Falls the Shadow (81 page)

Now she prayed for her husband’s soul, the souls of the daughter dead in Bordeaux and the son dead at Evesham. She prayed for the parents she’d never truly known, and for those she’d loved—Elen and Rob de Quincy, Joanna and Llewelyn, the Bishop of Lincoln, her sisters, her cousin Will, who’d died at Mansourah. And lastly, she prayed for the dead of Evesham, for Peter and Hugh and Humphrey and all the men who’d ridden out to die with Simon.

When her prayers were done, Nell moved the cushion, wine flagon, and lantern to the other side of the chapel, and settled herself comfortably before the memorial stone she’d obtained for her husband. “I am worried about Ellen,” she confessed. “I fear, Simon, that she is deluding herself, clinging to false hopes. I have explained why the Welsh Prince disavowed the plight-troth, and she says she understands. Yet I wonder if that’s truly so. She makes music with his name, just as she does with his harp, and with the least encouragement, she’ll dwell upon his exploits by the hour. I can see why she’d be loath to lose Llewelyn, too, after losing so much. But it makes me most uneasy, my love. If she is harboring fantasies, envisioning Llewelyn as her rescuer, as the gallant hero of a chivalric romance, she’s going to be dreadfully hurt. I’ve always been fond of Llewelyn, but he is no Lancelot, no Tristan, if such men ever—”

She stopped, head cocked toward the choir. But the footsteps soon receded, and she relaxed, picked up the flagon. “Last week one of the nuns overheard me talking to you, and now all the sisters are convinced that I, too, pray to the saint of Evesham. Only a nun could be such an innocent. Any other woman would have laughed, knowing no wife could ever see her husband as a saint!”

Nell laughed, too, but then she set the flagon down, untasted. “Scriptures say that blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. But when? Simon, I miss you so much. Some days are better than others, and some are bad beyond belief. Your birthday, our wedding date. April first was the worst, I think, for that was the last night we spent together. And I expect that August fourth shall be the hardest day of all. But as much as I dread it, I sometimes wonder if the pain will lessen after that. Now I torment myself by thinking that this was your last Christmas, your last spring. Mayhap if I can say it’s been a year since Evesham, mayhap then…”

Nell reached out, traced with her fingers the name engraved upon the stone. There were times when she felt Simon’s presence so strongly that she could almost believe he was about to walk through the door; occasionally she even imagined she heard his footsteps. But there were other times, like tonight, when she felt very much alone, when memories were a poor substitute for the flesh-and-blood embraces of a man she’d loved for more than half her life.

“Elen de Quincy once told me about something Llewelyn Fawr did after my sister Joanna died. Elen said he had trouble sleeping—until he began to use Joanna’s pillow. So I found one of your old mantles—the dark green wool—and I spread it across my bed at night. It sounds mad, I know, but Llewelyn was a clever one, beloved, for it does help—a little.”

Usually she took comfort from these quiet conversations with Simon, but tonight there was none. She made no move to go, though, for only an empty bed awaited her. She was reaching for the flagon when a door slammed, footsteps sounded in the nave. Too heavy a tread for a nun; Father André? Nell got wearily to her feet. But the shadow cast upon the choir wall was too tall for the priest. She raised the lantern, suddenly cautious. “Who goes there?”

“It’s me, Mama.”

The voice, so familiar and yet the last one she’d have expected to hear, froze her in mid-step. “Guy?” she whispered, disbelieving until he moved into the light. “Dear God!”

“No…Guy,” he said, redeeming a lame joke with a truly dazzling smile. And then she was in his arms, and they were both laughing through tears, holding fast.

Still trying to catch her breath, Nell reluctantly stepped back, studying his face with hungry eyes. “I cannot believe you’re here! Why did Edward not write me that you were to be freed?”

He smiled again, this time with a glint of malice. “It came as a surprise to Ned, too.”

“You escaped?”

He nodded proudly. “The fools moved me from Windsor to Dover—Dover! They might as well have chosen Kenilworth. Papa’s support was always greatest amongst the men of the Cinque Ports, and Evesham has not quenched their fervor. It was easy to find a friendly guard, so easy it took all the fun out of my escape! We picked a cloudy night, the Thursday after Easter, and by dawn, we were out of the castle, out of the town, aboard a fishing boat bound for France. By the time I was missed, we were under sail.”

“The Thursday after Easter,” Nell echoed. “That was April twenty-second, nigh on a month ago. Where have you been all this time? Why did you not come to us at once?”

