Falls the Shadow (17 page)

“Simon!” He turned, saw Elen and Robert de Quincy hastening toward him.

When they reached him, there was a moment of awkward silence, for they’d been in the hall. “Nell is with Henry,” he said. Color rose in his face, but he forced himself to add, “He would not see me. And…he turned us out of Winchester House.”

“Jesus wept!” Elen shook her head in disbelief. “I do understand none of this,” she confessed. “Simon, I thought you and Henry were on the best of terms.”

“So,” Simon said grimly, “did I,” and another silence fell. It was Rob who saw Nell first. She paused in the doorway, then started toward them. Simon knew her as no one else did, could read failure in the prideful tilt of her chin, the rigid set of her shoulders. He was close enough now to see the tears glistening on her lashes; they seemed to cling by sheer force of will.

“He would not listen. As soon as he saw me, he began to shout and rant like…like a madman. He insisted there was nothing more to be said, and when I tried to plead with him, he became even more agitated, ordered me from the chamber.” There was a faint tremor to her voice. “Take me away from here, Simon,” she said, and he nodded, his hand closing tightly on hers.

“I will,” he said, but his assurance sounded hollow, even to him, for where was he to take her?

As the same thought occurred to Elen, she opened her mouth, but Rob was even quicker. “Elen and I have leased a riverside manor,” he said, “not far from Castle Baynard. Come back with us, Simon.”

Simon gave the other man a look of surprised reappraisal, and then he smiled. “Thank you, Rob. I feel fortunate, indeed, to have such a kinsman.”

With a fine disregard for propriety, Elen wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck, gave him an impassioned kiss. “I shall make a Welshman out of you yet, Robyn,” she laughed. “For my people know that kinship counts for all.”

Nell was staring up at the Painted Chamber’s bleak, barred windows, and there was on her face both bewilderment and despair. “I always thought,” she said, “that Henry believed that, too.”

None of them had much appetite; a supper of stewed apples and eels had gone virtually untouched. The de Quincy manor was not far from the church of St Martin le Grand, and sitting in a solar window-seat, Nell could hear its bells tolling curfew. Eight o’clock; the city gates would be shutting. But people would not be making ready for bed yet, not until the last of the light faded. Only then would they venture indoors, ignite oil lamps. The taverns and ale-houses would close, and the city Watch would take to the empty streets. The routine of London life would not vary. Tonight would be as it had been on any of a thousand summer nights. As if nothing had changed, Nell thought, as if the world had not gone mad.

Elen refilled their wine cups. “What shall you do, Simon?” she asked, and he gave a weary shrug.

“On the morrow we shall fetch our son from Kenilworth. Then we shall withdraw to one of my manors in Leicestershire, or mayhap to Odiham Castle.” But Simon knew even as he spoke that he was deluding Elen, deluding himself. What did it matter that those manors were his, that Odiham was Nell’s? The humiliation at Winchester House could be repeated at any time; all of his lands could be forfeited if that were the King’s pleasure. And who knew what would please this King?

Nell suddenly tensed. “A barge has just tied up at your dock, Rob,” she said. “Now what?”

“Given how the day has so far been going,” Simon said, “that is probably one of the city sheriffs with an order for my arrest.”

His attempt at gallows humor did not amuse his wife in the least. “Do not say that,” she cried, “not even in jest!” and he made amends with a rather strained smile. But then, at the sight of the man being ushered into the solar, Nell sprang to her feet, ran to embrace her brother.

“Oh, Richard, thank God!” For an irrational moment, she found herself fearing that Henry’s inexplicable lunacy was somehow contagious, that it might even have infected Richard, too, and her relief was considerable when he hugged her back.

“I had a devil of a time tracking you down,” he complained. “But I want no servants on hand, not for what I have to tell you.”

Nell clutched his arm. “What is it? What else could possibly happen?”

Richard waited till the servant withdrew, then glanced over at his niece. “What is it you Welsh say, Elen? ‘Troubles may ofttimes be so dire that they cannot get better. But they are never so dire that they still cannot get worse.’ That says it all quite well. You see, Simon, Henry ordered the sheriffs to place you under arrest, to take you to the Tower this very night.”

Simon sucked in his breath. Nell made a smothered sound, whirled toward him, arms outstretched, almost as if she would protect him with her own body. “No! Henry cannot do that, he cannot! Name of God, Richard, help us!”

