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ALSO BY SHARON KAY PENMAN
The Sunne in Splendour
Here Be Dragons
The Reckoning
FALLS
THE SHADOW
SHARON KAY PENMAN
Ballantine Books
New York
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized If this book is
coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed"
and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it
To Marian Wood
Copyright © 1988 by Sharon Kay Penman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form, under International and PanAmerican Copyright
Conventions Published m the United States by Ballantme Books, a division of
Random House, Inc , New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of
Canada Limited, Toronto
"The Hollow Men, "from Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T S Eliot,
copyright 1936 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc , copyright ©
1963,1964 by T S Eliot Reprinted by permission of the publisher
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 88-92222 ISBN 0-345 36033-8
http //www randomhouse corn
This edition published by arrangement with Henry Holt and Company, Inc
Cover design by James R Harris Cover illustration Thirteen-century French
illumination from
The Granger Collection Maps by Anita Karl and James Kemp
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Ballantme Books Edition May 1989
20 19 18 17 16 15
Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the
Shadow
T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"
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Prolog
ue
Castle of St Jacques -oe-Beuvron, Brittany
February 1231
T
J.H
J. HEY crossed the border into Brittany at noon, soon afterward found
themselves in an eerily silent landscape, shrouded in dense, spectral fog.
Simon showed neither unease nor surprise, merely commented that they must be
nearing the sea. But his squire was not so sanguine. Geoffrey fumbled within
his mantle, seeking his crucifix. Bretagne, he whispered, as if the ancient
name of this ominous realm might prove a talisman, protecting him and his
young lord. It was a land steeped in dark legend, a land in which the people
spun firelit tales of Merlin and the Celtic King, Arthur, a land with its own
myths, its own arcane tongue, not a land to welcome strangersBretagne.
Geoffrey did not fear Breton bandits, for he'd never seen a better swordsman
than Simon. But he wondered how they'd fare against shadows, against the demon
spirits that were said to haunt these dark, foreboding forests. Once he
broached the subject; Simon only laughed. Geoffrey was very much in awe of his
lord, but understanding so far eluded him. How was it that Simon seemed so
blessedly free of the fears that plagued other men? How could he believe this
mad quest of his might succeed?
So thick and enveloping was the fog that they were upon the castle before they
realized it. They drew rein while Simon studied the fortress, almost as if he
were planning an assault. And indeed, Geoffrey thought, he was! It was a
formidable edifice of Caen stone, erected by the most ruthless of Normandy's
dukes, William the Bastard, whoagainst all oddshad won the crown of the island
kingdom of England. Geoffrey wondered if Simon was thinking of that now, if he
was daunted by the odds he himself faced. But Simon's face revealed nothing.
Urging his stallion forward, he emerged from the swirling, smoke-colored mist,
his sudden, sorcerer-like appearance before the gatehouse drawing an immediate
challenge from the startled guards.
Simon raised a hand. "I am Sir Simon de Montfort," he said, "of
Montfort 1'Amaury in France. I am here to see my cousin, the Earl of Chester."
THE chamber was as dimly lit as if it were dusk, for all the windows were
shuttered against the fog, the damp, chill air. A sputtering oil lamp at
Simon's elbow cast flickering shadows, occasionally flared up to illuminate
the face of the man across the table. As brown and sun-weathered as any
crusader's, it was a face that attested to every one of his sixty years,
attested to a lifetime spent in the saddle, on distant battlefields in the
service of his King. He shared with Simon the dark coloring of their kindred,
but his hair was scanty, well-silvered, and the narrow black eyes were oblique
and wary, utterly lacking Simon's hope, his eager zeal. They were first
cousins, but strangers, and some of Simon's confidence began to falter; his
dream seemed suddenly as elusive as the Holy Grail, as fanciful as tales told
of unicorns and winged griffins. Why would Chester ever agree?
"You're your father's son for true," Chester said at last. "Do you remember
him?"
Simon shook his head. "My memories are blurred. I was only ten when he was
slain." Chester had provided mulled wine, and Simon started to drink, then
stopped. Why delay? Better to plunge ahead, to gamble all on one quick throw
of the dice. "I am here, my lord, to talk to you of the English earldom that
was once my father's."
If Chester was surprised, he didn't show it. But then, Simon suspected, it had
been many years since Chester had allowed an unruly emotion to break free.
"The earldom of Leicester," he said, and in his voice, too, there was nothing.
"It was my lord father's by right, unjustly taken from him by King John of
evil fame, and then bestowed upon you, our kinsman. I have come to St
Jacques-de-Beuvron to ask you to restore the earldom to me."
Chester leaned back in his chair. "Now why," he said, "would I want to do
that?"
"Because you need it not, my lord, because you hold far more lucrative
earldoms, those of Chester and Lincoln, whilst your nephew and heir, John the
Scot, also holds the earldom of Huntingdon in his own right. Because you are
said to be a man of honor and my claim is a just one. Because the greatest
attributes of knighthood are prowess on the battlefield and generosity." Simon
paused for breath, then grinned. "And to give away an earldom would be an act
of the most extraordinary generosity imaginableor else an act of utter
madness. In either case, my lord, you'd pass into legend for certes!"
Chester's mouth twitched; he gave an abrupt cough of a laugh.
"Most men would vote for madness," he said dryly, and then, "How old are you,
lad?"
"Twenty and two." Simon had rehearsed his plea until it was memory-perfect,
but now instinct kept him silent. He watched the older man intently, sought in
vain to read the expression in those slanting dark eyes. "The earldom means
little to you, my lord," he said softly. "To me, it would be a rebirth."
Chester nodded. "It is no easy thing," he said, "to be a younger son. And you
were the youngest of four, if my memory serves. There'd be little left for
you, I expect." Another thin smile, another hoarse laugh. "But if you lack for
lands, by God you do not lack for gall!"
Simon took heart; laughter was in itself a bond. But at that moment a servant
entered the chamber, leaning over to whisper a message in the Earl's ear.
Chester pushed back his chair. "A royal courier has just arrived from England.
You must wait upon the King, Cousin, as must we all. I'll send a servant to
tend to your needs."
Soon the table was laden with food, kept warm by silver chafing dishes. But
Simon could not eat a morsel, so keen was his disappointment. He'd besieged
enough castles, fought in enough battle skirmishes to know the strategic
importance of momentum. Now that his initial foray had been checked, how
likely was it that he could rally his forces, regain this lost ground?
"Love, I have the most wondrous newsOh!" The girl was already in the room
before she realized she had the wrong man. She came to an abrupt halt, staring
at Simon.
She was very young; Simon judged her age to be fifteen, sixteen at most. She
had the vibrant prettiness of extreme youth, but there was a hint in her bone
structure of more, of the possibilities that maturity would bring. Although
her hair was hidden by veil and wimple, she had the fair skin, the blue eyes
that their society so prized, and a gown of soft sapphire wool revealed to
Simon both that she was well-born and that she had her full share of womanly
curves.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought my lord husband would be here." But she made
no move to depart, appraising Simon no less unabashedly than he was studying
her.
Moving to the table, he poured a second cup of wine, held it out toward her.
"Good news," he said, "is meant to be shared, even with strangers."
She had the longest lashes he'd ever seen; they fluttered like fans, cast
deceptively demure shadows upon those elegantly hollowed cheekbones. And then
she smiled, displaying a sudden dimple. "Why not?" she said, and reached for
the wine cup.
"This letter is from my sister Joanna. Well, my half-sister, actually,
although no less dear to me for that. Joanna is wife to a Welsh Prince,
Llewelyn of Gwynedd, and for the past year, they have been estranged. All
thought the marriage was doomed, and I grieved for Joanna, for she loves her
husband well. But there was naught to be done. Yet now . . . she writes that
she and Llewelyn have reconciled, that he has . . . that she is back at his
court, in full favor! Is that not miraculous?"
"Indeed," Simon agreed politely. He suspected there was much more to this
story than she was willing to reveal. Those telling pauses of hers hinted at
scandal; so did that incautious phrase, "in full favor." An elusive memory
flitted just beyond the boundaries of recall, halfforgotten gossip of a Welsh
lord and an unfaithful wife, a lover caught in her bed, a sin shocking enough
to reach even the French court. Could this lass's sister and that adulterous
wife be one and the same? No, not likely; what man could forgive a betrayal so
great?
He shifted in his seat, and as the light fell upon his face, she exclaimed,
"Why, your eyes are grey! Your hair is so dark that I assumed your eyes would
be dark, too." A blatant bit of flirting, yet so obviously innocent that Simon
was touched when she then blushed. It occurred to him now that, as youths must
be schooled in the use of arms, so must pretty girls learn to wield their
weapons, too; this one, he'd wager, was just becoming aware of the formidable
arsenal at her disposal.
Picking up his wine cup, he clinked it playfully to hers. "Let's drink then,"
he suggested, "to your sister's miracle. A pity they are in such short supply,
for I could use one myself."
"Ah," she said, quick to comprehend, "so you seek a boon from the Earl of
Chester? I think you'll find him to be generous. Lords are expected, after
all, to be open-handed. Within limits, of course; I'd not suggest you ask him
for his favorite roan destrier!"
Simon joined in her laughter. "No," he said, "I'd never ask a man for his best
horse. I ask only for an earldom."
Her eyes widened. "You are jesting . . . are you not?"
He shook his head, and then, caught by the wonderment in those rapt blue eyes,
he heard himself say, "My claim is a just one. My name is Simon de Montfort.
My lord father was Count of Montfort and Evreux, Viscount of Beziers and
Carcassonne." But he got no further. If up until now the girl's interest was
sparked by his smile, he'd just fully engaged her curiosity.
"I've heard of your father," she cried. "Who in Christendom has not? He led a
crusade against the French heretics in Languedoc, and won great renown for his
daring, although men did say he was utterly without mercy" Too late, she
clasped her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry, in truth! When will I ever learn to
bridle my tongue?"
Had that comment come from a man, Simon would have taken
nuick offense. With her, though, he was prepared to be more tolerant, d ke was
amused rather than irked by her injudicious candor, mollified bv her
contrition. "My father's mother was heiress to the earldom of Leicester," he
explained, "and the title passed to him in turn, but then it was seized by
your English King, John, and eventually given over to my cousin of Chester. I
have just asked him to restore it to me."
"Indeed, you do need a miracle. The young knight come to seek his fortunewhat
a marvelous tale your quest would make, just like Sir Lancelot's arrival at
Camelot!"
Simon was heartened by her enthusiasm. "But how does my quest end? Even if I
get my miracle and the Earl agrees, I must then convince the English King, and
that"
"will be right easy," she assured him. "Henry is truly kindhearted, too
kind-hearted for a king, I sometimes fear. I think he'd willingly grant your
petition, and I will certainly speak to him on your behalf."
Simon brought up his cup to hide a smile. "Few, indeed, have the ear of the
King. May I know your secret?"
As much as she enjoyed teasing others, she'd been little teased herself; her
husband was fondly indulgent, gravely tender, and always protective, but the
one virtue he lacked was humor. For a moment, she studied Simon, while
deciding if her pride demanded that she resent his banter. And then that
beguiling dimple flashed again.
"My secret?" she murmured. "Well, it might be that the King thinks so highly
of my husband. Or Henry's aforementioned kind heart. It could even be because
I am Henry's favorite sister."
Much to her delight, she more than got her own back; Simon almost choked on
his wine. "You are the English King's sister?"
"I am the Lady Eleanor, Countess of Pembroke," she said serenely, holding out
her hand for him to kiss. He brought it to his lips, but as soon as their eyes
met, they burst out laughing, rollicking, spontaneous laughter that continued
even after they'd forgotten the reason for their merriment. And it was at just
that unpropitious moment that her husband strolled into the solar.
"Nell? You were looking for me?"
Simon tensed, for he knew many a man might have bristled at the sight meeting
Pembroke's eyes, might have misread the innocent intimacy of their laughter.
But Nell was utterly unconcerned by her husband's sudden appearance, rising to
greet him with an eager smile.
Pembroke acknowledged her introductions with the aloof benevo-
^nce, the disinterested courtesy due an unknown, impoverished knight.
Although he was much older than Nell, he'd not yet reached that age
nen his young wife's beauty might no longer be cause for pride, but
rather for unquiet dreams, fevered suspicions, and when she confided the story
of the de Montfort lost earldom, he politely concealed his skepticism, wished
Simon well.
Now that Pembroke was here, Nell was impatient to share with him the news of
her sister's deliverance, and Simon soon found himself alone in the solar. His
pride had been rankled by Pembroke's condescension, and the waiting seemed
suddenly intolerable. Crossing to a window, he fumbled with the shutter. The
fog still held the castle in a state of siege, blotting out all traces of the
sun; the air was cold, carried the scent of the sea. He stood there until he'd
begun to shiver, not turning away until he heard the door opening.
"You did not eat?" Chester strode toward the table, seated himself, and
gestured for Simon to pour them wine. "Your brother Amaury is the firstborn,"
he said briskly, as if their conversation had never been interrupted. "As I
recall, there were two other brothers, now dead. Which leaves you and Amaury,
Amaury with your father's titles, his estates, and you with . . . what?
Assuming for the sake of argument, that I would entertain this mad proposal of
yours, what of Amaury? Should I relinquish the earldom of Leicester, would it
not then pass by rights to him?"
"No, my lord." Simon leaned across the table. "My brother has agreed to
renounce all claims to the English earldom."
For the first time, he saw surprise flicker in Chester's eyes. "And how," he
asked, "did you ever manage that, lad?"
"Amaury is Constable of France, sworn liegeman of the French King. He well
knows that the King of England would never permit an English earldom to pass
to a French Count. So my chances, however meagre, are still better than his."
After a moment, Simon grinned. "And in all honesty, I do not think he expects
me to succeed. It is always easier to make a generous gesture when it is
likely to remain just that a gesture."
Chester's brows had drawn together, yet there was an amused quirk to his
mouth; Simon did not know which signal to heed. "Tell me, Simon, have you not
considered that Amaury might have regrets? Should you gain your earldom, what
is to keep him from renouncing his renunciation, from laying claim to it
himself?"
Simon's smile vanished. "My brother would never forswear his oath," he said
coldly. "No man of honor would."
This time Chester's black brows shot upward. "I doubt that you'd have
prospered at King John's court," he said sardonically. And then, "But it
remains to be seen how you'll fare at Henry's."
Simon set his wine cup down, very carefully. "My lord?"
"You know, of course, that there is no logical reason under Heaven
hv a man would willingly yield up an earldom. Men will conclude that you must
have ensorcelled me somehow, beguiled me with the Black Arts. Either that or
I'm in my dotage."
Simon's breath stopped. "You mean to do it," he said in wonderment. "You mean
to recognize my claim!"
Chester nodded. "But do not ask me why, lad, for I'm damned if
I know!"
He'd never seen any man's eyes take the light like Simon's. He'd never seen
such joy, and for just a moment he allowed himself to share in it, to revel in
his young kinsman's jubilation.
"I will never forget this, my lord, never. It is a debt of honor I shall be
proud to owe, although I know it is one I can never repay."
"Speaking of debts . . ."It was a relief to Chester to recognize the habitual
tones of irony, to hear echoes of the mordant wit that for so long had served
as his shield. Back on familiar ground, he said, "Between my momentary madness
and Henry's good will, we might make you an Earl, Simon, but a rich man you'll
not be. The Leicester lands are heavily mortgaged, the woods despoiled ..."
"But they'll be mine," Simon pointed out, and Chester abandoned the attempt to
anchor Simon's dream in reality, accepted the younger man's euphoric
expressions of gratitude, and secretly marveled at what he'd done.
He was still in the solar, sitting alone at the table, when Pembroke entered.
"I just encountered de Montfort," he said. "The last time I saw a man looking
so elated, he'd been reprieved on the very steps of the gallows. Jesu, Ranulf,
you did not agree, did you?"
Chester nodded, and Pembroke could not suppress a startled oath. "Sweet
bleeding Christ, man, why?"
"The truth, Will? I'm not sure. Mayhap because I remember what it is like to
be afire with ambition, with the sort of hunger that burns clean through to
the bone. Mayhap to liven up Henry's court. I suspect that my cousin Simon is
not one to pass unnoticed; I'll wager he hits England like one of those
Saracen windstorms!"
He grinned; Pembroke did not. He looked so perplexed that Chester sighed, then
shrugged. "All I did, Will, was to give the lad a chance. But it will be right
interesting to see what he makes of it."
Nefyn, North Wales
December 1236
off t
I VST before midnight on the eve of Christmas,
the storm swept in off the Irish Sea, struck the little hamlet that had grown
up around the manor house of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, Lord of the cantref of
Llyn. The village herring boats were battered and broken by the surging tide,
thatched roofs were ripped away, and lightning blazed across the dark December
sky, setting afire a venerable oak in the priory garth, an oak that had
survived two hundred winters, Norse raids, searing summer droughts, and the
invasion of the Norman-French adventurers who'd followed William the Bastard
to England in God's year 1066. With the coming of light, the Welsh villagers
would look upon the blackened, splintered tree and mourn its loss. Now they
huddled for shelter in shuddering cottages, fretted for their livestock, and
prayed for Christ's mercy.
As thunder echoed overhead, Llelo jerked upright on his pallet. Slowly his
eyes adjusted to the darkness; the foreboding shadows took on familiar forms.
His dream had been of his grandfather's court, where he'd lived for most of
his eight years, where he'd been happy. It took him a moment to remember that
this was Nefyn, his father's manor.
A section of the great hall had been screened off for their sleeping quarters,
but he was alone; his brother Owain's pallet was empty. The storm was seeking
entry at every shutter. Llelo was not a timid child, accepted nature's fury as
unthinkingly as he did its softer favors. But the violence of this Christmas
tempest was too awesome to be ignored. He pulled his blanket up to his chin,
sought refuge in sleep. Too late. He was wide awake now, unable to shut out
the eerie keening of the wind, the relentless pelting of the rain.
So uneasy had Llelo become that he even found himself wishing for Owain's
return, and he usually looked upon Owain's company as a penance, for there lay
between the brothers the formidable gap of nine discordant years. Finally he
reached for his tunic, hunted in the floor rushes for his shoes. There was
sure to be leftover food somewhere in
,    kitchen, and even if he awakened the cooks, they'd turn a blind
for he was Lord Gruffydd's son, grandson to their Prince, the man
i/o'wn to enemies and allies alike as Llewelyn FawrLlewelyn the
Great.
But as he made ready to slip around the screen into the hall, a
meagre glow caught his attention. In the center of the hearth, flames fed upon
dried peat. Smoke spiraled upward; no matter how much whitewash was lathered
upon the walls, they still showed the smudged proof of past fires. It was not
the flickering firelight that brought Llelo to an abupt halt; it was the oil
lamp that illuminated the dais, the intent faces of his mother and brother.
Llelo shrank back, for to make his presence known would be to invite two sharp
scoldings. Balked but by no means deterred, he pondered strategy, and then
remembered that wine and bread were always set out in his father's bedchamber
for night hungers. And the stairwell lay to his left, hidden from his mother's
view by the shielding screen.
The door to Gruffydd's bedchamber was ajar. It creaked as Llelo pushed it
inward, and an imposing shape loomed before him, barring the way. Unfazed by
the growl, he whispered, "Gwlach, down," and the wolfhound quieted. Fire still
smoldered in the hearth, and by its light, Llelo was able to reach the table,
keeping a wary eye upon the bed all the while. He had torn off a large chunk
of bread, was turning toward the door when his father cried out.
Llelo spun about, and the bread fell to the floor, to be pounced upon by the
wolfhound. His heart pounding, the boy braced himself for the reprimand. But
none came. His father lay back against the pillow; his words were slurred,
unintelligible. Llelo let his breath out slowly. His relief was considerable,
for he dreaded his father's disapproval, never more so than when he seemed
most bound and determined to provoke it.
He'd begun to sidle toward the door when his father cried out again, gave a
low moan. Llelo froze, until another moan drew him reluctantly to the bed. His
father was twisting from side to side, as if seeking escape. Llelo was close
enough now to see the sweat streaking his face and throat; one hand was
entangled in the sheets, clutching at ... at what? Llelo did not know. Unable
to move, he stared, mesmerized, at the man on the bed. A troubled sleeper must
not be abruptly awakened. But he knew, too, that demons came in the night to
claim the unwary, to steal away men's souls, and he shivered. His father
turned his head into the Pillow, groaned. Llelo could bear no more. He leaned
forward. "Papa?" he said softly, and touched Gruffydd's shoulder.
Gruffydd gasped, lashed out wildly. His outstretched arm caught
0 across the chest, sent the boy reeling. Flung backward, he crashed
10
into the table; the trestle boards buckled, plates and flagon and food
thudding to the floor. The dog scrambled for safety, began to bark, and
Gruffydd's favorite falcon snapped its tether, soared off its perch and
swooped about the chamber with the wolfhound now in frenzied pur. suit.
Gruffydd sat up abruptly, blinking in dazed dismay at the chaotic scene that
met his eyes. He swore, snarled a command that dropped the dog down in a
submissive crouch. The falcon circled and then alighted upon the bed canopy.
Gruffydd rubbed his eyes, swore again. And only then did he see his son
sprawled amidst the wreckage upon the floor.
"Llelo? What are you doing here? What" He broke off, seeing the blood
trickling down the boy's chin. "How did you hurt yourself? Did I ... did I hit
you, Llelo?"
Llelo shook his head, got unsteadily to his feet. "No, Papa." He swallowed.
"You cried out in your sleep and I ... I sought to wake you. When I fell, I
bit my lip."
For a long moment, they regarded each other in silence. They were very unlike.
Gruffydd's hair was almost as red as the hearth flames, his eyes a clear
cat-green, while Llelo's coloring was dark. He had begun to assess the damage
done, and now turned wide brown eyes upon Gruffydd's face, eyes that showed
sudden alarm. How could he have caused so much havoc with such good
intentions?
"Come here, lad," Gruffydd said, and Llelo swallowed again, wiped his mouth on
the sleeve of his tunic, then sat cautiously on the edge of the bed. To
Gruffydd, he seemed like a wild bird poised for flight; he flinched as
Gruffydd touched his arm.
"Well, I'll grant you this, Llelo. When you set out to wake a man, you take no
half-measures."
Llelo's eyes widened even farther. Still not fully convinced that he was to
escape unscathed, he could not help grinning, nonetheless. "I am sorry about
the broken flagon, Papa," he said, and Gruffydd shrugged.
"I expect it can be mended. But what of you? You took quite a tumble. Are you
sure that you need no mending yourself?"
Now, it was Llelo's turn to shrug; he'd taken much sharper buffets from Owain.
"Papa ... do you remember your dream?"
Gruffydd's mouth tightened so noticeably that he'd have called the question
back if only he could. He tensed, but then his father's shoulders slumped.
"Yes, I remember," he said, so low that Llelo had to strain to catch his
words. "But I'd rather not talk of it, Llelo. And I'd not have you talk of it,
either. I want you to keep this night to yourself, lad. Will you do that for
me?" t
Llelo stared at him, mouth ajar, eyes full of wonder that his father I would
ask when his was the right to command. For most of his life' I Gruffydd had
been a remote and forbidding figure, quick-tempered, not|
11
to please. And now, Llelo marveled, he needs my help! Now they d a secret, a
secret somehow shameful, one his father did not want v   wn "I'll not tell a
living soul, Papa! I swear by all the saints," he vved, and spat on the floor
to seal the bargain.
Gruffydd laughed, was surprised to find he could. Most often he
as shaken for hours after one of the dreams, despairing of what he
vf as base weakness, dreading the nightmare's recurrence. "Good
lad " ne sa*^' an<^ ^or *ne ^*rst time, he four|d he could look into his
son's dark eyes and see no ghosts, see beyond the boy's disquieting
resemblance to the man whose name he bore, the man who had given
Gruffydd life and then taken away six years of it.
"We ought to sweep up the chamber, Papa, ere Mama comes back," Llelo
suggested, an eager accomplice in this complicity of silence. But even as he
spoke, they heard the footsteps upon the stairs.
The door was shoved back; Senena and Owain burst into the room. "Gruffydd? A
servant said he heard a fearful crash! Are you all right? Did youLlelo?"
Senena's voice registered more than surprise, it registered disapproval. Owain
was even more outspoken, saying accusingly, "What are you doing here, Llelo?"
Llelo was accustomed to finding himself in the wrong. He said nothing,
retreated into the stubborn silence that his parents and brother found so
infuriating. But this night was to be different; he was to have a defender. As
Senena frowned, started to speak, Gruffydd said, "He heard me cry out in my
sleep, deserves no rebuke."
Owain's face was easily read; his surprise was all too apparent. Senena's eyes
flew to her husband's face, and Llelo was forgotten.
"Was it your dream again, beloved?" She was meticulous in the keeping of her
house, prized her possessions. But now she never even glanced at the broken
crockery strewn about the floor, hastening toward the bed. "I should have been
here for you! But that accursed storm, I could not sleep . . ."As she spoke,
she was fluffing the pillow, smoothing the sheets, stroking her husband's
tousled hair. Llelo could not look away; he'd not known that his mother's
hands, so sure and so capable, could be so tender, too.
Gruffydd seemed content to be ministered to, and he raised no
objection when Senena insisted he lie back in bed. "I know what you
eed, love, a cup of hot mulled wine, well sweetened with honey.
"wain, go to the kitchen, see that a servant fetches it straightaway.
Llelo, go to bed."
she was not a woman to repeat herself; both boys obeyed at once.
just before they reached the bottom step in the stairwell, Owain °Pped
abruptly, shoved Llelo back against the wall. "You keep your
12
mouth shut about this, you understand? Not a word to a single soul!"
Unable to free himself, Llelo glared at his brother. "I take no orders from
you!"
Owain had the proverbial temper of the flaming redhead, and reacted with rage,
cuffing the younger boy across the ear. "Curse you, this is no game! I'm
warning you in earnest!"
"Owain!" Senena was standing at the top of the stairs. "Let him be!" They
retreated before her wrath, into the hall. She swiftly followed, but to
Llelo's gratified surprise, this time the object of her anger was Owain, her
favorite, her confederate.
"I'd expect no better from Llelo, but you're nigh on eighteen. Would you add
to your father's cares? This is no time for a foolish squabble, and yet you"
"But . . . but Mama!" Owain had inherited his father's uncommon height,
towered over his diminutive mother. There was no defiance in his protest,
though, only the indignation of one who'd been done an unjust injury. "I was
not squabbling with Llelo! I was seeking to make sure he does not spread the
story of Papa's bad dream all over Llewelyn's court."
Senena had compelling eyes, a dark sea-grey; they focused now on her younger
son with sudden and unnerving intensity. "Why should you fear that, Owain?"
"Jesu, Mama, you do not know? Llelo thinks the sun itself does rise and set at
Llewelyn's whim!"
Llelo gasped, and Owain swung around to face him. "Dare you deny it? I've seen
him, Mama, seen him trailing after Llewelyn like a starveling puppy, begging
for a smile, a pat on the head. He seeks to please Llewelyn as a pagan seeks
to appease an infidel god, and this would be a rare offering, indeed, a tale
to give Llewelyn great amusement."
Llelo did not think his grandfather would be amused at all, but he knew better
than to venture a defense of Llewelyn. And there was more at stake. His pride
stung by Owain's jeer, he said hotly, "He lies, Mama! I'd never tell on Papa,
never!"
"I would to God I could believe that," Owain snapped, but subsided when Senena
held up a hand for silence.
"Owain, your father waits for the wine."
He nodded, gave Llelo one last warning look, and Llelo silently mouthed the
word "churl," that being the worst insult he knew.
If Senena noticed, she gave no sign. As soon as they were alone behind the
screen, she said, "I think we must talk, Llelo. Come closer,, so we do not
disturb the others sleeping in the hall." |
i
13
"Mama, I would not tell, truly I would not."
"I want to believe you," she said quietly. Although she was looking
ctly into his ^ace' ** seemed to Llelo that she was not truly seeing and he
shifted nervously. At last, she said, "I know you have no mories of your
father's confinement at Deganwy Castle. You were o young, a babe when his
imprisonment began, only six when it ended. It was very difficult for your
father; he of all men could never abide being caged. Owain was old enough to
understand. But you and your sister were too young. Like all children, you
would play your games, shriek and squabble, ask awkward questions ..." She
stopped, appeared to sigh.
"It seemed best to send you and Gwladys to Llewelyn's court, rather than to
keep you with us at Deganwy. Better for Gruffydd, and for you. I hoped, too,
that it might help, having you serve as a constant reminder to Llewelyn of the
evil he'd done. I thought, Let him look upon his son's child and remember that
son, mayhap relent. Well, two years ago he did, set Gruffydd free. We took you
back then ... or so I thought."
"Mama . . ."
"Hush, child, listen. I can understand, Llelo. Your grandfather is a man of
uncommon talents, and he has ever been able to bedazzle when he so chooses.
Over the hearth fires of our people, they talk of his exploits and the legends
take wing. The bards sing his praises, call him the Lion of Gwynedd, Llewelyn
the Great. What youngster would not take pride in such a celebrated kinsman?"
She reached out suddenly, grasped the boy by the shoulders. "But it must not
be, Llelo. Under Welsh law, a man's lands are divided amongst all his sons.
That Gruffydd was base-born matters for naught in Wales. When Llewelyn dies,
Gruffydd has a blood right to his share of Gwynedd."
Her grip had tightened; she was unknowingly hurting her son. "But Llewelyn
scorned the ancient laws of our countrymen, adopted the alien customs of our
enemies. He decreed that Gwynedd should pass to Davydd, his younger son, his
half-English son. He raised Davydd up over Gruffydd, and when Gruffydd
protested the loss of his birthright, Llewelyn cast him into Deganwy Castle."
"But he did free Papa, and gave him Llyn, part of Lower Powys . . ." Llelo's
words trailed off, a broken breath atremble with swallowed tears.
'Llyn, Powys!" Senena spat out the words. "What are they but
^"nbs from his table? He has cheated Gruffydd of a crown, has cursed
nights with dreams of Deganwy, and there can be no forgiveness
!°r   lm- Not from Gruffydd, not from me, and not from you. To give
Ve to Llewelyn is to betray your father." She stepped back. "You're
14
old enough now to understand that," she said, and turned away without another
word, left him alone.
GRUFFYDD, his wife, and children reached Llewelyn's palace at Aber soon after
dusk on Monday, Epiphany Eve. As they entered the great hall, an expectant
hush fell. Gruffydd moved toward the dais, greeted his father with brittle
courtesy. If Gruffydd's grievance lay open and bleeding, Llewelyn's was an
internal wound. His voice was even, his face impassive as he said, "You and
your family are ever welcome at my court."
As Llelo started forward, Owain grabbed his arm, murmured against his ear,
"Remember, not a word to Llewelyn or his Norman-French slut about Papa's bad
dreams!"
Llelo jerked his arm away, and then turned at the sound of his name, turned
with reluctance for he'd recognized her voice. The Lady Joanna, his
grandfather's consort. Sister to the English King Henry, daughter to King John
of evil fame, the mother of Davydd. The woman Owain called the "Norman-French
slut." She was smiling at Llelo, making him welcome. She'd never been anything
but kind to him, but he could not respond to her kindness; he dare not. She
was his father's enemy, the foreign witch who'd cast a sexual spell upon his
grandfather, brought about Gruffydd's ruin. Llelo knew the litany of his House
by heart. That the witch herself was soft-spoken, friendly, and fair to look
upon only made him fear her all the more, for he suspected that he, too, could
fall prey to her alien charms.
"Ah, there is my namesake." His grandfather had left the dais, was moving
toward him. "Tell me, Llelo, do you want your New Year's gift now? Of course
if you'd rather, we can wait till the morrow?" Llewelyn grinned at the boy,
and Llelo grinned back.
"Now," he said, while trying to ignore Owain's accusing grey eyes, eyes that
brought a hot flush to his face, shame for a sin he could not disavow.
IN England, dinner was the main meal of the day, served between ten and eleven
in the forenoon. In Wales, however, there was but one meal, eaten in the
evening, and Gruffydd and his family had arrived just in time for the festive
repast: roast goose with Spanish rice, porpoise frumenty, stewed apples,
venison pasty, a rissole of beef marrow and lamprey, sugared plums, wafers,
even an elaborate English-style subtlety, a dramatic marzipan sculpture of a
storm-tossed galley. When Llewelyn suggested, tongue-in-cheek, that this might
depict the Englisn
15
. of state, the best proof of the eased tensions between the two
5 pies was that his English guests laughed in unfeigned amusement,
d afterward, Llelo overheard some of the Marcher border lords agreethat
England was indeed a ship without a firm hand at the helm, , King Henry was a
good Christian, a loving husband, but a weak
After the trestle tables were cleared away, Davydd Benfras, Llewelyn's court
bard, entertained for his Prince's guests, and then there was dancing. Having
succeeded in eluding Owain's watchful eye, Llelo was wandering about the hall,
admiring the bright silks and velvets, enjoying the cheerful chaos. At his
father's manor, the English were not welcome; Gruffydd did not dine with his
enemies. But Aber on Epiphany Eve was a crucible in which the Welsh and their
NormanFrench neighbors could meet as friends, at least for the evening.
Llewelyn's daughters had married into the English nobility, and three of them
were at Aber this night: Marared and her husband, Walter Clifford; Gwladys,
Gruffydd's favorite sister, and her Marcher lord, Ralph de Mortimer; Elen,
Countess of Chester, and John the Scot, Earl of Chester, Llewelyn's most
powerful English ally. Although she'd been wed to John the Scot for fourteen
years, Elen's marriage was still barren, and she'd been forced to gratify her
maternal instincts by lavishing love and attention upon her young nieces and
nephews. Llelo adored Elen, but his affections were tainted by guilt, for he
feared that this allegiance, too, was suspect; Elen was the Lady Joanna's
daughter, Davydd's sister. Someone had brought in a tame monkey, and Llelo was
so captivated by its antics that he bumped into a man threading his way amidst
the dancers. He recoiled, staring tongue-tied at his uncle Davydd, mortified
to see he'd spilled Davydd's drink. But Davydd took the mishap in good humor,
smiled, and moved on. Llelo had never seen Davydd in a rage. The contrast
between his turbulent father and his self-contained uncle could not have been
greater. At age forty, Gruffydd was no longer young, but he was tall,
big-boned, with all the force and vibrant color of a fire in full blaze, a man
to turn heads. Llelo thought he utterly overshadowed Davydd, who was twelve
years younger, six inches shorter, as dark as Gruffydd was fair, with
pitch-black hair and slanting hazel eyes that revealed little, missed even
less.
Davydd had stopped to talk to his mother's English kin, come from
the King's Christmas court at Winchester. Llelo knew them both, Richard
ltz Ro7/ Joanna's half-brother, and her half-sister, the Lady Nell, Count-
ss of Pembroke, youngest of King John's legitimate offspring. Nell was
just twenty-one to Joanna's five and forty, and like her brother, the
nglish King, she'd turned to Joanna for the mothering they'd never
gotten from John's Queen.
16
Llelo thought the Lady Nell was as lovely as a wood nymph, but he'd often
heard his mother call her a harlot. Nell had been wed in childhood to the
powerful Earl of Pembroke, and when she'd been widowed in her sixteenth year,
she'd impulsively taken a holy oath of chastity. Although she'd never
repudiated the oath, she'd soon abandoned her homespun for soft wools and
Alexandrine velvets, soon returned to her brother's royal court, where she'd
earned herself a reputation as a flirt. Llelo was old enough to know what a
whore was, a bad woman, but he still could not help liking Nell's fragrant
perfumes, her lilting laugh.
Across the hall, he saw his father, surrounded by Welsh admirers. The Marcher
lords might look at Gruffydd askance, but he was popular with his own; there
were many among the Welsh who thought he'd been wronged. Llelo would have gone
to him, had he not noticed Owain hovering at his father's elbow. Instead,
Llelo found himself gravitating toward the dais, where his grandfather was, as
always, the center of attention.
"Say that again, John," Llewelyn instructed, "but more slowly."
His son-in-law smiled, obligingly repeated, "Nu biseche ich thee."
Although Llewelyn spoke Welsh and Norman-French and Latin, he had never
learned English. "And that means?"
"Now beseech I thee," John the Scot translated, adding, accurately if
immodestly, "I have always had a gift for languages. In addition to my native
French, I speak my father's Gaelic, Latin, a smattering of your Welsh, and
I've picked up some English. It does come in handy at times; English is still
the tongue of the peasants, the villeins on my Cheshire manors. Shall I lesson
you in English, my lord Llewelyn? What would you fancy learning?"
"Mayhap some blood-chilling English oaths?" Llewelyn suggested, and the men
laughed. So did Llelo, until he saw that Owain had joined them. He flushed,
edged away from his grandfather, from his brother's suspicious stare.
Pausing only to retrieve his mantle, he slipped through a side door, out into
the bailey. There he tilted his head back, dazzled by so many stars. His
grandfather had once offered to teach him how to find his way by making use of
the stars, but had never found the time. Llelo fumbled at his belt, drew forth
his grandfather's gift. The handle was ivory; the slender blade caught glints
of moonlight. He'd had an eating knife, of course, but this knife was longer,
sharper; with a little imagination, he could pretend it was a real dagger.
Ahead lay the stables/ where his true New Year's gift awaited him, for his
grandfather's favorite alaunt bitch had whelped, and tonight he'd promised
Llelo the pick °* the litter, as soon as they were weaned.
27
The stables were dark, quiet. Mulling over names for his new pet rlelo did not
at once realize he wasn't alone. He was almost upon the^T before he saw the
man and woman standing together in the shadow.} of an empty box stall.
Instinctively, he drew back, would have retreated But they'd whirled, moved
apart.
"Llelo?" Although the voice was low, breathless, he still recognized it as
Elen's.
"Yes," he said, and she came toward him. The man foUowed her into the
moonlight. He, too, was known to Llelo, and it took him but a moment to
recollect the name: Robert de Quincy/ a cousin of Elen's husband.
"I vow, Llelo, but you'd put a ferret to shame, paddirvg about on silent
cat-feet! You're like to scare the wits out of me/ God's truth," Eler, said
and laughed. Her laughter sounded strange to Llelo, high-pitched and uneven.
"I am sorry," he said, and she reached out, ruffled his hair "No matter. But I
was talking with Sir Robert on a private matter so I'd be beholden to you,
love, if you'd not mention that you saw us out here together." She gave him a
crooked smile. "\i wiH be our secret, Llelo . . . agreed?"
He nodded, hesitated, and then turned, began to retrace his steps toward the
great hall. They watched him go, not daring to speak until they were sure he
was safely out of earshot. Then Robert said softly "Can he be trusted?"
She bit her lip. "Yes. But Jesu, how I hated to do that to him!" He forced a
smile. "You need not fret, sweetheart. What youngling does not like to be
entrusted with a secret?"
Elen still frowned. "Mayhap," she whispered. "Mayhap " Llelo had lost all
interest in viewing the puppies. He did not know why he felt so uneasy, knew
only that he did. He'd been proud to share his father's secret. But he sensed
that Elen's secret was different. He loved his aunt Elen, worried that she was
somehow in peril, worried, too, that he might inadvertently give her secret
away. He'd never been good at keeping secrets before, but he would have to
learn. He had two now that he must not betray, Papa's and Aunt Elen's.
Llelo's father had joined those gathered around Llewelyn so Llelo ouid in good
conscience do likewise. Llewelyn noticed his approach welcomed him into the
circle with a smile, but did not interrupt himself javmg just revealed his
plans to meet with Gruffydd Maelor/ the ^ '"ice of the neighboring realm of
Upper Powys.
foe beIrlSfifrh/K- Mcad°,8' W3S my C°USin' 3 Steadfast ally-" "n* said for
asso?h 1US EngUsh liStenerS' "He dkd at Martinmas, may God
him, and was buried at Llyn Eglwystl, the abbey you English
18
know as Valle Crucis. That is where Ednyved and I have agreed to meet his
son."
"And I daresay you'll find the time to do some hunting along the way," Joanna
murmured, with the indulgent smile of a longtime wife, and Llewelyn laughed.
"And would it not be a deed of Christian charity to feed my own men, rather
than to have the poor monks empty their larders on our behalf?" Llewelyn
accepted a wine cup from a servant, and his eyes strayed from Joanna, came to
rest upon his eldest son. He drank, watching Gruffydd, and then said, "You
have ever loved the hunt, Gruffydd Should you like to accompany us?"
For the span of an indrawn breath, Gruffydd looked startled, vulnerable. "No!"
he said, too vehemently. "That would not be possible."
"As you will." Llewelyn drank again, then felt his wife's hand upon his arm.
"What say you, breila? Should you like to come?"
Joanna smiled, shook her head. "Alas, I've never shared your peculiar passion
for hunting in the dead of winter!" Llelo was standing beside her, close
enough to touch. She recognized the look of wistful yearning on his face; she,
too, had been a solitary child. "Llewelyn . . . why not take Llelo in my
stead?"
Llewelyn glanced at his grandson, surprised but not at all unwilling. "Well .
. . think you that you're old enough for a hunt, Llelo?"
"I'm nigh on nine, Grandpapa," Llelo pleaded, and Llewelyn no longer teased,
seeing the nakedness of the boy's need. j
"I can think of no better companion, lad, will take you right j gladly ... if
your lord father has no objection."
All eyes were now on Gruffydd. He looked at his son. The boy's heartbreaking
eagerness was painfully apparent, his mute entreaty far more poignant than
begging or cajoling would have been. From the corner of his eye, Gruffydd saw
his wife, knew she was silently willing him to say no.
"I often took you hunting when you were Llelo's age." Llewelyn's voice was
very quiet. "You remember, Gruffydd?"
"Yes . . . I remember. "Gruffydd bit back a harsh, humorless laugh. As if he
could forget! "I'll not forbid you, Llelo. The decision is yours.'
Llelo drew a sharp, dismayed breath, for he knew that his father wanted him to
refuse. Yet he knew, too, that he could not do it.
THE ten days that Llelo passed with his grandfather at the Cistercian abbey of
Llyn Eglwystl were touched with magic. His grandfather had never had much time
for him before; now they shared a chamber in the abbey guest house, and at
night, Llelo would listen, enthralled, as Lie-
19
. and Ednyved reminisced, related stories of their boyhood, of a . Jme of
vvars with the English. Best of all, his grandfather kept his
mise, took the boy hunting with him. On a cloudy, cold day in late I uary, a
day Llelo would long remember, his had been one of the
ws that brought down a young hind, and when venison -was served that night in
the abbey guest hall and the infirmary, Llewelyn had anounced to one and all
that they were eating Llelo's kill.
Only one shadow marred the utter perfection of the day, Llelo's wareness that
their time together was coming to an end; there were just four days remaining
until they returned to Aber. But he soon forgot all else when Ednyved began to
spin a tale of Saracens, hot desert sands, and queer humped beasts called
camels. Ednyved was his grandfather's Seneschal, a lifetime companion and
confidant, and one of the few Welshmen who'd seen the Holy Land. He'd returned
that year from a pilgrimage to Palestine, and Llelo was spellbound by the
stories he had to tell; the only bedtime tales he enjoyed more were those
accounts of Llewelyn's rise to power. He'd begun a rebellion at fourteen, had
eventually wrested control of Gwynedd from his uncles in a bloody battle at
the mouth of the River Conwy, and Llelo never tired of hearing about it.
Propping himself up on his elbow, he glanced across at liis grandfather's
pallet. The Cistercians were an austere order, and the Abbot did not have
lavish private quarters to offer his Prince, as a Benedictine abbot could have
done. Llewelyn had reassured his apologetic hosts that he was quite
comfortable. He had, after all, done his share o»f sleeping around campfires,
he'd laughed, and Llelo felt a sharp twinge of envy, yearning for the day when
he, too, could sleep under the stars with a naked sword at his side. It had
been some moments now since either Llewelyn or Ednyved had spoken, and he
hastily sought for a conversational gambit, one that would keep sleep at bay
for a while longer.
"Did you never want to go on crusade like Lord Ednyved, Grandpapa?"
"I thought about it, lad. But our English neighbors covet "Wales too much; I
never felt I could risk it." "My father hates the English."
He has reason, lad. He spent four years in English prisons." "He did? I did
not know that! When? How?" I ve told you how King John led an army into
Gwynedd, how I to send Joanna to his camp, seeking peace. When I yielded to
him berconwy, he compelled me to give up thirty hostages. He insisted fl at
one of them be Gruffydd." Llewelyn was staring into ttie hearth mes. After a
time, he said, "He was just fifteen, and he suffered
8*% at John's hands."
20
"Do you hate the English, too, Grandpapa?"
"I hated John. But no, I do not hate all the English. I'd hardly have found
English husbands for my daughters if I did. Davydd's wife is English, too. Of
course they were marriages of policy, done for Gwynedd's good."
"Was your marriage done for Gwynedd, too, Grandpapa?"
"Indeed, lad. Joanna was the English King's bastard daughter, just fourteen
when we wed." Llewelyn laughed suddenly. "An appealing little lass she was,
too, but so very young. I can scarce believe we've been wed for more than
thirty years."
Llelo sat up on the pallet. He knew, of course, of the great scandal that had
scarred his grandfather's marriage; he'd heard his parents discuss it often
enough. Six years ago the Lady Joanna had taken an English lover, and Llewelyn
had caught them in his bedchamber. He'd hanged the lover, sent Joanna away in
disgrace. But in time, he'd forgiven her, had created another scandal by
taking her back. Llelo yearned now to ask why, did not dare.
"Grandpapa, may I ask you a question? I do not want to vex you ..."
Llewelyn turned on his side, toward the boy. "Ask," he said, and Llelo blurted
it out in one great, breathless gulp.
"Grandpapa, why did you choose Davydd over my father? Why did you keep him in
Deganwy? Do you hate him so much?"
"Hate him? No, Llelo."
A silence settled over the room. Llelo shivered, drew his blanket close. "Are
you angry?"
"No, lad. I was but thinking how best to answer you, how to make you
understand. Do you see our hunting gear in yon corner? Fetch me a quiver of
arrows."
Mystified, Llelo did. Llewelyn sat up, spilled arrows onto the bed. "Think of
these arrows as the separate Welsh principalities. This first arrow is for
Gwynedd. These two shall be for Upper and Lower Powys. And this one for South
Wales, for Deheubarth. Now add these others for the lesser lords, those who
stand by their princes." Holding them up, he said, "Watch, lad, whilst I try
to break them. There . . . you see? It cannot easily be done, can it? But take
Gwynedd alone, take a lone arrow . . ."He gripped a single shaft in his fists;
there was a loud crack as the wood splintered, broke in two.
Llelo was intrigued, but uncomprehending. "I do not fully understand," he
admitted, with such obvious reluctance that Llewelyn smiled.
"Just listen, lad; you will. You know, of course, that Welsh law divides a
man's lands up amongst his sons. But how do you divide a kingdom, Llelo? It
cannot be done. In the past, our law did but lead to needless bloodshed, set
brother against brother. So it was with my own
21
ilv my father was slain by his brothers. And Gwynedd was torn
der by their wars, bled white. I could not let that happen again. I
35 A to keep rny realm whole, could not let it be broken into fragments
h n I died. How else could we hope to stave off English attacks? We're
eace now with England, but it was a peace I won at sword-point,
ht wjth blood. The moment we seem vulnerable, the English will k to regain
their conquests, and what could be more vulnerable than fland ravaged by civil
war?"
Llelo reached over, picked up one of the arrow halves. "I think I see You put
Gwynedd first, did what you thought was best for Wales."
Llewelyn was delighted. "Just so, lad."
"But why did you choose Davydd? Why did you not want my papa to have Gwynedd?
He was your firstborn. Why Davydd?"
That was the question Gruffydd had put to him, too. And he'd never been able
to answer it to Gruffydd's satisfaction, never been able to make him
understand. Would he have any better luck with the boy?
"A prince of Gwynedd must be practical, Llelo. He must be able to understand
the limits of his power. No Welsh prince could ever hope to equal the might of
the English Crown. To survive, to safeguard our sovereignty, we must come to
terms with England. That is why every Welsh prince since my grandfather's time
has sworn allegiance to the English king. But Gruffydd was never able to
accept that. Over the years, his hatred of the English festered, until it was
beyond healing. If ever he had my power, he'd start a war with England, a war
he could not win. I do not blame him, Llelo; he cannot be other than as he is.
But I could not let him destroy himself, and I could not let him destroy
Gwynedd."
It was very quiet; Llewelyn knew that Ednyved, too, had been listening. Llelo
had bowed his head, and Llewelyn could see only a crown of dark hair; it
showed brown glints in the sun, but now looked as black as Llewelyn's own hair
had once been. "Llelo?"
"Did you never try to make my papa understand? Mayhap if he knew why, if he
did not think you loved Davydd more, then he'd . . . he'd be more content."
"Yes, lad," Llewelyn said. "I tried." Llelo asked no more questions,
and after a moment, Llewelyn leaned over, quenched the candle flame.
Llelo?" Ednyved spoke for the first time from the darkness. "I want
o tell you something. Your lord grandfather spoke of a peace with
England. What he did not tell you was that it was dictated on his terms.
ou see, lad, Llewelyn did what men thought impossible; he united the
other Welsh Princes, got them to hold with him against England. Wales
never been stronger, more secure, and it is your grandfather's doing. e was
too shrewd to lay claim to the title, knowing it would but stir
22
T
up jealousies and rancors amongst the other Princes, but in truth, lad,
Llewelyn is Prince of all Wales, Prince of all our people."
Llewelyn was taken aback. Ednyved was not a friend who flattered; his was an
affection most often barbed by flippancy and sarcasm. "That is the sort of
praise a man rarely gets to hear, Ednyved," he said wryly. "It is usually
reserved for funeral orations!"
"Well, try not to let it go to your head, my lord. I just thought the lad
ought to know."
No one spoke after that. Llelo snuggled deeper under the blankets. He was
drowsy, not far from sleep. But his last conscious thought was one to give him
great comfort. He need feel no shame for loving his grandfather. He was not
disloyal. He knew now that his grandfather had never been his father's enemy.
LLELO awoke to darkness. The shutters were still drawn, and the hearth had
gone out. The chamber was very cold; a thin crust of ice had formed over the
water in the washing lavers. He knew instinctively that the abbey bells had
not yet rung Prime. So why had he awakened? He yawned, then saw that his
grandfather and Ednyved were stirring, too. Across the chamber, Llewelyn's
attendants were rolling hastily from their blankets. Llewelyn sat up, and
Llelo felt a throb of excitement when he saw the sword in his grandfather's
hand. The intruder shrank back, gave a frightened bleat.
"I am Brother Marc! I intend no evil, God's truth!"
One of Llewelyn's squires had the wit to unlatch a shutter, revealing a
glimpse of greying sky, revealing the white habit and black scapular of a
Cistercian monk. Llewelyn's men lowered their swords in disgusted relief,
muttering among themselves at the incredible innocence that had sent the monk
bursting into a sleeping Prince's chamber, never thinking that his sudden,
unsanctioned entry might well be taken for an assassination attempt.
"My lord, forgive me, but I did not know what else to do. I was on watch at
the gatehouse when he sought entry, and he insisted he be taken to you at
once. He says he has an urgent message from Lord Davydd and"
"Christ Jesus, man, why do you tarry then? Bid him enter!" Flinging the
blankets back, Llewelyn grabbed for his clothes. He was wide awake now, but
baffled. Wales was not at war. The other Welsh Princes were his allies. Nor
did he believe the English King was likely to violate the peace. A Marcher
border lord? Again, not likely; they were like wolves, preyed upon the weak.
But Davydd was never one to take alarm at trifles. So what. . . Jesu,
Gruffydd! Had he risen up in rebellion again?
23
Llewelyn shot a troubled glance toward his grandson. And then an unshaven,
begrimed man was kneeling before him, a man who'd obviously spent long, hard
hours in the saddle, a man who could not meet his eyes.
"I bear grievous tidings, my lord. Your lady wife has been taken ill. Lord
Davydd urges you to return to Aber with all haste."
Llewelyn had been buckling his scabbard; his hands froze on the belt.
"Joanna?" There was shock in his voice, and disbelief, but no fear, not yet.
"How ill? What ails her?"
"I know not the answer to that, my lord. But she burns with fever, and Lord
Davydd said ... he said you dare not delay."
The men dressed rapidly, wordlessly, casting sidelong glances at Llewelyn's
graven profile. In his haste, Llelo pulled his shirt on backwards, nearly
panicked when he could not find his boots, and then heard what he most
dreaded, Ednyved's flat, dispassionate voice saying, "It might be best to
leave the boy here with the monks."
"No! I want to come. I'll not slow you down, I swear!"
Ednyved looked into the boy's upturned face, and then over at Llewelyn. But
Llewelyn's eyes were turned inward; he had no thoughts for Llelo, no thoughts
for anyone but the woman lying ill at Aber. Ednyved hesitated, and then
nodded.
The abbey at Llyn Eglwystl was more than fifty miles from Llewelyn's seacoast
palace at Aber, but they covered the distance in less than two days, arriving
at dusk on the second day. The men were chilled, soaked by hours of steady,
winter rain, their horses lathered and mudsplattered, but none had protested
Llewelyn's punishing pace. Llelo was in a daze, so exhausted that he'd not
even noticed when Llewelyn lifted him onto his saddle; he'd settled back
sleepily in his grandfather's arms, awakening only when rain dripped over the
edge of his mantle hood, trickled onto his cheek. Now someone was reaching up
for him, depositing him upon the ground. He staggered, and Llewelyn put a
steadying hand on his arm, but the gesture was automatic; Llewelyn had already
forgotten the boy, saw Davydd and only Davydd.
For two days Llewelyn had sought to convince himself that he feared tor
naught, that Joanna could not truly be in danger. But at sight of his son's
ashen face, he heard himself say huskily, "She still lives?"
Davydd nodded, but then said, "Thank God you've come, Papa. We so feared you'd
not be in time . . ."
"Why did you not summon me at once?"
"She would not let me, Papa. She swore it was but a chill, and indeed, at
first it did seem so. When she worsened, it took us without warning."
Llewelyn had never been a man to shrink from hard truths; unless
24
he knew the nature of his enemy, how could he know what strategy might stave
off defeat? "Tell me," he said. "Tell me all."
"The chill was followed by fever, and despite all her doctors could do, it
burns ever higher." Tears had filled Davydd's eyes, but he somehow managed to
keep his voice steady. "She has pain in breathing, and a constant cough. The
doctors have given her sage and vervain, wine with powdered anise and fennel,
and Mama's confessor has not left the chapel all day, lighting candles to the
Blessed Mary and to St Blaise. But Papa, I'll not lie to you. Nothing has
helped, nothing. She grows weaker by the hour. The doctors . . . they hold out
no hope."
"Devil take the doctors," Llewelyn said savagely. "Do you think I'll just
stand by, let her die? She almost died before, giving birth to you. But I did
not let it happen. I'm here for her now, and that will make the difference.
I'll not lose her, Davydd. Whatever it takes to save her, I'll do. I'll find a
way. I always do." He was turning away when Davydd caught his arm.
"Papa, wait. She . . . she's out of her head now with the fever Papa, I doubt
that she'll even know you."
Llewelyn stared at him, and then pulled his arm free.
His bedchamber had been draped with red, in vain hopes of banishing fever.
Isabella, Davydd's young wife, burst into tears at sight of Llewelyn; so, too,
did Nia, Joanna's maid. The doctors stood helplessly by; they looked
exhausted, and not a little apprehensive. Llewelyn brushed them aside, leaned
over the bed.
"Joanna? Breila, I'm here," he said, and then his breath caught in his throat
as she turned toward the sound of his voice. Splotches of hot color burned
high on her cheekbones, but her skin was bloodless, had taken on a
frightening, waxlike pallor. Her eyes looked bruised, so deeply circled were
they, sunken back in her head, glazed and unseeing, and even when he took her
in his arms, held her close, he could find no flicker of recognition in their
fevered depths.
LLELO awakened just before dawn. As early as it was, the great hall was
already astir. Joanna had not been popular with her husband's people, but she
was well-loved by those in her own household, and a pall had settled over the
court. Even those who could not mourn Joanna, the unfaithful, foreign wife,
even they grieved for the pain her death would give their Prince, and Llelo
saw only somber, grim faces, saw people too preoccupied to pay heed to a
bewildered eight-year-old.
Llewelyn had spent the night at Joanna's bedside, had at last fallen into a
fitful sleep. When he awoke, it was with a start, with a sick surge of fear
that subsided only a little as he glanced toward the bed, reassured
25
If that Joanna still lived. Her breathing was labored, rapid and
^ii w but her sleep seemed easier, and he took heart from that. For
5      ,   o£ {he night, she'd tossed and turned, in her fever seeking to
'h    w off the sheets, from time to time crying out his name, agitated,
herent, imprisoned in a twilight world of delirium and shadows, m beyond his
reach. But now she seemed calmer, and he leaned over, 'touched his lips to her
forehead.
As he straightened up, he winced. His was no longer a young man's body and his
muscles were cramping badly, inflamed by the abuses of the past three days. He
slumped back in the chair, for the first time noticed his grandson. The boy
said nothing, shyly held out a clay goblet. Llewelyn took it, drank without
tasting.
"Llelo, fetch me that casket on the window-seat." Llelo was in motion before
he'd stopped speaking, and a moment later was watching, amazed, as Llewelyn
dumped the contents onto the foot of the bed: a gleaming treasure-trove of
gold and silver, garnets, amethysts, pendants and pins. "I once gave Joanna an
amber pater noster. Help me find it,
lad."
Llelo had the sharper eye, soon spied the yellow-gold prayer beads. "Here,
Grandpapa! Why do you want it?"
"Men say that amber helps to ease fevers." Llewelyn leaned over, fastened the
rosary around Joanna's wrist. Isabella had entered with a laver. Taking it
from her, he sat on the bed, began to sponge cooling water onto Joanna's face
and throat. When her lashes fluttered, he said soothingly, "I seek to lower
your fever, breila." The words came readily, so often had he said them to her
in the past twelve hours. But then the sponge slipped from his fingers, for
her eyes had focused on him, no longer blind. "Joanna?"
"You came back . . ."A joyful whisper, so faint that none but he heard. Only
when he thrust the laver aside did the others realize she was lucid again.
"Hold me," she entreated, and he slid his arm around her shoulders, cradled
her against his chest. "Llewelyn ... I cannot remember. Was ... was I
shriven?"
'Indeed, love. Davydd did assure me of it, said your confessor
administered the Sacraments whilst you were still in your senses."
Brushing her hair back, he kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the corner
ner mouth. "But it matters for naught now, breila, for you're going
to r^°ver. You need only"
My darling . . . my darling, not even you can . . . can deny a h . . " j^g
comer Q£ ^ mouth twitched, tried to smile. "Davydd?" e whispered, and Llewelyn
nodded, unable to speak.
m here, Mama." Davydd came forward, into her line of vision.
26
"Right here." He saw her lips move, knew what she asked, slowly shook his
head. "No, Mama. But Elen is on her way, should be here soon."
Joanna closed her eyes; tears squeezed through her lashes. So much she wanted
to say, but she had not the strength. "Beloved . . . promise me . . ."
Llewelyn stiffened. She'd fought so hard to gain the crown for their son. Did
she mean to bind him now with a deathbed vow? He waited dreading what she
would ask of him, to safeguard the succession for Davydd. Knowing there was
but one certain way to do thatto cage Gruffydd again. And how could he do that
to his son? How could he condemn him to a life shut away from the sun? But how
could he deny Joanna? Could he let her go to her grave without that comfort?
