Falls the Shadow (70 page)

The Benedictine priory was chiming Vespers. A silvery, melodic sound, it echoed above the strident clamor of Hereford’s narrow, noisy streets, floated on the wind as far as the meadows where Harry and Edward were squabbling amiably. They cocked their heads, listening to the bells, but made no move to start back to the castle; there were at least two hours of daylight remaining. While there were always watchful eyes upon him, Edward was no longer denied the recreational pastimes of a prince; he and Harry frequently went riding or hunting in the woods known as the Hay, albeit under escort. On this mild Thursday in late May, they had been racing their horses on the level ground north of the town walls. Edward had been given a flashy chestnut stallion a few days past, and he’d been eager to try his new mount’s speed. Much to the amusement of his companions, all his boasting came to naught. The stallion had pulled up, lame, in the first trial, and he’d been compelled to borrow mounts from his guards in order to continue racing against Harry and Robert de Ros, a young baron who had distinguished himself at Lewes, enough to be entrusted with the custody of the King’s son.

They were making quite a commotion, cheering their horses on, exchanging barbed banter and boisterous jokes, and they soon attracted an audience of bored townsmen. Money changed hands, wineskins were passed back and forth, rows broke out, and by the time Thomas de Clare reached the meadow, the scene was as raucous and rowdy as any fair or market-day gathering.

Thomas drew rein, watching as Harry’s lathered roan nosed out a rangy gelding Edward had coaxed from Rob de Ros’s squire. Harry was laughing; he’d lost few wagers so far, for his stallion was the class of the lot. Edward was laughing, too, uncommonly good-natured in defeat. He accepted a wineskin, was raising his arm to blot sweat from his brow when he spotted Thomas. Their eyes linked above the heads of the crowd, and Thomas nodded slowly. He would never forget the look on Edward’s face, an unguarded instant of blazing, white-hot triumph.

Thomas wished he could share in it, but he had too squeamish a conscience. Not that he faulted Ned for seeking any means of escape. It was his brother’s deception he could not stomach. In truth, he’d never been all that enamored of the Provisions. But Gilbert had been a true believer. So how could he cast them aside like so much rubbish? And how could he give his sworn word, profane holy relics with a knowing lie? Men were damned for less.

Edward took his time in beckoning to him. Never had Thomas so envied the King’s son his icy nerves than as he watched Edward trade affable insults with Harry and Rob de Ros, for all the world as if nothing more was at stake than a carelessly laid wager.

Thomas sighed, sought to rouse himself for what lay ahead. This was no time to dwell upon Gilbert’s dishonor. That was between Gilbert and God. All that mattered now was Ned’s escape. For if they failed, Ned would never have another chance and he’d be lucky to see the sun again.

“Come take a look at my horse, Tom,” Edward called out. “He seems to have gotten some gravel embedded under his shoe.” Thomas hastened toward him, and as they bent over to inspect the chestnut’s foreleg, he whispered that all was set. Roger de Mortimer had men concealed in a wood on the Tillington road, ready to escort them the twenty-three miles to Wigmore Castle. They need only await the signal.

It was not long in coming. A horseman appeared on a distant hill, waved his hat twice. Thomas quickly remounted; Edward was already in the saddle. “Harry!” As his cousin turned, he swept off his hat in a mocking farewell salute, then spurred his stallion forward. The chestnut had been chafing at the bit. Given its head at last, it bolted, went thundering across the field at a dead run.

There were cries of astonishment from the spectators, slow to comprehend what they were seeing. Not so Harry and Rob de Ros. Within seconds, they were running for their own mounts, shouting for their men.

So swiftly had Harry reacted that Edward and Thomas did not have that much of a head start. By the time they reached the road, their pursuers were only a few lengths behind. But there they hung, unable to close the gap.

“Do not be a fool, Ned! You cannot hope to escape!”

Edward looked over his shoulder. “What’ll you wager, Harry? That heaving, staggering nag you’re riding?”

Thomas risked a backward glance, saw that the roan stallion was indeed laboring. Heart alone had taken it this far; despite Harry’s frantic urgings, it was shortening stride. So were the other horses; their best speed lay back on that grassy meadow. Slowly, inexorably, Edward’s chestnut and Thomas’s unraced bay began to draw away.

Roger de Mortimer was—for once—as good as his word. As they raced through the hamlet of Tillington, a large body of horsemen came galloping out of the woods. Harry’s companions hastily yanked on their reins, flung their horses back upon their haunches. Harry alone charged ahead, ignoring de Ros’s dismayed shout: “Harry, no! You’re not wearing mail!”

