Falls the Shadow (59 page)

Edward laughed. “A man could go mad trying to unravel Davydd’s motives. He’s about as trustworthy as a wolf on the prowl, but having him at our court is like having a lance aimed at Llewelyn’s heart. So it’s well worth indulging his fancies, overlooking his flaws. And he can be right likable—when he wants to be. But whatever his reasons, I confess I’m glad he chose to meddle when he did.”

Bran set his wine cup down, gave Edward a level, searching look. “Why did you do it, Ned? Why order my life spared?”

Edward shrugged. “It should be obvious. You must owe me at least a hundred pounds, mayhap more. And I’ve never yet known a man who paid back a debt from the grave. Besides, I expect you’d have done the same for me.”

“No,” Bran said, “I would not,” and Edward, rising for more wine, spun around to stare at him.

“I might have,” Bran said, “a month ago,” and Edward relaxed.

“I see,” he said. “You bear a grudge for Gloucester Castle.”

“No,” Bran said. “For Harry.”

“That was a shabby trick, I know,” Edward conceded. “I expect it’ll take some time ere he can forgive me.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Bran warned, saw that his cousin didn’t believe him. Edward was crossing the tent, where he spoke briefly with a servant before sauntering back with another flagon of wine.

“They’ll be bringing in our supper. I thought I owed you one good meal ere you depart for Windsor Castle; you leave at dawn.”

Bran had known there’d be no question of ransom. “You think it’s over? You’re wrong, Ned, dead wrong. You may have outwitted Harry and outfought me, but you’ve not yet faced my father.”

Vengeful in defeat, Edward could be magnanimous in victory. Forbearing to take offense, he poured a generous amount into Bran’s cup. “What shall we drink to—better days?”

It occurred to Bran that, whatever happened now, their lives would never be the same. “No,” he said, reaching for his wine cup. “To yesterdays.”

While a lone rider might cover forty or more miles a day, an army was lucky to make half that distance. Although Simon left London at dawn, it was full dark before they came within sight of the walls of St Albans Abbey. Two more days lay ahead of them, two more days trapped within a swaying horse litter, two more days of suspense, envisioning a town under siege, begrudging every mile, every minute that stretched between Northampton and deliverance.

Roger de Norton, the Abbot of St Albans, was awaiting them inside the north gateway, an honor more properly accorded a king than a rebel earl; Simon was surprised and heartened by the warmth of his welcome.

The guest house had been made ready for him. A hearth fire took the chill off the April air, and a table was laden with uncommonly rich Lenten fare: a roast pike in aspic, gingered carp, sugared pancakes. Yet the Abbot’s demeanor was not that of a bountiful host. Enveloped in Benedictine black, he paced at Simon’s side like a somber, disquieted shadow, intent upon private griefs, secret sorrows. Simon’s fatigue had dulled his perception; he did not even notice the Abbot’s distraction. Nor did his companions. Humphrey de Bohun and Guy were regarding the food with relish, while Harry trailed behind, so quiet, so remote he might have been a stranger to them all. Harry, the abiding optimist, born to sunlight and daydreams and cheer, now found his every breath poisoned, his peace haunted, so great was his fear for his brother.

“My lord…” The Abbot stopped suddenly, in the center of the room. “I’d meant to wait till you had eaten, rested. But that seems dishonest, somehow, even with the best intent. Less than an hour ago a man arrived at the abbey, seeking you. He was at Northampton, my lord, and he says…he says the town has fallen to the King’s army.”

“No!” Harry darted forward, grabbed the Abbot’s arm. “That’s a lie!”

Simon reached out, released his son’s grip. “Bring him to me.”

He still held fast to hope; a mistake, a lie. But then the door opened. Nicholas Segrave had served under his command in Gascony. Simon stood quite still, watching the other man walk toward him. He moved very slowly, his steps leaden, as uneven as Simon’s own. There was dried blood on his hauberk, his hair, even his boots, and as he looked at Simon, the dirt on his face streaked with tears.

