Falls the Shadow (39 page)

Simon pulled her into his arms, into a despairing embrace so tight that she gave an involuntary gasp. The chapel door was pushed ajar; they were being watched by their sons Guy and Amaury. Amaury, who was just five, whimpered, and Guy put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. But neither boy dared to venture into the chapel, for they had never seen their father weep before.

Nell was dictating a letter to her scribe when Simon returned to Ombrière. She had not seen her husband for a fortnight, as he’d been refortifying the castle at Cuzbac, and the letter was forgotten. It was not until several hours later that Simon happened to notice it lying upon the table in their bedchamber. “What is this, Nell?”

“I was writing to Bishop Robert. Shall I delay dispatching it until you have had a chance to add your own greetings?” she suggested, and Simon nodded.

“I do not want to repeat our news. What have you told him so far?”

“About the latest troubles with Henry. I told him that when we returned to England at Christmas, you offered again to resign your command, asking only that Henry reimburse you for your expenses, but Henry refused to pay, in clear violation of your agreement!” Three months later, echoes of indignation still colored Nell’s voice. “I told Bishop Robert that even Henry’s Queen was disquieted by his duplicity. And then I explained how, whilst we were still at York, Henry received more complaints from those Gascon renegades, and he decided to send Henry de Wingham and Rocelin de Fos to Gascony. How very like Henry that, after you succeeded in quelling the rebellion for him, he should then reward you by appointing a commission of inquiry into your conduct!” Nell drew a calming breath; it didn’t help. “Lastly, I told Bishop Robert that Henry’s commissioners concluded that you had indeed treated some of the Gascon lords harshly, but no more than they deserved, and I expressed the hope that Henry would now cease his witless meddling.”

“That hope,” Simon said caustically, “is a broken straw. Any man who long serves Henry comes to understand exactly how Sisyphus must have felt.” Anticipating her query, he added, “Sisyphus was a King of Corinth who displeased a pagan god of the Greeks. According to the legend, he was condemned to pass all eternity laboring to roll a huge boulder up a steep hill, only to have it roll down again as soon as he’d reached the summit.”

“A man may be God’s anointed and yet an idiot, too; my brother is living proof of that. But let’s speak no more of Henry, beloved. Come, sit beside me on the settle, for I have news for you, news that not even Henry’s foolishness can tarnish.” Taking Simon’s hand, she said, “I am with child again.”

Nell was right; her news drove all thoughts of Henry from Simon’s head. “This is the seventh time you’ve told me that, and each time it is like the first. We have in truth been blessed, Nell. When is the babe due?”

“October. Now…lie back, Simon, and rest, whilst I tell you all the London gossip, culled from Elen’s latest letter.” He did as she bade, pillowing his head in her lap, and she told him that Richard had received a pair of water buffalo for his menagerie, much to Henry’s envy, for such creatures had never before been seen in England, that their de Lusignan half-brother William had poached deer from the Bishop of Ely’s private park, and then forced his way into the Bishop’s Hatfield manor, where he and his men plundered the Bishop’s wine cellar, and that a two-year-old child in a Kent village had shown powers to heal the sick. Simon listened in silence, only the flicker of his lashes assuring her he did not sleep. His eyes snapped open, however, when she murmured, “And then, of course, there is the scandal about Henry’s Queen, now that her love affair with Llewelyn of Wales has become common knowledge.”

“What?” Simon relaxed again, lay back in her lap. “You caught me out,” he confessed. “I was not listening. But I was thinking of you…and this babe. Do you remember, Nell, what I vowed on our wedding night? That I would keep you close, that I would keep you content, and that I would keep you safe. Well, seven children in fourteen years is proof that I’ve kept you very close, indeed, and I think I’ve managed to content you—most of the time. But there has been precious little peace in our marriage. Too often you’ve found yourself torn between husband and brother, too often found yourself my hostage to Henry’s enmity, and neither of us expected that on the day we exchanged vows. In truth, Nell…no regrets?”

A flippancy was already forming on Nell’s tongue, but it was so unlike Simon to ask such a question, even in jest, that she heard herself saying, instead, “No, Simon. No regrets at all.”

