Falls the Shadow (79 page)

The Londoners were not the only ones to suffer from royal reprisals; Henry had fifteen months of humiliation to exorcise. Summoning parliament, he pushed through a controversial edict for the seizure of the lands of any man deemed an “accomplice” of Simon de Montfort. The term itself was not defined, no advance finding of guilt was required, and as the forfeited estates were to be granted to Crown partisans, the potential for abuse was enormous. Richard argued vehemently against such sweeping, dubious confiscations. Edward, too, counseled moderation, for he was clear-sighted enough to see the danger in dealing too harshly with rebels or rebel sympathizers; if a man was to be stripped of all he owned, what incentive, then, had he to lay down his arms? But Henry was too bitter to heed any voice but the one crying out for revenge, and he found support for his wavering will in the relentless vengefulness of the Marcher lords. If, like the Romans, he must make a desert and call it peace, so be it.

At Richard’s urging, a half-hearted attempt had been made to come to terms with Bran, but it was doomed to failure; Simon’s enemies had no sympathy to spare for his son. As September yielded to October, a defiant de Montfort banner continued to fly from the battlements of Kenilworth Castle, and to that formidable refuge flocked those who would not forsake Simon’s “common enterprise.” Others rallied to John d’Eyvill, hid themselves in the Fenlands, in the dark forests of Sherwood and Rutland, and here might well be found the genesis of the Robin Hood legends, those firelit tales of outlaw exploits, for they were reckless and sometimes gallant, these men known as “the Disinherited,” as “the Faithful.”

Nell had succeeded in getting her two youngest sons to safety in France, along with eleven thousand marks. Dover Castle still held out, though, for Nell’s letters to her brother and to parliament had gone unanswered, and she was determined to cling to the only leverage she had left. But in mid-October, her highborn prisoners bribed two of their guards, overpowered the others, and seized control of Dover’s great keep; Nell herself narrowly missed being taken, too. Her men laid siege to the keep, but this was a God-given opportunity for Edward, and he made the most of it, leading a lightning assault upon the beleaguered stronghold. Caught between Edward’s besieging army and the rebelling prisoners within the great tower, Dover’s garrison could not hope to prevail. On October 18, Nell agreed to surrender the castle to her nephew.

Edward was taken aback at sight of his aunt. Nell was not a tall woman, only of average height, but her bearing was such that few ever realized it; even surrounded by her towering de Montfort brood, she’d not been overshadowed, more than held her own. This was the first time that Edward had seen her without that deceptive aura of vivacity. It may have been the heightened perception born of pity. It may have been the stark black, the coarse russet of widowhood. Or that she’d obviously lost weight; he’d been told she ate virtually nothing at mealtimes. But never had she seemed to him so vulnerable, so delicate and fragile and defenseless, an impression that lasted only until she raised her lashes and he found himself looking into the eyes of an unforgiving enemy.

“My lord,” she said, dipping down in a curtsy that was as correct, as controlled, and as chilled as her voice, “the castle is yours.”

She was flanked protectively by Richard Gobion, her steward, and John de la Haye, Dover’s constable. They watched him warily, men resigned to their fate but unrepentant. Edward was not disturbed by their demeanor, one of stolid, reluctant compliance. He had only contempt for men who groveled in defeat, although he was equally irked by men who refused to admit they’d been bested, men who faced ruin with a sneer, a swagger. Not vengeful in victory unless he bore a personal grudge against the foe he’d vanquished—like the luckless Thomas Fitz Thomas—Edward was willing now to allow these diehard de Montfort loyalists their pride. For his aunt, he was willing to do far more, and taking the gatehouse keys from Nell’s outstretched hand, he said, “Is there somewhere we can talk alone?”

Edward had hoped that privacy might ease the tension between them, but the atmosphere in Nell’s bedchamber seemed alive with echoes, with all she dared not say. He was holding out a leather pouch. “The Bishop of Worcester asked me to deliver this into your hands, as he’s not in a position to do so himself.”

Nell noted that the Bishop’s seal was intact, bore no signs of tampering. She felt no surprise; Edward’s were not petty vices. “What shall happen to him?” she asked, dropping the pouch onto her bedside table.

“It seemed best to leave his punishment to the Church. The Pope’s new legate intends to suspend Worcester and the Bishops of Winchester, London, and Chichester, summoning them to Rome to account for their sins.”