Simon swallowed. “My son?”

“Alive, my lord. God was that merciful. But all is lost.”

“Tell me,” Simon said.

“They took the town Saturday, we think by treachery. Your son was captured trying to stave off their attack on the priory. Twice he ventured alone beyond the walls, then his horse bolted and threw him. And once they were in the town, we could not hope to hold out. Yesterday Peter de Montfort yielded the castle, and Edward then turned the town over to his soldiers for their sport. They took more than eighty barons and knights prisoner, gutted your army…”

There was a strained quiet, and then a slamming door, as Harry fled the chamber. The others didn’t move, watched Simon. The Abbot was taken aback by his utter stillness. He knew of Simon’s temper, had expected him to rave and swear, to rage like a lion deprived of its whelp. As frightening as his violence would have been, Simon’s frozen silence was no less unnerving. He waited for Guy or Humphrey to speak, to act. When neither did, he said, “My lord, what can I do for you? Mayhap if you were to go to the church…”

Simon turned. Yes, the church. Alone in the dark, alone with God. “I thank you,” he said. “But not yet. First I have need of pen and parchment.” How cold he was of a sudden, how tired. He could feel tremors shooting up his bad leg, an ache that burned into the bone. “I would be alone,” he said, “so I may write to my wife.”

“My lord of Leicester, I thank you for sparing me these moments. The other innkeepers have chosen me to speak for them. I hope you’ll not think me presumptuous for coming to you like this, but we did not know what else to do. Your eldest son…he’s been frequenting the ale-houses in the town, where he’s been drinking himself sodden. He…he seems very distraught, my lord, and his temper is raw. Last night he got into a nasty brawl, and witnesses say he provoked it. My lord, it is not for us to chastise an Earl’s son; if you could but talk to him…”

Running out of words, he waited anxiously to see if he’d offended. His relief was vast, indeed, when Simon said tersely, “I’ll see to it.”

As the door closed behind the grateful innkeeper, Simon glanced toward the young man slouched in the shadows of the window-seat. “Why did I have to hear about this from strangers?”

Guy sat up abruptly. “How could I be the one to tell you, Papa? Harry would never forgive me!”

“No, I suppose not,” Simon conceded. “I know the demon that torments him—guilt. He blames himself for Bran’s capture, for our loss at Northampton.”

Guy shrugged. “Well, it is hard to argue with that. If he’d not let Ned go—”

“ ‘What if’ and ‘if only’ are games for fools, Guy. What if the French King had not betrayed our trust? If Henry’s honor were not such a tattered flag? If only his brother Richard had been the firstborn…Where do you stop?”

“Papa…how much longer do you mean to tarry here at the abbey? I’m not good at waiting.”

“You think I am?” Simon asked dryly. “But we’ve no choice. Until our scouts get back to St Albans, we’ve no way of knowing where Edward intends to strike next. It could be London, the Cinque Ports. Or he might choose to head north. The Midlands hold fast for me; he’d find tempting targets in Leicester, Nottingham, mayhap even Kenilworth.”

Guy gasped, but after a moment, common sense mercifully reasserted itself. Kenilworth was the most impregnable stronghold in the realm; his father had seen to that. It could never be taken by force, could only be starved into submission. But thinking of his mother in the midst of a siege brought home to him, as Bran’s plight had not, just how precarious was his family’s future.

Getting to his feet, Simon walked over to the table. Guy had noticed that he favored his bad leg more obviously as the evening advanced. “How does the leg, Papa—truly? Is there much pain?”

“Some,” Simon admitted. “It seems worse when it rains, or if I’ve been on it too long. I care naught about the pain, but it’s likely to be weeks ere I can ride. Of all the times to take a fall!”

“If only—a game for fools, Papa,” Guy murmured, and Simon gave him an intent look, and then a crooked smile.

