Falls the Shadow (78 page)

His message was one she’d been expecting for some days: a knight was seeking admittance—on the Lord Edward’s behalf. Nell rose to her feet. “I will see him.”

Edward had chosen a spokesman with some sensitivity. There was no swagger in the man’s bearing, and as he knelt to kiss Nell’s hand, she saw in his eyes a flicker of genuine pity; it was not his fault that was the one emotion she could never abide.

“My lady, Lord Edward bade me give you this letter. He bade me also to reassure you that you are not in danger. He said that your womanly fears, however natural, are for naught; he does not wish you or your children ill. You are his kinswoman, and he does not blame you for Simon de Montfort’s crimes. You need only put yourself in his hands, and he will see that you suffer no harm. But you must, of course, surrender Dover Castle forthwith.”

Nell reached for Edward’s letter, but did not break the seal. “I think not,” she said, and the knight blinked, looking so startled that she almost smiled. “You may tell the Lord Edward,” she said, “that the Countess of Leicester says no.”

It was a splendid summer’s eve, that fleeting breath between day and dusk. The heavens had taken on the distinctive deep turquoise of a Welsh twilight, and although no stars yet shone, drifting clouds still retained sunset tints of lavender and lilac. But the men within Dolwyddelan’s great keep were blind to the beauty beyond the window. They saw neither the evensong sky nor the sylvan heights of Eryri, saw nothing but a lightning-seared, bloody field by Evesham Abbey.

Silence reigned, for the language of outrage was soon exhausted, even more so that of grief. Goronwy and Einion exchanged troubled looks. For nigh on an hour, they’d watched as Llewelyn stalked aimlessly about the chamber, a man driven by demons they understood all too well. Not that he’d shared so much as a word of his regrets. Nor would he if left to his own devices, for he’d never learned that wounds of the spirit should be lanced like those of the flesh, exposed to the healing, open air.

Goronwy at last decided to confront his suspicions head-on. “You are not to blame, you know…or do you?”

Llewelyn gave him a brief, guarded glance, and then a shrug. “If any man is to blame,” he said, “I suppose it is Bran de Montfort.”

Goronwy was not taken in by that apparent indifference. “You were right to refuse to fight on English soil, Llewelyn.”

“I thought so at the time. Now…now I am not so sure. Mayhap if I had agreed to take up arms with Simon, he’d not have been at Evesham that day.”

“Mayhap not,” Goronwy agreed. “And mayhap you’d have died there on the field with him. Can you deny that, too, is a possibility—even a likelihood?”

Llewelyn could not. He moved restlessly to the window, watched as shadows laid claim to the valley. The sounds of a woman’s sobbing echoed across the bailey; he wondered for whom she grieved amongst the dead of Evesham, a husband? A son? Goronwy could absolve him of blame for Simon de Montfort’s death, but what of the Welshmen who’d died, too, on that Tuesday morn? Welshmen run down like rabbits by Roger de Mortimer, murdered long after the battle was done, with ice-blooded deliberation, for which there could be no forgiveness. There might be naught he could do for Simon now, but he could avenge his dead. He could teach his Marcher kinsman that there was not always so much sport in hunting Welshmen.

The woman’s weeping was audible to the others now. Einion flinched away from the raw, wrenching sound of a stranger’s grief, aching for that unknown mourner, aching for all the dead of Evesham, Welsh and English alike. “So many sorrowing women,” he said sadly, “so many heart-stricken children. I shall pray for the widows of Evesham, and I shall pray first for de Montfort’s lady, as I know you’ve long had a fondness for her, Llewelyn. In truth, though, I do not see how she can bear up under such a blow; what woman could?”

“You’re wrong, Einion. Nell de Montfort is Eleanor of Aquitaine’s granddaughter; blood like that tells. And she was far more than Simon’s bedmate, was for nigh on thirty years his soulmate, too, his partner, his confidante, and his consort. Did you know he even named her as sole executrix of his will, advised his sons to be bound by her counsel? That is a rare honor, for theirs is a world in which noblewomen are customarily denied the wardship of their own children. No, a woman like that will not break. Nell de Montfort will find the strength to endure, to survive her loss. I am not so sure, though, if her daughter can.”

That earned him a sharp look from Goronwy. If Llewelyn the Prince was a canny pragmatist, he knew that Llewelyn the man was a secret romantic, his heart constantly at war with his head. While the politician invariably prevailed over the clandestine counsel of the idealist, Goronwy was always on the alert for slippage. He had a deep distrust for passion, and sensed that Llewelyn’s cool exterior was but camouflage, leaves strewn across pitfalls of impulse and deep emotion. It had occurred to him that Ellen de Montfort’s plight was all too likely to tug at Llewelyn’s heartstrings, and he sought now to cure any fevers of misguided gallantry with a dose of unsentimental reality, saying swiftly, “When you write to the Countess of Leicester, convey my condolences. A pity there is so little we can do for her. I trust she’ll understand that naturally there can be no question now of honoring the plight troth?”

