Falls the Shadow (10 page)

“Simon, I’m half-drowned!” Nell jerked off her sopping wimple; even her long, blonde braids were drenched, dripping water onto the floor rushes. Still giggling, she glanced toward Simon. He’d already sobered, more sensitive than she to the atmosphere in the hall. Nell looked around her, saw only somber, disapproving faces, and sighed. Laughter was a sin of no small proportions in a house waiting for death.

Abbot Walter moved toward them. “My lord of Leicester, Madame. I regret I must be the one to tell you. Whilst you were gone, the Earl of Chester’s earthly cares came to an end. He was taken to God nigh on an hour ago.”

Elen was sitting in John’s favorite chair. She was so still she scarcely seemed to be breathing; her dark eyes were dilated, blind. She did not react to the opening door, to the sound of her name.

“Elen, I’m so sorry!” Nell knelt by Elen’s chair, put her arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “If only we’d been here,” she said remorsefully, and Elen pulled away from her comforting embrace.

“I fell asleep,” she said; her voice was toneless, flat, not like Elen’s voice at all. “I did not mean to, but I was tired, so tired. And whilst I slept, he died.”

“Ah, Elen, you cannot blame yourself for that. John would understand, truly he—”

“It is my fault,” Elen said, still in that strangely muffled voice. “My fault.”

“Elen, that is ridiculous! The Blessed Virgin herself could not have given John better care than you did. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for, nothing!”

“You do not understand.” Elen rose, moved toward the bed, where she stood staring down at her husband’s body. “John had taken the cross, meant to depart this year for the Holy Land. I knew how dangerous such a pilgrimage would be; I knew how many died on such quests. And I could not help thinking that John might die, too. I let myself imagine how it would be if he did not come back, if I were widowed.” Tears had begun to streak her face; she seemed not to notice. “I did not truly want his death, I swear I did not. I just wanted to be free. Was that so very terrible, Nell? That I wanted to be free?”

“No!” Nell’s answer came unthinkingly, a cry from the heart. “No, of course it is not, Elen.”

Elen had yet to take her eyes from her husband’s face. “Then why,” she whispered, “do I feel like this? Why do I feel as if his death is my doing?”

Nell was utterly at a loss. She turned, gave Simon a look of mute appeal, and he moved away from the door, joined Elen beside her husband’s body.

“Do you think he was a good man?” he asked, and Elen nodded. “A good Christian?” She bit her lip, again nodded. Nell was beginning to look indignant; was this Simon’s idea of comfort?

He reached out suddenly, grasped Elen’s shoulders and turned her to face him. “Then why,” he demanded, “do you think God would value his life so cheaply?”

“What?”

“Why should God punish you by taking John? That makes of him little more than a pawn, Elen. Does that not seem rather arrogant to you, that you should allot so much worth to your own soul and so little worth to his?”

“Simon!” Nell hissed. “How can you talk to Elen like this, now of all times!”

He ignored her, kept his eyes upon his cousin’s widow. “John did not die because the Almighty wanted to punish you. He died because it was his time. That is the truth of it, Elen. To believe anything else is an insult to John, an insult to God.”

“Simon, enough! How can you be so cruel?”

“No, Nell.” Elen drew an unsteady breath. “It is all right,” she said, “truly,” and Nell saw that Simon’s brutal common sense had somehow given Elen more comfort than her own sympathy.

Elen raised a hand to her face, seemed surprised when her fingers came away wet. “I shall try to remember your words,” she said to Simon. “Now…now there is so much I must do. John must be buried at St Werburgh’s; it was his wish. I must bathe him, must…” She faltered, and Nell said swiftly,

“I will take care of that for you, Elen. Simon and I will take care of everything, I promise. Come now…come with me. If you do not get some rest, you will not be well enough for the funeral.”

She’d expected an argument, but Elen nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you both for your kindness to my husband, to me.” She moved back to the bed then, bent over and brushed her lips to John’s forehead. Straightening up, she had to catch Simon’s arm for support, and only then did they realize how close she was to physical collapse.

“John deserved a better death than this,” she said softly. “And a better wife.”

John the Scot, seventh Earl of Chester, was buried on Monday, the 8th of June, before the High Altar in the Benedictine abbey of St Werburgh at Chester, the same church in which he and Elen had been wed more than fourteen years earlier.