"Llewelyn . . . pray for me," she gasped, and only then did he fully accept
it, that she was indeed dying, was already lost to him, beyond earthly cares,
worldly ambitions.
"I will, Joanna." He swallowed with difficulty, brought her hand up, pressing
his lips against her palm. "You will have my every prayer."
"Bury me at ... at Llanfaes . . ."
His head jerked up. He had an island manor at Llanfaes; it was there that
Joanna had been confined after he had discovered her infidelity. "Why, Joanna?
Why Llanfaes?"
Her mouth curved upward. "Because ... I was so happy there. You came to me,
forgave me ..."
"Oh, Christ, Joanna ..." His voice broke; he pulled her into an anguished
embrace, held her close.
Llelo had been a petrified witness; at that, he began to sob. Isabella, too,
was weeping. Davydd turned on his heel, bolted from the chamber. Ednyved took
the boy by the arm. Gently but insistently, he ushered Llelo and Isabella into
the antechamber. Then quietly he closed the door, left Llewelyn alone with his
wife.
ELEN arrived at Aber in mid-afternoon, but by then Joanna was delirious again.
She never regained consciousness, died in the early hours of dawn on
Candlemas, February 2. At week's end, her body was ferried across the strait
to the island of Mon, where she was buried, as she'd requested, in a seaside
garden near Llewelyn's manor at Llanfaes.
It was a cold, blustery day, a day of wet winds and intermittent rains.
Despite the raw, winter weather, there was a large turnout for the funeral of
Llewelyn's lady; well-born Welsh lords stood shoulder to shoulder with Marcher
barons as the Bishop of St Asaph performed the funeral Mass under a darkening
sky. The Bishop had consecrated a burial ground within sight of the sea, and
the people murmured among them-
27
wondering why Llewelyn had chosen to bury Joanna here, rather
5        ' tne village church They had their answer at the conclusion of
thaIV,        when Bishop Hugh announced that Prince Llewelyn had
, to found a house of Franciscan friars at Llanfaes, to pray for the
loul of the Lady Joanna
None doubted the depths of Llewelyn's grieving, it was there for I] the world
to see in the haggard face, the hollowed dark eyes But f had expected a
gesture of such spectacular and dramatic dimensions Llelo was standing close
enough to hear his mother's indrawn breath As inconspicuously as possible, he
backed away, then circled around the mourners, at last reached his
grandfather's side
Llewelyn was standing with his son and daughter by Joanna's tomb He'd put
artisans to work day and night to complete it in time, the coffin lid bore his
wife's effigy, was decorated with floriated crosses, foliage, a winged dragon
The coffin had been sprinkled with holy water, it was being splattered now
with rain drops, with Elen's silent tears as she bent over, touched her lips
to the cold, carven stone
"My lord7" The Bishop of St Asaph waited at a respectful distance, knowing how
difficult it always was for the living to bid farewell to their dead "My lord
Llewelyn, shall we return to Aber now7"
"Yes, go " Llewelyn did not move, though "Take the others back, Davydd You,
too, lass," he said, when Elen would have objected "I would have some last
moments alone with her," he said softly, and his children no longer protested,
left him there in the bleak, windswept garden
The rain was coming down heavily by the time the mourners were ferried back to
Aber The great hall was soon filled to overflowing with cold and hungry guests
Davydd's wife had made herself ill with her weeping, had taken to bed, but
both Davydd and Elen were still in the hall, accepting condolences with the
brittle, pndeful gallantry of noblesse oblige Joanna's sister Nell had borne
up with equal fortitude, but now her composure cracked and she covered her
face with her hands, began to sob Llelo was closest to her, but he did not
know how to comfort, willingly relinquished the field to a French cousin of
John the Scot Simon de Montfort moved swiftly to Nell's side, gently led her
toward the greater privacy of a window-seat, then hovered protectively nearby
until Nell had regained composure
Llelo retreated, but he could find no refuge, no way to outrun the
memory of his grandfather, standing alone by a white stone coffin Never
«ore had Llelo experienced what it was like to identify with another's
Pain, and he did not know how to deal with the hurting, the shattering
Sense of helplessness In his misery, he sought out his father
Gruffydd had expected to rejoice on this day, for he'd hated Joanna
28
with a passionate hatred that only death could satisfy. Now she was dead, but
as he'd looked upon his father's stunned, silent grieving, he could feel no
joy, only an unwilling sense of pity, pity his father did not deserve. He
brooded now upon this, shamed by his weakness, by wayward emotions he did not
understand, too troubled himself to see a small boy's distress.
As soon as the rain stopped, Llelo fled the great hall, fled the court.
No one paid him any mind. Aber's full name was Aber Gwyngregyn
Mouth of the White Shell Riverbut the river was more in the nature of a
stream. Following its meandering course, Llelo tracked it back to the cataract
known as Rhaeadr Fawrthe Great Waterfall. It was more aptly named than the
stream, a narrow spill of white water, surging more than a hundred feet over a
sheer cliff. Llelo scrambled down the rocks until he stood at the base of the
waterfall, close enough to feel the flying spray. Partway up the cliff, a
crooked scrub tree struggled to survive, growing at an improbable angle out of
the rock. Llelo amused himself by throwing stones at it, with occasional
success. He was launching twig boats out into the foaming pool when the wind
brought to him the sound of voices; instinctively, he dodged behind the rocks,
a Welsh bowman awaiting the enemy's approach.
As they came into view, he flattened himself against the ground, the
gameplaying forgotten. Senena and Owain came to a stop less than fifteen feet
from his hiding place. He heard a splash, knew that Owain must have thrown a
pebble into the pool.
"Thank you for coming with me, Owain. I could not endure that hall a moment
longer, God's truth. If I'd heard one more fool babble on about Llewelyn's
great gesture, I'd have thrown a screaming fit. To think of honoring that
harlot with a Franciscan friary!" Senena's voice was trembling, so intense was
her outrage. "Better he should have established a brothel in her memory!"
Owain laughed. Another rock thudded into the shallows, not too far from where
Llelo crouched.
"I truly believe she was a witch, Owain. How else explain the way she
ensorcelled Llewelyn, turned him against his own son?" Senena strode to the
edge of the pool. "A pity," she said, "that it was not Llewelyn we buried
today at Llanfaes."
"We'll have that pleasure, Mama, never fear. He's an old man, nigh on four and
sixty. How much longer can he live?"
"I know. It is just that Gruffydd has waited so long . . ." Through a blur of
tears, Llelo saw a flash of blue, his mother's mantle. He lay very still,
scarcely breathing, until she moved away.
"Mama ... do you ever wonder if Papa truly wants the crown?     j
"What mean you by that, Owain? Of course he wants it!" I
29
tain
0h.
tos
"VVell ..." The boy sounded hesitant, uncharacteristically uncer"VVhen we talk
about it, he does not seem as eager as he ought. -, he says ne hates Llewelyn,
says he'll never allow Gwynedd to pass a' weakling like Davydd. But . . . but
sometimes, Mama, I wonder if
his heart is truly in it."
Her son had inadvertently touched a very raw nerve, indeed, for cenena, too,
sometimes found herself fearing that those years at Deanvvy Castle had
crippled her husband's spirit, had sapped his will to ersevere, to fight for
what was rightfully his.
"That is arrant nonsense, Owain! Never doubt thisthat your father ^ one day
rule in Llewelyn's stead."
"God grant it so," Owain said, with enough passion to placate
5enena.
"He will, Owain. He will." She smiled at her son, linked her arm in his. "It
is raining again; we'd best get back."
Their voices grew less distinct. After a time, Llelo heard only the sounds of
the river and the rain. His face was wet, but he did not pull up his mantle
hood, sat there huddled against the rock, his knees drawn up to his chest.
He'd begun to tremble. The light was fading, night coming on.
Dorwyaaelan, North Wales
April 1237
VjwLADYS de Mortimer reached her father's
fountain castle of Dolwyddelan in mid-morning. She was accompanied
y the armed escort that her rank and sex demanded; accompanied, too,
y her small sons, Roger and Hugh, andmuch to Elen's pleasure Uelo.
Gwladys's children were now being fed in the great hall, while Llelo
ta?s "astening down the west slope toward the river, intent upon over-
in ffi ^tewelyn, who'd taken his dogs out for a run. From a window
ish ewelyn's private chamber, Elen could track his progress; he van-
^to a grove of trees, and she glanced back at Gwladys. "I'm right
ight
30
glad you've come. I shall have to return to Cheshire at week's end, and I'll
feel better about leaving Papa now that you're here. Papa was not expecting
you?"
"No. But he's been much on my mind these weeks past, and l've news, news that
should cheer him." Gwladys moved to the window too; it was unshuttered,
offering a sweeping view of the valley, the serpentine course of the River
Lledr. "Elen, tell me. How is Papa?"
"Heartsick," Elen said slowly, turning to face her sister. "His grieving is
still raw, shows no signs of healing. He misses my mother so, and I've no
comfort for him; no one has. I've been here a fortnight, but I've not had much
time with him. He's ever been a man of remarkable energy, but never have I
seen him push himself like this. He rises before dawn, labors till well after
dark, seeks to fill every waking moment with activity. And if by chance he has
no meeting scheduled with his council or his rhagnalls, he takes that new
chestnut stallion of his out for long rides, does not come back till the horse
is lathered, till he is utterly exhausted."
Gwladys sat down in the window-seat. "That sounds like a man trying to outrun
his ghosts," she said, and Elen nodded bleakly.
"In truth. And I ache for him so, Gwladys. I doubt that he sleeps much; I know
for certes that he is eating poorly. And sometimes at night in the great hall,
a silence will fall, and there'll be on his face a look of such sadness . . ."
Tears filled Elen's eyes; she blinked them back, mustered up a smile. "Well .
. . what news have you for Papa?"
"I'm with child again."
Elen caught her breath; envy twisted like a blade, drew blood. "I am happy for
you, Gwladys, truly I am."
Gwladys was quiet for some moments, dark eyes intent, reflective. "We used to
be close, Elen. But not for years nownot since Joanna's infidelity." She saw
the younger woman stiffen, said swiftly, "You need not fear; I shall speak no
ill of your mother. In truth, I was fond of her once, thought of her as a
friend. But I could not forgive her for causing Papa so much pain. Even after
he forgave her, I never could." She rose, stepped toward her sister. "I should
have, Elen. For Papa's sake, I should have made my peace with her. I see that
now, too late. When I realized I was with child, I thought . . . well, I
thought that if I have a girl/1 could name her after Joanna. Do you think that
would please Papa?"
"I think Papa would be very pleased." Elen turned back toward the window;
talking about Joanna stirred up too many memories, too much pain. "There's
Llelo," she said. "He's reached the river. How do y°u happen to have him with
you, Gwladys?"
"I asked Gruffydd if he could visit with me for a while."
"You see it, too, then."
31
"See what?'' "His need."
rwladys nodded. "Yes," she admitted. She leaned forward, pulled hutters all
the way back. In the distance Llelo vaulted over a log, 'mbly as a colt. "I
think," she said, "that it will be good for Papa, ^"having the lad here."
WELYN had an old but erratic acquaintanceship with death. It had me into his
life very early; he was still in his cradle when it claimed h's father. But
then it had shown an unexpected and inexplicable sense of mercy. The years
passed and there were no further visitations. He lost friends in battle, but
those he most loved were spareduntil the summer of his twenty-ninth year. In
the span of but three months, he lost his mother and Tangwystl, Tangwystl with
her flame-bright hair and Gruffydd's green eyes, Tangwystl who'd given him
love and four children. But after that summer of sorrow had come yet another
mysterious reprieve. And as the years went byso many yearsit began to seem as
if he'd been strangely blessed, able to walk in sunlight while other men trod
in death's shadow.
It was not true, of course. Death offered no deliverance, only delay. For nine
years now, it had hovered close at hand, demanding payment for debts long
deferred. Rhys and Catrin, friends who'd shared all his yesterdays. Two of his
daughters' husbands. The most steadfast of his English allies, Ranulf of
Chester, uncle to John the Scot. Morgan, who'd been a father in all but blood.
Adda, his brother. And then his son Tegwared.
Llewelyn knew he had been luckier than most men, for he'd sired eight
children, buried but oneTegwared. He'd been an amiable, cheerful youngster,
quick to jest, easy to love, utterly unlike his brothers, lacking Davydd's
ability, Gruffydd's passion. He'd grown into a placid, carefree young man,
apparently content with the provisions Llewelyn made for him, and if he felt
cheated that he was never in contention for a crown, if he had yearned to join
in the lethal blood-rivalry between ms half-brothers, none but he ever knew.
But for Llewelyn there would always be an unease of mind, the awareness that
he'd not been entirely
air to this third son of his, and two years after Tegwared's mortal illness,
e still felt that of all death's claims, this had been the most merciless, and
the most unjust.
...       intimate enemy, death, capricious and cruel, ultimately invinhe'd
   Llewelyn did not fear his own demise, and he truly thought
1      aken its measure, knew the worst it could do. And then death claimed
his wife.
32
There was a Welsh proverb: for every wound, the ointment of time. To Llewelyn,
it was an empty promise, a hollow mockery. Time would not heal. Till the day
he died, he would grieve for Joanna. Now he sought only to learn to live
without her. But so far it was a lesson that eluded him, for Joanna's was an
unquiet grave. She came to him in the night, filled every room with her unseen
presence, a tender, tempting ghost, beckoning him back to a past that was far
more real to him than the joyless, dismal world he now inhabited. It had been
more than two months, the longest he'd ever gone without a woman in his bed,
but he felt no stirrings of desire. The woman he wanted was dead. It was
April, and all about him were the miracles of new life. He looked upon this
verdant, blossoming spring, a spring Joanna would never see, he looked upon a
field of brilliant blue flowersthe bluebells Joanna had so lovedand at that
moment he'd willingly have bartered all his tomorrows for but one yesterday.
His dogs had begun to bark, and his hand dropped to his sword hilt. But the
barking had lost its challenging tone; the dogs had encountered a friend.
Llewelyn waited, and within moments his young grandson burst into the
clearing. "Grandpapa!" Llelo skidded to a halt, suddenly shy, and Llewelyn
smiled.
"Come, give me a proper greeting," he said, and Llelo hurtled forward, into
his arms. He swung the boy up into the air, pretended to stagger, slowly
sinking to the ground under Llelo's weight. It was a game they'd occasionally
played, but Llewelyn had not reckoned upon the enthusiastic participation of
his alaunts. Both dogs joined eagerly in ; the fray, and Llewelyn was knocked
flat, buried under one hundred sixty pounds of squirming, yelping alaunt,
laughing for the first time in weeks.
"Wolf! You're squashing me!" Wriggling free, Llelo lay panting in the grass.
"Aunt Gwladys brought me," he confided as soon as he'd gotten his breath back.
"She says we can stay for at least a week, mayhap even till my birthday."
Llewelyn's mouth quirked. "I'm having a perilous day. First nearly smothered
by these fool dogs, and now assailed by flaming hints."
Llelo grinned, unabashed. "You did say you had a bad memory for dates,
Grandpapa."
"That I did," Llewelyn conceded. "Well, now that we happen to be talking of
birthdays, I daresay you've a suggestion or two to offer."
"Just one. I would like you to take me hunting again," Llelo said promptly.
But to his disappointment, Llewelyn shook his head.
"I'm sorry, lad. We'll have to wait; the season is past. But it'll & worth it,
for the best time for hunting is during the summer, when the bucks are well
grazed, fleshed out." Llewelyn smiled at the boy. "'
33
remember instructing your father in hunting lore, too, more years ago than I
care to count. The second seasonfor doesstarts in November, lasts till .-
Candlemas."
The pause was so prolonged that Llelo looked up, saw that his grandfather's
face had shadowed. He started to speak, then remembered. The Lady Joanna had
died on Candlemas. He did not know how to comfort, at last said softly, "You
must miss her a lot."
Llewelyn's eyes cleared, focused on the boy. "We'd have been wed thirty-one
years next month. Nigh on half my life . . ."
"Grandpapa, do we keep on loving the dead?"
"Unfortunately, lad, we do." Llewelyn lay back in the grass, stared up at the
sun; it soon blurred in a haze of brightness. He'd been troubled in recent
days by sudden, severe headaches, could feel one coming on. "She was so much
younger than I was, Llelo. I always expected to die first, never thought. .
."He stopped; a silence settled over the clearing.
Llelo wrapped his arms around his knees, coaxed one of the dogs within petting
range, but he kept his eyes upon his grandfather's face, and he seemed to hear
again his brother Owain's voiceHow much longer can he live?
"Grandpapa, is sixty and four very old?"
Llewelyn turned his head; he looked amused. "Catch me on a bad day and I feel
verily as old as Methuselah. But I'll share a secret with you, lad. No matter
how gnarled the tree, ensconced within is the soul of a green sapling. The
shell ages, Llelo, not the spirit."
"Then . . . then you're not going to die soon?"
There was fear in the boy's voice, and Llewelyn heard it. "No," he said, and
he reached over, brushed grass from Llelo's hair. "Not soon. I promise."
Not long afterward, they rose, started back along the river bank. Llelo wasat
Llewelyn's suggestiongathering bluebells and woodsorrel for Elen and Gwladys.
"What you said before, about sharing a secret. That was not a true secret, was
a joke. But what if you had a real secret, Grandpapa? A ... shameful secret?
What if you knew that if you kept silent, bad things would happen? But if you
spoke out, it 'night be worse. If you had such a secret, what would you do?"
'That is no easy question to answer. I suppose I'd weigh the evils, try to
decide which would be the greater harm. Can you tell me more, Llelo?"
The boy looked up at him, then slowly shook his head. "No," he sa'd, "no ..."
Llewelyn knew better than to press. "As you will," he said, and
X walked on. It had been a very wet March, a month of heavy rains,
the river surged against its banks, covered the mossy rocks that
34
usually jutted above the water, stepping-stones that beckoned irresistibly to
adventuresome youngsters. Llelo felt cheated; he'd often tested his nerve on
those rocks, and he'd hoped to impress his grandfather with his daring. He
bent down, searching for a large, flat pebble.
"Watch, Grandpapa," he said, and sent the stone skimming across the surface of
the water. "Could you skip stones like that when you were my age?"
"I still can," Llewelyn said. "Find me a stone and I'll show you." Under his
grandson's skeptical eye, he moved toward the bank. The sun was shimmering
upon the water; the river had taken on a glittering, silvered sheen. It
dazzled him, blinded him. The stone soared upward, much too high, splashed
into the shallows, and Llelo gave a triumphant laugh.
"That was not even close! Grandpapa, youGrandpapa?"
Llewelyn did not appear to hear. There was on his face a look Llelo would
never forget, a look of utter astonishment. He stumbled, and then his left leg
buckled and he made a wild grab for the nearest tree. But his body no longer
took commands from his brain, and he fell backward into the damp spring grass.
"Grandpapa!" Llelo dropped to his knees beside his grandfather. "Grandpapa!"
Llewelyn's face was flushed; his eyes were dazed, full of disbelief and fear.
The corner of his mouth had begun to sag, and when he spoke, his voice was so
blurred that he sounded drunk to Llelo. "Get help," he gasped, "hurry . . ."
Llelo snatched off his mantle, made a pillow for Llewelyn's head. "I will," he
sobbed, "I will!" He gave one last terrified look over his shoulder, began to
run.
ON a Saturday morning six days later, Gruffydd, his wife, and eldest son rode
into the castle bailey, just as Davydd's wife, Isabella, emerged from the
great hall. Isabella halted, irresolute, yearning to retreat. She'd been a
child-bride, wed at ten, and even now, after almost seven years as Davydd's
wife, she did not feel at home in Wales. Although her husband treated her
well, his courtesy was impersonal, his kindness disinterested; theirs was a
marriage lacking true intimacy, even in the marriage-bed. Isabella was
grateful to Davydd, wanted to be a dutiful wife, a satisfactory bedmate, but
she knew he did not love her. His mother, Joanna, she had loved, loved dearly.
Llewelyn, she had come to respect. But Gruffyddvolatile, impassioned,
unpredictableGruffydd, she feared. She glanced back toward the hall, but she'd
waited too long; they were dismounting.
Gruffydd spared no time for social amenities. "What ails my father?"
35
he demanded. "Davydd's message said he'd been taken ill. Papa's never sick,
never. What did"
"A seizure," Isabella said faintly. "He suffered a brain seizure."
Gruffydd sucked in his breath. "Apoplexy?" He sounded stunned. "Christ Jesus!"
"Does he still live?" Senena's voice was so sharp that Isabella flinched;
Senena, too, she feared.
"Oh, yes! He" She had been about to assure them that Llewelyn was in no
danger, but she checked herself, certain that was not what Senenaand possibly
Gruffyddwanted to hear. She stood alone, watching as Gruffydd hastened toward
the castle keep, very thankful that she need not be a witness to the scene to
come.
Llewelyn's bedchamber was still shuttered, lit only by cresset wall torches
and a sputtering hearth fire. The bed hangings were closely drawn. Five people
were seated at a table near the door: Davydd, Elen, Gwladys, Ednyved, and
another man Gruffydd did not recognize. He never even noticed his younger son,
slouched in the shadows of a window-seat. He strode into the room, stopped
before Davydd.
"Your wife claims Papa had an apoplectic seizure. Is that true?"
Davydd's mouth thinned. "Think you that Isabella would lie about something
like that? Yes, it is true."
"Why did you not tell me at once?"
"When I sent you that message, I did not yet know what ailed him."
"My lords, I must ask you to keep your voices down." The stranger rose, moved
around the table toward Gruffydd. "Your lord father has at last fallen asleep,
ought not to be disturbed."
"Who are you?"
The man smiled. "I am Einion ap Rhiwallon of Myddfai." The name was known
throughout Wales; his was a family of doctors, celebrated for their healing
arts. But Gruffydd did not react as expected.
"You're a doctor?" he said brusquely, and Einion's smile faded.
"My father was court physician to Prince Rhys Gryg," he said, somewhat
stiffly. "I happened to be at Beddgelert Priory, and Lord Ednyved called me in
to consult with Prince Llewelyn's physician, as I ve had much experience in
treating"
Senena could wait no longer. "Do you expect Llewelyn to live?"
Einion's smile came back. "God willing, Madame, I do. Prince Llewelyn was
fortunate, in that the seizure was a relatively mild one. He °ught to make a
good recovery."
Gruffydd drew back into the shadows, lest the others read his face. Wty should
he feel such relief? How could he still care?
Senena glared at the doctor. "Do not lie to us!" Madame, I assure you I am not
lying!"
36
"A mild seizure! A good recovery! What sort of fools do you think we are?
Apoplexy kills, it cripples, it affects a man's wits, his"
"Not always, Madame, not in this case. It is true that Prince Llewelyn is
showing some signs of palsy, some paralysis in his left arm and leg, but I
feel that in time he will"
"ParalysisI knew it!"
Gruffydd was frowning. "Knew what, Senena?"
"Oh, think, Gruffydd, think! What happens if your father is disabled by this
seizure, bedridden, unable to talk? Who do you think would then rule Gwynedd
for him? Who would have control of the privy seal? They would!" She pointed at
Davydd and Ednyved. "What is to keep Davydd from issuing orders in Llewelyn's
nameorders for your arrest? Gruffydd, do you not see your danger?"
Gruffydd hadn'tuntil now. He swung about, stared at Davydd. How could he have
been so blind?
Elen stopped striving for patience. "Davydd would never do that!"
"He'd do it," Gruffydd said grimly. "You think he has not been laying plans
for Papa's death? He knows Papa's people would choose me if given half a
chance, knows"
Davydd shoved his chair back, rose to his feet. "I was a fool to send for you,
a fool to think you'd want to know of Papa's illness. His suffering means
nothing to you, nothing at all."
Gruffydd stepped toward him. "Damn you! I've had"
"Grandpapa!" The cry was Llelo's; he alone had noticed the bed curtains being
pulled back.
It was suddenly very still. Llewelyn's eyes moved slowly from face to face. "I
think it best," he said, "that you keep this deathbed vigil elsewhere," and
Senena's fear began to ease, for his voice had been low, but very distinct and
very cold. So the doctor had not lied, after all. She'd nursed the sick often
enough to recognize the distinctive aura of coming death, and she could not
find it now in Llewelyn's face. How long, she marveled, was he to have the
Devil's own luck? How long must they wait? But at least he'd not be Davydd's
puppet. She sighed; thank Christ Almighty for that much!
The silence was a strained one; none of Llewelyn's children could meet his
eyes. Elen was the first to recover; she moved swiftly across the chamber,
bent over the bed. "Papa, we're so sorry! We never meant for you to hear
that." She glanced back accusingly over her shoulder, said, "Do you want
Gruffydd and Senena to leave?"
"Yes," Llewelyn said, but then he added, "I want you all to leave," and Elen
straightened up in dismay.
"But Papa ..." Her protest trailed off; Einion was already beside her. I
37
"Madame," he said, politely but firmly, and she reluctantly let him escort her
from the chamber. The others followed slowly.
No one spoke as they moved out onto the porch, crossed the narrow drawbridge
that led to the stairs, descended into the bailey. But there Gwladys balked.
She was turning to reenter the keep when Einion barred her way.
"I have to go back," she said. "I know how we must have sounded like dogs
squabbling over a choice bone."
"Worselike birds of prey drawn by the stench of carrion," Elen interjected
bitterly, and angry color rose in Senena's face.
Einion still blocked the stairs. "Madame, I understand. But now is not the
time to talk to your lord father." He paused, speaking to them all. "I said I
expected Prince Llewelyn to recover . . . and I do. But it will not be easy
for him. You must try to understand how he feels stunned, helpless, betrayed
by his own body. He needs time to come to terms with it. What he does not need
is another confrontation. My lord Davydd, I must speak bluntly. Your father
was luckythis time. But there is always the risk of a second seizure, and that
one might well be fatal."
Elen paled. "What you are saying, then, is that Senena could have caused my
father to have another seizure!"
"I did nothing wrong," Senena said heatedly. "I did but express fears for my
husband's safety, well-founded fears! Do you think I can ever forget those
years at Deganwy Castle?"
"Gruffydd forced my father to do that. Again and again he'd forgiven Gruffydd,
even when Gruffydd took up arms against him." When Gruffydd would have
interrupted, Elen turned to face him. "You know I speak the truth, Gruffydd.
Papa loves youeven nowbut you've given him naught but grief, you've"
"He loves me?" Gruffydd echoed, incredulous. "Lest you forget, I spent six
years in Deganwy's great keep at his command, my loving father, who would
deprive me of my rightful inheritance, bestow it upon Davydd, the son of his
Norman-French har"
"Do not say it." Davydd's voice was even, dispassionate, a calm belied by the
glittering hazel eyes. "My mother had nothing to do with your downfall. You
brought it upon yourself. Papa found you unfit to rule, and because he was not
willing to sacrifice Gwynedd to spare your Pride, you've done all you could to
punish him, to make him suffer for your sins. But no morenot when it's now a
matter of Papa's very life.
11 not let you put his recovery at risk." He paused. "Until he regains "is
strength, you are not to see him."
"You dare to tell me I cannot see my own father?" Gruffydd felt lrst shock,
and then, murderous rage.
38
Davydd saw it, but had only a split-second in which to react. His first
instinct was to order Gruffydd subdued. But the command died on his lips. The
bailey was packed with people, exacting eyewitnesses who'd judge common sense
as cowardice. He measured his brother with coldly appraising eyes; Gruffydd
had the height and the reach, but he was quicker, younger, and as Gruffydd's
hand dropped to his sword hilt, he, too, reached for his sword.
A woman screamed; people cried out, surged forward. But before Gruffydd's
sword could clear its scabbard, a hand clamped down upon his wrist. Ednyved's
voice was pitched low, but throbbed with fury no less intense than Gruffydd's.
"Enough," he snarled. "Davydd may not arrest you, but by Christ, I will! Do
you think I'd let you do this to Llewelyn?"
Gruffydd jerked free. Ednyved raised his hand, and his household guards moved
forward, waiting for orders. Davydd's sword was drawn, but lowered now; he,
too, waited, warily. Owain was hovering a few feet away; he had his sword
half-way up its scabbard, seemed at a loss as to what to do next. Gruffydd
looked first at his brother, and then at his father's Seneschal.
Ednyved, too, was unusually tall; his eyes were on a level with Gruffydd's
own; hard, unrelenting eyes. He was, Gruffydd well knew, not a man to bluff.
"For once, Gruffydd, use your head. Do you truly want to see Deganwy again?"
"Gruffydd, he is right." Senena was beside him now, tugging at his arm.
"Beloved, Davydd is not worth it. Please . . . lef s go from here."
"Listen to her, Gruffydd," Gwladys implored. "Papa has a hunting lodge at
Trefriw, just twelve miles from here. You and Senena can stay there whilst
Papa regains his strength. As for this, it will be forgotten. Nothing
happened. Davydd?" She turned challengingly toward her younger brother. "You
would not want to trouble Papa for naught, would you?"
"No." Slowly, deliberately, Davydd sheathed his sword. "I agree with Gwladys,
think it best you go to Trefriw. We'll send you word if Papa's condition
worsens."
"I'll go and right gladlybut not to Trefriw. I'll withdraw to my own lands in
Powys, and I will not be back." Gruffydd whirled, gestured to the closest of
his men. "Fetch the horses."
Senena's relief was such that she closed her eyes for the briefest of moments,
gave silent thanks to God and His angels, to the saint she'd adopted as her
own. But she would not breathe easily until they were safely on the road
south, and she glanced nervously toward her sons. "Owain, sheathe your sword.
There is no time to saddle a mount for you, Llelo; you can ride behind your
brother."
39
Owain did as she bade, but Llelo did not move. "No," he said, almost
inaudibly. "No."
Senena turned. "What?"
Llelo hunched his shoulders, stared at the ground. "I'll not go. I'll not
leave Grandpapa, not whilst he's so sick."
For Senena, it was almost a relief to have a tangible target for her rage.
"You'll do as you're told!"
Llelo shook his head stubbornly, took a backward step, and then another. "I'll
not leave Grandpapa," he repeated. "I cannot. . ."
Owain was regarding his brother with disgust, but no surprise. "Shall I fetch
him for you, Mama?"
Senena, too, was staring at her youngest child. "You've always been willful,
Llelo, and irresponsible. But I would not let myself believe Owain was right;
I could not believe you were disloyal, too. And yet this is your answer to our
Christmas Eve talk! You say you cannot leave your grandfather? Stay with him,
then. But if you do this to your father, I will never forgive younever!"
Llel'o gasped, and the look on his face brought tears to Elen's eyes. But she
did not dare intervene; she was the last woman in Christendom whom Senena
would heed.
"Christ, woman, what are you saying?" Gruffydd was looking at Senena as if
she'd lost her wits. "You know you do not mean that!" He did not wait for her
reply, strode past her toward his son.
"I'll hear no more arguments from you, no more back talk. You'll come with us,
come home where you belong. Do I make myself clear?"
Llelo swallowed. His eyes were brimming with tears, but again he shook his
head. "I cannot," he whispered. "Please, Papa, I cannot. . ."
Gruffydd swore, reached for the boy, his fingers digging into Llelo's
shoulder, jerking him forward, so roughly that Llelo stumbled. His face had
lost all color; his eyes looked enormous, dark wells of such despair that
Gruffydd's breath stopped. Slowly his fingers unclenched, his grip loosened.
Until that moment, he'd not realized how much his son feared him.
Llelo's tears were falling free now. He brushed them away with the back of his
hand, smeared his face with dirt. "Please, Papa . . . what if he dies? Please
..."
Gruffydd said nothing; he stood there, looking down at the boy, and then
caught the fragrance of perfume, felt a woman's hand touch his sleeve. "Let
the lad stay, Gruffydd," Gwladys entreated, very softly.
1U look after him. What harm can a few days do?"
Gruffydd's mouth twisted. "What harm, indeed? He's taken all else from^rne;
why not my son, too?"
Ah/ Gruffydd . . ." Gwladys's hand tightened on his arm. "I'm
40
not asking you for Papa's sake, but for Llelo's. If you must lay blame about,
blame Senena, then, for sending Llelo to live at Papa's court. Blame Papa if
you must. But not the boy, Gruffydd, not the boy."
Gruffydd stepped back, looked again at his son. "A fortnight," he said
harshly. "But no longer. You understand, Llelo? No longer."
"i know not why it is so, my lord, but I've treated many apoplexy patients,
and when the right side of the body is stricken, it is more likely that the
powers of speech are also afflicted." The doctor waited, but Llewelyn gave no
sign he'd heard. He hesitated, then said, "In truth, my lord, you were lucky."
That got a response; Llewelyn's eyes cut sharply toward him. "You find that a
hard mouthful to swallow. But in time it'll go down easier. For you were
indeed lucky, my lord. Apoplexy can maim, can leave men with their senses
bereft, their tongues hobbled. But God has spared you that. Your wits are
clear; so, too, is your speech. Your left arm and leg are benumbed, weak. But
it may well be that in time you'll regain some use of them. I do believe that,
my lord. You never lost consciousness; that is a good sign. And the muscles in
your face were afflicted for but a few hours. That, too, bodes well for your
recovery. But you must be patient, my lord. Above all, you must not lose
heart."
Llewelyn did not reply, and after a few moments heard the doctor's retreating
footsteps. But he was not yet alone; Ednyved still stood by the bed. "I know
your thoughts," he said, not sounding like Ednyved at all; for once, there was
no mockery in that quiet voice, no sarcasm.
"Do you?"
"Yes. You do not understand why the Lord God took Joanna from you, why He then
did not take you. And as you lie there in that bed, you wish He had."
Llewelyn turned his head on the pillow, looked at the other man. "Could you
blame me if that were so?"
"I, too, lost my wife within the past twelvemonth, but never did I love
Gwenllian, not as you loved Joanna. Nor am I the one stricken with palsy.
Blame you? No, Llewelyn, no. I can but tell you this. The ways of the Almighty
are beyond our understanding. Why does He strike down the innocent with the
guilty? Why does He claim a babe in its cradle? Why did He afflict my son with
leprosy?" He leaned over the bed. "We need you still, Llewelyn. That is why
the Lord stayed His hand. That is why you must not despair."
He stepped back. "Davydd, Elen, and Gwladys were sorely troubled by what
happened this forenoon. They love you well, Llewelyn."
"I know," Llewelyn said, sounding so weary that Ednyved winced
41
"Well, I shall leave you now, that you may rest." Adding reluctantly, "You
must be told, though. Gruffydd has withdrawn into Powys." He received no
answer, but then, he had not expected one.
LLEWELYN'S dream was disjointed, confused, but held such dark overtones of
menace that he awoke with a gasp. The chamber was deep in shadows; he'd lost
all sense of time, of place. But then he started to sit up, found himself
wrenched back to the brutal reality of his plight, to the dead weight where
his left leg should have been.
He raised himself up awkwardly on his elbow, threw off the coverlets. His body
was still lean, showed the effects of a lifetime of hard activity, of riding,
fighting. Across his ribcage, along his collar bone was the evidence of old
wounds; the only serious sickness he'd ever known had been inflicted at
sword-point. A third scar zigzagged down the upper thigh of his left leg. The
leg was bent at the knee, angled away from his body, the muscles constricted,
as if in spasm. He reached over, tracked the knotted path of the scar, felt
nothing, as if he were touching foreign flesh, not his own. He'd begun to
shiver; he pulled the blankets up, lay back against the pillow.
His left arm had drawn itself up to his chest. He stared at his hand, willed
it to move, concentrated upon that to the exclusion of all else. His fingers
twitched, slowly curved inward, formed a fist. He exhaled his breath, staring
down at the hand, a stranger's hand. But no matter how he tried, he could not
get his fist to unclench. At last he gripped those frozen fingers in his right
hand, pried them apart; his eyes filled with tears.
A sudden creaking alerted him that he was no longer alone; the door had just
opened. He wanted no witnesses, wanted no solace, no pity. "Get out," he said
roughly. "Get outnow!"
No footsteps sounded; the door did not open again. All was still, the only
sound that of his own uneven breathing. He grabbed for the bed hangings,
jerked them back. In the center of the room a light flickered weakly, a horn
lantern holding a single tallow candle. Above it he could just make out the
chalk-white face of his grandson.
The boy had begun to back toward the door. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm
sorry," and Llewelyn struggled upright. /
"Llelo . . . wait. Come back."
The lantern light swayed, seemed to float toward the bed. Llelo bent down, set
it on the floor, almost as if he sensed that the man wanted no illumination,
no close scrutiny.
T brought you something, Grandpapa. I know your chaplain gave you a
dispensation to eat meat whilst you're ailing. But when I was in
42
the hall, I heard that you'd refused to eat the pasty the cooks made for you,
even though it was stuffed with marrow and currants and dates ..." There was
wonder in Llelo's voice; he could not understand anyone spurning beef marrow,
especially after so many weeks of meatless Lenten fare. "I thought you ought
to eat, Grandpapa, so I went to the kitchen, and when the cooks were not
looking, I smuggled this out." Lifting his mantle, he drew out a napkin, began
to unwrap it. "See? I've got some ginger cake for you, two Lenten fritters,
with apples and real sugar, and best of all, an angel's-bread wafer "
Llewelyn looked down at the crumbled cakes, felt his queasiness coming back.
"Good lad. But that is too much for just one. Why not share it with me? You go
ahead, and I'll save mine for later, when I get truly hungry."
"If you're sure . . ." Llelo whipped out his eating knife, conscientiously set
about dividing his booty into equal halves. "I can get you more later," he
offered, settling himself on the edge of the bed.
"No, thank you, lad." Llewelyn watched the boy eat. There was no need to talk.
But a memory was slowly stirring. "Why are you still here, Llelo?" he asked
suddenly. "Ednyved told me Gruffydd had gone How is it you did not go with
him?"
Llelo had stopped eating. He licked honey off his fingers, mumbled something
about "staying behind."
"That I can see," Llewelyn said dryly, but his eyes were puzzled "Gruffydd
permitted you to stay?" As soon as he heard his own question, he realized the
utter unlikelihood of that. "Llelo?"
The boy had averted his eyes. "I ... I could not leave, Grandpapa Not whilst
you were so sick . . ."
"Jesu!" It was an involuntary exclamation, a belated and appalled
understanding of the choice the boy had been forced to make, of yet another
wound he'd unwittingly inflicted upon his son.
"Grandpapa?" Llelo was watching him with anxious eyes. "Grandpapa ... do you
not want me to stay?"
The sins of the fathers. Llewelyn reached out, took his grandson's small,
sticky fingers in his own. "Yes, lad," he said. "I do want you to stay. More
than I knew."
Llanfaes, North Wales
May 1237
G,
\JRUFFYDD reined in his horse at the edge of the wood, gazed out onto the
beach. The narrow strait that separated the island of Mon from the mainland
was swept by treacherous currents, the water surface churned by brisk winds.
Llewelyn was sitting on the moss-covered spar of an old ship wreck, watching
Llelo splash in the shallows. The boy gave a sudden shout, whirled and came
running back to Llewelyn. The distance was too great for Gruffydd to see what
he held; he thought it might be a crab. He watched as the man and boy bent
their heads over Llelo's find; he could not remember his son ever running to
him like that. They had yet to notice him; Llewelyn's dogs were upwind,
ranging along the beach some yards away. Gruffydd's mouth tightened. You're
getting careless, old man. You ought to have taken heed of me ere this. He
urged his stallion forward, onto the sand.
They saw him now. Llelo took an involuntary step backward. The two weeks
Gruffydd had grudgingly promised him had unaccountably lengthened into four
and then six. Each morn he wondered if this would be the day his father would
come for him, and as the weeks passed, a poisonous fear began to entwine
itself around his reluctance to leave his grandfather, the fear that his
mother had spoken no less than the truth, that she would never forgive him.
"Papa . . . you've come to take me back?"
Gruffydd did not answer. He could not keep his eyes from his father, from the
crutch Llewelyn had reached for as he rose to his feet. He thought he'd
accepted the serious nature of Llewelyn's illness, but the sudden and
irrefutable reality of that wooden crutch shocked him, shook him profoundly.
He dismounted, handed the reins to Llelo. "Take my mount back into the woods,
let him graze awhile."
Llelo reached for the reins, retreated with obvious reluctance, with any
backward glances over his shoulder. The two men looked at
44
each other; the silence spun out between them, a web made of memories.
"Are you in much pain, Papa?" This from Gruffydd, abruptly, awkwardly.
"No . . . not much." A faint smile touched Llewelyn's mouth. "Given that men
call apoplexy the half-dead disease, I'd have to say that I took the honors in
our exchange, was left with fewer battle scars than most."
"Is there nothing you'll not make light ofeven that?" Gruffydd pointed an
accusing finger toward that alien crutch. "You cannot make me believe this is
easy for you!"
Llewelyn's eyes flicked from the crutch to his son's face. "I did not say it
was easy, Gruffydd. I feel naked without a sword. A few minutes past, Llelo
took hold of my left hand, but I'd not have known had I not seen him do it. I
am weighed down by an anchor, one of my own flesh. I find myself hobbled,
andfor the first time in my lifehelpless. Is that what you'd have me say? Is
that the truth you seek?"
Gruffydd blinked rapidly, spun around to look out over the strait. "No," he
said, "no ..." He strode to the water's edge before turning back to face his
father. "Can your doctors do nothing?"
"I rather think they do too much," Llewelyn said dryly. "I've swallowed one
noxious concoction after another, have had my flesh prodded and poked, have
permitted them to bleed me and then wrap my leg in the skin of a newly killed
fox. But when their potions and plasters failed, they wanted to apply a
red-hot needle to my leg, to raise blisters that would drain off the bileor so
they hoped. They took it quite badly when I balked," Llewelyn said, the memory
of his doctors' indignation evoking a grim smile.
"At that point," he said, "I decided to rely upon common sense. I've healed my
share of lamed horses with flaxseed poultices and rest. But I've seen other
men stricken with palsy, and unless they made use of their crippled limbs, the
muscles would wither, become too feeble to support their weight. So as soon as
I could, I sought to walk. Each day now I come down to the beach, and each day
I find I can go a little farther."
That matter-of-fact statement was not an accurate accounting of the past six
weeks, omitting as it did all mention of how very easily he tired, of the
times he'd fallen, the times he'd despaired. But it was as much as he could
share. "There has been some healing." He shifted his crutch. "God willing,
there'll be more."
Gruffydd was still staring at the crutch. "I do want you to get well, Papa,"
he blurted out, then looked faintly surprised at his own words. "But I expect
you do not believe that."
45
"Yes, I do, Gruffydd," Llewelyn said, wondering if he lied. He decided to
gamble with the truth, added softly, "I very much want to believe you," and
saw his son flinch. "You've come for the boy?"
Gruffydd shook his head. "No," he said, no longer meeting Llewelyn's eyes.
"I've decided to let him stay awhile longer."
Llewelyn was taken aback. He knew the risk he took in admitting how fond he'd
become of Gruffydd's son. But he felt he owed Gruffydd honesty for this
unexpected generosity. "I cannot deny that I'm right pleased to hear that. May
I ask why you changed your mind?"
"No," Gruffydd snapped, "you may not." His rudeness was defensive; he had no
answer for Llewelyn. He could not admit, even to himself, that he would
willingly share his son's love if that would ensure his father's recovery.
Still less could he acknowledge his uneasiness about his wife's unrelenting
attitude, her unreasonable hostility toward their child.
Gruffydd had been wed to Senena for nineteen years, had found contentment in
marriage to his cautious, grey-eyed cousin. He knew that hers was the greater
love, even sensed that hers was the quicker wit. He might well have resented
her for that; instead, he'd come to rely upon her shrewd, unsentimental
advice, upon her loyalty, loyalty that was impassioned, absolute. They rarely
disagreed; it was all the more unsettling to him now that they should be so at
odds over their own son. It baffled him that Senena could judge Llelo as if he
were a man grown, making no allowances for his extreme youth, and he'd at last
concluded that time apart might be best for both mother and son. But he felt
disloyal to Senena even in harboring such thoughts, could not have spoken them
aloud to anyone, least of all to Llewelyn. He turned away from his father's
searching eyes, raised his voice. "Llelo! Come here!"
Llelo came on the run. "I tied your horse to a tree, Papa," he panted. "Do ...
do we go home today?"
"No, Llelo. I've decided to let you spend the summer at your grandfather's
court."
"Truly?" There was so much joy on the boy's face that Gruffydd began to wonder
if he'd not made a grievous mistake. "Thank you, Papa!" But then Llelo's smile
wavered. "Why, Papa?" he said. "Does Mama not want me back?"
"Ah, no, lad!" Gruffydd knelt, put his hands on the boy's shoulders. 'Never
think that, Llelo. Your mother loves you," he said, "no less than ' do." He
saw his son's eyes widen, realized suddenly that he'd never said that to Llelo
before, and then Llelo's arms were around his neck, Dinging tightly. He held
the boy close, gave Llewelyn a look that was
46
at once challenging and oddly triumphant. Just remember he is my son, not
yours. He did not say the words aloud, did not need to, for his was an easy
face to read.
Llewelyn said nothing. The sight of his son and grandson together gave him no
disquiet, only unexpected hope. He'd feared that Llelo's love would act as a
knife, severing those last tattered shreds of the bond that linked him to his
son. Now he dared to wonder whether the boy's love might instead act as a
bridge between them.
There was shouting in the distance. As they glanced toward the sound, they saw
that riders had ventured out onto the Lafan Sands, were signaling to the
Llanfaes ferry. The boatmen were already rowing out, and Llewelyn, his son,
and grandson started up the beach, for visitors to Llanfaes would be visitors
for Llewelyn. Gruffydd could not help noticing how naturally his son slowed
his pace to match Llewelyn's, and somewhat self-consciously, he, too,
shortened his stride. The ferry had reached the Aber shore, was picking up
several passengers. They had an impressive escort; fully a score of men were
urging their mounts into the water. Slowly the ferry moved back toward the
Llanfaes beach. Gruffydd could now make out the slender figure of a woman
sitting in the bow. With recognition came a rush of resentment. He hated his
father's marital ties to the English Crown, hated the bond Joanna had forged
between Wales and its powerful, predatory neighbor to the east.
"It is the English King's sister," he said coldly. "A vain, flighty woman if
ever there was one. But I daresay you'll make her welcome."
"Nell is Joanna's sister, too." Llewelyn's voice was no less cool. "I will
indeed make her welcome."
Llelo looked from one man to the other in dismay, sensing the sudden tension,
but unable to understand why it was so.
IT was a mild day; Welsh spring always came into flower first on Mon. Elen had
removed her mantle and veil, and her long, dark hair was blowing about
untidily. From time to time she'd brush it back impatiently, intent upon the
task at hand. She was kneeling beside her mother's tomb. Putting her spade
aside, she reached for the first plant, a blooming yellow primrose, removed
the sacking from its roots and carefully lowered it into its waiting hole. The
next plant was the vibrant gorse that was carpeting the island in gold. So
absorbed was Elen in her work that she was oblivious of all else, unaware that
she was no longer alone.
Nell was amused by Elen's wind-whipped hair, the grass stains on her skirt.
She'd never known a beautiful woman as lacking in vanity as Elen. Nor did it
surprise her to find Elen performing a chore she could
47
more easily have entrusted to a servant "I'm glad you chose the gorse," she
said "That was ever one of Joanna's favorite flowers "
"Nell1" Elen jumped to her feet, ran to embrace the younger woman There were
only eight years between them, in many ways, they were more like sisters than
niece and aunt
There was a wooden bench just a few feet from Joanna's tomb Catching Nell's
querying look, Elen said, "Davydd had it brought out, so Papa could rest when
he visits Mama's grave You've seen him already7"
"Yes, down on the beach He told me where to find you " Nell unfastened her
mantle, sat down on the bench "When I first heard of Llewelyn's seizure, I
feared the worst But he seems much better, Elen, seems like to make a true
recovery "
Elen nodded "I'd say it was miraculousif I did not know Papa so well He's
never been one to recognize defeat, and there's never been a foe he could not
outfight or outwait Even when King John forced him to make that humiliating
surrender at Aberconwy, within two years he'd won back all he'd been forced to
yield to John "
Nell was neither defensive nor self-conscious when others spoke ill of her
father, for she'd never known him, he'd died while she was still in her cradle
"I stopped at your manor in Delamere Forest on my way into Wales," she said,
"and John gave me a letter for you "
Elen showed no great interest in her husband's letter She'd joined Nell on the
bench, now turned her face up like a flower, toward the sun "I've been back in
Cheshire but once since Papa's illness I suppose John is growing restless for
my return Tell me, Nell How long can you stay7 You did not bring St Cecily
with you, I trust7"
Cecily de Sanford had been Nell's governess, and later, one of her ladies in
waiting She was a deeply pious woman, a widow with an utterly unblemished past
But Elen detested her, for it was Cecily who had prevailed upon Nell to take a
holy oath of chastity when Nell's husband died To a grieving fifteen-year-old,
so dramatic a gesture had proved irresistible, and Nell had been easily
induced to follow Cecily's austere example Both women had sworn their oaths
before the Archbishop of Canterbury, put aside their silks for homespun, put
upon their fingers the rings that proclaimed them brides of Chnst Cecily was
well suited to a nun's life, she'd found great contentment in privation,
selfdenial, and celibacy
Nell had not She was a young woman who loved bright colors, sweetmeats, harp
music, and laughter, a woman who liked the company °f men, who'd come to yearn
for the marnage and motherhood that her oath denied her There'd been a time
when she'd rush indignantly to Cecily's defense Those days were past Now she
said only, "That is
48
not kind, Elen/' and then she grinned. "Do you know what Simon calls her? My
very own dragon!"
Elen arched a brow. "Simon? Would that by any chance be Simon de Montfort,
Earl of Leicester?"
"Who else?" Nell gave the other woman a sidelong glance. "What do you think of
him, Elen?"
"Simon?" Elen smiled, shrugged. "Well... he is handsome enough, for certes.
And he has a honeyed tongue, in truth. How else could he ever have coaxed
John's uncle Ranulf into yielding up to him Ranulf's claim to the earldom of
Leicester? Granted, Simon's claim was a just one. But how many men serve
justice if it will take money from their own coffers? No, your Simon must have
been remarkably persuasive!"
"He is, indeed," Nell agreed, and then, belatedly, "He is not 'my' Simon,
though. But you've told me very little, Elen. He is John's cousin; surely you
must know him better than that. What do you truly think?"
Elen reached down, picked a stray daisy. "I think," she said, after a very
long pause, "that Simon de Montfort is a man of great ability and even greater
ambition."
She'd not meant that as a compliment, but she saw now that Nell had taken it
as one. She was smiling, and as Elen looked at her, she felt a sudden
protective pang. She started to speak, stopped. What was there to say? Nell
knew the dangers, knew she could not allow herself to care for Simon de
Montfort, to care for any man.
"Do you come from the court, Nell? How fares Henry?"
"Well enough. Although he still dotes shamelessly upon that childbride of
his." Nell made a comic grimace. "If she asked for the stars, I daresay he'd
begin calculating how to harvest the heavens for her!"
Elen laughed. In the past year, Henry had finally wed, taking as his Queen the
daughter of the Count of Provence. Eleanor was only fourteen, less than half
Henry's age, but she was an undeniably pretty girl, high-spirited, well
educated, and she'd utterly captivated Henry if not Nell, who so far seemed
immune to Eleanor's bright, brittle charm. By all accounts, Eleanor was indeed
spoiled, but Elen suspected, too, that Nell felt some jealousy at seeing her
place usurped by the young Queen, for Nell had long been treated as the first
lady of her brother's court, the King's favorite sister.
"I think, Nell," she began, and then paused. "Did you hear"
"Aunt Elen!" The voice was Llelo's, so shrill, so full of fear that Elen
whitened.
"No, not Papa!" Coming to her feet so fast that she nearly tripped on her
skirts, she started to run. She'd taken but a few strides before Llelo came
into view. At sight of her, he slowed, caught at the garden wall for support.
49
"Grandpapa said to fetch you," he gasped. "A courier . . ." He could say no
more, did not know how to deliver news so dire. "I outran him . ."He pointed
and Elen now saw the man hastening up the slope toward them. Her initial fear
had begun to ebb, but it flared anew as the man came into recognition
rangeFulke Fitz Alan, one of her husband's young squires.
"Fulke, why are you here? What is wrong?"
He had to struggle for breath. "You . . . you must come home, my lady. Our
lord is taken ill ..."
"111?" Elen's mouth went dry. Her husband was not a man to coddle himself; if
he sent for her so urgently, he must be very ill, indeed. "Tell me," she said.
"It began with a chill, with pains in his head, his back. We did not worry, my
lady, not at first. But he soon burned with fever. Then on the fourth day . .
." He looked her full in the face for the first time. "On the fourth day, he
broke out in spots. All over his shoulders, then spreading down his chest, his
arms, legs. The lesions were rose-colored, but they soon darkened, took on a
mulberry coloration . . ."
"Dear God!" Elen was standing in the sun, but she'd begun to shiver. "Not
spotted fever?"
He nodded mutely, and after that, there seemed nothing more to say, for the
disease that they knew as spotted fever, that a later age would know as
typhus, was one of the most mortal of all ailments.
LIKE all men of high birth and wealth, John the Scot was an avid hunter, and
Darnhall was one of his favorite manors, for it was less than fifteen miles
from Chester, yet deep within Delamere Forest. The River Weaver flowed
peacefully past a mile to the east, and the green, shadowy woods that rose up
around the manor offered refuge to roe deer, foxes, fallow deer, marten, red
deer, rabbits. It was a tranquil setting, and Nell had enjoyed some pleasant
days with John before departing for Chester and Wales. She returned now to
find it a house of horrors.
John did not lack for doctors. There was Master Giles, who had attended the
Earls of Chester since the days of John's uncle Ranulf. Walter de Pinchbeck,
the Abbot of St Werburgh's abbey, had offered the services of Brother Eustace,
who was skilled in the healing and apothecary arts. And when Elen returned to
Darnhall, she brought with "er Einion ap Rhiwallon. But Nell could not see
that any of them had done much to ease John's suffering. They put her in mind
of an old proverb, one that warned of too many cooks spoiling the broth, for
they seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time arguing medical theories,
50
disputing one another's treatment. And while they wrangled, John grew
steadily weaker.
His fever had raged for a fortnight, resisting all efforts to lower it with
sage, verbena, and sponge baths. He coughed continually, and his tongue was
thickly encrusted, while a brownish slime formed on his teeth and gums faster
than Elen could wipe it away. Watching as Elen and a servant gave John yet
another sponge bath, Nell was shocked anew at sight of that wasted, emaciated
body. John was only thirty-one, had always been a robust, stockily built man;
Nell could not recognize that man in the one who submitted, apathetic,
uncaring, to his wife's ministrations. To Nell, his body resembled nothing so
much now as the hollowed woodwork of a lute, and she could only marvel that
the disease could have made such lethal inroads in so short a time.
The doctors had bled him again that morning, murmuring uneasily among
themselves at the dark color of his blood, but he seemed even weaker after
their treatment. Nell suspected that they'd already abandoned hope. They
continued to give him enemas, to brew herbal potions, whose ingredients they
seemed loath to share, especially with one another, to study his urine and
take his pulse. But each one had come privately to Elen, suggested she summon
a priest.
Did Elen, too, realize her husband was dying? Nell did not know, for Elen
shared none of her thoughts. She rarely left John's bedside, had slept so
little in past days that Nell had begun to fear for her health, too. The
sponge bath was done; kneeling by the bed, Elen began to apply a linseed
poultice to the bedsores on John's thighs and buttocks. Nell had a sharp eye,
yet try though she might, she could read nothing in Elen's face but
exhaustion.
"Let me do that, Elen, whilst you get some rest."
Elen looked up; her mouth moved in a wan smile. "You need rest,
too, Nell. I can never thank you enough for this, for all you've done . . ."
Nell flushed, for there'd been too many times when she'd found
herself regretting her offer to accompany Elen, times when she'd wished
herself a thousand miles away from this foul-smelling sickroom. "1 would
that I could do more," she said, in utter sincerity, and then, "Elen! Jesus
God!"
There was no warning, just blood. It gushed suddenly from John's nose, soaking
the sheets and pillows, spraying the bodice of Elen's gown as she sought
frantically to staunch the bleeding with a towel; the towel, too, was soon
splotched with red. Nell ran to the door, shouted for the
doctors.
For a terrifying time, they feared John was dying, bleeding to death before
their eyes. But at last that fearful rush of blood slowed, ebbed to a trickle.
As the doctors applied fresh compresses, Elen sagged down
51
on a coffer. For once she offered no argument when Nell insisted she change
her bloodied clothes and then lie down; she nodded, moved numbly toward the
door.
It was difficult to change the blood-stained linens with John in the bed, but
Nell managed it with some help from a little kitchen maid. Nell was becoming
increasingly grateful to Edith, for most of the servants were so terrified of
catching the spotted fever that only the direst threats could get them into
the sickroom at all. Nell had raged in vain, for their dread of the disease
was greater than their fear of her. Nor were the servants alone in their
alarm; Nell and Elen's ladies showed the same reluctance to cross that
threshold. It was, Nell thought grimly, as if poor John had become a leper,
and she decided that when she finally left Darnhall, she'd take Edith with
her, give the girl a place in her own household.
"Do try to swallow, John," she coaxed, tilting a cup to his lips. He opened
his eyes, but they were dulled, putting her in mind of quenched candles,
lacking even a spark of light. The doctors had told her this eerie
indifference was characteristic of his illness, but she found it strange,
nonetheless, that he seemed not to care as he drifted closer and closer to
death.
"Madame." One of the doctors was standing in the doorway. "Several lords have
just ridden into the bailey. If you like, I'll sit with Lord John whilst you
greet them."
Nell nodded, rose slowly to her feet. She'd never before been careless of
appearance, but now she could not even bother to glance into a mirror. She
untied her apron, relinquished her vigil to the doctor.
Although it was the last day of May, a fire burned in the great hall; it had
rained steadily, relentlessly, for the past five days, and the men standing by
the hearth were shrouded in dripping, hooded mantles. Nell felt no surprise to
find no women among them; although both of John's sisters had been informed of
his illness, neither had yet to arrive. Nor would they, Nell thought, with
cynical certainty. John's sisters were no more willing than John's servants to
brave the spectre of spotted fever.
One of the men had detached himself from the others, was moving swiftly toward
her. There was something familiar about that tall, mantled figure, that quick,
confident stride. Nell came to an abrupt halt. "Simon?" She rarely sounded so
hesitant, but she was afraid to let herself hope. He jerked his hood back, and
she looked up into intent grey eyes, eyes that showed sudden alarm as they
took in her pallor, her startling dishevelment.
"I came as soon as I heard." He reached out, caught her hand in s- "Nell,
you're not ill, too?"
52
She shook her head. "Oh, Simon . . . Simon, thank God you've come!"
I
JOHN'S fever began to subside, but he showed no other signs of recovery. He
was often delirious now, mumbling incoherently, plucking feebly at his
coverlets, exhausting the last of his energy in agitated, sometimes violent,
ravings. Elen moved a pallet into the bedchamber, slept there during those
rare hours when she could be coaxed away from his bedside. "He needs me,"
she'd say whenever Nell or the doctors protested, and indeed, John did seem
somewhat calmer when she sat by him, holding his hand.
Nell would always remember that first week in June as a waking nightmare. The
rains had yet to abate, and the River Weaver was rising so rapidly that Simon
set up a flood watch. In one of his brief lucid moments, John was shriven by
his chaplain, and for a few hours afterward, he slept. But that night he was
troubled again by fevered dreams, by sharp abdominal pains. The diarrhea soon
became so acute that the doctors were not long in drawing the same bleak
conclusion. For once in agreement about their diagnosis, they told Elen that
her husband was in God's hands, beyond mortal help.
