Falls the Shadow (38 page)

Simon’s sons politely expressed their thanks, but it was obvious they considered London a poor substitute for Gascony. It was Bran whose discipline broke first. “Why must you go back to Gascony, Papa? Why can you not come home to stay?”

“Because I gave the King my word, Bran.”

Bran bit his lip. “I know you say a man must keep his word, Papa. But the King does not always keep his word! So why, then, must you still serve him?”

Simon was taken aback, gave a rueful laugh. “Amidst your study of Latin and arithmetic and geography, have you taken up law, too?” But that was an evasion, and he owed the boy better than that. Reaching out, he drew Bran to him. “I serve Henry because he is the King.” Bran said nothing; it was clear, though, that he found it an unsatisfactory answer. Simon looked over at the Bishop and shrugged. He was not yet ready to admit, even to himself, how unsatisfactory an answer it was to him, too.

The sky was beginning to lighten in the east; the last stars were fading from sight. April had been a month of sudden, chilling rains, slowing down Simon’s assault upon Castillon Castle, but it was May now and the siege was drawing to an end. Peter de Montfort had no doubts of that, for Simon had told him this would be the day that the castle fell, and Peter had learned to trust Simon’s military judgment. Castillon had dominated the River Dordogne since the ninth century, but it was not so formidable a stronghold as Fronsac and Gramont, castles said to be impregnable, castles captured by Simon. Peter felt certain that the rebel Viscount, Pierre de Castillon, would be a prisoner or a corpse before this day was done.

Now, however, his immediate concern was for Simon. Mining was the slowest means of taking a castle, but the most effective, and once they had broken through Castillon’s outer defenses, Simon put his men to work with picks and shovels. Day by day, the tunnel snaked forward, while Simon kept the defenders distracted with a relentless barrage from mangonel and trebuchet. At last the mine was ready, having been cautiously and laboriously dug across the inner bailey, up under the southwest corner of the castle keep. Rising by cover of night, Simon’s men had stuffed the tunnel with brushwood, with the bodies of newly killed pigs, and they were about to set the fatal fire. Fueled by the lard, the flames would swiftly engulf the timbers used to shore up the tunnel roof, and when the tunnel collapsed, so, too, would the section of the keep above it.

Peter did not expect the mine to fail. But he was disturbed that Simon had insisted upon going down into the mine himself while the fire was set, for he thought that was a needless risk. Peter hated mines, could not endure such close confinement, and he was well aware of their dangers; it was not uncommon for them to collapse upon their builders, and the image of a flame-filled mine seemed to him verily a description of Hell.

The entrance to the mine was concealed by a wooden structure called a cat. Much to Peter’s relief, he finally heard running footsteps, and men began to scramble up to safety. Simon’s face was smudged with smoke and soot, but he was grinning. He coughed, laughed, and coughed again. “We’ve a right beautiful bonfire going, Peter. I’ll wager those sluggards will still be abed when the keep comes crashing down around them!”

Simon had been up for most of the night, making ready for the final assault. He took time now to eat a hasty breakfast of bread and cheese, washed down with a spiced red wine, all the while giving last-minute instructions to his captains. “When Castillon falls,” he predicted, “so, too, will the rebellion. They’ll all come on the run, seeking terms.”

“They already offered terms,” Peter reminded him, and Simon grinned again.

“Yes,” he said, “but now the terms will be mine,” and he signaled for the bombardment to begin. The mangonels heaved boulders into the inner bailey, and the trebuchets hurled the dreaded Greek fire, which not even water could extinguish. The castle came rapidly to life; men appeared, yawning and cursing, upon the roof battlements, at the narrow arrow slits.

Simon had been both besieged and besieger, and he knew how unpleasant conditions must be for those mewed up within the keep, denied light or fresh air, unable to escape the pungent stink of the latrines, having to ration every swallow of water, to count every mouthful of food. “I think we’ve been able to locate the underground spring that feeds their well,” he said. “If the mine does not work, we can salt the spring. That should bring a surrender in short order!”

But there was no need for contingency planning. The underground fire soon set the timbered roof ablaze, and when the tunnel caved in, the corner foundation of the keep cracked, split open in a shower of rock and mortar and ash. A few died in the collapsed rubble, more died trying to keep Simon’s men from gaining entry at these gaping holes in the wall. But the defenders were outnumbered, and the momentum was with the attackers. Simon’s men soon had control of the lower floor. Fighting his way up the stairwell, Simon discovered that the Viscount had barricaded himself in his private chamber, and Simon’s demand for surrender was met with a volley of verbal abuse.

