Falls the Shadow (30 page)

“Even the Almighty has been known to anoint a fool. The French were once cursed with a King so foolish he was known as Charles the Simple. He finally had to be confined for his own good.” Simon heard Henry gasp, but he continued on, relentlessly. “Your chambers at Windsor Castle have barred windows to ward off assassins, but I expect they could be put to other use if need be.”

Henry found it almost impossible to believe that anyone would dare to speak so contemptuously to him. “I…I never heard such wild talk! Are you threatening me?”

“You did ask for my opinion,” Simon said harshly. “Now you have it.” He felt no remorse, but his anger had peaked, leaving him suddenly drained, sapped of all emotion, his an exhaustion both of body and soul. He was turning away when Henry grabbed his arm.

“Damn you, de Montfort, get back here! You’ll go nowhere till I give you leave!”

Simon swung around, wrenching free of Henry’s hold. But Henry had already recoiled; he was staring down at his hand. Will had risen in alarm. He, too, now saw the darkening splotch along the sleeve of Simon’s tunic.

Henry’s eyes at last shifted from his bloodied palm, up to Simon’s face. “Men died for you this day,” Simon said, and when Henry did not speak, he turned, walked from the chamber.

No one else moved. After an interminable time, Henry crossed to the table, moving like a man in a daze. There he splashed wine onto a napkin, scrubbed until his hand was clean.

“Get out,” he said. “All of you, get out!”

One by one, they did.

The man in the bed was young; limp, fair curls and a smattering of freckles made him look even younger, gave an added poignancy to his plight. Drenched in sweat, his lips bitten raw, he was mumbling incoherently, drifting in a fevered darkness, in that dangerous twilight between sleep and death. “Is that Adam?” Rob asked softly, and Simon nodded.

Rob had heard that the French King had sought a brief truce so both sides could recover their dead and wounded. “What are his chances, Simon?”

“The doctor says that he is in God’s hands.” Simon’s eyes were deeply circled, shadowed with weariness, bereft of hope. “His arm was so badly mangled it could not be saved. We had to get him drunk, hold him down whilst the doctor cut it off at the elbow…”

Rob grimaced, waved away a squire’s offer of ale. “Simon…Henry has just given the command to withdraw from Saintes, to fall back upon Pons.”

Simon had been about to bite into a slice of honeyed bread. He paused, then set the bread down untasted. Glancing again at the delirious man in the bed, he beckoned to the doctor. “When the French take the town, tell them that the Earl of Leicester will stand good for this man’s ransom.”

The doctor nodded, started to ask if Simon would also assume the costs of burial, but thought better of it. Simon moved to the window. It was just past sunrise, and the grass still glistened with night dew. The sky was a softly shaded blue, fleeced with wisps of cotton-white clouds.

Rob had joined them; they stood for several moments breathing in the familiar scents of a summer dawn. “At least he did change his mind, Simon. At least he did listen.”

Simon’s mouth twisted. He said nothing. Church bells were sounding; Morrow Mass was about to begin.

At Pons, Hugh de Lusignan slipped away; two days later, he and Isabelle humbly submitted to the French King. So did most of Henry’s Poitevin allies.

Henry moved on to Barbezieux, where a French crusader ransomed by Richard in the Holy Land sent a warning that the French meant to surround the city, to take Henry captive. The English hastily retreated toward Blaye, in such disorder that the road south was strewn with broken carts, lamed horses, even the wounded. From Blaye, Henry fled to Bordeaux, where his Queen had just given birth to a daughter. There he holed up, saved only by the vagaries of fate; the pursuing French army was stricken with the bloody flux, forced to withdraw to the healthier lands of the North.

A sweltering, humid August passed into a dry, sun-scorched September. Henry’s disgruntled lords lost all patience with their King. Roger de Quincy, Earl of Winchester, was the first to go, soon followed by his brother, Rob, and the Earl of Hereford. Henry quarreled bitterly with his brother. He had given Richard the county of Gascony as reward for his service at Taillebourg Bridge; now he revoked the grant, and the Earls of Norfolk and Gloucester departed from Bordeaux in disgust, sailed for England. The English forces dwindled daily, while the French sang mocking ballads of Henry’s Poitou campaign:

It was early afternoon when Simon and Nell rode into the outer garth of the Benedictine abbey of Sainte-Croix. Simon was helping Nell to dismount in front of the Abbot’s lodging when they heard Simon’s name called.

