Falls the Shadow (65 page)

He appeared to have been watching them for some time, at ease astride a bright chestnut destrier, his sword unsheathed and bloodied, but pointing downward. Rather than a great helm, he wore an old-fashioned kettle helmet with nose-guard, and the face turned toward them was young, sun-browned, surprisingly benign. But they were too frightened to notice his lack of rancor.

Davydd had no particular liking for Londoners; they too often acted as if the Welsh had tails. But he could see no sport in killing these bedraggled, scared youngsters. Poor fools, if they had any sense they’d not be here at all; what did it really matter to them whether Edward or de Montfort prevailed? At that, he gave a low laugh; what did it matter to him, either? “Go on,” he said abruptly, “be off with you.” They gave him an incredulous look, then bolted. Davydd watched until they were out of sight, then urged his stallion into an easy canter, toward Simon’s ravaged encampment.

Edward had removed his helm, was drinking deeply from a leather wineskin. “Here,” he said. “Take your first victory drink of the day.”

Davydd accepted the wineskin with alacrity. “Did you truly expect to find de Montfort in that horse litter?”

Edward’s smile was faintly self-conscious. “I suppose I let my hope run away with me. I ought to have known better. Even if he had to be tied to the saddle, Simon would be on the field.”

Davydd wiped his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. He’d never learned to feel at home in England, either as hostage or fugitive, but rarely had he felt as alienated, as solitary as he did today; taking part in this embittered English civil war was like being a stranger at a particularly unpleasant family reunion. “Who are they?” he asked, glancing with mild curiosity toward the bloodied bodies of the hostages.

Edward shrugged. “Who knows?” Raising a hand, he shielded his eyes, looked appraisingly up at the sun. “It’s past noon. We’ve tarried here long enough.”

They drew rein on the crest of the hill, where their first glimpse of the battlefield seemed to confirm Edward’s every expectation. The battle was over, part of the town in flames. Bodies beyond counting lay sprawled in the sun, some already stripped by looters. Men were searching the field for friends or gain, others tending to the wounded, still others chasing loose horses. Only to the south, beyond the priory, did sporadic fighting continue, and that flurry of action degenerated, even as they watched, into a rout.

Edward laughed. “The dolts, they’re going to blunder right into the mudflats! Simon will lose even more men in that marsh than he did in the river.”

“Do you think he still lives, Ned?” Hal asked hesitantly, for he could not imagine Simon dead, any more than he could the sun plummeting from the sky.

“No,” Edward said flatly. “He’s not a man to be taken alive.” Turning in the saddle, he raised his voice. “We’ll give our horses a brief rest; they’ve been roughly used this day. But the sooner we get back to the castle, the sooner we can begin celebrating!”

Some of them were ready to celebrate then and there, and wineskins were soon passing back and forth. It was left to Davydd, the outsider, to stumble onto the truth. Moving to the edge of the bluff, he gazed down at the battlefield. So many widows, so many orphans made this day. And not all the tears shed for de Montfort would be English. Llewelyn had suffered a defeat, too, lost an ally worth his weight in gold. His eyes shifted from the trampled meadows to the town. Blood of Christ! For a long moment, he sat motionless in the saddle, scarcely breathing. Could it be that he’d wagered once again on the wrong horse?

His sudden shout drew all eyes. Edward was moving toward him, though without haste. Davydd spurred his stallion away from the bluff. “If we won the battle,” he said tautly, “why is the castle under siege?”

His words started a stampede. Within moments, the bluff was lined with shocked, silent men. But if most of them needed time to assimilate what they were seeing, Edward did not. One swift, disbelieving glance to substantiate Davydd’s claim, and he was running for his horse. Swinging up into the saddle, he paused only long enough to replace his helm. “What are you whoresons waiting for?”

They obeyed, but with no great enthusiasm. Davydd noted how slow some were to mount; experienced riders were unaccountably having difficulty with their horses. Others, like William de Lusignan, Davydd’s particular bête noire, and his equally detestable brother Guy, had yet to don their helms, a sure sign that they had no intention of resuming the fight. None of this surprised Davydd in the least. Edward might well be distraught enough to throw his life away in a grand gesture of defiance, but he’d find few willing to travel that lonely road with him. The battle was lost; they knew it even if Edward did not.

A rider was coming from the priory, coming fast. He was angling toward the west when he looked up, saw Edward’s banner at the top of the hill. Swerving sharply in their direction, he met them half-way down the slope. “Go back, my lord, save yourself whilst you still can!”