There was a soft knock; the Abbot and the hosteller entered, followed by a young man in a sweat-stained, muddied mantle. “My lord, Brother Raymond and I were coming to invite you to dine with us on the morrow. But instead, I again find myself the bearer of bad tidings.”

Simon looked past the Abbot. “I’ve seen you,” he said, “in the Fitz Thomas household,” and the youth nodded.

“Indeed, my lord. I am the Mayor’s clerk. He bade me come to you, entreat you to return to London with all haste.”

“Edward?” Simon said sharply, and the man shook his head.

“Nay, my lord, it is our own fear that threatens us. When word reached us yesterday of Northampton’s surrender, the people panicked. All know what evils can befall a captured town; at Northampton, not even the churches were spared. Rumors took fire, and soon the entire city was ablaze with suspicion and dread. Men swapped fears in the streets, the ale-houses, and no tale was too outlandish to be believed. There was talk of treachery in Northampton, and people remembered how John de Gisors had plotted with the Lord Edward to trap you in Southwark. By day’s end, rumors were rife of a conspiracy to betray the city to the King.”

“Was there truth to these rumors?”

“In all honesty, my lord, we do not know. But this morning, the townsmen sought to root out the Judas in our midst. First they burned some of the houses of those known to be King’s men. And then word spread that the Jews were in league with Lord Edward, that they’d made duplicate keys to the city gates, that they were hoarding Greek fire. A large crowd gathered in Cheapside, and from there they surged into the Jewry. The Mayor did what he could to stop the killing, but in truth, my lord, our city is out of control. Scores are dead, and as I rode out of Aldersgate, the sky was black with smoke from the Jewry.”

“Does the Mayor give credence to these rumors about the Jews?”

“Nay, my lord, he does not. But he can find few to heed him. He believes that only your presence can quell the panic.”

“Guy, go find your brother. You, come with me.” Simon was halfway to the door before he remembered the Abbot. “I thank you for your hospitality, Abbot Roger, but there’s much to be done and little time. We depart at dawn for London.”

The Abbot made the sign of the cross. “Go with God,” he said, and then, “My lord, is there anything that we can do for you?”

Simon paused, his hand on the door latch. “Yes,” he said at last, “there is. You can pray for my son, for my men taken at Northampton.”

As the door closed behind him, a sudden gust of wind rattled the shutters, tore one free. Brother Raymond hastened over to refasten it, while the Abbot stood where he was, staring after Simon.

“He is the one in need of our prayers,” he said. “He lost more than his son at Northampton. He may well have lost his war, too.”

That Wednesday, April 9, in God’s year 1264, was a day of bloodshed and horror, would be a blight upon the memory of a great city. Fear found a natural mate in bigotry; the resulting union brought death and misery to the most defenseless and vulnerable members of the community. As mobs roamed the Jewry, looting and burning, forcing Jews to convert at knife-point, Mayor Fitz Thomas and the Justiciar, Hugh le Despenser, sought to end the slaughter. By offering refuge within the Tower of London, they were able to save some lives. But hundreds died in the madness that convulsed the city on that Wednesday in Holy Week, just ten days before the most sacred of Christian celebrations, the advent of Easter.

From Northampton, Henry’s army took Leicester and Nottingham, while Edward raided the lands of the Earl of Derby. Having reassured himself that London was in no immediate danger, Simon and the Earl of Gloucester launched an attack on Rochester Castle, which controlled the London-Dover road. The town fell that same day, and they laid siege to the castle. But upon getting word that Edward was approaching London, Simon hastened back to defend it again. The royal army was not yet ready to assault the capital, though. Instead, Henry and Edward circled around London, and raised Simon’s siege at Rochester. So bitter had the war become that those of Simon’s men unlucky enough to be captured were cruelly mutilated, their hands and feet chopped off. Henry and Edward then marched to the coast, hoping to secure ships for a naval assault upon London. But Dover Castle still held fast for Simon, and the sailors of the Cinque Ports put out to sea rather than obey the King’s command. Thwarted, Edward captured the Earl of Gloucester’s castle at Tonbridge. Simon still controlled London, but the circle was closing.