Will was hastening toward them. “You are just in time to bid me farewell. Henry wants me to lead an expedition to Périgord.” He saw the query in Simon’s eyes, and shrugged. “Aye, I agreed. Why not? The pleasures of Bordeaux are beginning to pall!”

“And Henry’s fortunes are at ebb tide,” Simon suggested, and Will gave a sheepish grin.

“If you make me sound noble, Simon, I’ll never forgive you.” He kissed Nell’s hand with an exaggerated flourish, gave Simon a jolting slap on the shoulder, then turned back. “Henry had another quarrel with Richard this forenoon; we could hear the shouting clear out to the cloisters. You can tell me if it is none of my concern, Cousin Nell, but gossip has it that the Queen was responsible for Henry’s change of heart. Is there truth to that?”

Nell nodded. “For once the gossips do speak true. Eleanor did not want to see Gascony go to Richard, felt it should be part of her son’s patrimony.”

“And who is to hold off the French till the lad is of an age to fight for it? Sometimes I think these southern climes do addle men’s brains! Just keep your guard up, Simon, my lad. Cousin Henry is like to be in a foul temper, and you’d make a tempting scapegoat, indeed!”

With a wave and a loud laugh, Will was off. They watched him go, and then Simon said, “Henry sent for me, not you, Nell. There is no need for you to accompany me.”

“No?” Nell linked her arm in his. “Had we lived as Christians in ancient Rome, do you think I’d have let you face the lions alone?”

“If my memory serves,” Simon said, “the lions always won.” But he was secretly glad to have Nell with him. Never had he and Henry been more in need of a mediator than in these strained weeks since Saintes.

Henry looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth pursed. “Richard is returning to England,” he said, “leaving me to fight this war alone. What of you, Simon? Are you going to abandon me, too?”

Nell’s hand was resting on Simon’s arm; she could feel the muscles tense, contract under her fingers. But when Simon spoke, his voice was even. “No,” he said. “You are my King. I will stay as long as you have need of me.”

Henry expelled an audible breath. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Across the room Eleanor and John Mansel watched in disapproving silence. “Henry is too good.” Eleanor kept her voice low, but it throbbed with indignation. “How can he forgive Simon after the disgraceful way he behaved at Saintes?”

Mansel, who’d so often deplored Eleanor’s influence over Henry, now found himself welcoming it, for a loved Queen could prove a formidable ally, indeed. “Do not fret, Madame,” he said, and smiled thinly. “Henry may have forgiven, but you can be sure he has not forgotten.”

Bells were chiming, summoning the friars to Matins. That meant it was well past midnight. Nell sighed, and beside her, Simon stirred.

“Nell? Is it the babe?”

“He’s restive tonight.” She reached for his hand, placed it on her abdomen. “See for yourself.”

Simon propped himself up on his elbow, fascinated by the rippling movement of her skin. “You think you’ve another lad tucked away in there?”

She smiled. “Did I not tell you about Rhonwen’s test? She pricked my finger over a cup of spring water, and when the drop of blood sank, she said that was proof I carried a son. I think she may well be right. This one kicks like a mule, just like Harry and Bran.”

Simon gave her his pillow, propped it behind her back. She made herself as comfortable as her pregnancy would permit; she hated feeling so ungainly, so bloated, and she sighed again. Simon reached for her hand, pressed a kiss into her palm.

“I can blame my sleeplessness on our little lad. But what of you, Simon? What keeps you awake at such hours? Beloved, I know you are troubled. Do not shut me out. Share your thoughts with me.”

“I cannot,” he said softly. “Henry is your brother.”

Nell’s hand closed over his. “Yes,” she said, “Henry is of my blood. But we are of one flesh, you and I, joined in the holy sight of God. Tell me, my heart. Tell me.”

Simon turned toward her, moving into a bright splash of moonlight. Although he was not yet thirty-four, he had a streak of silver just above his left temple; Nell liked to tease him about it, claiming he put her in mind of a raven daubed with whitewash. But now the sight touched a protective chord. She realized it was foolish; if any man was well able to look to his own interests, it was surely Simon. And yet it was her secret that sometimes her redoubtable husband seemed very vulnerable to her.

Simon’s continuing silence came not from reluctance; he’d been deciding how best to answer her, to make her understand. “I know,” he said slowly, “that Christ said we should forgive our enemies not seven times, yet seventy times seven. But it has never been easy for me to forgive a wrong done me or mine. I hardened my heart against Henry, could not forget how he shamed us, forced us into exile. That failing is mine; I freely admit it. Bishop Robert has often cautioned me that a haughty spirit goeth before a fall.”

