Falls the Shadow (66 page)

He looked toward Gloucester; it was only fair to give credit where due. “You fought well this day, Gilbert, showed a talent for command.”

“Yes, I did,” Gloucester agreed, unwilling to admit how much the compliment pleased him. But he was happy enough to share the glory, and added generously, “We all did ourselves proud. All but the Londoners, that is.”

“They did the best they could.” Simon’s voice was suddenly cool.

“I do not doubt it.” Gloucester could not resist the sarcasm, but there was no venom in it; in his present frame of mind, he was willing to overlook much. “I think,” he began, and then stopped, turning as they all did, toward the direction of the town.

“My lords!” The rider was coming at a dead run, his mount kicking up great clods of grass and dirt. “My lord Fitz John sent me to find you, to tell you Lord Edward came back onto the field!” He reined in, panting. “But when they realized the battle was lost, the other lords balked. They headed for the bridge near the Franciscan friary. There was fighting, and some drowned when they rushed the bridge. But the de Lusignans and de Warenne got across. I’m sorry, my lord. We all know you wanted them taken.”

“What of Edward? Did he flee, too?”

“No, my lord, he did not. With less than a score of men, he fought his way into the priory, joined his father the King.”

John Fitz John’s first attack upon the priory had been repulsed by the desperate men sheltering within. He was about to launch a second assault when Simon galloped up. Thick, black smoke overhung the priory; orange flames, fanned by the wind, flared from the windows of the frater, licked at the roof of the church. Soon after Simon stopped the onslaught, a flag of truce was waved from the great gate, and then a gaunt, smoke-smudged figure was emerging onto the dusty, bloodstained street.

“I am William de Neville, Prior of St Pancras,” he began, but to his dismay, John Fitz John interrupted curtly, demanding to know if he was not formerly the Prior of St Andrew’s in Northampton. Fitz John did not remind those listening that it was a monk of St Andrew’s who had betrayed the town to Edward; he did not have to. But the Prior did not have the luxury of denial. “Yes, I was,” he acknowledged reluctantly. His eyes swept the circle of men, hastily sought out Simon. “My lord Leicester, I beg you to halt your assault whilst my monks fight the fire. Your arrows have set our church aflame!”

“A grievous mistake.” Simon slanted a flinty look toward Fitz John. “I would not deliberately burn a House of God.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The Prior sighed. “You’ll allow us, then, to put out the flames?”

“I think it time, Prior William, to put out all the flames. Go back and fight your fire. And deliver a message to the King. Tell him I am offering a truce, from this hour until sunset tomorrow. Choose from amongst your monks two to speak for the King. I will send into the priory two of the Franciscan friars to act on my behalf—our behalf,” he amended, remembering Gloucester just in time. “We are all reasonable men,” he said, with enough irony to amuse his soldiers. “I am sure that we can come to terms.”

Fitz John watched, frowning, as William de Neville hastened back into the priory. “Why a truce? Give me just two hours and I’ll give you the King.”

“He is not a fox you’ve run to earth, Sir John. He is the King of England, and we can spare his dignity.” Simon’s smile was suddenly grim. “What else does he have?”

They met in the priory Chapter House. Neither Henry nor Edward appeared to have slept, theirs the dazed, hollow-eyed look of men suffering the greatest of all possible bereavements, the loss of God’s favor. At sight of Simon, Henry began to tremble with impotent rage, with a visceral fear that was immune to common sense, impervious to Edward’s repeated reassurances. “I yield my sword to you, my lord of Gloucester,” he cried, “and only to you!”

Simon stepped back, watching without comment as Gloucester accepted Henry’s sword. But Henry’s next act could not be as easily shrugged off. Glaring at Simon, he said in a loud, belligerent voice, “Need I remind you that I have another son, safe in France with my Queen? Should any evil befall me or Edward, Edmund would be the rightful heir!”