“Naturally,” Llewelyn said, so dryly that Goronwy flushed, disconcerted that Llewelyn should have read his mind so easily. “Nell de Montfort is no cloistered nun, Goronwy. She is worldly wise enough to expect me to disavow the plight troth. But what of the little lass? How could she understand?”

“I’m sure the Lady Nell will explain it to her,” Goronwy said warily, still not completely convinced that Llewelyn was going to heed his common sense and not his conscience.

Einion chose that moment to add his voice to Goronwy’s. “You’re too hard on yourself, Llewelyn. The girl is not your responsibility. Pity is an indulgence you cannot afford, not when it comes to making a marriage of state. You might as well be crazed enough to marry for love!”

That was so preposterous a proposition that both Llewelyn and Goronwy had to smile. “I know I cannot marry the lass now,” Llewelyn admitted, “for that would indeed be madness. But there is a bond between us, and I cannot utterly forsake her in her time of trouble. I shall write to Nell that my alliance with Simon holds good for his sons, too. I shall offer them refuge in Wales if any of them so wish. And I suspect that I’ll find my peace haunted in days to come by a child I’ve never even met.”

Llewelyn turned away from the window; the last of the light was gone. “I keep thinking of a verse from Scriptures, something about darkness over the land. That is indeed true for England after Evesham, although I think Edward will discover that Simon de Montfort casts a long shadow. In my life, I have been privileged to know two extraordinary men, one of whom was my grandfather, the other my ally. As far back as I can remember, I’ve been striving to prove worthy of Llewelyn Fawr’s legacy. I cannot help wondering what Simon’s legacy will be. For now, I fear, naught but suffering…”

“It is never easy to lose a husband, a father—”

“No, Einion, I was not thinking of the de Montforts. As deeply as they grieve, time and God’s Grace will heal some of their pain. And they are far from friendless. Remember, for all that he seems destined to become an English saint, Simon de Montfort was French-born, his bloodlines amongst France’s finest. I do not doubt that his kinsmen will rally to his wife and children. Moreover, I speak from experience when I say that Nell de Montfort is a woman of considerable charm—and the French King has a soft heart for grieving widows.” Llewelyn smiled faintly. “I’ll wager that Nell finds at the French court enough sympathy to send Brother Henry into spasms!”

Servants were moving about the chamber, lighting candles one by one. Llewelyn watched the flames flare into life, then said somberly, “I have great sympathy for Simon’s family. But it is the Londoners I truly pity. God help them, for no one else will.”

The first Friday in October was cool and overcast; at midday, it might have been dusk, so leaden was the sky. London’s streets were strangely stilled, shops tightly shuttered, houses barred and bolted and forlorn—or so they seemed to Cecilia Fitz Thomas as she trudged up Bishopsgate Street. Never had she seen her city so deserted. The cocky street urchins had vanished as if by alchemy; so, too, had the beggars, the vendors, the ale-house patrons, the nosy neighbors, all the usual eyewitnesses to the raucous, highly visible currents of London life. The few people Cecilia did encounter passed her by in preoccupied, funereal silence, shoulders hunched against the wind, heads down. Even the dogs were gone, save for an occasional stray, scurrying for shelter. They carried fear like fleas, Cecilia thought; they, too, scented blood. Leaves swirled around her ankles, clung to her skirts, blowing about the road in desolate disarray; somewhere a loose shutter banged. Like a town besieged from within, London lay open to its enemies, immobilized by suspense, awaiting the King’s verdict. Cecilia shivered, quickened her step.

She was passing through the gateway into the courtyard of the Fitz Thomas manor just as two men exited the hall, started down the outer steps. She recognized them without difficulty, for Jacob ben Judah had conferred often with her husband in the past year, seeking together to ensure the safety of Jacob’s Jewish brethren. It was a source of pride to Fitz Thomas that he had indeed succeeded in drawing off some of the anti-Semitic poison from his city. Even in the panicked aftermath of Evesham, there’d been no killing of Jews, no terrified, drunken mobs surging into the Jewry—impressive tribute to the moral authority that Fitz Thomas still wielded in these last doomed days of his mayoralty.

“Good morrow, Master Jacob. This is your son, is he not? I hope—What? Something has happened; I can see it in your faces. For God’s sake, tell me!”

“I fear the news is bad, Mistress Fitz Thomas,” Jacob said gravely. “Whilst we were meeting with your husband, it came—the summons from the King.”

He got no further. Cecilia gasped, then gathered up her skirts, began to run. Jacob’s face was grey, his breathing so uneven that Benedict put a supportive hand on his elbow. His father seemed to have aged years in the weeks since Evesham, become as brittle as glass, as faded as sundried flax. “Do you want to go back inside, Papa?”

