Falls the Shadow (68 page)

Edward prided himself upon his aplomb, but for once, words failed him; he could only stare at Guy in disbelief. Rallying—too late—he mustered up a fairly convincing burst of scorn. “You’re bluffing. You’d never dare do that!”

Guy stepped closer. “You tell me, Ned,” he said coolly. “Am I bluffing?”

For a long moment, Edward searched the depths of his cousin’s eyes, a chilling, fathomless sea-grey. “Damn you…” Little more than a whisper, throbbing with intense, impotent fury, a hatred beyond assuaging. Swinging around, he strode toward the embrasure, shouted for de Bassingbourn. “Pull your men back if you value my life!”

That November trouble flared up again in the Marches. Roger de Mortimer and Roger Clifford suddenly seized the royal castles of Gloucester and Bridgnorth. When Simon hastily mustered a force and headed west, the Marcher lords burned the bridges over the River Severn. But they had overlooked Simon’s Welsh ally. Llewelyn ap Gruffydd attacked from the rear, kept them hard-pressed until Simon reached the border. Once again he triumphed; the recalcitrant barons surrendered to him at Worcester on December 12. But after two Marcher rebellions in three months, Simon was not disposed to be lenient. De Mortimer and Clifford and their confederates were ordered to abjure the realm, exiled to Ireland for a year and a day. Simon then compelled Edward to yield to him the earldom of Chester, in exchange for twelve de Montfort manors of comparable value in Leicestershire. After nearly thirty years, Gwynedd and Cheshire were once again allies, as in the days of Llewelyn Fawr.

Writs were then issued to the January parliament. Only five Earls and eighteen barons were summoned, evidence of Simon’s lack of support among the nobility. But eleven Bishops, sixty-five Abbots, thirty-six Priors, and five Deans were expected to attend. So, too, were two knights from each shire, and—for the first time—two citizens from each city and borough of the realm.

Christmas Eve festivities at Kenilworth were lavish enough to stir up suspicions among Simon’s detractors, ever on the alert for symptoms of regal aspirations. But Simon was, as always, disdainfully indifferent to appearance, and the huge, lakeside castle was soon echoing to the music of harp and gittern and pipe, ablaze with torches and cresset lights, thronged with bedazzled guests, royal hostages, knights, men-at-arms, and servants. The great hall was abundantly adorned with evergreen; holly and laurel and mistletoe “kissing bushes” dangled above doorways and window-seat alcoves, festooned over-hanging candelabras. A mammoth yule log had been ceremoniously lit, to burn until Epiphany. The popular Shepherds’ play had been performed after a multi-course supper, and pages now circulated with traditional Christmas drinks—elderberry and pear wine; hot possets of milk, ale, egg, and nutmeg; even gariofiliac, a brew of gillyflower petals and claret, which Henry was known to favor.

Simon’s minstrels were providing entertainment: haunting ballads, lively carols, bawdy lays. But many in the hall were finding the interaction between the guests to be equally diverting. Henry could not conceal his antipathy; from his seat on the dais, his eyes tracked Simon with baleful intent. The Earl of Gloucester was also in a foul temper; he’d already quarreled publicly with his wife, clashed briefly with Guy, and his eyes, too, kept seeking out Simon. To some, it seemed as if a morality play was being enacted in their midst: the sullen, captive King, the overbearing Earl, and his discontented, unpredictable ally, all sharing a stage meant for one, with Henry’s dangerous son and the volatile young de Montforts waiting impatiently in the wings.

Had he been aware of these sentiments, Edward might have concurred, for he did feel like an actor, one giving a difficult performance. He was determined, though, that none should suspect the depths of his rage; that same day, he’d been compelled to order his Cheshire tenants to serve Simon as they’d once served him, and he feared that Simon’s ploy might well hinder further rebellion in the Marches. His mood was not improved any as he looked about the hall, for he soon spied a surprising face. It infuriated him that London’s Mayor and his wife should be present at these Christmas Eve revelries, but he hid his indignation; no stranger to guile, he was learning discipline, too.

Spotting Bran by the open hearth, Edward moved to join him, motivated by sheer mischief. Bran didn’t notice his approach, so absorbed was he in his female companion. Edward had never seen Bran so smitten, but he was not at all surprised, for the Lady Isabella de Fortibus was an undeniable matrimonial prize, dowager Countess of Aumâle, Countess of Devon in her own right. Moreover, this wealthy young widow had attractions quite separate and apart from fertile lands and filled coffers—smoky dark eyes, a languidly seductive smile, a voluptuous body.

