Falls the Shadow (58 page)

De Lusignan reached for a wine cup, held it aloft. “To your obliging Prior! How is it that your luck never fails?”

Edward reached over, claimed his uncle’s cup. “I have something better than luck, Will. I have God’s favor.”

Bran was exhausted. Although it was not yet mid-morning, he’d been up for hours. The first attack had come at dawn, and he’d been in the thick of it. They’d beaten the invaders back, managed to keep them off the town walls, but their victory was a fleeting one. He knew they’d be back. In the meantime, though, he meant to take full advantage of this lull in the fighting. Turning his stallion onto Gold Street, he headed for the castle.

An eerie quiet prevailed. Saturday was market day in Northampton. But now the streets lay deserted. The men of the town were up on the walls, most willingly, some impressed into service. Their women were barricaded behind shuttered windows, barred doors. God pity Northampton should it fall to Ned’s army. Bran at once disavowed the thought. His father would come in time. They had only to hold out for a few days.

Approaching the horse market, Bran spotted a friend. He shouted, and Baldwin Wake reined in his mount. “Where do you go? To the castle?”

Bran nodded. “I thought to have some of the garrison relieve the men at the South Gate. And then raid the kitchens; I had a mouthful of bread this morn, and nothing since. Damnation, Baldwin, but I hate this! I’d much rather be on the attack—”

“My lord, look!” His squire was pointing. A lone rider was galloping toward them. Recognizing Peter de Montfort’s youngest son, Bran and Baldwin spurred their mounts to meet him.

Robert de Montfort yanked on the reins so abruptly that his lathered stallion went back on its haunches. “Bran, thank God! They’ve breached the walls at St Andrew’s Priory! We cannot hope to hold them—”

“Baldwin, get reinforcements from the castle! Rob, your father is at the South Gate; warn him!” Bran’s last words were carried back by the wind. He was already passing the Dominican friary, his stallion lengthening stride, needing no urging, flying.

At the Marehold, he encountered a small band of Oxford students; when Henry ordered the university shut down, some of the youths had chosen to fight for the Provisions at Northampton. They had been a welcome addition to the rebel army, proving themselves surprisingly adept with crossbows and slings, and they responded readily to Bran’s shouted appeal, streaming after him into the priory grounds.

There all was chaos. Monks mingled with disheartened defenders, ready to run. Livestock milled about, untended, bleating goats and barking dogs adding immeasurably to the confusion. Women and children who’d seen the priory as a safe refuge now fled in panic, leaving behind them a trail of discarded and dropped belongings. They scattered as Bran galloped through the gateway, too terrified to distinguish friend from foe.

There was a large gaping hole in the priory’s garden wall; men were already scrambling through. Within moments, though, they were diving for safety as Bran’s stallion plunged toward them.

Bran gave his horse its head, and the roan soared over the rubble. Landing as gracefully as any cat, it easily overtook the retreating soldiers. Bran’s sword was soon bloody to the hilt. He fended off an upthrust halberd, swung the stallion about, and slashed a path to the scaling ladders propped against the wall.

Climbing a siege ladder was always a perilous undertaking, but never more so than now. With each thrust of his sword, Bran sheathed it in flesh, while his stallion raked its teeth into exposed backs and legs, trampled those unfortunates who tumbled underfoot.

“My lord, come back!” Only his squire had dared to follow Bran beyond the wall. To his vast relief, Bran heeded him, raced the roan back into the priory. His reckless charge had dazzled the students. They eagerly did his bidding, made ready to repel the next rush.

The enemy regrouped with surprising speed, and this time they succeeded in making another break in the wall. Bran’s courage, never in doubt, now verged upon the suicidal. Again he sent his stallion into the breach, managed by sheer audacity to slow their momentum, to check their onslaught.

But as more and more soldiers rallied to the attack, Bran pressed his luck once too often. The third time that he ventured beyond the priory walls, he found himself surrounded. His stallion reared, screaming defiance, and Bran lashed out with his sword. His blade sliced into the nearest shoulder, and as the man fell, he spurred his horse forward. The stallion slammed into the encircling men, broke free, and bolted across the field. Bran jerked on the reins, but the animal had the bit between its teeth. He heard his squire’s voice, shrieking his name, with each stride was being carried deeper into enemy territory. Desperately he sought to turn the runaway roan, and as its breakneck speed slowed, he began to hope that he might yet manage to make it back to the priory. But by then they were upon the ditch.