“What I had to do could not wait. I went to Normandy,” Guy said, suddenly grim, “to look for Bran.”

Nell’s hand tightened on his arm. “Did you find him?”

He nodded. “In Rouen.” He’d moved out of reach, had begun to pace. Whether by heredity or emulation, Simon’s sons shared his restless habits, his inability to be still for very long. “During those long weeks at Windsor, when I was lying bedridden, weak as a mewing kitten, with no company but my own thoughts, I would sometimes pass the hours, Mama, by imagining what it would be like—that confrontation with my right beloved brother. And I entertained myself by arguing the reasons—pro and con—for killing him.”

He heard Nell’s indrawn breath, and swung back toward her, at once contrite. “Ah, Mama, I did not mean it, no matter how often I sought to convince myself I did. But my bitterness was real enough—and justified, by God!”

“What happened, Guy, in Rouen?”

“Bran…Bran offered no excuses. He faced my rage without flinching. In truth, I think he’d not have defended himself even if I’d drawn my sword. And I saw then that Bran and I had both been wounded at Evesham. But my injuries healed, and his have not.”

“Is Bran still in Rouen?” At least now they’d know where to write, Nell thought, but Guy was shaking his head.

“No, Mama, he’s here…at Montargis. I convinced him it was time to face you, no easy task, I’ll admit. He’s waiting for you out in the church.” Nell whirled; she’d only taken two quick steps, though, before Guy blocked her path. “Mama…”

Nell’s smile was both wry and understanding. “You need not fret, lad. If I could forgive Almighty God, how could I not forgive my own son?”

The nave was dark, and Nell felt an anxious pang; had he gone? But then he moved away from the door, into the moonlight, and she could not stifle a gasp. Of all her sons, Bran most resembled his father, for unlike his brothers, he, too, was clean-shaven, and he looked so like the Simon of her lost youth that Nell found herself unable to speak. Misreading her silence, he took a backward step, and she cried out his name, held out her arms.

He came, hesitantly, as if he no longer had the right. “Mama, I—”

“Hush, love,” she said, “hush,” and then they were clinging tightly, in an embrace both anguished and yet exultant, too, a survivor’s embrace. When they finally moved apart, Nell raised her hand, wiped tears from her face, and then, from Bran’s. By now, Guy had reached them, and she turned toward him, too, saying huskily, “Come. It’s time we awakened Ellen.”

“It’s late, Mama. Ought we not—”

“No, Guy, this is no night for sleeping. This is a night for talking, for remembering, for grieving, and for rejoicing, a night for calling up our ghosts.” For a moment, her eyes lingered upon Bran’s face. “Yes,” she said, “when we speak of Simon and Harry, it will hurt, and we’ll weep. But we’ll laugh, too.”

“Mama?” Ellen sounded sleepy, bewildered. “It’s so late,” she yawned. “What is amiss?”

“Nothing is wrong, love. Here, put on your chemise; we have visitors.”

Ellen obeyed, struggling to get her arms into the sleeves of the garment. “I do not understand,” she said, and then, “Mama, wait!”

Nell ignored the protest. “For these guests, Ellen, a chemise will do,” she said with a grin, and pulled the bed-hangings back.

“Mama, my hair is not even combed! I—Bran!”

“It’s me, kitten,” he said softly, and Ellen burst into tears. He bent over the bed, and she flung her arms around his neck, sobbed into his shoulder.

Nell watched, fighting tears, too, as Ellen embraced Bran, then Guy, then Bran again. Juliana and Nell’s own maid, Emma, had been awakened by the commotion, were grabbing for their bedrobes, and, beckoning Emma aside, Nell said quietly, “I want you to go into the hall, awaken our cook, for my sons have not eaten. Tell him to kill one of the chickens and take a pike from the fish pond. I’d also like a subtlety, with eggs and almonds. Tell him not to rush, but tell him, too, not to stint his efforts, to make enough for the entire household. And I shall want him to break open the wine sent to us by the French King, the tun from his Pierrefitte vineyards.”

Emma swallowed a yawn, quite willing to be awakened for a feast. “In other words, my lady, spare no expense?”

To Nell, those innocuous words seemed to echo from another lifetime. “Exactly, Emma,” she said, “spare no expense. For too long, the de Montforts have had nothing to celebrate. But tonight we have reason, and we shall do it in style; we shall do Simon proud.”