But as tempted as he was to intrude upon his cousin’s courtship, Edward detoured sharply at sight of another familiar face. “I’ve been looking for you, Tom,” he said, and Thomas de Clare spun around, flushing darkly. This was the first time he’d seen Edward since family loyalties had driven him to desert his King, his Prince, and he waited wretchedly for Edward’s stinging rebuke.

To his astonishment, Edward was smiling. “I have asked my uncle of Leicester if I might have some companionship during my stay here at Kenilworth. We decided upon my cousin Harry and you. Is that agreeable to you?”

“I would be honored, my lord!” Thomas was not such an innocent as to take Edward’s forgiveness at face value, but he was too relieved to worry overmuch about ulterior motives. Beckoning to a passing servant, he was reaching for two wine cups when a sudden clamor erupted behind them. Thomas whirled in dismay, for he’d recognized one of the angry voices as his brother’s. With Edward cheerfully keeping pace, he hastened to the rescue.

Gloucester’s face was reddening rapidly. “Talking to either of you is but a waste of breath,” he charged, glaring first at Harry and then Guy. “Your father could blaspheme against Our Lord Christ Himself and you’d still defend him. You find fault with nothing he does, not when he usurps authority or ignores the opinions of men of good faith, not even when he protected the Jews and their satanic practices!”

Harry and Guy exchanged glances. They were puzzled themselves by Simon’s changed attitude toward the English Jews, for they found it hard to reconcile with their Church’s exhortations against infidels and heretics. Nothing on God’s earth could have induced either of them to admit that to Gloucester, though, and they responded with one voice, shot through with mockery, intended to enrage.

“It seems to me,” Harry drawled, “that poor Gilbert is becoming unnaturally obsessed with the Jews. That is all he talks about these days, Guy, rather pitiful…”

“Indeed,” Guy agreed, heaving a theatrical sigh of regret. “I can see the day coming when he’ll begin to blame them for failing crops, bad weather, mayhap even wretched marriages.”

Guy had enough finesse not to underscore the insult by looking toward Gloucester’s wife as he spoke, content to let Gloucester’s suspicions take root on their own. They did; Gloucester took a threatening step forward, his right hand groping instinctively for a sword that wasn’t there.

Simon was on the far side of the hall, deep in conversation with the Bishops of Worcester and London, had not yet heard the raised voices. Nell was closer, however, and started hastily in their direction. So did Peter de Montfort. Thomas and Edward were converging upon them, too, albeit with differing aims. But it was to be a child who defused the danger of confrontation.

“There you are, Guy. You promised to dance with me, remember?” Ellen suddenly materialized between her brothers, and, as if oblivious to the tensions, slipped her arm through Guy’s. This was her first adult fête; she smiled demurely at her audience, then tugged impatiently on Guy’s sleeve. Not in the least taken in by her wide-eyed innocence, Guy grinned, allowed her to lead him out to join in the carol.

Gloucester seethed, yet he could hardly have permitted his anger to spill over onto a twelve-year-old girl. But if one target of his rage had escaped him, that still left Harry, and he was about to renew the quarrel when Thomas and Edward reached them.

Thomas put a placating hand on his brother’s arm, while trying to invent a plausible excuse for luring Gilbert away. It was Edward who quite inadvertently solved his dilemma. Smiling benevolently upon them, ignoring the strained silence, Edward blandly observed that it was a most impressive Christmas revelry, was it not? “My uncle Simon has outdone himself, offering us a fête worthy of a king.”

But that was too heavy-handed, even for Gloucester. He gave Edward an irate look, snapped that if Edward yearned to be a puppeteer, he’d best learn to pull the strings with greater skill, and then stalked off, with Thomas in concerned pursuit.

“You’re losing your touch, Ned,” Harry gibed, and Edward nodded ruefully. But as his cousin started to turn away, he reached out, caught Harry’s sleeve.

“Harry, wait. I have something to say. You know me, know how apologies stick in my throat. But if I owe one to any man, it is surely due to you. I wronged you, Harry, and I am indeed sorry.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to his face, then away. “But you’d do it again.”

Edward hesitated. “Yes,” he admitted, “probably I would.”

“Leave it to you,” Harry said at last, “to be honest about your hypocrisy,” but despite the flippancy, he made no move to depart, and after some moments, unexpectedly asked if Edward missed his wife and babe.

Eleanora had sailed for France soon after the battle of Lewes, taking with her Edward’s infant daughter, his first child. She and the baby were now residing with Queen Eleanor at the French court. Edward nodded, and after another silence, Harry blurted out, “She can return at any time, Ned. My father would issue a safe-conduct tomorrow if that be your wish.”

