Falls the Shadow (37 page)

Simon drew a sharp breath, reluctant to reveal how deeply affronted he was by Henry’s accusations; he had far too much pride to admit he felt betrayed by his King’s lack of trust. “Shall I resign my command? I will relinquish it this very night if that be your wish, and resume my crusader’s vow, asking only that you reimburse me for the heavy expenses I have incurred in your service. If, however, you wish me to continue as Seneschal, I will do so, but only if I have your full support. The choice, my liege, is yours.”

Henry hated nothing so much as being backed into a corner. He glanced unhappily at Eleanor and Richard, silent witnesses to his clash of wills with Simon, but neither showed any inclination to intercede. His hesitation was only momentary, though; despite his dissatisfaction with Simon’s performance, he knew of no one who could do better. Moreover, to accept Simon’s resignation would be to admit that his appointment had been a mistake, just as his brother Richard had once argued.

“I want you to continue as Seneschal,” he said. “It was no easy task I set before you; I know that. You have my every confidence, and to prove it, I shall grant you an additional three thousand marks to quell the rebellion.”

That was not the answer Simon had wanted. “So be it, then,” he agreed, sounding so weary that Henry finally noticed just how utterly exhausted he looked.

“Good Lord, Simon, did you sleep at all on your way from Dover? You truly should get some rest. But first, stay and sup with us. We’re having a special mummery, a pageant about St George slaying the dragon.”

Simon mustered up a smile. “Thank you, but no. Right now I seek only a bath and then a bed, for I depart at dawn for Kenilworth, where I hope to raise additional moneys by selling some of my forests. And then, of course, I want to visit His Grace, the Bishop of Lincoln; Nell and I entrusted our two eldest sons into the Bishop’s keeping, so that they might be properly educated.” As he spoke, Simon moved toward Eleanor, kissed her hand, and Henry’s ring. He was at the door before Henry cried out.

“Simon, wait! I have grievous news for you. We have learned that my cousin, the Earl of Salisbury, is dead.”

“Will?” Simon swallowed, then leaned back against the door. His eyes remained dry, but the pupils had dilated so suddenly that the irises seemed utterly black, bereft of all color, all light. Henry had rarely seen him so shaken, and he was at once contrite.

“I ought not to have blurted it out like that, but I’d forgotten you were such friends. He died well, Simon, died a hero’s death. We can all be proud, can glory in his martyrdom.”

Simon nodded mutely. Making the sign of the cross, he turned, swiftly departed the chamber.

Henry was not at all satisfied with the outcome, yet he did not know exactly what he’d wanted from Simon, and that uncertainty only intensified his frustration. “It is troubling enough,” he complained, “that Simon can see only blacks and whites. But he also demands that all men be as color-blind as he is!”

“You know I bear no love for Simon de Montfort,” Eleanor said, after a long pause. “But I do think he is right in this, Henry. Rebels must be punished, and retribution must be swift. Whatever his other faults, Simon does understand that.”

This was not the first time that Henry had found himself at odds with his wife. It never failed to surprise him that so feminine, so delicate a woman could be so resolute, so remorseless. He could not help envying her absolute certainty, her sure sense of right, and he worried sometimes lest she think him unmanly, for he knew she made a more implacable foe than he. She’d insisted he was too lenient with the Welsh, she shared none of his concerns about converting the Jews, would have gladly expelled them all from their realm, and he knew she cared no more than Simon that rebels were denied due process of law. In truth, Henry was not all that disturbed himself by the illegality of it, would not have objected had he not been forced to deal with the aggrieved complaints of those who felt wronged by Simon’s summary justice.

Turning away from Eleanor, Henry looked challengingly at his brother. “Am I to assume from your silence that you, too, disapprove?”