John was groaning, twisting from side to side. The sudden stench was
overpowering; Nell had become accustomed to the fetid odors of the sickroom,
but this was so foul, so noxious that she nearly gagged. She clapped her hand
to her mouth, fought back her nausea as Elen called out for servants. They
appeared within moments; Nell did not know what Simon had done, but the
servants no longer balked at entering John's chamber, obeyed all commands with
alacrity. Now they hastened toward the bed, quickly stripped off the soiled
sheets, as Elen wiped her husband's wasted body with damp cloths, all the
while murmuring wordless sounds of comfort, the way a mother might seek to
calm a fearful child. Nell's eyes filled with tears; whirling, she bolted from
the chamber.
Simon was coming from the stables as Nell emerged into the bailey. She heard
him call her name, but she did not stop. Her steps quickened; by the time she
reached the gatehouse, she was running.
She ran until she had no breath left, until she was surrounded by the utter
silence of a woodland clearing. The sky was dark with rain clouds, and the
oaks, hazels, and aspen trees were glistening, spangled with moisture. The
grass was wet, but Nell was beyond caring about mud stains; she sank down
beside a dripping oak. For a time, she sat very still, breathing in the scent
of grass and honeysuckle. The silence
53
had been illusory; she could hear now the soft trilling of linnet and lark,
the harsh, clear cry of a mistle thrush.
"Nell?" Simon came through the trees, dropped down beside her in the grass.
"How did you find me?" she asked, and he smiled.
"You blazed quite a trail. You ought to ask those Welsh kinfolk of yours to
teach you something of woodland lore." He was carrying a hempen sack, and as
she watched, he pulled out napkins, thick chunks of cheese, and a loaf of
manchet bread. "After you ran out, I stopped by the kitchen," he said,
"grabbed whatever I could lay my hands upon. I've a flask of wine, too . . .
here."
Nell took it gratefully, drank deeply. "My father died of the bloody flux,
Simon. I always knew that, of course, but till now I never knew how he must
have suffered. This afternoon I watched John's agony, and for the first time,
I found myself thinking about my fathertruly thinking about the man, about
those last dreadful days and how it must have been for him . . ." She drank
again. "I also found myself wishing John would die."
"Do not reproach yourself for that, Nell. For John, death will be a mercy, a
blessed release." He reached over, handed her bread and cheese. "Eat," he
said, "ere you fall sick, too."
"We ought to go back. I feel like a fool, running off like that . . ."
"You had cause. I've seen few womenor menshow the courage you've shown in
these past days. In truth, Nell, I never suspected you'd make such an
admirable nurse."
Nell smiled tiredly. "People are always surprised when I show I am competent
or capable, not just"
She stopped, and Simon finished for her. "fair to look upon."
She blushed, then grinned. "As vain as it sounds, I was going to say that,"
she admitted. "But I'd be lying if I pretended I did not know I was pretty,
and I've never seen the virtues in false modesty. I like the way I look. It is
just that ..." She hesitated. "I would never want people to think I'm like
her, like my mother."
Nell's mother had been one of the great beauties of her age, a sensual
sophisticate who'd left England when King John died, returning to her
native Angouleme, where she'd wed her own daughter's betrothed.
Nell had been just two when Isabelle departed; the only mothering she'd
ever gotten had come from her older half-sister Joanna. For several
"tenths now, she and Simon had been conducting a cautious but intense
Ration; this was the first time she'd ever revealed anything so personal,
°1Vln8 him a sudden glimpse of the woman behind her flippant court
ask. Twice she'd smothered a yawn, and he leaned over, put his arm
°und her shoulders. As she started to pull away in surprise, he said,
54
"When was the last time you slept? Lie back, Nell, and put your head on my
shoulder."
"I ought not to . . ." Nell's dimple flashed. "But I will. I am bone weary, in
truth. A few moments, mayhap ..." She snuggled back ir his arms, and it was
the true measure of her exhaustion that she felt nc excitement at being so
close to him, only a drowsy sense of security Soon, she slept.
She awoke more than two hours later, and was both astonished and touched that
Simonso restless, so intense and energeticshould have found the patience to
sit quietly, holding her while she slept. She was dangerously drawn to him,
acutely aware of the strong sexual attraction that burned between them. But
she'd not realized he could be tender, too.
They followed a woodland path back to Darnhall, their steps instinctively
slowing as they neared the manor, not talking, reveling in the unexpected
intimacy of silence. They were within sight of the manor gatehouse when
thunder crashed over their heads and rain poured down in torrents. They ran
for shelter, hand in hand; by the time they reached the great hall, they were
both soaked to the skin. Laughing, they hurried toward the fire, leaving
puddles in their wake.
"Simon, I'm half-drowned!" Nell jerked off her sopping wimple, even her long,
blonde braids were drenched, dripping water onto the floor rushes. Still
giggling, she glanced toward Simon. He'd already sobered, more sensitive than
she to the atmosphere in the hall. Nell looked around her, saw only somber,
disapproving faces, and sighed Laughter was a sin of no small proportions in a
house waiting for death
Abbot Walter moved toward them. "My lord of Leicester, Madame I regret I must
be the one to tell you. Whilst you were gone, the Earl of Chester's earthly
cares came to an end. He was taken to God nigh on an hour ago."
ELEN was sitting in John's favorite chair. She was so still she scarcely
seemed to be breathing; her dark eyes were dilated, blind. She did not react
to the opening door, to the sound of her name.
"Elen, I'm so sorry!" Nell knelt by Elen's chair, put her arm around the other
woman's shoulders. "If only we'd been here," she said remorsefully, and Elen
pulled away from her comforting embrace.
"I fell asleep," she said; her voice was toneless, flat, not like Elen's voice
at all. "I did not mean to, but I was tired, so tired. And whilst I slept, he
died."
"Ah, Elen, you cannot blame yourself for that. John would understand, truly
he"
55
"It is my fault," Elen said, still in that strangely muffled voice. "My
fault."
"Elen, that is ridiculous! The Blessed Virgin herself could not have given
John better care than you did. You've nothing to reproach yourself for,
nothing!"
"You do not understand." Elen rose, moved toward the bed, where she stood
staring down at her husband's body. "John had taken the cross, meant to depart
this year for the Holy Land. I knew how dangerous such a pilgrimage would be;
I knew how many died on such quests. And I could not help thinking that John
might die, too. I let myself imagine how it would be if he did not come back,
if I were widowed." Tears had begun to streak her face; she seemed not to
notice. "I did not truly want his death, I swear I did not. I just wanted to
be free. Was that so very terrible, Nell? That I wanted to be free?"
"No!" Nell's answer came unthinkingly, a cry from the heart. "No, of course it
is not, Elen."
Elen had yet to take her eyes from her husband's face. "Then why," she
whispered, "do I feel like this? Why do I feel as if his death is my doing?"
Nell was utterly at a loss. She turned, gave Simon a look of mute appeal, and
he moved away from the door, joined Elen beside her husband's body.
"Do you think he was a good man?" he asked, and Elen nodded. "A good
Christian?" She bit her lip, again nodded. Nell was beginning to look
indignant; was this Simon's idea of comfort?
He reached out suddenly, grasped Elen's shoulders and turned her to face him.
"Then why," he demanded, "do you think God would value his life so cheaply?"
"What?"
"Why should God punish you by taking John? That makes of him little more than
a pawn, Elen. Does that not seem rather arrogant to you, that you should allot
so much worth to your own soul and so little worth to his?"
"Simon!" Nell hissed. "How can you talk to Elen like this, now of all times!"
He ignored her, kept his eyes upon his cousin's widow. "John did not die
because the Almighty wanted to punish you. He died because rt was his time.
That is the truth of it, Elen. To believe anything else is an insult to John,
an insult to God."
"Simon, enough! How can you be so cruel?"
"No, Nell." Elen drew an unsteady breath. "It is all right," she said, fruly,"
and Nell saw that Simon's brutal common sense had somehow
8lven Elen more comfort than her own sympathy.
56
Elen raised a hand to her face, seemed surprised when her fingers came away
wet. "I shall try to remember your words," she said to Simon. "Now . . . now
there is so much I must do. John must be buried at St Werburgh's; it was his
wish. I must bathe him, must . . ." She faltered, and Nell said swiftly,
"I will take care of that for you, Elen. Simon and I will take care of
everything, I promise. Come now . . . come with me. If you do not get some
rest, you will not be well enough for the funeral."
She'd expected an argument, but Elen nodded. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you
both for your kindness to my husband, to me." She moved back to the bed then,
bent over and brushed her lips to John's forehead. Straightening up, she had
to catch Simon's arm for support, and only then did they realize how close she
was to physical collapse.
"John deserved a better death than this," she said softly. "And a better
wife."
JOHN the Scot, seventh Earl of Chester, was buried on Monday, the 8th of June,
before the High Altar in the Benedictine abbey of St Werburgh at Chester, the
same church in which he and Elen had been wed more than fourteen years
earlier.
Abbot Walter had turned over his private quarters to the Earl's widow. His
great hall was crowded now with mourners. Servants passed back and forth among
them, offering wine, ale, and cider, sweetmeats. The solemnity of the funeral
Mass had slowly given way to the perverse cheer peculiar to wakes; people
drank and ate with unseemly zest, shared news and gossip, speculated what
would befall the earldom of Chester, for John's heirs were all female.
Nell would normally have enjoyed such a gathering, for she was the most
sociable of beings, and she very much appreciated the attention a lovely woman
could invariably command. But now her every thought was for Elen, Elen who
moved amid the mourners like a wraith, so detached, so apparently aloof that
she was giving rise to gossip, among those who did not knowas Nell didjust how
frighteningly fragile Elen's composure was. As soon as she could, Nell drew
Elen aside, led her toward the Abbot's private chamber at the south end of the
hall.
"No arguments, not a word. As soon as I get your gown off, it's into that
bed." Ignoring Elen's half-hearted protests, Nell soon had the other woman
stripped to her chemise. Removing Elen's veil, she deftly uncoiled Elen's
thick, black haira pity Elen's coloring was so unfashionableand propelled Elen
toward the bed.
"There, dearest, just lie back. You truly ought to rest awhile. I daresay you
never suspected I could be so motherly!" Nell busied herself
57
fluffing the pillows, tucking the blankets in "I think it is fortunate, ndeed,
Elen, that you are Prince Llewelyn's daughter "
Elen was not as surprised as she might have been, Nell's conversations were
often enlivened by such seeming non sequiturs "Why7"
"Because he'll look out for your interests, make sure your dower rights are
protected To tell you true, Elen, you'd best keep an eye on those sisters of
John's Their husbands cannot wait to get their shares, I actually heard them
wagering upon how many manors John had held1 I doubt that they'd be overly
scrupulous of a widow's rights "
Nell could see no interest on Elen's face, and she said, more emphatically,
"Elen, I know whereof I speak My husband's family did their damnedest to deny
me my share of William's estates " She frowned, and Elen was momentarily
forgotten, for her resentment was a sharp blade, indeed, hurt to handle She'd
have been better off had Llewelyn been the one to speak up for her A man like
that would have been a shrewd bargainer, for certes, he'd not let Elen be
cheated of her just due Whereas Henry She sighed She did love her brother,
truly she did But why was he so weak-willed, so easily swayed by stronger men7
He was the King, yet he'd let the Marshals rob her blind Even now he did not
curb the Marshals as he ought, allowed them to delay her dower payments, to
offer feeble excuses for their disobedience How lucky were those women who had
men to stand up for them, men who were not afraid of giving offense, men with
courage
Vexed by Elen's indifference, Nell was mustering up new arguments, all her
protective instincts now aroused, determined to save Elen from herself, when
there was a knock on the door She quickly reached up, drew the bed hangings,
enclosing Elen in a cocoon of sarcenet silk "You sleep, I'll get nd of whoever
it is "
It was Simon "One of John's cousins has just arrived, wants to pay his
respects to Elen I tried to discourage him, but he's remarkably persistent "
He smiled apologetically, and Nell found herself suddenly paying more
attention to the shape of his mouth than to what he was saying
"Simon, I cannot let her see anyone now Truly, I'd send the Pope himself away
" John was related by blood or marriage to most of England's nobility, he was
a first cousin of the Scots King, cousin to the Earls of Winchester, Arundel,
and Lincoln, nephew to the Earl of Derby But as she opened the door a little
wider, Nell saw that the man standing at Simon's shoulder was not one of
John's titled kinsmen She knew Robert de Qumcy on sight, but he was only a
casual acquaintance, the younger brother of Roger de Quincy, Earl of
Winchester
As she started to close the door, he stepped forward "I must see "er/ if only
for a few moments "
58
Nell gave him a coolly reproving look, one mixed with curiosity, for in the
past, his manners had always been impeccable. He was an attractive man, she
conceded, not as tall as Simon, but with hair even blacker, and eyes of a
truly startling blue. But he looked as if he'd not had much sleep, even less
peace of mind. She'd not realized that he was so fond of John; their kinship
was a distant one. "I am sorry, Sir Robert, but"
To Nell's astonishment, he paid her no heed, pushed past her into the chamber.
"Sir Robert, wait!" Simon was almost as fast as Robert de Quincy; he followed,
started to put a restraining hand on the other man's arm. But at that moment,
Elen jerked the bed hangings back.
"Rob?"
He froze where he was. For what seemed an endless moment, they looked at each
other. And then, as if released from the same spell, they both moved. Elen
swung her legs over the side of the bed, he started toward her, and they met
in the middle of the chamber. As soon as his arms went around her, Elen began
to weep.
"Rob, it was so awful. He suffered so . . ." She sobbed, and he drew her still
closer, murmuring her name, kissing her hair, her temples, tasting her tears.
"I'm here, beloved, I'm here," he said, and Nell, an amazed witness, came
abruptly back to reality. Jesu, the door! It had been wide open, giving all in
the hall a front-row seat! She spun around, and then gave a sigh of sheer
relief, blessing Simon for being so wondrously quick, for he'd whirled,
slammed the door shut just in time, preventing those in the hall from seeing
this lovers' embrace.
AS Simon and Nell passed through the abbey gate out onto Northgate Street,
Nell paused uncertainly. People were milling about in the street, dogs and
children darting here and there, getting underfoot, reveling in the
excitement. Although it was more than a fortnight until the city's annual
fair, monks were already erecting stalls and booths in front of the abbey
gateway. Some were there to trade their goods, others to witness secondhand
the burial of a great lord. All stared openly at Simon and Nell, and it was
this which made her hesitate, for she'd never been out amidst the common
people without an escort, without the trappings and pageantry of rank. But
Simon took her hand in his, and she soon decided she liked the novelty of it
all, liked the bustle and color, even the admiring looks, for they were not
entirely directed at her silk gown, at Simon's fine tunic and gilded scabbard.
We're a handsome couple, she thought, glancing sideways at Simon It was
usually easy to tell Welshmen from those of Norman-French
59
descent, for the Welsh shaved their beards but retained their mustaches, while
the Normans and Saxons were bearded. Simon was neither, was completely
clean-shaven. Nell wondered whether this apparent disdain for fashion's
dictates was an act of rebellion or one of vanity, and she tucked the thought
away, to tease him with at a more appropriate time.
"You did not know about Elen and Robert de Quincy?"
Nell shook her head. "I knew her marriage was not a happy one. But no, I did
not know that . . . that ..."
". . . she and de Quincy were lovers. That is what you are so loath to say, is
it not?"
"Simon ... try not to think too badly of Elen. I am not defending her sin, but
. . . but she is so very Welsh, you see."
Simon gave her a look of faintly amused bafflement. "So? What are you saying?
That the Welsh are truly as immoral as you English claim?"
"No, of course not. Adultery is no less a sin amongst the Welsh than amongst
other peoples. But the Welsh treat their women differently. A Welshwoman has
far greater freedoms than women of my England or your France. A Welshwoman
cannot be forced to marry against her will; she has no less right than her
husband to end an unhappy marriage; she cannot be beaten the way an erring
English wife can. She can even divorce her husband if he brings his concubine
into her home, Simon! Those are remarkable laws, you will admit, utterly
unlike ours, unlike any in Christendom. And Elen grew up under them; she never
learned proper obedience as an English girl would. So when she found herself
trapped in a barren marriage, she felt free to ... to look for happiness
outside the marriage. Mind you, that is no excuse. But it does make her
behavior more understandable, does it not?"
To Simon, it did not, but he did not want to hurt Nell by condemning her
kinswoman, and so he shrugged, said lightly, "Had you been born a man, you'd
have made a most persuasive lawyer." Adding, "But it would have been a
God-awful waste."
Nell laughed. "In truth, I do not see what attraction de Quincy has for Elen.
He is handsome enough, I suppose, but he always struck me as rather too
easygoing, too carefree. Granted, I do not know him that well, but he seems to
lack serious purpose, to lack ambition," she said, somewhat reluctantly, for
she wanted to be fair to the man and she could think of few more damning
accusations. "Though he is more than a match for Elen in recklessness! It is a
miracle to rank with the loaves and fishes, that they did not betray
themselves long ere this."
They were passing a street stall, and Simon stopped, fumbled for a tew coins,
and purchased two helpings of hot sausage. This, too, was a new experience for
Nell, and she found herself envying Simon his ^der horizons, the greater
freedoms he enjoyed as a man. Reaching
60
for her first taste of street sausage, she ate it with relish. Her innate
honesty compelled her now to acknowledge that she was still much freer than
most women her age, for she had no husband to answer to, to obey. But there
was no longer joy in that freedom; she'd paid too high a price for it. Her
gaze lingered on Simon's dark, laughing face, and in that moment she knew the
full measure of all she'd lost, of what was forever denied her.
She looked hastily away, lest her heart show in her eyes. "I cannot imagine,
Simon, that Elen would want to marry de Qumcy . . . can you? After all, she is
the King's niece, a Prince's daughter, now the widow of the richest Earl in
the realm, and Rob de Quincy is but a knight. He's not a suitable match for
her, could never What? Why do you laugh?"
"I was amused," he admitted, "by the contrast. You look like a wayward angel,
and then you open your mouth and you do sound practical enough to put a
Cheapside fishmonger to shame!"
Nell bit her lip, sought to stifle her laughter. "You have queer notions as to
what comprises a compliment, Simon de Montfort!"
"On the contrary," he said, "I just paid you the highest compliment a man can
give a woman. I told you that you were beautiful . . . and clever. Do you not
know, Nell, how rare a combination that is?"
She was used to bantering with men; her reputation as a flirt was deserved.
But now she found herself suddenly tongue-tied, as flustered as if she were
still a raw girl. She was accustomed to men looking at her with desire. But
Simon was looking at her with approval, and that she found far more
unsettling. "I want to thank you," she said hastily, "for what you did in the
Abbot's chamber. It was kind of you, Simon; by your quick thinking, you saved
Elen's good name. I know you did it for your cousin John, but Elen"
"No," he said. "I did it for you, Nell. I did it because Elen is your
kinswoman." He reached for her hand, brought it up to his mouth, pressed a
kiss into her palm. He was not smiling. "Why do you think I came to Darnhall?
Because Henry told me you were there, and I thought you might have need of me.
There is nothing I would not do for you, Nell. Do you not know that?"
"Oh, Simon . . ." Nell's voice had dropped to a whisper. "Simon . . . whatever
are we going to do?"
ON July 5, Elen had a Requiem Mass said for her husband on his monthmind. The
next morning she made an early departure from Chester, rode west into Wales.
In summer, travel was possible at a rapid pace, and she reached her father's
manor at Aber two days later.
61
"Papa will be so pleased." Davydd came forward, helped her to dismount. "Why
did you not tell us you were coming, though?"
"I was not sure you'd be here, Davydd. Were you not going to meet ^ith the
English King on Papa's behalf?"
"Our meeting was delayed." Although Davydd was not usually demonstrative, he
embraced his sister. "Are you all right, Elen? You look tired," he said, and
then realized how easily expectations could distort perceptions. In truth, she
did not look tired at all, neither careworn nor troubled. Those were the words
that came to mind when one thought of a woman widowed but a month; they did
not apply. For Elen looked radiant.
LLEWELYN watched as, one by one, the candles flared into life. He waited until
the servant had withdrawn from the chamber, then beckoned to his daughter.
"Come here, lass," he said. "Sit beside me on the settle."
She did, gave him a smile that caught at his heart, so loving was it, so like
her mother's smile. "I was so glad, Papa," she said, "to find Llelo still with
you."
"It means much to me," Llewelyn admitted, "having him here. But first, lass, I
want to speak of you. I suspect, Elen, that the wolves will soon be gathering.
John held land in ten shires, held two earldoms, a rich prize, indeed, to be
up for the taking. I understand the husband of John's niece is laying claim to
the earldom of Chester. It would not surprise me, though, if Henry is loath to
let it go. For nigh on twenty years, Cheshire and Wales have been united, an
alliance not in the interests of the English Crown. Whilst Ranulf and then
John lived, there was little Henry could do. But now ..." He was frowning, and
Elen reached up, kissed him on the cheek.
"I am so sorry, Papa. I know how important that alliance was to you, to
Wales."
It was indeed important; for Llewelyn, John's death had been catastrophic. He
did not want to burden her, though, not so newly widowed, and he smiled at
her, said, "Be that as it may, I do have good news for you. Henry has assured
me there will be no difficulties about your dower rights."
"Thank you, Papa."
"Henry listens best to whoever reaches him last." Davydd spoke "Ofy from the
shadows. "But Papa has been able to hold him to his w°rd in the past, Elen, so
I think your prospects look promising."
"Promising? Oh, yes, Davydd," she said, "yes."
Llewelyn was looking thoughtfully at his daughter. It was passing
8trange. He'd never thought she truly resembled Joanna; the resem-
62
blance had always been more pronounced in Davydd. But since her mother's
death, she seemed more and more like Joanna. Of all his children, she'd been
his secret favorite, so passionate, so stubborn, so vulnerable, the rebel to
whom everything had always come so hard. "You have something to tell me, I
think," he said.
"Yes," Elen said. "Yes, Papa, I have."
"You do not wear mourning."
She nodded. "Papa ... I mean to wed again."
She heard Davydd draw a quick breath. Llewelyn's eyes narrowed. She'd seen
that look before, had seen him change in the span of seconds from the fond,
indulgent father to the Prince. "Go on," he said. "Is it anyone I know?"
She tried not to let his sarcasm sting, said as steadily as she could, "You've
met him. Sir Robert de Quincy, brother to the Earl of Winchester."
"I can well understand why he'd want to wed you. He could not hope to do
better. But you could, Elen. Surely you do know that?"
"I love him, Papa."
"Do you?" Llewelyn's voice was very cool. "Why? What sort of man is he, that
he'd let you come alone to Aber? Is he so lacking in courage that he dare not
face me? How can such a man be worthy of your love, Elen?"
"Rob is no coward!" Elen jumped to her feet, began to pace back and forth as
she sought to get her rage under control. "He wanted to come with me, wanted
us to see you together. I would not let him. I knew what would happen. You'd
blame him, you'd not listen. I thought I had a better chance of making you
understand."
She turned back to face him. "You know I did not want to marry John. Surely
you remember, Papa, how I pleaded with you, how I wept? And so you told me I
did not have to wed him, and then . . . then you explained how very important
this marriage was for Wales, how important for you. I was fifteen, Papa, I
yielded, did as you wanted. I married John."
Llewelyn was quiet, silenced by those echoes of bitterness. "You must know,"
he said at last, "that we never wanted to see you hurt. Your mother and I
wanted you to be happy, Elen."
Elen's mouth softened. "I know, Papa, I do. I know, too, that I am
disappointing you now. But try to understand. I have loved Rob for so long,
for years. But as much as I loved him, I knew we could never have more than a
few stolen moments. We could not run away together. I could not do that to
John, could not hurt him like that, make him such a cruel laughingstock. I
could not do that to you. I knew how much your alliance meant. And Mama ... it
would have raked up all the old
63
gossip/ the ugliness Men would have said, 'Like mother, like daughter ' They
would have remembered her mistake, judged her by my sin, judged her all over
again And Rob you called him a coward, Papa, but that's not so He would have
run away with me anytime in the past four years, he would have ruined himself
for me and never counted the cost But I could not nsk his life John's honor
was all to him, and he Was Earl of Chester and Huntingdon, km to the Scots
King Had I run away with his cousin, John would not have rested until he'd
avenged himself upon Rob "
She knelt suddenly, took Llewelyn's hand between her own "But now we can wed,
Papa We cannot hurt John or Mama now, and your alliance it died with John "
The hand she held lay still, unresponsive in hers, tears trembled on her
lashes But then he put his other hand upon hers, and she realized it was his
left hand she held "Oh, Papa "
"Hush," he said, "hush," and he tilted her chin, looked for a long moment into
her upturned face "I'll not he to you, Elen, I'll not pretend I do like it
much But you made one marriage to please me It is only fair that you now make
one to please yourself "
She'd not expected it to be so easy She knew he loved her, but she knew, too,
that he'd always put Wales first "You've made me very happy," she said, and
Llewelyn found for her a reasonably convincing smile
"May your Rob de Quincy make you happy, too Davydd, pour mead for us, and
we'll drink to Elen's marriage, to Elen's homecoming " Llewelyn had always
been adept at reading faces, for a prince, that was much more than a social
skill "What is amiss7 Surely you intend to return to Wales whilst you mark
your mourning time7 Where else would you"
"There will be no mourning time, Papa Rob and I mean to wed as soon as the
banns can be posted "
Both men were staring at her Davydd spoke first "If you mean that," he said
incredulously, "then you are well and truly out of your mind1"
"Davydd, I have never meant anything more "
"You are no fool, Elen," Llewelyn snapped, "so stop talking like °ne You may
marry this man if you must, but not for a twelvemonth To do otherwise would be
to court disaster, to bring scandal down upon your name A sudden marriage to a
man of lesser rank would be taken as an admission of adultery Not only would
you besmirch your honor, YOU might well jeopardize your dower lands "
"Papa, I do not care about the lands1" She'd never dared say that ^ e' they
looked so startled that she gave a shaken laugh "I know "at sounds like
heresy, but it is true, nonetheless Rob's holdings are
64
a mere pittance when compared to all John held, but he has manors of his own.
We will not starve."
Davydd reached out, put his hand on her arm. "I believe you when you say the
lands mean nothing to you. But are you equally indifferent to suspicions of
murder?"
Elen's jaw dropped. "Murder? Davydd, that is ridiculous. No one could possibly
believe that!"
Llewelyn was slowly shaking his head. "You are wrong, Elen. If you wed Robert
de Quincy so soon after your husband's death, most people will conclude that
he must have been your lover. A hasty second marriage plants ugly seeds. For
too many, gossip is their meat and drink. And once men begin to see a death as
convenient, there'll be those to see it, too, as contrived."
It was obvious to Llewelyn that his daughter was shaken. What an innocent she
was. And de Quincy was just as blind. God help them both. For a moment he
allowed himself to hope that he'd gotten through to her. But even as he
watched, Elen's expression changed. He recognized the defiant jut of her chin,
the sudden surge of color across her cheekbones. When she was a child, the
easiest way to get her to do something she did not want to do was to dare her
to do it. It seemed, he thought grimly, that she had not changed all that
much.
"Those who know me would never believe that," she said tautly. "The others do
not matter."
"I will not let you do this, Elen. I forbid it."
Elen stood very still. "I do not want to defy you, Papa. Nothing could lessen
the love I have for you. I want your blessings for my marriage, but I do not
need your permission. I am Welsh, am free to wed whom I choose. Our laws give
me that right, Papa, you know they do."
Llewelyn started instinctively to rise, remembered just in time how cumbersome
an act that now was. "Tell me this, Elen. You are willing to risk the loss of
your dower lands, the loss of your honor. What if I cannot forgive you? Are
you willing, too, to risk that?"
"Papa . . ." Elen's voice wavered. "Papa, please listen. Who can know how much
time is allotted to us? You'd have me sacrifice a year with Rob when that
could be the only year we'd have. That time is too precious, Papa. You of all
men should understand that, with Mama but five months dead."
He was silent, and she saw him through a blur of tears. "I'll depart for
Chester on the morrow. I shall bid you farewell ere I go, Papa." She waited,
then turned, walked slowly toward the door.
Davydd crossed the chamber, poured mead for Llewelyn and for himself. Giving
his father a brimming cup, he said, "Papa, how can you let her do this? How
can you not stop her?"
65
"What would you have me do, Davydd? Put her under guard? Tie her to her bed?"
Llewelyn looked down at the cup, then flung it from him, watched it shatter
against the hearthstones. He at once regretted it; such ungoverned bursts of
temper were not natural to him. "I am sorry, Davydd. My nerves are more on the
raw these days than I like to admit."
"I was in the wrong, Papa, not you. For in truth, I do not know how to stop
Elen, either." Davydd held out his own drink, and Llewelyn took it with a
twisted smile.
"Go fetch her, Davydd. Bring her back."
After Davydd departed in search of his sister, Llewelyn leaned back upon the
settle, took several swallows of mead. Although the chamber was empty, he did
not feel alone. In this bedroom he and Joanna had consummated their marriage.
Elen had been conceived in that bed, born in it, too. Joanna had died in it.
"What else could I do, Joanna?" he said. "How could I not forgive her?"
Oainam Castle, England
October 1237
AT was with a sense of foreboding that Mabel de Druual watched her lady read
Simon de Montfort's letter. Color had risen in Nell's cheeks; her lips were
softly parted. Since childhood, it had been so for her; her face was ever a
mirror to her soul. Mabel had sometimes marveled at the irony of it, that King
John's daughter should be so lacking in artifice, even caution. A widow who'd
been with her since Nell's marriage to William Marshal, Mabel loved Nell for
her candor/ her impulsiveness, her high spirits. But it occurred to her now
that those were the very qualities that were putting Nell so much at peril.
Nell looked up. "It is from the Earl of Leicester," she said, needtessly, for
Mabel had recognized Simon's seal. "He has returned from York."
"That is twice this year that he has acted as the King's envoy, is it
66
not? He must stand high, indeed, in the King's favor," Mabel said because she
knew how it pleased Nell to hear Simon praised.
"Yes," Nell agreed, "he does." She glanced down at the letter again, and her
expression changed; her smile faded. "Simon has accepted my invitation to
visit me here at Odiham," she said, and so grave was she that Mabel took
heart. Mayhap it was not too late, she thought, and she knelt beside Nell's
chair.
"Write at once to Lord Simon," she pleaded. "Tell him not to come."
Nell's brows drew together; when she started to speak, Mabel put up an
imploring hand. "Please, my lady, just hear me out. You must know it is only
my love for you that bids me be so bold. I fear for you, for I know how much
you care for Lord Simon."
"Why do you say that, Mabel?"
"My lady, I have eyes to see. When you and he look upon each other, it is a
wonder the air itself does not take fire. And now you would invite him here to
your own manor. My lady, think what you do. Our flesh is weak; we are all
daughters of Eve, sons of Adam, too susceptible to temptations, to Lucifer's
whispers in the dark. If you have Lord Simon here, under your own roof, it is
all too likely that ere the night is done, you'll have him in your bed, too."
Nell jumped to her feet, but she was not a hypocrite; her indignant protest
died on her lips. Mabel rose, too. "I know the Church says that fornication is
a mortal sin. But I truly think the Almighty looks upon it with a more
tolerant eye than do His bishops, His priests, for could He damn so many for a
sin so common? Adultery . . . that is a more grievous offense; few would argue
that. But my lady, the sin you contemplate is one of the most serious of all.
You have sworn a holy oath of chastity, knelt before the Archbishop of
Canterbury and pledged yourself to Christ. How could you then give yourself to
a mortal man? I fear there could be no forgiveness for a betrayal so great,
Madame."
"You tell me nothing I do not already know, Mabel," Nell said, more sharply
than she'd intended. How could she fault Mabel for caring?
"I am thinking not only of your soul, Madame. I am thinking, too, of your
heart. The earldom of Leicester is not a lucrative one; Lord Simon is deeply
in debt, is ever hard pressed for money. Twice now he has sought a wealthy
wife, first the Countess of Boulogne and, last year, the Countess of
Flanders."
"I know that, Mabel." Neither in Nell's voice nor in Mabel's was there
condemnation or criticism. Marriages were very practical matters, based upon
realistic considerations of politics and profit, not passion, and to both
women, it was perfectly natural that Simon should seek to better his fortunes
through wedlock. "What of it? What mean you to say?"
"What I am saying, my lady, is that the time will come when Lord
67
Simon must seek yet again to wed an heiress. What choice would he have, for
how else could he hope to pay his debts, to fill his empty coffers? And could
you ever endure that, Madame? Could you share him with another woman?" Mabel
paused, but Nell bit her lip, said nothing.
"He may indeed love you well, Madame. In truth, I suspect he does. But there
can be nothing between you but friendship. I beg you, do not risk so much for
so little. Do not sacrifice your honor and chances of salvation for a sinful,
stolen love."
Nell was still silent. She glanced again at Simon's letter, at the bold
strokes of the writing, Simon's own hand, not that of a scribe. "You make it
sound so simple, Mabel. But it is not." She looked up then, and Mabel saw
tears in her eyes. "God help us both," she whispered, "for it is not."
SIMON arrived at Odiham at dusk on the third Friday in October. Supper was
generally a casual, rather cursory meal, but for Simon Nell set a lavish
table. Even the Friday fish menu had not daunted Nell's cooks; Simon and his
men were served savory, highly spiced dishes of herring, lampreys, and
oysters. Simon's squires were quite impressed by such rich fare, but they soon
concluded that their lord was much more impressed by the Countess of Pembroke.
The Lady Nell was clad in a gown of brocade silk, a vibrant ruby-red threaded
through with strands of gold, and Simon had yet to take his eyes from her. His
squires watched their lord, they watched the King's sister, and they were both
awed and uneasy that Simon dared aim so high.
After the meal was done, there was dancing. Nell showed Simon about the hall;
it encompassed most of the keep's second story, save for a small chamber to
the north, which had been set aside for Simon's use. Nell was very proud of
Odiham, and she told Simon that the castle had been built by her father, King
John, "begun in 1207, the year of my brother Henry's birth."
"The year before I was born," Simon observed, and Nell suddenly realized that
she'd not even known how old he was. It was a surprisingly unsettling thought,
for it made her aware of how much there was that she did not know about Simon
de Montfort.
"Your Lady Mabel has been eyeing me askance, but I've yet to see your dragon.
Is Dame Cecily lurking about in the shadows? I cannot imagine her straying far
from your side, not with a wolf prowling midst her flock."
"Is that how you see yourself, Simon?" Nell asked, and he grinned.
"No, but that is how your dragon does. Can you deny it?"
She shook her head. "Well, this is one lamb in no need of a shep-
68
herd. Dame Cecily is not at Odiham. I gave her leave to visit her son."
"I see," he said. Their eyes caught, held. "I daresay Dame Cecily was much
beholden to you. I know I am," he murmured, and Nell's breath quickened.
The dancing was about to resume. Simon held out his hand, and Nell let him
lead her out to join in the carol. When the dance ended, they shared a cup of
hippocras, while Nell told him of Odiham's proudest hour, those fifteen days
that the castle held out under a French siege in 1216. "They say the French
were astounded when the garrison at last yielded and just thirteen men did
march out to surrender."
Simon showed no surprise. "I've seen few castles better situated," he said.
"King John had a good eye for defense. By placing the castle in a bend of the
Whitewater, he made the river into a second moat."
"We do depend upon more than the river for our defenses. My lord father had
trenches dug to the west, which could be flooded in times of danger, making
the ground all but impassable," Nell said, and saw Simon's eyes kindle with a
soldier's interest. She drank the last of the wine before saying, with studied
nonchalance, "From the keep battlements, the canals are clearly visible."
She needed to say no more. Simon took the cue as if it had been rehearsed
between them. "I should very much like to see these canals, for I've never
encountered a defense of that sort. Could I persuade you to show me?" he
asked, and Nell allowed herself to be persuaded. Mabel and Simon's squires
sought to look noncommittal. No one ventured to comment upon the difficulties
of inspecting a castle's defenses in the dark.
THE great keep of Odiham towered forty-five feet, affordedby day a spectacular
view of the Hampshire countryside. A harvest moon lit the dark, a misty,
mellow gold haloed by feathery, wispy clouds. The light from the heavens was
so clear, so lucent that Nell found no need for her lantern. She set it down
within the embrasure, began to point out landmarks to Simon: the slow-moving
silver of the river, the castle moat, the marshes where John's defensive
ditches lay, camouflaged by the night.
"To the northeast lies my deer park," she said proudly. "Henry gave me the
castle and manor last year, but he only recently allowed me the park and
hunting privileges. It offers good sport, Simon, as you may judge for yourself
on the morrow. I've planned a hunt after dinner ... if that meets with your
approval."
"Everything you do meets with my approval," Simon said, to his own surprise,
for he'd never been one to indulge in glib, shallow gallantries. What he'd
just said to Nell was no less than the truth, although
69
he did not know how to reassure her of that. They were, the both of them,
treading an unmarked road, but wherever it led, it was too late to turn back.
The silence was making Nell uneasy; she could read too much into it. "I had a
letter some days past from Elen de Quincy," she said. "She had good news for
me. Her lord father has prevailed upon Henry, and an agreement has been
reached as to her dower lands. Unlike mine, hers will be a fair settlement:
manors in the shires of Bedford, Huntingdon, Middlesex, Rutland, and Essex."
"That marriage caused much talk, most of it ugly."
"I know," Nell admitted. "But I could find in Elen's letter no echoes of
regret. She did a foolish thing, but also a brave one. It does take courage,
Simon, to value love above honor."
"I should hope," he said, "that one could have love with honor."
Nell's smile flickered, sadly. "In an ideal world, so might it be." She leaned
back against the parapet, let her eyes wander at will over Simon's face. How
finely cut his mouth was, mayhap not quick to smile, but when he did . . . She
sighed, said, "Elen had good news, too, about her father. Prince Llewelyn can
now walk without the aid of a crutch. And he has picked up the threads of an
old liaison, once again has a woman in his life. Elen spelled the woman's name
as H-u-n-y-d-d, which should be said as Hin-ith ... I think. I confess, my
tongue has ever tripped over Welsh!"
To Simon, it was only to be expected that Llewelyn should take a mistress; it
had been more than nine months since his wife's death. But he knew women could
be foolishly sentimental about such matters. "Does Elen resent this woman?" he
asked, and Nell shook her head. Their hands rested together on the parapet
wall, not quite touching.
"She says she did oncevery much. This Hunydd was Llewelyn's concubine, you
see, during those wretched months after Joanna's infidelity, when she was
being held at Llanfaes. Elen detested Hunydd then, could not bear to see her
in Joanna's place. But now she says she thanks God for her. She knows there is
great danger in grieving too much."
"Did Llewelyn love your sister as much as that?" Simon asked, and men, "I
expect he must have; how else could he have forgiven her?"
Nell longed to ask if he could have forgiven as Llewelyn did. But she did not,
sensing that the answer would not have been to her liking, 'he said, instead,
"Llewelyn loved Joanna well, and she him. I remember a visit to their court a
few years past. One night the talk turned to remarriage. Few who lose a mate
do not eventually wed again, and s°Wetimes, with unseemly haste. SomeoneLord
Ednyved's wife, I thinkmade mention of this to Joanna, mayhap in jest. But to
Joanna,
70
that was a joke bitter as gall. She always feared that Llewelyn would die ere
she did, and she said, right sharply, that she'd take no husband after
Llewelyn. It grew quiet, until Llewelyn dispelled the tension, made us all
laugh. He said that he would want Joanna to wed again, would not begrudge her
a second husband, no matter how young or handsomeprovided that the man was
utterly incapable in bed!"
Nell laughed; so did Simon. "My sister and Llewelyn were so lucky, Simon, so
very lucky. They found together a rare love, a happiness few ever know. I ...
I would that I could have been so blessed."
"I never thought much about love," Simon said slowly. "I loved my mother, but
she died ere I was thirteen. I can scarce remember my father. As for women, I
suppose I've had my share. Some I fancied more than others. But I never met
one to grieve over, I never thought to find one I'd need as I need bread to
eat, air to breathe."
Nell's hand sought his on the parapet; his fingers closed tightly around her
own. "And now, Simon?"
"Now I do want you, Nell, and only you."
"Simon . . ." Nell was not sure what she meant to say, never found out, for
Simon was done with waiting. He took her in his arms. She raised her face to
him, closing her eyes, and then felt his mouth on hers.
Nell had been wed against her will at the age of nine, given by her brother to
a man much older than she. But William Marshal had been kind to her, and she'd
learned to love him. When she was fourteen, they'd consummated their marriage,
and he'd been kind then, too; her few memories of the marriage-bed were
pleasant ones, memories of warmth and security and tenderness. Nothing in her
past experience had prepared her for Simon.
He was kissing her mouth, her eyelids, her temples, removing her veil and
wimple, kissing her throat, and Nell forgot her qualms, forgot her fears; she
returned his kisses with abandon, with a passion to rnatch his own. She loved
this man. She loved him so much. How could she ever give him up?
Simon had not meant for their lovemaking to take fire so fast. But her
response was so ardent, so eager that he found himself unable to hold back.
Never had he been so aware of a woman's fragrance. It was subtle, elusive,
clung to her hair, her skin; even the air seemed perfumed with a faint,
flowery scent. She did not object as his caresses became bolder, more
intimate, allowing him to pull the top of her bodice down, allowing him to
fondle her breasts. Their kisses were hard, bruising, fc>r there was in their
desire a desperation, too, as if these fevered moments alone upon the castle
battlements might be all they'd ever have.
When Simon suddenly released her, Nell was dazed, disoriented. She caught the
wall for support. She felt drugged, focused with difficulty
71
upon what he was saying. How strange his voice sounded, slurred and
breathless. "No," he said, "not like this . . ." She leaned toward him,
uncomprehending, and he grasped her shoulders. "For God's sake, Nell, stop. I
am a man, not a saint. It will need but a few more moments for me to throw our
mantles on the walkway, take you here and now, and I do not want it to be like
that, not with you ..."
Neither did Nell. There was nothing romantic in the image he'd just conjured
up for her; the thought of such a hasty, frenzied coupling sounded sordid to
her, shameful. She flushed, becoming aware of her dishevelment, and began to
tug at the bodice of her gown. It frightened her now, the memory of that hot,
heedless passion, and she confessed shakily, "I ... I did not know . . ."
"It was not like that with your husband?" he said, and laughed when she mutely
shook her head. "Where is your bedchamber, Nell?"
She hesitated. "Above the hall. Simon, I ..."
He was not listening, had stooped to retrieve her discarded wimple and veil.
"I'd be all thumbs; you'd best do this yourself. Nell, listen. We must go back
to the hall. There'll be talk if we do not."
She nodded quickly. Yes, that was best. She needed time, time to think. She
did love him ... or did she? How often had she heard priests warn that lust
could masquerade as love. And all knew that the Devil delighted in casting
carnal snares for the unwary. She must be sure of her feelings, lest she
barter salvation for a mere fever of the flesh.
"We'll return to the hall, and in time, we'll retire for the nightto our
separate chambers. I will wait an hour, mayhap even two, till the castle
sleeps. Then I'll come to you."
Nell did not speak, but she looked so uncertain that Simon smiled
reassuringly. "It will be safe, Nell; you need not fret. None but my squires
will know where I slept, and they'd never betray me." He leaned over, kissed
her on the mouth, very gently this time. His eyes shone like silver in the
moonlight, shone with elation and triumph and disarming tenderness. "How I
love you," he said, and there was wonder in his voice.
Nell swallowed. "There . . . there is a second stairwell," she said softly.
"In the northwest corner of the keep. It leads up to my chamber."
THE candle had been notched to show the passing hours, but no matter how often
Simon glanced at it, he could not will the wax to melt. He Paced to the
window, then back again. When he reached for a wine ^P, drained it in several
swallows, his squires exchanged surprised and sPeculative looks, for Simon was
a sparing drinker.
His squires were the sons of English noblemen, learning a knight's
72
trade in Simon's service. Young men of seventeen and eighteen were as unlike
in personality as they were in appearance, united   ^ in their shared devotion
to Simon. They'd been somewhat uneasy   u they first joined his household, for
Simon was known to have a    ^ riously quick temper. But they'd soon
discovered that their qualms w °~ for naught. It was true that Simon did not
suffer fools gladly. That   ** not unusual in a man of rank and power. What
was, though, was <T mon's reluctance to direct his rages at the defenseless.
And while h'~ was a very exacting master, he was also scrupulously fair. e
Baldwin and Adam were dazzled by Simon's lethal skill with sword, awed by how
easily he handled the most unruly horse Th admired his self-assurance, his
boldness, came to treasure his rare corn pliments. And because they were at an
age in which imitation was still the purest form of flattery, they took Simon
as their example m all particulars. Simon was an avid reader, rarely traveled
without a book in his saddle bags; Baldwin and Adam struggled, with
indifferent success, to take this peculiar pastime of Simon's to heart.
Because Simon never passed a beggar without giving a coin, his squires no
longer mocked God's unfortunates. Like Simon, they professed to be scornful of
the superstitions of ignorant men, and like Simon, they honored the Grey
Friars above all other orders. Simon admired the friars for their austerity
and piety, said they'd not been corrupted as the monks had, by rich living and
worldly concerns; his young disciples said the same They sought to mimic
Simon's dry, sometimes caustic, wit, and they learned a difficult lesson in
discretion, for Simon never boasted of his bedmates, had open contempt for men
who did.
Even had they not known of Simon's distaste for such boasting, the squires
would never have dared to jest about the Countess of Pembroke They watched
their lord stride back and forth, and they could only marvel at his rash
courage, while fearing for his safety. The man who seduced a King's sister
might well pay for his pleasure with his head, at the least, he could expect
to forfeit the instrument of that pleasure Even King Henry could not be
indifferent to his sister's disgrace, would have to play a man's part should
he learn of Simon's mad folly- Tne boys again exchanged anxious glances, and
Baldwin surreptitiously crossed himself, for all knew the lady had pledged her
honor to Christ. It would, he thought with a shiver, be almost like debauching
a nun.
THE hall was dark; Simon could just make out the sleeping forms
bedd^
inn item was uai^, jiiiiun \_uuiu juai uia^e uut me sleeping iwm -         ..
down in the aisles. All was still. He encountered no one in the statf^ He
paused again before Nell's chamber, but could hear no sounds    J where. The
door swung open; Nell stood framed in soft fireligh''
73
11 dressed in her gown of red silk, but her hair was unbound, VV3S * about her
shoulders Simon had seen her hair uncovered by W mpte' but ^e'd never seen lf
l'^6 tnis' faUmg free down her
° d he wanted suddenly to feel its bright silkmess against his skin, baw«ap it
around his throat
W    "Your hair looks verily like spun gold," he said, and then laughed d like
every smitten lover since the world was green Why must S?    euaee of love be
so threadbare7 There ought to be a way to tell
h w I feel without evoking so many echoes, so many ghosts " He |VOlghed again
for the sheer joy of this moment, the joy of being here aulus bedchamber with
this woman But when he reached for a strand ,.     j^jj. Nell pulled back,
moved hastily to put space between them
"I cannot do this, Simon," she said "I cannot bed with you "
Color had risen in her face, but her voice was steady, she looked not so much
remorseful as defiant "I cannot bed with you/' she repeated, and then waited,
wanly, for his anger
It did not come There were no explosions of outrage, no indignant
recnmmations, not even the reproaches she felt she deserved Just utterly
unnerving silence His eyes seemed to have darkened, more slate now than silver
He made no move to approach her, but neither did he move toward the door "What
is wrong, Nell7" he said at last "What do you fear7"
She'd braced herself for a dreadful scene, expecting him to rant, to call her
all the ugly names men reserved for women who promised more than they could
deliver She realized now that she'd even wanted such a scene, wanted him to
react with rage and injured pride How much more dangerous was this quiet
question of his
"I know what some men say of me, Simon, that I am a wanton It is true that I
like to dance and flirt, that I wear silk, not homespun, and they dare to
judge me for it But they are wrong I have held true to my oatn I have lam with
no man since my husband's death "
"Do you really think you had to assure me of that7 I know you, Nell, know full
well that you've not violated your oath Just as I know you were not playing a
wanton's game with me, tonight on the battle-
1 truly thought I could do it, Simon I never meant to mislead
you MWear * dld not I/d not see you hurt for the worid'for *do ]ove
dearl °' Slmon~do not' Please stay where you are I do not think truth/I d n
y°U arC Cl°Se to me/" she said/ managed a weak smlle "In Bought u n0t thmk 3t
a11'" AlthouSh she trusted in his honor, she still slowlv ' fmdent to put some
tangible barriers between them, and she
"Ido         r°Undthetable
0 not know if I can make you understand, Simon But as I sat
74
here, waiting for you to come to me, I suddenly knew that I could not go
through with it. As much as I want you, I cannot do this. Forgive me, Simon,
but the sin is just too great. If I violate my oath, I am damned, am"
"No," he said. "That need not be so, Nell. Do you think I would ever let you
risk so much for me? I could not have you put your soul in peril; no earthly
love is worth that. But there is another way. We can ask the Pope for a
dispensation."
She stared at him, first in astonishment and then in anger. "That is not
worthy of you, Simon," she said coldly. "The world is full of men who'll
babble any nonsense that comes to mind, promise the sun and moon itself to
coax silly women into bedding with them. But I expected better of you! Just
how would you have me word this petition to the Pope? 'Will Your Holiness
please deliver me from my oath so I might sleep with Simon de Montfort?' "
"Now you are the one to be talking nonsense," he said impatiently. "You must
know that I seek more from you than a quick tumble in bed. I want to marry
you, Nell."
"Marry?" she echoed faintly. She looked so stunned that he felt the first
stirring of unease. He swiftly suppressed it, moved around the table and took
her hands in his.
"Simon . . . Simon, it could never be."
"Yes," he said, "it could . . . and it will. Nell, listen to me. That day at
Chester, you asked me what we could do ... remember? In these past four
months, I've thought of little else. We cannot bed together on the sly. But
neither can I walk away from you. There is but one answer for us, Nell. We
must seek a dispensation from the Pope, one that would free you from your vow,
free us to wed."
"Marriage," Nell whispered, and for a brief moment she dared to dream it might
be so, dared to envision herself as Simon's wife, abje to bear his name, his
children. But then her shoulders slumped. "That was cruel of you, Simon," she
said dully, "cruel to give me such false hope. We could never wed. Even if the
Pope could be persuaded to release me from my vow, that would mean only that I
was free to wed again, not free to wed you."
Simon frowned. "Am I so unworthy a choice?"
"No, beloved, of course you are not. But I am the King's sister, and mine must
be a marriage of state. Henry and his council would pick a husband for me, a
husband of their choosing, not mine. Just as they did with my older sisters,
so would they do with me. I would have to make a marriage for England's weal."
"I am Earl of Leicester and steward of England," Simon said stiffly' "My
brother is Constable of France and Count of Montfort. My lady
75
mother was a Montmorency. I need apologize to no man for my bloodlines, for my
House is one of France's oldest and proudest."
"I know, beloved, I do," Nell said wretchedly. "But Simon, you are not a
prince, and they would expect no less for me."
"They? Or you? I think I begin to see. It was not the vow at all. You do not
think I am good enough for you."
"Ah, Simon, no . . ." Nell knew him too well now; she could see beyond his
anger and pride, see how she'd hurt him. And she could not bear it. As he
turned away from her, toward the door, she cried, "Do not go! I do love you,
Simon, and I will marry you. Let Henry be damned, let them all be damned, I
will marry you!"
Simon's hand froze on the door latch. He swung about, his eyes searching
Nell's face. He found what he sought, and moved swiftly to her side. "Say it
again," he said, and Nell smiled.
"I love you, Simon. I would be very proud to be your wife."
They looked at each other, and then Simon reached out, stroked her hair. When
he touched her cheek, she closed her eyes, marveling that the same hand that
so easily wielded a sword could be so very gentle, too. He slid his fingers
under her chin, tilted her face up to his. The first kiss was soft, tender.
The second one was not, for it took as little as that for the passion to flare
between them again.
Simon wrapped her hair around his hand, burned kisses along her throat, and
when he fumbled with the lacings of her gown, Nell's fingers were no less
clumsy, no less impatient. The world beyond that bedroom door was forgotten;
so, too, was the gold ring on Nell's left hand, the ring that symbolized her
vow. It was as it had been on the battlements, but now they were all alone in
a firelit chamber. Nothing was said; there was no longer a need for words
between them. They helped each other undress, scattered their discarded
clothes across the floor on their way to the bed. And then they were entwined
together under Nell's linen sheets, and her last coherent thought was one so
blasphemous she would later recall it with a shiver: that even if this was
indeed a mortal sin, she could never repent of it.
The regrets were to be Simon's. After their lovemaking, he had rolled over,
drawing Nell close and cradling her head in the crook of his shoulder. He
could not convince himself that they had sinned; already, he thought of Nell
as his wife. But still he knew they should have waited, for it was Nell who'd
risked damnation.
He leaned over, kissed the pulse in her throat. She did not open
"W eyes, but the corner of her mouth curved, and he was swept by
tenderness, a new and somewhat unsettling emotion for him. Nell was
"tore than he'd ever dared to hope for, a woman beautiful and highborn
fid wealthy, a woman spirited and playful and passionate. But if she
76
was indeed a remarkable gift from God, she was also a great responsibility. He
was not easily frightened, but it frightened him now to think of Nell being
hurt, and it frightened him to think of losing her. He let his fingers wander
along the silken skin of her shoulder, stray into the tousled blonde hair. Was
she having second thoughts? Could he blame her if so? He was only asking her
to confront the Pope and defy the King, no more than that.
"Nell?" She made a wordless murmur, and he said, "What are you thinking of?"
"Our marriage." Nell propped herself up on her elbow. "We must not delude
ourselves, Simon, must be prepared for much unpleasantness. Even after we have
the dispensation in hand, there will still be those to disapprove, to charge
we bought my freedom. And indeed, we will have to do just that; such a
dispensation will be very costly."
Simon was cautious with money; he had to be, for he had so little of it. But
now he found himself saying recklessly, "No price could be too high for you,"
and meaning every word of it.
"Money will be no problem," Nell said and smiled at him. "The lands Henry
settled on me as my marriage portion give me two hundred pounds a year. My
dower rights in William's Irish estates come to four hundred pounds a year,
and I am entitled to another four hundred from my share of his English
manors."
Simon was impressed, said so quite candidly, and Nell smiled again, with
complacent pride. "So you see, my darling, I am indeed a marital prize. And
that is why we shall have such a hard row to hoe. We must fight a war on two
fronts, first with those who are appalled that I should have forsaken my vow,
and then with those who are no less appalled that I should want to marry you.
How jealous the other lords shall be, Simon! You are one of them, your estates
are modest, and you're foreignborn, which seems to matter more and more these
days. Those,who fault Henry for showing too much favor to his Queen's foreign
kindred will see our marriage in the same harsh light. There will be a loud
and bitter outcry, none more so than from my brother Richard and my detestable
in-laws. Richard will be sorely affronted that we would dare to wed without
his approval . . . and with reason; he is Earl of Cornwall, after all, the
second lord of the realm. And my brother-in-law, that wretch Gilbert Marshal,
will do all he can to give us grief. So, too, will the rest of the Marshal
clan. They know how shamefully they cheated me when William died. His estates
are worth at least thirty-five hundred pounds a year, and my dower incomes
fall far short of the one-third to which I am lawfully entitled. So they have
uneasy consciences, and they will fear that you shall speak up for me, protect
my rights as Henry failed to do."
77
"That you may rely upon, Nell," he said, and there was in his voice a grim
resolve that did not bode well for the Marshals. Nell reached up, kissed him
passionately on the mouth.
"Simon, tell me the truth. Do you truly believe we can prevail?"
"We will, Nell. We do belong together. But we'd best wed first and seek the
dispensation after. It would be easier to thwart wedding plans than to untie a
nuptial knot."
Nell at once saw the sense in that, and she nodded vigorously. "But there is
one we must take into our confidence, Simon. Ere we wed, ere we petition the
Pope for a dispensation, we must confide in my brother Henry."
"You would have us go to the King?" Simon sounded dubious. "Would he heed us,
Nell?"
"Why should he not? He is right fond of you, and he loves me well. I cannot
believe he would begrudge us happiness. But if we deceive him, he will not
easily forgive us. I know my brother, Simon. He is not vengeful, but he can
harbor a grudge. And where would we be without Henry's favor? Henry has never
formally invested you with the earldom of Leicester. What if he declared your
estates forfeit? And what of my dower lands? Are you willing to risk their
loss?"
"No," he said, "of course I am not. We will need those incomes for our sons.
You are right, Nell, we must have Henry as our ally. Who can afford to have
the King as an enemy?"
" 'Our sons,' " Nell echoed. "Simon, how wonderful that does sound to me. And
it must come to pass, it must!"
"It will," he promised. "It will, my heart." He began to kiss her, and she
rolled over into his arms.
"Make love to me, Simon. But first tell me again that we will be wed." She put
her hand on his chest, over his heart. "I could not bear it should I lose you
now," she said, and he sought to reassure her with kisses and caresses, to
reassure them both that their marriage would indeed come to pass.
HENRY Plantagenet was an attractive man of middle height, with his
grandfather's reddish-gold hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and vivid blue eyes;
his left eyelid drooped slightly, giving him an endearingly drowsy 'ook. King
John's eldest son, he had been crowned at the age of nine, m the midst of a
bloody civil war. He was neither as clever nor as ruthless as his father, and
he suffered in comparison with his younger brother Kichard, who was shrewder,
more practical, better able to deal with Henry's overbearing barons. Henry
would have made a superior abbot °r a wealthy Benedictine abbey, for he was
urbane and pious and
78
beneficent. But it was his misfortune to be a King whom few took seriously,
and it was his greater misfortune that he knew it. In consequence, he was
abnormally sensitive to slights, and although he was generous and kind-hearted
by nature, he could also be capncious, petulant, his the perverse obstinacy of
a weak man called upon to wield authority beyond his capabilities.
Henry loved pageantry and ceremony, and the Christmas season afforded him
ample opportunity to indulge his passion for fetes and revelry. On this chill
night in mid-December, he was in good spirits, having at last selected his New
Year's gifts for his young Queen: a heartshaped silver brooch, a sapphire
ring, and a reliquary containing a fragment of the True Cross. He was well
pleased with his choices, already anticipating Eleanor's delight, and it was
with pleasure that he watched now as Simon de Montfort and his sister Nell
were escorted into the privacy of the Painted Chamber.
HENRY looked from Simon to Nell in disbelief. "Is this a jest?" he said, as if
hoping it was, and Nell knelt by his chair in a flurry of silken skirts.
"Dearest, we are very much in earnest. Nothing has ever meant more to me,
Henry. Simon and I love each other, and we wish to wed. We know that"
"Are you mad? What of your vow?"
"We would not have Nell forsake her vow," Simon said hastily. "We intend to
seek a dispensation from the Pope."
"What makes you think he would ever grant one?"