“Coward! How dare you abandon your King like this?”

“The battle is over! My liege lord is Roger de Mortimer, and he’s long since fled the field. Simon de Montfort has triumphed, has won a victory beyond imagining.”

“No!” Edward’s face was hidden by his helm, but his voice betrayed him. “I do not believe you! God would never favor him over us!”

De Mortimer’s knight prudently said nothing. But by then, Hal had reached them. “What of my father?”

“I do not know. The King sought refuge in the priory when he was cut off from the castle, but I’ve heard nothing of your lord father.” The knight glanced uneasily toward the King’s son. “After…after you left the field, my lord, de Montfort attacked the King’s left flank. God knows where he got the men, but of a sudden he was there, and we were trapped between his knights and their vanguard. And once our line broke, he threw his men against our center. It was over so fast, I can still scarce believe it…”

“Cousin, we’d best make haste.” John de Warenne maneuvered his mount alongside Edward. “Pevensey Castle is less than twenty miles away. From there, we can take ship for France—”

“You’d run away? What of my father, your King?”

“What would you have us do, Ned?” William de Lusignan demanded impatiently. “Why sacrifice ourselves for a battle already lost? I say we retreat whilst we still can. There’ll be other days, other battles—but not if we fall into de Montfort’s hands.”

“Listen to him, Ned,” de Warenne entreated. “De Montfort may have won the battle, but he need not win the war.”

“I’ll not abandon my father!”

The passion in Edward’s cry silenced them, but only for a moment. William de Lusignan glanced toward his brother, then nodded slowly. “So be it, then. As for me, I’m riding for Pevensey. De Montfort would barter his soul to catch me here, alive. You think he does not bear a grudge for Northampton? I could count myself lucky if he did not turn me over to that whelp of his, wrapped in a red ribbon!”

“Damn you, then, go! But I’ll not forget your craven flight, and you’ll find I make a more dangerous enemy than de Montfort!”

De Lusignan was not impressed. “Good luck; you’ll need it.” And then, to the others: “If we circle around the castle, we ought to be able to reach the bridge.” He waited no longer, rode off without a backward look, and with him went his brother Guy, their de Warenne cousin, Hugh Bigod, and more than three hundred knights. Edward was left alone on the field with his cousin Hal and the men of his own household.

There was an unobserved witness to this scene. Davydd had discreetly slipped away amidst all the turmoil. While he was in utter agreement—for probably the first and last time—with William de Lusignan, he had known better than to argue the point with Edward. A man just realizing the fatal extent of his own folly was not likely to be all that rational. But Davydd was not about to risk death to keep Edward content, and he had no intention, either, of risking capture. De Montfort would gladly wrap him in a red ribbon, too, a belated birthday present for his good friend and ally, Llewelyn of Wales.

And now what? He’d sooner take refuge in a lazar-house than Pevensey, preferring the company of lepers to de Lusignans. If he could make his way north to Guildford, he knew a lass there who’d take him in. After that, who could say? But something would turn up. It always did. Sheathing his sword, he left the battlefield behind. Like de Lusignan, he did not look back.

After leaving the priory, Simon made a circuit of the battlefield. Pursuit continued to the south, where Henry’s men were mired down in the river marshes. The castle garrison still held out, but surrender was inevitable. Now there were prisoners to be taken and wounded to be retrieved and dead to be claimed. Once he’d satisfied himself that these tasks were being carried out, Simon headed back toward the castle. He was still half a mile from the town when he came upon Humphrey de Bohun. He at once signaled his men to halt. “Were you wounded?”

Humphrey had been sitting in the grass, tended by a young squire. Dismounting, Simon waved him back as he struggled to rise. “I took a blow on the elbow, think I broke a bone.” Reaching with his free hand for Simon’s wineskin, he looked up intently into the other man’s face. “My father…he lives?”

“You’ve no need to fear. He survived the battle unhurt, is now in custody.” Simon had already removed his helm; now he jerked back his coif, ran his hand through tousled, sweat-drenched hair. “I’m getting too old for this, Humphrey. Even my eyelashes ache.”

Humphrey managed a smile that was part grin, part grimace. “Not for long; there’s no restorative like victory. Is it true that Henry fled to the priory?”

Simon nodded. “But he’ll not be leaving; we have it well ringed with men. He has no choice but to surrender—” He paused, having noticed a band of approaching horsemen. One of them spurred ahead at sight of him. Sliding from the saddle even before his stallion had come to a complete halt, Harry flung his arms around his father, nearly staggering Simon by his impetuous rush.