Abbot Walter had turned over his private quarters to the Earl’s widow. His great hall was crowded now with mourners. Servants passed back and forth among them, offering wine, ale, and cider, sweetmeats. The solemnity of the funeral Mass had slowly given way to the perverse cheer peculiar to wakes; people drank and ate with unseemly zest, shared news and gossip, speculated what would befall the earldom of Chester, for John’s heirs were all female.

Nell would normally have enjoyed such a gathering, for she was the most sociable of beings, and she very much appreciated the attention a lovely woman could invariably command. But now her every thought was for Elen, Elen who moved amid the mourners like a wraith, so detached, so apparently aloof that she was giving rise to gossip, among those who did not know—as Nell did—just how frighteningly fragile Elen’s composure was. As soon as she could, Nell drew Elen aside, led her toward the Abbot’s private chamber at the south end of the hall.

“No arguments, not a word. As soon as I get your gown off, it’s into that bed.” Ignoring Elen’s half-hearted protests, Nell soon had the other woman stripped to her chemise. Removing Elen’s veil, she deftly uncoiled Elen’s thick, black hair—a pity Elen’s coloring was so unfashionable—and propelled Elen toward the bed.

“There, dearest, just lie back. You truly ought to rest awhile. I daresay you never suspected I could be so motherly!” Nell busied herself in fluffing the pillows, tucking the blankets in. “I think it is fortunate, indeed, Elen, that you are Prince Llewelyn’s daughter.”

Elen was not as surprised as she might have been; Nell’s conversations were often enlivened by such seeming non sequiturs. “Why?”

“Because he’ll look out for your interests, make sure your dower rights are protected. To tell you true, Elen, you’d best keep an eye on those sisters of John’s. Their husbands cannot wait to get their shares; I actually heard them wagering upon how many manors John had held! I doubt that they’d be overly scrupulous of a widow’s rights.”

Nell could see no interest on Elen’s face, and she said, more emphatically, “Elen, I know whereof I speak. My husband’s family did their damnedest to deny me my share of William’s estates.” She frowned, and Elen was momentarily forgotten, for her resentment was a sharp blade, indeed, hurt to handle. She’d have been better off had Llewelyn been the one to speak up for her. A man like that would have been a shrewd bargainer; for certes, he’d not let Elen be cheated of her just due. Whereas Henry… She sighed. She did love her brother, truly she did. But why was he so weak-willed, so easily swayed by stronger men? He was the King, yet he’d let the Marshals rob her blind. Even now he did not curb the Marshals as he ought, allowed them to delay her dower payments, to offer feeble excuses for their disobedience. How lucky were those women who had men to stand up for them, men who were not afraid of giving offense, men with courage.

Vexed by Elen’s indifference, Nell was mustering up new arguments, all her protective instincts now aroused, determined to save Elen from herself, when there was a knock on the door. She quickly reached up, drew the bed hangings, enclosing Elen in a cocoon of sarcenet silk. “You sleep; I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”

It was Simon. “One of John’s cousins has just arrived, wants to pay his respects to Elen. I tried to discourage him, but he’s remarkably persistent.” He smiled apologetically, and Nell found herself suddenly paying more attention to the shape of his mouth than to what he was saying.

“Simon, I cannot let her see anyone now. Truly, I’d send the Pope himself away.” John was related by blood or marriage to most of England’s nobility; he was a first cousin of the Scots King, cousin to the Earls of Winchester, Arundel, and Lincoln, nephew to the Earl of Derby. But as she opened the door a little wider, Nell saw that the man standing at Simon’s shoulder was not one of John’s titled kinsmen. She knew Robert de Quincy on sight, but he was only a casual acquaintance, the younger brother of Roger de Quincy, Earl of Winchester.

As she started to close the door, he stepped forward. “I must see her, if only for a few moments.”

Nell gave him a coolly reproving look, one mixed with curiosity, for in the past, his manners had always been impeccable. He was an attractive man, she conceded, not as tall as Simon, but with hair even blacker, and eyes of a truly startling blue. But he looked as if he’d not had much sleep, even less peace of mind. She’d not realized that he was so fond of John; their kinship was a distant one. “I am sorry, Sir Robert, but—”

To Nell’s astonishment, he paid her no heed, pushed past her into the chamber. “Sir Robert, wait!” Simon was almost as fast as Robert de Quincy; he followed, started to put a restraining hand on the other man’s arm. But at that moment, Elen jerked the bed hangings back.