While Nell could find Simon’s inflexibility truly infuriating at times, she could never bear to hear him criticized, even if he was the critic. “Yes,” she said, “you are a prideful man. But you have reason, my love, more reason than most.”

Simon shook his head. “This is different, Nell. What I’ve seen during these past months…” He frowned, searching for the right words. “After that day at Westminster Palace, I could no longer think of Henry as my friend. Yet he was still my King, my liege lord. Allegiance does not depend upon affection. But a King ought to be accountable, too; he has responsibilities as well as rights. And this summer has shown me that I have pledged my honor and loyalty to a man not worthy to rule.”

Henry remained in Bordeaux through the autumn and winter. When his supplies ran out, he had no choice but to rely upon credit, and both Simon and Will incurred heavy debts on their sovereign’s behalf. In April 1243 a truce was finally concluded, permitting the French to keep all they’d conquered, and obligating Henry to pay a thousand pounds a year in tribute to his brother-in-law, the French King. Still, he lingered on in Gascony, not departing for England until the following September. Just before he sailed, he outraged the English with a flamboyant gesture of forgiveness, granting the castle of Saintes to his faithless mother and his de Lusignan half-brothers. He landed at Portsmouth on October 9, a staggering 350,000 marks in debt, and demanded a victory procession into London. His English subjects were not amused.

Senena’s arrival in the Great Chamber interrupted Owain’s dice game with Edwin de Crecy. She was flushed with the cold, snow melting on her lashes and cheeks, looking for the moment more like an exuberant, lithesome girl than a tense, too-thin woman in her forties, and the young guard was not surprised when Gruffydd took her in his arms, gave her an uncommonly passionate welcome. As they headed toward Gruffydd’s curtained bed, Edwin got to his feet. It amused him that Owain always wanted to leave the chamber when his parents were making love; what more privacy could a couple need than linen bed hangings? But he liked Owain enough to humor his quirks. “Lead the way, lad,” he said airily, and Owain acknowledged his indulgence with a self-conscious smile.

Behind the bed hangings, Gruffydd and Senena sat very still, listening as the footsteps receded behind the screen. Although they did not need to fear eavesdropping, for Edwin spoke no Welsh, they both felt more secure with him gone, what with so much at stake. “Well? Did you bring it, Senena?”

Reaching into the bodice of her gown, she withdrew a small leather pouch. “Henbane, darnel, black poppy, and dried briony root.”

Gruffydd reached for the powder. “You did not go yourself to the leech?”

“No, of course not. I sent the most trusted of our men; I sent Alun.”

Fingering the pouch, Gruffydd began to laugh. “I daresay this is the same sleeping draught that whoreson Davydd used at Cricieth. What a rare jest, that it should be his scheme that sets me free!”

It had been so long since Senena had heard him laugh like that. She slid her hand into his. “I bring you naught but good news this day. Alun has found our man—one of the King’s servants. He has agreed to unbar a door into the great hall.” She saw him frown, and her grip tightened. “It should be safe enough, love; Henry is not in residence, remember? You and Owain need only enter the hall, then make your way into the Blundeville Tower. There is a small postern gate just before you reach the Tower stairwell, Henry’s private entrance. It will take you out onto the dock, take you to freedom. I’ll have a boatman at the dock, ready to row you across to Southwark, where I shall be waiting. By the time we lose the night, we’ll be miles from here, well on our way into Wales.”

“Mayhap…” Gruffydd sounded dubious. “I would that there was another way. I can put no faith in an Englishman, Senena. I’d not have trusted Our Lord Christ Himself had He been born English. I still think my idea is safer.”

“Beloved, we’ve gone down this road before. Yes, the Tower grounds cover twelve acres, more than enough to shelter two men in search of a hiding place. But Gruffydd, then you’d have to wait till dawn, till the Tower gates were unlocked. Enough tradesmen and servants and soldiers go in and out; you might well be able to mingle with them, mayhap hide in a cart. But my darling, what if you were missed? As soon as your guards discovered that you’d escaped, they’d seal off the Tower, let no man leave the grounds. We cannot take that risk. This way, you’ll be gone long ere the sun comes up.”

“Only if this man does not betray us. Why should he not just keep the money?”

“There is no greater lure than greed, Gruffydd. He is to get half now, the rest afterward.”

That did reassure Gruffydd somewhat. But he’d have gone ahead with their plan in any event. “So be it, then. Make ready to go two days hence.”

Senena felt a sudden prickling, excitement indistinguishable from apprehension. “So soon?”