The siege of Kenilworth had begun in earnest in June of 1266. Edward assailed the castle from one side, his younger brother, Edmund, led an assault upon a second side, Henry upon a third, and Roger de Mortimer upon the fourth. But their vaunted siege weapons proved ineffectual against Simon’s formidable water defenses. The garrison remained defiant, cutting off the hand of one royal messenger, sallying forth for daring attacks upon the enemy camp, even leaving the gatehouse open during daylight hours, so sure were they that the lake was an obstacle no army could overcome. When the papal legate, Ottobuono Fieschi, solemnly excommunicated them all, the unrepentant rebels paraded the castle surgeon upon the walls, dressed in a mock bishop’s cope, where he proceeded to “excommunicate” the King and the legate. There were more than twelve hundred men sheltered behind Kenilworth’s massive walls, and as the siege dragged on through the summer into the autumn, Henry began to fear that his Exchequer would be the only casualty of the campaign.

It was the threat of bankruptcy, then, that finally ended Henry’s dependency upon the vengeance-hungry Marcher lords. He was at last willing to heed those who counseled moderation. The result was the Dictum de Kenilworth, which offered rebels the opportunity to buy back their forfeit lands, at rates ranging from two to seven times their annual value. The Dictum’s terms were harsh ones, but still preferable to outright confiscation, and many men grasped at this frail reed, made their peace with their King.

But some rebels scorned the Dictum. John d’Eyvill still held out on the isle of Ely, and the de Montfort banner continued to fly over Kenilworth, although the castle was now besieged by a new, more dangerous foe—hunger. As supplies dwindled and men sickened, the garrison agreed to yield if Bran could not relieve them within forty days. But as sympathetic as the French King was to Simon’s family, he was not willing to permit an invasion of his brother-in-law’s realm; he would not allow Bran’s recruits and mercenaries to sail from French ports. And so it was that after defying the Crown for more than sixteen months, Kenilworth Castle surrendered to Edward on December 14, 1266.

The French King’s action had doomed Kenilworth. Guy de Montfort found that easier to accept than Bran did, for Guy was already looking toward Italy, where the French King’s brother Charles was seeking to claim the much-disputed crown of Naples and Sicily. Guy was shrewd enough to see that where ambition ran rampant, opportunity, too, flourished. Joining Charles’s campaign, he soon demonstrated some of Simon’s flair for command, and his star rose rapidly, as he earned for himself not only a powerful royal patron, but the sort of renown that his world reserved for battlefield gallantry. But Bran remained in France, haunted by Kenilworth’s fall, by yet another failure.

Kenilworth’s surrender had not brought peace to Henry’s realm. John d’Eyvill continued in rebellion. An even greater threat, though, was posed by the discontent of the Earl of Gloucester, for he was now badly at odds with his erstwhile allies. He and Roger de Mortimer had almost gone to war over the lands of the late Humphrey de Bohun, and Gloucester had even accused de Mortimer of plotting his death. His relationship with Edward was deteriorating, too. Gloucester’s had been one of the few voices arguing for clemency—for all but the de Montforts—and he was embittered that his advice was taken so lightly. He’d been hoarding grievances for months, and in the spring of 1267, his resentment spilled over, sweeping him into an act of startling, dangerous defiance. In April, he seized the city of London.

It should not have come as such a shock, for the straws had been in the wind for some time. Gloucester had made no secret of his unhappiness, and he’d found two unlikely allies in Llewelyn ap Gruffydd and John d’Eyvill. The truce with Llewelyn was only surprising on the surface; Llewelyn would cheerfully have dealt with the Devil if he thought it would benefit Wales. The pact with John d’Eyvill was more astonishing. But d’Eyvill was a pragmatist, and he could even take a very grim amusement in this turn of events, that the man most responsible for Simon de Montfort’s downfall should now be helping him to advance Simon’s aims. Nor were these alliances of expediency unknown to the Crown. Gloucester’s disgruntled wife had seen to that, warning her uncle the King that her husband planned to move on London. Unfortunately for Henry, it was a warning he’d not taken seriously, dismissing it as a woman’s spite. By the time he reconsidered, it was too late. Gloucester and John d’Eyvill held London.

A tense stalemate developed, which was to last for fully two months. But no one truly wanted another bloody Evesham. Henry’s brother Richard offered to mediate; so did the papal legate, trapped within the Tower. Gloucester agreed to yield the city, provided that amnesty was extended to all his followers, and in turn, Henry promised to abide by the Dictum, to consider restoring some of the Londoners’ rights and liberties. Edward was not easily reconciled to Gloucester, but Richard and his son Hal eventually prevailed, and on June 18, Henry entered his capital in triumph.