William Pigorel, Simon’s Gascon lieutenant, joined Simon in the stairwell, suggested that he remind the Viscount that the rules of warfare permitted the hanging of an enemy garrison if they held out after all hope was gone.

Simon shook his head. “From what I know of Pierre de Castillon, he’d not turn a hair if we hanged his entire family from the battlements, as long as his own skin was safe. No, I’ve a better idea. Send some men up on the roof. Let’s see what happens if we stuff burning brands down the louvres.”

They soon heard a commotion from within the chamber, as the trapped men sought frantically to put out the fires, and while they were thus occupied it was simple enough for a stout soldier with an axe to split the door asunder. Simon was among the first into the chamber.

“De Castillon!” he challenged, and the Viscount moved to meet him. But no sooner had they crossed swords than Simon knew he was facing an inferior opponent, one who was, moreover, on the verge of panic. He easily parried the other man’s thrust, with enough force to stagger them both. Recovering first, Simon lunged, and his sword neatly sliced through the overhead bed hangings. De Castillon reeled backward, suddenly enveloped in billowing folds of Tripoli silk. He bumped blindly into the bed, sprawled into the rushes, much to the amusement of Simon’s soldiers, and by the time he managed to free himself from the shrouds of bedding, Simon was standing over him, sword poised above his windpipe.

“You may yield,” Simon said calmly, “or you may die,” and de Castillon gasped, “I yield,” his sword clattering to the floor.

Afterward, there was much to be done. Simon’s men had to make sure that the tunnel fire was extinguished. There were prisoners to be counted, and ransoms to be calculated, wounded men to be tended, and messengers to be dispatched, bearing word of Castillon’s fall. Much to Pierre de Castillon’s annoyance, he found himself shunted aside, utterly ignored, as if he were a person of no importance. He fumed in silence for a while, then demanded that he be taken to Simon, and he was so insistent that his guards finally grew tired of listening to his complaints, escorted him up the stairs into his own bedchamber.

His resentment flared even higher to find that Simon had appropriated his private quarters. Nor did his temper improve any when Simon disregarded his presence, continuing to dictate letters and give orders.

“Put the wounded in the hall until the smoke clears from the downstairs chamber. The cellar is still intact? Good, we’ll use it for a dungeon. You’d best set men to digging grave pits, Peter, and—” Simon paused, looking up as the Viscount wrenched free of his guards, pushed toward him.

“My lord of Leicester, how much longer do you mean to keep me waiting? Your manners, sir, are insufferable. I demand to know what ransom you seek.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed upon the other man’s flushed, sweaty face. “That, my lord de Castillon, will depend upon your allies of the moment. In the meantime, you may make yourself comfortable with the rest of your men—in the cellar.”

Castillon’s mouth dropped open. “You cannot be serious! You’d imprison me with the common soldiers? I am a lord, am entitled to be treated with the respect due my rank!”

Simon merely looked at him. “Men of honor I treat honorably,” he said tersely. As his delighted soldiers shoved the sputtering Viscount toward the door, one of his squires knelt by his chair.

“My lord Simon, may I bandage your hand now?” the youth entreated, and Simon leaned back in his chair, glancing toward de Castillon with a sardonic smile.

“Indeed, Philip. God forbid that I should bleed all over my lord de Castillon’s bedchamber.” He nodded, and his men dragged their outraged prisoner into the stairwell. Suddenly realizing that he could not remember when he’d last slept, Simon made a gesture of dismissal. “I’d best get some rest whilst I can. Peter, you are in command. Be merciful, though, and do not awaken me unless we come under attack. No, lads, do not bother,” waving his squires away when they would have helped him undress. “Just remember to clean the blood from my sword…” That was his last coherent thought; flinging himself down upon the bed, he fell asleep almost at once.

It seemed only moments later that someone was shaking his shoulder, but as he sat up, Simon saw that shadows had spilled from the corners; daylight was done. Peter was bending over the bed. Although Simon could not make out his face, his voice sounded strained. “Simon, wake up. Your lady has sent her sergeant…”

Simon went cold, for Nell would not dispatch Andrew de la Brach on a routine errand. “Those whoresons have not dared to besiege the castle at Bordeaux?”