May was always a favorite month for the English, the most festive season of the year. Now it was a time of fear and uncertainty, and a chronicler wrote: “There was no peace in the realm. Everything was destroyed by slaughter, fire, rapine, and plunder. Everywhere there was clamor and trembling and woe.”

On this first Sunday in May, it was a rare sight to see a Jew on the streets of London. As soon as they left the illusory shelter of the Jewry, Jacob ben Judah and his son found themselves to be the cynosure of all eyes. The hostility they encountered was predictable, but muted. Like drunkards awakening after a lost weekend, Londoners were reluctant to remember, to face the consequences of their orgy of blood-hate. The infirm, aged rabbi and his newly scarred son reminded them of what had been done in the Lord’s Name, and many were ashamed of their city, while wishing that Jacob and Benedict would discreetly disappear back into the Jewry where they belonged.

Jacob ben Judah sometimes envisioned his life as an hour-glass, one in which the grains of sand had dwindled down to the merest handful, for he was approaching his biblical three-score years and ten. Three English Kings had reigned within his memory span, and under each, his people had suffered. It had not always been so. In the time of the present King’s grandfather, the Jews had thrived. But the coronation of the crusader-King, Lion-Heart, had been an anointing in Jewish blood. Survival was easier under Richard’s brother John; he claimed their gold, not their lives. But life was hardest of all under the pious Henry, for in these years, the Church felt itself under siege, threatened by heretics, by internal schisms, above all, by the Jews who dwelt so precariously and conspicuously in their midst.

Approaching the Cheapside Cross, they recognized a man Jacob knew well, an apothecary who had often sold him herbs and ointments. Rabbis received no salary from their congregations, and Jacob eked out a living as a physician, a profession not as profitable as men supposed, for the Jewish community was a small one and his few Christian patients came to him surreptitiously, risking the damnation of their souls for the sake of their bodies. In the past, the apothecary had always greeted Jacob as a colleague, according him the respectful title of “Master.” Now, face flushed, eyes averted, he passed Jacob and Benedict by in silence, as if twenty years of good will had never been.

Jacob said nothing, sorrowing over the frailty of decent men, the many who were so easily intimidated by the few. But Benedict’s mouth twisted down. “The coward,” he muttered, and Jacob’s heart was flooded with pain.

It had been just twenty-five days since Benedict had been cornered in an alley near their Milk Street home, and his wounds had yet to heal. The blood-color crimson of his sling drew all eyes; upon it, he had defiantly pinned his badge, the dangerous, degrading symbol forced upon all Jews by order of the King. But if the people they encountered looked first at his badge, it was the ugly, inflamed welt above Benedict’s eye that drew their stares. So raw and reddened was it that it elicited an involuntary wince from all but the most callous passer-by, and each time that Jacob looked upon it, as a father, not a physician, he was sickened. He knew full well that had he not chosen to visit kindred in Oxford, he would likely have died in the ruins of his ransacked house, for it was Benedict’s youth that had saved him, enabling him to wrest a club from one of his tormentors, to fight his way free. Yet Jacob found himself wishing fervently that Benedict, not he, had been in Oxford on that April eve.

He could not keep his eyes from his son’s wound, and when Benedict at last caught him at it, he sighed, said, “I fear, lad, that you’ll have a nasty scar.”

The young man’s eyes blazed. “I hope to God I do,” he said. “I’ll bear it proudly to the end of my days!”

Jacob had nothing to say to that, no comfort to offer. He could not even assure Benedict that the horror of his memories would fade with time, for he knew better. He at least could recall days of comparative peace, days when their world had not seemed so dark, so fraught with peril. Benedict had no such consolation; the brief years of his life had been passed in a vortex. Born in the year that the Pope ordered the burning of their Talmud, coming to manhood amidst Christian accusations of ritual murder and coin clipping and usury, Benedict had never known a time in which Jews were not treated as heretics, looked upon as the enemies of Christ.