“In fact, I agree,” Richard said coolly. “Now that you’ve committed yourself to Simon, you have to support him. You owe the man that much. That does not mean, however, that I’ve changed my mind. I told you more than two years ago that de Montfort was the wrong man for the task at hand. He is more than capable of conquering a province, utterly incapable of pacifying it afterward. Whilst Simon excels at breaching walls, your Seneschal should be able to mend fences, too. But you paid me no heed, you would have yourself a soldier. Well, that is what you got, one of the most celebrated soldiers in Christendom. I daresay he’ll quell this latest rebellion soon enough; I’ve heard it said that the Gascons ‘fear the Earl of Leicester more than lightning.’ It is what you wanted, Henry, is it not? So do not complain to me because your soldier does not act like a statesman.”

“And I suppose you would have been the ideal choice? The truth is, Richard, that you’ve never forgiven me for revoking that grant, for giving Gascony to my son instead of to you!”

Richard rose, stalked to the door. “Take heart, Henry. If all else fails, you can always go to Gascony yourself. I’m sure the rebels would surrender at once, for who would dare to defy the victor of Saintes?”

Henry flinched, but Richard didn’t see; he’d already slammed the door. Eleanor came hastily to her husband’s side. “Pay Richard no mind, beloved. Gascony is part of our Edward’s inheritance. It belongs by right to him, not to Richard.”

“I know,” Henry said morosely. “But he is my brother, and it grieves me that we should be at odds over this. Damn him! Damn him and Simon both!”

He had slumped down in the closest chair, straightened up hopefully as the door flew open. But it was not a repentant Richard, it was his son. Henry’s spirits soared at sight of the boy. He adored all his children, but Edward held a special place in his heart, Edward, his firstborn, Edward who gave every promise of one day being as tall, as fair, and as fearless as his famous grand-uncle, Richard Lionheart.

“I heard that Uncle Simon was here! Is it true, Papa? Has he come back from Gascony?”

Henry stiffened. Striving for nonchalance, he said, “Yes, lad, he is back. You just missed him, in fact.”

“Mayhap I can still catch him then,” Edward exclaimed, and whirled, bolting from the chamber as precipitately as he’d entered.

“Ah, Henry…” Eleanor reached out, sought without success to knead some of the tension from his neck and shoulders. “You must not let it hurt you, beloved. Edward is just at that age when lads are easily bedazzled by swordplay, by battlefield heroics, and Simon is…”

She did not complete the sentence. She did not have to; Henry finished it for her. “ ‘…the greatest soldier in Christendom,’ ” he quoted bitterly.

From the south solar window of the Bishop of Lincoln’s palace, Simon gazed down upon Danesgate. Sleet had been falling since mid-morning, and two carts had just collided on the steep, icy hill, spilling wine kegs and crated chickens and sacks of flour into the street. A crowd soon gathered, drawn by the creative profanity of the drivers. But Simon was oblivious to the chaotic scene below him. He was seeing the sun shimmer upon the muddy waters of the Nile, above an empty, copper-colored sky.

“Mansourah,” he murmured, turning away from the window. “That was the name of the village. The French King’s hot-headed brother led the raid. Will warned him that they were badly outnumbered, but he paid no heed. Then when the Saracens attacked, he tried to flee, only to drown in the Nile. Not Will, though. He held his ground, refused to yield, saying he’d die ere he surrendered to infidels. So impressed were the Saracens with his courage that the Sultan of Babylon saw that he had an honorable burial.”

Taking a seat across from the Bishop, he said softly, “I am proud to have called him friend. Few men are given such a glorious ascent into Paradise. But I shall miss him, more than I can say…”

“And you wish with all your heart that you had been there to fight beside him,” the Bishop said, eliciting from Simon a startled smile.

“Have you turned soothsayer now? How well you know me. Not that I yearn for martyrdom! But at least Will died in the service of the Almighty; his death had meaning. I had three near-misses with death myself in the past twelvemonth,” he admitted, somewhat to the Bishop’s surprise, for he rarely shared secrets of risk. “All men die, of course, and no Christian should fear death. But should my wife be made a widow, my children made fatherless, what comfort would they have, knowing I died for a fickle King’s favor?”

“But did the King not promise to support your efforts against the rebels?”