“We did it, Ned!” Turning to share his wonder, Thomas was horrified to find that Edward had checked his stallion. Paying no heed to Thomas, he watched until he saw his cousin extricate himself, pull back to safety. Only then did he urge his horse to catch up with Thomas, giving his thwarted pursuers one final glimpse of his chestnut’s streaming, golden tail before disappearing into the distance.

Emerging from Simon’s chamber, Peter de Montfort paused at the sight of their tragic, young faces. He’d never seen two souls so wretched as Robert de Ros and Harry, and beneath his anger, pity stirred. Guy was not so charitable. From a shadowed window-seat, he stabbed his brother and de Ros with eyes of implacable ice. “Idiots!” he snarled, loud enough to be heard, meaning to be heard. Rob de Ros would normally have bristled; now he merely glanced at Guy, his the indifference only unmitigated misery can engender. Harry never even looked Guy’s way, unable to tear his gaze from that closed, oaken door.

“Does he know?” he asked, very low, and Peter nodded.

“His rage must have been terrible,” Rob de Ros ventured, almost inaudibly. But this time Peter shook his head.

“No…,” he said, still sounding somewhat bemused. “He heard me out in silence, utter and absolute silence. In truth, this is a side of him that I’ve never seen before. Not only did he not seem outraged, I do not even think he was surprised!”

Harry flinched. “I have to see him,” he said, and Rob gave him a look of awed admiration, for Simon de Montfort was the last man on God’s earth he’d have wanted to face at that moment. Peter shrugged, stepped away from the door, and Harry raised his head, squared his shoulders, then reached for the latch.

Twilight had descended upon the vale of the Wye, blurring and softening the outlines of the world beyond the window. The sky was still too pale for night, too dark for day. It was an hour Simon had never liked, a time of transition, of ambiguous boundaries and hazy silhouettes. A few stars glimmered through the dusk, and below, the river washed against the south curtain wall, winding about the castle like a mourning ribbon, black and lusterless, flowing from the Welsh heartland toward the mouth of the Severn. Wales. He said it aloud. Wales and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. Why not? What did he have to lose?

He hadn’t heard the door opening. When he didn’t turn from the window, Harry froze where he was. “I do not blame you for not wanting to look upon my face,” he said huskily. “How you must hate me now!”

“I do not blame you, Harry. How could I? I was the one who taught you to trust a man’s word.”

“He played me for a fool, Papa! How can you forgive that?”

“And Gloucester played me for one. He came to Hereford for one reason only—to gain the time he needed to plot Edward’s escape.”

Remorse can be a selfish emotion; Harry had been focusing only upon his own part in the debacle. “You think Gloucester is behind it?” he asked, somewhat dubiously. “The men we saw wore de Mortimer’s colors…”

Simon discovered that patience—always perverse—came more easily once a man reached the outer limits of exhaustion. “If Gloucester’s was not the guiding hand, why did his brother flee with Edward? No, it has to be Gloucester, and I should have suspected…But I did not believe he would betray the Provisions. Nor did I think he would besmirch his honor with a false oath. More fool I…” He looked back at his son, for the first time noticed the blood staining Harry’s sleeve. “Peter told me you’d crossed swords with de Mortimer’s men, but not that you’d been hurt. Why did you not let the castle leech—”

“Christ, Papa, do you think I care about that? I do not understand you. How can you be so calm, so…so stoic? I let Ned escape! Why do you not rage, curse me as I deserve?”

“Harry, unless I’d kept Edward in chains, this was bound to happen sooner or later.”

For Harry, that was absolution come too cheaply. “But do you not see what this means? Now that Ned has his freedom, you’ll have to fight another war!”

“Yes, I know. And mayhap that, too, was bound to happen. Mayhap Our Lord seeks a resolution.”

Unsheathing his dagger, Simon slit Harry’s blood-soaked sleeve, pulled his reluctant son toward the table. Sponging water onto Harry’s gashed arm, he said quietly, “Do not torment yourself so, lad. I defeated Edward once before, did I not? God willing, I expect to win this next battle, too.”

“I’ve been told that in exchange for aiding Edward’s escape, the Earl of Gloucester demanded that Edward agree to abide by the ancient laws of England and ban all aliens from the King’s council. Is that true?”