It was too late to swerve. The stallion made a gallant attempt to hurdle the trench. But its hind legs struck the embankment. As it tumbled backward into the ditch, Bran was fortunate enough to be thrown clear. He landed hard, though, striking his head against the side of his helm, and all went dark. When he came to, he was bruised, breathless, half-blinded by his own blood, and there was a sword leveled at his throat.

He’d lost his own sword in the fall. Now they claimed his dagger, dragged him roughly up the side of the ditch. But when one of the soldiers pulled off his helm, the atmosphere changed dramatically. At sight of that thatch of raven hair, those narrow grey eyes, the man gave an elated shout. “Jesus wept, you’re Leicester’s son!”

Astounded by their good fortune, they crowded around, all talking at once. Bran found himself suddenly surrounded by smiles. One of the men, a burly youth with scarred face and black eye patch, even stripped a dirty bandage from his own arm. “Here,” he said. “We cannot have you bleeding to death, not when your blood is as good as gold!”

Bran took the bandage; although his head wound seemed superficial, it was still bleeding copiously. “Was my stallion hurt?”

“By rights the both of you ought to have broken your necks after a tumble like that! Damned if I can explain it, for he’s not even limping.”

Glancing back to make sure the soldier wasn’t lying, Bran was shocked to see how far his horse had taken him; they were more than a quarter mile from the priory. “You’ve breached the walls,” he said dully.

“Your capture took the heart out of their defense. But it—Hellfire!”

Bran swung about, at once saw the cause of the soldier’s outburst. As several armor-clad riders swerved in their direction, Bran’s captors clustered protectively around him, fearful of losing their prize.

“Did I not tell you, Will? It’s de Montfort’s whelp!”

Bran’s breath caught in his throat. Staring up at Roger de Mortimer and William de Lusignan, he felt a sudden rush of fear, far greater than any battlefield dread.

Roger de Mortimer ignored the soldiers, fixed Bran with a malevolent stare, and between them rose the spectre of his smoldering Radnorshire manors. But it was William de Lusignan who held Bran’s eyes, whose smile sent a chill along his spine.

“You’re the one they call Bran. Tell us…how fares your father? We hear he lies crippled in London, unable to play a man’s part. It must be true if he’s sending his striplings to fight for him.”

“What would you know of playing a man’s part?”

From the corner of his eye, Bran saw his captors grinning; their dislike of de Lusignan was heartening. He watched warily as the older man dismounted, still smiling.

“How old are you, lad?”

“Twenty and three, why? You want to know my birthdate, too? My favorite wine?”

“You’re de Montfort’s son for certes. You have his black Saracen coloring, his brazen insolence. But there is one great difference between you.”

“And just what is that?”

“Your father has been blessed with a long life,” de Lusignan said and then laughed, for he was close enough to hear Bran’s ragged intake of breath. “Of course it need not be. It’s true you’re de Montfort’s spawn, but you’re also my sister’s son. I’d not want it said that I lacked all family feeling. I’m willing to spare your life—if you beg for it.”

Bran’s fist clenched around his bloodied bandage. “Rot in Hell!”

De Lusignan had at last lost his smile; his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Stepping back, he said, “Seize him.”

The soldiers did, unwilling but not daring to disobey the King’s brother. There was a suspenseful pause as de Lusignan studied his struggling nephew, and then he said, “Kill him.”

Part of it may have been their loathing for de Lusignan. Or their involuntary admiration for Bran’s doomed gesture of defiance. Much of it most certainly was the loss of a large ransom. But at that, the soldiers rebelled. “He’s our prisoner, my lord,” the one-eyed soldier shouted, and the others chimed in angrily.

De Lusignan ignored their protests. He raised his hand and three of his men dismounted, drawing their swords. The soldiers released Bran, grudgingly gave ground. Only the one-eyed youth seemed on the verge of mutiny, fingering his dagger as if he wanted to throw it to Bran.

Bran began to back away as the men closed in, fanning out with purposeful intent. There was an unreality about the entire scene, as if he were watching someone else trapped between the ditch and the advancing soldiers. Even the shouting now seemed to be coming from a great distance. The men were almost upon him when an armed knight galloped into their midst.

He was young and vaguely familiar to Bran, with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, eyes astonishingly, incongruously agleam with laughter. “Do not let me spoil the fun,” he said. “Four heads for the price of one is a rare bargain.”