Richard was faintly disconcerted, for he’d meant only to dramatize his own part in Simon’s deliverance, not to terrify his sister, and he made haste to say, “I will, Nell. Indeed, I already have.”

“In truth?” she said dubiously, and he nodded.

“Luckily for you, Simon, I was present when Henry gave that command. For once a cooler head prevailed—mine. I was able to persuade him to rescind the order.”

It was very quiet then. Simon reached for his wine cup, took a deep swallow, then another. “Thank you, Richard,” he said flatly. “I am grateful that you did speak out on my behalf. I would, though, that you’d found a way to tell us without giving Nell such a needless fright.”

Richard frowned. “You do exaggerate, for certes,” he said, beginning to bridle, and Elen decided she’d best take the helm, for the conversation was fast veering into rough water.

“No, Richard, Simon did not exaggerate; you gave us all a scare. Uncle, when you do have good news and bad news to deliver, it is usually more merciful to deliver the good news first,” she said and smiled. “But Simon…if a man is drowning and another man throws him a lifeline, ought the drowning man to quibble over the color of the rope?”

The combination of evenhandedness and calculated candor worked, as Elen had known it would; there were times when a woman might say with impunity what a man could not. She turned her head, winked at Rob, as Nell said tautly, “Richard, will you not tell us what happened?”

He did, painting for them an unnerving portrait of a very distraught man, a King on the far reaches of self-control. “And so,” he concluded, “it did take the veritable patience of Job, but when I left him, Henry had grudgingly agreed that Simon had done nothing to warrant a stay in the Tower.”

Simon had begun to pace. “I find it hard to believe he could be so false. Since our marriage, he has treated me as a friend, a brother. At Candlemas, he formally invested me with the earldom of Leicester. He stood godfather to my son, and just six weeks past, I stood godfather to his son. Yet all the while, he was dissembling, biding his time!”

Richard gave a derisive laugh. “No wonder you’re in such trouble with Henry if you understand him as little as that. Do you truly believe that outburst today was calculated? Henry does not plan ahead from one day to the next!”

They were all staring at him. “Jesú, it is so plain; am I the only one to see it? What happens if a wound fails to heal as it ought? Proud flesh forms, it begins to fester. And even a light touch can break it open, freeing all that poison and pus. Poor little Eleanor did that today, quite unwittingly, found a very raw wound, indeed.”

“But…but why?”

“You should know that, Nell, better than anyone. You played Henry for a fool, did you not?”

“No!”

“Henry thinks you did. He told me about that resourceful lie of yours, Nell,” Richard said, and was both surprised and amused when his sister blushed. “He pointed out—accurately—that he could have acted quite differently, that scandals have been muffled behind convent walls, buried in dungeons. But he cared for your happiness. And because he did, he brought upon himself trouble and grief in no small measure…only then to discover that you’d deceived him, made a mockery of his trust.”

“Richard, it was not like that! Yes, I lied, but not out of malice, out of desperation. I loved Simon, could not bear to lose him. If you take me to Henry, I could talk to him, try to make him understand—”

Richard was shaking his head. “It is too late, Nell. You did Henry a wrong, but today he did you a far greater one, and he knows it. You cannot believe he ever meant to blurt out the truth like that…before half the court? He is sick with shame at what he’s done, and he cannot own up to it. That is not Henry’s way, not any king’s way. All he can do is to take refuge in rage. Why else would he have ordered you to the Tower, Simon? He is trying very hard to convince himself that he is blameless, that you brought all of this upon yourself.”

Simon studied his brother-in-law, impressed in spite of himself. “And so where does that leave me?”

“In peril,” Richard said bluntly. “You have your share of enemies, Simon, men who begrudged you the King’s sister. Even as we speak, one of them could be with Henry now, all too eager to salt Henry’s wound anew, to goad him into punishing you as he so wants to believe you deserve. I was there to dissuade him today; tomorrow you might not be so fortunate.” He paused. “I’ve sent a man to the docks, told him to engage passage for you on the first ship sailing for France.”

Simon glanced at Nell, saw her face mirror his own shock. “You truly think my danger is as great as that?”

“Yes,” Richard said, “I do. I would not see you made the scapegoat for Henry’s shame. Nor would I see Henry do that which he’d regret for the rest of his life. As long as you are in England, within reach of Henry’s rage, you are not safe—and neither is Henry.”

