Falls the Shadow (51 page)

“He knows, Goronwy. But though Henry sees me as a threat, he is now facing a greater one. On Wednesday last, Simon de Montfort landed at Dover.”

They had ridden all night, by dawn were approaching the English border. But there was no trace of sun; the sky was swathed in a wet, grey mist. By now they were only a few miles from Cheshire. Eleri felt no surprise, though, when Davydd suddenly signaled for a halt. It was true that England meant safety. It also meant exile.

A short distance from the road, a narrow stream wound its way through the damp grass. Davydd slackened the reins, allowed his mount to drink. A few of the men took advantage of this respite and dismounted, stretching and yawning. Eleri followed Davydd to the stream.

“There is still time,” she said softly. “Return to Aber, beloved, seek Llewelyn’s pardon.”

“By all means,” he snapped. “Owain is right lonely, after all. I daresay he’d be delighted to share his quarters at Dolbadarn with me.”

“Llewelyn loves Owain not. You he loves well. He’d forgive you, Davydd. Mayhap not at once, but in time—”

“No!”

Eleri reached over, touched his arm. She was only twenty to his twenty and four, but at that moment, she felt much the older of the two. “I know how painful it would be to humble your pride, but Davydd, think! Would you truly rather rely upon Edward’s charity than Llewelyn’s mercy?”

He jerked free. “It is not charity! Edward will make me welcome, and not out of Christian kindness. If I had to depend upon his benevolence, I’d end up begging my bread by the roadside. But he needs me, Eleri. Our first attempt to overthrow Llewelyn was thwarted by fate, Simon de Montfort, and Edward’s half-witted father. But our chance will come again, and when it does, Edward can have no better weapon at hand than Llewelyn’s brother.”

This was said with a certain degree of bravado, for Davydd was not as sure of his prospects at the English court as he’d have Eleri believe. But she did not seem impressed by his argument. She was looking at him somberly, and when he stopped speaking, she urged her horse closer.

“Kiss me, Davydd,” she said, and he leaned toward her. When his fingers touched her cheek, he found her skin wet, but whether she wept or not, he couldn’t tell, for a light, warming rain had begun to fall.

“I leave you here,” she said. “Go with God, my love.”

“What? But you’re coming with me!”

“No,” she said, “I am not.”

Davydd sucked in his breath; that was a defection he’d not expected. Pride prevailed, though. “I see,” he said cuttingly. “I suppose I ought to have foreseen as much. After all, you only promised to love me unto death and beyond. Not a word was ever said about exile!”

“I do love you, Davydd. I loved you enough to share your bed without a priest’s blessing.”

“If you love me, why will you not come with me?”

“I should think the answer to that would be obvious. I was willing to play the whore for you, with no regrets. But I will not play the fool. I speak no English, no French. I know not a single soul in all of England. What would befall me, my love, once you tired of me?”

“What makes you think I would tire of you?” he demanded, and she smiled sadly.

“You tired of all the others, Davydd,” she said, and pulled up the hood of her mantle. “Farewell.”

“Eleri!” But she was already turning her mare. The rain was coming down heavily now. “Go then,” Davydd said. “If you have so little faith in me, go and be damned! And tell Llewelyn this for me, tell him I’ll be back!”

Simon and his supporters met at Oxford in May, vowed to treat as enemies those who would not uphold the Provisions, saving only the King and his family. But Henry held his ground, and the long-simmering discontent soon flared into violence. The Earl of Derby, wild and lawless and true only unto himself, sacked the town of Worcester and burned the Jewry. The young Earl of Gloucester led an army west, and seized the Bishop of Hereford, most hated of Henry’s foreign advisers, casting him into prison and laying siege to the royal castle at Gloucester. Simon then assumed command, and they marched north to besiege Bridgnorth. The attack was coordinated with Llewelyn of Wales, and the town and castle soon surrendered. Simon then swung south, toward London, and a panicked Henry took refuge within the Tower.

Edward reached London in late June, at once sought out his father. As he crossed the Tower’s inner bailey, he came upon his uncle Richard, and together they made their way toward the royal apartments.

“I hope the sight of you gladdens Henry’s eyes. In truth, lad, you’ll find him sorely distraught. He has been greatly disheartened by the ease of Simon’s victories, and—”

Edward spat out a virulent oath. “I am heartily sick of hearing Simon de Montfort lauded as another Caesar. I for one do not fear to face him on the battlefield. Indeed, the sooner the reckoning comes, the better for England, for us all.”

Richard did not agree. His was a lonely, unorthodox conviction that war was man’s ultimate failure. But that was not a view he would ever share, much less seek to proselytize, for so foreign a philosophy would win him no converts, only scorn.

They’d passed through the great hall, had now reached the stairs leading to Henry’s private chamber in the Blundeville Tower. Richard reached out, put his hand on his nephew’s arm. “Wait,” he said. “Ere we go up, I would speak with you about Bristol. The accounts we heard were garbled, confused. What is the truth of it?”