Edward winced; he thought he’d managed to allay that particular fear. Simon and Gloucester looked equally outraged. Gloucester dropped Henry’s sword into the rushes, with the grimace of a man coming upon something unclean. No one was touchier about his honor than Gloucester—with the possible exception of Simon, who said icily, “You, my liege, are England’s King. No one challenges that.” Adding, with a sudden glint of steel, “From now on, however, you will be governing as a king ought.”

Henry gasped, but Richard forestalled him, falling back, out of habit, into his role of peacemaker, a role he was regretting more and more ever having abandoned. The loss of every manor in Christendom would not justify yesterday’s battle; why had he not seen that sooner? “Did you know that Philip Basset was sorely hurt?” he asked hastily, and Henry shook his head, made mute by a remorseful memory—riding off to safety on Philip Basset’s horse. Moving toward the table, Richard picked up the document awaiting their seals. He read rapidly, and when he raised his eyes to Simon’s face, they held a gleam of reluctant respect. “You never fail to surprise me, Simon. You’ve just won one of Christendom’s great victories, and yet your terms are exactly the same as they were ere the battle began!”

Simon’s pride still bled. “Sometimes,” he said coldly, “I suspect the lot of you must be deaf. For as far back as I can remember, I talk and you listen not. I fought for the Provisions, no more, no less. How often do you have to hear it to believe it?”

“I think you’re beginning to get our attention.” But Edward’s sarcasm was lame. As his eyes locked with Simon’s, defensive color flooded his face. “Go on, say it! I know what you’re thinking—that I played the fool yesterday, lost the battle for my father.”

They’d rarely seen his nerves so raw, but he elicited little sympathy from either Simon or Gloucester. The latter’s smile was a dazzle of deadly mockery. “You’re too modest, Ned, in tallying up your sins. You lost the battle on the field, but then, by scorning flight, you lost the war as well!”

Edward glanced toward his father. “I did what I had to do,” he said roughly, surprised when Simon nodded agreement.

“It may have been a foolhardy gesture,” he said, “but it was also a gallant one.” Some of Edward’s high color began to ebb. For just a moment, he looked young and vulnerable, flustered. Unlike his father, he was capable of learning from his mistakes; Simon had seen evidence of that. But what lesson, he wondered, would Edward draw from the battle of Lewes?

Edward stepped forward, formally handed Simon his sword. “Hal and I shall surrender ourselves on the morrow, as agreed upon. What happens then?”

“You shall be placed in the custody of my son Harry, taken to Dover Castle.”

Edward’s mouth twitched. “And to think, Uncle, that your enemies accuse you of lacking a sense of humor!” For the first time, he looked directly at Harry, standing in the shadows near the door, and then he grinned. “Dover would not have been my choice of residence, but at least I’ll have no complaints about the company—Cousin.”

The olive branch fell short. Harry gave him the cool, appraising look of a stranger. “I’d not wager upon that if I were you—Cousin,” he said, and not even waiting for Edward’s response, turned and walked out.

Edward watched him go, then summoned up an exaggerated shrug, a display of amused indifference that none found convincing. Sensing their skepticism, he abruptly began to query Simon about the battle casualties. Two thousand, seven hundred known dead, Simon said somberly, and more who drowned in the river and marshes, whose bodies might never be found.

Those were sobering figures; death had claimed nearly one out of every five men. If theirs was a society that glorified battlefield prowess while deploring battlefield deaths, it was because none could honestly reconcile their Church’s “Thou shalt not kill” with the seductive allure of a chivalric brotherhood based upon the sword. Even the comforting concept of a “just war” was not applicable when Christian fought Christian, and a respectful silence fell, the not entirely hypocritical honor the living accorded the dead.

Henry alone felt no compunction that so many had died. The numbers did not even register with him. Like one staring too long at the sun, he was blinded to all but his helpless hatred for Simon. It acted upon him like a sickness, set his heart to pounding, his pulse to racing, leaving him weak and debilitated, dizzy with the sheer intensity of the emotion, one frightening in its unfamiliarity, for his was not a violent nature. Now, however, he felt himself unforgivably wronged. “Why do we waste so much time?” he demanded suddenly. “We are here to affix our seals to that accursed Mise. Let’s do it, then, so we can end this…this wretched farce!”