“Simon!” Nell closed the space between them, flung herself into Simon’s arms, and as he watched, Richard’s eyes—as blue as Henry’s but more analytical, less innocent—lost some of their detached distance.

“You’d best withdraw at once to Odiham, Nell,” he said quietly. “Give Henry time to heal.”

“Odiham?” she echoed, incredulous. “Do you truly believe I would remain in England whilst my husband is forced into exile? I go with Simon.”

Simon forgot the others, saw only Nell. He touched her face with his fingers, his eyes searching hers. “Are you sure, Nell? Truly sure?”

“How can you even ask that, Simon? You are mine no less than I am yours. Whatever happens, I will not be parted from you.”

She turned then, toward Richard. “But we cannot sail so soon, not tonight, not until we have our son.”

“Nell, Simon would be in the Tower now had I not been there when Henry gave the order. You have no time to spare, no margin for error. As for the child, I have a suggestion. Why not send him to my wife, have him join my household at Berkhamsted—”

“No!” Simon and Nell spoke at once, sounding so distraught that Elen’s eyes began to burn with tears. But if she could never have what Nell did, a child born of her body, born of love, she could ease Nell’s fears for that child.

“Nell, listen. On the morrow Rob and I will go Kenilworth, will take your son back to London. You may entrust Harry to us; we will—” The rest of her promise was lost. Nell embraced her, clung to Elen for a revealingly long moment; only then did Elen discover how Nell was trembling. “Simon,” she said, “my lord father will make you welcome in Wales.”

Simon had long since revised his earlier unfavorable opinion of Elen; her adultery seemed of little consequence when measured against her absolute, unswerving loyalty to Nell. “That is a generous offer, Elen, and no less than I’d expect from you. But if I agreed, I’d be paying you back in false coin. I cannot put another man at risk, would not have Henry turn his wrath upon Llewelyn.”

Just a few short months ago, Simon’s elder brother Amaury had paid a visit to the English court, had been fêted by Henry, and left much impressed by Simon’s soaring fortunes. The thought of returning as a fugitive, his splendid future in ruins, lacerated Simon’s pride as surely as any knife blade could. But what choice had he? “I will take Nell to France,” he said. “To my brother’s castle at Montfort l’Amaury.”

Richard had found only two ships ready to sail at such short notice, a sturdy cogge and a lighter, faster esneque. The cogge was the larger of the two, but this particular ship must have been built during the reign of Nell’s father or possibly even her grandfather, for it could offer no better shelter from the weather than a faded and frayed canvas tent. Simon chose the esneque; however cramped its rear-castle chamber, it would at least provide Nell with some small degree of protection and privacy.

Darkness had descended upon the city. Now and then a flickering light floated by, as they passed another boat. An occasional riverside house gave off a dim glow. But ahead the Southwark bank seemed ablaze. Simon’s mouth tightened; he watched until Winchester House had receded into the distance. It was with a sense of utter unreality that he realized it was less than ten hours since he and Nell had been making love in the Bishop’s bed.

Nell was standing alone near the bow. He crossed to her, wrapped his mantle around her shoulders. “The ship’s master tells me it may take a few days to navigate the river, but he says that if the winds are with us, we should make it from Dover to Wissant in nine or ten hours.”

“Where is Montfort l’Amaury?” It was too dark to see her face and he could read little in her voice.

“It is about thirty miles south of Paris. I always meant to take you there, Nell. But not like this.”

“I know,” she said. “I know…”

An immense, imposing wall suddenly seemed to loom ahead, and Simon slid his hand along Nell’s arm. “We are about to shoot the bridge. Mayhap you ought to go aft, wait with Mabel in the rear-castle,” he suggested, for the bridge acted almost as a dam and the current surged through its arches with awesome force; a year never passed without some unlucky Londoners drowning as their boats splintered against the massive piers. “Nell,” he said, “it can be right dangerous.”

“I’d be more frightened if I was unable to see what was happening,” she said, and he put his arm around her, drew her close. Nell tried not to look at the rushing water, stared instead up at the ship’s towering mast, at the drawbridge opening above their heads. The ship gave a sickening lurch, the arch enveloping them on both sides. Nell felt as if they were in a dark, wet tunnel, and she shuddered, clung to Simon. And then they were through, the bridge was behind them, ahead only open water. Nell put a hand up to her face. “We’re drenched in spray,” she said, and then, almost inaudibly, “I hate boats, hate the sea. When I was a little girl, I’d dream sometimes of drowning…”