"I will make it worth his while," Simon said, saw Henry stiffen, and realized
he had erred. He'd lived in England long enough to acquire some English
prejudices; most Englishmen, no matter how devout, were convinced that the
Pope saw England as a milch cow, one to be milked dry on behalf of the Roman
Church, and few doubted that the papal court was a market place, where justice
was dispensed to the highest bidder. But Henry had an impassioned reverence
for the papacy, for he believed the Pope's support had helped to secure his
throne for him during those first troubled years of his reign. He looked
deeply offended now by Simon's cynicism, and said curtly,
"This is a pointless discussion. I see no reason why His Holiness would ever
agree to set aside a vow of chastity. Such vows are not undertaken lightly,
are not to be"
"Henry, I was but fifteen! I did not know my own mind." Nell was becoming
frightened, for she knew how stubborn Henry could be. "I know the Church
teaches us that chastity is an exalted state, second only to virginity. But
not all of us are destined for so holy a life. And
79
marriage is an honorable state, too What sacrilege could there be in a
sacrament, Henry7"
It was a weak joke, failed to amuse her brother Henry heard three Masses a day
without fail, and he was genuinely shocked by his sister's irreverence, by her
willingness to profane her oath But she was looking at him so imploringly that
he sought to soften his refusal somewhat 'Nell/ I am sorry But what you ask is
impossible Once you've had time to think, you'll recognize this request for
what it is, a whim of the moment that could never be, that"
"Henry, I love Simon1 This is no whim, it is my very life1"
"I can make her happy, Henry, I swear it And once we have the dispensation"
"No1" There was anger in Henry's voice now, the anger of a man ensnared in a
web not of his making He did not want to hurt his sister Nor did he want to
hurt Simon "You cannot marry my sister, Simon Even if she were free to wed,
that would change nothing I could not give my consent to your marriage "
They looked so stunned that he winced Why must they ask of him what he could
not possibly give7
"I thought," Simon said, "that I was your friend "
"You are my friend But that does not make you a fit husband for my sister1"
Why was he having to do this, to elaborate upon the obvious7 "My father and
grandfather were Kings of England before me, Dukes of Normandy and Anjou My
grandmother was Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitame My sister Joan is Queen of
Scotland My other sister Isabella is Empress of the Holy Roman Empire Need I
truly say more, Simon7 The very idea is absurd In truth, you can be thankful
for my friendship, thankful that I have not taken offense at your effrontery "
"I should be grateful that you think my love demeans your sister7"
"I did not say that, Simon1 Or if I did, it was only because you forced me to
it I have never faulted you for your ambition But this time you have
over-reached yourself And that is a warning you'd best take to heart Have you
no idea of the scandal this would cause in council7 The King's sister and the
Earl of Leicester7 Christ on the cross1"
"I see," Simon said "Then it is not Nell's oath and not my lineage « is that
you do not want to be discomfited before your barons You'd truly sacnfice your
sister's happiness for that7 Because you lacked *e will to defend her7"
Henry flushed darkly Like many timid men, he was morbidly quick suspect slurs
upon his courage, and Simon's pause had been a telling ne "This discussion is
done," he snapped "And so are your highlving dreams of glory You are not to
see my sister again "
80
n
Nell had been listening, horror-struck. With that, she gave a ch cry. "Simon!"
°ke<i
He turned toward her, and she saw on his face her own d and disbelief and a
very dangerous rage. "I will have Nell as my w f he said tautly, "with or
without your approval." e/
Henry was accustomed to arguments and protest; even with th inherent powers of
kingship at his command, he had never learned h *
to compel unquestioning obedience from other men. But such
outrigh,
defiance left him speechless. He gasped, sputtered incredulously a ri then
shouted, "You marry Nell and you'll pass your wedding night the Tower!"
Nell's fear suddenly gave way to fury. "If you imprison Simon, the you must
imprison me, too!"
Henry had an inordinately strong sense of family; the thought of his sister in
a prison cell was horrifying to him. "Jesu, Nell! Do you truly think so little
of me, that you could believe me capable of that?"
For once, she was indifferent to his pain. She moved to Simon's side. "I think
Simon is right," she said. "I think you do shrink from facing down your
barons. It is easier for you if we do not wed, and you've ever been one for
taking the easy way, Henry."
"You are fortunate, Nell, in that I do understand your anger, your
disappointment. For I shall overlook your heedless words, shall do my best to
put them from my memory. But you cannot marry this man, and I'll say no more
on it. My patience is at an end."
Nell looked at her brother, seeing him suddenly with a stranger's eyes, seeing
him with utterly unsparing clarity. She reached for Simon's hand, entwined his
fingers in her own, for she knew now what she must do.
"No, Henry, you do not understand," she said, and was surprised that her voice
could sound so calm, so cold. "You are right when you say there would be a
great scandal if I wed Simon. But there will be an even greater scandal if I
do not."
She felt Simon's hand tighten on hers; for a startled moment, his eyes sought
hers, but he was quick to comprehendand to approve.
Henry had yet to absorb the full impact of her words. "What do you Nell, no!"
He sat down abruptly, the color draining from his face. But Ne felt no pity,
no remorse. "Yes," she said, "I am with child."
It was a gamble of absolute desperation, a lie that risked allfe haps even
Simon's lifeupon how well she knew her brother. HO could you?" Henry cried.
"How could you shame yourself like tha
"I love him," she said, as if that explained and excused all an
81
A red suddenly if she could be bewitched, so unrepentant
HenlT,r0so defiant
(\as stl '        ^ true," he said, "what men say, that blood will tell For "H
mu are mdeed Eleanor of Aquitame's granddaughter "
Qod help y     '/
first Sunday in Advent until Epiphany no marriage Masses f*°*\ u said It was
on the following day, January 7, that Simon and C ushered into the Painted
Chamber at Westminster Palace
^f'e^were no servants, no wedding guests, only the King of England
t as witness to their marriage Henry had a private oratory in one '° 3 of his
bedchamber, and it was here that Simon and Nell knelt to teTomed m wedlock by
the chaplain of St Stephen's chapel
When the Mass was said, the deed done, Simon poured wine for his King and for
his bride Drawing Nell aside, he gave her then his bnde's gift, a ruby pendant
set m heavy gold
Thank you, beloved1" Nell raised up, gave him a lingering kiss Mayhap Henry is
right, mayhap I am shameless," she confided softly, for I feel no more your
wife now than I did that first night at Odiham That was our true wedding
night, Simon "
"You do not mind that our wedding was so hurried, so lacking m ceremony7 I
wanted more for you than this, Nell "
"I would willingly have wed you in a stable, Simon, do you not know that7"
"There was a time," he confessed, "when I thought we might be wed in a cell1"
and they both laughed, the unsteady, exultant laughter of those who had
wagered against all odds and somehow won
"I will be such a good wife to you, Simon I swear I will But but I doubt,
beloved, that I can be a very dutiful one "
She looked so troubled that Simon burst out laughing "I doubt it, too, I he
said "I doubt it exceedingly "
"Simon, I will try, in truth I will    But I do not want to lead you
astray with false promises, promises I cannot keep I know my faults
oo well, you see I am more willful than woman has right to be, and I
am ^Vlsh Wlth money, and I do not always think ere I speak, my tongue
" ^ n§ht sharp We'll quarrel, Simon "
frequently," he agreed, and kissed her
morose? *e Chamber' Henry and hls chaplain drank their wine in ln PertorS 6nCe
The chaPlam was wretchedly sure that he had sinned Church T^ *1S marnaSe' and
he dreaded facing his supenors in the n°t dared f^8 nothm§ to offer them but
the feeble excuse that he had to say nay to his King He had shuddered when
Simon placed
82
a gold band upon Nell's finger, remembering another ring, one that pledged her
to Our Lord Jesus Christ. No good could ever come of su^ a marriage; he did
not doubt that Simon de Montfort and the Lady Mej| would pay dearly for this
day.
"My liege?" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Will you be the one to inform my
lord Archbishop of Canterbury?"
"No," Henry said hastily. "The Earl of Leicester shall have that signal
honor." But he could take no comfort from that, for he knew the Archbishop
would then demand to know how he could have permitted this marriage, how he
could have allowed them to make of him a partner in their crime. He believed
himself to be a good son of the Church, yet now he must risk the wrath of God,
he must defend the indefensible.
And what of his council? His brother Richard? How outraged they would be, as
much with him as with Simon and Nell. Henry hated confrontations; he knew
there were men who thrived on discord and turmoil, but he was not one of them.
Yet now, through no fault of his own, he found himself in the middle of a
maelstrom. What, he wondered, was he to say? But what else could he have done?
Let his sister shame them all by bearing a bastard child?
Simon and Nell were coming toward them, and Henry tried to find a passable
smile. What was done was done, and this was Nell's wedding day. He would not
spoil it for her.
"I drink to your happiness," he said, as heartily as he could, and held his
wine cup aloft. The chaplain looked as if he'd been asked to quaff hemlock,
but he gamely followed suit.
Henry kissed his sister on the cheek, but he could not help thinking that it
was indecent for her to look so radiant, so joyous. Had she no conscience at
all? His eyes shifted to his brother-in-law's face; a dark face, boldly
featured, it was the eyes men first noticed, the eyes of a hawk, Henry
thought, telling himself that Simon was his friend, that nothing had changed.
'
"When do you sail for France, Simon?"
They had decided that Simon should go to Rome, plead his case in person before
the Pope. But Simon now said, "Not for some weeks yet. Nell and I talked it
over, and we think it best if I wait until our marriage is revealed in
council, until the dust settles." There was an involuntary/ sardonic twist to
his mouth at that last; he knew how Henry feared the uproar sure to follow,
and as much as he wanted to be grateful for Henry's support, he could not deny
that he felt, too, a certain contemp' for the other man's timidity.
Henry was heartened by Simon's decision to remain; he could value in others
qualities he knew he himself lacked, and he'd long admir6"
83
n's coolness under fire "To my sister," he said, raising his wine
again "And to her husband God keep you both in His favor " And
tried very hard to convince himself that he did indeed wish them
M that he had truly forgiven them for their betrayal, and that he bore
hem no grudge for all the trouble they were about to bring upon him
Cricietk Castle, Nortk Wales
July 1238
"T
J.F you take much longer, Ednyved, moss will be forming on our chess pieces "
But Llewelyn's prompting was in vain, Ednyved refused to be rushed "All things
come to pass in God's time," he said sententiously, continuing his painstaking
scrutiny of the chessboard, and Llewelyn glanced over at Hunydd
"He always says that when he's losing," he said, and Hunydd smiled He'd not
noticed her doing it, but he saw that she'd brought a bowl of fruit to the
table, her concern for his comfort was as constant as it was unobtrusive
"Did you tell Lord Ednyved the news about Lady Joanna's sister?" she murmured,
and Llewelyn returned her smile, his eyes lingering upon her face She was
Joanna's age, many years widowed, a serenely handsome woman who occasionally
put him in mind of Tangwystl, Gruffydd's long-dead mother He'd remained
friends with Hunydd after their liaison was over, they were still friends,
good friends who sometimes shared a bed She had many qualities that Llewelyn
admired, not the least of them was her utter lack of jealousy She did not
begrudge Joanna his heart, making mention of Joanna's name now without the
slightest hesitation, neither self-conscious nor resentful, for she was too
Wise a woman to cast herself as Joanna's rival
Ednyved reached for an apple "What is the news about Nell7"
"I had a letter from Elen She says that de Montfort was able to Secure a
dispensation from the Pope "
84
Ednyved's smile was sardonic. "I'd wager that cost him a right fajr sum. But I
suppose he feels it's money well spent, and 1 daresay most of it was Nell's!"
Llewelyn grinned. "I like Nell; I've always admired her pluck." Me began to
peel an orange. "Elen says de Montfort will not be hastening back to England,
though. That marriage stirred up so much turmoil that Nell and de Montfort
thought it best if he was away for a while, giving tempers time to cool. I
understood poor Henry took so much abuse that he retreated to the Tower,
refused to come out!" There was in Llewelyn's voice both detached amusement
and faint sympathy, for while he had little respect for his royal
brother-in-law, he did have a reluctant fondness for Henry; he'd often
benefited from Henry's heartfelt affection for Joanna.
"According to Elen," he continued, "de Montfort has gone to aid his new
brother-by-marriage, the Holy Roman Emperor, at the siege of Brescia. Marriage
to Nell has suddenly given the man some truly illustrious kin, has it not? But
he'll be back ere the first frost for certes; Elen says Nell is with child."
Adding dryly, "To satisfy your unseemly curiosity, the babe is due in late
November."
Ednyved made an elaborate show of counting upon his fingers. "Nigh on eleven
months. I suspect that will disappoint a great many people!"
Llewelyn was no longer listening; he'd cocked his head, looking toward the
window. It was unshuttered, and there came clearly to them now the shrieks of
seagulls, squabbling over the garbage dumped behind the kitchen. There came
also the sound of arrival; horsemen had just ridden into the castle bailey.
"That will be Davydd and Isabella," he said. "They are due back today."
Ednyved knew that Davydd had been down in South Wales, meeting with the
Princes of Deheubarth, Rhys Mechyll and Maelgwn Fychan. Rhys and Maelgwn were
the sons of Llewelyn's former allies, and he thought, Llewelyn and I are
outliving our friends as well as our enemies. But he was surprised by this
mention of Isabella, for he knew no great passion burned between Davydd and
his young English wife. "Did Davydd take his wife with him?"
"No, Isabella has been in South Wales for the past month, visiting her younger
sisters. It was agreed upon that Davydd would escort her home once his council
was done." Llewelyn glanced expectantly at the door, hearing eager footsteps
on the outer stairs. But it was not Davydo and Isabella who burst into the
chamber; it was Llelo and Gruffydd.
Llewelyn was delighted, but also surprised. He'd sent Gruffy°" word of his
arrival at Cricieth, asked to see his grandson, and he'd been hopeful that
Gruffydd would agree, for Cricieth was just fifteen mues
85
from Gruffydd's manor at Nefyn. He'd not expected, though, that Gruffydd would
accompany the boy.
"We have good tidings, Grandpapa!" Llelo glanced back at his father, "Can I be
the one to tell him, Papa?" and when Gruffydd nodded indulgently, he blurted
out, "I have a baby brother!"
Gruffydd had told Llewelyn that Senena was not due till late Aueust, but as
Llewelyn's eyes sought his son's, Gruffydd grinned. "The babe was not willing
to wait," he said. "Last Wednesday eve, just after Vespers, Senena was brought
to bed of a fine, healthy son."
"That is welcome news, indeed." Llewelyn smiled upon them both, remembering
just in time to query politely, "And Senena?"
"She is well, Papa." It had always irked Gruffydd that the brother he so
detested should have borne the name of the most celebrated of Welsh saints,
and he relished this opportunity to reclaim it for one of his own. "We named
him Davydd." Adding quite needlessly, "After the saint, of course."
"He has reddish peach fuzz all over his head," Llelo volunteered, "and at
first he was all puckered up, like a prune." His eyes had settled wistfully
upon the orange in his grandfather's hand, for oranges had to be imported from
Spain, were considered rare delicacies. Llewelyn proved himself to be adroit
at mind-reading; he separated the fruit into halves, passed one to Llelo, who
gave him a grateful grin. "The wet nurse suckles him every three hours,
Grandpapa, so he gets four meals a day!"
Hunydd was pouring drinks for them all, mead for the men and watered-down wine
for Llelo. She handed the first cup to Gruffydd, offering her good wishes, and
he smiled. He approved heartily of this bedmate of his father's, although he
probably would have approved of any woman who was not English and not Joanna.
As Gruffydd accepted Hunydd's congratulations, Llewelyn looked thoughtfully at
his grandson. The Welsh practice of partible succession dividing all equally
among a man's sonswas in many ways a fairer system than the English one, which
left all to the eldest son. But it was also a system to foster fratricide, for
when a Welsh prince died, his sons inevitably fought each other for the
succession, winner-take-all to the survivor; Llewelyn knew that his own
uncommonly amicable relationship with his younger brother, Adda, had been
possible only because °' Adda's lamed right leg. Llewelyn had long believed
that Wales was ' served by a practice that so turned brother against brother,
that so °'ten fomented civil war, and he'd dared to defy centuries of
tradition, naming Davydd as his sole heir. He was heartened now by Llelo's
delight ^ 'he birth of a baby brother; if change was to take root, what more
«*tile soil than childhood?
86
"It truly pleases you, Llelo, having a brother?" he asked, and Llelo edged
closer.
"A baby brother," he corrected, and then confessed, "It was never much fun,
being the youngest. But I can look out for Davydd, teach him thingshow to make
a whistle from a water reed, how to catch frogs, how to make a fire without
flint. And I can tell him scary stories at night, the ones my sister used to
tell me ere she got married." He grinned suddenly. "Then, too, now I will have
someone to blame things on!"
Llewelyn laughed. "You sound as if you've given this much thought, lad."
Llelo nodded. "Being a good brother will be easy, Grandpapa I need only
remember what Owain didand then do the exact opposite!" He was still smiling,
but Llewelyn was not taken in; in this past year, he'd learned that Llelo
often offered bald truths camouflaged as jests. He reached out, rumpled the
boy's hair, and found himself thinking of an old Welsh proverb. Ni cherir yn
llwyr oni ddelo'r wyr. There will be no loving completely till the grandchild
comes.
"I have another riddle for you, Grandpapa. Why do men make the oven in the
town?" Llelo waited expectantly, and when Llewelyn shook his head, he said
triumphantly, "Because they cannot make the town in the oven!"
Llewelyn was a good sport, groaned on cue, and then, as his eyes caught
Gruffydd's, he laughed, remembering a time, so many years past, when Gruffydd,
too, had a passion for childhood rhymes and nonsense riddles. Gruffydd
grinned, and Llewelyn knew that he was thinking of those same memories. They
laughed together, in a rare moment of ease, were still laughing when the door
opened, and they saw Davydd and Isabella standing in the doorway.
Davydd's eyes cut from his father to Gruffydd, back to Llewelyn. He did not
acknowledge his brother in any other way; they were long past the pretense of
civility. "I wanted to let you know I was back, Papa," he said. "I have
messages for you from both Rhys Mechyll and Maelgwn Fychan, have much to tell
you."
Gruffydd set his cup down upon the table, so abruptly that mead sloshed onto
the chessboard. He could see what was happening, could see how Davydd was
taking upon himself more and more authority, acting in Llewelyn's stead more
and more frequently. Soon he'd be Prince in all but name. "I brought news of
my own," he said. "My wife has borne me yet another son. Do you not want to
congratulate me, Davydd?"
Davydd's eyes filled with shadows. "Congratulations," he saidflinging the word
down like a stoneor a gauntlet.
87
"Thank you. I do feel that I have indeed been blessed, for Senena has now
given me a daughter and three healthy sonswhilst so many men have no sons at
all."
Davydd stiffened, said nothing. But Isabella clasped her hand to her mouth, as
if to stifle a cry; her eyes brimmed with tears. She spun around, and Davydd
reached for her. She was too fast, though; his hand just brushed her sleeve.
"Isabella, wait!" Davydd started after her, stopped to look back at his
brother. "You bastard," he said, and his voice was raw with rage, with such
hatred that Gruffydd instinctively dropped his hand to his sword hilt. But
Davydd had not waited; he plunged through the doorway, and they heard him call
out his wife's name.
Gruffydd stared at that open door. He was a skilled archer; so why, then, did
so many of his arrows misfire? He cared nothing for Isabella, had always found
her to be timid and demure and cloyingly sweet. And she was English, Davydd's
wife. But he would not have deliberately hurt her; he had only contempt for
the man who would shoot a nesting duck, run down a newborn fawn. He turned
reluctantly to face the others, defiant, daring them to object.
No one did. Nor did they meet his eyes. Ednyved's was not a face to give away
secrets; impassive, he drank the last of his mead. Hunydd at once began to
busy herself with the cups and flagons. But Llelo looked troubled, and
Llewelyn suddenly looked very, very tired.
"I promised the boy he could stay," Gruffydd said, while staring into space
above his father's head. "I'll send someone for him on the morrow."
"But PapaPapa, you said you'd stay for dinner. Do you not remember?"
"Yes," Gruffydd said, "I remember," and the anger drained from his voice. He
started to speak, then swung about, moved swiftly toward the door.
Llewelyn pushed his chair back, limped to the window. After a moment, Llelo
followed, and Llewelyn reached out, put his right arm around the boy's
shoulders. The window opened onto the bailey; beyond, he could see a sunlit
shimmer, the silver-blue of the bay. Davydd had caught up with Isabella. They
were standing together in the shadow °f the great hall; it seemed to Llewelyn
that she was weeping.
Llewelyn shifted his weight onto his good leg. His Church had been forced to
find a way to reconcile the absolutism of the Sixth CommandmentThou shalt not
killwith the realities of their world. And so the concept of a "Just War" had
evolved. Rules were laid down, moral boundanes drawn. And all agreed that
noncombatants were not to be harmed.
88
Women were to be spared, as were children, priests, diplomatic envo-ys/
pilgrims. But Llewelyn knew better. In war, the innocent were usually the
first to suffer.
As he and Llelo watched, Gruffydd rode through the castle gateway without
looking back. "I wanted Papa to stay," Llelo said softly. 'Td. hoped ..." His
voice trailed off, and Llewelyn tightened his arm about the boy's shoulders.
"I know, lad," he said. "I know."
THE great castle of Kenilworth had been in the possession of the Englhsh Crown
since the twelfth century. It was a formidable citadel, but it hiad never been
one of Henry's favorite residences, and he'd temporarily turned it over to his
sister. It was here that Nell had awaited Simom's return to England, and here
that she now awaited the birth of thieir child.
It had been an unusually hot, dry summer, but a wet, chill autumn. A cold
November rain slanted against the shuttered windows of Kenilworth's great
hall. Richard Plantagenet, Earl of Cornwall, moved closser to the hearth. The
other castle guests had also drawn their chairs neairer to the flames. Richard
knew them all, although not well. Peter de Momtfort was a Warwickshire knight,
an intimate friend of Simon's, but no relation despite the fact they bore the
same surname. The other mien were all clerics, also friends of Simon's. Adam
Marsh was a friar, recttor of the Franciscan school at Oxford, a man with a
notable reputation as a scholar, theologian, and mathematician. Walter de
Cantilupe was the new Bishop of Worcester, and Robert Grosseteste the Bishop
of Lincolln.
Richard was particularly impressed by the Bishop of Lincoln's presence, for
the man was even more celebrated as a scholar than Adam Marsh. He was known to
speak fluent Greek and Hebrew, he hlad be-en the first Chancellor of the
University of Oxford, and he was admired as much for his piety and rectitude
as for his intellectual accomplishmen ts. Richard had heard that he was a
friend to Simon, but he'd not realized how close the friendship was, close
enough to bring the Bishop posthaste from Canterbury in a drenching rainstorm,
a conclusive demonstration of loyalty for a man of Grosseteste's age and frail
health.
"Have you known my brother-by-marriage very long, Your Grace?"
"We first became acquainted whilst I was still Archdeacon of Leiceester, some
six or seven years past, soon after Simon's arrival in England!-
The Bishop's eyes shifted across the hall, followed Simon as he paced
restlessly back and forth. There was such obvious affection in that glance
that Richard found himself thinking Simon was lucky, indeed,
to have so illustrious an ally as this honored and honorable Prince
of
89
.    church For there were other clerics who still bitterly opposed SiOn's
marriage to Nell, clerics who had not been appeased by the papal <jispensation
Richard's eyes, too, now rested upon Simon He acknowledged that
r ^on's relationship with the Bishop of Lincoln should not be suspect,
friendship of seven years was surely not open to charges of op-
ortunism But he instinctively searched for an element of calculation
n all that Simon did, for he was still of two minds about his new brother-
in-lavv respecting Simon's abilities while remaining dubious about his
motives He had, however, made his peace with Simon, and whatever
his private doubts, he'd not voice them aloud The marriage was now
a fact, and Richard no more quarreled with facts than he wasted time
on idle regrets
"How fares the King's Grace7" The query came from Peter de Montfort, he looked
questiomngly at Richard "We here in Warwickshire were sorely distressed that
the King might have come to harm in our very midst "
"Come to harm7" Simon echoed, having joined them just in time to catch the
last of Peter's comment "What harm7"
"The assassination attempt upon my brother the King this past September at
Woodstock," Richard explained "Nell did tell you7"
"Yes," Simon said, "she did " So had Henry, and at great length He'd been very
fortunate, for when the would-be assassin climbed into the window of Henry's
bedchamber at his Woodstock manor, Henry was not there, having chosen to spend
the night in his Queen's bed One of the Queen's ladies had encountered the
intruder, her screams had drawn others, and the man was quickly overpowered
But although Henry had escaped bodily harm, he'd been greatly shaken by the
fortuitous nature of his deliverance, confiding to Simon that had he not
fallen asleep, he'd have returned to his own bed
Richard was telling them now of the fate of the assassin, "       taken to
Coventry, where he was tied to horses and torn limb from limb Henry chose not
to witness it Passing strange, for had it been me, I would have been there
for certes "
Simon's eyes narrowed, the boasting rang false, for Richard's reputation was
for aloof competence, not dernng-do or lordly swagger It seemed that Richard
and Henry were not as unlike as he'd first thought, fhey shared the same
fondness for high-flown language, for suspect bravado But no, that might well
be too harsh a judgment He did not ^ant to be unfair to his wife's brothers
He could not deny, though, at they puzzled him There were but fifteen months
between them, ' een months that had cost Richard a crown Did Richard ever
resent enry for that7 Simon wondered He did not doubt there was a genuine
90
bond between the brothers, but neither did he doubt, too, that Richard
believed himself capable of being a far better King than Henry could ever be.
As he looked at the other man, Simon suddenly found himself remembering a
bleak February morning, the day he'd gone to ask Richard's pardon for his
clandestine marriage to Richard's sister. It had not been easy for him. Even
knowing as he did how crucial Richard's support was, he might not have been
able to do it had it not been for the Bishop of Lincoln. Simon respected
Robert Grosseteste as he did no other man in Christendom; when Grosseteste
urged him to make peace with Richard, he listened to the Bishop's advice, and
then reluctantly acted upon it. Richard was known to have an extremely healthy
regard for material gain. So when Simon sought a truce, he did not come
empty-handed. It had taken some finely bred stallions and silver plate, had
taken some equally well-crafted words of apology and assurance, but Simon had
inveigled Richard's grudging consent. It had to be done; Simon knew that. But
it was not a memory he cared to dwell upon.
Simon's eyes strayed again toward the door. When he looked back, he discovered
that they were all watching him. "Why is it taking so long?" he said, and
Richard smiled indulgently.
"Let me give you some advice, Simon. I've gone through three such birth
vigils, so I know of what I speak. You must be patient, and hope for the best,
all a man can do at these times."
"Nonetheless," Simon said. "I think I'll seek Elen out again."
"If you keep running back and forth in the rain, you'll catch your death of
cold," Richard predicted, "whilst getting nothing from Elen. Women like to
make much mystery of the birthing process; they give away no female secrets.
In truth, Simon, you need not fret so. Nell may look as fragile as gossamer,
but as her brother, I can assure you she is actually as tough as hemp! She" He
stopped, for Simon was rio longer listening; he'd already turned away.
Nell had chosen the main room of the castle keep for her lying-in chamber, so
each time Simon went to check upon her progress, he had to cross the bailey.
The rain was falling heavily, and he was shivering by the time he reached the
forebuilding. He rapidly mounted the stairs to the second story. It held a
small chapel, but he did not pause there, moved toward the door of Nell's
chamber. He had to knock several times before it opened, just a crack. Mabel
peered out, eyeing him warilyIt seemed to Simon that it took an inordinately
long time before Elen joined him in the chapel.
"I'm beginning to think," he said, "that I'd find it easier to gai11 entry
into a convent of Benedictine nuns."
91
Elen laughed. "You make them nervous, Simon. Whilst I do unjerstand your
concern, there is nothing yet to tell you."
"But it's been nigh on eleven hours!"
"The babe will come in its own good time, Simon. All is progressing as it
ought, truly. And it should not be long now. Nell's water has broken," she
said, having earlier explained the significance of that to Simon. "You'd best
go back to the hall. I shall send for you as soon as the babe is born, I swear
it."
"I would rather wait here, in the chapel," he said, and Elen gave him a
sympathetic smile, vanished back into his wife's chamber. He stood there for a
time, and then crossed to the altar, where he knelt and prayed for God's
forgiveness if he had indeed sinned by marrying Nell, prayed that if
punishment was due, it should fall upon him and not upon Nell, not upon their
innocent child.
AS the pain subsided, Nell looked over at Elen, and the other woman reached
for a soft cloth, began to blot away the sweat streaking Nell's face. "Simon
is in the chapel," she said. "I think he is having a harder time than you are,
Nell!"
"Indeed, Madame," Mabel chimed in. "Each time he knocks on the door, I fear he
will come bursting right in!"
Between pains, Nell had been sipping wine laced with feverfew. She took a
swallow, tried to smile.
"My father actually did that," Elen said. "My mother had been in labor with my
brother Davydd for fully a day and night, and she'd begun to lose strength, to
lose heart. When one of Mama's ladies told Papa that she'd begun to bleed, he
forced his way into the chamber, stayed with her till Davydd was safely born."
Mabel and the midwife looked so appalled that Elen laughed. Nell managed
another smile, this one more convincing; that story was folklore in her
family. "Only Llewelyn would have dared," she whispered. "Or Simon" She
gasped, and the women hovered helplessly around her, waiting for the pain to
pass.
"Soon, Madame," the midwife soothed. "Soon now. Here, take this." She thrust a
small, silvery rock into Nell's hands. "Eaglestone has Wondrous powers, my
lady. Hold it tight when the pains come."
In the corner was a shaft, leading down to the cellar well. Mabel Bossed to
it, helped a young maid servant to operate the pulley, to draw up another
bucket of well water. Elen stayed by Nell's side, offering what small comfort
she could, words of encouragement and affection.
92
The midwife poured thyme oil onto her hands, knelt before the birthing stool,
and raised Nell's skirt.
"It is coming, Madame! I can just see the crown of its head," she exclaimed,
and made haste to pull off Nell's soiled and bloodied chemise. Nell was
groaning, writhing upon the stool; the eaglestone had fallen into the floor
rushes. The contractions were constant now, and the midwife put her hands on
Nell's thighs, spread them farther apart.
"No, lass, no," she warned. "You must not bear down, now, lest you tear
yourself. Do not fight the pain, my lady. Let the babe do the work now ..."
She kept up these continuous murmurings, seeking to lull Nell with the rhythm
of her words, knowing the sound was as important as the sense. Nell groaned
again, and the midwife gave a triumphant cry, for the baby's head was
emerging. She swiftly leaned over, made sure that the navel cord was not
caught around the infant's neck, and Nell had the first glimpse of her child,
saw a small, wet head, surprisingly dark.
"It's Simon," she gasped, and then her body contorted again, and the child's
shoulders were free. The midwife held out her hands, caught it deftly as it
began to cry.
"You are right, Madame," she said, and turning the child over, she cupped the
small genitals for them all to see. "It is indeed a son!"
Nell held out her arms, and the midwife laid the baby on Nell's stomach. His
cries had increased in strength and volume, but as he nestled against his
mother's warm flesh, he began to quiet. Nell stroked his drenched, black hair,
ran her hand along his back, reassured herself that his tiny fingers and toes
were all intact, that her son was perfect in all particulars. The other women
watched, sharing in the wonder. But this idyllic spell was soon broken; there
was a sudden, insistent pounding on the door.
"What does that man have, second-sight?" Elen marveled, and crossing the
chamber, she slid back the door latch.
"I thought I heard a babe cry. Did I?" Simon demanded, and when she nodded, he
could wait no longer. Shoving the door open, he shouldered Elen aside, strode
into the room.
The midwife gave a horrified shriek, sought with her own ample girth to block
his view of Nell. "No, my lord, you cannot come in ye'- You must withdraw;
this is no sight for male eyes!"
"That is ridiculous," Simon snapped. "I was there for the planting/ so why
should I not be there for the harvesting?" Thrusting her out of the way, he
came to an abrupt halt at sight of his wife and child. "Is '* a boy or girl?
Is it whole, healthy?" he asked anxiously, glancing bad' toward the women.
93
Elen was laughing too much to talk, and the midwife and Mabel ere still too
flustered to respond It was left to Nell to reassure him, hich she did with a
weary but elated smile "I have given you a son," he said, "a beautiful little
son "
Simon quickly covered the space that separated them, knelt by the birthing
stool "A son," he said softly, staring in awe at the cord that still bound the
baby to his wife, when he touched it, he could actually feel the blood pulsing
through it
"He looks as if he was dipped in wet flour, Nell What is this white,
sticky stuff7"
Nell did not know, she'd never witnessed a birth before She glanced up at the
midwife, and the older woman swallowed her resentment as best she could "You
need not worry, my lady Babies are ofttimes born covered with this substance I
expect it must protect them in the womb "
She'd given Nell a cup of salted water to drink, Nell took a swallow and
grimaced "Why must I" She broke off m dismay Her mouth twisted, and then, to
Simon's horror, blood gushed between her thighs
"Nell1 Christ, do something for her1"
But to his surprise, the women did not seem perturbed by this sudden flow of
blood Elen reached for stnng and scissors, saying calmly, "It is only the
afterbirth coming Simon, do step aside I think one reason you men are barred
from the birthing chamber is just to keep you from getting underfoot1" As she
neatly tied and cut the cord, the midwife placed her hand on Nell's abdomen,
began to tug gently on the cord
"It is coming," she said, and Simon leaned forward to see, for he'd heard many
stories about the mystical, magical properties of the afterbirth, it was
widely believed that it could even attract demons It was something of a
disappointment, though, he thought the afterbirth resembled nothing so much as
a chunk of raw liver
While Elen and Mabel sponged the blood and mucus from Nell's thighs, the
midwife carried the baby to the table, where the maid servant had prepared a
basin of warm water Simon followed, watched his son have his first bath, so
obviously fascinated that the midwife began to 'haw somewhat Laying the infant
on a soft towel, she gently rubbed nis skin with salt, while he proved again
that his lungs were in superb °P«ating order When she dipped her finger in
honey, Simon caught "er hand
"May I do that?" he asked, and she surrendered unconditionally
nder her guidance, he carefully inserted his finger in his son's mouth,
shed those tiny gums and palate with honey   The baby seemed
Tnsed at first, but soon began to suck upon his finger, and Simon
Ourst out laughing
94
The midwife laughed, too. "Whilst I swaddle the babe, my lord will you cany
your lady to the bed? And do not let her sleep for a while'. that can be
dangerous."
Propped up by pillows, with her husband beside her and her son in her arms,
Nell experienced a sudden sense of unease, for how coujj she ever know a
moment of greater happiness? "I am not yet twenty. three years old," she said,
"and the rest of my life is bound to be a letdown, Simon, for nothing could
possibly surpass this day for me," And then she laughed. "Just a twelvemonth
past, I had no Simons at all, and now by the grace of God Almighty, I do have
two!"
They had agreed upon the names for their child: Joanna for a daughter, Simon
for a son. But now Simon shook his head. "No," he said, "not Simon. I think we
should name him after the man who made this day possible for us. When I look
at you, Nell, at our son, I can fully realize for the first time, I think,
just how much I do owe him. I want to name our son Henry, after your brother."
Nell nodded. "You are right. We do owe Henry a great deal, beloved."
Simon leaned over, kissed her gently. "Look," he said, and Nell smiled, for
the baby had grasped Simon's finger, was clinging tightly. But then she saw
the tears in her husband's eyes.
"You are a constant surprise to me, Simon," she said slowly. "In truth, I did
not think it would mean so much to you."
Simon glanced up at her, then down again at his son. "In truth," he confessed,
"neither did I."
THE Welsh Princes had come to the Cistercian abbey of Ystrad Fflur in response
to Llewelyn's summons. There in the Chapter House of the monastery, they
gathered to pledge oaths of fealty to Llewelyn's son Davydd.
It should have been an occasion of great satisfaction to Llewelyn. It was not.
He'd wanted more for Davydd, much more. It had been his intent to have the
Welsh lords swear homage to Davydd. But the English had reacted with alarm,
had forbidden Davydd to accept oaths of hornage.
Llewelyn had once committed a tactical error of monumental proportions; he had
overestimated his own power and underestimated that of the English Crown. It
was a mistake that had almost cost him his We and the sovereignty of Gwynedd.
He had been spared by the grace of God and a ruthless King's love for his
daughter, for Joanna had to' terceded with her father and John had listened.
That memory was twenty'
95
n years past, but Llewelyn had not forgotten; nor had he made that Lstake
again.
He was troubled now not so much by the need to back down, to , fer to the
English Crown, as by the implications for Davydd. The other vv Ish Princes had
done homage to him in the past. That the English ere applying two different
standardsaccording him concessions they were not willing to concede to
Davydddid not bode well for Davydd's future. Once he was dead and Davydd was
in power, the English Crown would begin whittling away again at Gwynedd,
seeking to reclaim all he'd won, to overthrow a lifetime's work. What sort of
a legacy was he leaving his son?
The Abbot had brought in heavy, oaken, high-backed chairs for Davydd and
Llewelyn; they sat side by side as the Princes of Deheubarth and Powys and the
lords of Llewelyn's Gwynedd came forward, knelt and swore formal oaths of
fealty to Llewelyn's heir.
Gruffydd stood apart, watching as Ednyved and his sons pledged fealty to
Davydd. His bitterness was twofold, that it was Davydd who was being
acknowledged as the next Prince of Gwynedd, and that Llewelyn should have
yielded to English pressure yet again. This was an old and festering
grievance, for he would never understand how a man of his father's proven
courage could allow the English Crown to meddle in Welsh affairs. He had hated
John, was scornful of Henry, would have defied them both had the power only
been his.
"Gruffydd?" Senena had come quietly through the crowd, slid her hand into his.
"Remember, beloved," she said softly. "It is just empty words, no more than
that."
For a moment, his eyes held hers. "It is a holy oath," he said, "sworn before
God."
Senena's hand tightened. "An oath sworn under duress, Gruffydd. The Church
does not hold a man to such an oath, beloved. Nor will the Almighty."
He said nothing, but he knew she was right, knew what he must do. Near the
dais, he saw his sons, Owain and Llelo. As unlike as they w«e, they shared now
a remarkably similar expression, one of anxious unease. He smiled reassuringly
at them, and then heard his name echomg across the chamber. He drew several
steadying breaths, walked slowly toward the dais.
As he knelt before Davydd, his brother silently handed him a sword. ''was
specially crafted for such swearing ceremonies, with a hollowed "to that
contained the most sacred of relics, a tooth of St Davydd and
* scrap of cloth from the mantle of the Blessed Mother Mary. Gruffydd's ^gers
closed gingerly around the hilt, never quite making contact. He evv how Davydd
must be relishing this moment, but the younger
96
man's face was utterly inscrutable. He had always envied Davydd uncanny
self-control, for he knew his every emotion blazed forth his own face for all
the world to see. P°n
The silence was becoming awkward. Never had Gruffydd be preternaturally
sensitive to his surroundings. No detail of the      ^ escaped him; he noticed
how the floor tiles were patterned with n u* sunlight, how his father had
leaned forward in his chair, even how was caking Davydd's boots.
"Well?" Davydd said at last. "Are you going to swear?"
And with that, Gruffydd's tension was gone. He felt strangely calm almost
peaceful. "No," he said, "I am not." Rising without haste h very deliberately
dropped the sword at Davydd's feet. "I will not swe fealty to you. Not now.
Not ever."
It was a moment of appalling familiarity to Llewelyn, as if time had somehow
come full circle. Ten years ago an embittered quarrel with Gruffydd had flared
into a harrowing test of will. Gruffydd had refused to recognize Davydd as the
heir, had promised civil war, and he had responded as the Prince of Gwynedd,
had ordered his eldest son's confinement at Deganwy Castle. It had been the
most difficult act of hi; life, and as he looked now upon his defiant,
dangerous firstborn, hf knew suddenly that he could not summon up the strength
to do it again
"That is your choice," Davydd said, quite coolly, and Llewelyr realized that
Davydd was not at all surprised. He had expected Gruffydd to balk, for he'd
always understood Gruffydd better than Gruffydd understood him. "But every
choice carries with it consequences. After defying our lord father and his
council, you cannot expect to be entrusted with so much of Lower Powys. You
may retain the lordship of Llyn But you have just forfeited the commotes of
Arwystli, Ceri, Cyfeihog Mawddwy, Mochnant, and Caereinion."
"I've forfeited nothing! It is my father who still wields the powein Gwynedd,
not you!" Gruffydd took a step toward the dais, but towarc Llewelyn, not
Davydd. "Tell him, Papa. Remind him who is the Pnno of Gwynedd!"
Llewelyn's throat closed up. He swallowed, said as evenly as n< could, "Davydd
speaks for me in this." Knowing he could say nothir>| else, but knowing, too,
that he'd be haunted till the end of his days the memory of his son's stricken
face.
DAVYDD was sitting in the window-seat of the abbey parlor,       ^ directly
from a flagon of highly spiced red wine. It stung his eyes/ his throat. He
glanced up as the door opened, then held out the to Ednyved. "I could not find
any wine cups."
97
j ^mp forward, reached for the flagon "You handled that
C/^nWeCl Caillc
d and Davydd's mouth twisted
well/ hg        ' sai£j amiably   "Since when do you approve of halfL'ar? You
know as well as I what I ought to have done I ought measures         ^ order
then and there for his arrest " He reclaimed the
to have giv      ^piy "But I just could not do that to Papa "
flag°n'         . sat down beside him in the window-seat   "Pass the
E n)he said, and they drank in silence
fla8°Vvhen Llewelyn entered the parlor, Davydd rose to his feet "I had Papa I
could not allow Gruffydd to defy me If I had, I'd h° e forfeited the respect
of every man in the chamber "
"I know Davydd " Llewelyn lowered himself onto the closest bench These four
years that he's been free, I tried to mend the breach between he said weanly
"I sought to convince him that I still loved him A d I succeeded too well I
saw that on his face this afternoon, saw that he'd persuaded himself I might
relent Instead instead I betrayed him yet again "
"You did not betray him, Papa "
"He thinks I did And he'll not forgive me Not this time "
Davydd put his hand on his father's shoulder He would never know what meagre
comfort he might have offered, for just then the door opened Llelo was
panting, as if he'd been running, he looked flushed and disheveled "I can stay
but a moment, Grandpapa My father is leaving the abbey and and I must go with
him " Yes," Llewelyn said "I know, lad "
Llelo moved closer "I do not think he will let me visit you again " No, Llelo,
I do not expect he will "
L.elo was near enough now for Llewelyn to see his tears "In less than four
years," he said, "I shall be fourteen I'll have the legal right then to make
my own decisions, to see you as often as I want "
Llewelyn nodded wordlessly But four years seemed an eternity to a ten-year-old
boy just at the beginning of his life and a sixty-five-year-old man commg to
the end of his Llelo flew forward into his grandfather's arms and for a long
moment Llewelyn held him close "Grandpapa, if ^ou come to Cncieth," he
pleaded, "I can still see you It is not far from
H ,'can sIlP away ror a few hours, and none need know " adult'6           ed
tnat Llewelyn might seek to dissuade him, to make an Tdl C* ar8?ments about
obedience and patience But Llewelyn did not
Llelhilad/" he S3ld husklly/ and 8ave Llel° one fmal farewell hug *keady °
   ed back tne last of his tears, as young as he was, he was
"* door^"1"18 that teafS Were an mdul8ence he could lU afford At d«fstand "K
Paused' dark eyes seeking Llewelyn's face "I do not un'    fte said, "why it
must be like this "
6
London, England
August 123Q
OIMON looped his wife's hair around his hand, slowly pulled it taut, until she
laughed and rolled back into his arms. "Each time," he said, "you always cry
out my name, and you always sound surprised."
"Do I?" Nell thought it a pity that none but she would ever know Simon's smile
could be so tender. "That proves I do not yet take you for granted," she said.
"But I daresay you've scandalized the entire household, seducing your wife in
the middle of the day!"
"Was that a seduction? I rather thought it a reconciliation."
Nell grimaced. "A deft thrust, my lord, right to the heart. I am sorry we
quarreled, Simon; I always am. You must admit, though, that I did warn you. I
cautioned you on our wedding day that I did not think I could be a dutiful
wife."
"Yes, you did," he agreed, "but not until after we'd already said our vows,"
and Nell hit him with a pillow. He grabbed for her, and she squealed, but then
they heard a discreet cough; Simon pulled the bed hangings back, saw his
squire standing in the doorway.
Adam coughed again; it never failed to amaze him that his seriousminded,
prideful lord was the same man who indulged in pillow fights and tickling
matches in the privacy of the marriage bed. Allowing himself one circumspect
glimpse of Nell's white shoulders and flaxen hair, he said politely, "Dame
Mabel asked me to remind you, my lord, that the Queen's churching is set for
mid-afternoon, lest you be late."
While Simon was scrupulously punctual, Nell was invariably tardy/ and Simon's
squires often wagered as to whose habit would prevail Now as Simon rose from
the bed, signaling for his clothes, Nell settled back comfortably against the
pillow, and Adam grinned, thinking hi" money was as good as won.
"Eleanor will have a magnificent churching," she said, somevvha' wistfully.
"Henry will spare no expense now that she's finally give11
99
him a son " Sitting up, she shook her hair back "I've never fully understood
the churching ceremony, Simon The priests say that until t is done, a woman is
impure, that she cannot touch holy water or make bread or serve food But why
should childbirth make a woman unclean7"
Simon paused m the act of reaching for his shirt, momentarily diverted, for he
was fascinated by theology "I do not know," he admitted 'I shall ask Bishop
Robert when next we meet Now bestir yourself, Nell Your study of Scriptures
can wait, your brother the King cannot "
Henry had leased the Bishop of Winchester's bankside manor house to Simon and
Nell, and it was but a short journey upnver to Westminster Palace Simon
hastened his wife along the King's wharf, across the New Palace yard, not
slowing stride until they entered the great hall, saw that the procession to
the abbey had yet to begin Only then did Simon relax, pausing to speak to
Richard Renger, London's Mayor, for he was no less intrigued by political
craft than he was by canon law The Mayor greeted him warmly, when Simon's
interest was sparked, so, too, was his charm Nell continued on toward the
dais, where she curtsied to her brother's teenage Queen
Eleanor was dressed in regal splendor, Nell's eyes moved hungrily over the
iridescent cloth-of-gold gown, the plush velvet mantle, the necklet of
emeralds and rubies There was no ease, no affection between the two young
women, each one envied the other's hold upon Henry's heart They made stilted
but courteous conversation, drawing upon their only common interest motherhood
Eleanor spoke lovingly of her newly born son, Edward, and Nell no less proudly
of her Harry, now entering his ninth robust month A dark imp, she said fondly,
who was already trying to stand erect Eleanor smiled politely, thinking that
for certes her little Ned would be no less forward than Nell's wonder-child
She bnghtened at sight of Simon approaching, for she was like Nell in one
other way, she preferred the company of men to that of women
She extended her hand for Simon's kiss, while feeling a twinge of conscience
She genuinely liked Simon, who was handsome and spoke the French of the
Ile-de-France, not the bastardized Norman-French of Henry's court, and she
hoped she had not gotten him into Henry's bad graces Favoring Simon with a
dazzling smile, she began to complain °f Henry's tardiness
"That man will be late for his own wake," she sighed, and pouted Prettily
"Simon, will you not go to his chamber, hasten him along7 He "stens to you "
"Make yourself easy, Madame," Simon said, and both women watched as he began
to thread his way through the crowded hall, Nell ltr> possessive pnde and
Eleanor with a satisfied smile
300
1
"I think I managed that quite well," she said. "Henry is rather vexed with
Simon, and now they'll have a chance to talk in private, to make peace ere the
churching begins."
"Why should Henry be vexed with Simon? You must be mistaken, Madame, for Simon
has never stood higher in Henry's favor."
"Then why did Henry fly into such a rage when I made mention of the debt Simon
owes my uncle?"
Nell was frowning. "What debt?"
Eleanor shrugged. "All I know is that Simon somehow owes my uncle Thomas a
large sum of money, and he bade me ask Henry to seek payment from Simon. Which
I did, and Henry became remarkably wroth."
Nell was remembering. "You must be referring to the debt Simon owed his cousin
Ranulf. He was the late Earl of Chester, John the Scot's uncle," she added,
for even after three years in England, Eleanor had yet to untangle the
bloodlines of the English aristocracy. "Upon Ranulf's death, the debt passed
to the Count of Brittany, and then to your uncle, the Count of Flanders. It
was two hundred pounds at the outset, but with interest accrued, it is now
more than two thousand marks. So much," she said resentfully "for the Church's
stricture that Christians must never engage in usury! But why should Henry be
angry over an old debt? That makes no sense."
"That is why I wanted Simon and Henry to talk together, to" Eleanor stopped in
dismay, and Nell turned, saw her brother entering the hall.
Henry came to an abrupt halt at sight of his brother-in-law. "You are not
welcome here," he said, "not at my court and for certes not at my Queen's
churching."
Simon's smile faded. "My liege?" he said, sounding so astonished, so innocent
that Henry's ragetoo long untended, smoldering in the darkflared up like
parched kindling, flaming out of control.
"This is a holy ceremony," he snapped. "Only those who know God's grace
deserve to take part in it."
Simon felt no anger yet, only disbelief. "How have I offended you?"
"You know full well how you have offended me! You do owe my wife's uncle two
thousand marks, and yet you refuse to pay, you"
"That is not so," Simon cut in sharply. "That matter is pending before the
papal curia, and I will abide by whatever decision they render."
"I am sure His Holiness the Pope will be relieved to hear that! But how do you
expect to make payment? I gave you the earldom of Leicester, and yet your
debts continue to mount, to"
101
"And we both know why. King John took the earldom from my f ther in 1207; it
was not returned to me until 1231." Simon had not heard Nell's approach,
suddenly felt her hand upon his arm. But he ould not stop himself; his
grievance was too raw. "And in those twenty-four years, the lands were
mortgaged, the revenues wasted, the forests cut down. Yes, you gave me back
our earldom, well nigh
ruined!"
Henry flushed. "Ah, no, you're not going to blame me for your debts! If you
did not keep such a princely household, if you curbed your vvife's lavish
spending as you ought, your coffers would not be empty, and you could pay your
debts as a man of honor should!"
Nell gasped; her extravagances were of minor moment when cornpared to those of
Henry's Queen. "If I find no fault with my wife's spending, why should you?"
Simon said coldly, and she gave him a grateful look, before turning
indignantly upon her brother.
"It is your fault that Simon and I are so hard pressed," she cried. "You are
the King, my eldest brother, and yet you allowed the Marshals to cheat me of
my dower rights. You still allow them to delay payments, to offer excuses
instead of money. And then . . . when Simon and I were wed, you denied me my
marriage portion!"
"You did not deserve it! That marriage was a mockery, a sinful"
"My liege!" Simon's voice was shaking with fury, for to challenge their
marriage now was to cast a shadow upon their son's legitimacy. "Need I remind
you that the Pope did grant us a dispensation?"
"Only because you lied to him! You bribed his counselors, got them to give him
false facts, else he never would have consented, and you know that! You lied
to His Holiness, just as surely as you lied to me!" Henry swung about, faced
his sister. "I would never have agreed to your marriage had you not deceived
me, had you not sworn you carried this man's child!"
There was a sudden and utter silence, remarkable in a hall that size. For a
moment frozen in time, Henry looked no less horrified than Nell and Simon. He
seemed to hear his own words, echoing over and over in the eerie stillness.
His sister was staring at him, but he could not meet her eyes. "Get out." He
swallowed, said more loudly, "I want you "°th gone from my sight, from my
court." He looked at Simon as he sP°ke; it was easier that way. "Get out!"
Simon reached for Nell's hand. She was trembling, but she matched er step to
his. Holding hands, they walked slowly toward the door, as if oblivious of the
whispers, the stares, the scandal.
sr-fcs
302
SIMON poured red wine into a cup, passed it to Nell. "Drink," he said and she
obediently took a swallow, then set the cup down.
"How can I ever return to court?" she whispered. "How could he do it, Simon?
How could he shame me like that?"
He gave her one brief, burning glance. "Hold me," she entreated and he took
her in his arms, but for a few moments only, no more than that. He could not
be still, paced the chamber as if it were a cage, and as she watched, she
discovered that his pain was harder to bear than her own.
"My lord ..." Adam stood in the doorway, and Simon whirled for he'd given
orders that none were to enter the solar. "Do not be angry, my lord," the boy
pleaded. "I had to seek you out, for the city sheriffs have come. They await
you in the great hall."
Simon knew both of the sheriffs, John de Coudres and John de Wylehale. They
looked surprisingly ill at ease, for he knew them to be men not easily
discomfited. But before he could speak, John de Coudres said hastily, "You
should know, my lord, that we are here at the King's will, not our own."
Nell was standing beside Simon. She regarded the sheriffs with composure, with
polite curiosity, but her fingers were digging into Simon's arm. "And what,"
he asked, "is the King's will?"
De Coudres glanced at his companion, back at Simon. "I might as well say it
straight out. You cannot stay here any longer, my lord. This is the King's
house, and he has ordered us to turn you out."
"My God ..." Nell had never felt faint in her life, but she did now, was
suddenly dizzy and light-headed. She caught the back of a chair, leaned on it
till her breathing slowed. The King could do that, could take from them all
that was theirs. The King had the power. But where was her brother? How had
she lost Henry?
Simon had turned away, moved to the window. After some moments, Nell followed.
"Beloved, listen to me," she said softly. "We must return to court. We must
see Henry, must seek to put this right." He looked at her, saying nothing. His
eyes glinted, took the shadows but none of the light. She knew what he was
feeling; without words, she knew. "Please," she said.
ELEANOR had been anticipating the churching for weeks. But the ceremony was
utterly overshadowed by Henry's shocking public quarrel with his sister and
her husband. Instead of being the center of attention/ Eleanor found herself
all but ignored. Upon their return from the abbey/ she fled to her own
chamber, where she threw herself down upon th*
103
. heedless of her new finery, and burst into tears. Henry retreated his
private apartment, the sunlit green room known as the Painted _, arnber, and
all others dispersed to discuss the astonishing scene so any had witnessed in
Westminster's great hall.
5imon and Nell approached the entrance of the Painted Chamber, embarrassed
usher stepped forward to bar the way. "I am sorry, my lord of Leicester," he
said. "The King's Grace has given orders that you are not to be admitted to
his presence."
"I see." Never had Simon felt such rage; never had he felt so frighteningly
impotent. All knew Fortune was a fickle bitch, but had any man ever lost her
favor so fast?
Nell was gazing coolly at the usher. "Did my brother the King issue any order
barring me?" And when he shook his head, she said, "You may announce me,
then." Her eyes cut quickly to Simon, eyes full of entreaty. "Will you wait
for me?" she asked, and he nodded, for he knew what was at stake, too much for
false pride.
The Painted Chamber, the lesser hall, and St Stephen's Chapel intersected to
form a spacious courtyard. Beyond, the ground stretched down to the river
wall. People were wandering about in the late afternoon sun; as he walked down
a graveled pathway, Simon could feel their eyes following him. None were
neutral about Simon. Men either liked him very much or not at all, and more
than a few were taking satisfaction in his sudden fall. But even those who
sympathized did not dare to express it in so public a setting. He was left
alone in the garden, gazing up at the oriel windows of the Painted Chamber,
windows defaced by incongruous iron bars, installed in all of Henry's manors
after the assassination attempt at Woodstock.
"Simon!" He turned, saw Elen and Robert de Quincy hastening toward him.
When they reached him, there was a moment of awkward silence, for they'd been
in the hall. "Nell is with Henry," he said. Color rose in his face, but he
forced himself to add, "He would not see me. And ... he turned us out of
Winchester House."
"Jesus wept!" Elen shook her head in disbelief. "I do understand none of
this," she confessed. "Simon, I thought you and Henry were °n the best of
terms."
So," Simon said grimly, "did I," and another silence fell. It was
Rob who saw Nell first. She paused in the doorway, then started toward
?"* Simon knew her as no one else did, could read failure in the
Pnwful tilt of her chin, the rigid set of her shoulders. He was close
104
enough now to see the tears glistening on her lashes; they seemed t cling by
sheer force of will.
"He would not listen. As soon as he saw me, he began to sho^t and rant like .
. . like a madman. He insisted there was nothing mor to be said, and when I
tried to plead with him, he became even more agitated, ordered me from the
chamber " There was a faint tremor to her voice. "Take me away from here,
Simon," she said, and he nodded his hand closing tightly on hers.
"I will," he said, but his assurance sounded hollow, even to him for where was
he to take her?
As the same thought occurred to Elen, she opened her mouth, bu; Rob was even
quicker. "Elen and I have leased a riverside manor," he said, "not far from
Castle Baynard. Come back with us, Simon."
Simon gave the other man a look of surprised reappraisal, and then he smiled.
"Thank you, Rob. I feel fortunate, indeed, to have, such a kinsman."
With a fine disregard for propriety, Elen wrapped her arms around her
husband's neck, gave him an impassioned kiss. "I shall make a Welshman out of
you yet, Robyn," she laughed. "For my people know that kinship counts for
all."
Nell was staring up at the Painted Chamber's bleak, barred windows, and there
was on her face both bewilderment and despair. "I always thought," she said,
"that Henry believed that, too."
NONE of them had much appetite; a supper of stewed apples and eeli had gone
virtually untouched. The de Quincy manor was not far from the church of St
Martin le Grand, and sitting m a solar window-seat Nell could hear its bells
tolling curfew. Eight o'clock; the city gates would be shutting. But people
would not be making ready for bed yet, not until the last of the light faded
Only then would they venture indoors, ignite oil lamps. The taverns and
ale-houses would close, and the city Watch would take to the empty streets.
The routine of London life would not vary. Tonight would be as it had been on
any of a thousand summer nights. As if nothing had changed, Nell thought, as
if the world had not gone mad.
Elen refilled their wine cups. "What shall you do, Simon?" &e asked, and he
gave a weary shrug.
"On the morrow we shall fetch our son from Kenilworth. Then*6 shall withdraw
to one of my manors in Leicestershire, or mayhap <° Odiham Castle." But Simon
knew even as he spoke that he was deluding Elen, deluding himself. What did it
matter that those manors were his that Odiham was Nell's? The humiliation at
Winchester House could ^
205
ated at any time, all of his lands could be forfeited if that were the re/s
pleasure And who knew what would please this King7
Nell suddenly tensed "A barge has just tied up at your dock, Rob," ,hesaid
"Now what7"
"Given how the day has so far been going," Simon said, "that is nbably one of
the city sheriffs with an order for my arrest " P    j_[is attempt at gallows
humor did not amuse his wife in the least 'Do not say that," she cried, "not
even in jest1" and he made amends th a rather strained smile   But then, at
the sight of the man being hered into the solar, Nell sprang to her feet, ran
to embrace her
brother
"Oh, Richard, thank God1" For an irrational moment, she found herself fearing
that Henry's inexplicable lunacy was somehow contagious, that it might even
have infected Richard, too, and her relief was considerable when he hugged her
back
"I had a devil of a time tracking you down," he complained "But I want no
servants on hand, not for what I have to tell you "
Nell clutched his arm "What is it7 What else could possibly happen7"
Richard waited till the servant withdrew, then glanced over at his niece "What
is it you Welsh say, Elen7 'Troubles may ofttimes be so dire that they cannot
get better But they are never so dire that they still cannot get worse ' That
says it all quite well You see, Simon, Henry ordered the shenffs to place you
under arrest, to take you to the Tower this very night "
Simon sucked in his breath Nell made a smothered sound, whirled toward him,
arms outstretched, almost as if she would protect him with her own body "No1
Henry cannot do that, he cannot1 Name of God, Richard, help us1"
Richard was faintly disconcerted, for he'd meant only to dramatize his own
part in Simon's deliverance, not to ternfy his sister, and he made haste to
say, "I will, Nell Indeed, I already have "
"In truth7" she said dubiously, and he nodded
"Luckily for you, Simon, I was present when Henry gave that cornmand For once
a cooler head prevailedmine I was able to persuade hm to rescind the order "
It was very quiet then Simon reached for his wine cup, took a deep swallow,
then another "Thank you, Richard," he said flatly "I am fateful that you did
speak out on my behalf I would, though, that "°u d found a way to tell us
without giving Nell such a needless fright "
Richard frowned "You do exaggerate, for certes," he said, begin^nS to bridle,
and Elen decided she'd best take the helm, for the conation was fast veering
into rough water
306
"No, Richard, Simon did not exaggerate; you gave us all a scare. Uncle, when
you do have good news and bad news to deliver, it is usually more merciful to
deliver the good news first," she said and smiled. "But Simon ... if a man is
drowning and another man throws him a lifeline, ought the drowning man to
quibble over the color of the rope?"