Simon nodded. “The irony of it, Llewelyn, is that I would once have been content with those very terms myself. But Edward and Henry balked at conceding even that much.”

“Is Gloucester fool enough to think Edward will honor that pledge?”

Simon shrugged. “In truth, I have not given it much thought. I have enough troubles of my own without taking on Gloucester’s, too.”

Llewelyn’s smile was wryly sympathetic. “I suppose you have had better springs.”

“I have had one setback after another,” Simon admitted. “After Edward escaped, I summoned our levies to assemble at Worcester. But Edward cut them off, took the town a fortnight ago. They’ve burned all the bridges across the Severn, destroyed the fords. I’d dispatched Robert de Ros to hold Gloucester Castle, but Edward has had it under siege for six days now, and if the castle falls, we’ll be stranded on the wrong side of the Severn, unable to get back into England, to join forces with my son Bran.”

Llewelyn had his share of spies and superior scouts; most of what Simon had said was already known to him. He was very impressed, though, by Simon’s candor. His past experience had taught him that men invariably sought to put a high gloss upon the nakedness of their need. Favors were usually solicited in the oblique language of dissimulation, appeals made by indirection, rarely broached so boldly.

Simon seemed to read his mind, saying abruptly, “I’ve no time for game-playing. I need your help, Llewelyn. We both know it, so what point is there in pretense?”

“I admire your honesty, owe you as much in return. I do not find it easy to trust Englishmen. But I do trust you, Simon, and our past alliance has been to our mutual benefit. I am quite willing to aid you in your struggle against the King’s son.”

Llewelyn paused, signaled for wine. Simon had first thought Pipton an odd choice for a conference; it was a sleepy little hamlet deep in the hills of Powys. But upon his arrival, he’d found Llewelyn comfortably ensconced in a fortified house overlooking the River Wye, De Treveley Manor, home of the hereditary lords of Pipton. They were sitting cross-legged on cushions, Welsh-style, but the chamber was well-lit, and as soon as Llewelyn beckoned, a servant moved unobtrusively to refill their cups, vanished just as inconspicuously. Simon shifted impatiently, and now it was Llewelyn’s turn to demonstrate how well attuned the two men were to each other’s thoughts.

“I know,” he said dryly, “words are cheap. You want to know the particulars. Fair enough. I will pledge to support your government against our common enemies. I will renew homage to Henry as my liege lord. I will put thirty thousand marks at the disposal of the royal treasury, paying three thousand marks every Michaelmas. Lastly, I am prepared to provide you with the services of my Welshmen—five thousand spearmen and bowmen.”

Simon felt no relief, not yet. “And what do you want in return?”

Llewelyn thought it best to make his greatest demand first. “I want the English Crown to recognize me as Prince of Wales, to acknowledge that the other Welsh lords owe fealty to me as their liege lord.” He waited, but Simon was silent. “I want you to recognize my rights to Painscastle, Hawarden, and Ellesmere, all of which I now hold. And I want the Crown to assist me in recovering those castles and lands which were unjustly taken from my uncle, Davydd ap Llewelyn.”

Those were hard terms, and would find no favor in England; even his London supporters would regard any concession to the Welsh as a deal with the Devil. But Simon had known Llewelyn would take full advantage of this God-given opportunity, demand as much as he could for Wales. He was too astute a politician, too ambitious a Prince, to confuse friendship with statecraft.

“Henry will likely have a seizure when I tell him. But in all honesty, I do not find it so peculiar a notion, that a Welshman should rule Wales. I agree to your terms, Llewelyn, accept on behalf of the English government.”

Llewelyn grinned, clinked his cup playfully against Simon’s. “What next, Simon? Where do you go from here?”

“South…into Gwent. I cannot risk a pitched battle yet, cannot take on Edward, Gloucester, and all the Marchers, too, not until Bran brings up our reinforcements. My main concern is to find a way to cross the Severn. If I can take Newport, I can then send word to Bristol, ask them to dispatch ships for us. Edward’s garrison holds the castle there, but the townsmen are on my side, and I know I can count upon them for help.”

Llewelyn nodded approvingly. “A clever move, one that ought to break you free of their snare. I’ll do what I can, too. Gloucester is Lord of Glamorgan, and has castles in Gwent. Let’s see how many we can put to the torch.”

“That,” Simon said, “is a prospect I find right pleasing. But what happens then, Llewelyn? Will you take the field with me in England?”