Edward shrugged. “Briefly put, some of my soldiers ran afoul of the townsfolk. Most likely, one of them got too familiar with a citizen’s wife or daughter. Mayhap it took no more than their Flemish accents; never have I seen so much suspicion of foreigners. But whatever sparked the fire, in no time the city was ablaze. It got so ugly that we had to retreat into the castle, and soon found ourselves under siege!” Edward shook his head in remembered astonishment. “Fishmongers and tanners and peddlers—Jesú alone knows where they found the courage! We were in a deep hole, in truth, for the castle larders were poorly victualed. Fortunately, the Bishop of Worcester was within a day’s ride of Bristol. He came, at my urging, and managed to placate the townspeople, in return for my pledge to make peace with de Montfort and the other rebel barons.”

“A pledge you had no intention of honoring,” Richard said quietly, and Edward gave him a surprised smile.

“Of course not, Uncle. Have you forgotten who Worcester is? He’s de Montfort’s pawn!”

“No, Edward, he is not. He is a man of conscience, deserves better than he got from you. But my concern is not for Worcester, it is for you. There are two things no man can hope to outrun in this life—his shadow and a reputation for duplicity and double-dealing. You give your word too lightly, lad. A king who cannot be trusted—”

“Uncle, enough. I know you mean well, but I need no lecture upon the sacred worth of a man’s sworn oath. That sounds suspiciously like the gospel preached by my uncle Simon.” Edward put his foot on the stairs, then paused. “Tell me,” he said, “have you had word from Hal?”

Richard slowly shook his head; his eldest son’s defection to Simon de Montfort was a constant ache. “Hal has been caught up in the fervor for reform,” he said. “As a lad, he was always bedazzled by tales of Camelot. But in time he’ll realize that this is a false quest.”

His apologetic defense would have found no favor with Henry, who saw Hal’s apostasy as a particularly reprehensible form of treason, but Edward was more indulgent; he, too, wanted to believe that Hal was a victim of Simon’s sorcery, that the spell could be broken. “Sooner or later, we’ll have a chance to talk, Uncle, and Hal will heed me. He always does.”

Henry’s chamber was a magnificent octagon, gleaming in white and gold, lit by four soaring bay windows; there was even a small, private oratory, hidden behind an elaborately carved screen. But the room was empty, Henry nowhere in sight. Puzzled, Edward moved forward. “Papa?”

“Edward?” Henry poked his head around the screen. “Edward, thank Christ!” He stumbled on the oratory step, flung his arms around his son’s neck. He was five inches shorter than Edward, forty pounds lighter, but never had he seemed so frail, so slight; his very bones were as hollow and brittle as a bird’s, Edward thought, shocked. He put his arm around his father’s shoulders, catching the smell of sweat, the heavily sugared wine Henry so liked. “Disheartened,” his uncle Richard had said, “distraught.” Nay, this was far worse; this was defeat.

“I was praying,” Henry confided. “But…but sometimes I fear that the Lord no longer listens. If I have not offended Him, why has He forsaken me in my time of trial? I am alone amongst my enemies, Edward, and I know not whom I can trust.”

“Papa, that is not so. You have me and Uncle Richard, the support of the French King and His Holiness the Pope. Even here in London, you are not friendless. The rabble and their renegade Mayor may have been beguiled by de Montfort, but the citizens of substance, the aldermen, still hold fast for the Crown.”

“Do they? Do they indeed?” Henry laughed shrilly. “Tell me this, then. If the aldermen and merchants are so loyal, why have they refused to lend me any more money? My coffers are well-nigh empty, Edward, and they know my need, yet they will not extend me another farthing of credit! I threatened and cajoled by turns, even beseeched, to no avail. What will we do now, lad? How can we fight a war without money? Your Flemish mercenaries will desert you in droves if you cannot pay them, and—”

“Papa, this serves for naught. What of the Templars? Did they, too, refuse you credit?” Henry nodded mournfully, and Edward swore, began to pace. “You must not fret, Papa. Leave this to me; I’ll not let you down.”

Henry’s shoulders slumped; he mumbled an indistinct “Gratia Dei,” moved to the table and poured more wine. To Richard, there was something pathetic about his instant relief, his utter trust. How many people, he wondered, realized that Edward was, at the untried age of twenty-four, the uncrowned King of England? This talk of money gave him more than a twinge of guilt, for he had vast resources at his disposal; shrewd business dealings had made him one of the richest men in England. But he had never been a prodigal spender, and Henry was already deeply in his debt, money never to be repaid. He watched Edward stride about the chamber, while Henry settled himself into a cushioned window-seat; he seemed much calmer now that the burden had been shifted onto Edward, asked no awkward questions. It was Richard who finally said, “Just what do you have in mind, lad?”

Edward flung himself into Henry’s chair of state, swung a long leg over the lacquered arm-rest. “What would you do if the drawbridge were closed to you, Uncle? You’d look for a postern gate, no? Well, so shall I.”

The New Temple of the Knights Templar lay beyond the city walls, between Fleet Street and the River Thames. The Templars, “soldiers of Christ,” were the most martial of the religious orders, and the wealthiest, for although they had originally been founded to fight the infidel, they had in time become the financiers of Europe, money-lenders and bankers for the Crown, the Church, prosperous merchants, the trade guilds. Their London preceptory looked at first glance like a small city in and of itself, but a city without denizens, for the knights retired at Compline. Edward had known this; he and his men passed through the gateway into a world of cloistered silence and deepening summer shadows, a world of deceptive, timeless peace.