The combination of evenhandedness and calculated candor worked, as Elen had
known it would; there were times when a woman might say with impunity what a
man could not. She turned her head, winked at Rob, as Nell said tautly,
"Richard, will you not tell us what happened?"
He did, painting for them an unnerving portrait of a very distraught man, a
King on the far reaches of self-control. "And so," he concluded, "it did take
the veritable patience of Job, but when I left him, Henry had grudgingly
agreed that Simon had done nothing to warrant a stay in the Tower."
Simon had begun to pace. "I find it hard to believe he could be so false.
Since our marriage, he has treated me as a friend, a brother. At Candlemas, he
formally invested me with the earldom of Leicester. He stood godfather to my
son, and just six weeks past, I stood godfather to his son. Yet all the while,
he was dissembling, biding his time!"
Richard gave a derisive laugh. "No wonder you're in such trouble with Henry if
you understand him as little as that. Do you truly believe that outburst today
was calculated? Henry does not plan ahead from one day to the next!"
They were all staring at him. "Jesii, it is so plain; am I the only one to see
it? What happens if a wound fails to heal as it ought? Proud flesh forms, it
begins to fester. And even a light touch can break it open, freeing all that
poison and pus. Poor little Eleanor did that today, quite unwittingly, found a
very raw wound, indeed."
"But ... but why?"
"You should know that, Nell, better than anyone. You played Henry for a fool,
did you not?"
"No!"
"Henry thinks you did. He told me about that resourceful lie of yours, Nell,"
Richard said, and was both surprised and amused when his sister blushed. "He
pointed outaccuratelythat he could have acted quite differently, that scandals
have been muffled behind convent walls, buried in dungeons. But he cared for
your happiness. And because he did, he brought upon himself trouble and grief
in no small mea' sure . . . only then to discover that you'd deceived him,
made a mockery of his trust."
"Richard, it was not like that! Yes, I lied, but not out of mail**' out of
desperation. I loved Simon, could not bear to lose him. If v°u
107
ke me to Henry, I could talk to him, try to make him understand"
Richard was shaking his head. "It is too late, Nell. You did Henry
wrong/ but today he did you a far greater one, and he knows it. You
annot believe he ever meant to blurt out the truth like that. . . before
half the court? He is sick with shame at what he's done, and he cannot
Own up to it. That is not Henry's way, not any king's way. All he can
do is to take refuge in rage. Why else would he have ordered you to
the Tower, Simon? He is trying very hard to convince himself that he
is blameless, that you brought all of this upon yourself."
Simon studied his brother-in-law, impressed in spite of himself. "And so where
does that leave me?"
"In peril," Richard said bluntly. "You have your share of enemies, Simon, men
who begrudged you the King's sister. Even as we speak, one of them could be
with Henry now, all too eager to salt Henry's wound anew, to goad him into
punishing you as he so wants to believe you deserve. I was there to dissuade
him today; tomorrow you might not be so fortunate." He paused. "I've sent a
man to the docks, told him to engage passage for you on the first ship sailing
for France."
Simon glanced at Nell, saw her face mirror his own shock. "You truly think my
danger is as great as that?"
"Yes," Richard said, "I do. I would not see you made the scapegoat for Henry's
shame. Nor would I see Henry do that which he'd regret for the rest of his
life. As long as you are in England, within reach of Henry's rage, you are not
safeand neither is Henry."
"Simon!" Nell closed the space between them, flung herself into Simon's arms,
and as he watched, Richard's eyesas blue as Henry's but more analytical, less
innocentlost some of their detached distance.
"You'd best withdraw at once to Odiham, Nell," he said quietly. "Give Henry
time to heal."
"Odiham?" she echoed, incredulous. "Do you truly believe I would remain in
England whilst my husband is forced into exile? I go with Simon."
Simon forgot the others, saw only Nell. He touched her face with his fingers,
his eyes searching hers. "Are you sure, Nell? Truly sure?"
"How can you even ask that, Simon? You are mine no less than I am yours.
Whatever happens, I will not be parted from you."
She turned then, toward Richard. "But we cannot sail so soon, not tonight, not
until we have our son."
'Nell, Simon would be in the Tower now had I not been there when Henry gave
the order. You have no time to spare, no margin for error. s for the child, I
have a suggestion. Why not send him to my wife, ave him join my household at
Berkhamsted"
^ No!" Simon and Nell spoke at once, sounding so distraught that en s eyes
began to burn with tears. But if she could never have what
108
Nell did, a child born of her body, born of love, she could ease Nell's fears
for that child.
"Nell, listen. On the morrow Rob and I will go Kenilworth, will take your son
back to London. You may entrust Harry to us; we will" The rest of her promise
was lost. Nell embraced her, clung to Elen for a revealingly long moment; only
then did Elen discover how Nell was trembling. "Simon," she said, "my lord
father will make you welcome in Wales."
Simon had long since revised his earlier unfavorable opinion of Elen; her
adultery seemed of little consequence when measured against her absolute,
unswerving loyalty to Nell. "That is a generous offer, Elen, and no less than
I'd expect from you. But if I agreed, I'd be paying you back in false coin. I
cannot put another man at risk, would not have Henry turn his wrath upon
Llewelyn."
Just a few short months ago, Simon's elder brother Amaury had paid a visit to
the English court, had been feted by Henry, and left much impressed by Simon's
soaring fortunes. The thought of returning as a fugitive, his splendid future
in ruins, lacerated Simon's pride as surely as any knife blade could. But what
choice had he? "I will take Nell to France," he said. "To my brother's castle
at Montfort 1'Amaury."
RICHARD had found only two ships ready to sail at such short notice, a sturdy
cogge and a lighter, faster esneque. The cogge was the larger of the two, but
this particular ship must have been built during the reign of Nell's father or
possibly even her grandfather, for it could offer no better shelter from the
weather than a faded and frayed canvas tent. Simon chose the esneque; however
cramped its rear-castle chamber, it would at least provide Nell with some
small degree of protection and privacy.
Darkness had descended upon the city. Now and then a flickering light floated
by, as they passed another boat. An occasional riverside house gave off a dim
glow. But ahead the Southwark bank seemed ablaze. Simon's mouth tightened; he
watched until Winchester House had receded into the distance. It was with a
sense of utter unreality that he realized it was less than ten hours since he
and Nell had been making love in the Bishop's bed.
Nell was standing alone near the bow. He crossed to her, wrapped his mantle
around her shoulders. "The ship's master tells me it may take a few days to
navigate the river, but he says that if the winds are with us, we should make
it from Dover to Wissant in nine or ten hours.
"Where is Montfort 1'Amaury?" It was too dark to see her face and he could
read little in her voice.
109
"It is about thirty miles south of Paris. I always meant to take you there,
Nell. But not like this."
"I know," she said. "I know . . ."
An immense, imposing wall suddenly seemed to loom ahead, and Simon slid his
hand along Nell's arm. "We are about to shoot the bridge. Mayhap you ought to
go aft, wait with Mabel in the rear-castle," he suggested, for the bridge
acted almost as a dam and the current surged through its arches with awesome
force; a year never passed without some unlucky Londoners drowning as their
boats splintered against the massive piers. "Nell," he said, "it can be right
dangerous."
"I'd be more frightened if I was unable to see what was happening," she said,
and he put his arm around her, drew her close. Nell tried not to look at the
rushing water, stared instead up at the ship's towering mast, at the
drawbridge opening above their heads. The ship gave a sickening lurch, the
arch enveloping them on both sides. Nell felt as if they were in a dark, wet
tunnel, and she shuddered, clung to Simon. And then they were through, the
bridge was behind them, ahead only open water. Nell put a hand up to her face.
"We're drenched in spray," she said, and then, almost inaudibly, "I hate
boats, hate the sea. When I was a little girl, I'd dream sometimes of drowning
..."
"Nell . . . Nell, I am so sorry" he began, and she reached up, put her fingers
to his lips.
"No, Simon. You've nothing to be sorry for, nothing!"
Lights lit the dark to their left. They turned, stared up at the steep outer
walls, the whitewashed, moonlit silhouette of the Tower keep. Richard believed
that time was their ally. Henry would have such a queasy conscience, he
insisted, that eventually he would have to make amends, and he would do it the
only way he could, by pretending nothing had ever happened, by welcoming Nell
and Simon back at his court as if their estrangement and exile had never been.
That was a frail reed to cling to, yet it was all Nell had. But now, as she
watched the Tower slowly slide past, she thought, What if Richard is wrong?
What if Henry never relents? What would become of us, then? What future would
our Harry have?
"Simon . . ." She swallowed with difficulty. "Simon, might all this °*
retribution? Mayhap our marriage was indeed a sin, mayhap we did grievously
offend the Lord when we wed ..."
T find it very hard to see Henry as the instrument of the Almighty,"
ne said, with such bitterness that Nell shivered. Even if Henry does
lerit, she thought, nothing will ever be the same again. Simon will
ever be able to forgive Henry for this, never. And sheltered by the
arkness, with only Simon to see, she at last allowed herself to weep.
7
Nefyn, Nortk Wales
March 1240
G.
VJRUFFYDD leaned over the cradle, gazed down at his infant son. Rhodri was a
remarkably placid baby; amidst all the tumult in the hall, he slept as soundly
as an overfed cat. So easily contented was he that Gruffydd occasionally
worried lest he lack for attention. Davydd's birthcoming so many years after
Llelo'shad been a source of incredulous joy, a rare blessing. In contrast,
Rhodri seemed almost like an afterthought, the fourth son . . . the forgotten
son.
Gruffydd touched his finger to the baby's cheek, then turned toward a sudden
squeal of laughter. Davydd and Llelo were squatting by the hearth, where Llelo
had cleared a space amidst the floor rushes. He was skillfully whipping a top,
and as it spun, Davydd laughed again. Gruffydd smiled. Davydd's hair was the
burnished shade of October bracken, his eyes the color of rock moss, full of
light and devilry. He kept the household in turmoil with his pranks and
persistence and curiosity, but few begrudged him his moments of mischief; the
boy's charm was all the more potent for being so artless, so innocent.
The heads of the two boys were almost touching, bright against dark, a sight
to give Gruffydd pleasure. But as he watched, the game came to an abrupt end.
Owain strode toward the hearth, swung Davydd up into the air. As Davydd
shrieked with laughter, Llelo's face shadowed. He let the top spin out, rose
slowly to his feet. Too often Gruffydd had seen the jealousy flare up like
this; even their love for Davydd was tainted by the rancor of their rivalry.
He would have had it otherwise, but did not know how to mend the rift. For
what could he say to them7 He, too, loved his brother not.
Owain had put Davydd back upon his feet, ignoring the child s protests.
"Papa," he said, and Gruffydd turned, watched the men being ushered into the
hall. He recognized them bothHywel ab Ednyved, the newly consecrated Bishop of
St Asaph, and his brother Goronwy^" and his suspicions ignited. Ednyved had
nine sons, several of who"1
Ill
were Gruffydd's long-time companions But he'd never counted Hywel or Goronwy
among his friends So why, then, had they ventured into his lands7 He was not
at war with his fathernot a declared war In the months after their
confrontation at Ystrad Fflur, he had sought in vain to stir up the embers of
rebellion Men who might willingly fight Qavydd on his behalf were not so
willing to defy Llewelyn Fawr Gruffydd had raged at his comrades for their
cowardice, but for all his taunts about aging lions, he'd accepted defeat too
readily for Senena and Owain, it was their unspoken fear that Gruffydd was no
more eager to war upon his father than were his allies
To Gruffydd, courtesy was a needless indulgence when dealing with the enemy
"Why are you here7"
"We have come at Prince Llewelyn's behest It is his heartfelt wish that you
accompany us back to Aberconwy Abbey " The Bishop paused 'You and the lad," he
said
Gruffydd felt a sudden surge of anger Why would his father not let him be7 And
when would he ever learn to harden his heart against these overtures7 He
sought to gain time with the first query to come to mind "Why is my father at
the abbey7" No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he regretted them,
for the question was too obviously transparent, too obviously a delaying
device His father had always favored the White Monks, often accepted their
hospitality, why should he not be at the abbey7 But the answer he got was
totally unexpected, shocking him profoundly
"Prince Llewelyn does dwell there now A fortnight ago he did take holy vows "
Gruffydd's jaw dropped It was true his father had always been devout It was no
less true that his concerns had always been more secular than spiritual in
nature He was no man to relinquish power Gruffydd felt certain of that, so
certain that he dared to call a Bishop of hs Church a liar "Why should I
believe you7"
Goronwy began to bristle "If my brother's word is not good enough"
Hywel put a restraining hand on the other man's arm "I spoke frue There comes
a time when even the most worldly of men must put aside earthly pleasures,
think only upon God Your lord father understands that, has"
'He is ill7" Gruffydd demanded roughly, and the Bishop nodded
There was a sudden silence, broken at last by Owam "He'll need °re than a
monk's cowl to get through Heaven's gate," he jeered ayhap he truly is ill
Mayhap not This could well be a ruse, Papa, °Wardly trick to lure you back to
his court, into his power "
That is not so," Llelo said hotly "Grandpapa has been ailing for
122
months" Too late did he realize his mistake, realize he'd just betrayed
himself. But much to his relief, neither his mother nor Owain seemed to have
understood the significance of his words. He expelled his breath, then braced
himself to look at his father. When he did, he saw that his father had known
of his clandestine afternoons at Cricieth, had known and said nothing. Guilt
rose in Llelo's throat like bile. He could not even promise Papa he'd never go
again to Cricieth, for it would be a lie, But . . . but would Grandpapa ever
come back to Cricieth now? Mayhap he'd stay at the abbey with the monks, and
if so, when would they see each other again?
Senena glanced impatiently at her husband; how could he be so slow to see the
truth? "What you are saying is that Llewelyn is dying, are you not?"
The Bishop resented her bluntness, would have preferred to break the news more
gently, for the boy's sake. "Yes," he said reluctantly. "He is dying."
"Dying?" Gruffydd sounded so stunned that Senena felt both pity and
irritation; did he think the old man was immortal? She would have gone to him,
but Gruffydd had begun to pace. He moved to the hearth, did not turn back to
face them as he said, "He had another seizure?"
"No." The Bishop looked toward Llelo, then said slowly, "In recent months
Llewelyn has begun to suffer from pains in his chest. At first they would
subside if he rested awhile. But as Lent drew nigh, they became more frequent,
more severe. The last attack was a bad one; he was in pain for several hours.
He is better now, but he knows not for long. A man with heart-pain counts his
days, does well to take each moment as it comes."
He waited, but Gruffydd was silent. "My lord? Will you go to him?"
"No." Gruffydd had yet to move from the hearth. "No."
Hywel was not surprised. "As you will."
But Goronwy could not dissemble so well. "Are you sure that is a decision you
can live with?" he said scornfully, and Gruffydd spun around.
"You have your answer! What more do you want from me?"
Hywel caught his brother's eye, shook his head. "What of the lad? he asked.
"Have we your permission to take Llelo back with us?"
Llelo had yet to move, to speak. At mention of his name, he raised his head.
Senena was startled by his sudden pallor; he'd lost color so quickly that he
looked ill. She stepped toward him, then saw the tears glimmering behind his
lashes, tears for Llewelyn. "No," she said curtly "indeed you do not, my lord
Bishop. Llelo is not going to Aberconvvy-
"Yes, Mama, I am."
Senena stared at her son. "I am thinking of your safety, Llelo. Whe
113
man lies near death, his influence wanes very quickly It is Davydd whose
commands do matter now Harm might well befall you if"
"Would you truly care7"
Senena gasped, and Llelo swung about, toward his father "Papa," he said, "tell
her I can go "
The boy was taut, to Gruffydd, he seemed very like a wild colt, ready to bolt
at the slightest movement But he was not pleading, and hjs eyes never wavered
from Gruffydd's face Gruffydd nodded "Yes," he said, "go ahead, lad "
"Gruffydd " Senena bit her lip, bit back her protest Gruffydd was already
turning away
THE wind was blowing in from the west, a wet, sea-borne wind that held no hint
of coming spring Gruffydd had left his mantle in the hall and he stood
shivering in the bailey, staring up at the darkening sky, a sky adrift in
smoke-color clouds They hung low over the horizon, blotted out the last traces
of day There'd be a storm soon, he thought, and it would be a bad one
"Papa " Llelo was standing several feet away, how had he not heard the boy
approach7 "Papa," Llelo said again "Come with me please "
Gruffydd discovered his throat was suddenly tight, the words had to be forced
out "I cannot, Llelo " His voice sounded strange to him, too, thick and
scratchy "I cannot "
LLEWELYN'S lashes flickered A woman was bending over him, a long, black braid
swung loose, lightly brushed his cheek "Joanna7" he murmured, and his daughter
flinched
"No, Papa,'" she said, as steadily as she could "It's Elen " He opened his
eyes "So it is," he said, sounding drowsily amused I was dreaming of your
mother, lass," he explained, as if he'd read her mind, her fear that his wits
had begun to wander "It seemed so real," he added, "and, I regret to say, not
at all the sort of dream I ought to be having, not after taking holy vows "
Elen found herself smiling through tears "You always could make
e laugh, Papa " As much as she'd mourned her mother, she knew
er grieving would be even greater for Llewelyn Even now, forced to
ce we mortal nature of his illness, she could not truly imagine a world
hich he no longer walked or laughed, and as she clasped her father's
. rliln ners, she felt not like a woman grown, a woman with a husband
life of her own, but rather like a child lost in the dark
114
Gwladys stepped from the shadows surrounding the bed. "Papa do you think you
could drink some of this?"
The wine was bitter, so strongly flavored was it with marigold and rosemary
and lemon juice, other herbs he could not identify. Llewelyn drank these
potions without complaint, more to please his daughters than his doctors, and
now he forced himself to take several deep swallows before Gwladys reclaimed
the cup. "Jesu, what a waste of good wine," he muttered, heard a low laugh,
and felt no surprise when his son moved into his line of vision. Davydd rarely
left his bedside; sometimes he even kept vigil at night.
"Do not fret, Papa," he said. "I've some mead in my chambers and I promise to
smuggle it past your doctors."
Gwladys glared at him, for she'd yet to give up hope. Davydd knew better.
Llewelyn was smiling, but they all could read the question in his eyes, and
none wanted to answer him. Elen finally said, with forced cheer, "Marared and
Angharad arrived whilst you slept, Papa."
That meant all of his children would be at his deathbed, save only Gwenllian,
who was in Ireland . . . and Gruffydd, who could not forgive. Llewelyn lay
back against the pillow, closed his eyes. "I never truly expected him to
come," he said wearily. "But I'd foolishly let myself hope that he might send
the lad ..."
LLEWELYN awoke with a gasp. He lay still for a time, listening to his own
labored breathing. More and more his lungs were putting him in mind of a
broken bellows, for he never seemed to get enough air. He wondered almost
impersonally how long they could operate at such a crippled capacity. He
wondered, too, how long his spirit would be tethered like
this.
A log still burned in the hearth, and as his eyes adjusted to the flickering
firelight, he saw a shadow move. "I'm awake," he said, glad of the company,
and then, when he realized who was keeping vigil, his smile flashed, sudden,
radiant. "I'd almost given up on you, lad," he confessed, and Llelo moved
forward, sat beside him on the bed.
"My mother tried to stop me," he said, "but Papa ... he understood."
"Gruffydd did not come with you ... did he?"
"I think he was afraid to come, Grandpapa, afraid he could no
forgive you."
Llewelyn's mouth twisted down. "Or afraid he could."
Llelo looked startled, then thoughtful, and Llewelyn reached ou.
rumpled the boy's hair. "What do you hold there, behind your ba<*.
he asked, and Llelo moved closer, showed him a small clay vial.
115
"Whilst the monks were at supper, I went into the church, lied this with holy
water. I thought, Grandpapa, that we could rub it on your chest. It might make
you better." His words were coming taster now, rumbling out in a breathless,
urgent rush, as if to forestalUewelvn's refusal. "Why not, Grandpapa? What can
you lose?"
Llewelyn was quiet for some moments. "Of all the books otthe Scriptures, I've
always found the most comfort in Ecclesiastes. It tells us that time and
chance happen to all men, that"
"I know what it says, that everything has its season, its timewen death. Is
that what you'd have me believe, Grandpapa, that it isiour
time?"
"Yes." Llewelyn shoved a pillow behind his shoulders. The pan was backby now
an old and familiar foespreading down his IB, up to his neck. But he did not
want the boy to know. He found a snile, said, "It has been more than three
years, after all. Joanna grow impatientand I've never been one to keep a lady
waiting."
Llelo's head jerked up. "How can you do that? How can yoiipt about dying?"
He sounded angry. Llewelyn looked at him, at last said qtiitfr, "What other
way is there?"
Without warning, Llelo's eyes filled with tears. He sought without success to
blink them back, then felt his grandfather's hand on his
"Try not to grieve too much, lad. I've not been cheated; I've had a long life,
with more than my share of joys. I sired sons and daughters. No man had better
friends. I found two women to love, and a fair nuniter to bed with. And I die
knowing that Wales is in good hands . . ."
Llelo frowned. "Davydd?" he mumbled, and his grandfather nodded.
"Yes, Davydd . . . and you, Llelo."
He heard the boy's intake of breath. "Me?"
"Davydd has no son. God may yet bless him with one. But if rot, he'll need an
heir. And in all of Christendom, he could do no fetter *an you, Llelo."
As young as he was, Llelo had learned some hard lessons in selfc°ntrol. But
he'd never felt the need for defenses with his grandfather, and Llewelyn could
see the boy's confusion, could see the conflict of Pride and excitement and
guilt.
Llewelyn shifted his position; the pain was starting to ease sue-
at. He was very tired, and not at all sure that he should have shad
8 ^reaitl with the boy. But then Llelo said, "Do you truly have so
-1 'aith in me?" and there was wonderment in his voice. Wa rf       e'Vn
swallowed with difficulty. He nodded, then leaned torand gathered his grandson
into his arms. Llelo clung tightly,he
116
made no sound, but Llewelyn could feel him trembling. "I'd be lying jf I said
I had no regrets, Llelo. But I was not lying when I told you that I believe it
is my time." After a long silence, he said, very softly, "j should have liked,
though, to have seen the man you will become."
LLEWELYN had hoped to see one last Easter; he missed it by but four days. He
died at twilight on the eleventh of April, as the abbey bells were summoning
the monks to Vespers. He was laid to rest before the High Altar in the abbey
he'd loved, and men came in great numbers to mourn.
As she emerged from the church, Elen saw her brother and the Lord Ednyved
standing apart from the other mourners. They shared a like expression, one so
grim that she quickened her step.
"There is trouble," she said. "Tell me."
"You might as well know; all will soon enough." Ednyved sounded very tired; to
Elen, he seemed to have aged shockingly in the days since her father's death.
"We just learned that Owain led a raid upon our granges at Dolbadarn and Nant
Gwynant. They burned the barns, ran off the cattle, and killed more than a
dozen men."
"They could not even wait until my father was decently buried!" There was so
much bitterness in Davydd's voice that Elen winced. She knew how deeply he'd
loved their father, and it seemed monstrously unfair to her that he should be
denied even a single day to mourn.
They'd been joined now by Ednyved's sons, Bishop Hywel and Goronwy. The former
sighed, said sadly, "So it is to be war," and none disputed him. He
remembered, then, the boy. "What of Llelo?" He had pledged the honor of his
Church for Llelo's safety, but he did not remind Davydd of that now, saw no
need. Nor did Davydd disappoint him.
"Send the lad home, Hywel," he said, turned and walked away. The others knew
enough not to follow.
Elen roused herself with an effort. "Llelo is still in the church. I'D fetch
him," she said, thinking that Llelo, too, would have little time to mourn.
The church was quiet; the scent of incense still lingered. Elen encountered
neither monks nor mourners as she moved into the nave. Her father's tomb was
encircled by flaring, white Syze candles. It had been constructed during
Llewelyn's lifetime, was as impressive a sepulchre as Elen had ever seen. She
looked at the arms emblazoned upon the side of the tomb, and Llewelyn's lions
blurred in a haze of hot tears-
Llelo had turned at the sound of her footsteps. "It is a fine tomb'
227
e befitting a great Prince." He reached out, gently stroked one of the
naineled red lions. "Not that Grandpapa needs a monument of maruje " he said
huskily. "Men will remember him."
"Yes," Elen said, "they will." She moved closer, dreading what had to be done.
"Darling, you can no longer stay at the abbey. Your brother Owain has attacked
two of my father'stwo of Davydd's granges. Your father will want you back at
Nefyn. Davydd will provide an escort, and I'm sure Bishop Hywel will accompany
you if"
"No," he said, "that will not be necessary," and what Elen found saddest of
all was that he did not seem surprised.
Llelo had yet to move. He was reluctant to leave Llewelyn's tomb, knelt and
whispered one final prayer for his grandfather's soul. Rising, he said, very
low and very fast, "Aunt Elen, shall we still be friends?"
"Yes," she said, "oh, yes, love!" She knew he'd placed his crucifix in
Llewelyn's coffin, and she fumbled with the clasp of hers. "Here," she said,
"I want you to have this, Llelo."
Llelo took the proffered cross, carefully tucked it away inside his tunic.
"Llelo is a boy's name. I'm twelve now, old enough to be called by my given
nameLlewelyn."
Elen's throat closed up. She nodded mutely, then held out her hand. He took
it, and they walked in silence from the church.
8
Abbey of St Mary and St John tne Evangelist, Readingf, Engflana
April 1240
J7J.ENRY shifted in his seat. There were few if
*ty men whom he trusted more than these two, his Chancellor, John
ansel, and his brother Richard. He knew their advice was sound,
°uld have to be followed. But he could not stifle his pangs of conscience,
°ndered why he was so often faced with such unpalatable choices.
I know, I know," he said impatiently. "Davydd is vulnerable right °w' and we'd
be mad not to take advantage of his plight, not to
118
extract all the concessions we can. But I take no pleasure in * Joanna's son,
our kinsman, Richard. I'd much rather offer him in putting down Gruffydd's
rebellion." Ur a
Richard and John Mansel exchanged weary glances; Hemv timentality was often a
severe trial to them both. "We are in agr     ^ then?" Richard persisted, and
Henry gave a grudging nod.        metl
"Yes, yes. But no more of this now." He had begun to srnil Richard, turning,
saw why, saw Eleanor approaching with Ed ^ Henry's ten-month-old son. ar
Richard had a well-loved son of his own, a frail five-year-old after Henry,
cherished all the more for being the only one of R!Cn ' four children to
survive infancy. But he felt Henry's devotion was cessive, and he watched
disapprovingly as Henry dandled little Ed\v upon his knee, utterly indifferent
to his royal dignity.
John Mansel rolled his eyes, knowing there was little chance nc of keeping
Henry's mind upon affairs of state. The sound of Eleano giggling set his teeth
on edge, for he thought her a frivolous, vain you woman, a bad influence upon
Henry. Richard found it easier than t priest to understand the appeal of a
pretty, vivacious seventeen-ye, old, but his own wife was just three months
dead. He'd once conte plated divorcing her, fearing she could not give him an
heir, but h< been sincerely attached to her, mourned her still, and the sight
of Hf ry's domestic bliss rubbed raw against his nerves, stirring feelings
resentment no less intense for being illogical, and he followed Man as the
Chancellor moved away from the dais.
"Has Henry given you the news yet?" he murmured. "Eleanor with child again,
and already Henry is laying out plans for new nurser at his favorite manors.
He has even given orders to prepare a luxunc lying-in chamber for her,
although the babe is not due till after Midia
mas!'
"Yes, he told me," the priest said glumly. He was pleased, of cour that
Eleanor had satisfactorily performed her primary duty as a Quei bearing a
healthy male heir, for Henry was so uxorious a husband Mansel feared he would
not have parted with her even had she prw barren. Fortunately, that fear had
been laid to rest. Mansel welcorr this second pregnancy. While Edward seemed
to be a sturdy,r child, death came so often for the young that it was well to
have » to spare. But he also knew that Eleanor's pregnancy would Henry even
more than usual. ,_ ^
Richard was still pondering the problem posed by Wales.     ^ as they got word
of Llewelyn's death, the Marshals crossed m digion. They'd not have dared
whilst Llewelyn still livedto P old lion his due. But their timing suits us
well, puts all the more F
119
i j i Hn not see how he can" He stopped, gave the priest navvdu 1
UP°"     .look "What is it'"
3 cun"us '"          stanng across the hall   "Jesus wept/' he muttered
,    col was staring »..»"* « M3d ^return to England7" T,Pn aw tlc       .    ,
  .,      *. ..u,,
^'en      H   eered about, but the abbey hall was crowded and he was gicnar    p
^ ^^ ^ ^e reasons why he had so little enthusiasm %ery near'sl.% neroics
"Who7" he demanded, and Mansel gestured tor batt e^e ^ Montfort;" he said,
sounding far from pleased
h    d caught his breath "Devil take him, whatever is he thinking
c         was striding toward the dais, a path opening before him as
OTC a man in the King's disfavor was shunned like a leper
h d glanced back at Henry, then hurried to intercept his brother-
"What are you doing here7 I told you Henry would need time" ' It has been
eight months, time enough, I should think " "But I've had no chance to prepare
Henry for your return1 Christ, Simon, why must you be so reckless7"
Men had often accused him of that failing, although Simon could never
understand why, by his lights, he was just doing what had to be done But he
did not resent Richard's aggrieved, peevish tone, for he Knew Richard's
concern was genuine "I've never held patience to be a virtue," he said, and
then the corner of his mouth curved "Mayhap because I have so little of it,"
he admitted, and Richard swore under his breath He had little patience himself
with men who made jests in the face of disaster
'In that, you and Nell are remarkably well matched At least you had the common
sense to keep her away Go on, then, seek Henry out I wash my hands of it," he
warned, but as Simon moved away, he made haste to follow
Henry was tickling Edward, while the child wriggled and squirmed happily He
was slow to become aware of the silence, was not alerted « ^eanor squeezed his
arm At sight of Simon, blood rushed to his alme ^s mouth puckered strangely He
looked so stricken that Simon But th 3 fl'Cker °f Plfyalmost "My liege," he
said, began to kneel
,,se sound of his voice shattered Henry's trance t        on' No' do not kneel
Come up here, onto the dais How it ^s me to see you," he exclaimed, and then,
to Simon's astomsh°und hlmself embraced by his King His recoil was
instinctive, ^ynotced, he gave no sign "We've missed you at court        have
none^"or' But where is Nell7 Is she not with you7" iscQ3          hlS head He
was not easuv flustered, but he was enanced now bY the warmth of Henry's
welcome He'd
120
come prepared to accord Henry the respect and honor due his rank. But he did
not know how to deal with this, did not know how to fake friendship. While he
did not begrudge Henry a King's homage, he could not share Henry's pretense,
could not blot out memory of the past eight months. He thought of Nell, of the
nights she'd wept in his arms, grieving for their son, for the shame Henry had
brought upon them. He thought of his brother Amaury, of his humiliation in
having to ask Amaury for shelter. And he felt anger begin to stir, that Henry
would deny them both their dignity like this, force upon him this charade,
this hollow mockery of a reconciliation.
He had yet to speak, did not know what to say. But before his silence became
awkward, Eleanor raised up, kissed him on the cheek. "We have indeed missed
you, Simon," she said gaily, while her green eyes pleaded for his cooperation,
his complicity, and the moment thus passed when Simon could have objected,
could have salvaged his pride.
Richard had mounted the dais, too. He was somewhat chagrined that Simon had
not needed his help after all, but he felt honor-bound, nonetheless, to do his
part. Simon looked strangely grim for a man just restored to the royal favor,
and Eleanor's merriment had a brittle, edgy sound to it. But Henry's smile was
dazzling; he was beaming fondly at Simon, as if genuinely joyful at his
return. In time he would almost convince himself of that. Role-playing was
Henry's reality. Richard knew it, wondered if Simon did.
THAT spring had been a dry, mild one, and as Richard de Clare, Earl of
Gloucester, left London and rode west, he found the roads crowded with fellow
travelers: merchants, itinerant peddlers, pilgrims, an occasional fast-riding
courier. When he stopped for lodging in Oxford, he was pleased to discover
that Elen de Quincy had also sought shelter with the Franciscans, and when he
learned that she, too, was heading for the river port of Gloucester, he
suggested that they travel together. Elen agreed readily, grateful both for
the company and the added protection, and they passed the remainder of their
journey quite pleasantly, troubled neither by outlaws nor by the notoriously
erratic May weather. Richard de Clare glanced often at Elen as they rode. He
knew, of course, of the faint scent of scandal that clung to her. She was the
Kings niece. But she was also half-Welsh, and when she'd made the shockingly
unsuitable marriage to Robert de Quincy, there were many who explained it in
terms of her tainted blood. Richard knew she was no longe young, for she had
confessed quite nonchalantly that she was in he thirty-third year. Nor did she
measure up to their society's concep'
222
beauty Her hair was midnight-black instead of flaxen, her eyes were dark, and
her skin seemed sun-warmed all year round, by English standards, she was an
undeniable exotic Yet for all that, Richard thought her quite the most
fascinating woman he'd ever seen, her appeal all the more alluring for its
unsanctioned, sinful nature But it had not occurred to him to make improper
advances, he was just eighteen and too wellbred to envision so highborn a lady
as a bedmate Moreover, Elen was known to be blazmgly outspoken, and he shrank
from putting her Welsh temper to the test
Elen had gone straight from her father's funeral to one of her dower manors in
Essex, and so was not that conversant with current London gossip Richard
happily brought her up to date, informed her that the Earl of Warenne was ill
unto death, that her uncle Richard, Earl of Cornwall, would soon be ready to
depart upon his long-planned pilgrimage to the Holy Land, that four Norwich
Jews accused of circumcising a Christian boy had been torn asunder by wild
horses
"They say most of Norwich was there to watch " Richard was surprised when Elen
grimaced, he'd not have thought her to be the squeamish sort "It is well that
women have softer hearts than men," he said, quite earnestly, "but pity ought
not to be wasted on Jews, Lady Elen They deserved to die "
"Did they?"
He swung about in the saddle to stare at her "How can you doubt it' Jews are
the Devil's disciples, the enemies of the True Faith Think upon the evil that
they do They steal the Eucharist, stab it till it bleeds They lure Christian
children away and then sacrifice them in vile rites They poison wells, Lady
Elen1 Surely you know all this7"
"I know men say it is so " Elen slowed her mare "I know, too, that Englishmen
claim the Welsh are a godless, barbaric people, who couple like beasts m the
field and know nothing of honor Some of them even fancy we have tails, Richard
"
He flushed deeply, and she relented, he was, after all, very young He did not
understand, but that did not surpnse her She knew none who did
They rode in silence for a time, Richard wondering how he had offended, and
Elen thinking of the four Jews who'd died at Norwich ad they truly circumcised
the boy' And even if so, did it warrant such a ghastly death?
5ne was troubled from time to time by such questions, questions
1 h no answers, questions no Chnstian should even pose John the °t had called
her perverse, so did Rob, although he said it with pride 'her man had
understood how lonely it could be Once she'd realized
deviant, how irregular her thoughts were, she rarely shared them
322
with others. Even with Rob, whom she loved, there was much she left unspoken.
Her wayward sympathy for the Jews was but part of a disquieting pattern;
somehow she seemed ever out of step with her fellows. Holy Church taught that
women must be subservient unto their husbandsEnglish law guaranteed it. But
such unquestioning obedience did not come easily to a daughter of Llewelyn
Fawr; she'd always been one to balk at fences. Welsh women had rights of their
own; Welsh law held that a woman was "to go the way that she willeth, freely."
Why were the ways of her people wrong? Could it not be the English who were in
error? Or even the Church?
At times it seemed to her that she was at war with her world. She was
convinced that Welsh law was more just than Church law, too, in the treatment
of bastard children, for she did not believe it was Christian to deny any
child his birthright. Nor did she believe that women were by their very nature
more susceptible to the Devil's wiles. She did not understand why her Church
so scorned man's carnal needs, why St Jerome had admonished a grieving widow
to mourn the loss of her virginity more than the loss of her husband, or why
St Augustine had contended that, even in marriage, sexual intercourse could
not be wholly free from sin. She did notcould notbelieve that a baby who died
unbaptized would be forever denied entry into Paradise. She could accept the
existence of demons, but not dragons. She doubted that the wounds of a
murdered man truly bled in the presence of his murderer. She felt certain that
vervain would ill protect a man in battle, that rosemary was of little use in
warding off lightning bolts. And she did not in her heart believe that the
Jews were the veritable Antichrists.
Now she looked over at Richard, at last said, "Rumors are the easiest of all
crops to tend, Richard. You need only sow a few seeds about and in no time at
all, you'll reap a harvest of hatred. Have you never noticed that when men are
goaded into attacking a Jewry, they are invariably led by those who owe debts
to Jewish money-lenders?"
"Who can blame them," Richard protested, "when the Jews charge such outrageous
interest rates?"
Elen frowned. This was a familiar argument. She'd even heard it from Simon de
Montfort; when she'd asked him why he'd expelled the Jews from Leicester, he'd
replied that he'd acted to keep Christians from falling into the hands of
Jewish money-lenders. No one, not even Simon> seemed to see what was, to Elen,
the obvious connection between those
high interest rates and the precarious position of the Jews, aliens
and
outcasts dangerously dependent upon the dubious good will of the Christian
neighbors. .,
"I never knew you felt so kindly toward the Jews," Richard W
123
suddenly. Before she could respond, he added, "But I'll not speak of this to
others. And . . . and I think it best if you do not, either, Lady glen. People
would not understand."
"No," Elen conceded. "I do not suppose they would, Richard." She laughed then,
but without amusement. She was enough of a misfit as it was. Even before she'd
defied convention by wedding Rob, the English had looked at her askance. In
her own way, she was no less an object of suspicion than were the Jews.
Richard was fumbling for a safer topic of conversation. "Why did your husband
not accompany you to Gloucester?" He hesitated, then ventured a maladroit
gallantry. "Were you my wife, I'd never let you wander about unescorted."
Elen ducked her head so he'd not see her smile. "Rob was not free to come with
me. An Essex neighbor of ours was found dead a fortnight ago, and Rob and
several other knights were requested to hold an inquest, to try to determine
the cause of death. But I could not wait; I knew Davydd would be meeting with
Henry on the fifteenth . . . today."
"Well, we ought to reach Gloucester by the morrow," Richard said, and Elen
nodded. She was not sorry she'd be a day late; she'd not truly wanted to watch
as her brother was compelled to do homage to the English Crown.
IT was midday when Elen and Richard de Clare rode through St Mary's gate into
the precincts of the Benedictine abbey of St Peter at Gloucester. Richard was
impatient to reach the guest hall, but Elen halted her mare before the Abbot's
house, for she'd caught sight of a familiar face. "You go on, Richard," she
said, "and take my servants with you. I see a friend.''
She did think of Ednyved ap Cynwrig as just that. He'd been more than her
father's Seneschal, he'd been Llewelyn's lifelong companion, had always been
on hand whenever any of her family had need of him. "e Was glad to find him
here at Gloucester, glad he was standing by uavydd in her brother's time of
trial, and she slid from her mare, moved swiftly toward him.
Veil, now," he said, "if you're not a sight to gladden these aging yfis.
Llewelyn and I never could figure out how he'd managed to sire SUch handsome
children."
Wen's smile was sad. "Papa casts a long shadow," she said softly, and he
nodded.
Most of all for Davydd. I miss Llewelyn, lass, miss him like I'd
T
324
miss an arm. But Davydd ... he has to measure up to Llewelyn now and that is a
lot to ask of any man."
"Tell me about the peace, Ednyved. Were Henry's terms harsh ones?"
"He did not ask us to harvest the moon or cull the stars from the sky,"
Ednyved said grimly, "but he stopped just short of it. Davydd had to agree to
submit any Marcher claims to arbitration; that could call much of Llewelyn's
conquests into question. And no Welsh lord may do homage to Davydd, only to
Henry. Llewelyn was the uncrowned Prince of all Wales, but the English seek to
make of Davydd a mere vassal of the Crown. They did not even accord him a
title, Elen, referred to him in the treaty documents as Davydd, son of
Llewelyn, former Prince of North Wales."
Elen had no divided loyalties. She might love an Englishman, live in England,
but she was utterly and passionately Welsh. "Damn the/m!" she spat. "They are
like vultures, the lot of them, always hovering about, preying upon Welsh
weakness. Well, let them rejoice; it will not be for long. I know Davydd
better than they do. Whatever he's had to yield today, he'll retake on the
morrow."
"You need not argue that with me, Elen. I agree with you. Davydd shall prove
to be an unpleasant surprise to the Englishif he's given the chance."
Elen stared at him. "What are you saying? That you truly think Gruffydd might
prevail? Never!"
"I would I could be as sure of that, lass," he said, sounding so bleak, so
somber that Elen felt a sudden chill of fear.
"Davydd has to win," she said. "God pity Wales if he does not. . ."
AFTER learning from Ednyved that Davydd was at Gloucester Castle, Elen wasted
no time in seeking her brother out. Crossing the moat into the castle bailey,
she came upon a scene of utter chaos. Henry was constructing new quarters for
his Queen, and carpenters and masons were rushing about, clambering up onto
shaky scaffolding, dropping tools, exchanging curses and sarcasm. It was not
unheard of for Henry to supervise his building projects, but now he was
nowhere in sigW' Elen was glad, for he was the last person she wanted to see
at the moment. She guided her mare toward a horse block, and the nearest man
hurried over to help her dismount. rl
She thanked him, then asked, "Where will I find Prince Davydd? making defiant
use of her brother's title. ,
"I do not know." The man didn't recognize her, but he a
idded
125
Madame" for safety's sake; her gown and mantle were of high-quality wool- He
pointed. "Mayhap the Earl of Leicester might know."
"Simon!" Elen was delighted. "I got your letter, so I knew you were returning
to claim your son, and wait until you see how much he's erown! But I would not
have expected to find you at Gloucester. Have you and Henry been reconciled,
then?"
Simon was no less pleased to see her. He smiled, kissed her cheek. "Well/ I am
here with Henry, am I not?"
Elen gave him a searching look. "So is Davydd," she said, "but not by choice."
Simon laughed; her candor was comforting after the hyprocrisy of Henry's
court. "He acted as if nothing had ever happened, Elen. He even said he'd
missed me!"
He sounded bemused, but bitter, too. Elen understood exactly how he felt. "Why
did you not bring Nell?"
"I thought it best to face Henry myself. His quarrel was never with Nell."
Simon paused; his smile flashed again. "She is with child; did she write to
you?"
Elen nodded. "I am glad for you, Simon, glad for you both. Nell also wrote
that you've taken the cross, mean to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land."
"Yes," he said. "I came back for my son, for we were not willing to entrust
him to others on so long and perilous a journey. But whilst I am here, I hope
to sell some of my lands to raise funds for my pilgrimage. I do not intend to
tarry longer than need be in England, though. I plan to sail with Harry within
a fortnight's time."
"What of Nell? Now that you are welcome again at Henry's court, will you send
Nell back to England whilst you go on crusade?"
"You ought to know Nell better than that, Elen. She intends to go with me, at
least as far as Italy; there she'll await the birth of our child. If not for
that, I daresay she'd have insisted upon accompanying me to the very gates of
Jerusalem." Simon's smile was wry. "I have to confess, though," he said, "that
I did not try to dissuade her as much as I ought. I rather like having her
with me."
Elen laughed at his understated admission; coming from Simon, *e thought, that
was like the most impassioned of declarations. "Nell's Srandmother, Queen
Eleanor of Aquitaine, went on crusade, so why n°t Nell? She must- Davydd!"
wmon watched as Elen and her brother embraced. Davydd was a
anger to him; they'd met only twice. But he was Nell's kinsman,
, en s br°ther, and Simon felt some sympathy for his plight. Had he
own Davydd better, he might have thought to caution him about
nrV/ to warn him that despite Henry's generous nature and kind
126
heart, any man who trusted him was one of God's great fools. Simon suspected,
though, that such a warning would have been wasted. Dayydd did not strike him
as the trusting sort.
DAVYDD and Elen had sought privacy by the River Severn. Some yards away, their
horses grazed. Behind them rose the walls of the castle bailey ahead lay one
of the wooden bridges that spanned the Severn. Davydd picked up a handful of
pebbles, let them drop one by one into the muddy water. Elen waited, with
uncommon patience, for him to speak.
"Did Ednyved tell you what they demanded of me?"
"Yes," she said, and he dropped another pebble into the river, watched the
ripples widen.
"The English tried for years to get Papa to arbitrate Marcher claims, tried
and failed. What they could not get from him, they got from me, Elen, within
one month of Papa's death."
"What choice did you have? You cannot fight Henry and Gruffydd both. Not even
Papa could do that." Elen moved toward him. "Davydd, look at me. Ednyved told
me that the Marshals have captured Cardigan Castle, that Ralph de Mortimer is
laying claim to Maelienydd. You had to end the war, had to come to terms with
the English. And you know that, else you'd not be here today in Gloucester. So
why are you blaming yourself like this? The English took advantage of your
need and extorted some promises from you. What of it? Our people have a
saying, Davydd, one you know wellrare is the promise that is kept."
Davydd looked at her for a long moment. "As ever, you go right to the heart of
things, Elen. I had to yield to Henry; I could not fight two wars at once. I
know that. But knowing makes it no easier."
Elen caught his arm. "Forget Henry!" she said fiercely. "It is Gruffydd who
matters now. Davydd, you have to defeat him. Not just for your own sake, for
Gwynedd, for Wales. He is not fit to rule, would bring us all to ruin if ever
he had the power."
"Not all of the Welsh would agree with you, Elen."
"For the love of God, Davydd! You can ill afford hurt pride. Yes, some of the
Welsh would prefer Gruffydd if given the choice. People fear change; they
cling mindlessly to the old ways, to what they know. When Papa broke with
tradition, named you as his sole heir, it frightened them. Let them be
frightened, the sheep! You do not need them, DaV' ydd. You will prevail
without them."
For the first time since his arrival at Gloucester, Davydd smile "Your faith
is heartening, Elen. And not ill founded." From the corn of his eye, he caught
a flash of bright blue, turned to watch as a kingiistl streaked by, all but
skimming the surface of the river.
327
"What will you do, Davydd?"
"I mean to win this war." Adding dryly, "I cannot well afford not to win, can
I?"
9
Cricietn, North Wales
September 1240
L HEY had followed the coast road since dawn, but the sun was high overhead by
the time they caught their first glimpse of Cricieth Castle. Like all Welsh
castles, it sprang up without warning, was suddenly there before them, an
awesome, grey stone silhouette rising against the vivid September sky. It
seemed haloed by clouds, so high was its hill, and afforded sweeping views of
the Llyn Peninsula, the distant heights of the Eryri mountain range, the
brilliant, blue waters of the bay. But the beauty before him was wasted upon
Owain, for he saw only the banner that flew from the castle's Great Towerthe
quartered lions of Davydd ap Llewelyn.
He nudged his horse closer to his father's mount. "I still do not understand,
Papa, why you have agreed to meet with Davydd."
"How often do I have to tell you?" Gruffydd said impatiently. "I did agree
because the Bishop of Bangor asked it of me."
To Owain, that was a highly unsatisfactory answer. And what, he wondered, if
the Bishop asked you to ride off a cliff, Papa? But so disrespectful a
question could never be voiced. It was not fear that fenced him; Owain feared
only leprosy and demons. Yet if he did not
ar his father, he did love him, and that love effectively hobbled his
tongue.
The Bishop of Bangor had overheard their exchange, urged his
°unt up alongside them. "Holy Church has pledged both your safety
'hat of Lord Davydd. So what, then, can you lose by this meeting?"
o(   °wain's mouth twisted. The Bishop did but belabor the obvious;
not, Urse *heir safety was assured. But he was wrong to think there was
mm8 to lose. What if Davydd offered his father half of Gwynedd?
328
What then? For as much as Owain wanted to believe his father would scorn the
offer, he shrank from seeing Gruffydd put to such a tempting test.
Despite himself, Gruffydd felt a sudden unease as he passed through the castle
gateway; Cricieth was a place of unpleasant memories for him It was here, on
an August afternoon twelve years past, that he had goaded his father into
riding an unbroken stallion. Llewelyn had been thrown, but suffered no serious
hurt, and Gruffydd had felt a shamed sense of relief. But afterward, the
hatred that had long burned between his brother and him had at last flared
into violence, into a sudden brawl He was then thirty-two to Davydd's
nineteen; the victory had been his. At sight now of Davydd, awaiting them by
the stairs of the Great Tower, Gruffydd drew a sharp breath, swore silently
that this victory, too, would be his.
Owain demanded to be present at the meeting, as if daring Dayydd to object.
But Davydd merely shrugged, then led the way up into the Great Tower. The
Bishop, Gruffydd, and Owain followed.
The trestle table was laden with food: cheese toasted on thin slices of bread,
cold Michaelmas goose, sweet wafers. But no servants were in evidence. "I
thought we'd speak more freely amongst ourselves," Davydd said. Moving to the
sideboard, he began to pour mead into waiting cups, as the men settled
themselves around the table. Owain alone showed interest in the food. Reaching
for a caus pobi, he bit deeply into the melted cheese, washed it down with a
large swallow of mead.
"You set a good table, Uncle," he drawled. "I suppose you learned such
niceties from your kin at the English court." His rudeness was calculated; it
had occurred to him that if he could provoke Davydd into a rage, he might
bring this council to an abortive end. But his sarcasm was ignored; neither
Gruffydd nor the other men so much as gave him a glance.
"Well?" Gruffydd leaned back in his chair, watching Davydd as he drank. "What
have you to say to me?"
"He wants to buy peace, Papa; what else?" Owain interjected, and this time his
father silenced him with an abrupt gesture.
"Your son is right," Davydd said, and Gruffydd stiffened.
"What are you offering?"
"If we come to terms, I will allow you to retain the lordship of Llyn/ and I
will restore to you two of the commotes you forfeited at Ystra Fflur: Arwystli
and Ceri. In time, I might be willing to restore the other four commotes,
too."
"Might you be willing, indeed!" Although Gruffydd's outrage was real enough,
it was threaded through with relief, too. He still b6^6. his cause was just,
his war was winnable. But what if Davydd's na
129
a genuine offer to share power, to share Gwynedd? Better that he ver know.
"You want my answer? Rot in Hell," he said, started to push away from the
table.
The Bishop caught his arm. "You are too hasty, my lord. When you eek to strike
a bargain, do you make your best offer first?" Adding in undertone, "Trust me,
Gruffydd. We're not done here yet."
"He gives you good advice, Gruffydd," Davydd said, but he was looking at the
Bishop, not his brother. "I find it interesting," he said, "that you do
champion Gruffydd's rights. It was my understanding that the Church refuses to
recognize sons born out of wedlock."
"Welsh law holds otherwise," the Bishop snapped, not comfortable with the
unexpected turn the conversation had taken. He had his reasons for backing
Gruffydd. Wales was unique among Christian nations, in that under its laws,
the Church was subordinate to the State. To the Bishop, that was heresy, and
he hoped that Gruffydd would be more malleable than Davydd in this regard,
less likely to challenge Church doctrine. Gruffydd might hate the English with
a demented passion, but at least he'd always shown himself to be a good son of
the Church, and the Bishop thought he'd be receptive to the right approach,
the right adviser. He'd known Gruffydd long enough to determine that the
Welshman was as straightforward as he seemed. But subtlety was not likely to
be lacking in the grandson of King John, and there were few qualities that the
Bishop mistrusted more.
"I find it curious that I should be upholding the position of the Church,"
Davydd murmured, "whilst you, my lord Bishop, do argue for the old laws of
Wales," and his smile was sardonic enough to bring a flush to the Bishop's
face.
"We digress, my lord," he said coldly. "What ought to concern us is the good
of Gwynedd. For nigh on six months now, this war has been waged between you
and the Lord Gruffydd. Neither of you has been able to gain an advantage, but
the country has been bled white, and every day good men die so that one of you
might be Prince. What purpose does it serve to continue this strife?"
"There is truth to what you say," Davydd conceded. "But you do not fully
understand our problem." He looked, then, at Gruffydd. "If I Were to offer you
half of Gwynedd, would that end your rebellion?"
Taken aback, Gruffydd gained time by reaching for his wine cup,
^allowing a generous measure of mead. "No," he said at last. "I fight
o   Just for myself, but for Gwynedd. You could not be trusted to defend
^ land against the English. You've already proven it by that accursed
you struck with them at Gloucester, that craven agreement to ar^Marcher
claims."
avydd showed neither surprise nor resentment. Instead, he nod-
330
F
r
ded. "I expected no less. Whatever our other differences, Gruffydd, I've never
doubted your sincerity." And then he startled Gruffydd by srnji, ing, a
strange smile, for to Gruffydd, it seemed to be mocking them both, and yet
somehow sad, too. He was puzzling over it as Davydd turned back toward the
Bishop.
"Do you see the problem now? Gruffydd is convinced that I am not a worthy
Prince for Gwynedd. Unfortunately, I feel no less strongly that he is utterly
unfit to rule, that he would be a disaster for Gwynedd, for Wales, for us all.
That does not give us much room for compromise,
does it?"
"Compromise be damned!" Owain emphasized his opinion with a sweeping gesture,
too sweeping; his arm struck his empty wine cup, sent a platter of wafers
crashing to the floor. "Damnation," he muttered, sounding faintly embarrassed.
"How did I do that?"
Gruffydd felt embarrassment, too, on his son's behalf, but also annoyance.
Owain had a notoriously poor head for wine. To Gruffydd, that was no excuse,
though; Owain should have known better than to gulp mead like water, today of
all times. "Here," he said brusquely, shoving a platter toward his discomfited
son. "Eat something."
Owain obediently picked up a caus pobi, only to drop it hastily, "I... I'd
best not," he said. "I feel queasy of a sudden, and lightheaded, too ..."
Gruffydd swore under his breath. But his son's pallor was quite pronounced
now, and he'd begun to sweat. "Lie down for a while," Gruffydd said, jerking
his head toward Davydd's canopied bed, and then glared at Davydd, daring him
to jeer at Owain's folly.
If Davydd was amused by Owain's gaucherie, it did not show on his face. The
Bishop was less tactful, though, could not repress a grimace of disgust. Owain
rose unsteadily, yawned, and shambled toward the
bed.
The Bishop decided it was time he took the helm. "It grieves me that brothers
could be so filled with hate, that you should so disregard the example of Our
Lord Jesus Christ. You both share the blood of Llewelyn Fawr; I think it time
you remembered that. If you cannot come to terms, the Church might have to
compel a settlement."
Gruffydd set his cup down with a thud. "I think not! I'll not be coerced into
acting against my conscience, not even for the Church. His defiance might have
had more impact, however, had it not been punctuated by a loud snore from his
son.
Davydd rose, moved to pour himself another drink. "I think you <* best consult
with the English King ere you issue any ultimatums, my lord Bishop. I rather
doubt that Henry shares your desire for pea<*
131
-rfcis war betwixt Gruffydd and myself serves none better than the Enlish, and
well they know it."
The Bishop was becoming more and more convinced that his inrincts had been
right, that Davydd ap Llewelyn would bear close scruHny, indeed. He changed
his tack, no longer spoke of his Church's wer, Spoke, instead, of its
compassion. They must forswear the example of Cain and Abel, he argued
earnestly, must put aside their grievances and work together for the good of
Gwynedd, for their Welsh brothers and sisters in Christ.
Gruffydd was hard put to hide his impatience. While he'd always shown the
Bishop every respect, it was the priest he honored, not the man. He knew the
Bishop had his own axe to grind, even if he was not yet sure what the Bishop
hoped to gain. For now, he was willing to accept support where he could find
it, but he thought that having to listen to an interminable sermon upon
brotherhood was a high price, indeed, to pay for that support.
Only one of the windows was unshuttered; the chamber seemed very stuffy to
Gruffydd. As the Bishop droned on, he actually found himself dozing off. He
hastily gulped the last of his mead, but it did not seem to help. He'd begun
to sweat, tasted salt on his upper lip. How hot it had become! Mayhap he ought
to open another window. But when he rose to his feet, he discovered, to his
astonishment, that his legs would not support him. He sank back weakly in his
chair, and the Bishop gave him a look of sudden concern.
"Gruffydd, are you ill?"
"I... I am not sure. I feel strange, in truth . . ." It took an effort to form
the words, to get them out without slurring. The Bishop was leaning across the
table, asking if he wanted to lie down. He did, craved nothing so much as to
sink into a deep, deep sleep. He sought desperately to clear his head of
cobwebs, to get his thoughts back into coherent order, but it was hard, so
hard. The Bishop was looking alarmed. Davydd, too, was watching him. He was
standing near a wall sconce; his eyes caught the light, seemed to take on
golden glints. Cat eyes, intent, unblinking. King John's eyes.
Gruffydd's gasp was audible to both men. He swung around, stared at tne bed.
His eyes darted to his empty wine cup, back up to Davydd's ""passive face.
"Christ, you poisoned us!"
The Bishop recoiled. "Mother of God," he whispered, staring in horror at his
own wine cup.
'No," Davydd said, "not poison." His denial did not even register ^"h
Gruffydd. Lurching to his feet, he fumbled for his sword. He "lanaged to get
it free of his scabbard, but almost lost his balance, reeling
132
back against the table. The trestle boards separated, overturning the tablethe
Bishop scrambled clear just in time. Davydd had not moved. He stood watching
as Gruffydd staggered toward him, two steps, three. But then Gruffydd's knees
were buckling. The sword slipped from his numbed fingers, clattered to the
floor. Gruffydd's last awareness was of falling, of plummeting down into the
dark.
Davydd crossed the chamber, picked up the sword. He knelt then by Gruffydd's
body, unsheathed his dagger. The Bishop still stood as if frozen, made mute by
shock. Davydd straightened up, moved swiftly to the window, and beckoned.
Within moments, one of his men had answered his summons. He did not even
glance at the body on the floor, listened intently to Davydd's low-voiced
commands. The Bishop could catch an occasional word "... out-numbered . . .
tell them . . . their lord's life does depend upon their cooperation . . ."
And the Bishop realized that Davydd was giving orders to seize Gruffydd's men,
awaiting him in the great hall.
As the man withdrew, Davydd strode toward the bed. Owain still snored, did not
stir as Davydd bent over him, claimed his sword and dagger, found a hidden
knife in his boot. Even now, the Bishop could not help noticing how economical
Davydd's every movement was, how deliberate, not a wasted motion. He edged his
way around the wreckage of the table, moved slowly toward Gruffydd's body.
"Jesu, you . . . you killed them!" he said incredulously.