There was an awkward silence. All eyes turned instinctively to Simon for guidance. And only then did Henry fully comprehend the consequences of the battle of Lewes. The crown was still his, the command Simon’s.

Under the Mise of Lewes the Oxford Provisions were recognized as the law of the land. An arbitration commission was to be set up to deal with specific disputes, but under no circumstances would Henry be allowed to appoint foreigners to his council. He would also be required to curb his extravagant spending, to live modestly until his debts could be satisfied. A full amnesty was proclaimed for Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Gloucester, and all their followers. There were to be no ransom demands for men captured at Lewes; they were to be freed, as were the prisoners taken at Northampton. And Edward and Hal surrendered themselves as hostages, as pledges for their fathers’ good faith.

From Lewes, Henry and Simon moved on to Battle, and then to Canterbury, so that Simon could check coast defenses. In consequence, a fortnight passed before they had their entry into London. Once again the Londoners turned out in large numbers to welcome Simon into their city, but it had been—for them—a bitter-sweet victory, and the procession was muted. London resembled a brilliant, vividly colored painting—bordered in black. Simon found himself cheered by women whose faces were wet with tears, by men who’d staked their very lives upon his triumph, by those fresh from ale-houses and others coming from funerals, by the reprieved and the newly widowed, the joyful and the bereaved. It was a celebration stained with blood.

After seeing that Henry was comfortably—and securely—lodged at the Bishop of London’s palace, Simon continued on to the Tower, where Richard was installed in Henry’s lavish Blundeville chamber. Only then did Simon finally have time for private conversation with the man who’d proved such a steadfast ally. They were sitting around a table in the upper chamber of the keep, Simon and Thomas Fitz Thomas and Harry and Peter de Montfort, newly freed from Windsor Castle. Peter seemed little marked by his captivity, answering Fitz Thomas’s queries with composure, saying that, Yes, he’d been well treated, and No, he’d never doubted that Simon would prevail, and Yes, young Bran had been released with him, but the lad had headed first for Kenilworth, wanting to check upon his mother and little sister.

“We expect him to join us here within the next day or so,” Simon interjected. “And so will my wife, once the roads seem safe again.”

Fitz Thomas needed no elaboration upon that last remark, for Londoners had grim, first-hand knowledge of the dangers of the road. Henry had, at Simon’s behest, ordered all his castle garrisons to lay down their arms. But the garrison in Gloucester’s captured castle at Tonbridge had refused to obey, and at Croydon had ambushed a group of Londoners returning home from the battle.

Simon’s thoughts mirrored Fitz Thomas’s own. “Those responsible for the Croydon killings have fled to Bristol, barricaded themselves within Edward’s castle there. But I’ll do my best to see them brought to justice.”

“It seemed particularly cruel to me,” Fitz Thomas confessed, “that men should have survived the battle, only to be struck down so close to home. That ambush stirred up much fear in the city. As if we did not have suspicions enough after the fire!”

“Were you able to catch the man who set the blaze?”

“Yes…a draper, I’m sorry to say! A man named Richard de Ware, an accomplice of the hostages slain at Lewes. Fortunately, we were able to contain the fire, but not before many houses in Milk and Bread streets burned to the ground.” Fitz Thomas frowned, remembering. “It was a bad time for us, my lord, not knowing yet that you’d won the battle…especially bad for the poor Jews. Whenever men are fearful, they seek scapegoats, and there was another outbreak of violence and looting in the Jewry. This time we were able to establish order right quickly, but coming so soon after the slaughter in April…And then, by sheer evil luck, many of the Jews’ houses were burned in the fire. Well, it is little wonder that the Jews panicked. They took refuge here in the Tower, refuse to leave, and in truth, who can blame them?”

Simon, too, was frowning. “Do you remember, Tom, that elderly Jew who sought me out just ere I left London? Jacob ben Judah, I believe he was called. Is he here, too? Good, for I wish to speak with him. Can you send a man to fetch him?”