“Nay…to yonder horse block. I need to catch my breath…” Sinking down upon the weathered mounting stone, Jacob found himself panting as if he’d been laboring under a hot sun. So unfair that the body should wear out ere the soul did. But there was very little of fairness in the world as he’d known it; that was a privilege not often extended to Jews. “I know we are at odds over Simon de Montfort, Benedict. But whatever else he was, he was a fair man, and he tried in his way to be fair to us, too, after Lewes. Now…if it’s true that the old King has become somewhat addled, the Lord Edward will keep his hand on the reins, and I fear him, lad, I fear him sorely. He is a man utterly sure of his own righteousness, and he has no liking for Jews.”

Benedict could not help himself. “Neither did de Montfort.” Try as he might, he could not share his father’s sorrow for a Christian lord, a crusader knight. “I agree with you, Papa, that under Edward we’ll be like sheep in the midst of wolves. But then, so were the Jews in Winchester!”

“And would you want to be held accountable for another man’s crime? Lord Simon’s son bears the guilt for the Winchester bloodshed—and grievously has he answered for it. ‘God is not mocked; whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’ ”

If so, then why had the murderous John Fitz John—of all men—been one of the few to survive the carnage of Evesham? But that was not a question Benedict would ever put to his father; his doubts, like his fears, he kept to himself. “Papa…I do not want to quarrel. I do not deny that Simon de Montfort did change toward us in the year that he exercised power in the King’s name. But though he sought to protect us, he was never our friend—as that man was and is.” He swung around to point at the silent Fitz Thomas manor. “I never thought I could learn to trust a Gentile, never thought a Christian was capable of treating Jews like men—no more, no less. I regret de Montfort’s death, but I grieve for Thomas Fitz Thomas, a good, decent man who does not deserve the evil about to befall him.”

And in that, they were in full accord. Jacob took his son’s hand, struggled to his feet, and together they began their slow trek back to London’s Jewry.

The great hall was empty, but at the sound of Cecilia’s footsteps, a tearful maid servant emerged from the kitchen. “He’s above-stairs, in the solar. Oh, my lady, what will happen to us now?”

Cecilia didn’t answer; she didn’t know. Letting her mantle slip unheeded to the floor, she started for the stairs. The solar was in semidarkness, shuttered, lit by a single tallow candle. “Tom?” she whispered, and one of the shadows moved.

“It has come,” he said, no more than that. But there was no need to say more. Two days earlier, Roger de Leyburn had taken their surrender to Henry at Windsor, London’s abject and inevitable submission to the King’s will. Fitz Thomas shoved his chair back. “Roger de Leyburn sent word that we are to meet him tonight at Vespers in the church of All Hallows Barking. Then on the morrow, Thomas Puleston and I, amongst others, are to accompany de Leyburn under safe-conduct to Windsor, where the King and the Lord Edward await us.”

Cecilia choked on a sob. “Edward’s safe-conduct is as worthless as his word!”

“I know,” he admitted, and she darted forward, knelt by his chair.

“I asked you once before to flee with me. Now I beg you, Tom, whilst there’s still time! Please…we can sail tonight with our sons, be beyond Edward’s grasp ere he learns of your escape. Alexander le Ferrun chose exile, a better fate than awaits you at Windsor—”

But he was shaking his head. “I cannot, Cecilia. Flight would cheapen the cause for which we fought. If they could dismiss me as a self-server, a man who cared only for saving his own skin, so, too, could they dismiss our aspirations.”

He got to his feet, drew her up with him. “You must try to understand, my dearest one. It was not treason, was but a dream bred before its time, that the King should not be accountable only to God. No mortal man ought to be entrusted with power such as that, for any king’s son may be born a fool.” His mouth twisted. “Who would know that better than Henry’s hapless subjects? I was right to seek a voice for my Londoners. I was right to pledge my hopes to Simon de Montfort’s quest. I can disavow none of it, Cecilia.”

She clung in despair, no longer arguing. “I am so afraid, Tom. Are you not afraid, too?”

“Of course I am afraid,” he confessed, kissing her upturned face, her trembling mouth. “But Lord Simon would not run from his fate, and I’ll not run from mine.”

The royal safe-conduct proved to be as false a coin as Cecilia Fitz Thomas feared. Upon their arrival at Windsor, Thomas Fitz Thomas, Thomas Puleston, and three fellow Londoners were turned over to Edward, cast into a dungeon in the castle keep. Henry then made a triumphant entry into his capital city, where he evicted more than sixty families from their homes, bestowing the seized houses upon supporters of the Crown. Numerous hostages were taken, scores arrested. But royal vengeance was indiscriminately meted out. Of the five men chosen as hostages for the entire city, three of them had been loyal to Henry, and of those despoiled of their property, more than a third had been royalists. Civil liberties were suspended, the city’s government taken over by a bailiff hand-picked by Henry. London Bridge was given to Henry’s Queen. A staggering fine of twenty thousand marks was imposed upon the city, one that would take fully thirty-five years to pay. And in the records of Henry’s reign there began to appear the words “Offense—a Londoner.”