Benedict stopped so abruptly that Jacob stumbled against him. “Son? What is—” By then his eyes had tracked the path of Benedict’s gaze. A young woman stood framed at an open window, brush in hand, and as the sun struck her free-flowing hair, it enveloped her in a halo of fire, bright enough to blind. Jacob drew a constricted breath. Miriam’s hair had been that same shade of red copper. Miriam, child of light, quick-tongued, freckled, an angelic imp on the verge of womanhood; Jacob had been awaiting the day when he’d send the matchmaker to her father, seek her for his son. Now as he gazed up at the young woman in the window-seat, tears filled his eyes. He still did not know how Miriam had died. Benedict had said only, “I saw her body.” No more than that.

“My son,” he said softly, but at his touch, Benedict pulled away.

“Do not, Papa.” His tone was fierce, his eyes imploring. “Do not speak of her,” he said, and they walked on in silence. Ahead lay their destination; the towering spire of St Paul’s Cathedral stabbed the sky, pierced a passing cloud. It was a daunting sight, for they were forbidden entry by both their own laws and those of the Christian faith. Benedict suddenly spun around, barring the way.

“Papa, there is still time to abandon this mad quest. Not only is it foolhardy; it is futile. What makes you think Leicester will listen to you? It’s well known that he has no liking for Jews.” Adding scathingly, “He is a devout Christian, is he not?”

“I’ll not deny he’s shown little sympathy for our plight. Yet if what men say of him is true, he is not like the others of his class, does not believe that justice is but a privilege of the highborn. He may not heed me; at least I shall try. If I do not, this man Fitz John will have murdered with impunity.”

“ ‘This man Fitz John,’ ” Benedict echoed grimly. “Better say it as it is, Papa—this lord. Even if he were not, what matter? What Gentile was ever punished for killing a Jew? But if you must reach for the moon, why not also seek the sun? Why not beseech Leicester to take measures against the Earl of Gloucester, too? Is his guilt any less than Fitz John’s? After the London massacre, he let his men loose on the Canterbury Jews; is he never to answer for it?”

“Gloucester may be too great a lord to do earthly penance. But he will answer to God,” Jacob said solemnly. “Never doubt that, Benedict.”

His son was not so sure; he’d not been blessed with Jacob’s sublime faith. The gateway loomed before them; as they passed through into the churchyard, Benedict hunched his shoulders, bracing for the worst. As he feared, their appearance created a stir; they’d not even reached Paul’s Cross before they were accosted by a well-dressed man of middle years, flushed with indignation.

“You profane our Holy Day by your presence here,” he said curtly. “You’d like it not if Christians were to invade your temple—”

“But you do.” Benedict’s smile was bitter. “Your Dominican friars often force their way into our synagogue, compel us to interrupt our prayers whilst they preach.”

The man’s mouth dropped open. It may have been sheer shock at being rebuffed by a Jew. It may have been instinct. But there was something about this dark, intense youth that alarmed him. The ugly slash on Benedict’s forehead seemed to sear like a brand; the man found himself mesmerized by it, unable to tear his gaze away. The tension of the moment slowly ebbed. Turning abruptly on his heel, he strode off.

Jacob expelled an uneven breath. As he looked at his son, all he could see was a coiled bow, a hempen bowstring drawn back to the breaking point. He ought never to have allowed the lad to come, never. And yet how could he have prevented it?

“We’d best wait on the south side of the churchyard, Papa. Leicester will enter at the west door.” Benedict had often surprised his father by the stray bits of miscellaneous information he managed to garner, and it seemed natural to Jacob that his son should somehow know the chief entrance of the cathedral. He followed, praying that his hunch was right, that amidst the preparations for war, Simon de Montfort would still find time to attend a Requiem Mass for the dead of Northampton.

The ensuing wait was a stressful one, and when Simon finally did arrive, they almost missed him, for they had been watching for his horse litter. It was the talk of London, so unusual was its design, a box-like structure suspended on long poles, custom-made to cushion a healing leg. They did not notice the men on horseback, therefore did not recognize Simon until the crowd surged forward.