That left only Llewelyn ap Gruffydd in rebellion against the King. He was braced for the worst, a full-scale military campaign, no quarter given. What he got, instead, was a peace offer. He sent his uncle, Einion ap Caradog, to negotiate with the papal legate at Shrewsbury, and on September 25, they came to terms, terms Llewelyn could not have hoped to better.

Llewelyn had gained some impressive concessions from Simon de Montfort at Pipton; he now gained concessions of equal magnitude from the English Crown. Henry agreed to recognize Llewelyn as Prince of Wales, as liege lord to the other Welsh Princes; not even Llewelyn Fawr had soared so high. His conquests were recognized; no Welsh prince ever wielded the power he now did, from the upper waters of the River Taff to the northern shores of the isle of Môn.

If Llewelyn was the winner, the great losers were Edward and Roger de Mortimer. Edward agreed to relinquish all claims to those oft-disputed Welsh cantrefs known as the Perfeddwlad. Roger de Mortimer’s losses were even more sweeping: Gwerthrynion and his claims to Brycheiniog, Ceri, Cydewain, and possibly Maelienydd, for while the treaty permitted him to build a castle there, it also stipulated that if Llewelyn could establish his claim to it, the cantref would be his.

Roger de Mortimer had complained loudly and bitterly—and in vain. What interested Llewelyn, though, was why Edward had agreed to this treaty. He knew England was war-weary, yearning for peace after so much bloodshed. And the siege of Kenilworth had been an exorbitant drain upon the royal treasury; Henry was in dire need of the money Llewelyn was willing to pledge for peace on his terms. The papal legate and Richard had argued persuasively for conciliation; Henry, as usual, wavered. But it was Edward who’d tipped the scales—why?

Edward was too intelligent not to realize what a bloody, drawn-out campaign awaited them in Wales, not to recognize that his men had no stomach for a life-and-death fight with Welsh will-o’-the-wisps who excelled at ambush and were harder to track down than morning mist. Llewelyn was sure, too, that Edward trusted Gloucester not at all. The Earl shifted allegiances with the wind, and the danger that he might again ally with Llewelyn was not to be dismissed out of hand. Moreover, Llewelyn knew that Edward was eager to take the cross, to join the French King’s crusade; Jerusalem beckoned far more seductively than did Aber. And even the loss of the Perfeddwlad was a sacrifice greater on parchment than in practice; Edward might lay claim to those four cantrefs, but the troops patrolling them were Llewelyn’s.

Such were Llewelyn’s speculations about the motivations of the King’s son. The result, though, was not in doubt; he took away from Shrewsbury a victory greater than any he could have won on the field. He in turn agreed to pay twenty-five thousand marks into Henry’s depleted coffers, and to reconcile with his brother, restoring to Davydd those lands he’d held prior to his defection four years earlier.

On Michaelmas, the 29th of September in God’s year 1267, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd came to the town the Welsh called Trefaldwyn and the English Montgomery. There he did homage to the English King, and the Treaty of Montgomery was formally ratified.

Llewelyn had not seen Henry for a number of years, and he was genuinely shocked by the man he found at Montgomery. Time had not been kind to Henry. Llewelyn knew his age—just shy of sixty—but if he had not, he’d have sworn that Henry had passed his biblical threescore years and ten. Gone was the elegance, the good-hearted naïveté of the King Llewelyn had first met at Shrewsbury so long ago. The man to whom he knelt in the great hall at Montgomery Castle was a frail, stooped stranger, who presided over the ceremony with a vague, faintly anxious air, like an actor worrying that he might forget his lines. Llewelyn thought it rather pathetic, the way he kept glancing toward Edward, as if waiting for cues.

He’d not expected to pity any English king, but he’d not expected that any English king could be so impotent—so irrelevant. Even a brain seizure had not robbed his grandfather of his wits or his will; as long as he drew breath, all knew who ruled Gwynedd. But Henry seemed to cast no shadow at all. Even when he flared up at a clumsy servant, there was more petulance than anger in his rebuke, and he clung to his grievance with unseemly stubbornness, grumbling and fussing to all within earshot, not subsiding until Edward discreetly signaled for the offending servant to disappear. And as he watched, Llewelyn was torn between regret that any man should face his twilight years with so little dignity, and disgust that he should have to swear fealty to such a liege lord.