"No," Davydd said. "I gave them an uncommonly potent sleeping draught, well
laced with henbane, but not enough to kill. They're likely to feel utterly
wretched when they awaken, but they'll live." He crossed to the window again,
jerked the shutter back. Whatever he saw seemed to give him satisfaction. He
said, almost inaudibly, "It is done, then."
The Bishop knelt by Gruffydd, with some difficulty managed to turn him over
onto his back. Gruffydd's breathing was heavy, stentorian, but the Bishop's
searching fingers found a steady pulse, and he sighed with relief. He was
still struggling with disbelief, for it was inconceivable to him that anyone
would dare to defy the Church. "Have you gone mad? Do you not realize what
you've done? Jesus God, you swore a holy oath that you'd not harm him!"
Davydd turned from the window. "I lied," he said.
The Bishop's jaw dropped. Gruffydd was forgotten. What was a stake now was far
more important than the fate of one man, it was tne very authority of the
Church. "You'll be damned for this, damned f"r all eternity! That I swear, by
all I hold sacred in this life. I shall see » it, shall excommunicate you
myself!"
333
Davydd nodded slowly. "Do what you must, my lord Bishop," he
said- "Just as I must."
ALTHOUGH she had been the lady of the manor for almost six months, Isabella
still did not feel completely comfortable dwelling in Llewelyn's shadow. That
was particularly true here at Dolwyddelan, which had been Llewelyn's favorite
residence. Even now, she found herself halfexpecting him to enter, demand to
know what she and Davydd were doing in his private chamber.
In fact, the room still looked much as it had when Llewelyn and Joanna had
lived in it, for Isabella had made but one change, replacing Joanna's old
settle with one of finely carved oak. Davydd was slouched upon it now, idly
strumming a small harp. He played well, as he did most things, but Isabella
doubted that his mind was upon his music. He had the remote, inward look that
was all too familiar to her, that so effectively shielded his thoughts, shut
her out.
Isabella had a cushion cover spread across her lap; ostensibly, she was
occupied in embroidering an elaborate floral design. But her needle remained
poised over the linen. She was actually engaged in watching her husband,
casting him covert, troubled glances whenever she thought he wasn't looking.
After a time, he caught her at it. Their eyes locked. "You might as well say
it, Isabella," he said, and she flushed, bent hastily over her sewing.
"I'm sure youyou had good reasons for what you did, Davydd. But..." She bit
her lip, let her words trail off.
Davydd finished the thought for her. "But it was less than honorable," he said
softly.
Isabella looked up quickly, but she could not tell if he was mocking her or
not. She lowered her gaze to her embroidery, began to stitch. Needlework was
one of her proudest accomplishments. Yet now she welded her needle so
awkwardly that soon she drew blood. Davydd had resumed playing, a lively,
buoyant little melody that seemed an tfonic selection under the circumstances.
A tear suddenly splashed upon Isabella's wrist. She and Davydd had been wed
for ten years. She thought erself to be far more fortunate than most wives,
for Davydd never maltreated her. He begrudged her nothing. They rarely
quarreled. But ey were strangers to each other. She knew no more of the
secrets of ms heart than he did of hers.
^he was relieved when the Lord Ednyved was announced a few er>ts later. "I'll
leave you alone to talk," she said, once greetings
134
had been exchanged. Mayhap Davydd could unburden himself to Ednyved, his
father's friend, as he could not to her. Did he even feel such a need? She did
not know.
As soon as the two men were alone, Ednyved's smile faded. "I think," he said
tersely, "that you'd best find yourself another Seneschal."
Davydd had been about to rise. He sat back on the settle, his eyes searching
the older man's face. "I see," he said. "So you, too, want to talk of honor."
"No, not honorhonesty! If you could not trust me enough to confide in me, how
can I continue to serve you?"
"I would trust you with my very life," Davydd said, so simply that some of
Ednyved's anger began to ebb.
"Then why did you not tell me what you meant to do?"
"Because I knew what my action would cost me. No man defies the Church with
impunity. Had you been involved, the curse of excommunication would have
fallen upon you, too."
Ednyved expelled his breath. Mollified, he stepped forward, straddled a chair.
"If we are going to work together, lad, you'll have to curb these motherly
instincts of yours," he said, and Davydd laughed.
"Need I explain myself, Ednyved?" he asked, felt an intense surge of relief
when Ednyved shook his head. "If you do understand, you may be the only man in
Christendom who does. Tell me, do you remember that Saracen saying you brought
back from the Holy Land, something about tigers?"
Ednyved looked bemused, but nodded. "Not Saracen, though; men said it was a
folk wisdom from Cathay: He who rides a tiger dares not dismount. Is that the
one you had in mind?"
"The very one," Davydd said. There was something about the tilt of his head,
the sudden, self-mocking grin that took Ednyved by surprise. For a fleeting
moment, he so resembled his father that Ednyved's eyes filled with tears. He
blinked them away, but made no attempt to hide them. He felt no shame;
Llewelyn was worth grieving for.
Davydd was watching him. "You are thinking of my father," he said, and he
leaned forward, put his hand on Ednyved's arm. "I cannot fail him, Ednyved. No
matter what it costs, I must keep faith with him ... I must!"
Ednyved had never heard him sound so impassioned; emotion was an indulgence
Davydd rarely allowed himself. "You do know," he asked/ "that it is not over?"
"Christ, yes." Davydd rose, moved restlessly toward the hearth"There will be
those to make of Gruffydd a martyr, to" He stopped' frowning, then crossed
quickly to the window.
Below, the bailey was in turmoil. Men were crowding about, dog"
335
barking Several of Davydd's teulu, his household guard, had surrounded an
intruder, who was struggling to break free Davydd shoved the shutter aside
"Let him go," he said sharply He did not wait to be sure his command would be
obeyed, took that for granted Turning back to Ednyved, he said, "It is Llelo "
They could now hear footsteps thudding on the outer stairs A moment later,
Llelo burst into the chamber He was muddied and disheveled, so out of breath
that he had to lean against the door "Is it true7" he demanded "Did you take
my father prisoner7"
"Yes "
Llelo moved forward into the room "You swore a holy oath to his safety, swore
upon the surety of your soul1 How could you break such an oath7 Do you truly
think he would approve of such a betrayal7"
There was no need for Davydd to ask who he was "I do not know, Llelo," he
admitted "I can only hope he would have understood "
Llelo's eyes narrowed "Well, I do not understand," he said bitterly "I will
never understandor forgive1"
Ednyved got stiffly to his feet "Davydd knew he would be excommunicated, Llelo
But he was willing to nsk eternal damnation to put an end to this dangerous
war "
Llelo looked at him, then away "My name is Llewelyn, not Llelo " His eyes
flicked back to his uncle's face "I want to see my father," he said "So does
my lady mother "
Davydd's gaze did not waver "No, lad, I cannot allow that Not yet"
Llelo's breath quickened "You lured my father and brother into a trap What of
me7 Do you mean to impnson me, too7"
Davydd shook his head "No You are free to go "
Llelo was at a loss, even let-down He'd been expecting hostility, not honesty,
found it disconcerting and somewhat bewildering to have Davydd treat him not
as an enemy, but as an adult Defiant, confused, desperately unhappy, he began
to back toward the door, keeping his eyes upon Davydd all the while "You've
not won," he said, horrified to find his voice was no longer under his control
"You'll be sorry for 'his, I swear it'"
Not surprisingly, Llelo slammed the door behind him The two men
°oked at each other in silence   Ednyved finally moved to the table
icking up a wme flagon, he said, "In just a year and a half, Llelo will
fourteen When Llewelyn was fourteen, he celebrated his new-found
food by beginning a civil war You do know that you are taking a nsk with that
lad7"
s' I know But some risks are worth the taking " he H     ^ve(^ paused in the
act of pouring wine Until that moment, n°t known that Davydd, too, looked
upon Llelo as a potential heir
r 'i
136
137
"Have you never thought of divorcing your wife?" he asked, quietK enough not
to offer offense. "Another woman might be able to give y0 a son."
Davydd shrugged. "Another man might be able to give Isabella a son."
Ednyved's brows rose. Even though all knew of women whose first marriages were
barren, second marriages blessed with babes, conventional wisdom still faulted
the wife, not the husband, for failure tc produce an heir. "Why are you so
sure that the problem lies with you and not Isabella?"
Davydd took one of the wine cups. "I lay with my first womar when I was nigh
on sixteen. In less than two months, I will be thirtytwo. And in all those
years, Ednyved, no woman of mine has ever gotter with child. When we breed
horses, if a stallion fails to get his mares ir foal, we find another
stallion. But when a marriage is barren, we fine another wife."
Another silence fell. Ednyved's eyes had softened. Reaching over he clinked
his wine cup against Davydd's in a rueful, mock salute. "You do not ever
believe in taking the easy way, do you, lad?"
Davydd gave him a taut smile. "You've noticed that, have you7' He drank
deeply, staring into his cup as if it held answers, not wine "It was not
enough to cage Gruffydd. As long as he lives, he will be a threat, a rallying
point for rebels and malcontents. I should put him tc death, Ednyved. I know
that. And yet knowing is somehow not enough For Christ help me, but I cannot
do it."
10
Shrewsbury, England
August 1241
I
B,
OY the time they rode through the gatehouse and into the abbey precincts,
Senena was taut with apprehension. r° so many months she had labored
ceaselessly with but one °bJectivehin mindto gain her husband's freedomand now
that it seemed w.
ach, she was suddenly terrified that something might go wrong at the I st
moment, that the English King might refuse her plea.
Ralph and Gwladys de Mortimer were waiting for her by the entraflce t° *ne
§uest house, but Senena was too preoccupied for courtesy. She ignored Gwladys,
and as Ralph came forward to help her dismount, he said abruptly, "Has the
English King arrived yet?"
"No, he is not expected till noon. But Walter Clifford, Roger de Uontalt, and
the Princes of Powys are within, waiting for you."
Senena beckoned to the nearest of her servants. "See to the unpacking." But
before she could enter the hall, Llelo slid from his saddle, ran toward her.
"May I come with you, Mama?"
"No," she said, turning away.
Senena's youngest brother, Einion, winced, for Llelo was thirteen, old enough,
in Einion's opinion, to be permitted some small part in his father's rescue.
But Einion was only twenty himself, and had too cheerful, too placid a nature
to relish crossing wills with his sharp-tongued elder sister. He gave his
nephew an apologetic pat upon his shoulder, followed Senena and Ralph de
Mortimer into the hall.
Einion was not the only one to sympathize with Llelo. Gwladys was finding it
harder and harder to overlook Senena's indifference to her second son. She had
never been shy to speak her mind, but she was too well-mannered to make a
public scene. Recriminations could wait; Llelo's need could not.
Llelo had watched until his mother entered the hall, then turned back to check
upon his little brothers. Both children had long since fallen asleep, did not
stir even as servants lifted them from the horse litter. It puzzled Llelo that
his mother should have wanted them here for her meeting with the English King,
but he was too grateful to question the whys and wherefores of his
deliverance, so great had been his fear that he'd be left behind in Llyn.
Gwladys had come to stand beside him. "Whilst Ralph meets with your lady
mother, shall we take a walk into the town?" she suggested, wd was rewarded
with a radiant smile. Their ride through Shrewsbury lad been too rapid for
Llelo to see very much, and he was eager to e"plore the town at closer range.
He'd had no experience with towns; *ere were none in North Wales.
Llelo was fascinated by the bridge that spanned the River Severn,
massive structure of red grit stone, complete with heavy drawbridge
1 portcullis; most Welsh rivers had to be forded. "The English must
j ^ery rich," he marveled, as they turned into the street Gwladys called
everywhere Llelo looked, he saw sights to astonish. The streets
138
were very narrow, shadowed by the over-hanging stories of timberframed houses,
and they were packed with people, more people than he'd ever seen in all his
life. Gwladys told him that Shrewsbury held nigh on two thousand inhabitants,
a figure that seemed impossibly vast to Llelo. When his aunt laughed and said
London had a population more than ten times the size of Shrewsbury, Llelo
could only shake his head in disbelief.
If London was truly so immense, he did not care to see it. As little as he
liked to admit it, he was not comfortable amidst so many people They crowded
about him, jabbing him with their elbows, smelling of sweat and sour ale,
assailing his ears with their loud, incomprehensible babble. It disconcerted
him to discover that the citizens of Shrewsbury spoke a tongue entirely alien
to him, for he'd studied Norman-French for fully five years.
"Many speak French, too," Gwladys explained. "For certes, the provosts and
merchants do. But English has remained the language of the common people.
Passing strange; it ought to have died out by now. It is nigh on two hundred
years, after all, since William the Bastard defeated the Saxon thanes. French
is undoubtedly a far more cultured tongue, but it is useful, too, to know some
English, for the peasants cling to it so. My husband speaks it; so do most of
the Marcher lords. None of their kings have, of course, but Henry plans to
have his son tutored in English. He . . ."
Llelo was no longer listening. The crowds were parting, men squeezing up
against the stalls that lined both sides of the street. When Llelo saw why
they were retreating, he, too, shrank back. Two black-garbed figures had come
into view, shaking latten clappers to warn of their approach; never had Llelo
heard a sound so doleful.
Gwladys made the sign of the cross. "Lepers," she said and shuddered. "Poor
souls. At least they fare better in Shrewsbury than in many places. They have
a lazar house beyond the abbey grounds, and King John granted them a portion
of all flour sold in St Alkmund's market.
"Poor souls," Llelo echoed softly, thankful that their cowled hoods shadowed
their faces, hid their ravaged flesh.
Gwladys was fumbling in a small leather pouch that swung fr°ffl her belt.
Withdrawing a few coins, she walked toward the two lepers Llelo felt a surge
of pride as his aunt calmly wished them Good Morrow* dropped the coins into
their alms cup.
Unfortunately, she then found herself besieged by beggarsscattered a handful
of pennies into their outstretched palms, then mov on. Her servants kept the
beggars at a respectful distance, but continued to trail after her, pleading
their poverty in loud, import11 ^ voices. Llelo was shocked at their numbers,
for beggars were ?a
139
Wales/ where every man's hearth was open to those passing by and the Icinship
of the clan was a sacred trust.
To Llelo, the most unnerving aspect of Shrewsbury was its noise, fhurch bells
pealed out the hour, summoning Christ's faithful to High Mass, tolling
mournful "passing bells" for dying parishioners. Men wandered the streets
shouting "Hot meat pies" and "Good ale," seeking to ntice customers into
cook-shops and ale-houses. Itinerant peddlers hawked their goods, offering
nails, ribbons, potions to restore health, to bestir lust. People gathered in
front of the cramped, unshuttered shops/ arguing prices at the tops of their
voices. Heavy carts creaked down the street, their lumbering progress signaled
by loudly cracking whips. Dogs darted underfoot, and pigs rooted about in the
debris dumped in the center gutter. Apprentices, pilgrims, cripples dragging
about on crutches and wooden legs, would-be thieves, Shropshire villagers come
to watch the King's procession to the castle, people come to trade at St
Alkmund's weekly market, an occasional Black Friarit was all rather
intimidating to a youngster country born and bred.
Gwladys seemed to sense Llelo's unease, for she began to talk, telling him
that his grandfather had captured Shrewsbury in 1215, that the red and gold
lions of Gwynedd had flown from the battlements of Shrewsbury's royal castle.
"He rode right up this very laneknown to some as Gomsall Street, to others as
Haystrete. The provosts were awaiting him at the stone cross, offered to
surrender if he'd warrant the townspeople's safety, which he did, Llelo." She
caught herself, too late, smiled ruefully. "I did forget againLlewelyn."
Llelo shrugged, unoffended by her lapse. At least she tried, which was more
than the rest of his family did. The knowledge that Shrewsbury had been
conquered by his grandfather was a sudden source of comfort, and he looked
about with renewed confidence. To his left lay an open stretch of ground, a
dark, foul-smelling pond. A crowd had gathered at the water's edge, and Llelo
gasped at what he saw nowa man trussed up with rope, bound to a wooden plank,
about to be lowered into the pond.
"Jesu! Aunt Gwladys, look! They mean to drown that man!"
Gwladys merely laughed. "No, just a good dousing. When a brewer , |-au8ht
watering down his ale, or a baker weighing his loaves too
8 tly, the culprit is dragged to the ducking pond for a quick, albeit wet-
chastisement."
c ^°w 'hat he knew the man was in no danger, Llelo watched with the erak'e
interest as he was pulled, sputtering and choking, from ShamiiJ P°nd- A sudden
stench warned that they were nearing the atten,. es/ *he butchers' row, but as
they passed a narrow alley, Llelo's Was caught by a woman lounging in an open
doorway. What
140
first drew his eye was her spill of wind-blown, bright hair; only yourig girls
went bare-headed in public, yet this woman wore neither veil not wimple. Nor
had Llelo ever seen hair the color of hers, a harsh, rnetallic gold, a shade
never intended by nature. She was drinking from a wine. skin, beckoned to a
discomfited passer-by, and made a lewd gesture when the man continued on his
way.
Llelo's eyes widened. He forgot his manners, stared openly, never having seen
a harlot before. He kept craning his neck, glancing over his shoulder, so
intent upon keeping the whore in view that he walked right into a pig, almost
fell over the animal's back. Gwladys laughed and he flushed, then grinned
self-consciously, wondering if she'd noticed the whore, too.
"And that is known as Grope Lane," Gwladys said dryly, "for obvious reasons.
There are other streets that have bawdy houses, too, but Grope Lane has more
than its share." f
Llelo knew, of course, that there were Welsh whores, too, "women of the bush
and brake." But he'd not known that there were houses for whores, that English
harlots lived together just as nuns did. The cornparison was so unexpected, so
ludicrous, that his embarrassment yielded to amusement, and he began to laugh.
Gwladys stopped a peddler, bought Llelo an apple. "You missed your aunt Elen
by one day, I fear. She and Rob de Quincy came to Shrewsbury to talk to my
husband; Elen hoped to persuade him not to take part in the coming campaign,
not to pledge his support to Gruffydd. But she had no more success with Ralph
than she had with King Henry. When she could not sway Ralph, she and Rob
departed for the White Ladies Priory, to the north of here, where they will
wait for word on the war's outcome."
Llelo was keenly disappointed, for he'd not seen Elen since his grandfather's
funeral. He hastily looked away, but not in time; Gwladys saw.
"She did not know Senena was bringing you, Llewelyn, else she'd have waited.
Elen is right fond of you."
He very much wanted to believe that, but he was learning to live with doubts.
He said nothing, ate the last of the apple, and threw the core to the
scavenging pig. They turned into the Shambles, walked i"r a time in silence.
"There." Gwladys pointed. "That is the cross where the Prov°? waited for your
grandfather, where we will await Henry's arrival, provosts and the town's
common council are already gathering.      ^
Llelo barely glanced their way. His enthusiasm for Shrewsbury its marvels was
fast waning. So swiftly had his mood soured tha
141
, jt oniy guilt, how could he take such pleasure in trifles when so much as at
stake7 "Nothing is more important than freeing my father from Cricieth
Castlenothing'"
Gwladys nodded, waited, and at last he said, very low, "But but was there not
another way to do it7 My grandfather fought all his life to keep the English
out of Wales And now an English army is about to nvade Gwyneddat my mother's
invitation "
Gwladys did not know what to tell him Her father would have been appalled by
what Senena meant to do She was not even sure that Gruffydd would approve And
she knew why the Marcher lords were allying themselves with Senena Roger de
Montalt, Walter Clifford, her own husbandthey all stood to gam by Davydd's
defeat A weakened, divided Gwynedd was what the other Welsh Princes sought,
too They had not shared the dream of Llewelyn Fawr, his belief that for Wales
to retain its independence, it must be united The Princes had long chafed at
Gwynedd's dominance, hoped now to restore the balance of power among the Welsh
principalities
"I'll not lie to you, lad," she said slowly "Yes, your mother is taking a
great risk But to whom could she go if not to the English King7 And in truth,
I find it hard to fault her for it, for I, too, want Gruffydd freed "
Llelo nodded He understood quite clearly that this might be his father's only
chance for freedom But he could not stifle an uneasy suspicion that Gruffydd's
good and Gwynedd's good might not be one and the same "It is just that I know
what Grandpapa would have said, that we are inviting a wolf in to protect our
herd from foxes "
Gwladys did not dispute him "Desperate needs require desperate remedies," she
said and sighed "And loyalties what a tangled coil they make I am a Welshwoman
wed to a Norman-French lord, have borne him five children Am I Llewelyn Fawr's
daughteror Ralph de Mortimer's wife7 Sister to Gruffyddor to Davydd7 I would
to God I knew "
There was a sudden stir in the crowd gathered about the cross One
°f the provosts, recognizing Ralph de Mortimer's lady, sauntered over
explam the raised voices, the rumblings of discontent "Some of them
claim they heard a trumpet fanfare, whilst others insist they are but
Chiding themselves Tempers are growing short, it has been a long
' ur>der a hot sun That loud-mouthed blacksmith wants someone ° cumb the
cross, keep watch for the King, but he can find no one
,Je enoughor sober enoughto attempt it "
,/ wdl," Llelo said promptly, and the provost grinned bem       ^ ^'" ^e s
'a      before Gwladys could object, Llelo was
8 ushered toward the cross, where he was at once surrounded by
242
approving Englishmen. He could not understand their speech, but their smiles
needed no translation. Within moments, he was boosted onto the blacksmith's
shoulders, scrambled up onto the cross.
The sun was shining directly into his eyes, and Llelo clung with one hand,
raised the other to shield the glare. The houses blocked most of his view of
Shrewsbury's streets, but he could see beyond to the river see the long,
serpentine line that wound its way up the Abbey Foregate Chain-mail armor was
not meant for long rides, and the chivalric code had been amended accordingly,
adding the caveat that it was not honorable to attack a knight unless he was
fully armed, thus freeing men of the need to spend stifling hours in the
saddle. But Henry had wanted his entry into Shrewsbury to be a memorable one,
and his knights were clad in sun-blinding mail, brilliantly colored surcoats.
Heralded by highflying, bright silk banners, by trumpets and pipes, the
English army stretched as far as Llelo's eye could see. It took his breath,
raised a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the summer sun.
He abandoned his perch so hastily that he almost fell, would have if not for
the blacksmith's quick reflexes. Sliding to the ground, he said, "They come,"
and when the provost translated from French to English, the spectators raised
a cheer.
Whatever argument there might be about Henry's abilities, all conceded that he
was in appearance an ideal king. He wore a rich red gown, a jewel-encrusted
hat, seemed impervious to heat and dust. Elegant and urbane, he showed no
impatience with their slow progress through the crowded streets. Henry thrived
upon pageantry and panoply, enjoyed the ceremonial aspects of kingship far
more than he did the actual exercise of power.
As Henry approached the cross, he saw the provosts, ready to welcome him into
Shrewsbury. But then he abruptly drew rein. "Lady de Mortimer," he said, and
the people looked at Gwladys with sudden interest, that she should be signaled
out for the King's notice.
"Your Grace, may I present my nephew, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd?'
Prompted by Gwladys, Llelo came forward, knelt in the dusty street. "Ah, the
Lady Senena's son," Henry said and smiled. Llelo could find nothing to say. He
stared mutely at the English King, unable to think,
to see anything but that endless column snaking its way across
the
Shropshire countryside: knights, men-at-arms, supply carts, siege weapons. My
God, Mama, he thought. My God, what have you done?
HENRY was particular about his accommodations, and those at the cas were not
to his liking. He chose, instead, to stay at the Benedic abbey of St Peter and
St Paul, in the Abbot's private domicile
istle
143
household had to be lodged, too, and the abbey was soon filled to capacity So,
too, were the castles and inns, as Shrewsbury sought to absorb the King's army
Henry met several times in the days that followed with Senena, the Marcher
lords, and the Princes of Powys and Deheubarth But Senena refused to satisfy
Llelo's curiosity Once it was settled, she said, she would explain everything
to him, and Llelo had to be content with that grudging promise
He saw no reason, though, why he should not seek to ferret out facts for
himself, and he soon discovered that his youth and nationality offered
unsurpassed opportunities for spying He could mingle with Henry's lords,
eavesdropping with impunity, for on the rare occasions when he was challenged,
he need only look blank, mumble in Welsh, and he was once more invisible
He was frustrated, though, by what he heard, for the English lords showed
little interest in discussing the captive Welsh Pnnce or his hostile
half-brother Instead, they passed the hot August days gossiping about Simon de
Montfort and the Lady Eleanor of Brittany, cousin to the King Llelo knew Simon
de Montfort had gone on crusade to the Holy Land Now he learned that a great
honor had been conferred upon him there He had so distinguished himself that
the barons, knights, and citizens of the kingdom of Jerusalem had petitioned
the Holy Roman Emperor to have Simon act as Governor of their realm Llelo's
memones of the Lady Nell had become rather blurred and misty with time, but he
still remembered her low laugh, the way she'd turn all heads upon entering a
room, and he felt mildly pleased that her husband had won such acclaim
The news about the Lady Eleanor was altogether different, spoke not of earthly
honors, but of man's mortality, for she had recently died at Bnstol Castle,
where she'd been confined for decades Llelo did not understand why a highborn
woman, first cousin to the King, should have been a captive, and he'd gone to
Gwladys for enlightenment From her, he learned that the Lady Eleanor and her
brother, Arthur, had been John's only rivals for the English Crown When they'd
fallen into John's ar|ds, Arthur had vanished into one of John's castles,
never to be seen Sam, and Eleanor had been sent to England For thirty-nine
years, she , "een kept in comfortable confinement, at various royal castles,
first J John and then by Henry, until finally freed by death Llelo was f ky
her sad story, for he could not help envisioning the same
Iate for his father
Grufk       War|dered about the abbey grounds, alert for any mention of
^Rh         ^6'° 'earned that Henry's lords did not hold their King in
s eem They thought him erratic of purpose, too easily swayed,
144
too indulgent a husband. Llelo soon determined that Henry's foreign Queen had
found little favor with his subjects, that they blamed her however unfairly,
for many of Henry's shortcomings. Generosity was expected of every great lord,
but Henry's English barons faulted him for that very virtue, resented how
lavishly he'd bestowed largesse upon Eleanor's kindred. He'd managed to have
one of her uncles chosen as Archbishop of Canterbury, had conferred the
earldom of Richmond upon another uncle. As there were six more uncles to be
provided for, it was questionable which would be exhausted first, the patience
of Henry's barons or the royal treasury.
But there was no talk of the forthcoming war. The English treated the Welsh
campaign with insulting indifference. They acted as if Davydd's defeat were a
foregone conclusion, as if Henry had only to cross into Wales to bring Davydd
to heel. And Llelo made a disconcerting discovery, that he did not want to see
a Welsh Prince humbled before an English Kingeven Davydd, his uncle, his
enemy.
At supper in the Abbot's hall on the third night after Henry's arrival, the
King announced that he had reached an accord with the Lady Senena, and amidst
laughter and cheering, men raised their wine cups high, drank to Gruffydd's
freedom, to Davydd's defeat.
Llelo had hoped his mother would now honor her promise, but no sooner was
supper over than she disappeared into her chamber with her brother and Ralph
de Mortimer. Llelo restlessly roamed the monastery grounds, seeking to keep
boredom at bay. He paid a visit to the stables, then wandered down to the
abbey water mill, but the monks were gone, the sluice gate in place. He ended
up in the gardens by the abbey pool, lying on his stomach by the water's edge,
listening to the twilight sounds of summer: frogs, crickets, the sharp chack
of jackdaw, the cooing of woodpigeons. An occasional splash made him wish he
had a fishing pole, but the monks would hardly be happy were he to poach their
carp. After a time, he fell asleep in the grass.
He was awakened by voices close at hand. He started to sit up, recognized one
of the voices just in time. Cautiously he wriggled toward a blackthorn hedge,
found a viewing hole amidst the spiny branches. They were standing in a circle
of moonlight: the English King; his Chancellor, John Mansel; Queen Eleanor's
unpopular uncle, the new Earl or Richmond; a fourth man Llelo could not
identify.
From their conversation, it appeared the stranger had just arrive"1 at the
abbey. Henry called him Richard, called him brother, and tha caused Llelo some
confusion, for he knew the King's brother Richa"* was in the Holy Land, like
Simon de Montfort. As they talked, howe^e, the boy was able to sort it out, to
realize that this man was Richard
245
o0y, one of King John's numerous illegitimate sons Richard Fitz Roy had
occasionally been to the Welsh court, for he'd been close to the Lady Joanna,
his sister Llelo remembered now that he held a barony Kent, King John had
always done well by his bastards But it appeared to be another futile
eavesdropping endeavor, for Henry and Richard Fitz Roy were not discussing the
campaign, were talking, instead, of their brother-by-marnage, Simon de
Montfort
Henry was telling Richard that Simon would not be accepting the governorship
of Jerusalem, would be returning to England, at which point John Mansel
muttered, "More's the pity "
The other men laughed, but Henry said mildly, "You must admit, John, that it
was an uncommon honor they paid Simon For certes, he does make an impression
upon men, is not one to pass unnoticed "
"He sees to that," Mansel said caustically "There is no one who values Simon's
abilities more than Simon "
"Well, he has reason for pride," Henry said, and Llelo, listening, thought
he'd never heard a man defended with so little conviction It grew quiet then
Llelo scratched himself trying to peer through the blackthorn tangle, at last
risked a quick glance around the hedge John Mansel and the Earl of Richmond
had withdrawn, Henry and Richard were standing several feet away
"Well7" Richard asked "Did you agree to aid Senena7"
"Yes," Henry said "She is a remarkable woman, that one "
"She is a bitch," Richard said flatly "She gave our Joanna naught but grief,
I've not forgotten So tell me What did she promise7 Or more to the point, what
did you promise7"
Henry chuckled "She is to pay me six hundred marks I have promised to free
Gruffydd and their son Owam She agrees that England shall determine what
share, if any, Gruffydd should have received of his father's inheritance She
agrees, on Gruffydd's behalf, to pay the Crown three hundred marks a year if
he is restored to his half of Gwynedd And as her pledges, she offers no less
than three Marcher lords and five Welsh Princes "
"She could offer the Lord Chnst Himself as a pledge and I'd still
JW believe her I know Gruffydd, know how he hates the English
nena could swear in her own blood and it would avail her naught,
enry You cannot believe he'll hold to this agreement once he is free7"
th         ena realized I would have my suspicions She sought to allay
"} °y agreeing to yield up her younger sons as hostages " ast      karc* drew
an audible breath "She actually agreed to that? You \yei s" rne, m truth It
is not that many years, after all, since those hostages were hanged at
Nottingham."
146
IT
"A deed ill done," Henry said indignantly, "and one that shamed our father,
both as King and as Christian. But are you suggesting I would ever do the
same? I would never harm a child, never!"
"Of course you would not. I know that, Henry, for I know you well. But Senena
does not. How could she be sure?"
Henry's anger fa'ded as quickly as it had flared. "I suppose," he said, "that
it is a measure, then, of her desperation, that she did agree Gruffydd is
lucky, indeed, to have so devoted a wife."
"Henry . . . ere we go in, there is something I would say to you. i understand
why you have agreed to intervene on Gruffydd's behalf. Once Davydd had
Gruffydd securely caged, he balked at honoring the arbitration agreement.
Morever, this is a rare chance to regain all we lost to Llewelyn Fawr. A great
man, few would deny it. Fortunately for England he was also mortal; a far
easier task it is to confront the lion-whelp than the lion. But I do have
qualms about this deal you have struck with Senena. I may sound an utter
innocent for saying so, but I cannot help remembering that Davydd is Joanna's
son."
Henry smiled. "There is no shame, Richard, in that. Indeed, I value you all
the more for such feelings. You may rest assured that I share your sentiments.
Davydd needs to be taught a sharp lesson. But I would not see our sister's son
brought to ruin if it could be avoided, and I think it can."
They were moving away, their voices growing fainter. Still, Llelo did not
move. He'd dropped down upon the ground, lay for a time with his face pressed
into the grass. As the men withdrew, a starling whistled shrilly; its mate
answered. Soon the garden air was alive again with the sounds of the night.
Llelo was deaf to it all, seemed to hear only the wild, erratic beating of his
own heart.
The stables, laundry, brew-house, bake-house, and kitchen were ranged together
just to the north of the abbey pool and gardens. When Llelo rose, he moved
instinctively in that direction. The few people he encountered never even
glanced his way; he found it very easy to sneak into the huge, stone chamber
where the abbey cooking was done It was deserted; the monks had long since
retired, for they would rise for Matins at 2:00 A.M. Llelo tripped over a
large mortar and pestle, bumped bruisingly into an enormous empty cauldron. He
froze in fear, but none heard the noise. Finding a hemp sack upon the chopping
block, he began methodically to fill it with food: large cheeses, apples and
pears, even a jar of plum jelly. He then moved on to the abbey bake-house,
where he took loaf after loaf of freshly baked bread, manchet for Henry an his
lords, maslin for the monks. In a last gesture of sudden defiance/ he
appropriated an entire plateful of angel's-bread, wafers baked e pressly for
the English King.
Until now, he'd acted without conscious deliberation, as if water
247
from a distance as his other self stuffed the sack with pilfered food But s he
gazed across the garth, saw the lights burning in the abbey guest house, his
shield cracked, and he began to tremble He knew, as did all the Welsh, of the
hangings at Nottingham Castle Twenty-eight hostages had died that day,
dangling from a makeshift gallows in the middle bailey/ died at King John's
command Only Llewelyn's sixteen-year-old son had been spared, only Gruffydd
Llelo knew, too, of the other hanging Another Welsh hostage, the
seven-year-old son of Pnnce Maelgwn ap Rhys He'd died that same August, before
Shrewsbury's stone cross, died because the English King had willed it so
The guest house was filled to capacity, and men were milling about m the great
hall, upon the stairs But none paid heed to youngsters, Llelo passed unnoticed
up to the chamber alloted to his mother The door to her room was still shut, a
murmur of voices coming from within He wasted precious moments stanng at that
closed door, then moved into the chamber he and his brothers shared with
Einion Neither Eimon nor the children's nurses were within, the room was dark,
quiet Llelo knelt in the moonlight by Davydd's pallet, looked down at the
sleeping child
"Llelo7" Davydd yawned, gave his brother a sleepy smile "You woke me up," he
said, but without reproach His eyes alighted upon the sack "What is that7 Are
you going away7"
Llelo nodded, and Davydd yawned again "Where7 Can I go, too7"
For a mad moment, Llelo actually considered it But Davydd was only three and
Rhodn not yet two His throat too tight for speech, he shook his head As young
as he was, Davydd was remarkably strongwilled, given to tantrums when his
wishes were thwarted Now, however, he was too sleepy to protest "When will you
be back7 Tomorrow7"
Llelo did not answer Fumbling with Elen's crucifix, he jerked it from his
neck, pulled it over his brother's head "I'm sorry," he whispered, "so sorry
"Why7" But Davydd was admiring his new possession, not really listening Llelo
reached into the sack, drew out two sugared wafers
"Here," he said huskily "Keep these for when you awake, one is
01 Rhodn " He dared not remain longer At the door, he looked back, m ^e to see
Davydd secrete a wafer under his pillow, begin to munch contentedly upon the
other one
The abbey gatehouse was closed, but Llelo had noticed a small
Postern gate m the east wall Only after he unbarred the door, slipped °ugh
into the dark did he give in to his fear, begin to run He lost ab *nse of
direction or time, ran until he had no more breath, until the .     y was no
longer in view and the only light came from stars, unhl
°ugh into the dark did he give in to his fear, begin to run He lost ' ,*nse of
direction or time, ran until he had no more breath, until the y was no longer
in view and the only light came from stars, unhl as alone m the silent,
shadowed woods
11
Gwern Eigfron, North Wales
August 1241
AROM Shrewsbury, Henry and his Welsh allies rode north. After passing six days
at Chester, the English army moved into Wales. No Welsh prince could hope to
match the might of the English Crown. They depended, instead, upon the awesome
wildness of their homeland, turning their mountains into fortresses, deep
woods into barricades, rivers into moats. Davydd prepared to do battle as his
people had always done. He razed Deganwy Castle to keep it from falling into
enemy hands, made ready to withdraw into the impenetrable fastness of Eryri.
But in his time of need, he found himself forsaken not only by his Welsh
allies, but by God. For the past four months, Wales had suffered under a
severe drought. Crops shriveled in the fields; rivers that once surged were
now sluggish under a relentless sun. Lakes grew muddy, fish floated belly-up
in the shallows. Day followed day, and the sky remained bleached of color,
barren of clouds. The great marsh of Rhuddlan was no longer the vast, tidal
wetlands that had always proved such an obstacle to invasion. The English army
crossed the quagmire with such astonishing ease that Davydd was caught by
surprise, his retreat blocked by the fast-moving Welshmen of Gruffydd Maelor.
Cut off from the sheltering heights of Eryri, abandoned by his Welsh allies
and many of his own people, outnumbered and alone, facing a foe who had even
the weather on his side, Davydd yielded to the inevitable, sent Henry word
that he would come to the la tier's encampment at Gwern Eigron, there
surrender to the English King.
THURSDAY, August 29, dawned hot and very humid; the air was
utterly
still, the sky such a metallic blue-white that it hurt to look up at it. TW
moved slowly east along the coastal road, turned south at the mou ^ the River
Clwyd. If Davydd even glanced toward the English ba^ that flew over Rhuddlan
Castle, none of his men saw it. Within
149
les they reached the junction of the River Elwy. Ahead lay the English fflp
where Henry awaited them.
Ednyved raised his arm, blotted sweat with his sleeve. From the
-per of his eye, he could see his son Goronwy. His other son, Hywel,
de almost at his stirrup. No Christian was to befriend or break bread
vith an excommunicate, yet Hywel, Bishop of St Asaph, had not wavered
his loyalty to Davydd, and for that, Ednyved was very proud of his
on As their eyes met, they exchanged grim nods, each man dreading
what was to come. For Ednyved, there was an eerie sense of familiarity
bout this day, so similar did it seem to another riverside surrender,
nother Welsh Prince, another English King. He spurred his stallion
forward, caught up with Davydd.
"I have something to say to you," he said, and guided his mount away from the
path, into a shadowy grove of alder trees. Davydd followed, drew rein, and
waited.
"It was in August, too, when your father had to yield to John at Aberconwy,"
Ednyved said abruptly. "As hot as Hades it was, as hot as today. Thirty years
ago, but still like yesterday to me, so well do I remember. John had agreed to
spare Llewelyn's life. That much he would do for his daughter, but no more. He
made Llewelyn's surrender as public as possible, as humbling, as painful as he
could. And his terms were harder to swallow than wormwood and gall. He claimed
twenty thousand cattle in tribute, demanded thirty hostages and damned near
half of Gwynedd. That had to be one of the worst moments of Llewelyn's life.
But he survived it, Davydd, he learned from it, and within two years, he'd won
back all he'd been forced to yield."
Davydd's face was expressionless. "I know that," he said. "What point do you
seek to make?"
Ednyved frowned, slowly shook his head. "No point, lad." There was nothing
more he could say. Davydd had his father's courage. He had Llewelyn's dream,
his vision, possibly even his ability. But Llewelyn had one great advantage
over Davydd. He'd known how to forgive himself.
Henry's camp by the River Elwy was crowded with both Welsh and r'8lish. It was
an additional bitterness for Davydd that so many of his ^ countrymen had
fought against him. Almost at once he saw the had*8 °f Powvs' Gruffydd ap
Gwenwynwyn and Gruffydd Maelor. They
done as much as any man there to bring him to this moment, and
6 "^y was that they had been his father's enemies, not his. Gruftydd
his fWenwvnwyn had grown up in English exile, forced to flee when
Gruff*      '°St L°wer PQwys to Llewelyn a quarter century past. And
of u- ()   Maelor had nursed a grudge against Llewelyn ever since one
Gruff*      '°St L°wer PQwys to Llewelyn a quarter century past. And of ijjT
Maelor had nursed a grudge against Llewelyn ever since one r°thers had
murdered the other. Llewelyn had promptly pun-
150
ished the fratricide, and Gruffydd Maelor had neither forgotten nor forgiven
the Prince of Gwynedd's intervention into the affairs of Uppe, Powys. But
neither Prince had dared to challenge Llewelyn. They sought instead, to gain
from the son what they could never have gotten fro^ the sire. And they had,
Davydd thought. They had.
But if the Princes of Powys were enemies he'd inherited, ahead were those he'd
earned, clustered around the King of England's oaken chair. Senena's two
brothers, Einion and Gruffydd ap Caradog. The Bishop of Bangor. Senena. Her
brothers were openly gloating; the Bishop too, was showing a most unchristian
satisfaction. But there was no overt triumph upon Senena's face, only hate. It
was a potent force, Senena's hatred; Davydd could almost feel it, no less
scorching than the sun, no less implacable.
Surrounded by such intense, virulent hostility, Henry seemed almost benign by
contrast. He was grave, as befitting so solemn an occasion, but his eyes were
shining. It wasn't often that one of his political ploys met with such
unqualified success.
Dismounting, Davydd handed the reins to one of his men. He kept his eyes upon
his uncle, ignored the others as best he could. Unsheathing his sword, he
handed it to Henry, then knelt, saying in a low voice, "I submit myself to the
King's will."
Henry accepted the sword, passed it to John Mansel. His happiness had honed
his powers of observation. He saw the flicker of Davydd's eyelids, the sweat
beading his temples, the secret signs that belied his nephew's outward calm,
and he felt a nostalgic tenderness for his dead sister, a surge of pity for
her son. Rising, he said, "I think we will be more comfortable in my tent."
That was a mercy Davydd had not expected; he'd braced himself for the worst,
for the most public of humiliations. He rose, followed Henry into the tent; so
did Ednyved and John Mansel. But when Senena, the Bishop, and the Princes of
Powys would have entered, too, Henry held up his hand. "I regret there is room
only for the four of us." An English king suffered few hardships, even while
campaigning; Henry's tent was spacious enough to accommodate a bed, table,
coffers, and fuBy a score of witnesses. Before the tent flap dropped, Davydd
had a qui* glimpse of outraged faces. But for all that he had spoken
pleasantlyHenry had given a command, and they had no choice but to obey »
The coolness within the tent was a welcome relief. Henry gestuf and they
seated themselves at a trestle table of polished oak. John Man> began to fill
their cups. When Davydd tasted his, he discovered *a
hie ^ Henry had even thought to provide mead, a drink unfashionat"
England but still popular among the Welsh. Henry was watching   ^ a faint
smile playing about his mouth; he looked so expectant that
151
dd said, "Thank you " That was the best he could do, but it seemed [o satisfy
Henry
"I saw no reason," he said, "to turn your surrender into a spectacle »jow
 shall we speak freely7 You are in no position to balk at any Of my demands,
Davydd You do understand that7"
He waited, got an all but imperceptible nod of the head in reluctant
esponse "Very well, then Let me tell you what I want from you You must
surrender Mold Castle to Roger de Montalt Lower Powys is to be returned to
Gruf(Vdd ap Gwenwynwyn The cantref of Memonydd is to go to the sons of
Maredudd ap Cynan For the Crown, I am claiming the commote of Tegemgl and
Buellt Castle " He paused, anticipating objections, for Buellt Castle was
Isabella's marnage portion He did not feel comfortable about penalizing
Isabella, but Buellt was one of the most strategic castles in South Wales, too
strategic to leave in the hands of a Welsh Prince He was rather relieved,
therefore, when Davydd said
nothing
"Nor is that all, Davydd You must also assume the costs of my campaign And
lastly, you must surrender to me the castle and manor of Ellesmere in
Shropshire "
"Ellesmere was my mother's marnage portion," Davydd said, and Henry no longer
met his eyes John Mansel made haste to interrupt, for he had long ago learned
how unpredictable Henry could be If given time to reflect, he might well
decide that since he would not have taken from Joanna whilst she lived, he
could not in conscience do so now
"You must also yield up ten or more highborn hostages, my lord," he said, and
Davydd's hazel eyes focused upon him with an unblinking, almost feline
intensity But at that, Henry leaned forward
"You need not fear for them, Davydd," he said, quite earnestly They shall be
well treated, you do have my word on that "
A silence fell To Mansel, Henry's assurances were absurd, for it was the
threat that made the taking of hostages so effective a stratagem But he knew
better than to remonstrate with Henry Henry never forgot who was King, never
forgave a slight to his royal dignity The man who wanted to manipulate Henry
had to do so by indirection, had to plant s seeds and then wait patiently for
them to take root, for Henry to °nclude those first green shoots were the
fruit of his own imagination Davydd's head was throbbing There was an air of
amiable unreality this entire conversation that Henry should be savaging
Gwynedd a sirule He did not know the rules to this game Should he be *«ful
that Henry meant to shackle him by the wrists and not the neck7 hat of
Gruffydd7" he said "What happens to him7" ari(j ./e must be turned over to the
English Crown So must Owain, e other men you are keeping at Cricieth Castle "
152
Davydd had not realized he was holding his breath. "And then?"
A parchment scroll lay on the table. Henry reached for it, slid it over to
Davydd. Ednyved moved closer so he could read, too. It wav written, of course,
in Latin, and the Welsh names had been hopelessl\ mutilated in the translation
process; at the bottom of the page were attached the seals of Gruffydd,
Senena, and the English King. Davydd scanned it rapidly. "Agreement made at
Shrewsbury, on the Mor>da\ before the Assumption . . . whereby the said Senana
undertakes on behalf of Gruffino, her husband . . . that the King may deliver
the said Gruffino and Oweyn, his son, from prison . . . that the King shall
cause him to have justice, according to Welsh law . . . Senana shall give to
the King Dauid and Rather, her sons, as hostages . . ." Davydd looked up at
that. "Why not Llelo?"
"It was intended that he, too, should be a hostage. But the lac disappeared
from Shrewsbury, and Senena had no luck in finding him.'
Davydd slid the charter roll back across the table. "So Gruffydd is to have
his freedom," he said, "and half of Gwynedd, too." And try as he might, he
could not keep the bitterness from his voice.
"Well," Henry said, "that is Senena's understanding."
Davydd and Ednyved exchanged glances. "And your understanding, Uncle?"
"Such a decision cannot be made in haste. I shall need time to ponder all the
implications, the consequences, ere I can make up mj mind. And whilst we
deliberate, we think it best that Gruffydd remain in confinement. I have made
arrangements, therefore, for Sir John Lexington to escort Gruffydd and Owain
to London, to the Tower."
If Henry had expected Davydd's reaction to be one of relief or reprieve, he
was disappointed. The younger man set his wine cup down He had, Henry decided,
an unnervingly direct gaze, one that seemed to see too much. "So Gruffydd and
I both lose," he said, quite tonelessly-
GRUFFYDD ap Llewelyn was forty-five years old, and had passed eleven of those
years as a prisoner. His most comfortable confinement had been his six years
in the great keep of Deganwy Castle, for he'd been permitte the company of his
wife and children, all the material solace his weaP could provide. He'd been
treated most harshly by the English Kingcontrast to John, Davydd at least
allowed him certain basic amenities--- baths, clean clothing, mead, even a
chess set and dice. But for Gruffy   ' such favors were trifles, mere flickers
of light amidst the all-envelopes dark. Cricieth was the worst ordeal of all.
During his imprisonment in England, he'd had hatred to sus himand hope. The
young always have hope. He'd never utten)
153
paired/ never given up his belief that one day he'd be free Now         now
he stared out at the distant silhouettes of Eryn, and knew these were
the sights he'd see till the day he died, for Davydd would never let him
0 And he hated Davydd no less for his forbearance than for his treach-
hated Davydd for denying him the mercy of death
So the days had passed for him, one into the other, yesterdays
indistinguishable from tomorrows The months changed, the seasons changed,
nothing else did And then, on a morning in early September, they were awakened
before dawn, ordered to dress, and within the hour, they were riding toward a
horizon aglow with light, riding into the most vivid, vibrant sunrise Gruffydd
had ever seen
He could only conclude that they were being transferred to another of Davydd's
castles, although he did not understand why Davydd would take such a needless
risk, for his brother was no foolhad he only realized that eleven months ago,
he might not have walked so trustingly into Davydd's trap As they moved
inland, he prayed, as never before, that Senena had been foresighted enough to
keep Cncieth under surveillance But the sun rose over the mountains, they
moved through narrow ravines ideal for ambush, emerged unscathed By the time
they reached the valley of the River Lledr, Gruffydd no longer deluded
himself, knew that no rescue would be forthcoming It was up to him
Unfortunately, their guards were seasoned soldiers, cat-quick and as wary as
wolves By day's end, they'd given neither Gruffydd nor Owam opportunity for
escape They took no chances, from time to time would check their prisoners'
bonds, and they kept Gruffydd and Owain's horses on tight leads While they
stopped fairly frequently to rest in the heat of midday, they untied their
prisoners' wrists only to allow them to urinate, and then kept watch in a
circle, swords drawnalthough they'd not crowded in quite so closely after Owam
had urinated upon the nearest pair of feet But even so deliberate a
provocation had failed to crack their icy composure The men remained
tight-lipped, aloof, unfriendlyand ever watchful
Gruffydd had thought at first that Dolbadarn or Dolwyddelan would
1)6 their new prison But when they moved into the wide, wooded valley
'he River Conwy, he realized that he was to be caged again at De-
Sanwy, Deganwy, which held for him so many ghosts, so many phan-
m griefs Davydd had a hunting lodge at Trefnw, but they pressed
°n bedded down for the night by the bank of the river Gruffydd had
awake for hours, gazing up at a sky aghmmer with pinpoint lights,
^   as many stars as he had regrets The deepest regret of all lay asleep
to th e   m' moutn a)ar/ ^air s'cm m°ttled by so much sudden exposure
of o   Sun Gruffydd shifted on his blanket, at once attracting the eyes
se guards keeping a sleepless vigil Turning awkwardly on his
354
side, for he was bound hand and foot, he gazed for a long time at hi sleeping
son. Owain would never have come to Cricieth if not for him would not have
forfeited eleven months of his life had he not been sn blind, so willfully,
unforgivably blind. How could he have so misread his brother?
Before dawn, they were on the road again, reached the Cistercian abbey of
Aberconwy by mid-morning. Ahead lay the great rock of Deganwy. But the castle
Gruffydd so hated was in ruins. Blackened and scorched timber palisades lay
smoldering in the sun; the wooden build. ings within the bailey had been
burned to the ground. Gulls wheeled overhead, occasionally shrieking, but no
other sound intruded upon the eerie, death-like silence that overhung Deganwy.
Gruffydd had rarely seen a sight so desolate, or so baffling. Who had
destroyed it? And why?
Owain sought for a time to elicit answers from their taciturn guards in vain.
They moved on, once more heading into the sun. By late afternoon, they were
within sight of the walls of Rhuddlan Castle. Rhuddlan had a checkered past.
There had been a castle at the mouth of the River Clwyd for nigh on two
hundred years; it was Welsh or English according to the vicissitudes of war.
Owain's sight was keenest; he saw it first. "Jesu," he gasped. "Papa, look!"
And Gruffydd gazed upward, saw the banner flying from the castle
battlementsthree golden lions on a bloodred backgroundthe royal arms of
England.
The castle bailey was filled with men, but not the men Gruffydd expected to
see. The red and white livery of the King was everywhere present. Yet amidst
the bearded English faces were mustached Welsh ones, too. No sooner had they
ridden through the gatehouse than the Welsh surged forward; within moments,
the riders were engulfed. A babble of voices rose up around Gruffydd, an
incongruous mesh of three tongues, English, Welsh, and French. Men were
shouting his name, making of it an exultant battle cry. He looked about in
bewilderment, then saw a familiar figure shoving his way toward them: his
young brother-by-marriage. Einion was only of average height, seemed to be
struggling against a rising tide, but he finally thrust through the crowd,
grabbed at Gruffydd's boot.
His mouth was moving, but Gruffydd could not catch his wor "What are you doing
here, Einion? What has happened?"
"You are free! Senena ... she struck a deal with the English King You are both
free, Gruffydd!" ^
Owain heard enough to let out a jubilant yell. Gruffydd stared do at his
brother-in-law. "Free?" he echoed. He sounded shinned. "A*
Pri0e?" Jt   -Relieved
Einion hesitated, then said, "No higher than need be-   *
255
hen Gruffydd's guards cut their conversation off, he followed them to the hall
Let Senena be the one to tell him Not me, he thought, *0i by God, not me'
The great hall was no less crowded than the castle bailey Gruffydd's OTiards
formed a phalanx, bulled their way toward the dais Gruffydd aught a glimpse of
bright gold hair, recognized the English King He was heartened at sight of the
Princes of Powys, standing behind Henry upon the dais, he was not so
friendless as he'd first thought And then he saw his wife Even as a young
girl, Senena had never been a beauty
3ut there was such joy upon her face that she held the eye of every man in the
hall She was the acknowledged heroine of the hour, and when she started down
the dais steps toward her husband, a path at once opened for her
While she'd proven herself to be a passionate bedmate, she'd never been
demonstrative in public But now she threw her arms around Gruffydd's neck, and
when he lowered his head, she kissed him full on the mouth She embraced Owam
next, and then kissed Gruffydd again "You are safe, beloved," she murmured
"Safe at last " Her laughter was a soanng sound of triumph "And we have won,
Gruffydd, we have won1"
But belief did not come easily to Gruffydd "Is it true, Senena7 You made a
deal with the English King7"
"Yes," she said, "I did I would have bargained with the Devil himself if that
was what it took to free you "
Gruffydd looked into those luminous grey eyes, at that red mouth, no longer
laughing "The Devil demands souls," he said tautly "What does Henry want?"
She would have to tell him, of course But not now, not here "That can wait,
beloved First we must cut these bonds " She saw the protest forming on his
lipshe was nothing if not single-mindedand added hastily, "Davydd is here "
Gruffydd's eyes narrowed, swept by her, raking the hall She knew y his indrawn
breath when he'd located his brother, and she gave his arm a supportive
squeeze "In time, love," she said, "all in good time," and then she turned
back toward the English King
sh h6nena had n° m°re re8ard for the En8Ilsn tnan did Gruffydd, but w eueved m
hononng her debts, and the smile she now gave Henry i P rced, genuinely
grateful "May I borrow your dagger, my liege7
snUffydd be freed by your kmfeand my hand "
tj,e , e stretched out her arm, palm up, but Henry did not unsheathe frgg
a^er "I regret, Madame," he said, "that it will not be possible to y°ur
husbandnot just yet "
a spoken so quietly that many in the hall had not heard his
156
words. But they had only to look at Senena's face to know that something was
terribly wrong. She was suddenly ashen. "What are you saying? You promised me
that Gruffydd would be freed. You gave me your
sworn word!"
Henry had the grace to look embarrassed. "I am not saying he \vili not be
freed, Lady Senena, only that his release must be delayed. You did agree,
after all, that we were to determine his legal rights under Welsh law. Well,
that will take time. But until I can reach a decision, I will personally see
to it that your husband and son lack for no comfort
that they"
The rest of his sentence was lost. As Gruffydd's supporters realized that they
had been duped, they began to voice their shock, loudly and indignantly. Of
all the Welshmen in the hall, Gruffydd alone was not surprised. "Where?" he
demanded, his voice cutting sharply across the rising murmurs of protest.
"Where do you mean to hold me?"
There was so much raw emotion in that question that Henry winced. "London," he
mumbled, temporizing in vain, for there was not a man there who did not know
what he truly meantthe Tower.
"No!" The scream was Senena's and it acted as a catalyst, unleashed
pandemonium in the hall. The echoes of her scream were still reverberating as
Gruffydd lunged at the nearest of his guards, made a desperate grab for the
man's dagger. But they'd been anticipating just such a move, and he was
swiftly subdued. Owain, too, was struggling now, but to no avail. Some of
Henry's men had unobtrusively augmented Davydd's force, and they made haste to
defuse a dangerous situation, began to drag their prisoners toward the door
behind the dais.
The Welsh were in an uproar. Both Princes of Powys were remonstrating angrily
with Henry. Others were taking out their frustration and fury upon the closest
targets, and English-Welsh quarrels were breaking out across the hall. Several
men had hands on sword hilts, but the Welsh were hopelessly outnumbered. It
was that sense of their own helplessness that gave such an edge to their rage.
A few tried halfheartedly to intervene upon Gruffydd's behalf, were shoved
back by his
guards.
Gruffydd had cut his hand upon the guard's dagger, and the sigh' of his blood
had so demoralized Senena that she'd stood frozen, watching in horrified
disbelief. But then the guards reached the door, thru5' their prisoners
through, and again she cried out, darted forward follow. One of the men pushed
her aside. She staggered backward,te to her knees, to the utter outrage of
those close enough to see. He leaped to his feet, hastened down the steps of
the dais. ,.
"How dare you?" he raged. "I'll not have any man maltreat a lain my presence,
not ever!" But when he sought to help Senena up<
157
ave him a look of such hatred that he recoiled. Stepping back, he said JLjtly,
"She has my permission to accompany her husband. Is that understood?"
Senena's mouth contorted. Getting slowly to her feet, she looked at Henry,
then spat upon the floor. Only then did she turn, follow after her husband and
son.
Amidst all the turmoil, the two men standing against the far wall seemed
somehow out of place, for they alone had remained calm, detached eye-witnesses
to disaster. After a time, they attracted the attention of Gruffydd Maelor,
Prince of Upper Powys. He pushed his way toward them, his eyes flicking
accusingly from Davydd to Ednyved, back to Davydd again.
"So you won, after all," he said bitterly.
Davydd looked at him, saying nothing; he'd never realized that silence could
be such an effective weapon. But when Davydd did speak, it was with such
blistering contempt that the Prince of Powys could never forget it, nor ever
forgive.
"I've won, you say? When the English can now use Gruffydd as a sword at my
throat, a threat to extort whatever they damned well please? They know I dare
not balk at their demands, for they need only release Gruffydd to start
another bloody civil war, to tear Wales asunder again. There was but one
winner here at Rhuddlan, the King of England, and if you cannot see that, you
deserve what is like to befall you. Unfortunately, your people do not,
although they will be the ones to suffer for your stupidity. Till the day he
died, my father fought to hold the English at bay. And he did, he kept them
from overrunning Gwynedd and yes, your Powys, too, as they had Deheubarth. If
not for him, much of Powys would be an English shire by now. Yet his dream did
survive him by just sixteen scant months. His life's work is in ruins about
us, and I must bear my share of the blame for that. But if I have reason to
rue this day, so do you, Gruffydd Maelor. You are going to learn a very hard
lesson about English power and Welsh consequences."
12
Wkite Ladies Priory Snropskire, England
September 1241
J.HE guest house of the Augustinian nunnery
lay to the north of the priory church. Elen's maid was standing in the sun
before their chamber; she smiled at sight of her lady, and they entered
together. Aveline was making idle conversation about the delightfully warm
September weather, but almost at once Elen signaled for silence. Surprised,
Aveline complied, a little hurt until she saw Elen's husband asleep on the
bed.
Rob had removed only his shoes and sword. He looked utterly at peace, and in
repose, very youthful for a man in his mid-forties. Aveline smiled, thinking
that if he were her man, it would have been fun to fluff his pillow, to tiptoe
about the chamber whilst he slept. Elen, too, was smiling down at Rob, but
with none of Aveline's maternal solicitude She was dressed in the Welsh style,
wore a veil but no wimple. Reaching up, she unpinned the veil, let it flutter
to the floor. "Help me," she whispered, beginning to unbraid her hair.
Although she obeyed without question, Aveline was shocked; lovemaking in the
middle of the day seemed somehow sinful to her. Almost as if reading her
thoughts, Elen laughed, gestured for Aveline to unlace her gown. These past
six months had been a revelation to the younger woman. Marriage was an
immutable fact of life, every woman's fate, but until joining Elen's
household, Aveline had not known that a marriage could be like Elen's, that a
wife need not be beaten, that a man and woman could take genuine joy in each
other.