“No,” Llewelyn said, “I will not. I’ll fight with you here in Wales and in the Marches, but once you cross the Severn, you’re on your own.”

Simon’s eyes never left his face, eyes dark and riveting. “Why?”

“Because,” Llewelyn said, without hesitation, “I cannot be sure you’ll win.” When Simon would have risen, he reached over, grasped his arm. “You are more to me than an ally, Simon. You are a friend. I want you to win your war, for your sake as well as mine. And indeed, I think you will. But as I said, I cannot be sure, and whilst I would willingly risk my life, I cannot risk the sovereignty of Wales. If, God forbid, you do fail, Edward will then turn upon Wales. If I were dead, too, how easy it would be for him…”

His words seemed to echo in the silence that followed. Few men could accept a truth so unpalatable, but he was wagering that Simon would prefer honesty to equivocation or evasion.

Simon was still studying him, his face inscrutable, and Llewelyn began to wonder if he’d misjudged the other man, after all. But then Simon settled himself back upon the cushions. “I cannot fault your logic,” he conceded, with a grim smile. “But I wonder if you’ve thought this through. We both know that this treaty would not long survive me, that you’d never again gain such favorable terms from the English Crown. You’ve as much at stake as I do, Llewelyn, for this chance will not come again for Wales. I agree that a prince can ill afford to be reckless, but too much caution can cripple, too. There are times when you have to risk all upon one throw of the dice.”

Llewelyn was smiling, too. “Ours is a land famed for its eloquent speakers, but you’d hold your own with the best of them. Poor tonguetied Henry; he never had a chance!” Setting down his wine cup, he suggested, “Shall we join the others in the hall? My Welsh allies will be chafing at the bit.”

Simon had not really expected to prevail. “There is something I want to say first. I, too, think of you as a friend, Llewelyn. Yours are the attributes I would have looked for in a son—courage tempered by common sense. We are already kinsmen of sorts, for your grandfather was wed to my wife’s sister. But I would see us more closely bound. You have no wife as yet. I would remedy that by offering you my daughter.”

“No wonder you’ve fared so well on the battlefield. You’re devilishly good at surprises! This is Ellen? You have but the one lass, no?”

Simon nodded. “We’ve cherished her all the more for that. Because of her youth—she’ll not be thirteen till October—Nell and I would insist upon a plight-troth now, with the marriage to take place once she passes her fourteenth birthday. I would, of course, provide her with a generous marriage portion. And although I realize that, as Ellen’s father, I am hardly an objective judge, I truly do think she has the makings of a beauty.”

“The Lady Nell’s daughter? That I can well believe.” Llewelyn laughed suddenly. “I was just thinking,” he said, “that we’d be closing the circle. Llewelyn Fawr’s grandson and the Lady Joanna’s niece. I think such a marriage would have pleased them. I can say for certes that it pleases me. I would be proud, Simon, to wed your daughter.”

Ellen de Montfort was not happy at Dover Castle. She felt dwarfed by its vastness, overwhelmed by its massive walls and sinister-looking siege weapons. She missed the comfortable dimensions of Odiham, the familiar routine of daily life in a castle that was first and foremost a home, not a fortress. Above all, she missed Odiham’s glorious gardens, hedged in hawthorn for privacy, ablaze with iris and marigolds and lilies. Odiham’s gardens had roses climbing over trellised turf seats, a flowery mead carpet of daisies and periwinkles. Dover had no gardens at all. When she wanted to take their dogs for a walk, she had to confine them to the open space beyond the kitchen, taking care they did not dig in the small herb plot or splash in the fish stews.

She had four of them with her on this afternoon in early July: Blanchette and Sable, her mother’s sleek greyhounds; Roland, her brother Harry’s favorite alaunt; Avalon, her own cherished briard, a New Year’s gift from her father. The briard was said to be descended from an ancient breed of sheep dog favored by Charlemagne, and Ellen loved it dearly, despite her brothers’ claims that it looked like a bush with feet. She loved animals in general, even those not considered pets, like cats, but she was particularly drawn to dogs, upon which she bestowed fanciful names culled from minstrels’ tales and chivalric myths. Her brothers grumbled, but humored her, as usual; Guy alone balked, insisting he was not about to own a “Tristan” or a “Lancelot.”