Ah, Simon, he thought suddenly, you were doomed to failure. No matter how you tried, you’d never have taught Henry to be a king, no more than you could have taught him to fly. His eyes were roaming the hall, finding many familiar faces. The papal legate, a peacemaker justly glorying now in his success. Gloucester, voice pitched too loud, underscoring his argument with wide sweeps of his arm. His audience, Henry’s son Edmund, nodding politely, noncommittally. Edmund was just twenty-two, well-spoken and well-mannered. In their brief acquaintance, Llewelyn found him to be pleasant enough, but he could not get past the title. Earl of Leicester—for him, there’d be but one.

Across the hall, Roger de Mortimer was glowering at Gloucester, at Llewelyn himself, at the world at large, his outrage a source of heartfelt satisfaction to Llewelyn. His gaze returned to the dais, lingering upon the man standing behind Henry. For a moment, their eyes caught, held—for a moment. Llewelyn could read nothing in Davydd’s expression, and he hoped that his own face was no less impassive. Not for the surety of his soul would he have betrayed himself before these English eyewitnesses.

Edward was approaching, beckoning him toward the privacy of a window-seat. Llewelyn was sure that the Englishman had more in mind than an idle exchange of social courtesies, but he was willing to play the game until Edward revealed his true intent, and accepting a wine cup from a passing servant, he said politely, “I believe I heard that you had a son born last year?”

Edward smiled. “John, my first lad. And my wife is with child again.”

Llewelyn offered congratulations, all the while thinking how fitting it was that Edward should have named his firstborn son after his grandfather, for he was cast far more in John’s mold than in Henry’s.

Edward wasted no time in maneuvering their conversation toward the direction in which he wanted it to go. “In view of your alliance with Simon de Montfort and his sons, I expect that you’ve remained in contact with my aunt, the Countess of Leicester.”

And what did he want to know about the de Montforts? Llewelyn nodded, deciding to try various types of bait, see which one lured Edward from cover. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I had a letter very recently from the Lady Nell. It seems Bran is thinking of joining his brother in Italy. You have heard, I daresay, that Guy now stands high in the favor of Sicily’s new King. Especially after he took Florence at Easter.”

Edward grunted. “I know. Whilst I like it not, I cannot say that Guy’s success surprises me, for I often suspected that he had the makings of a good commander. Unlike Harry and Bran, who never showed a lick of sense on a battlefield, just the sort of crazed courage that gets men killed. But for all that, the wrong brother died at Evesham. Harry was worth a dozen of Guy.”

Having triggered so interesting a response with Guy’s name, Llewelyn decided to see what effect he’d get with another de Montfort brother. “In her letter, the Lady Nell mentioned that the Bishop of Rouen is giving Amaury permission to be ordained as a priest. No surprise there, for the Bishop was a good friend of Simon’s. But the Pope for certes was not, and yet Amaury seems to have found a friendly ear at the papal court. You do know that he petitioned the Pope on his father’s behalf, claiming that Simon had received absolution ere he died and was thus entitled to lie in consecrated ground? If the Pope finds in Amaury’s favor, I expect it will be rather awkward for the English Crown, having to rebury Simon in Evesham Abbey.”

Llewelyn was unable to deny himself this last gibe, for he’d thought it barbaric to deny Simon a Christian burial. “Although I understand that removing Simon’s body from the abbey did little to discourage the faithful. I’ve been told that pilgrims still flock to Evesham, to the church and spring where he died.”

“Some still come,” Edward conceded reluctantly, “but not in numbers of any significance.”

Llewelyn drank to hide a smile. If Simon’s cult was of so little consequence, why, then, had the English Crown felt the need to deal with it in the Dictum de Kenilworth? For the eighth article of the Dictum forbade Englishmen to think of Simon as a saint and prohibited any talk of the “vain or fictitious” miracles attributed to him. Llewelyn was enormously amused by it all; if Simon seemed an unlikely candidate for sainthood, it was a truly diabolic form of vengeance. After all, how does one discredit a saint?

Edward’s thoughts seemed to be mirroring his own—minus the amusement—for he said abruptly, “It is easy enough to sanctify a dead man. His virtues take on such legendary proportions that all his flaws are forgotten. Simon de Montfort could be as prideful and overbearing a bastard as ever drew breath, but who remembers that now?”