Simon was known on sight to both Jacob and his son; over the years, they’d often watched him ride through London’s streets. Jacob was startled now to see how suddenly Simon seemed to have aged. The darkly circled eyes, the tautly set mouth, the lack of spring in his step: to Jacob, they spoke of sleepless nights, troubled days. How fearful he must be for his family, Jacob thought, so familiar an emotion that he could not repress an instant of identification with the highborn Earl, even a flicker of unwelcome pity. For time was running out, the shadows cast by Northampton lengthening. And Jacob’s faith began to waver; how could he expect a fair hearing from a man with his back to the wall?

Benedict, too, was staring at Simon. But for him it was simpler. He saw an English lord, a crusader knight, an enemy.

As soon as he dismounted, Simon found himself surrounded. People pressed in on all sides, hands outstretched. But they sought neither alms nor banter, just the reassurance of his presence in their midst. A strange hush had fallen over the churchyard. In recent days Simon had only to venture out onto the street for these subdued, anxious crowds to gather. It had chilled him to the bone once he understood. Theirs was the courage of despair. They knew what horrors had befallen the citizens of Northampton, of Leicester, Nottingham, knew what vengeance Edward would exact from them. And yet they held fast, attempted no deals, no eleventh-hour surrenders, trusting in Simon to conjure up a miracle, to save their city. It was a terrible burden, their trust.

Simon frowned at sight of the Jews, that they should stand so boldly in the very shadow of God’s House. But he made no effort to learn the reason for their unseemly presence here; he had greater cares. He was both surprised and annoyed when Jacob stepped into his path.

“My lord, it is most urgent that I speak with you. If you could but give me a few moments after the Mass…”

All day long, men asked favors of him, sought to lay small claims to dwindling hours. This at least was an easy request to refuse. Simon shook his head, said brusquely, “I have no time to spare.” But as he moved past the rabbi, Jacob’s next words halted him in his tracks.

“The Bishop of Lincoln would have found the time, my lord,” he said, and Simon swung around to stare at him.

“The Bishop of Lincoln was very dear to me. I would not have his name bandied about by disbelievers.”

Jacob was of a sudden assailed by dreadful doubts; could he have been wrong about this man? “I knew His Grace,” he said, adding automatically the blessing his brethren accorded their dead, “May peace be upon him.”

“Where did you know him?” Simon demanded, so suspiciously that Jacob was thankful he could give an honest answer, that he had truth on his side.

“In Oxford. I was born there, made it my home for many years. During the lord Bishop’s tenure as Chancellor of the university, he desired to learn Hebrew, sent into the Jewry for a tutor. I was the one summoned.”

“He did mention such a tutor,” Simon conceded, still wary. “That was you?”

Jacob nodded. “I do not think, my lord, that he would have been offended to hear his name in my mouth.”

Simon was still frowning. “In less than two days, I lead an army out of London. If this matter of yours was so pressing, why did you not seek me out ere this?”

“I did, my lord. But your servants always turned me away.”

The church bells had begun to toll. Simon glanced toward the cathedral, back toward Jacob. “Come to the Tower after Compline. I will try to find time for you then.”

Benedict had never expected that Simon might actually agree to see his father, and he was appalled at the thought of returning to the Tower, so recently his own refuge. “Papa, you must not do this,” he cried, pulling his father aside. “This man is not to be trusted. You’d imperil yourself for naught!”

“I know well the risk,” Jacob admitted. “But if we do not speak for our dead, who will?”

It had been a very long day for Simon. After knighting several of his young supporters, he met with the Earls of Gloucester and Oxford, the Bishops of Chichester, London, and Worcester, and the city’s Mayor. It was a council of war that resolved upon one last plea for peace. On the morrow the Bishops were to depart for Sussex, to put before Henry an offer to negotiate, even to pay reparations.