Fitz Thomas hid his surprise. “I will see to it at once, my lord.” As he moved toward the door, Simon cast a speculative look in his son’s direction. Harry had joined them two days ago at Rochester, having delivered Edward and Hal safely to Dover Castle. He’d been unusually subdued since his return, was obviously troubled, for Harry’s face was never meant for subterfuge, betrayed in equal measure his joy and his pain.

“You’ve said very little about your journey to Dover. No problems with Edward?”

“No…although I think Ned expected softer treatment than he got. I kept him on a tight rein, treated him as a prisoner, not a Prince, and he liked it not.” Harry was staring down at a wax spill on the table; Simon could see only the sweep of surprisingly long lashes. “I thought…I thought that if I could make him pay for his treachery, I’d feel better. But the worse I treated him, the worse I felt…”

Simon had suspected as much. “You have every reason to be angry with Edward. But if you need to make your peace with him, there’s no shame in it. In all honesty, I doubt that I could forgive such a betrayal, but if you can, then do so. The bond between you began in the cradle, not an easy one to sunder. But bear this ever in mind, Harry. Edward might deserve your friendship. He does not deserve your trust.”

“You need not worry, Papa. What is it that Scriptures say, the serpent is more subtle than any beast of the field? Well, when it comes to guile, Ned could put that serpent to shame in the blink of an eye. Like a spider, he can spin a web even in his sleep.”

As an assessment of Edward, Simon found it right on target. The door opened, and Fitz Thomas entered, just in time to hear Peter say pensively, “Think you that there’s any truth to that? Do spiders spin in their sleep?” Harry insisted it was so, that he’d read it in a bestiary, and he and Peter were soon swapping stories of arcane animal lore. Did Harry believe crocodiles wept over their prey? Did Peter believe that the hyena could change its sex at will? What of the griffin, said to have the head of an eagle, the body of a lion? Had Harry ever met a man who’d actually seen one?

Fitz Thomas listened, amused, until he noticed that Simon was not listening at all. He was gazing into the closest candle flame, as intently as if it were a soothsayer’s lamp, looking up with a startled smile at the sound of Fitz Thomas’s voice. “What did you say, Tom?”

“I was but wondering, my lord, if what I heard was true, that you are asking two French Bishops to assist in the arbitration. Might I ask why?”

“To help Henry save face. I think he might find our medicine easier to swallow if the French King wields the spoon.”

That made sense to Fitz Thomas. He knew that there were some Londoners who felt Simon’s triumph had been bought with their blood, Londoners who wanted vengeance with their victory. Simon’s peace terms had been too moderate for their liking; Fitz Thomas had even heard a bitter quip making the rounds of ale-house and tavern, that Simon fought a sight better than he bargained. But as a politician, he’d long ago learned the necessity of governing by consensus, and was in full agreement with Simon’s cautious approach. “Will the French King consent?”

“How can he not…now? We submitted to trial by combat, would not have won if our cause were not just. I do not see how the French King or the Pope can continue to oppose the Provisions, not if they be men of any honor.”

“What happens next?”

“We’re calling a parliament for next month, shall put before them our plans for reform—three electors, who will then nominate a council of nine to advise the King in the governance of the realm.”

“Will you summon knights to the parliament, as you sought to do three years ago?” To Fitz. Thomas, that had been a remarkable innovation. He hoped that Simon would not recant now that he was in a position to put his political theories into actual practice.

“Yes, we will. I know what my enemies say, that I take my allies where I can find them. And there’s some truth in that, for most of my support does come from the knights and shire gentry. But if the King holds power by a covenant with his people,” Simon said matter-of-factly, although that was a hypothesis most would reject out-of-hand as alarmingly radical, “it only makes sense that their voices should be heard. The knights speak for an important element of the community, ought to have some say in how it is governed.” He paused, his eyes coming to rest thoughtfully upon the Mayor’s face. “And if the knights should be included, then logic demands that so should the towns. When parliament meets again in January, I hope to be able to summon citizens from London, mayhap even from some of the other cities.”