He reached for her hand, held it against his cheek. They’d had more than their share of quarrels in recent months, reflecting the strain of Simon’s increasingly precarious position, and this moment of quiet and utter intimacy was both a healing and an affirmation. They remained together on the settle, not moving even as the chamber began to fill with shadows. And then the message came from the King.

Simon was forewarned by the very first words, for Henry had dispensed with the stock phrases of friendship, the conventional courtesies. The letter was addressed not to “The King’s faithful and well-beloved brother-in-law,” but simply to “The Earl of Leicester.” Moving toward the last burning candle, Simon began to read. Watching from the settle, Nell saw the blood drain from his face. “Simon? Jesú, you look—What is wrong?”

“Henry has summoned me back to England. I am to appear before his royal court, to defend myself against the charges made by the Gascon lords.”

“Mother of God…” To Nell, there was an appalling familiarity about this moment. It was as if she were reliving that ghastly August day twelve years ago, when Henry had suddenly turned upon Simon, shamed them both before his court, and banished Simon from England. “Simon…Simon, what shall you do?”

Simon swung around. “What do you think I’ll do? I shall return to England, confront those who’ve slandered me. If they have accusations to make, then by God, let them make them to my face!”

Upon their arrival in London, Simon and Nell were heartened by how rapidly their friends rallied to their support. The Bishop of Durham offered them the use of his riverside manor, and when their barge headed downriver toward the Tower, where Henry was currently in residence, they were accompanied by Walter de Cantilupe, Bishop of Worcester, Peter de Montfort, and Rob and Elen de Quincy. Elen was surprised by how often people along the bankside, recognizing Simon’s Silver Lion, raised a cheer. Nell, needing the distraction, was more than willing to enlighten her.

“Several years ago,” she explained, “Henry enraged the citizens by granting a fair to the abbey of Westminster and then ordering the townsmen to close all city shops whilst the fair was in progress. Their discontent festered and two springs ago became outright defiance. Luckily, Simon was then in London, and he and Richard interceded with Henry on the city’s behalf. Londoners do not forget a wrong done them. Nor do they forget their friends.”

Elen followed Nell’s gaze, toward the stern of the barge where Simon was listening to the Bishop of Worcester. Lowering her voice, she touched Nell’s bejeweled fingers with her own. “Nell…how are you and Simon bearing up? Is there naught I can do?”

“You’re here; that counts for much.” Nell’s eyes were still probing her husband’s face. “Simon is lucky,” she said softly, “for he has his anger to sustain him. My anger burns brightly by day, but night quenches its flames, and my fears…they are legion, Elen. I fear for my children’s future. I fear that Simon will not be able to hold his temper in check. I fear the King’s disfavor. And I fear that the day might well come when I will learn to hate my own brother.”

Henry refused Simon’s request for a private audience, and when Simon and Nell were ushered into the Blundeville Tower, they found Henry’s chamber packed with hostile eye-witnesses. Henry was seated in a heavy oaken chair, fashioned like a throne, and beside him stood Geraud de Malemort, the Archbishop of Bordeaux, and the Viscounts of Fronsac and Castillon.

Simon strode forward, knelt before the King. “These men have spoken against me, and they have lied, my liege. I demand the right to defend myself against their slander. I demand the right to be heard.”

“You shall be heard, my lord of Leicester,” Henry said coldly. “The trial begins at Ascensiontide, the ninth of May, in the refectory of the abbey at Westminster.”

Simon looked at Henry, then at the Gascon lords, and his temper flamed, even as Nell’s hand tightened upon his arm. “How is it that you are so eager to give credence to traitors? You know I have served you faithfully; no man dares say otherwise. So why, then, does my word count for less with you?”

Henry’s head came up. “If your innocence is so evident, my lord, why fear an inquiry? Indeed, your fame should shine all the brighter for it.”

And after that, there was nothing more to say.

“My liege, my lords, I am Gaillard del Soler, son of the one-time Seneschal and Mayor of Bordeaux, Rostand del Soler, may God assoil him. I am here not to speak in my own behalf, but of the wrongs done my father. He was forcibly seized by the Earl of Leicester’s men, cast into prison despite his age and ill health, and held there until his death. My father did not deserve such a fate, for he was a good Christian, a loyal subject, a man respected by all. It is too late for him, but you can do justice to his memory. You can censure the man who treated him so harshly and unfairly, and I earnestly entreat you to judge the Earl of Leicester as he deserves.”