“You did it, Papa! For years to come, men will be talking of this day, of your victory! Not Charlemagne, not Richard Lion-Heart, not even Caesar—”

“You’re too sparing with your praise, lad,” Simon said gravely, and then the laughter in his eyes spilled over, and he returned the hug. He had always found it easier to show affection to this son, not because he was favored over his brothers, but simply because his own emotions were so open, so unguarded; Harry’s exuberance was usually catching. “I’m proud of you, Harry. You and Guy brought honor to our House this day.”

Harry looked as if he’d been awarded an earldom. “I bear welcome tidings, Papa.” He gestured toward the riders now drawing near. “Gloucester is bringing you a right valuable pawn—my uncle Richard!”

Simon was delighted, both that Richard was alive and that he was taken. “Gloucester captured him?”

“Not exactly.” Harry’s grin had more mischief in it than malice, for he was fond of Richard, in an absent-minded sort of way. “When the center broke, Uncle Richard, his lad Edmund, and a handful of men took refuge in yonder windmill. They even barricaded the door with sacks of flour! But some of Gloucester’s men soon surrounded the mill, shouting, ‘Come out, King of the millers!’ Uncle Richard will never live this down!” After a moment, though, Harry’s smile faded. “What of Ned, Papa?”

“I’ve men on watch. If he wants to resume the battle, we’ll be ready.” Gloucester was only a few yards off. If not for that familiar thatch of fiery hair, Simon could have been looking at a stranger. So accustomed was he to Gloucester’s dourness, his inevitable and infuriating suspicions, that he suddenly realized he’d never seen Gloucester laughing before. But for the moment, the young Earl was brimming over with good will; he did not even seem to resent Harry for appropriating his news, for being the one to tell Simon of Richard’s capture. “Behold,” he cried, “the King of the millers!”

By now that was a stale joke, but his men chuckled dutifully. Richard stared straight ahead, stony-faced. He was not bound, but neither was he foolish enough to make a hopeless break for freedom; he cherished his dignity far too much to lose what little he had left. At sight of his brother-in-law, Simon bit back a grin. He’d seen hundreds of blood-soaked bodies this day, had also seen men well smeared with river mud. But Richard was the first one to be covered with flour.

At Richard’s left stirrup rode his younger son Edmund, a wide-eyed, flustered youngster of fourteen, and on his other side, a flushed, fair-haired youth only a few years older, who scrambled hastily from the saddle when Gloucester beckoned. “John, come meet the Earl of Leicester,” Gloucester said expansively. “This is the lad who accepted the royal surrender.”

“Who are you, lad?” Simon asked, and the boy, dazzled by all this attention, mumbled something none could catch.

Gloucester laughed again. “This is John Befs of Tewkesbury, squire to John Giffard.”

Simon glanced toward Richard’s frozen profile. A squire! No wonder Richard looked so sour. “Kneel,” he said, and the boy did, bewildered, not comprehending until Simon unsheathed his sword. “Be thou a knight,” Simon said, bringing the flat edge of the blade down upon the squire’s shoulder. The boy got slowly to his feet, his face aglow. Simon was equally pleased; in a day of bloody necessity, there was enormous satisfaction in this one act of pure, innocent chivalry.

“Thank you,” Richard said stiffly. At least now he had yielded his sword to a knight. Simon read his thoughts without difficulty, shook his head.

“I did not do it for you,” he said. “I did it for the lad.”

Richard raised a hand, swiped ineffectually at his flour-streaked face. “We ought to have known better than to have held you so cheaply,” he said bitterly. “One thing you’ve always excelled at is killing.”

Simon was not offended. Under the circumstances, he was willing to give Richard a certain leeway, if only for Nell’s sake. Harry was not. “And what do you excel at, Uncle? I’ve often wondered,” he snapped. Simon looked at his son in faint surprise, for a barb like that was more Guy’s or Bran’s style than Harry’s. But then, Harry had not been himself for some weeks, not since Bran’s imprisonment. Well, mayhap now he could stop blaming himself, Simon thought, at last having time to appreciate the dramatic dimensions of his victory. Bran would be freed, and Peter, all the prisoners taken at Northampton. The Londoners would be spared further suffering. The Provisions would be the law of the land, no less honored than the Runnymede Charter. What an England they would fashion now!