“I am Brother Raymond.” The warden was irked at being roused from bed, for he would have to rise in just a few hours for Matins. “How may I be of service, my lord?”

“I regret intruding upon you at such an hour, Brother Raymond, but I am here at the behest of my mother, the Queen. A few months past, she gave up some of her jewels as security for a loan, and the recent unrest in the city has made her fear for their safety.” Edward smiled at the Templar, man to man, and shrugged. “Foolishness, I know. But she’ll not rest easy until I have seen for myself that her qualms are for naught.”

The warden was not surprised that Eleanor should be behaving so capriciously; he held Henry’s willful Queen in no high esteem. “So be it,” he said reluctantly. “If Your Grace will accompany me, I shall take you to the treasure-house. I would ask that your men maintain silence, though, for the knights’ hall lies above it, and my brothers are abed.”

The undercroft of the hall was as dark and damp as a crypt, just as foreboding. Following the feeble glow of their lanterns, Edward’s men advanced cautiously, weaving their way amidst the heavy coffers. The warden glanced back, saw that Edward had stopped. “Ah, no, my lord, those are the treasuries of the city guilds. The Queen’s caskets are over here.”

He was never to be sure exactly what happened next. He thought he heard Edward say, “But this is what I’ve come for, Brother Raymond.” Bewildered, he started to retrace his steps. If Edward signaled, he never saw it. But someone shoved him forward, causing him to stumble, and then a hand was clapped roughly over his mouth. He struggled, to no avail, within moments was overpowered. Bound and gagged, he lay helplessly on the floor, watching in appalled rage as the men produced hammers from beneath their mantles, muffled them in burlap, and set about smashing the locks on the guild coffers.

They were very efficient, moving systematically from coffer to coffer, emptying the contents into large woven sacks. “Enough,” Edward said at last. “We can carry no more.” As they began lugging their booty toward the door, he bent over the warden, set a lantern on the closest coffer. “You’ll pass an uncomfortable night, I fear. It cannot be helped, though.” There was sympathy in his voice, but no trace of shame. Although his face was in shadow, the Templar would later swear he was smiling.

Edward’s raid on the New Temple netted him a thousand pounds. He prudently did not linger in London, made a hasty withdrawal to Windsor Castle. It was a wise move, for as word spread of the theft, outraged Londoners spilled into the streets. Within hours, the city was in turmoil. Enraged mobs roamed about, setting fire to the houses of prominent royalists, assaulting foreigners. When the tumult did not subside, John Mansel and the Queen’s uncle, the Archbishop of Canterbury, fled to Dover, where they took ship for France. To the reformers, Mansel was Henry’s evil genius, and Richard’s son Hal brashly sailed in pursuit. Much to Richard’s dismay, Hal was captured in Boulogne by a French lord rumored to be acting at the English Queen’s behest. Richard withdrew to his castle at Berkhamsted, where he labored to bring about his son’s release and attempted to stave off civil war, imploring Simon to meet with him at Twyford Bridge.

But Simon was not yet ready to negotiate. He swung east, avoiding London, and was given an enthusiastic welcome in the towns of the Cinque Ports. The Bishops of London, Lincoln, and Chester were dispatched to Henry, bearing Simon’s terms for peace: that Hal be set free at once, that Henry again swear to uphold the Oxford Provisions, that he expel his foreign mercenaries and surrender Dover and other castles of strategic importance to the barons. Simon then assumed control of the port of Dover, thus severing all communications with the continent. Trapped in the Tower, Henry was forced to face the most bitter of facts, that it had taken Simon just six weeks to reduce England’s King to utter impotence.

“Are you certain you know where the man lives, John?”

John de Gisors glanced back at his companions. “Somewhere along Bishopsgate Street, not far from St Helen’s nunnery.” Reining in his horse, he beckoned to a passing youth. “You there! Where will we find the house of Mayor Fitz Thomas?”

De Gisors was known on sight to most Londoners; he’d been a city alderman for nigh on thirty years, three times Mayor. The boy hastily doffed his cap, offered to act as guide, and after escorting them through the wide, wooden gateway of the Fitz Thomas manor, he was not disappointed. De Gisors was that rarity, a wealthy merchant who spent freely; he flipped the lad a silver half-penny.

De Gisors’s nephew hastened to help him dismount, for his uncle was no longer young and his girth, as much as his fine woolen tunic, proclaimed him a man of means. “Thank you, Clement,” he said, heaving himself from the saddle. A servant came from the stables, and as he led their horses across the courtyard, Clement looked about with considerable interest.

“Fitz Thomas might pander to the rabble, Uncle, but he stints himself little. A baron would not scorn to shelter here,” he said admiringly, and de Gisors grunted.

“Fitz Thomas does not lack for money. He’s a draper by trade, deals in only the finest wools and silks. He comes from one of London’s most distinguished families, Clement, is nephew to a former Mayor…which makes his behavior all the more despicable, for he is betraying his own.”