On Thursday, April 3, the King raised his red dragon standard and the royal host headed for Northampton, where Simon’s army was quartered.

They reached Northampton at dusk the following day. Arriving a few hours later, William de Lusignan and Roger de Mortimer were escorted to Edward’s command tent, where a strategy session was in progress. Those within offered by their very presence poignant testimony to the divisive, internecine nature of this war, for Henry, Richard, and Edward were not the only ones estranged from their own kinsmen. Philip Basset’s son-in-law was Hugh le Despenser, Simon’s Justiciar. The Earl of Hereford’s son still held fast for Simon. And Hugh Bigod, the Earl of Norfolk’s brother, had a stepson, Baldwin Wake, awaiting their assault on the other side of the city walls.

But de Lusignan and de Mortimer were not men to dwell upon vain regrets, or missed chances for peace. The thought of impending war troubled them not at all. What did was the sight of Davydd ap Gruffydd so at ease in Edward’s circle. It was to be expected that they would harbor suspicions of the Welsh, for theirs were Marcher lands. But their dislike of Davydd was as personal as it was political, for exile had not tempered his bravado. He was no less cynical, no less self-assured at Edward’s court than he had been at Llewelyn’s, and as he was one of the few men not intimidated by William de Lusignan’s kinship to the King, he and de Lusignan had crossed verbal swords more than once. Now, however, he was too absorbed to pay the other man any mind; hunched over the table, he was sketching a plan of Northampton’s streets.

“Our first attack was driven off,” Edward informed his uncle. “But that was just to get the lay of the land. On the morrow the siege begins in earnest.”

William de Lusignan appropriated a coffer seat. “Who has their command?”

Philip Basset glanced up from the map. “Leicester’s son and Peter de Montfort. They prudently refused our challenge; only fools would fight a pitched battle when so greatly outnumbered. No, they mean to hold the town and castle until Simon de Montfort can come to their rescue.”

“But that,” Edward said, “shall not be. It’s a full three days’ ride from London to Northampton. Even if Simon spurred his horse till it foundered, there’s no way he could reach them in time. I know Northampton well; its defenses will crumble in a day, two at most.”

He sounded so sure, so blessedly free of doubts that Henry felt a pang of envy. He got slowly to his feet, stiff from a day in the saddle. “I am going to bed,” he said, all too aware that his presence was not needed.

Edward gave him a brief, preoccupied smile. “We fight our first battle at dawn,” he predicted, “and our last. By this time tomorrow, our war will be won.”

“It’s ready,” Davydd announced, laying down his pen. “And not badly done, if I do say so. Luckily it’s been just a month since I was in Northampton.”

Edward came over to look, nodded approval. “We will attack at the South Gate. And whilst we keep them busy there, Philip will lead an assault along the northwest priory wall. If the Prior spoke true, we’ll be into the town ere they even realize what’s happening.”

“The Prior?” William de Lusignan echoed, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Edward grinned. “We’re playing the game with loaded dice, Will. Unlike most of the townspeople, the Prior of St Andrew’s is loyal to the Crown. He sent us word that he’d secretly undermined the priory wall, then put in temporary supports. Tomorrow he knocks them out, and we breach the wall as easy as this!” With a sudden snap of his fingers.