“And what sins are those?” Nell asked tonelessly, but Edward refused the bait.

“That is between the Bishops and His Holiness the Pope.” He took a step toward her. “Aunt Nell, I have news of Guy. The doctor at Windsor has written to me that he seems likely to live, after all.” Hers was an expressive face; he realized half-way through his revelation that she already knew. So even at his father’s favorite castle, de Montfort tendrils had taken root. Unless it was a natural sympathy for a grieving mother? “Guy must have a great will to live,” he said, “for his wounds were grave, indeed. But I am glad he’ll survive—for your sake and for Bran’s.”

“I should like to see Guy ere I sail for France.” Nell had resolved to put her pride aside, to beg if need be, but she saw at once that she’d be humbling herself for naught. “You’d truly deny me even that?” she demanded incredulously. “A last farewell with my wounded son?”

“No, I would not!” Shaken out of his poise by her scorn, Edward looked surprisingly young; he was, she remembered, just twenty-six, a year younger than Harry, Harry who would be forever twenty-seven. Her eyes misted, but the tears didn’t fall. In these past two months, her grief had frozen; she sometimes felt as if her heart were encased in ice. Ice and fire, anguish and rage, the only emotions she seemed able to summon up.

Edward had moved toward her. Reaching out, he grasped her by both arms, oblivious to her recoil. “Aunt Nell, if it were up to me, I’d take you to Guy tomorrow. But my father forbade it, and he…he is the King.”

“Yes,” Nell echoed, “he is the King.”

He let her go, stepped back. “Uncle Richard and I argued against sending you into exile, but my father would not listen. He has hardened his heart against you, Aunt Nell. He was furious when you managed to get your younger lads to France. He even wrote to the French King, urging Louis to seize the money you’d entrusted to them.”

“He must have been most disappointed when Louis refused,” Nell murmured, and he saw that this, too, she’d known.

“He was,” he admitted. “I could understand why he hated Simon, but I do not understand why he should hate you—and yet I fear he does. They do not even refer to you in the patent rolls as the ‘King’s sister’ anymore; it is always as the ‘Countess of Leicester.’ ”

“Henry’s hatred does not surprise me. What does is his resolve. It seems he has hardened his backbone as well as his heart.”

From Edward’s earliest years, ambivalence had characterized his relationship with Henry, love for a devoted father vying with chagrin for an incompetent King. He was not offended now by his aunt’s lethal sarcasm, for he had long ago learned that to remain loyal to so foolish yet so loving a father, he had to distance himself from Henry’s foibles—while swearing upon his very soul that he would be a King no man would dare to mock.

“The Marcher lords spur my father on,” he said. “So, too, does Gloucester. Surprisingly, he has been arguing for clemency; mayhap he feels guilty for having forsaken the Provisions. But he has not a shred of pity for anyone who bears the de Montfort name, and he’s done his share to salt my father’s wounds, he and de Mortimer.”

De Mortimer. Edward’s good friend and carousing companion. Nell swung away from him, locking her eyes onto the patch of sky visible from the window. It was a vivid shade of blue, a harvest sky; her color, Simon always claimed.

“Aunt Nell…” She turned, reluctantly, to find Edward regarding her with unsettling sympathy, unsettling for it seemed sincere. “Aunt Nell,” he said, “I am not your enemy.”

“I am glad to hear you say that,” she said, as evenly as she could manage. “For it would not be easy to ask an enemy’s aid.”

“What can I do for you? You need only name it,” he said, before caution compelled him to add, “provided that it is in my power to do so.”

She’d placed the parchment upon the table, awaiting just this moment. Handing it to him, she said, “That is a list of the twenty-two men and women of my household. I ask you to allow them to remain in England. I ask you to spare them exile from their homeland and their families.”

He glanced but briefly at the list, hesitating only at the name of John de la Haye, her constable. “I shall write to the Chancellor, informing him that I have taken them under my protection, and I shall instruct him to order the shire sheriffs to make sure they retain seisin of their lands.”

She’d not expected it to be so easy, had been afraid to let herself hope. She closed her eyes for a moment; at least she could do this for her people, for those who’d served her so faithfully. At least their worlds, too, need not be wrecked. “Thank you.”

“Where will you go?”

“There is a Dominican convent at Montargis, south of Paris. I shall—”

“A convent! You do not mean to take vows?”