“Rob?”

He froze where he was. For what seemed an endless moment, they looked at each other. And then, as if released from the same spell, they both moved. Elen swung her legs over the side of the bed, he started toward her, and they met in the middle of the chamber. As soon as his arms went around her, Elen began to weep.

“Rob, it was so awful. He suffered so…” She sobbed, and he drew her still closer, murmuring her name, kissing her hair, her temples, tasting her tears.

“I’m here, beloved, I’m here,” he said, and Nell, an amazed witness, came abruptly back to reality. Jesú, the door! It had been wide open, giving all in the hall a front-row seat! She spun around, and then gave a sigh of sheer relief, blessing Simon for being so wondrously quick, for he’d whirled, slammed the door shut just in time, preventing those in the hall from seeing this lovers’ embrace.

As Simon and Nell passed through the abbey gate out onto Northgate Street, Nell paused uncertainly. People were milling about in the street, dogs and children darting here and there, getting underfoot, reveling in the excitement. Although it was more than a fortnight until the city’s annual fair, monks were already erecting stalls and booths in front of the abbey gateway. Some were there to trade their goods, others to witness secondhand the burial of a great lord. All stared openly at Simon and Nell, and it was this which made her hesitate, for she’d never been out amidst the common people without an escort, without the trappings and pageantry of rank. But Simon took her hand in his, and she soon decided she liked the novelty of it all, liked the bustle and color, even the admiring looks, for they were not entirely directed at her silk gown, at Simon’s fine tunic and gilded scabbard.

We’re a handsome couple, she thought, glancing sideways at Simon. It was usually easy to tell Welshmen from those of Norman-French descent, for the Welsh shaved their beards but retained their mustaches, while the Normans and Saxons were bearded. Simon was neither, was completely clean-shaven. Nell wondered whether this apparent disdain for fashion’s dictates was an act of rebellion or one of vanity, and she tucked the thought away, to tease him with at a more appropriate time.

“You did not know about Elen and Robert de Quincy?”

Nell shook her head. “I knew her marriage was not a happy one. But no, I did not know that…that…”

“…she and de Quincy were lovers. That is what you are so loath to say, is it not?”

“Simon…try not to think too badly of Elen. I am not defending her sin, but…but she is so very Welsh, you see.”

Simon gave her a look of faintly amused bafflement. “So? What are you saying? That the Welsh are truly as immoral as you English claim?”

“No, of course not. Adultery is no less a sin amongst the Welsh than amongst other peoples. But the Welsh treat their women differently. A Welshwoman has far greater freedoms than women of my England or your France. A Welshwoman cannot be forced to marry against her will; she has no less right than her husband to end an unhappy marriage; she cannot be beaten the way an erring English wife can. She can even divorce her husband if he brings his concubine into her home, Simon! Those are remarkable laws, you will admit, utterly unlike ours, unlike any in Christendom. And Elen grew up under them; she never learned proper obedience as an English girl would. So when she found herself trapped in a barren marriage, she felt free to…to look for happiness outside the marriage. Mind you, that is no excuse. But it does make her behavior more understandable, does it not?”

To Simon, it did not, but he did not want to hurt Nell by condemning her kinswoman, and so he shrugged, said lightly, “Had you been born a man, you’d have made a most persuasive lawyer.” Adding, “But it would have been a God-awful waste.”

Nell laughed. “In truth, I do not see what attraction de Quincy has for Elen. He is handsome enough, I suppose, but he always struck me as rather too easygoing, too carefree. Granted, I do not know him that well, but he seems to lack serious purpose, to lack ambition,” she said, somewhat reluctantly, for she wanted to be fair to the man and she could think of few more damning accusations. “Though he is more than a match for Elen in recklessness! It is a miracle to rank with the loaves and fishes, that they did not betray themselves long ere this.”

They were passing a street stall, and Simon stopped, fumbled for a few coins, and purchased two helpings of hot sausage. This, too, was a new experience for Nell, and she found herself envying Simon his wider horizons, the greater freedoms he enjoyed as a man. Reaching for her first taste of street sausage, she ate it with relish. Her innate honesty compelled her now to acknowledge that she was still much freer than most women her age, for she had no husband to answer to, to obey. But there was no longer joy in that freedom; she’d paid too high a price for it. Her gaze lingered on Simon’s dark, laughing face, and in that moment she knew the full measure of all she’d lost, of what was forever denied her.