Elen dropped her dress into the floor rushes, slid into bed. When Aveline
started to draw the bed hangings, she shook her head. "It ^ be too hot," she
said softly, and Aveline blushed, moved rapidly towar
the door.
'---. u-^fhine into hi*
159
almost at once, he jerked back, nearly falling off the bed, so abrupt was
his recoil.
"Jesu, Elen, for a moment I did forget! Are you all right, love?"
"Aside from being squashed as flat as a water reed? IRob, I was but teasing!
You must not treat me as if I am a frail flower, else I'll start to take
shameless advantage of my condition. Unless, of course, you would like to wait
upon me hand and foot for the next six months?"
He grinned, lay down beside her. "The next time I get the urge to pamper you,
I'll fight it," he promised, and Elen rolled over into his arms, gave him a
lingering kiss that was no less of a promise.
"I know you've been impatient to get back to Essex, Rob, but it meant much to
me, spending these weeks here. White Ladies holds special memories for me."
"You were here as a little lass, were you not?"
She nodded. "During a troubled time in my parents' marriage. John had just
hanged the Welsh hostages, and my mother was seeking to come to terms with it.
I was but five, yet my memories are still as sharply edged as your best sword.
I remember my mother's despair, my homesickness, remember the day my father
came for us. Their marriage could have broken apart on those rocks, but they
somehow managed to salvage it. They reconciled in this very chamber, probably
in this very bed!" She grinned, slipped her hand into Rob's shirt. "In later
years, my mother always spoke of White Ladies with fondness, and when her eyes
would meet Papa's, they'd share a very private moment. I thought if I were to
come back, that I'd feel close to them both, that it would be almost like
telling them ..."
Rob reached over, laid his hand upon her abdomen. "Your belly feels as flat as
your aforesaid water reed. Elen, you are sure . . . ?"
She understood his doubt; her smile was tender. "My flux first came at twelve,
Rob, and in the years since, I've been as reliable as the lunar tides. Not
once have I ever missed a flux, and now I've missed three. And then there is
my morning queasiness. Not to mention the wonderful Way my bosom has been
swelling of late. I never did think I'd gotten ®y fair share, but better late
than never!" She laughed, then slid her emise down her shoulder, slowly baring
one breast. "Lastly, see how "« circle round the nipple has darkened?"
No," he said, "I think I need a closer look," and Elen's chemise
n joined her gown in the floor rushes. Rob sat up to free himself of lfs
'"'tic. Elen then took his hand, placed it again on her belly. He ask °Ver/
kissed the soft skin below her navel. "Is it too early," he
^/'to talk of names?"
'hat        ^ we be tempting fate?" She shook her head, so vehemently Scading
black hair swirled upon the pillow. "No. It would be an
160
act of faith, love. As soon as I began to suspect, I began, too, to think of
names. If it is a boy, I want to call him Robert," she said, saw by his smile
how much she had pleased him.
"And if it is a girl?" he prompted. "Joanna, I expect." To his surprise, she
shook her head. "After I awake each morn Robyn, there is a moment when memory
comes flooding back, when I think to myself: It is no dream; I truly am with
child. And the wonder does strike me anew, as if for the first time. Who could
blame me for doubting? As John's wife, I was barren for nigh on fifteen years.
And it has been four years since we wed. I'd long ago given up all hope That I
should conceive at last, in my thirty-fourth year ... it seems nothing less
than miraculous to me, beloved. What can it mean but that the Almighty has
forgiven our adultery? I think, therefore, that if I have a daughter, we ought
to name her Anne, after the mother of Our Lady." "Anne or Robyn it shall be
then," Rob agreed. "And for the next
one . . ."
But to Elen, that was tempting fate. She hastily put her fingers to his mouth.
"One babe at a time," she murmured, and kissed him.
They'd gotten rid of his shirt, were fumbling with the cords fastening his
braies to his chausses when they heard the door open. Rob swore, raised up to
jerk the bed hangings into place. At sight of his squire, he scowled. "For
your sake, Gervaise, you'd best be here to warn me the
priory is afire."
Gervaise shifted his feet. Rob was such an easy master to serve, so rarely
riled that his household had little practice in dealing with his tempers. "I
am indeed sorry, my lord, but I thought you should know that there is a youth
out in the garth, demanding to see you at once An impudent rascal he is, and
I'd have sent him on his way with a few bruises to nurse had he not claimed to
be your lady's nephew. I do not believe him, in truth; as bedraggled and
filthy as he is, he looks more like beggar than prince. Still, I thought it
best to"
"Llelo?" Elen's head poked through the bed hangings. Unable to reach her gown,
she snatched up the chemise, instead, and a moment later tumbled out of bed.
Brushing past Gervaise, she ran out into the garth, Rob following much more
slowly. The men reached the door jus in time to see Elen embrace a very
scruffy-looking youngster, utterly heedless of her astonished, scandalized
audience.
Equally unfazed, Rob leaned back against the door and grinned his squire. "I
think, Gervaise," he said, "that we can safely assume lad spoke true."
362
once owned a mastiff who could bolt down a shank of beef at each
eal and still look for more I must say, though, Llelo, that he could
Ot hold a candle to you1" No sooner were the words out of his mouth
than Rob regretted them, for he did not know Llelo well enough to nsk
asing him For certes, the lad's father had never been noted for his
se o£ humor' But Llelo glanced over his shoulder, gave him a quick
gnn between bites
"Pay him no heed, Llelo You can eat a whole cow if you've a mind t0i" Elen had
deferred to propriety to the extent of putting on her shoes and gown, but she
had not bothered to braid her hair, and as she leaned over to ladle more
venison frumenty onto Llelo's trencher, she looked far more like a young
hoyden than the lady of the manor, so disheveled and yet so desirable that Rob
found himself sorely lamenting Llelo's sense of timing
This was Llelo's second meal in as many hours He'd eaten a full plate of roast
beef, an entire loaf of bread, and a fat carp from the priory fish-pond After
a desperately needed hot bath, he was now devoting all his attention to a
generous helping of venison stew Vowing she meant to burn his clothes, Elen
had given him one of Rob's tunics to wear, it was too big, of course, but did
not dwarf him as much as she'd expected
To Elen's surprise, Llelo was now taller than she, endearingly awkward, as if
he'd not yet grown into this new body of his, the long legs he'd entangled
under his chair were as cumbersome as any colt's, but his shoulders had begun
to broaden, and when she sought to wipe dirt from his upper lip, she
discovered that the smudge was the first faint shadow of a mustache
Not having seen Llelo in the seventeen months since her father's funeral, Elen
had missed the day-by-day changes, and she felt cheated somehow Do not grow up
so very fast, lad, she wanted to say She did not, of course, instead, she
watched Llelo gulp down a goblet of strong cider In just seven short months,
he would be fourteen Too young, she thought, too young to take on the burdens
of manhood, ^d she hoped suddenly that the child she carried within her would
beagirl
Llelo put down an apple-filled wafer, half-eaten "I cannot eat as Uch as I
thought I could You knew, then, that I was missing7"
Of course we did Your mother had men out scouring the entire ^u"tryside for
you, lad " And it seemed mutterably sad to Elen that
(°y should look so obviously surprised
^   That did not occur to me," he admitted "But I did fear the King's
8 be in pursuit, that they might even send lymer hounds after
162
me. So I waded in Meole Brook to throw them off the scent, and at first, I
traveled only at night, stayed hidden during the day."
"Hidden, indeed! It was as if you'd vanished into blue smoke. Where have you
been all these weeks, Llelo? How did you fend fot yourself? What did you eat?"
"Whatever I could find," he said, and grimaced. "After my food ran out, I
foraged where I could. I found blackberries and elderberries in the woods. I
caught a few fish and frogs. One time I came upon an orchard, though the
apples were so green I got a right sharp belly ache! I roasted chestnuts, once
even snared a rabbit, and whenever I could find them, I plundered English
gardens. Of course I had to watch out for dogs, and"
"But how?" Ellen was astonished by the matter-of-fact tone of his voice. "How
could you make fires? Or catch fish? Or hunt? How could you manage without
proper weapons?"
Llelo looked quizzically amused. "I had my knife," he pointed out patiently.
"What more did I need? I made fish hooks from thorns, and fishing lines from
vines; what could be easier? A rabbit snare is simple to make; you need only
watch for tracks, then set the loop along the trail. As for making a fire
without flint, I've known how to do that since I was eight years old. You find
a hard stone like agate or quartz, hit your knife against it till you strike
sparks. With shredded birchbark for tinder, it flames up right quick. Were you
never taught such tricks, Aunt Elen?" he asked, in some surprise, and she
slowly shook her head.
"The different worlds in which men and women live," she marveled. "But I
suspect it could not have been as simple as you make it sound, lad. And I
should like to know where you've been all this time. White Ladies is no more
than twenty-five miles from Shrewsbury, if even that. It should not have taken
you a full month to get here."
"I got lost," Llelo confessed. "Aunt Gwladys said it was to the north, so I
headed north. But she was wrong, Aunt Elen. White Ladies is east of
Shrewsbury, not north! I'm just lucky I did not end up in Scotland."
Elen laughed, then reached across the table, took his hand. "T^ me," she said,
"the good and the bad. Were you never scared, Llelo.
Llelo hesitated only briefly. "All the time," he said softly. "I wa* scared
that the King's men might find me. I was scared that I'd not fin you, that I'd
not get to White Ladies in time, that you'd be gone an I'd have nowhere else
to go." He slumped back in his chair, the r playing forgotten, no longer the
hero of his own adventure saga/) thirteen-year-old boy out of his depth. ^
"Being hungry was not so bad," he said. "I got used to it. The was the
loneliness. Once I was well away from Shrewsbury, I *c
163
I could risk asking people how to get to the priory. But I could find no one
who understood French."
It had been fun to swagger a bit, to gild his exploits with what he fancied to
be adult bravado. But it could not compare to the utter relief Of speaking the
truth. "Do you know what my greatest problem was, Aunt Elen? Lack of water,
for the drought has dried up so many of the brooks and ponds. Sometimes I even
had to put pebbles in my mouth. And one day I could not find any streams, any
ponds at all. Finally I came upon a hamlet, just a few houses and a church. I
waited till dark, but the village dogs were loose, and I could not risk
approaching their wells. At last I went into the church."
He looked down into his goblet, back up at Elen. "I suppose it was a sin to
steal from gardens, but I thought God would understand. I am not sure, though,
that he would understand what I did in the church, Aunt Elen. I drank from the
font, drank holy water."
Elen fought back a smile. "Darling, if that is the only sin you ever have to
answer for, you'll never even see Purgatory, will go straight to Paradise!"
"There is more," he said. "You see, after I drank the holy water, suddenly it
began to rainfor the first time in months! I knew God was telling me
something, but what? I stayed in the church, waiting for the rain to stop and
then I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was morning and the priest was standing
over me."
Llelo smiled suddenly. "That was not the best way to begin my day! He was very
wroth at first, too. I think he suspected I was a runaway serf," he said
reluctantly, frowning in recollection of such an insult. But once I spoke
French to him, he realized that I was no peasant, that I must be of good
birth. Unfortunately, he knew no more than a few words of French. Is there
anyone in this blessed country who does speak 'hat language?"
They laughed, and Llelo ate the rest of the wafer before resuming.
The priest fed me, gave me a bed in return for doing chores. I passed
a few days with him, days I could ill afford to spare. Then on Sunday,
he said Mass for the villagers, and I realized how foolish I'd been. But
never thought to try Latin. I could scarcely wait for Mass to be done.
y    only he did not truly speak Latin, did but chant from mem-
ty- Echoes of remembered disappointment crept into the boy's voice,
ch     ement, too, for the only priests Llelo had known were cultivated
Plains of the Welsh court, princes of the Church like Bishop Hywel.
.      e did understand, though, that Dominae Albae meant White
°nlv h an<* ^ finalty dawned upon him that I sought the priory. It was
I'd 1        *at I learr>ed White Ladies lay to the east of Shrewsbury, that
8 since passed it by. The priest gave me a sack of apples and
164
some bread, drew a map for me on the sack, and I set off again. It took me
another six or seven sunsetsI lost countand I had no adventures worth
recounting, but I got here." He looked from Elen to Rob, back to Elen again,
and said, with quiet yet intense satisfaction, "I got here."
Elen had so often wished that Llelo could have been her son and not
Gruffydd's, but never more so than now. "I am so proud of you, lad."
"Aunt Elen, there is something I must ask you, and I must have the truth. I
heard the English King swear that he'd never harm a child. Are my little
brothers safe with him? Did he speak true?"
"Yes," she said, "I do believe he spoke true."
There had been no hesitation before she spoke, and Llelo took heart from that;
Elen was one of the very few people whom he did not believe would lie to him.
"I pray God you are right," he said. "I'd have taken them with me if only I
could, hope they'll understand that one day. My mother will not understand,
though . . . not ever. She'll never forgive me for running away, for putting
her plans in jeopardy." He caught the look, quick as it was, that flashed
between Elen and Rob, and stiffened, throwing his head up as a colt would,
scenting danger. "What is it? What has happened?"
Elen looked very troubled, but she did not mince words. "I'm afraid your
mother's plans did go awry, Llelo, but through no fault of yours. A fortnight
ago Davydd was forced to surrender to the English, to turn Gruffydd and Owain
over to Henry. But Henry then broke faith with the Welsh. Instead of freeing
Gruffydd, he sent Gruffydd into England, to the Tower of London."
"Jesu . . ."It was little more than a whisper; Llelo's teeth had bitten into
his lower lip. For a long moment, he stared at Elen, then pushed away from the
table, so violently that his chair tipped over, clattered to the floor. Elen
rose to her feet, too, but then she hesitated. Llelo had turned away from them
both. He was standing by the window, shoulders hunched forward, head down, and
Elen found herself at a loss, unable to decide which was greater, his need for
comfort or his need for privacy.
"Llelo?" He did not respond, and as the minutes trickled away, 1* seemed to
Elen that the last of his childhood was ebbing away, too. And as she watched
him, she remembered a conversation she'd long sine forgotten, remembered his
plaintive request on the day of her father5 funeral, that he be called by his
given name, his grandfather's nam^
"Llewelyn?" she said huskily, and he turned to face her.
He had lost color, and his lashes were wet and tangled, but his ev were dry.
"Will you take me to my father?" he said.
3^
165
EVEN after more than a fortnight, Senena was not yet accustomed to the
splendor of her husband's prison. Until recently the great chamber and hall in
the White Tower had been the King's residence. But with the completion of the
magnificent, octagonal Blundeville Tower, Henry had no need for the keep's
great chamber. Moreover, he did feel some genuine conscience pangs for having
so betrayed a lady. In consequence, Gruffydd and Owain found themselves in a
very gilded cage, indeed.
Following a guard up the stairwell in the northeast turret of the White Tower,
Senena paused in the doorway. The top story of the keep contained an enormous
hall, now blocked off, an elegantly austere chapel, and Henry's great chamber,
a spacious, well-lit room with soaring ceilings and numerous windows,
encircled overhead by the most impressive mural gallery Senena had ever seen.
The chamber afforded not only luxury, but privacy, too, partitioned off by a
large, oaken screen.
Emerging from behind the screen, Owain was hastening toward her, a jaunty
smile of welcome upon his face. "I was beginning to fear you were not coming,
Mama!"
"How is your father, Owain?"
His smile faded. "The same," he said, saw her lashes sweep down. "Ah, Mama . .
. Mama, do not do this to yourself. You are not to blame for what happened."
She neither agreed nor argued. As close as they were, he could see how
hollowed were her eyes, webbed by worry lines, bloodshot from lack of sleep.
"Mama, listen to me. I'll not deny that when I first realized I was to go to
the Tower, I was chilled to the very marrow of my bones. But look about us.
Who could find fault with such a prison? Life is far better here than at
Cricieth, that I can say for certes."
As he spoke, he was drawing her toward the nearest window. "Henry is a more
generous gaoler than Davydd, God rot him. Time does not hang so heavily on my
hands here. Davydd did allow us books, but I've never been much of a reader,
and neither is Papa. Now we can P'ay at tables, or dicing, or draughts. We've
a servant to tend to our needs, even our own cook. Best of all, we can have
visitors, can write and receive letters. We can learn what is happening beyond
these walls, a"« nigh on a year of silence, of never knowing."
He gestured toward the window. "At Cricieth, we had nothing to ,°' n°thing to
watch but sea gulls. But Henry's palace is right across s IH S° tnere ig
constant activity, tradesmen and servants and
of th millin§ about-! do not feel so cut off here, feel like I'm still part ne
* w°rld. Above all, I feel safer here. Henry needs us alive. Davydd to , us
dead. I never could understand why he did not have us put vri,4* , ' anc* I'd
much rather trust to Henry's self-interest than to Davydds forbearance."
166
At that, she nodded. "Not a day passed that I did not fear for yOUt lives,"
she confessed. "Not an hour . . ."
"You must see then that you've nothing to reproach yourself f0r It is better
here in all ways, Mama. Henry's guards speak no Welsh, ^ Papa and I have far
more privacy, need not watch every word. And out English guards are friendly,
treat us like lords. Davydd's men acted as if we were lepers, but I sometimes
dice with our guards now, and they tell me all the court gossip, will share a
flagon if I offer it." He could see her disapproval that he should socialize
with his inferiors, with his enemies, and he lowered his voice even though no
one was within earshot. "The day could well come when a friendly guard might
be a godsend, Mama."
"You are right," she conceded. "By all means, cultivate these men if you can."
Reaching for a small leather pouch that swung from her belt, she held it out
toward him. "Ere I forget, here is the money you asked for. To pay some of
those dicing debts, I daresay?"
Owain grinned, but did not answer. He carefully tucked the pouch inside his
tunic, for he meant to put it to much better use than gambling. One of the
guards had boasted that he knew a young whore with hair the color of
silver-gilt, and he'd promised to bring her up into the keep if Owain made it
worth his while. "The guards say I can have a pet if I've a mind to, Mama. Do
you know what I'd like? One of those trained monkeys. I understand you can
ofttimes find them offered for sale at the Smithfield Horse Fair, or down by
the wharves, where foreign ships come in."
"I'll find you a monkey, Owain, never fear. Now ..." Senena drew a steadying
breath. "Let us go in to your father."
The partitioned-off portion of the great chamber was still spadous enough to
contain two large, canopied beds, a table and chairs. Gruffydd was sprawled in
a window-seat, staring out into the Tower bailey. He looked up as his wife and
son entered, but did not speak.
"Good morrow, beloved." Senena leaned over, kissed the corner of his mouth. He
did not respond, but neither did he pull away, as he d done in the past, and
she took what meagre encouragement she could from that. As she sat down beside
him, though, she could not ke«P from casting a wistful glance toward
Gruffydd's bed, could not help wondering if he'd ever take her behind those
canopied curtains, if he ever forgive her.
"I have news," she said, forcing a smile. "I need no longer stay ^ that
noisome Southwark inn, have leased a house in Aldgate, n° from here." ^j
"We are glad, Mama." Owain returned her smile, but Gruffyad
367
thing He was fiddling with a wooden ball and cup, a child's toy,
fl pping tne ^a^ mto *^e aa anc* Ca*cnin8 rt m tne CUP Senena yearned reach
out, to stroke his cheek, his hair, noticing suddenly how many Jvered hairs
were scattered now amidst the red
"Yesterday," she said, "I paid a visit to Davydd and Rhodn They are well/
Gruffydd, and and they seem quite content "
j-jis hand jerked and the ball bounced into the floor rushes Senena reached
over, her fingers just brushed his sleeve "Gruffydd, listen to me They are
safe, I swear it And they need not live at the King's court, need not follow
Henry on his journeys around the realm He has agreed to keep them at
Westminster, so I may see them often "
"How very magnanimous of him," he said, so bitingly that color flooded her
face "So we have no cause for concern, then Henry shall take our sons to his
heart They are safe, you say, they are well, they are even content I wonder,
though, how content Llelo is I suppose you could ask, Senenathat is, if you
knew where to find him1"
"You are not being fair1 Do you not think I care about Llelo's whereabouts7
I've had men searching all of Shropshire for the past month What more would
you have me do7"
He gave her such a burning look that her breath lodged in her throat, and Owam
made haste to intervene Even knowing as he did that their guards could not
eavesdrop, he was embarrassed, nonetheless, by their raised voices, quarrels
sounded the same in any language And as uncomfortable as he felt, being
trapped like this between them, he found most of his sympathy flowing toward
his mother
"I thmk Mama was right in what she did Our lives were in peril, the lads'
lives are not There are worse fates, Papa, than to be a hostage of the English
Crown, and I think you are over"
"What do you know about it7" Gruffydd flung the wooden cup from him with such
force that it splintered against the far wall Rising to his feet, he swung
about to confront his son "You were not at Nottogham Castle the day John
hanged the Welsh hostages You were not trussed up like a pig for butchenng,
you did not he for hours on a dirtstrewn floor, listening as your friends were
taken out to die, expecting any moment your own summons to the gallows You did
not hear , ,eir P^admg, or see their bodies, swaying back and forth, see their
bla*, swollen faces "
Gyuffydd's mouth twisted, he swallowed, spat into the floor rushes, not t e
were children amongst them, boys of nine or ten So do
me th me that li 1S safe t0 be a hosta8e of the English King, do not tell
1 u,    3t y°uth is a shield and none would harm a child I know better Was
there'"
168
Senena, too, was on her feet now. "Henry is not John! Why Ca you not see that?
Henry is not capable of his father's cruelties, wo^u never murder a child!"
"You sound so sure of that, Senena. But then, you were sure, too that Henry
would honor his bargain with you, that he'd set me free!"'
Senena turned away, leaned for some moments against the door leading into the
chapel. Neither Gruffydd nor Owain spoke. It was onjv then that they heard the
footsteps approaching the partition.
It was the most amiable of their guards, the freckled youth who claimed to
know a whore with silver-gilt hair, and evidenced in both his blood and name
the mingling of two cultures, two heritages, the ancient Saxon of Edwin, the
proud Norman-French of de Crecy,
"You have visitors," he said. "Sir Robert de Quincy and his wife the Lady
Elen."
Gruffydd was taken aback; Elen had long ago pledged her loyalties to Davydd.
But Senena reacted at once, with utter outrage.
"No, by God! There may be much I have to endure, but I'll not let that bitch
come to gloat. Send her away."
"No," Gruffydd snapped. "I will see them." And when his wife would have
protested, he silenced her with an impatient, "Use your head, woman. If Elen
is here, it can only mean she has word for me, and it might well be of Llelo."
Senena opened her mouth, shut it again. "You are right," she said, sounding
somewhat abashed. "I never even thought of that. . ."
As the guard motioned them to come forward, another of the guards stepped in
front of Llelo, holding out his hand. The boy looked at him blankly. Only when
the man gestured, did he understand, slowly unsheathe his knife and hand it
over. He gave Elen a crooked smile, then began to walk toward the partition.
His feet were making an inordinate amount of noise, scuffling through the
rushes, and he was suddenly very thirsty. His throat seemed to have closed up,
so tight had the muscles become; he had not even enough saliva to spit.
He halted in the screen doorway, not knowing what to expect. He heard his
mother cry out his name, but his eyes were already riveted upon his father.
He'd never seen Gruffydd with a beard before; he was both astonished and
disconcerted that it should be so streaked with grey. For one dismaying
moment, he felt as if he were staring at stranger. And then Gruffydd smiled. ,
"Thank God," he said simply. That was all, was more than en°ug Llelo forgot
his fears, his qualms, even his guilt, moved forward his father's arms. But
when he stepped back, there was a sudden a wardness. He looked at his mother,
not knowing what to say. She/ seemed at a loss, seemed no less uncertain than
he.
369
"Come here," she said at last. But the embrace was forced, uanfa-
'liar, gave neither of them the comfort they sought. Senena's firtgers
"lushed Llelo's cheek, smoothed his untidy, dark hair, while her other
nd tightened on his shoulder. "Do you know what a scare you gave
Llelo? I think you have some explaining to do!"
Llelo tensed anew, but his father was shaking his head. "No^ Seena," he said,
"he does not." His eyes cut from his son to thewoxnan novv standing in the
doorway. "Is it safe for him to be here?"
Elen nodded. "You need not fear; he has a safe-conduct. Rob and I are leaving
now, Llewelyn, will await you in the bailey."
"That will not be necessary." Senena's was a poisoned politer»ess, for she was
seething with rage, with aggrieved and baffled resentment that her runaway son
should have turned to Elen, to Elen of all women. "jvly son belongs with me,
will be returning to my house in Aldga^te."
Elen's eyes narrowed. "That," she said, "will depend entirely upon
the lad!"
Llelo flushed, stared down at the floor, and Gruffydd made h_aste to say,
"Thank you, Elen, for taking care of my son." Putting Ms arm, then, around
Llelo's shoulders, he said, "Come with me, lad," and Llelo followed him
gratefully into the chapel.
There Llelo came to an abrupt halt, dazzled by what he saw. The King's chapel
of St John the Evangelist was splendid beyond all expectations, a superb
crafting of man's skill and God's spirit. Henry had recently ordered it
white-washed, and the stone walls glowed with ivory light. It was the windows
that caught Llelo's gaze, however, for ttiree of them were set with costly
stained glass, brilliantly shaded depictions of the Virgin and Child, the Holy
Trinity, and St John the Evangelist. Crimson and emerald and purplethe panes
shimmered and sparkled, until even the shadows held flickers of lavender and
rose-tinted sunlight.
Against the west wall was Henry's private pew. Gruffydd pusiied *e gate aside,
sat down deliberately upon Henry's plush velvet cuashlons, gesturing for Llelo
to join him. "Tell me the truth," he said. ""You ran away from Shrewsbury
because you learned you were to be offered UP as a hostage, did you not?"
Uelo nodded, and Gruffydd grinned. "Good lad! Now tell me   the
' »e said, and Llelo did. He was accurate, but not entirely hon«st.
acc°unt he'd offered Elen was far closer to the truth than theversion nati °W
S^un out ^or ^s father, sketched in fact but colored by imagilackin . at
Gruffydd gOt was a tale of high adventure, one utterly "Goruf m dark shadings,
and when it was done, Gruffydd said again,
"p      " *n tones of pride and approval.
, aPa . . . what happens now?" w°uld that I knew." The boy looked so troubled,
though, that
11 r
170
171
Gruffydd roused himself. "As much as it galls me to be a prisoner of the
English, the truth is, lad, that I am probably better off here than at
Cricieth. Davydd would never have set me free. Henry would free m tomorrow if
he thought it served his interests to do so. In that sense my prospects are
not as bleak. And then, too, there are other ways out of prison. Not even
Merlin could have managed an escape from Cricieth so tightly was that bottle
corked. But here . . ." He laughed scornfully "As lax as Henry's guards are, I
could be gone fully a day ere I'd everi be missed!"
"Aunt Elen told me that a Bishop once escaped from the Tower from your very
chamber, by sliding down a rope, as slick as you please " Llelo hesitated,
then said reluctantly, "What do you want me to do Papa? Would you have me go
home with Mama?"
"Yes," Gruffydd said, pretended not to see the boy flinch. "Your rightful
place is, of course, with your mother. But I would not have you remain in
England any longer than need be, will not truly breathe easy till you are back
in Wales. Gwladys and de Mortimer are in London, plan to return to the Marches
within the next fortnight or so, and when they go, you are to go with them."
Llelo's relief was soaring. Although he would have preferred living with Elen,
he was quite content to stay with Gwladys, would have turned to her for help
had her husband not been one of Senena's pledges. "I'd as soon live in a
lazar-house as in London," he confessed, and Gruffydd gave him a grimly amused
smile.
"You did not let me finish, lad. I do not mean for you to stay with Gwladys.
Send word to Senena's brothers, and they will come for you, take you back into
Gwynedd. My war is not done, will not be as long as I draw breath. But since I
cannot fight it, it is up to my friendsand up to you, Llelo."
"You want me to war upon Davydd?"
Gruffydd misread the boy's dismay, said swiftly, reassuringly, "You will not
be alone, lad. Senena's brothers will be there to counsel you, Einion in
particular is well worthy of your trust. So, too, is Gruffydd Maelor of Powys.
But it is you whom men will rally to, lad. The men who would fight for me will
fight now for my sonfor you."
Llelo got to his feet, moved into the brightest patch of sunligWAccording to
Elen, Henry was already building a new stone castle Disserth. How many more
English castles would be rising up from We soil? How many crops did Henry mean
to harvest from those 01 seeds sown at Gwern Eigron? And it was Davydd who
stood a against him, Davydd who was Gwynedd's only bulwark against fur English
conquest. Yet now, with the dike so dangerously weake
leaking like a sieve, Papa would act, not to shore it up, but to tear it down,
to let the flood waters engulf them all!
Gruffydd had risen, too, disturbed by his son's silence. "Well? I need you,
Llewelyn, need you to play a man's part, to do what I cannot. You'll not let
me down?"
Never before had he called Llelo by his given name. The boy turned slowly to
face him. "No, Papa," he said, "I will not let you down, will do whatever you
ask of me."
He looked so somber, though, that Gruffydd felt a conscience pang, could only
hope he was not burdening the lad too unfairly, too soon. But there was no
help for it.
"Your mother meant well, but she was wrong to offer our sons as hostages, and
she was wrong to put her trust in Henry. Take this lesson to heart, lad, and
never forget it, neverthat the world's greatest fool is a Welshman who trusts
an English King."
IN October, Henry summoned Davydd to London, where he did homage to the
English King, ratified the Treaty of Gwern Eigron, and was forced to yield all
rights to Deganwy Castle to the English Crown.
The sun was low in the sky, sinking toward the west, as Davydd emerged from
Henry's palace into the inner bailey of the Tower of London. He stood
motionless upon the steps of the great hall, seemingly blind to the chaos
swirling about him. Tradesmen come to sell their goods mingled with servants
from the royal brewery and bake-house and dovecote, grooms from the stables
exchanged banter with men herding doomed pigs toward the kitchen stock-pen,
while soldiers and small boys gathered to watch a drover struggling to free
his mud-mired cart, and the ever-present stray dogs prowled about, hopeful for
handouts. Davydd was oblivious to it all, did not move even as their horses
were brought up; he'd made use of the land-gate, for like most Welshmen, he
had little regard for river travel. Still, he stood there, staring unseeingly
at his own restive stallion, as his men shifted uneasily, began to murmur
among themselves.
Ednyved had followed Davydd down the steps. He'd rarely felt so W or so
dispirited or so heavy with years, yet he stood by patiently,
"lg to give the vnnntrpr man thp timo ho nooHoH   Rut than ho c^..
*e boy.
give the younger man the time he needed. But then he saw
hours fWaS n0t by cnance; Llelo had been waiting for more than two
had m °r hiS Uncle to emer8e from tne King's private chambers. He'd
re than two hours, though, in which to rehearse what he would
272
say. He'd had more than a year, the thirteen months since he'd confronted
Davydd at Dolwyddelan Castle.
Ednyved frowned, reached and touched Davydd's arm in warning "Llelo is below,
watching for you."
Davydd seemed to sigh, then shrugged. "So be it," he said wearily moved down
the steps toward his nephew.
The words were already forming on Llelo's tongue, blistering, ac. cusatory,
what he felt he should have said at Dolwyddelan and hadn't words scathing
enough to banish all doubts, all qualms. He never said them, forgot them all
as he looked into Davydd's face.
"What is wrong?" He swallowed, aware only of fear. "What has the King demanded
of you?"
"That if I die without heirs of my body, Gwynedd passes to the English Crown."
Davydd sought, and failed, to keep his voice even. "Do you not want to ask if
I agreed?"
Llelo jerked his head toward the Tower keep that rose up behind them. "What
choice did you have?"
That was a generosity Davydd had not expected, not from a thirteenyear-old
boy, not from Gruffydd's son. He repaid it the only way he could, with
unsparing honesty. "My father would never have agreed."
"Yes," Llelo said, "he would. He'd have given them their accursed oath, and
once he was back in Wales, he'd have disavowed it."
Davydd said nothing, turning aside and swinging up into the saddle. But then
he reined in his stallion. His slanting hazel eyesthe most haunted,
disquieting eyes Llelo had ever seencame to rest upon the boy's face, and then
he raised his hand in a silent salute.
Llelo stood watching as Davydd and Ednyved rode slowly through the inner
gateway, not moving until he heard his name, a whip-lash sound that spun him
around in instinctive alarm.
Senena was standing by the stairs of the keep forebuilding. "Stay right
there," she warned, and he knotted his hands into fists, tasted the salt of
sweat upon his tongue as he waited for her to reach him.
"I cannot believe what I just saw." Senena's voice was breathless, full of
shock. "I came out of the keep, and what did I find? My sonpassing the time of
day with Davydd ap Llewelyn!"
"No, Mama, you do not understand. Something dreadful has happened. Henry has
forced Davydd to agree that if he dies without heirs/ Gwynedd will pass to the
English Crown!"
"God in Heaven! You dare to tell me that you feel sorry fortha hell-spawn, for
the man who betrayed your own father?"
"But . . . but Mama, do you not see? It is not Davydd, it is " nedd!" y
"Oh, indeed, I see. I see that you're not to be trusted out ot
373
jght! It was not enough that you ran away, put your father's release at sk
made a fool of me before half of Wales, and gave us all a nasty care. No, you
then had to go to Davydd's sister for help. It is a bloody wonder you did not
go to Davydd! And the worst of it is that I cannot ven say I'd have been
surprised if you had, for I cannot remember a ijjne^not even oncewhen you have
not given us grief, when you have not been a disappointment to us."
Llelo was too stunned to protest, to offer any defense at all. He took a
backward step, then whirled and fled across the bailey, and Senena's rage
drained away, leaving her sick and shaken. She'd said more than she ought, and
would have called her words back if only she could. Llelo had not gone far. He
had stopped by the east curtain wall, was standing in the shadow of the
stables, and something about his stance put her in mind of Gruffydd. So alone
did he seem, so forlorn, that she was suddenly remorseful. It had never been
easy for her to admit errors, to offer apologies. After a time, though, she
squared her shoulders and crossed the bailey, sought out her son.
"Llelo," she said. But when he turned, she saw that she'd waited too long; his
hurt had congealed into ice.
"I was not a disappointment to Llewelyn Fawr," he said defiantly.
13
Brindisi, Apulia Kingdom or Sicily
February 1242
J.NELL awoke at dawn. From her bedchamber
^indow, she watched as the last of the night shadows faded and the
ay was born. Along the horizon, the sky glowed with golden light,
the sea was slowly lightening, shading from a fathomless ink-blue
° a luminous silver. As the sun rose above the town, it slanted off the
j ' wte roofs, cast the shadows of palm and oleander upon the pow-
Sap San^s' ar>d Nell thought she could have been looking out upon a
en dty, so alien and colorful and exotic did the scene below her
^m.
r!
274
275
Church bells had begun to peal, summoning Christ's faithful to worship; it was
Candlemas, feast day of the Purification of the Virgjn Mary, one of the most
holy days in the Church calendar. Nell listened to the bells chime, and
suddenly tears filled her eyes. She had never been one to cry easily or often,
but in the past six weeks she'd found herself constantly on the verge of
tears, for it was just six weeks ago that she'd learned of the death of her
sister Isabella.
The sea was now a vivid, translucent turquoise; a ship had entered the outer
harbor, flaunting a sail as red as the sunrise. "Simon," she whispered, "oh,
Simon, why have you not come back . . . ?"
NELL caused a stir in the town by choosing to hear High Mass not in the
Cathedral but in the ancient church of San Giovanni al Sepolcro. Throughout
the service, heads kept turning in her direction, eyes seeking a glimpse of
the Norman-French lady of the castle, wife to a Christian crusader, sister by
marriage to their own lord, Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, King of Sicily.
Even after a year and a half in their midst, Nell found herself the center of
attention whenever she ventured forth from the castle, for she scorned the
custom of Frederick's realm, did not go veiled in public.
Brindisi was an embarkation port for the Holy Land, and scarcely a week went
by that a ship did not drop anchor in the harbor, bringing Christian knights
back from crusade. Nell welcomed them all, entertained them lavishly at her
brother-in-law's castle. Life was lonely in Brindisi, and she enjoyed the
company; moreover, one of these returning pilgrims might have news of Simon,
occasionally even a letter. But in the past few months, the flood had ebbed,
slowed to a trickle. Nell's castle was empty of guests, and she felt free,
therefore, to take advantage of this mild, sunlit day, to choose the beach
over the somber silence of the great hall.
It was unthinkable that a woman of Nell's rank should ride out without an
impressive escort, even for a pleasure jaunt, and they made a large, rather
unwieldy party as they rode north along the coast. There were Nell, and her
two small sons, Harry and Bran. There was Mabel, her long-time maid and
confidante. There was Dame Kathrein, whoa joined Nell's household after the
December death of her lady, Ne''5 sister Isabella. There were Rhonwen, Harry's
young Welsh governess, and Philomena, who was wet-nurse to sixteen-month-old
Bran. The there were six knights of Nell's household, who'd accompanied the
lady more for status than safety; even in those lawless times, ievfm would
have been so foolhardy as to molest the sister-in-law of so midable a lord as
Frederick. Lastly, there were two grooms and sev
stle dogs and even a few village children, trailing at a cautious but ^rious
distance.
Kathrein was not surprised that Nell should have chosen to dine
utdoors; in an age in which lords moved frequently from one manor m another,
it was quite common to eat meals by the roadside. What did surprise her,
though, was that Nell had thought to include her young
ons ^ was Kathrein's experience that ladies of noble rank were not attentive
mothers; nor were they expected to be. Yet here was Nell, the King's sister,
Countess of Leicester and Pembroke, kneeling in the sand by the water's edge,
helping three-year-old Harry to build a soaring castle of sand and shells.
Kathrein could only marvel.
"Here, lad," Rhonwen said, handing Bran half a peeled orange. "Try not to drop
it into the sand." She watched the little boy totter toward his mother, then
lay back comfortably on the blanket. "How warm it is. A fair land, this
Apulia, but so flat! I miss the mountains of
Eryri."
Mabel did not answer; she did not approve of Rhonwen, thought her to be lazy
and cheeky and altogether too Welsh. Kathrein said, "There are mountains to
the north," but merely out of politeness; she was still watching Nell play
with her children. "I'd not have expected a lady so highborn to be such a
doting mother," she confessed, and Rhonwen shrugged.
"I'd never given it much thought. Mayhap it is because she misses Lord Simon."
The day was unseasonably balmy, even for Apulia, and Nell and Rhonwen had
removed their veils and wimples. Several shepherds were now coming up the
road, driving some malnourished goats. They were young and darkly handsome,
and Rhonwen could not resist giving them a sidelong smile, hoping to shock
Mabel. But they did not even notice; their eyes were riveted upon Nell's
flaxen-silk hair. Rhonwen gave a sigh of mock regret; blondes were even rarer
here in Apulia than in her Wales. She helped herself to the rest of the
orange, then glanced over at Kathrein. "Were you with your lady very long?"
"Six years. I was London born and bred, but I came out with Lady 'sabella at
the time of her marriage to the Emperor."
Rhonwen leaned forward. "Are the tales told of him true? Does he really keep a
harem of Saracen harlots?"
Indeed he does, and cares not a whit who knows it! Whilst my
P   r lady, may God assoil her, was kept sequestered, verily like a nun.
e day after the wedding, he sent all her English maids away, save
/ L>ame Margaret, her old nurse, and me, and then he handed her
t° his Saracen eunuchs, who watched her like hungry hawks!" Ijf Was gossip,
not revelation; the Emperor's scandalous private
as an open secret throughout his domains. Rhonwen's eyes flicked
176
toward Mabel. "My French ... it is not always so good," she said m nocently.
"Tell me, what is this . . . eunuch?"
Mabel's mouth tightened noticeably, but Kathrein grinned, entered willingly
into the spirit of the game. "A eunuch is a poor wretch wh still suffers from
the most common of male itches, but who has lost the wherewithal to scratch
it," she said, and both women laughed. Mabel said nothing, turning to make
sure the knights were out of earshot
Rhonwen had reached under her skirt, was stripping off her stockings. She
wriggled her feet luxuriously in the sun-warmed sand, then offered the rest of
the orange to Mabel, a peace offering the older woman coldly spurned. Rhonwen
shrugged again, popped an orange slice into her mouth. "Tell me of your lady.
Was she young, fair to look upon like our Lady Nell?"
Kathrein's smile faded. "Very fair, and too young to die. She was
twenty-seven, just a twelvemonth older than Lady Nell."
"It was God's will," Mabel said sadly. "Scriptures say, Tn sorrow shalt thou
bring forth children.' "
"Sorrow she had, in plenitude." The sand had muffled the sound of Nell's
footsteps. She stood for a moment looking down at them, then sat on the
blanket. "Enough sorrow for a lifetime," she said bitterly, "even such a
pitifully brief lifetime as hers. God's willor Frederick's?" Isabella was
Frederick's third wife to die young, the second to die in childbirth, and his
enemies were already putting about malicious rumors of poison. The three women
stared at Nell in shocked silence, but only Rhonwen dared to ask. "Do you
think, Madame, that Frederick
killed your sister?"
"If you are asking whether I think he murdered her, of course not But yes, he
did kill her. His jealousy killed her, Rhonwen. What sort of life did he give
her? Henry might as well have wed her to the Caliph of Baghdad, for he'd have
kept her no less cloistered. Four children in six years, cut off from all she
knew and loved, her family, her friends, banned from his court, never seen in
public, always under the eyes of his God-cursed eunuchs, his spies. My brother
Richard spent four months with Frederick at Terni on his way home from the
Holy Land, and he was allowed to see Isabella but once in those four monthsher
own
brother!"
There was anger in Nell's voice, but there was pain, too, and other women
hastily sought to offer comfort, each in her own w y Mabel pointed out that
woman's lot is rarely an easy one, while Katrtf felt constrained by fairness
to say that Frederick had provided Isa with great luxury. Rhonwen sat up, gave
Nell a probing look.   1 die if I were caged up like that; my very soul would
shrivel. I su p
277
Madame, that so would yours. But mayhap your lady sister had not our eed for
freedom. She had a crown, after all, was surrounded by splendor It may be that
was enough for her."
But Nell's imagination, while undeniably vivid, was flawed in that he measured
all griefs, all needs, by her own. "How could it be?" she ,einanded, so
passionately that none dared dispute her. "You think a wn is a magic talisman,
that it warrants happiness? I daresay Isabella ould have told you otherwise!
So could my sister Joan, for she found precious little contentment as Queen of
Scotland. On her last visit, just ere she was stricken with that fatal fever,
she begged Henry to let her stay in England. Of course he could not allow it,
would have sent her back to Scotland had she not sickened, died ..."
Her voice trailed off. She turned, stared out to sea, toward the sunbright
silhouette of Sant' Andreas Island. "First Joanna, then Joan, and now
Isabella. In just four years, I've lost all my sisters . . ."
That was not true; she had four half-sisters, born of her mother's second
marriage to Hugh de Lusignan. But none of the women were so foolish as to
remind her of that now. Mabel reached over, touched Nell's arm. "At least the
Lady Joanna's life was a happy one."
"But of course it was! After all, she did marry a Welshman," Rhonwen
interrupted, to Mabel's annoyance and Nell's amusement. "And all know Welshmen
make the best husbands and lovers." Adding impishly, "Although I've been told
that Frenchmen do right well, too!"
"Yes," Nell said, "they do, indeed." But her smile was fleeting. They knew
why, understood her fears. Her brother Richard had returned from the Holy Land
months ago; so had her cousin, the Earl of Salisbury. Why had Simon not
returned, too?
"I am sure your lord is safe and well, Madame," Kathrein said, as reassuringly
as she could. "You must not despair, must not torment yourself for naught."
Nell picked up a handful of sand and sifted it through her fingers, let the
wind blow it away. "For naught, Kathrein? My husband's brother, Amaury, died
on crusade; many men did. I have not heard from Simon fortvvo months. For all
I know, he may be dead, too."
Mabel and Kathrein were silent, too honest to deny that Death's orite hunting
ground was the blood-soaked soil where Christ once
*ed. Rhonwen, however, heeded voices more mystical, more intuinve "Y i
"ou love him, Madame," she said. "You know his heart, the
,j   , s °' his soul. As his joy is yours, so, too, is his pain. If he were
-you would know it. You'd not need to be told; you would feel it."
c0m      s mouth curved in a shadowy smile. "Ah, Rhonwen, belief
easily to you, for your people are poets. But the Plantagenets
278
spring from less visionary stock. And yet . . . and yet I do think that 'f
Simon were dead, I would know. Somehow I would sense it. How conin
I not?"
She reached then for the basket, withdrew a wine flagon. "Rhon wen, will you
fetch Philomena and the boys? And Kathrein, you tell the men it is time to
eat."
Rhonwen rose languidly, brushing sand from her skirt. But she'd taken only a
few steps before she stopped. "Look, Madame, someone
is coming."
Mabel shaded her eyes, but could see only a blur of sun-bleached sand.
Hopelessly myopic herself, she much resented Rhonwen's claims to vision an
eagle might envy. "What do you see, Rhonwen?" she asked maliciously. "More
Sicilian shepherds?"
"A knight is coming up the road. My guess, Madame, is that he seeks you, bears
a message of some urgency."
"How could you possibly know all that?" Mabel snapped. "Your Welsh
second-sight, I daresay?"
Rhonwen smiled, quite unfazed. "He is too well mounted for a local villager,
so he must come from the castle. And I can tell he is a knight from the way
the sun strikes his hauberk; can you not see that, too,
Mabel?"
Nell had risen reluctantly to her feet. "You'd best help me with my veil and
wimple, then, Kathrein. He does come on fast; I wonder what" She stopped so
abruptly that she drew all eyes. The flagon slipped from her fingers, spilled
onto the sand. "My God . . ." And then she picked up her skirts, began to run.
"Madame!" Her knights had been dicing on a level stretch of sand. The game
forgotten, they scrambled to their feet in alarm, hastening after Nell. But
she ignored their shouts. Her hair had come loose about her shoulders, and she
splashed heedlessly into tidal pools, soaking her skirts to the knees, never
taking her eyes from the man on the white stallion. He reined in before her,
sending up a spray of sand, and then reached down, in one smooth motion
lifting her off her feet, up into his arms, much to Rhonwen's delight.
"Well done!" she cried. "Did you see that, Mabel? He rides like a Welshman, in
truth, like one born to the saddle" At a sudden tug o her skirt, she looked
down, into Harry's bewildered blue eyes.
"Mama is kissing that man," he said, and Rhonwen laughed.
"That she is, Harry, that she most certainly is!" She laughed aga^; then gave
the little boy a hug. "Come, lad, lef s go meet your fe**^
Harry took her hand, clung tightly. His mother had oftentaUce him of his
father's exploits, his battlefield bravery, and he'd been y ing for Simon's
return. But now that Simon was actually here, a
179
aunt stranger in a travel-stained surcoat, surrounded by laughing, jos-
1 ng knights, his arm possessively around Nell's waist, Harry felt suddenly
shy, uncertain, no longer sure he wanted this man to come back, this man he
did not remember
"Harry1" Simon smiled at his son, but to his disappointment, the juld shrank
back Nell looked no less distressed It was Rhonwen, however, who was the first
to comprehend
"You're so tall, my lord," she murmured "I think it scares him " Seeing that
his son was indeed staring up at him as if his head were scraping the clouds,
Simon reached down, swung the boy up into his arms Harry was startled, for a
moment seemed about to resist But he was a good-natured child, and his protest
died on his lips as he realized that he was now taller than his mother, her
maids, most of the knights
Philomena had just joined them, holding Bran by the hand Simon set Harry back
upon the sand, knelt by his second son "Well, now," he said, "so you are Simon
"
The child scowled "No," he insisted, "no, I am Bran1"
Simon turned quizzically toward his wife, and Nell stepped forward, put her
hand on his arm, as if needing physical reassurance of his return Did you not
get that letter then7 We chnstened him Simon, as you know But so dark he was
that Rhonwen began to call him Bran, saying his hair was black as a crow's
wing, and it seemed to stick You do not mind, Simon7 It does spare us the
confusion of having two Simons under one roof, love1"
Simon looked down at his small son, who stared right back Bran did not have
Harry's bright blue eyes, his were grey, darker than Simon's, almost black,
narrowed now in sudden suspicion Simon grinned, said, "Bran you are then," and
when, after a moment, the little boy gnnned back, Simon felthowever
absurdlythat he had passed some sort of test
Neh's household knights were crowding around, eager to welcome iamon home Nell
was content to cling to his arm, to caress his face *"th her eyes He looked
thin to her, and very tired, in need of a shave "e did not at first pay heed
to what he was saying, she did not care |^"en his ship had dropped anchor in
the harbor, cared only that he ha<l come back to her
Are you hungry, Simon7 We have a basket full of food, a cured
"3ln tVta Tn^_l i 11 f          .      f~.    11 i i        i.
atn *e local people call prosciutto, fruit, Gallipoh wine, and" I sa i     on
Was shaking his head "We have to return to the castle, Nell .     *« with the
Duke of Burgundy, and he awaits us back in the great
ij,U(,,       te" a sharp stab of disappointment, she wanted nothing so n°w as
to be alone with her husband But so highborn a guest
T
180
could not be neglected. She was making a mental list of all that must be done
for his comfort when Simon said, "We will be returning to Burgundy with him,
and he does not want to tarry in Brindisi. I toi<j him we could be ready to
depart in two days' time; I assume that will
present no problems?"
There was a collective catch of breath from the women; to move a household the
size of theirs was a massive undertaking, only somewhat less complicated than
the transport of troops to the Holy Land. Nell's maids now eyed her
apprehensively, but she managed to choke back her indignant protest. "Ere we
return to the castle, Simon, I would have a word with you in private."
They walked hand in hand to the ocean's edge. "I've never seen any waters as
blue, as clear as these southern seas," Simon said. "I wondered at times if my
memory was playing me false, but your eyes truly are as blue as II Mare
Adriatico. I brought you back a sapphirestar necklet; your eyes will put it to
shame."
Even while courting, he had not been lavish with compliments, she'd learned to
treasure them all the more for their infrequency. Yet now his words barely
registered with her, so intent was she upon what
she must ask of him.
"Simon . . . these past fifteen months have been the most lonely, the most
wretched time of my life. I cannot bear to be parted from you Promise me,
beloved, promise me you'll not leave me again."
His hands tightened on her shoulders. "Nell, I cannot. Even ere I sailed from
Acre, rumors had reached us of the coming war between England and France.
Henry is my King, my liege lord. When he calls upon me for help, would you
have me refuse him?"
Nell had not truly expected any other answer, but it hurt, nonetheless. She
made an enormous effort, mustered up a plaintive smile "Must you always be so
unsparingly honest? Just once, could you not
comfort me with a lie?"
"Men who say possession slakes passion do not know whereof to speak. I missed
you, Nell; to be honest, far more than I expected. Neve doubt that you hold my
heart," he said softly, and then his mow quirked. "Or any other body parts
that you care to claim!"
Nell's laughter was rueful. "Oh, Simon, how ever are we to w
until tonight?"
A loose strand of hair had blown across her face, veiling her ^ sudden mist
of sun-burnished gold. He entwined the bright around his fingers, slowly
brushed them back from her cheek; «   ^ felt hot to his touch, and very
smooth. "We'll not wait," he murm saw her lips part in a dazzling smile.
"But what of the Duke of Burgundy?"
181
"Hugh is young. Once he sees you, he'll understand," Simon said, and Nell
laughed again. He slid his fingers under her chin, along her throat, and she
sighed, leaned against his encircling arm.
"Let's go back," she said huskily. "Now . . ." But then he felt her body
stiffen, saw those blue eyes wide in dismay. "Jesii, I did forget! Simon, we
cannot make love this day; it is forbidden by the Church."
Simon was no less dismayed. But according to the teachings of their Church, a
menstruating woman was unclean, and no man could lay with his wife at the time
of her purgation; if he did, he must then fast forty days in penance. "How
many days must we wait?"
"Days? Oh, no, love, I do not have my flux. But it is Sunday, and even worse,
it is Candlemas!"
Simon was silent for a moment, considering. Under Church doctrine, a man could
not have carnal knowledge of his wife on any holy day, on Fridays, Sundays, or
Wednesdays, during Advent or Lent or on Rogation Days. But Simon suspected
that this particular Church stricture was flouted more than any other. It was,
he thought, for certes the most difficult discipline the Church did demand of
her sons and daughters.
"Simon?" There was such longing in the look Nell now gave him that he made up
his mind. It had been so long, so many nights when he'd lain awake, stifling,
hot nights in which memory perfumed the air with Nell's favorite fragrance and
Brindisi had seemed a world away.
He reached out, drew her back into his arms. "I think," he said, quite
seriously, "that God will understand, too."
14
Pons, Engflisn Gascony Ducny or Aquitaine
June 1242
r0ns ^ .HENRY'S war was not popular with his English
§evin       Balked at financing yet another attempt to regain the lost
a^Ce    mpire. Most saw no justification for breaking the truce with
they were to a man highly suspicious of the motives of
282
Henry's chief allies, his mother, Isabelle, and her husband, Hugh de Lusignan,
Count of La Marche; Hugh and Isabelle had a deplorable history of betrayals
and double-dealing, had too often sought to play Henry off against Louis, the
young French King. But Henry overrode all objections. After extorting money
from the Jews and draining the Irish Exchequer, he sailed on May 9 from
Portsmouth, taking with him his pregnant Queen, his brother Richard, six
Earls, three hundred knights and thirty casks of silver pennies.
SIMON and Nell had been forced to detour far to the south, for all Poitou
north of the River Charente was now in the hands of the French Kine It was not
until early June, therefore, that they reached Pons.
As they rode into the castle bailey, they were effusively welcomed by its
seigneur, Reginald de Pons, one of Henry's inconstant Poitevin allies. The
next face they saw, though, was one dear to them both.
Rob de Quincy did not even wait for greetings to be exchanged. "A girl," he
exclaimed, "born on Shrove Tuesday!" Accepting their congratulations, he
prepared to talk at length of his baby daughter. "I think she'll have Elen's
brown eyes, though Elen says it is too early to tell" Simon made haste to
interrupt. "We are indeed happy for you, Rob. Tell me, what news of the
French? The last I heard, they were laying siege to Frontenay Castle."
"It fell six days ago. Even worse, Hugh de Lusignan's cousin Geoffrey has
yielded Vouvant Castle to Louis without a struggle."
Simon shook his head in disgust. "Now why," he said, "does that not surprise
me? I know local legend claims the de Lusignans trace their descent from the
fairy Queen Melusine, but I'd wager you could find Judas somewhere in their
family tree, too."
That brought laughter, directly behind them. Turning, they saw William
Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, striding toward them. Will was Nell's first
cousin, for his father had been an illegitimate half-brother to King John. He
had become quite friendly with Simon during their months in the Holy Land, and
Simon was very pleased to see him here, for he was beginning to suspect that
they were in need of all the seasone
soldiers they could find.
Will was grinning widely. "Loath as ever to speak your mind, Simon? If nothing
else, this should be a right lively campaign!''
"Do not go far, Will; I want to talk to you about the campaign ^ now my wife
and I must seek out the King . . . and her lady n10'     , Simon glanced at
Nell as he spoke, read such reluctance in her race he at once made an excuse
to take her aside.
"Nell? What is amiss?"
183
Nell bit her lip "You'll think me foolish, Simon, but I find myself neasy at
the thought of facing her I've not seen her for twenty-four years What do I
say to her?"
"She is the one who should feel discomfort, not you, Nell, for it as she who
made the choice to leave her children, to return to Angouleme "
"She is a stranger to me, Simon, andand I do not think I shall
1 ke her The stories I hearher tempers, her arrogance, her treachery And yet
she was not like this whilst she was wed to my father What changed her so71
know she found it hard to be merely a Countess when for sixteen years she had
been a Queen And then, too, she and Hugh have so many children, mayhap it is
concern for their prospects that has made her so grasping
Simon was touched by the echoes of bewilderment in his wife's voice, at that
moment she looked very young to him, and open to hurt Who can say what causes
a spirit to sour7 But I think we need look no further than her marriage bed
During all the years of her marriage to John, she never meddled in English
politics, never interfered in the governance of the realm Yet no sooner did
she wed de Lusignan than she began to intrigue, to lure Henry into foolhardy
schemes against the French, to aid and abet de Lusignan in all his knavery So
it would seem that there is truth in the adage 'Qui cum canibus concumbunt cum
puhcibus surgent' "
Nell looked blank, for her education had not been as extensive as his, and he
smiled at her " 'He who lies with dogs will rise with fleas ' " Adding under
his breath, "I do hope to God that will not hold true for Henry, too "
Now it was Nell's turn to offer assurance, she knew how pessimistic he was
about this campaign She squeezed his hand, then lifted her chin "Come," she
said "Let us find my mother "
ERE had been a period in Nell's life when she'd become intensely
P °us about the mother who'd left her so long ago, and she'd pressed
who'd known Isabelle to plumb their memories on her behalf To
[^nna< Isabelle had been "the loveliest sight that ever filled my eyes "
sm n         sP°ken wistfully of a woman "fair as any angel, who always
"i N Iv °f r°SeS " But lf had been Llewelyn/s response that had lodged u^f s
memory "Isabelle," he had laughed, "did always put me in
°f a very sleek and very contented, cream-fed cat " lent]v    ]    ten mmutes
of meeting her mother, Nell found herself siBut )0Lj,Utln8 Llewelyn's insight
Isabelle did indeed seem like a cat s Pampered and cosseted pet was now a
high-strung, wary
184
creature, inscrutable, elegant, haughty, claws never fully sheathed. ^ though
in her mid-fifties, Isabelle was still a handsome woman. Her veil and wimple
were softly draped, disguising the inexorable inroads that aging had made upon
a once-breathtaking beauty of face and figure The body was still slim,
testified to the iron discipline of a woman who'd learned to measure every
mouthful, and the face was artfully made un But there was no contentment in
the sapphire-star eyes, no peace, and that, far more than the passing years,
had been Isabelle d'Angoulerne's most implacable enemy.
"I've been looking forward to your arrival," Isabelle said to Simon revealing
a still seductive smile. "I've heard some intriguing tales of your exploits in
the Holy Land. Although I suspect you stir up turmoil wheresoever you go!" The
blue eyes flicked back to her daughter. "I've been eager, of course, to meet
you, too, Nell. I've been told that, of aD John's children, you are the one
most like me." "I have your coloring," Nell said politely. Isabelle's laughter
was faintly sardonic. "Yes. . . that, too," she murmured. "Well, I suppose you
must be curious about your half-brothers. I'll present them to you at dinner,
now will just point them out to you. There is Hugh, my firstborn; he did turn
twenty-one but a few weeks ago. And that is Guy, over by the hearth. I do not
see Geoffrey at the moment, but he looks like his brothers, tall, fair-haired.
Whatever else my enemies say of me, I do have very handsome children!"
Even as she spoke, a strikingly lovely young girl was approaching them; she so
resembled Nell that Simon knew at once she must be another of Isabelle's
brood. "You are just in time, dearest. May I present my daughter Isabella?"