“No, I shall not take vows,” she said, smiling for the first time; he wondered why the smile held such bitter amusement. “The convent was founded by my husband’s elder sister; his mother is buried there. When I sought to think where my daughter and I could go, it was Montargis that came first to mind.”

“Ellen,” he said softly, not noticing how the sound of her daughter’s name in his mouth affected Nell. “She has been in my thoughts, for I know how much she loved Simon…and Harry. I suppose she’d not want to see me?”

“No, she would not. Can you blame her?”

He shook his head; this time he’d caught it, a glimpse of the flame burning just beneath the surface. He was quiet for some moments, and then said slowly, “Harry never blamed me for upholding my father’s rights, no more than I blamed him for heeding Simon. He understood that I was doing what I had to do. I’d hoped, Aunt Nell, that you would understand, too.”

It may have been the way he claimed Harry—her son, her firstborn—as his ally. It may have been the hint of reproach, as if it were unsporting of her to hold a grudge. It may simply have been inevitable from the first, no matter what her vows of self-control. But it all fell apart in the time it took her to draw a constricted breath, her composure and pragmatism and common sense fragmenting as thoroughly as the glass flagon she’d once flung into this hearth. “Yes, Harry understood loyalty,” she said. “But do you think he’d also have understood the butchering of his father’s body? Look me in the eye, Edward, and tell me he’d have understood that!”

This was an accusation he’d obviously been braced for; he showed no emotion, although he could not keep color from rising in his face. “That was not my doing,” he said impassively. “I can understand your anger, but it is not fair to blame me for what de Mautravers and de Mortimer—”

Nell interrupted with one of Simon’s favorite oaths. “If that is to be your defense, spare me any more of it. I am the daughter and sister of English Kings, was wife to two Earls. Power is no foreign tongue to me; I speak it as well as any man. No soldier under my husband’s command would ever have dared to maim a fallen foe, for all knew that Simon would never have countenanced it. Just as all knew you would!”

“You are wrong,” he said, not quite so calmly this time. “I am not responsible for what was done to your husband’s body.”

“No? I suppose you are not responsible, either, for desecrating his burial place? I suppose you know naught about that? Simon’s body—what was left of it—was dug up and reburied in unhallowed ground, all done, of course, without your knowledge or consent! Go ahead, make that claim—if you dare!”

She saw his eyes flicker; that he hadn’t been expecting. “I am sorry you learned of that,” he said, after a very long pause. “I’d hoped you would not. It is passing strange, but Simon’s enemies seem to hate him all the more now that he is dead, as if he somehow cheated them of their vengeance. De Mortimer and Gloucester raised such a hue and cry about his burial in consecrated ground that we agreed to their demand, and his body was removed from the church, laid to rest in a secluded corner of the abbey grounds. I cannot speak for Gloucester or de Mortimer or even my father, but I can tell you why I agreed: not to bring further shame upon Simon, and for certes not to give greater grief to those who loved him. It was a political decision, Aunt Nell. His grave was becoming a shrine of sorts, attracting too many malcontents and even some misguided pilgrims. It seemed wise to stop this foolishness ere it got out of hand. I’d have no objections to his reburial in the church at a later date, once all this absurd talk of martyrs and saints has ceased.”

“You’ll have a long wait,” Nell snapped. “Time is no longer your ally; now it is Simon’s. You may have defeated the man, but I wonder how you’ll fare against the legend. You should have stopped them, Edward. Your Marcher friends did you no service, for when they hacked Simon’s body to pieces, they tarnished your great victory, turned it into something base and mean-spirited. And the irony is that, in seeking to dishonor Simon, they did but dishonor themselves. All the blood in Christendom will not dim the luster of my husband’s memory. For men will remember Simon de Montfort!”

Edward’s mouth was tautly drawn, and the flush along his cheekbones was very noticeable now. But there was grudging honesty in the answer he gave her. “Yes,” he conceded, “Simon will be remembered.” Reaching for her hand, he brought it to his lips in a very formal farewell. As he turned to go, his gaze fell upon her list, where it had fallen, unnoticed, to the floor. Nell saw it, too, and stiffened. For an endless, suspenseful moment, Edward’s eyes held hers, and then he reached down, retrieved the list and tucked it away in a pouch at his belt. At the door, he paused, glanced back over his shoulder. “But I shall be remembered, too,” he said.