Whistling for Avalon—she was inordinately proud of the fact that Harry had taught her to whistle like a boy, with two fingers—Ellen wandered over to a wooden bench. This was a strange summer, unlike any she’d ever known. She’d been frightened only at first, when her mother had gotten word of Cousin Ned’s escape from Hereford. They’d departed Odiham in great haste, galloped through the night toward Portchester. She’d stopped being afraid then, for Bran was there, and he’d personally escorted them to Dover. While she didn’t much like Dover, she did feel safe here.

But she was so bored, and so lonely. Amaury and Richard were always off running errands for Mama, and she was like a veritable whirlwind, so busy was she. Arranging to send horses to Bran and spices and sweets to Uncle Richard back at Kenilworth, ordering additional mangonels for Dover’s defense, seeing that their fourteen highborn prisoners were well treated and yet well guarded, dispatching letters to Papa, to Bran, to London’s Mayor, the French King, entertaining two of Louis’s ambassadors and the townsmen of Sandwich and Dover and Winchelsea, doing whatever she could to win new converts to Papa’s cause.

“Ellen!” She jumped guiltily to her feet, for she was supposed to be laboring over her lessons. But there was no reproach in Nell’s voice. “Sit down, darling.” Taking her daughter’s hand, she drew her back to the bench. “A courier just rode in with a letter from your father.”

“What does he say, Mama? Can I read it?”

“Yes…later. First we need to talk. Ere your father departed Odiham, he thought we ought to tell you then, but I said to wait; if it had fallen through, there’d be no need for you to know.”

Ellen could contain herself no longer. “Know what, Mama?”

“I do not mean to keep you in suspense, for I am sure you’ll be pleased. Ellen, your father and I have arranged a brilliant marriage for you.”

Ellen had always expected to hear those words, but not so soon. “Is…is he English, Mama?” When Nell shook her head, she bit her lip, struggling to hide her dismay. While she trusted her parents to pick a worthy husband for her, she was loath to live abroad, far from the people she most loved; her Aunt Isabella’s fate was uppermost in her mind, the Emperor Frederick’s neglected consort, dying in lonely isolation in a distant, alien land.

“Ellen, do you not want to know your husband’s name? You shall have a crown, for we have betrothed you to Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales.”

“Wales,” Ellen breathed, and closed her eyes for a moment, dazzled by the sudden brightness of the sun. “Truly, Mama? Like Aunt Joanna?”

“Yes, Ellen, like Joanna,” Nell said softly, and then Ellen was in her arms, clinging tightly, whispering over and over again:

“I’m so glad, Mama, so glad…”

“I’d hoped you would be, darling.” Nell’s eyes misted. From earliest childhood, her daughter had been enthralled by tales of great romance, by tragic heroines like Iseult and Guinevere. But no love story had so beguiled her as that of her own aunt, who’d found her destiny in the alpine heights of Eryri, in the arms of a gallant Welsh Prince, a man who’d loved her enough even to forgive adultery. Nell had been reasonably certain that her starry-eyed Ellen would be eager to follow in Joanna’s hallowed footsteps, but there was relief in confirmation; she’d not have wanted to see the child wed against her will.

“How old is he, Mama—my Welsh Prince? Is he like Joanna’s Llewelyn?”

“Well, he is thirty-six or thirty-seven, I believe. And he’s dark, tall for a Welshman, and pleasing to the eye.” Nell laughed. “I took a liking to him from the very first, do not think you’ll be disappointed. Now—is he like Llewelyn Fawr? In some ways, yes—for certes, he shares his grandfather’s ambition, his ability, his dream for Wales. But your Prince is more intense, more earnest than Joanna’s Llewelyn. I often suspected that he regarded the world as something of a perverse joke, man most of all. Your Llewelyn is more serious-minded, more like your father.”

“Then he must be a very good man,” Ellen concluded, with utter confidence; she could envision no greater compliment than a comparison with her father. “Will he come into England to meet me ere the wedding?”

“Yes, of course. But not for a while, not until…”

“Not until Papa has fought Cousin Ned.”

Nell nodded reluctantly, and Ellen groped for her hand. “What else did Papa say in his letter? Was his other news bad?”

“Some of it, yes. Gloucester Castle fell to Edward on the twenty-ninth. But you need not fret, Ellen. Your father is a man well able to take care of himself. He has captured the Earl of Gloucester’s castles at Monmouth, Usk, and Newport, is now awaiting ships from the good men of Bristol. And Bran is hastening west with a large force. He ought to be able to link up with Simon within the next fortnight, mayhap sooner. Once he does, the danger is over.”