“It has been two and a half years, Senena. Yesterday could not be too soon,” he said, and grinned at her, the carefree, devil-be-damned grin of his lost youth, a smile to banish qualms, to break hearts.

“Monday, then,” she agreed breathlessly. “I have one more gift for you, my love.” And raising her skirt, she showed him the narrow dagger strapped to her thigh.

Gruffydd’s eyes seemed as luminous to her as any cat’s, a pale, glittering green. He bent over, kissed the soft skin just above the sheath.

Senena’s sleeping draught was as potent as the men could have hoped. Gruffydd and his son looked at each other over Edwin’s prone figure, exchanged triumphant grins. Edwin was snoring, did not stir as Gruffydd unbuckled his scabbard. It was a sweet relief, indeed, to feel the familiar weight of a sword at his hip again. “I’ll get him into the bed,” he said softly. “You fetch the bindings.”

“Use this, Papa.” Owain was holding out a green tunic. “I never did like that color,” he said cheerfully, and Gruffydd used Senena’s dagger to cut ties, soon had Edwin securely bound and gagged.

Dropping to his knees, Owain pulled their makeshift rope from under the bed; over the past week, they’d torn all their sheets into strips, painstakingly knotted the pieces together. Gruffydd was pulling down the wall tapestry, and Owain jerked the linen cloth from the table, began to rip it in half. “I’m glad we needed our bed covers for appearance’s sake,” he said, “else we’d have been sleeping stark-naked!”

Gruffydd laughed. “Life in the King’s gilded cage has made you soft, lad. Take care, lest you end up like an Englishman, unable to sleep without a mattress of down and a pillow!”

Owain laughed good-naturedly, although he did wonder if there was truth to his father’s jest, for he felt an embarrassing reluctance to leave his pet monkey. He gave the little creature a hazelnut before tossing Gruffydd the braided tablecloth. He had noticed that his father had not found it easy to move Edwin. Too proud to ask for help, he’d been red-faced and panting by the time he’d dragged the guard across the chamber, heaved him up onto the bed. And Owain found himself wondering if his father, too, had not grown soft in captivity, a blade dulled by disuse. As big-boned as he was tall, he carried the added weight better than most, but even on so large a frame, the excesses eventually showed, the thickening middle, the jowled chin—symptoms of boredom, rich food, and the torpor of long confinement. Gruffydd had always assumed heroic stature in Owain’s eyes, but there was no denying that he was past his prime, a man just a few weeks shy of his forty-eighth birthday, an age that seemed vast, indeed, from the vantage point of Owain’s twenty-five years.

Feeling his son’s gaze, Gruffydd looked up, smiled, and Owain flushed. “Fetch that water bucket, lad. These knots will hold better once they’re wet.”

Owain was quick to comply, and within a few moments, they collected their mantles, moved into the chilled shadows of St John’s Chapel. Gruffydd crossed to the altar, knelt, and murmured a brief prayer. Rising, he said, “I was asking St Davydd to bless our efforts with success. And I know he listened. It’s past midnight, which means that this is March first, his name-day.”

Owain had forgotten; much cheered, he said, “That is indeed a good omen. Papa…Papa, let me be the first one down the rope.”

“Do not get motherly on me, lad!” Gruffydd laughed, poked Owain playfully on the arm. With freedom now so close, he felt as if he could get drunk on expectations alone. Scrambling up into the window, he unlatched it, signaled for Owain to tie their rope to one of the heavy, stone columns.

The night air was bitter cold; he felt as if he were inhaling ice. He’d passed all his life upon the alpine heights of Eryri, but as he looked down at the snow-blanketed ground so far below him, he experienced a dismaying jolt of dizziness. He closed his eyes for a moment, then smiled at his son. “Once it’s your turn, do not tarry, lad, for it’s cold as a witch’s teat!” And he swung his legs over the ledge, pushed out into space.

While planning all aspects of their escape, he’d not given much thought to the climb itself, had seen it merely as the means to an end, to freedom. That had been a mistake. Within moments, his arms felt as if they were being wrenched out of their sockets, and every muscle was in rebellion against this unaccustomed abuse. His body had always done what he demanded of it. It had never occurred to him that a time might come when it could fail him, when will alone would not be enough. He fought back this surge of panic, sought to get air into his laboring lungs. He’d make it. Slow and easy. He’d make it.

Already badly winded, he had to rest, and he found a foothold, turning his body sideways as he sought to ease the ache in his arms. The wind caught his mantle, tore him loose from his perch, slamming him into the wall. As he’d balanced himself on the window ledge, he could clearly hear the roaring of Henry’s lions, caged down by the wharf. Now he heard nothing but the blood thudding in his own ears, his gasping, broken breathing. He could see Owain’s face above him, bleached by the moonlight, and he managed a twisted smile of assurance, made ready to shift his handholds.