Simon gave a mirthless laugh. “Do you remember the legend of the birds of paradise? Surpassingly beautiful and dazzling to watch on the wing, but they could never land, for they lacked feet. Well, Henry’s promises soar upward, too, in flights of golden rhetoric, but they never make it back to earth. Today he pledges me his eternal gratitude. Tomorrow he may well lend an ear to Gaston de Béarn again.” Simon had reached for a wine cup, but now he set it down with a thud. “Gaston has no more loyalty than Lucifer, is hand-in-glove with the Kings of Navarre and Castile. His sworn word is spit on the wind. So how, then, can Henry give credence to anything he says? It is almost as if Henry wanted to believe ill of me!”

“Mayhap he does, Simon. Although in fairness to Henry, I have to say that other voices besides Gaston de Béarn’s have been raised against you.”

Simon was stunned. “I never thought I should have to defend myself to you, my lord.”

“Nor do you.” The older man leaned across the table, laid his hand upon Simon’s arm. “I do not fault you for treating brigands as they deserve. These Gascon lords hate you because you sought to uphold the King’s rights and to defend Christ’s poor. I do regret, though, that you have been so inflexible, so loath to listen—”

“When? What have you heard?”

“The King’s Seneschal always came to the town of Saut to take the townsmen’s oaths of fealty, a privilege they held very dear. But you insisted that they come to you at Saint-Sever, and when they refused, you—”

“Had I gone to Saut for the oath-taking, the other towns would have demanded the same privilege. It just was not practical, made no sense. I all but slept in the saddle as it was!”

The Bishop nodded. “I do not doubt that you were hard-pressed for time. But sometimes, my son, there are other considerations than practicality. You are the best horseman I’ve ever seen, for you know how to guide your mount with the slightest pressure of your knees, whilst keeping a light hand on the reins. If you could but learn to use the same sure touch with men, Simon, you’d find them less likely to balk.”

Simon was quiet for a time. The Bishop’s criticism was not as easily dismissed as Henry’s, for if Henry’s judgment was dross, Bishop Robert’s was unalloyed gold. Moreover, he was deeply touched by the Bishop’s fond use of “my son.” “As ever, you counsel wisely,” he said at last. “My temper does catch fire too fast, and I too often let my stubbornness lead me astray. I have tried to learn patience, but my resolve takes me only so far. In truth, my lord, I do not think I can change my nature.”

The Bishop’s smile was still compelling, belying the burdens of ill health and age. “No,” he conceded, “probably not. Try to remember, though, that neither can Henry. Now…no more lectures. You have a Christian’s conscience and a knight’s honor; betwixt them, they shall see you through to a safe harbor. Let us talk, instead, of more cheerful matters, of your sons. They are fine lads, Simon, mayhap not the scholars I would wish; Latin in particular seems to elude them. But they have good hearts and more than their share of pluck. At times they can be too boisterous for an old man’s liking, but we expect blooded stock to have spirit. I think you will be well pleased with their progress.”

Harry and Bran looked uncommonly neat and well-scrubbed to Simon. Harry was twelve now, and Bran ten, and Simon was amazed at how fast they’d grown in the six months since he’d seen them last. They’d seemed somewhat subdued as they entered, as if expecting to be called to account for found-out sins, but at sight of their father, they abandoned all decorum, flung themselves upon him with joyful shrieks. “Papa! You’re back! For how long? Is Mama with you? When can—”

“Enough!” Simon laughed. “I cannot answer if you assail me both at once. Your mother is back in Bordeaux with your little brothers and sister, but I brought you her latest letter and some surprise packages. I expect to be at Kenilworth for just a month or so, however long it takes me to raise funds. Whilst I’d not want to interrupt your studies, I would like you to spend some time at Kenilworth with me. Now…other questions?”

The boys exchanged glances, elected Harry as spokesman. “Papa…when you go back to Gascony, can we go with you?”

Simon slowly shook his head. They knew better than to beg, but they looked so disappointed that Simon actually found himself wavering for a moment. “You know that is not possible, lads. I see no reason, however, why you cannot take a brief respite from your lessons, pass a fortnight in London with your cousin Edward. That is, if Bishop Robert agrees?” he added, and the Bishop gave an amused nod, marveling anew that Simon, of all men, should be such an indulgent father.