Edward’s mouth softened. But then he shook his head. “Better she should stay in France until the…the dust settles.”

“You mean until you can figure out a way to outwit my father,” Harry said, but without rancor. “A pity, lad, that you always have to learn things the hard way.”

Edward experienced a sudden rush of emotion, regret and rage at the fates that put him so at odds with this cousin, of all men. “If only—” he began, and then caught himself. “Tell me, Harry…the truth now. Would Guy really have launched me from that accursed mangonel?”

“Only Guy can answer that. But you were probably wise not to have wagered your life on my brother’s good will. He likes you not,” Harry said dryly, and Edward grinned.

“I assure you there’s no love lost on my part, either. But enough of Guy. What say you we seek out Bran, bedevil him and his lady love?”

Laughing, they bore down upon Bran and his Countess. But their prey was wary; grasping Isabella’s hand, Bran ducked into the privacy of a window alcove, one that was conveniently bedecked with mistletoe.

Having evaded his rambunctious kinsmen, Bran took the lady in his arms, took full advantage of the overhanging kissing bush. But he was not as unobserved as he thought; his retreat had caught his mother’s attention.

The light was subdued where Nell stood, but it seemed to Richard that sudden shadows hovered like moths about her mouth, under her eyes, never quite alighting. “The prospect does not please you?” he queried, surprised. “Most women would take joy in such a daughter-in-law, both landed and lovely. I thought, too, that Isabella was your friend.”

“She is,” Nell acknowledged. “She is worldly and witty, and indeed I enjoy her company. But I suspect, Richard, that Isabella is a friend for the good times, not the bad. Not that my qualms will matter much if she’ll have Bran. That lad of mine is not one to seek a mother’s permission to go a-wooing.”

Linking her arm in Richard’s, Nell drew him farther into the shadows. “It may seem presumptuous that I should dare to ask a favor of you, but—”

“Nay, you have every right, Sister. I in no way blame you for my predicament. What would you ask of me?”

“That you talk to Edward. Henry is beyond hope, but Edward is no fool. Surely he can be made to see that Simon cares only for England’s weal. The Oxford Provisions are neither radical nor extreme, are merely the natural corollary of the Runnymede Charter.”

Richard’s smile was wry. “Lass, you forget that the Runnymede Charter was forced upon our father. Henry and Edward would gladly disavow it if they could, so that argument will find little favor with our nephew.”

“But he must be won over, Richard! Not even Simon can spur a hobbled stallion forward, and that is the state of the government as long as Henry and Edward remain obdurate.”

“Nell, I honestly would help if I could. I agree that the Provisions in and of themselves are not so objectionable. In the same way, I can see Simon’s logic in permitting the towns to participate in parliament. More than most lords, I appreciate the importance of commerce in the scheme of things; much of my income derives from trade, after all. But were I King of England, I daresay I’d have a different outlook. No king would willingly acquiesce in the lessening of his authority.”

“Mayhap not, but a king ought to be far-sighted enough to realize that if reforms are inevitable, better he be the one to carry them out.”

Neither Nell nor Richard had heard Simon’s footsteps. He smiled at Nell, then finished the thought. “You’d be doing us all, including Edward, a service if you could convince him of that, Richard. I suspect he’s laboring under a dangerous delusion, that if only I were to be stricken down by the Almighty or mayhap the Marcher lords, all would be well. Tell him for me it’s not so. The seeds have already been sown, and I need not be the one to harvest the crop. Tell him that, Richard.”

“He’s not likely to heed me.”

“A pity,” Simon said laconically, then held out his hand to his wife. “It’s nigh on midnight, but we’ve time for one more dance ere the Mass begins.”

Nell entwined her fingers in his, followed him out onto the floor. In vain, the Church fulminated against the carol as sinful; it remained the most popular of dances, as much a pleasure for spectators as for the participants. The dancers swung to the left, chanting the chorus: “Pride is out, and pride is in, and pride is the root of every sin.” Colors swirled like bright banners as they circled, a kaleidoscope of vivid, ever-shifting images illuminated by the swaying, overhead candelabras. Richard watched as Simon and Nell passed from light to shadow, back to light again, and it came to him that the spinning circle of the carol bore an uncanny resemblance to Fortune’s Wheel. It was, for Richard, an usually fanciful thought; he shrugged it off, and then noticed that, across the hall, Edward, too, was watching the dancers, watching Simon all the while.