“This is none of your concern, Welshman!”

Davydd smiled over his shoulder at the King’s outraged brother. “I thought it only fair, my lord Earl, that your men should know what reward to expect for this service they do you. What will you give them for slaying de Montfort—a half shilling apiece? No offense, but you’re not known for your generosity, are you? Now the Lord Edward on the other hand will likely offer them a decent burial, mayhap even a Requiem Mass.”

“Damn you, what are you babbling about?”

“You did not know?” Davydd queried, in mock surprise. “The Lord Edward gave express orders that his de Montfort cousin was not to be harmed. So I suspect he might well take it amiss that you had the lad murdered.”

“And how do I know you’re not lying?”

“You do not, of course,” Davydd agreed cheerfully. “Mayhap I am. But what if I’m not? Are you willing to risk it?”

Much to his chagrin, de Lusignan realized he was not, for he was gradually coming to comprehend the vast and dangerous differences between Henry and his firstborn son. “Sheathe your swords. We’ll take him into custody, deliver him to the King.”

At that, Bran found his voice. “Like bloody Hell you will!”

Davydd grinned. “I think young de Montfort suspects he might suffer an unfortunate mishap on the way—trying to escape.”

None of them had noticed Philip Basset’s approach. “What in Christ’s Passion is happening here? Have you all forgotten that there is a battle going on in the town?” His eyes flicked toward Bran, widened in recognition. “I see. You soldiers there, escort the King’s nephew to Lord Edward’s command tent. The rest of you men get back onto the field.” Adding pointedly, “My lords? You are coming, too, I trust?”

The command was his; he had his way. Within moments, Bran found himself alone with his original captors. “Christ’s pity,” he said softly, then heard Davydd laugh.

He had reined in his stallion a few feet away. “Well put. Right about now you must feel like a bone thrown to a pack of hungry dogs!”

Bran nodded slowly. “I’ll not argue that.” And then, “Now I know who you are. You’re Llewelyn’s brother!”

“Always,” Davydd said dryly. Shifting his gaze to the downcast soldiers, he said, “Cheer up, lads. It was inevitable that he’d be claimed by the King. But all is not lost. Edward is likely to reward you for keeping him safe.” He started to follow after the others, then swung about, reaching for a wine flask at his belt.

“Here, Cousin,” he said, flipping the flask at Bran’s feet. “I daresay you need this more than I do!”

The next twenty-four hours were the most wretched of Bran’s life. His guards were friendly, influenced, perhaps, by accounts of his confrontation with William de Lusignan, and they kept him informed of the siege progress. The town fell that same afternoon, and Peter de Montfort and his men took refuge within the castle. But Bran knew the lamentable state of its defenses; its west wall was near collapse. Peter could not hope to hold out until his father’s arrival. Heartsick, helpless, Bran feared that his father’s dream was dying in the narrow, muddy streets of Northampton.

It was not until Compline the next evening that he was summoned to Edward’s tent. “Sit down,” Edward invited, waving away the guards. Busying himself with several flagons of wine, he announced, quite matter-of-factly, “It’s over. Peter de Montfort and the castle garrison surrendered just after Vespers.”

“If you expect me to drink to your victory, you can damned well choke!”

Unfazed, Edward continued to pour. “Since when do you turn down good wine? This batch comes from Bordeaux; you’ll not even have to spit out the sediment!”

Sloshing a cup into Bran’s hand, he said, “You’re the talk of the camp, Cousin. Your exploits at the priory were—”

Bran jumped to his feet. “Go ahead, Ned, gloat, but I swear—”

Edward looked surprised. “Bran, I’m serious! Those devil-be-damned charges of yours were the stuff of which legends are made. Then there was the way you defied our de Lusignan uncle. Death before dishonor,” Edward joked, but his eyes were shining. Taking a seat across from Bran, he said, “You did yourself proud, lad. Although I should be the last man to be lauding you like this. After all, I’m the one who took the town, only to have you end up as the hero of the hour!”

His praise was balm to Bran’s mangled pride. He took a deep swallow of Edward’s wine, deciding that if ever there was a night to get thoroughly drunk, now was the time. “I’ve a favor to ask, Ned. If you can find out what became of my stallion, I’d like Davydd ap Gruffydd to have him. I daresay he was more interested in vexing de Lusignan than in saving me. But never had I been in greater need of a guardian angel; I just did not expect my angel to be Welsh!”