There was a flare of light as someone struck a flint, and Simon’s eyes flickered to Andrew’s face. He was a taciturn man in his mid-fifties, utterly loyal, utterly imperturbable. Now he looked even grimmer than usual.

Kneeling in the darkness by the bed, he said, “My lord, it is not your lady. It is your daughter, your babe, Joanna. She has been taken right bad, and Lady Nell…she begs you to come with all haste.”

It was dawn by the time Simon came within sight of the city walls of Bordeaux, but the sky remained shrouded in thick, grey clouds. As early as it was, the city was already stirring, and as Simon rode through the Medoque Gate onto Rue Sainte-Catherine, people stopped and stared, for even the smallest child recognized the King’s Seneschal on sight. The looks directed at Simon were both admiring and resentful, in equal measure, for the town was divided between those who saw Simon as a saviour and those who saw him as Satan. Peter was acutely aware of the stares; Simon was not. He could think of nothing but his ailing child, could hear nothing but Andrew’s ominous words, “taken right bad…all haste.” And yet he could not believe that his daughter might be dying. His son Amaury had once fallen ill with the tertian fever, but he’d recovered, even after the doctors had despaired. So, too, would Joanna.

The castle known as Ombrière occupied the east bank of the River Garonne, site of a stronghold since the days of the Roman Empire. The ancient rectangular keep called the Arbalesteyre dated from the eleventh century, had little of the comfort and none of the luxury to which Nell was accustomed. But Ombrière was safe, and that was what mattered to Simon. As he rode through the gatehouse, a cry went up and people hastened out into the bailey. Simon saw none of them; his eyes had fastened upon the man standing by the entrance to the keep.

Geraud de Malemort was the Archbishop of Bordeaux, and it should have seemed natural that he’d be here in Nell’s time of need, ready to offer solace, the comfort of their Church. But Simon knew better, for he knew Geraud de Malemort. The Archbishop was a politician, not a priest, little given to succoring the sick, and he was no friend to Simon.

He came forward, halted by Simon’s stallion. “The ways of the Almighty,” he said, “passeth the understanding of man,” and it was in the unsympathetic eyes of an enemy that Simon learned of his daughter’s death.

Ombrière’s chapel was ablaze with torches and candles, at Nell’s insistence, for Joanna had been afraid of the dark. Simon had lost all track of time, did not know how long he had been kneeling by his daughter’s coffin. For once, prayer had failed him. Rising stiffly to his feet, he confessed, “No matter how often I tell myself, ‘Thy Will be done,’ I cannot stifle a voice that cries, ‘Why?’ ”

Nell was standing on the other side of the coffin, gazing down at their child. “She could be asleep,” she whispered, and then looked up at Simon. “The Archbishop of Bordeaux told me that too much grieving was an affront to the Almighty, for it showed that I lacked faith, that I doubted Joanna had been taken to the bosom of Our Lord Christ. I told him, in turn, that he was one of God’s great fools.”

Simon joined her beside the coffin, saying grimly, “Good lass.”

Nell reached down, smoothed her daughter’s blanket. “It was not our first quarrel. Were he not a Prince of the Church, I’d have had him ejected from the castle. You see, when Joanna…when Joanna was stricken, I sent for the doctors of Saint Jacques Hospital, but they could do nothing for her. I remembered that when Guy had been afflicted with the same cough, we’d boiled water, made a tent of blankets and let him breathe in the hot vapors. We tried that, too, with Joanna, but she steadily worsened. I’d heard that there was a Jew in the town, a man skilled in the healing arts, so I…I sent for him, which did outrage the Archbishop mightily.”

Seeing that she had shocked her husband, too, Nell said defensively, “I know the Church forbids Christians to seek out Jews for healing, but in truth, I did not care! I would even have turned to an infidel Saracen doctor, had I thought he could save Joanna. But she died…died ere we could find him.”

Her hand had clenched upon the edge of the coffin, whitened to the bone, and Simon quickly covered it with his own. “I ought to have been there for her, for you.”

“For your sake, I am glad you were not. It was dreadful, Simon. She…she suffered so. I thought sure each coughing spasm would be her last. She could not breathe, kept crying, ‘Mama, Mama…’ ” Nell had begun to tremble, but she had no more tears to shed. “I could do nothing for her. She was my child and I could do nothing for her…”