When it happened, it was without warning. The ripping noise the rope made as it gave way was muffled by the wind. There was a sudden slackness, and then Gruffydd was falling, plunging backward into blackness. There was a moment or two of awareness, but mercifully no more than that. The last sound he heard was a man’s scream, but he never knew if the scream came from him or from Owain.

Senena had kept a futile, increasingly frantic vigil all night. By the time the horizon had begun to pale, she was shaking with the cold, and with fear. With the coming of light, her boatman had rowed back to Southwark, and he and the other men were watching Senena now, none daring to suggest they return to Aldgate. It was a blustery, overcast day, and the wind gusting off the river knifed through the thin wool of their mantles, sent their hats spiraling up into an ominously grey sky. Shivering, half-frozen, they could only blow upon their chapped hands, stamp their feet, seek to soothe their equally miserable mounts—and wait.

Alun at last braced himself to approach their mistress. “Madame, let us take you home.”

“No.” Senena was staring across the river. She had yet to take her eyes from the massive stone silhouette of the Tower. “No, you are to take me there.”

“Madame, you cannot. The risk is too great. Something must have gone wrong, and if you appear at the Tower so early in the morn, you’ll but turn suspicion upon yourself.”

“Now,” she said.

It was an unpleasant crossing; by the time they’d reached the north bank, they were drenched in icy spray. The water-gate gave them entrance into the outer bailey, and they had to wade through knee-deep snow to reach the gateway into the inner palace ward. The entrance into the White Tower lay to the south, through a stone forebuilding. They had just turned the corner as Edwin de Crecy emerged from the forebuilding stairway. His pallor was evident even at a distance, tinged with the sickly greenish hue of one awakened too abruptly from a drugged stupor. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot; they narrowed now at sight of Senena.

Alun tensed, for the man’s hostility was confirmation of all his fears. Senena gave a soft cry; it sounded strangely like a whimper. But as Alun turned, he saw that she was not looking at Edwin de Crecy. She was staring beyond him, staring toward her right. “Madame?” Alun murmured, and then, “Christ!” for he, too, had seen it, now—the trampled snow, the pool of dark, ice-encrusted blood.

Spring had come late to the River Lledr valley, but on this sunlit Saturday in early May, the wooded hills surrounding Dolwyddelan Castle were aglow with the brightest of nature’s colors. Hawthorns were in snowy bloom, and buttercups and rockroses and bluebells were scattered about in dazzling profusion. The river bank was hedged in purple, row upon row of plum-tinted comfreys. Sycamores seemed garlanded, as if for May Day, in trailing streamers of yellow-gold. Like feathers of orange and blue, butterflies floated upon the morning breeze. One, fanning wings of speckled pearl, even brushed Davydd’s cheek. He laughed, lingered a moment longer upon the stairs, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the cloud-sheathed peak of Moel Siabod.

“My lord?” The man hastening across the bailey was one of his grooms. “You may well think me mad, but I know how much stock your lady sets by little ’uns…”

That was true enough; Isabella was absurdly fond of animals, to the point where she even refused to take part in hunts. “What have you found this time, Padrig, another baby rabbit?”

Padrig grinned. “Nay, something much more outlandish!” And opening his hands, he showed Davydd his prize, a ball of brightly burnished fur that now revealed itself to be a newly born fox kit. “It’s not as if the pelt would be worth anything,” he said, as if to excuse his soft-heartedness.

“People find it odd that my wife makes pets of cats. Know you what they’ll say about a fox?” But Davydd was already reaching for the tiny cub.

He found Isabella alone in their bedchamber, demanded she close her eyes, and then deposited the kit into her outstretched hands. “Davydd, how sweet!” The fox nipped at her fingers, but she just laughed. She had a gentle, calming way with animals, could establish a remarkable rapport with any creature if given a chance, and Davydd did not doubt that the fox would soon fall under her spell. “It’s not weaned,” she said. “Cricket is still nursing her last litter; do you think I could get her to accept it?”

“You got her to raise that kitten. So why not a fox foundling?” Davydd knew the fox’s future was not promising; if it wasn’t killed by one of the castle dogs, it would eventually start raiding the henroost. But he said nothing, not willing to spoil his wife’s pleasure in her new pet. She’d not believe him, anyway; reality always seemed to take Isabella by surprise.