“Thank you, Messaire del Soler.” Henry shifted in his seat, looked challengingly at Simon. “My lord of Leicester, do you wish to respond to these accusations?”

“Yes, Your Grace, I do.” Simon rose, moved toward the dais. “To hear Messaire del Soler tell it, I seized his father at random, on a mere whim. A most affecting tale, but he has omitted a few significant facts. Rostand del Soler was taken as a hostage in consequence of the bloody rioting that broke out in Bordeaux in June of 1249. Men died in that rioting, including the city’s Mayor and three of my own household knights, because the del Solers refused my order to disperse. But far from being treated harshly, Rostand del Soler was lodged in the royal castles of Ombrière and Roquer, where he was permitted servants to tend to all his needs. Does Messaire del Soler dare to deny that? Need I summon witnesses to confirm this?”

Gaillard del Soler gave Simon a look of naked hatred. “My father died at Roquer Castle! Dare you deny that?”

“No. Rostand del Soler did indeed die in my custody. Shall I tell the court why? When your father fell ill, he asked me if you could take his place. I was agreeable to this.” Simon paused; he had an instinctive sense of timing. “But you were not willing,” he said, “were you?” And when Gaillard del Soler did not answer, Simon glanced back at Henry. “I think,” he said, “that I have responded to the accusations.”

“I am Raimond de Fronsac, here under safe-conduct of the English King. I do have numerous grievances against the Earl of Leicester, as do my neighbors, the Viscounts of Gramont and Soule. He seized my castle of Fronsac, holds it to this day. He laid siege to Raimond Brun’s castle at Gramont, then cast the Viscount into prison without benefit of trial. He also imprisoned the Viscount of Soule, and last summer he did capture the Viscount of Castillon’s stronghold, whilst detaining the Viscount for ransom, and the castle still remains in his hands. He destroyed our vineyards, our main source of income. He paid no heed to our complaints, treated us as if we were peasants, men of low birth. And all of this I am willing to swear upon the most sacred of holy relics.”

“I am Sir Peter de Montfort of Beaudesert in Warwickshire, liegeman to the Earl of Warwick. It was my privilege to serve in Gascony for the past three years with my lord of Leicester. I am a witness, therefore, to those events described by the Viscount of Fronsac. Earl Simon did indeed seize the Viscount’s castle; the man was in rebellion at the time! The Viscount of Soule was imprisoned after he refused to appear before the Seneschal’s court. The Viscount of Castillon was no less of a rebel, no less of a traitor. These men claim their income is derived from their vineyards, but that is a lie. They are, in truth, brigands, who prey upon passers-by and pilgrims.”

There was an angry murmur from the Gascons, but Peter ignored them. “The Viscount of Fronsac is a brigand,” he repeated, “and his past is a bloody one. He ravaged the region of Labour, sacked the town of Blaye, gave shelter to Gaillard del Soler and his brother Pierre, who were then fugitives from royal justice, having fled Bordeaux after the rioting.”

“Fugitives from Leicester’s justice!” Gaillard del Soler interrupted hotly, and Peter snapped,

“The Earl of Leicester was the King’s Seneschal, his regent in Gascony, appointed to act in the King’s stead. What he did, he did in the King’s name, on the King’s behalf.”

“Then why,” Pierre de Castillon jeered, “was he summoned to defend himself before the King’s court?”

Peter turned, looked directly at the King. “Why, indeed?”

“I am Pierre de Lignan, Abbot of the Benedictine Abbey of Sainte-Croix in Bordeaux. I would tell you this, my lord King. The Earl of Leicester has caused needless suffering in my city. He unfairly favored the Coloms over the del Solers, raising serious doubts about his neutrality. After he demanded hostages from the del Solers, he destroyed Rostand del Soler’s house, in violation of city statutes, and when challenged, he disregarded our complaints, saying that the King had instructed him to put down a rebellion and by God, that was what he meant to do. I ask you, do not send him back to Gascony.”