Nell's social graces now stood her in good stead, allowed her to acknowledge
the introduction with aplomb, to show none of her inner agitation. It was not
that uncommon for Norman-French lords to bestow the same Christian name upon
legitimate and illegitimate offspring, as King John had done with Richard
Plantagenet and Richard Fitz-Roy But this was not such a case. Nell looked at
the girl, at the wide-set blue eyes, the skin like rose petals, the somewhat
sulky red mouth, and she could think only of the dead sister who'd been
cheated of so mucheven her own name. How had Isabella felt when she'd learned"
her mother's choice? Had it seemed like a repudiation to her? K to Nell. fr
"What are your plans for the campaign, Nell' Shall you return wi me to
Angouldme, there await the outcome of the war?" ^
"Thank you, no," Nell said hastily. "Simon thinks it would be s^ for me to
accompany Henry's Queen to Bordeaux." Isabella had ^ Simon aside, was flirting
with him so blatantly that Nell's temper a
no," Nell said hastily. "Simon thinks it wuu, >any Henry's Queen to Bordeaux."
Isabela11»      ^
5 flirting with him so blatantly that Nell s temp*
185
cjirion seemed more ironically amused than bedazzled, but Nell felt a
alous pang/ nonetheless. Her mother was watching her watch Simon
nd Isabella; annoyed that Isabelle had noticed her distraction, Nell
forced a tight smile. "My sons are in Bordeaux already, awaiting my
arrival. I have two boys, named after Henry and Simon."
"And a third one on the way, no?"
Nell was taken aback. "I was so sure I did not show yet!"
"Dearest, if there is any subject with which I am all too familiar, it s
childbirth! In addition to the four here at Pons, I have five more back m
Angouleme, the youngest just eight."
Nell did some swift calculations, concluded that her mother had continued to
give birth until well into her forties, and she wondered suddenly if some of
Isabelle's discontent might not be attributable to all those pregnancies, year
after year, unwieldy, uncomfortable, and lifethreatening.
There was a sudden stir in the hall; Henry was entering with Eleanor, then in
her seventh month of pregnancy. Henry was beaming, but Eleanor looked rather
tired and tense to Nell; as loyal as she was to Henry, she could not have
welcomed this war, for her elder sister, Marguerite, was wed to the French
King. In the confusion, Nell drew back. She was as uneasy about this meeting
with her brother as she had been about her reunion with Isabelle, for she and
Henry had last seen each other three years ago, on that dreadful August day at
Westminster Palace. Henry gravitated at once into Isabelle's orbit, and Nell
found herself wincing on his behalf, so naked was his need.
It was some moments before Henry noticed Nell. They stared at each other
across the most perilous of terrains, a pitfall made of memories. Nell took
the first step; it was easier than she'd expected.
"My liege." But when she would have curtsied, Henry held up his hand.
"Nay," he said, "greet me not as your King, but rather as the brother who
loves you well," and she came toward him, into his outstretched
arms.
Once they were together in a sunlit window-seat, however, their suence was
heavy with all that lay unspoken between them. "Ought We not to talk about it,
Henry?" Nell asked at last.
But Henry's way was denial, not confrontation. "I missed you, Nell. c ^ COUrt
was a sadder place for your going. I want you and Simon to
e back to England; I want you to come home." bu. ^    course we will come
home, Henry." Nell smiled at her brother, fell     e       no re^e^' onty a
sorrowful sense of loss. When a shadow Sun   '°SS t^lem/ s^e knew even before
she looked up that it would be
186
r
187
"Your mother asked me to fetch you, Henry." Simon's smile wa wry. "And when
she asks, men tend to obey."
Henry laughed. "That they do!" He was already on his feet. Acros the hall,
Isabelle beckoned with a smile.
Simon watched in bemusement. He'd not deny the woman spun a subtle web, but
this was the third time that Henry had blundered into it. "How old was he when
she left England, Nell?"
"Ten," Nell said softly. "He was ten . . ."
THE River Charente shimmered in sunlight; deep and fast flowing, jt was the
only barrier between the French and English armies. Henry had fortified the
crossing at Tonnay, but to Simon's frustration, he had done nothing to secure
the bridge at Taillebourg, a few miles north of Saintes where the English were
encamped.
They were discussing Henry's failing now as they rode north alone the river
bank, Simon and Will of Salisbury and Rob de Quincy and the knights of Simon's
household. Two of the latter, Baldwin and Adam, were in particularly high
spirits; Simon's former squires, they had been knighted by Simon less than a
fortnight ago, and the euphoria had yet to fade. And Simon's new squires,
Miles and Luke, eager youths of fifteen, were delighted to be included in this
adult scouting expedition. But the men did not share their excitement. Grimly,
wrathfully, they were reviewing the events of the past six weeks, tracing the
trail of errors that had so far marred their King's campaign.
"What I cannot understand," Will complained, "is why Henry did allow the
French to seize the offensive. We landed at Royan on May thirteenth; it is now
the twenty-first of July, and what have we accomplished?"
"Nothing," Simon said flatly, "nothing whatsoever. The Gascons have failed to
capture La Rochelle. The Count of Toulouse has yet to join our ranks. And most
unforgivably of all, Henry has made no attempt to take Taillebourg."
"Has he not been negotiating with the Lord of Taillebourg?" Adam ventured.
"Baldwin and I heard that Geoffrey de Rancogne had given the King reason to
think he'd refuse the French entry into Taillebourg'
"And that," Simon said bitterly, "is the greatest lunacy of all- Ran" cogne
does despise Hugh de Lusignan, so much so that he even swo an oath that he'd
not shave or cut his hair till he'd revenged htose upon Hugh. Do you truly
think such a man will join forces with He^i and Hugh? He is playing Henry for
a fool, whilst giving the French tun to reach Taillebourg. But do you think I
could get Henry to see tha ^
"You did try, Simon." Rob considered himself to be too old/
ty-five, to be squandering a summer in this meaningless fashion; he
j only that he should return safely to his wife and daughter. But knew that
Simon could not be so stoical, for war was what Simon
w best, and this badly botched campaign had outraged his sensibilities/
affronted his soldier's pride.
"For naught, Rob." Simon gestured toward his right, toward the
ver "Had we crossed at Tonnay, we could have taken Taillebourg with
se At the very least, we ought to have burnt the bridge. But no, Henry
would wait at Saintes, and now if our scouts have told us true, it may
well be too late."
"My lord father once told me that King John was the unluckiest of battle
commanders," Will remarked, signaling to his squire to pass him a wineskin.
"But Henry, God bless him, is surely the most inept."
None could dispute him. They rode in silence for a time. Although they were
not wearing the heavy, cumbersome helms that had begun to replace the old
conical helmet with nose-guard and the brimmed kettle hat, they'd thought it
prudent to put on their chain-mail armor, and their surcoats only partially
shielded their hauberks from the sun's glare. The day grew hotter, the road
dustier, their tempers more strained.
"Simon!" Peter de Montfort had ridden ahead. He was now heading back in their
direction, coming at a hard gallop. "The French," he gasped. "That whoreson
Rancogne has opened the town gates to the French army. The fleur-de-lys is
flying from the castle keep. Taillebourg is theirs and so is the bridge!"
LIKE a small city sprung up overnight, the tents of the French army spread out
along the north bank of the Charente, as far as the eye could see. Henry
abruptly drew rein, staring across at the enemy encampment. He looked stunned,
as if doubting the evidence of his own senses. 'We ... we just have to hold
them here," he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the narrow stone
bridge.
Will stared at him in disbelief, then glanced about in search of
Henry's brother. Unlike Henry, who was subject to occasional fits of
martial fervor, Richard had never shown much zest for battle, and Will
Quid not quite understand why, for Richard was no coward. But al-
°ugh Richard might never distinguish himself as a battle commander,
east- Will thought, the man does know how to count!
to       s confidence was not misplaced. Richard needed but one glance
Q   ,e Wat the English were dangerously outnumbered. "Mayhap we
tha     t0 consider retreating," he began cautiously, for he knew better
ny man there how important it was to let Henry save face.
no de Lusignan had ever been acclaimed for tact. Hugh had
188
been gazing gloomily across at the French army, thinking of all he'd done to
give offense to the French King, provocations that were suddenly taking on new
and alarming proportions. "Hold them here?" he echoed incredulously. "How? Do
you English expect God to favor you with a miracle or two? I suppose He could
always smite Louis with a thunderbolt, but"
"Do not blaspheme," Henry said coldly, for nothing roused his ne quicker than
ridicule. "Need I remind you that 'we English' would not be here at all if not
for you? Had you not balked at paying homage to Louis's brother, had you not
besought my help, swore you'd provide the men if I provided the money"
To Henry's astonishment, ^nd the indignation of every Englishman within
earshot, Hugh de Lusignan snapped, "Indeed I did not!"
"Dare you deny it?" The lie was so brazen that Henry was at a loss. "What of
your letters, your pleas"
"If you're laying blame about, much of it must go to your mother. Isabelle
wanted this war fully as much as I did, even more. It was to please her"
The rest of Hugh's denial was lost; all heads were turning toward the south,
all eyes focusing upon Simon de Montfort. Simon reined in before Henry. "I
rode upstream a few miles, and it was just as I suspected. The French are
building a second bridge, and it's nigh on done. They are about ready to
cross, my liege, and when they do, they'll cut off our line of retreat, cut us
off from Saintes."
Henry whitened. "What do you suggest, Simon?"
"Your safety must be our first concern. If we fight this day, I do not see how
we can keep you from falling into the hands of the French. Let me go to the
French King, try to get us a truce."
"You'd do that for me?" Henry asked, and Simon nodded.
Richard guided his mount forward. "Simon is right. We must somehow gain time
enough for you to retreat. But you are French-born, Simon, and there may be
those who feel you're fighting on the wrong side. Better that I be the one to
go. When I was in the Holy Land, I was able to secure the release of a number
of French crusaders, and that might well stand me in good stead."
Henry glanced from Simon to his brother. "You are both brave men," he said
quietly. "I am indeed well served."
Carrying only a pilgrim's staff, Richard crossed the stone bridge/ walked
alone into the French encampment. No sooner had he gone tha Henry began to
fret, to regret allowing him to take such a risk. f» regrets were multiplying
by the moment. Nothing was happening as ought. Louis would not harm Richard.
Henry told himself that repe edly, told himself that Louis was an honorable
man. He knew tha<
189
true. So why, then, was he making war upon Louis? Trapped there the banks of
the Charente, having to trust to an enemy's honor, HenrV found that was a
question he could no longer answer.
MOM reached for a pen, only to have the quill point split. He tossed
5 aside impatiently, accepting another from his squire.
Done at the priory of St Eutrope at Saintes, on this the 22nd day of July,
feast day of St Mary Magdalene.
To my dear wife, greetings.
Henry was almost captured yesterday at Taillebourg, but God was with us and
Richard was able to gain a brief truce from the French King, making it
possible for us to retreat to Saintes. I do not know what will happen next. I
think Henry is beginning to realize the folly of having heeded so faithless a
man as de Lusignan, but he is stubborn and proud, never more so than when he
is in the wrong. And yes, I know that those failings are mine, too! I will
write again when I can. God keep you well.
He signed with a flourish, handed the parchment to Miles. "Use my signet to
seal it. Tell the courier he is to deliver it to the Countess of Leicester, at
the Dominican friary in Bordeaux. Then he is to"
Simon paused, frowning. The shouting drew louder, and he followed Miles to the
window. Black-robed Cluniac monks had halted on the cloister paths, looking
puzzled, as knights began to spill out of the guest hall, struggling with
hauberks, shouting for their squires, for their horses. Simon jerked the
shutter back, saw the Earl of Salisbury running across the grassy inner garth.
"Will! What has happened?"
"That lunatic de Lusignan!" Will slowed but did not stop. "He has attacked a
foraging party sent out by the French. The Count of Boulogne came to their
aid, and a battle is now taking place even as we speak, in 'he vineyards north
of the town!"
PII-GRIMS on their way to the holy shrine of St James at Compostella
ere accustomed to seek lodgings in Saintes, and a small band of these
j^tents had been unfortunate enough to blunder onto the battle. They
,    efed in panic, but in fleeing the fighting, three of them just missed
skill ^        P^e<^ ty 'he knights of Simon's household. The men were
o riders, though, and managed to turn their horses aside in time,
8< kicking up clouds of thick red dust. The pilgrimstwo women
190
and a youth no more than thirteenhuddled together in terror, to
shaken to run.
Simon had swerved off the narrow road. He was astride his favorit war-horse, a
high-strung, blooded roan stallion, and it took him some moments to get the
destrier back under control. The women were sobbing, pleading for mercy, and
he said hastily, "You've no cause for fear." And then he smiled, fo> he did
not want his young squires t accompany him into battle. Although squires were
by tradition banned from the actual fighting, their presence upon the field
would still pm them in some peril. Simon had always found his squires to be a
distraction at best, a danger at worst; on more than a few occasions he'd
found himself at risk, seeking to make sure of their safetyand Miles and Luke
were younger, more untried than most.
He beckoned to them now. "These women are in need of our protection. I want
you to escort them back to the town, let no harm befall them," Both boys
looked keenly disappointed; this would have been their first battle. But they
knew better than to object, dismounted, and stood watching glumly as the men
disappeared around a bend in the road. Coming onto the fighting, Simon swore
in dismay, for all was chaos Under a blinding noonday sun, men were grappling
with one another stumbling and sliding down the rock-strewn slopes, crying out
to S Denis or St George, crashing through the barrier hedges of thorn anc
bramble, into the fields of ripening grape vines. To Simon, it looker more
like a brawl than a battle, a wild melee lacking any order or dis cipline. And
as more and more soldiers hastened upon the scene, unabl to tell which side
was theirs, the confusion spread; men began to di
by mistake.
Glimpsing the banner of the Count of Artois, Simon gestured to hi men. "There,
toward the fleur-de-lys!" He had only ridden a few yard' however, before he
veered off, for he'd caught sight of a man much i need of assistance. If given
a choice, knights scorned foot soldiers a unworthy opponents, preferred to
cross swords with other knights. t>1 the lure of ransom made lords and
well-armed knights tempting targe' This particular knight was braced against a
large tree, seeking to ho off three circling assailants, lashing out so wildly
that it took onh moment for Simon to comprehend the true nature of his plight-
Eve' knight's dreadthe man's helm had been knocked awry, his eye-sig wrenched
askew, effectively blinding him.
Simon spurred his horse forward, leveling his lance. He was F^ them before
they realized their danger. As the first man whir'6 < lance caught him in the
throat. Simon swung his stallion aroundman afoot was no match for a mounted
knight; the other two a
were already in flight.
A
I
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The knight had taken advantage of the respite to yank off his helm.
tjjs eyes flicked from the dying man at his feet to the fork-tailed lion
mblazoned across Simon's shield "My lord of Leicester, I am in your
debt"
Simon dipped the lance in acknowledgment, then let it clatter to
the ground, it would be useless in close-quarters fighting Passing his left
arm through the loops of his shield, he drew his sword, for a knight was
bearing down upon him from the nght The man's helm hid his face, and he had
neither shield nor surcoat, making it impossible for Simon to know whether he
fought for England or France He had no choice, though, moved to meet the
charge But at the last moment, the [ought sheered aside, pointed at Simon's
arms, and raised his hand in a jaunty gesture of apology
Simon gave his stallion its head, galloped toward the thick of the fighting
Just ahead of him, he saw Adam unhorse a knight, and felt a throb of pride Not
far away, Will was exchanging blows with two French men-at-arms, he was more
than holding his own, though, so Simon didn't stop An arrow pierced an English
soldier in the eye, he screamed, toppled backward, nght into the path of
Simon's stallion The horse gathered itself, cleared the body in one smooth
leap, and Simon gave it an approving pat He'd sighted the enemy, a man whose
white surcoat flaunted the blood-red cross of the Knights Templar, the
"soldiers of Christ," the most militant of all the orders of knighthood
Simon shouted, and his stallion lengthened stride The Templar was turning to
meet him, they came together with a jarring clash of swords A second time they
circled The Templar's sword bounced off Simon's shield, Simon's counter-thrust
sliced through the other man's reins ihe third rush was more deliberate, for
by now each had taken the other's measure, knew he was well matched As the
Templar swung, Simon twisted sideways in the saddle Again they circled But
this time Simon's roan stallion swerved into the other horse, teeth bared,
raking a Woody ridge along its neck The second stallion screamed in rage,
reared up wildly, and Simon's sword slammed into the Templar's chest
1116 chain-mail deflected the blade, but the force of the blow rocked the an
backward Caught off balance, he had no chance of saving himself, mt fhe ground
hard
Simon reined in his stallion, but his foe lay stunned, helpless Simon
hedx' *en Patted tne roan again Were they not so hard-pressed,
fan    aVe c^aimed the man as a prisoner Not only was he forfeiting a
^fretfi'       a 8°°d destner, too A pity He gave the Templar one last
bo\vm     °°k' then sent the stallion charging into a phalanx of cross-
*n Prudent men all, they scattered
roan had overshot its mark, splashed into a chain of the shallow
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192
fish stews that the luckless vineyard owner had dug for drainage. Simon
slackened the reins, allowed fhe destrier to drink from one of the ponds He
was very thirsty himself, but while his helm was liberally punctured with air
holes, it made no provisions for drinking. Or for wiping sweat away. He could
feel it trickling down his forehead, stinging his eyesgrimacing, he tasted
salt on his tongue. His pulse was still racing. But he knew how vulnerable an
armor-clad knight was to the heat of the sun, and he forced himself to take
deep, deliberate breaths, to give his stallionand himselfthis brief pause.
Where was Henry? This was not a battle they could hope to win. Much too many
French.
The stallion snorted; its head came up sharply, scenting the air.
Cursing himself for his lack of care, Simon turned in the saddle, already
knowing what he'd see. The three men were rapidly closing in. The
soldier on the left looked to be the weak link in the chain, and Simon
aimed the stallion toward him. The man gave ground; Simon would
have broken through had the middle man not thrust his halberd toward
the destrier's face. Screaming defiance, the stallion reared up. Simon
suddenly realized their intent, threw his weight forward to bring the
roan down, but not in time. The first man darted under the flailing
hooves, drove his sword into the animal's unprotected belly. The horse
screamed again, lurched to its knees, and Simon flung himself out of
the saddle.
He hit the ground rolling, a trick taught him in his youth by his brother
Amaury, one that served him well now, carrying him out of sword-range, giving
him the precious seconds he needed to regain his
feet.
They advanced warily. Simon kept his eyes on the man with the halberd; he was
the most dangerous, his weapon having the longest reach. "You cannot take all
of us," he said in a thick Flemish accent. "You're a lord, can afford to buy
your freedom. Use your head, yield
whilst you can."
"No." There were no trees at hand. The best Simon could do was to try to keep
the pond at his back. A risky gambit, for if they ended up in the water, the
weight of his armor would drag him down. He watched them come on, without
haste; they knew what they were about, mercenaries, most likely. This was a
fight to be won fast, or not at He waited, letting them get closer, within
striking distance, closer st* He feinted suddenly toward the halberdsman, then
whirled upon man moving in on his right. His swordthree feet long, honed s »r
enough to split a thread in midaircame down upon bone, with a force of Simon's
body behind the blow. There was a shriek; the reeled backward, his hand
severed at the wrist. ^
Simon spun around, his sword dripping blood. But the halt*1
293
vtas shaking his head; he'd begun to back away. The injured man clutched j^s
stump, rocked back and forth, staring dumbly at his mangled hand. It had
fallen into the mud; the fingers still twitched. He seemed in shock, as if n°t
yet comPrehending what had befallen him. The third man looked no less
horror-struck.
"Fulke! Christ! You bastard, you maimed my brother!" he screamed, and lunged
at Simon. It was a wild blow, ill aimed, yet as luck would have it, it
connected. The sword slashed at Simon's upper arm, and the point caught upon
several of the metal links of his hauberk. As the blade twisted, the rings
gave way; pain seared up Simon's arm.
The man called Fulke had dropped to his knees, retching. The halberdsman was
gone, in search of easier prey. Simon circled slowly around the last of his
assailants. "I'll kill you if I must." He was panting, could feel blood
trickling down his arm. "Take your brother and go."
In answer, the man swung again. Simon easily parried the blow. But as he
stepped back, he stumbled on the wet grass. The other man flung himself
forward, and they both crashed heavily to the ground. For several frenzied
moments, they thrashed about by the pond's edge, neither able to gain an
advantage. But then Simon managed to roll over on top, and the added weight of
his hauberk and helm enabled him to pin the man long enough to unsheathe his
dagger. The man gave a frantic heave, carrying them both into the shallows,
and Simon thrust the knife up under his ribs. He gasped, his body jerked, and
Simon broke free. The water was fast turning red. He gasped again, began to
choke. Simon grasped his belt, dragged him back onto the grass. A bubble of
blood had formed in the corner of his mouth. As his eyes clouded over, Simon
made the sign of the cross, then rose slowly to his feet.
The man he'd maimed continued to moan, oblivious of all but his own pain.
Simon ignored him, crossed to where his dying stallion lay. knelt, rested his
hand on the horse's head. The destrier's eyes rolled; lts legs kicked weakly,
and it made a valiant, futile effort to regain its |*t- "Easy," Simon said,
"easy, Smoke." His throat tightened; he stroked
e muddied forelock, and after a moment or so, he brought up his
§8er, drew it swiftly across the animal's throat. a, Anight afoot was not
likely to survive for long. He'd have to find aCSe h°rSe/ 3nd fast' He turned
back toward the battlefield, stopped m th 3t ^e s'8n* °^tne men- They stopped
no less suddenly, taking 'he d ^raP^c scene before them: the two men sprawled
in the grass, ^ ead horse, the blood still wet on Simon's sword. "Do not mind
Wi'<je, e ^t one said. "We're but passing by!" Giving Simon a very ;-J2h* ^
*ev neaded for the body of his horse, where they crouched,
a8htto
Pty the ivory cantle from the saddle.
194
Simon watched them wearily, too tired to object. Sheathing h^ dagger, he
started to walk. He'd not gone far, though, before he saw a knight riding
toward him. The chivalric code held that it was dishonorable for a knight to
ride down a fellow knight, but Simon had no expectations that his attacker
would dismount for a fair fight. He stood where he was, and waited, feeling an
enormous reluctance to hamstring a horse, yet knowing he was likely to have no
choice. The knight was almost upon him before he recognized the six gold lions
embossed upon his shield.
Will reined in beside him, his eyes taking in Simon's crimson-stained surcoat.
"I trust most of that blood is not yours?" When Simon shook his head, he said,
"Christ Jesus, Simon, this is no battle, is more like a God-cursed circus!
Half of our men seem to be blundering into each other instead of the French.
As for the looting, I swear I saw bodies stripped clean ere they hit the
ground. And this you'll not believe, but I even saw a couple of whoresons
rutting with a peasant wench, though how they found a woman amidst this
madness ..."
"An unlucky pilgrim. But you're right, Will; this is madness. Where is Henry?
We must get him away from here whilst" Simon stopped, for Will had begun to
laugh.
"I'll wager my cousin the King has long since fled the field. His men would
see to that!"
Simon frowned. "What are you saying, Will? Are you calling Henry a coward?"
Will was no longer laughing, for there was no more serious charge than to
impugn a man's courage. "No," he said. "No, I am not. I had forgotten; you've
never fought with Henry ere today, have you? Henry . . . how can I say this?
You know how he is, Simon, how easily he gets flustered. Well, on the
battlefield, he seems to lose his head altogether. If you'd ever seen him,
flailing about with his sword, for all the world like a windmill gone berserk
. . /'Will laughed again, ruefully this time. "The Lord God in His wisdom made
Henry a King, but He for certes made him no soldier!"
Simon could not help grinning at the image Will had just conjured up. "That is
all the more reason, then, to see to his safety," he pointed out, and Will
nodded.
"Do not go wandering away," he said. "I'll be back." And he ^ as good as his
word, returned shortly thereafter leading a blood-streak
bay- <i
Simon and Will could catch no glimpse of the royal arms of Eng1* But they did
see a banner flying the silver-crowned lion of Richar Cornwall, and beneath it
they found not only Richard, but John Man , Mansel had just murmured a prayer
over a dying soldier, all the
195
hitching a morning-star mace, the favorite weapon of warrior-priests
king to evade the Church's stricture against "smiting with the edge
f the sword." Under his kettle hat, his face was grey with fatigue, but
tue blood splattering his surcoat was not his own. He told them that
Henry was on his way back to Saintes with a bodyguard of one hundred
twenty sergeants, and he did not quarrel with Simon's terse verdict,
that the battle was lost. The French battle cry of "Montjoye!" now echoed
from all quarters of the field.
"If we begin a withdrawal back toward the town, can you hold them here?" he
asked, and Simon nodded.
"For a time, yes. Just try not to let the men panic." It was Mansel's turn to
nod. He had odd, amber-colored eyes, heavylidded, sharp with suspicion, but as
they came to rest now upon Simon, they showed a fleeting, grudging respect. "I
hear you fought well this
day."
Simon gestured toward the blood-caked spikes of Mansel's mace.
"So did you."
Despite Simon and Will's best efforts, the retreat soon turned into a rout. In
their haste to reach safety at Saintes, the outnumbered English broke ranks
and ran, although others did rally to Simon and Will, and some of the
bitterest fighting took place within sight of the city's stone walls. A few of
the French became so caught up in the passion of the chase that they foolishly
pursued the English into the city itself, only then to find themselves trapped
in the town. The French army withdrew in triumph to their encampment across
the river, and an eerie silence settled upon the vineyards of Saintes, where
so many men had fought and died such a few short hours before.
ONCE they'd pulled his hauberk over Simon's head, his squires saw that
the sword's blade had slashed cleanly through his leather gambeson,
too. The wound was not deep, but it had laid the skin open from shoul-
der to elbow, and there had been a fair amount of bleeding. Simon's
shirt was so stiff with dried blood that the boys were reluctant to peel
1 back from the wound, and Simon ended up having to jerk it off himself.
Wincing as if the pain were their own, they made haste to obey when
bade them fetch verjuice, pour it over the injury. Blood was oozing
b   H^3'11' an(^ tney wou^c' nave torn a perfectly good pillow cover into
ages had Simon not tossed them his bloodied shirt, suggested they
s«e th     W'* tllat' Now *^at ne was striPPecl to tne waist, they could
the   * u§ty bruises spreading across his ribs, discoloring rapidly, and
c°mf     an to ar8ue as to which salve could best ease their lord's dis-
airnon slumped back in his chair, closed his eyes. After a time,
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196
197
a wine cup was pressed into his hand; he glanced up, saw Peter d Montfort
smiling down at him.
"Men are talking of your exploits, Simon. You gained glory f0
yourself this day."
"But alas, not so much as a farthing of ransom money," Simon sain dryly.
Seeing Baldwin standing in the open doorway, as if hesitant to enter, Simon
beckoned to him. "You acquitted yourself well, Baldwin All in all, we did our
best. Though I lost Smoke . . ." He sighed, only belatedly became aware of the
younger man's silence. In the five years they'd been in his service, Baldwin
and Adam had become inseparable companions, so constantly together that those
in Simon's household had jokingly begun to call them Sun and Shadow. And now
Baldwin stood alone in the doorway, tears welling in his eyes. Simon pushed
his chair back. "Adam? He is dead?" Baldwin blinked. "I do not know, my lord.
I ... I saw him fall. ." The squires froze, not daring to move. Peter made a
sorrowful sign of the cross. All watched Simon. He had begun to pace. "Christ
wills it," he said, very low. But his rage was growing, a hot, heedless rage
born of grief, blind to consequence. "Had he died in the Holy Land, it would
have been for the glory of God Eternal. But to die in a wretched village
vineyard, and for what? For a King's folly, a rebel baron's greed! Where is
the justice in that?"
"Simon!" The hurrying footsteps, the raised voice were Rob's. "You'd best come
to the King's chamber. Simon, the man intends to hold Saintes against the
French!"
Simon's eyes were very dark, utterly opaque. "Has he gone mad?" "I can only
tell you what he says, that he'll not retreat" Simon was no longer listening.
Grabbing a tunic, he started for the door, as Miles cried out a plaintive
protest. "My lord, wait! We've not yet bandaged your wound!"
But his plea was cut off by the slamming door. Rob turned toward Peter, who
said bleakly, "Simon just learned that Adam is dead."
Rob swore. "Christ keep us all, for I've just made a grievous mistake."
HENRY'S anger was threaded through with unease. His decision to d fend Saintes
had been an impulsive one, the response of raw pride, reaction of his barons
was so adverse, though, so resistant that ft ^ begun to have second thoughts.
To a manhis cousin Will, his br° Richard, the Earls of Winchester and Norfolk,
the young Earl of G1°uC^. ter, Hugh de Lusignan, even John Manselthey insisted
that the was indefensible, so vehemently that Henry found himself won
f they might be right. But he'd staked out a position for himself, did Ot know
how to retreat with grace.
"The lot of you suddenly sound as timid as nuns," he said testily. "I'm not
asking you to defend a rabbit hutch, but a town I've spent six weeks
fortifying. The city walls are made of sturdy ashlar stone, not Ruayn cheese!"
Hugh de Lusignan gave a loud snort. The day's defeat had brought home to him
just how vulnerable he was to the wrath of the French King. Henry could sail
blithely back to England, but he'd have to come to terms with Louis, and he
knew how harsh, how humiliating those terms would be. He was not feeling
charitable, saw no reason to indulge his stepson's posturing now that Henry
had proved such a worthless ally, and he said scornfully,
"We'd be better off with the Ruayn cheese; at least that would fill our
bellies. Just how do you expect to feed our army? Mean you to go from door to
door, plundering every larder? Even then, we'd run out of food long ere Louis
ran out of soldiers. Christ, within a fortnight we'd count ourselves lucky to
be eating rats!"
With the sole exception of the indignant Henry, the men agreed with Hugh,
though it galled them to admit it. Even had Hugh not been so arrogant, they
would have disliked him, but he made it easy for them. Will spoke for all when
he drawled, "Speaking of rats, mayhap you can tell me if it is true, my lord,
what men say, that rats are ever the first to abandon a sinking ship?"
Hugh leaped to his feet. "Say what you mean, Salisbury!"
Will's smile was cold. "I thought I did."
"Enough!" Henry glared at them both, but neither man seemed daunted by his
displeasure. They continued to eye each other with undisguised rancor.
The Earl of Norfolk shifted impatiently in his seat. He'd distinguished
himself on the battlefield that day, was now bruised and sore and
short-tempered in consequence. Glancing toward Richard, he said, iou talk to
him, my lord, make him see the folly of this."
Richard looked troubled, started to speak. But Henry forestalled him. The
decision is not my brother's to make, my lord Norfolk. It is mine."
'he ensuing silence was an uncomfortable one for Henry. However M "e sought to
feign indifference, he could not be impervious to taeir ^approval. Their
criticism rankled, and their doubts were coning nUS' ^e moved toward the
table, gestured for Mansel to pour from ar aS°n' His was the right of command.
So why must he have to Samf the obedience that was his due? But what if he was
wrong, if ^s could not be held?
n the door opened suddenly, Henry felt a flicker of relief at
198
sight of Simon. He'd put it to Simon, let Simon pers uaide himrej tantlythat
they should retreat. None could fault him Eor paying w to Simon's advice, for
even Mansel admitted that Simon was a brills battle commander. He smiled at
his brother-in-law, sadd,- "It is my beh that we ought to make our stand here,
at Saintes. frut I value v0 opinion, Simon Tell us what you think."
"Why not show you?" Simon said, so curtly that Henry's situ] faded. There was
a chessboard on the table. Simon strode toward it picked up one of the ivory
chess pieces. "We have here the Kins o England," he said, and Will sat up
straight in his chair,- for Simon hat selected the pawn. Henry noticed that,
too, and color fcegan to rise ir his face. Simon reached next for the wine
flagon. Flipping up the hd he poured red wine onto the hearth. By now the sile
noe was absolute all eyes riveted upon him. "The city of Saintes." He dropped
the pawi into the flagon. "The English King has taken up position. The French
King then actsthusly." He slammed the lid shut, with a resounding clang.
"Behold," he said, "the battle of Saintes."
Henry was as darkly flushed as the wine dripping diown the hearth stones. "How
dare you speak to me like that! I find this little game c yours highly
insulting. Disagree with me if you will, but by God, you' show me the respect
due me, as your King!"
"Even the Almighty has been known to anoint a fool. The Frencl were once
cursed with a King so foolish he was kmrwrn as Charles th Simple. He finally
had to be confined for his own good ." Simon heart Henry gasp, but he
continued on, relentlessly. "Your chambers at Wind sor Castle have barred
windows to ward off assassins-, l>ut I expect the could be put to other use if
need be."
Henry found it almost impossible to believe that a-nyone would dare to speak
so contemptuously to him. "I . . .1 never heard such wild talk Are you
threatening me?"
"You did ask for my opinion," Simon said harshly. -'Now you hav it." He felt
no remorse, but his anger had peaked, leavirvg him sudden! drained, sapped of
all emotion, his an exhaustion both of body and sou He was turning away when
Henry grabbed his arm.
"Damn you, de Montfort, get back here! You'll go nowhere till give you leave!"
Simon swung around, wrenching free of Henry' s Hold. But ne had already
recoiled; he was staring down at his hand . Will had fl5* in alarm. He, too,
now saw the darkening splotch aJong the slee Simon's tunic.
Henry's eyes at last shifted from his bloodied palm., up to Sim ^ face. "Men
died for you this day," Simon said, and when Her"? not speak, he turned,
walked from the chamber.
299
fjo one else moved After an interminable time, Henry crossed to table, moving
like a man in a daze There he splashed wine onto a Ian, scrubbed until his
hand was clean
11     "Get out," he said "All of you, get out1" One by one, they did
man in the bed was young, limp, fair curls and a smattering of freckles made
him look even younger, gave an added poignancy to his light Drenched in sweat,
his lips bitten raw, he was mumbling incoherently, drifting in a fevered
darkness, in that dangerous twilight between sleep and death "Is that Adam7"
Rob asked softly, and Simon
nodded
gob had heard that the French King had sought a brief truce so both sides
could recover their dead and wounded "What are his chances,
Simon7"
"The doctor says that he is in God's hands " Simon's eyes were deeply circled,
shadowed with weanness, bereft of hope "His arm was so badly mangled it could
not be saved We had to get him drunk, hold him down whilst the doctor cut it
off at the elbow "
Rob grimaced, waved away a squire's offer of ale "Simon Henry has just given
the command to withdraw from Saintes, to fall back upon Pons "
Simon had been about to bite into a slice of honeyed bread He paused, then set
the bread down untasted Glancing again at the delirious man in the bed, he
beckoned to the doctor "When the French take the town, tell them that the Earl
of Leicester will stand good for this man's ransom "
The doctor nodded, started to ask if Simon would also assume the costs of
burial, but thought better of it Simon moved to the window " was just past
sunrise, and the grass still glistened with night dew ">e sky was a softly
shaded blue, fleeced with wisps of cotton-white clouds
Rob had joined them, they stood for several moments breathing in e terruliar
scents of a summer dawn "At least he did change his mind,
blln°n At least he did listen "
in w °n/S mouth twisted He said nothing Church bells were sound-
8 M°rrow Mass was about to begin
^mbT' ^U^ de Lusignan slipped away, two days later, he and Isabelle
4es y Submitted to the French King So did most of Henry's Poitevm
200
Henry moved on to Barbezieux, where a French crusader ransomed by Richard in
the Holy Land sent a warning that the French meant t surround the city, to
take Henry captive. The English hastily retreated toward Blaye, in such
disorder that the road south was strewn with broken carts, lamed horses, even
the wounded. From Blaye, Henry fle(j to Bordeaux, where his Queen had just
given birth to a daughter. There he holed up, saved only by the vagaries of
fate; the pursuing French army was stricken with the bloody flux, forced to
withdraw to the healthier lands of the North.
A sweltering, humid August passed into a dry, sun-scorched September. Henry's
disgruntled lords lost all patience with their King Roger de Quincy, Earl of
Winchester, was the first to go, soon followed by his brother, Rob, and the
Earl of Hereford. Henry quarreled bitterly with his brother. He had given
Richard the county of Gascony as reward for his service at Taillebourg Bridge;
now he revoked the grant, and the Earls of Norfolk and Gloucester departed
from Bordeaux in disgust, sailed for England. The English forces dwindled
daily, while the French sang mocking ballads of Henry's Poitou campaign:
"They did not stop to spin a tale, The English with their barley ale, But all
of France did dance and dine, For barley ale is not worth wine!"
It was early afternoon when Simon and Nell rode into the outer garth of the
Benedictine abbey of Sainte-Croix. Simon was helping Nell to dismount in front
of the Abbot's lodging when they heard Simon's name called.
Will was hastening toward them. "You are just in time to bid me farewell.
Henry wants me to lead an expedition to P&rigord." He saw the query in Simon's
eyes, and shrugged. "Aye, I agreed. Why not? The pleasures of Bordeaux are
beginning to pall!"
"And Henry's fortunes are at ebb tide," Simon suggested, and Will gave a
sheepish grin.
"If you make me sound noble, Simon, I'll never foigive you." He kissed Nell's
hand with an exaggerated flourish, gave Simon a jolting slap on the shoulder,
then turned back. "Henry had another quarrel with Richard this forenoon; we
could hear the shouting clear out to the cloisters. You can tell me if it is
none of my concern, Cousin Nell, W gossip has it that the Queen was
responsible for Henry's change heart. Is there truth to that?" . .
Nell nodded. "For once the gossips do speak true. Eleanor
did"0'
INCH    llUUUCUi       1 \JL   U1U-C   UlC    gUSOALSD  U\J   OUCCIJN    11UC--
    J^iw*»"- ,
want to see Gascony go to Richard, felt it should be part of her so
patrimony."
202
"And who is to hold off the French till the lad is of an age to fight it?
Sometimes I think these southern climes do addle men's brains! t keep your
guard up, Simon, my lad. Cousin Henry is like to be in foul temper, and you'd
make a tempting scapegoat, indeed!"
VVith a wave and a loud laugh, Will was off. They watched him go, d then Simon
said, "Henry sent for me, not you, Nell. There is no need for you to accompany
me."
"No?" Nell linked her arm in his. "Had we lived as Christians in ancient Rome,
do you think I'd have let you face the lions alone?"
"If my memory serves," Simon said, "the lions always won." But he was secretly
glad to have Nell with him. Never had he and Henry been more in need of a
mediator than in these strained weeks since
Saintes.
Henry looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth pursed. "Richard is
returning to England," he said, "leaving me to fight this war alone. What of
you, Simon? Are you going to abandon me, too?"
Nell's hand was resting on Simon's arm; she could feel the muscles tense,
contract under her fingers. But when Simon spoke, his voice was even. "No," he
said. "You are my King. I will stay as long as you have need of me."
Henry expelled an audible breath. "Thank you," he said simply.
Across the room Eleanor and John Mansel watched in disapproving silence.
"Henry is too good." Eleanor kept her voice low, but it throbbed with
indignation. "How can he forgive Simon after the disgraceful way he behaved at
Saintes?"
Mansel, who'd so often deplored Eleanor's influence over Henry, now found
himself welcoming it, for a loved Queen could prove a formidable ally, indeed.
"Do not fret, Madame," he said, and smiled thinly. "Henry may have forgiven,
but you can be sure he has not forgotten."
BELLS were chiming, summoning the friars to Matins. That meant it was well
past midnight. Nell sighed, and beside her, Simon stirred.
"Nell? Is it the babe?"
He's restive tonight." She reached for his hand, placed it on her 'Women. "See
for yourself."
airnon propped himself up on his elbow, fascinated by the rippling th 61))ent
°^ her skin. "You think you've another lad tucked away in
She smiled. "Did I not tell you about Rhonwen's test? She pricked she ^6r °Ver
a CUP °^ spring water, and when the drop of blood sank, j^ a that was proof I
carried a son. I think she may well be right.
°ne kicks like a mule, just like Harry and Bran."
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203
Simon gave her his pillow, propped it behind her back. She maj herself as
comfortable as her pregnancy would permit; she hated feelji/ so ungainly, so
bloated, and she sighed again. Simon reached for j. hand, pressed a kiss into
her palm.
"I can blame my sleeplessness on our little lad. But what of y0 Simon? What
keeps you awake at such hours? Beloved, I know you -J troubled. Do not shut me
out. Share your thoughts with me."
"I cannot," he said softly. "Henry is your brother."
Nell's hand closed over his. "Yes," she said, "Henry is of my blooH But we are
of one flesh, you and I, joined in the holy sight of God. Tell me, my heart.
Tell me."
Simon turned toward her, moving into a bright splash of moonlight Although he
was not yet thirty-four, he had a streak of silver just above his left temple;
Nell liked to tease him about it, claiming he put her in mind of a raven
daubed with whitewash. But now the sight touched a protective chord. She
realized it was foolish; if any man was well able to look to his own
interests, it was surely Simon. And yet it was her secret that sometimes her
redoubtable husband seemed very vulnerable to her.
Simon's continuing silence came not from reluctance; he'd been deciding how
best to answer her, to make her understand. "I know," he said slowly, "that
Christ said we should forgive our enemies not seven times, yet seventy times
seven. But it has never been easy for me to forgive a wrong done me or mine. I
hardened my heart against Henry, could not forget how he shamed us, forced us
into exile. That failing is mine; I freely admit it. Bishop Robert has often
cautioned me that a haughty spirit goeth before a fall."
While Nell could find Simon's inflexibility truly infuriating at times, she
could never bear to hear him criticized, even if he was the critic "Yes," she
said, "you are a prideful man. But you have reason, my love, more reason than
most."
Simon shook his head. "This is different, Nell. What I've seen during these
past months . . ." He frowned, searching for the right words. "After that day
at Westminster Palace, I could no longer think of Henry as my friend. Yet he
was still my King, my liege lord. Allegiance does not depend upon affection.
But a King ought to be accountable, too, has responsibilities as well as
rights. And this summer has shown that I have pledged my honor and loyalty to
a man not worthy to nu
HENRY remained in Bordeaux through the autumn and winter, his supplies ran
out, he had no choice but to rely upon credit, an     ^ Simon and Will
incurred heavy debts on their sovereign's be   ^ April 1243 a truce was
finally concluded, permitting the Frencn
II they'd conquered, and obligating Henry to pay a thousand pounds
ear in tribute to his brother-in-law, the French King. Still, he lingered
3 jn Gascony, not departing for England until the following September.
t before he sailed, he outraged the English with a flamboyant gesture
f forgiveness, granting the castle of Saintes to his faithless mother and
. jg Lusignan half-brothers. He landed at Portsmouth on October 9,
Daggering 350,000 marks in debt, and demanded a victory procession
mto London. His English subjects were not amused.
IS
Tower or London
February 1244
C*<
OENENA'S arrival in the Great Chamber interrupted Owain's dice game with Edwin
de Crecy. She was flushed with the cold, snow melting on her lashes and
cheeks, looking for the moment more like an exuberant, lithesome girl than a
tense, too-thin woman in her forties, and the young guard was not surprised
when Gruffydd took her in his arms, gave her an uncommonly passionate welcome.
As they headed toward Gruffydd's curtained bed, Edwin got to his feet. It
amused him that Owain always wanted to leave the chamber when his parents w«e
making love; what more privacy could a couple need than linen kd hangings? But
he liked Owain enough to humor his quirks. "Lead "e way, lad," he said airily,
and Owain acknowledged his indulgence w'th a self-conscious smile.
Behind the bed hangings, Gruffydd and Senena sat very still, lis^nmg as the
footsteps receded behind the screen. Although they did
need to fear eavesdropping, for Edwin spoke no Welsh, they both ^ more secure
with him gone, what with so much at stake. "Well? ^ you bring it, Senena?"
0 ,ea,,    n§ 'nto the bodice of her gown, she withdrew a small leather
Henbane, darnel, black poppy, and dried briony root." ^J^fydd reached for the
powder. "You did not go yourself to the
204
"No, of course not. I sent the most trusted of our men; I sent Alun."
Fingering the pouch, Gruffydd began to laugh. "I daresay this is the same
sleeping draught that whoreson Davydd used at Cricieth. What a rare jest, that
it should be his scheme that sets me free!"
It had been so long since Senena had heard him laugh like that She slid her
hand into his. "I bring you naught but good news this day Alun has found our
manone of the King's servants. He has agreed to unbar a door into the great
hall." She saw him frown, and her grip tightened. "It should be safe enough,
love; Henry is not in residence remember? You and Owain need only enter the
hall, then make your way into the Blundeville Tower. There is a small postern
gate just before you reach the Tower stairwell, Henry's private entrance. It
will take you out onto the dock, take you to freedom. I'll have a boatman at
the dock, ready to row you across to Southwark, where I shall be waiting. By
the time we lose the night, we'll be miles from here, well on our way into
Wales."
"Mayhap . . ."Gruffydd sounded dubious. "I would that there was another way. I
can put no faith in an Englishman, Senena. I'd not have trusted Our Lord
Christ Himself had He been born English. I still think my idea is safer."
"Beloved, we've gone down this road before. Yes, the Tower grounds cover
twelve acres, more than enough to shelter two men in search of a hiding place.
But Gruffydd, then you'd have to wait till dawn, till the Tower gates were
unlocked. Enough tradesmen and servants and soldiers go in and out; you might
well be able to mingle with them, mayhap hide in a cart. But my darling, what
if you were missed? As soon as your guards discovered that you'd escaped,
they'd seal off the Tower, let no man leave the grounds. We cannot take that
risk. This way, you'll be gone long ere the sun comes up."
"Only if this man does not betray us. Why should he not just keep
the money?"
"There is no greater lure than greed, Gruffydd. He is to get half
now, the rest afterward."
That did reassure Gruffydd somewhat. But he'd have gone ahead with their plan
in any event. "So be it, then. Make ready to go two days hence.
Senena felt a sudden prickling, excitement indistinguishable from
apprehension. "So soon?"
"It has been two and a half years, Senena. Yesterday could not W too soon," he
said, and grinned at her, the carefree, devil-be-dantfie grin of his lost
youth, a smile to banish qualms, to break hearts.
"Monday, then," she agreed breathlessly. "I have one more gift you, my love."
And raising her skirt, she showed him the narrow dagg strapped to her thigh.
205
Gruffydd's eyes seemed as luminous to her as any cat's, a pale, glittering
green. He bent over, kissed the soft skin just above the sheath.
SENENA'S sleeping draught was as potent as the men could have hoped. Gruffydd
and his son looked at each other over Edwin's prone figure, exchanged
triumphant grins. Edwin was snoring, did not stir as Gruffydd unbuckled his
scabbard. It was a sweet relief, indeed, to feel the familiar weight of a
sword at his hip again. "I'll get him into the bed," he said softly. "You
fetch the bindings."
"Use this, Papa." Owain was holding out a green tunic. "I never did like that
color," he said cheerfully, and Gruffydd used Senena's dagger to cut ties,
soon had Edwin securely bound and gagged.
Dropping to his knees, Owain pulled their makeshift rope from under the bed;
over the past week, they'd torn all their sheets into strips, painstakingly
knotted the pieces together. Gruffydd was pulling down the wall tapestry, and
Owain jerked the linen cloth from the table, began to rip it in half. "I'm
glad we needed our bed covers for appearance's sake," he said, "else we'd have
been sleeping stark-naked!"
Gruffydd laughed. "Life in the King's gilded cage has made you soft, lad. Take
care, lest you end up like an Englishman, unable to sleep without a mattress
of down and a pillow!"
Owain laughed good-naturedly, although he did wonder if there was truth to his
father's jest, for he felt an embarrassing reluctance to leave his pet monkey.
He gave the little creature a hazelnut before tossing Gruffydd the braided
tablecloth. He had noticed that his father had not found it easy to move
Edwin. Too proud to ask for help, he'd been redfaced and panting by the time
he'd dragged the guard across the chamber, heaved him up onto the bed. And
Owain found himself wondering if his father, too, had not grown soft in
captivity, a blade dulled by disuse. As big-boned as he was tall, he carried
the added weight better than most, but even on so large a frame, the excesses
eventually showed, 'he thickening middle, the jowled chinsymptoms of boredom,
rich food, and the torpor of long confinement. Gruffydd had always assumed
heroic stature in Owain's eyes, but there was no denying that he was Past his
prime, a man just a few weeks shy of his forty-eighth birthday, an age that
seemed vast, indeed, from the vantage point of Owain's twenty-five years.
Feeling his son's gaze, Gruffydd looked up, smiled, and Owain ushed. "Fetch
that water bucket, lad. These knots will hold better once they're wet."
I    Owain was quick to comply, and within a few moments, they colrted fteir
mantles, moved into the chilled shadows of St John's Chapel.
206
Gruffydd crossed to the altar, knelt, and murmured a brief prayer. Rjs ing, he
said, "I was asking St Davydd to bless our efforts with success And I know he
listened. It's past midnight, which means that this is March first, his
name-day."
Owain had forgotten; much cheered, he said, "That is indeed a good omen. Papa
. . . Papa, let me be the first one down the rope."
"Do not get motherly on me, lad!" Gruffydd laughed, poked Chvain playfully on
the arm. With freedom now so close, he felt as if he could get drunk on
expectations alone. Scrambling up into the window, he unlatched it, signaled
for Owain to tie their rope to one of the heavy stone columns.
The night air was bitter cold; he felt as if he were inhaling ice. He'd passed
all his life upon the alpine heights of Eryri, but as he looked down at the
snow-blanketed ground so far below him, he experienced a dismaying jolt of
dizziness. He closed his eyes for a moment, then smiled at his son. "Once it's
your turn, do not tarry, lad, for it's cold as a witch's teat!" And he swung
his legs over the ledge, pushed out into space.
While planning all aspects of their escape, he'd not given much thought to the
climb itself, had seen it merely as the means to an end, to freedom. That had
been a mistake. Within moments, his arms felt as if they were being wrenched
out of their sockets, and every muscle was in rebellion against this
unaccustomed abuse. His body had always done what he demanded of it. It had
never occurred to him that a time might come when it could fail him, when will
alone would not be enough. He fought back this surge of panic, sought to get
air into his laboring lungs. He'd make it. Slow and easy. He'd make it.
Already badly winded, he had to rest, and he found a foothold, turning his
body sideways as he sought to ease the ache in his arms. The wind caught his
mantle, tore him loose from his perch, slamming him into the wall. As he'd
balanced himself on the window ledge, he could clearly hear the roaring of
Henry's lions, caged down by the wharf Now he heard nothing but the blood
thudding in his own ears, his gasping, broken breathing. He could see Owain's
face above him, bleached by the moonlight, and he managed a twisted smile of
assurance, made ready to shift his handholds.
When it happened, it was without warning. The ripping noise the rope made as
it gave way was muffled by the wind. There was a sudde slackness, and then
Gruffydd was falling, plunging backward into bla ness. There was a moment or
two of awareness, but mercifully no n* than that. The last sound he heard was
a man's scream, but he r>e knew if the scream came from him or from Owain.
s^o
207
jfjENA had kept a futile, increasingly frantic vigil all night. By the time
the horizon had begun to pale, she was shaking with the cold, and with fear.
With the coming of light, her boatman had rowed back to South^ark, and he and
the other men were watching Senena now, none daring to suggest they return to
Aldgate. It was a blustery, overcast day, nd the wind gusting off the river
knifed through the thin wool of their arltles, gent their hats spiraling up
into an ominously grey sky. Shivering, half-frozen, they could only blow upon
their chapped hands, stamp their feet, seek to soothe their equally miserable
mountsand
wait-
Alun at last braced himself to approach their mistress. "Madame,
iet us take you home."
"No." Senena was staring across the river. She had yet to take her eyes from
the massive stone silhouette of the Tower. 'No, you are to take me there."
"Madame, you cannot. The risk is too great. Something must have gone wrong,
and if you appear at the Tower so early in the morn, you'll but turn suspicion
upon yourself."
"Now," she said.
It was an unpleasant crossing; by the time they'd reached the north bank, they
were drenched in icy spray. The water-gate gave them entrance into the outer
bailey, and they had to wade through knee-deep snow to reach the gateway into
the inner palace ward. The entrance into the White Tower lay to the south,
through a stone forebuilding. They had just turned the corner as Edwin de
Crecy emerged from the forebuilding stairway. His pallor was evident even at a
distance, tinged with the sickly greenish hue of one awakened too abruptly
from a drugged stupor. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot; they narrowed now
at aght of Senena.
Alun tensed, for the man's hostility was confirmation of all his fears. *nena
gave a soft cry; it sounded strangely like a whimper. But as Alun ^ed, he saw
that she was not looking at Edwin de Crecy. She was staring beyond him,
staring toward her right. "Madame?" Alun mur^ured, and then, "Christ!" for he,
too, had seen it, nowthe trampled Jiow, the pool of dark, ice-encrusted blood.
NG had come late to the River Lledr valley, but on this sunlit Saturday early
May, the wooded hills surrounding Dolwyddelan Castle were
*w
with the brightest of nature's colors. Hawthorns were in snowy
ji        "«n me ongiuesi ui nature s cuiuis. nawinurusweie m suuwy
m, and buttercups and rockroses and bluebells were scattered about
^ ^ling profusion. The river bank was hedged in purple, row upon
°* plum-tinted comfreys. Sycamores seemed garlanded, as if for
208
May Day, in trailing streamers of yellow-gold. Like feath
and blue, butterflies floated upon the morning breeze o^ °^Ora;
ia«-to iveyo.
ai iw.   L/.IU.C,    *_/w t n-. i. A.I..IV_ o   *i.isui\_iA   ML/WAI   tut   11
I\JL L u.1 iv    DTPPyia    f~\ 'd,
wings of speckled pearl, even brushed Davydd's cheek H*' ^ lingered a moment
longer upon the stairs, his eyes drawn C ^' the cloud-sheathed peak of Moel
Siabod. lrresistib;,
"My lord?" The man hastening across the bailey wa grooms. "You may well think
me mad, but I know how     *** °' ** your lady sets by little 'uns ..." much
sto*
That was true enough; Isabella was absurdly fond of a the point where she even
refused to take part in hunts. "What h found this time, Padrig, another baby
rabbit?" e J"*
Padrig grinned. "Nay, something much more outlandish'" A opening his hands, he
showed Davydd his prize, a ball of b    h burnished fur that now revealed
itself to be a newly born fox kit "I not as if the pelt would be worth
anything," he said, as if to excuse hi! soft-heartedness.
"People find it odd that my wife makes pets of cats. Know yon what they'll say
about a fox?" But Davydd was already reaching for tht tiny cub.
He found Isabella alone in their bedchamber, demanded she dose her eyes, and
then deposited the kit into her outstretched hands "Davydd, how sweet!" The
fox nipped at her fingers, but she just laughed She had a gentle, calming way
with animals, could establish a remarkable rapport with any creature if given
a chance, and Davydd did not doubt that the fox would soon fall under her
spell. "It's not weaned," she said "Cricket is still nursing her last litter;
do you think I could get her to accept it?"
"You got her to raise that kitten. So why not a fox foundling'" Davydd knew
the fox's future was not promising; if it wasn't killed by one of the castle
dogs, it would eventually start raiding the henroost But he said nothing, not
willing to spoil his wife's pleasure in her new pet. She'd not believe him,
anyway; reality always seemed to take Is* bella by surprise. a,
Ednyved was expected at any time, and the table was laden w» freshly baked
wafers, fragrant fruit tarts. Davydd helped himself ^^ leaned over to study
the map covering one end of the tat>1^    ^.^ stopped stroking the fox cub,
watched her husband, instead how long ere you go to war?" ^ed up
"I expect we'll be in the field within a fortnight." He loo ^ £ "Does it
bother you, Isabella, that I shall be making war upon
glish?" nthim10^
"No," she said slowly. It was not that she did not wan     ^ n0 the English.
She did not want him to fight anyone. But tna
the English.
209
could ever make. War was an inevitable aspect of life;
"'°n       ell rail at the coming of winter. Men fought, and women
^ t-S   w naught of politics, Davydd," she said. "If you say this
I accept that. It is not for a wife to meddle in those matters
*'' ieft W   iauehed. "I was just remembering," he said, "the flaming
Davy   rents had about 'those matters best left to men.' I've known
rhtsmVP ^0 were not eager to 'meddle.' My mother, for one. My
^ W°i     for another. Senenafor certes! My sister Gwladys. Nell de
'     rt Even Henry's Queen. I suspect that a truly docile woman
''\dbe as hard to find as Diogenes's honest man!"
'U[ bella knew he was teasing her, but she felt a faint unease, never-
for she could not keep from wondering if he'd have preferred
"e,    an less dutiful, more spirited. Almost as if he'd read her mind,
ossed the chamber, drew her into his arms, kissed away her qualms.
- wrapped her arms around his neck, thinking that it was a dreadful i nz to
find pleasure in a man's death, for certes a sin. But she could ot help it-
Davydd was happier this spring than he'd been in the four ears since his
father's death, and she rejoiced in it ... even if it meant ut she valued
Davydd's happiness higher than Gruffydd's life.
Ednyved was to have arrived at noon, but he was now past seventy, stlicted
with the "joint evil," and it was well into the afternoon before e and his son
Goronwy reached Dolwyddelan. They brought Davydd
elcome news. Bitter over his expulsion from Kidwelly Castle, Prince '.aredudd
ap Rhys Gryg of Deheubarth was now willing to throw his in with Davydd.
"That means," Davydd said, "that Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn and jruffydd Maelor
will stand alone. Even their kinfolk are with us. I had J message two days
past from Gruffydd Maelor's younger brother, Madog Fychan. When we take the
field against the English, he'll be there."
The Welsh are slow to learn, our country's curse." Ednyved propped
'cushion behind his aching back. "But even the greatest fools are coming
^understand that we hang together or one by one. They've seen what
e nglish Crown has done in these three years past, the castles erected,
-ar° wStS deared' the roots Put down in Welsh soil. I've spent my
,J;j 6, Strivin8 to keep them out of Gwynedd, as did your father,
^ad'but *e fight never ends..."
'"ead "T Si?naled f°r a servant to give Ednyved a revitalizing drink
t h ^^   tne tide turned for us when Henry appointed those
il co    Marcher and Welsh Pleas- Jesu'u was so brazen! Offering
r lo°d"8 3S an alternative to the courts of the Welsh Princes, the
Henry might as well have signed a confession of con-
230
Goronwy tossed a tidbit to one of Davydd's dogs. "Have you had any word,
Davydd, about Senena? We know how enraged Henry \vas Did he punish Senena for
her part in that botched escape attempt?"
"I daresay he found much to say to the Constable of the Tower those hapless
guards. But Henry has never been one to turn his wrath upon a woman. Senena
was not held accountable."
"Is she still in London?"
Davydd shrugged. "As far as I know; her sons are there. Not surprisingly, she
took Gruffydd's death very hard. I was told she fainted at sight of his body."
"Little wonder. When a man falls from a height like that. . ." GO. ronwy had
heard some grisly stories about Gruffydd's death, and he would have liked to
ask Davydd if it was true that Gruffydd had been nearly decapitated in the
fall. But Isabella was sitting within earshot and he knew that was not a topic
Davydd would wish to discuss in front of his sensitive wife. Curbing his
curiosity, he said, instead, "What of Owain?"
"He did feel the brunt of Henry's anger, is being held in close confinement."
Ednyved had been watching Davydd. Leaning forward, he said, "The Abbot of
Aberconwy means to petition the King to have Gruffydd's body interred next to
Llewelyn's, in the abbey church. Henry has so far refused, but he might relent
once his anger cools. What of you, Davydd? Would you object?"
Davydd set his wine cup down. Isabella, too, was waiting for his answer. "No,"
he said, "I would not object. Gruffydd should be buried in Welsh soil."
There was a moment's silence. To Davydd's relief, he saw that they understood,
neither read too little nor too much into his answer. Reaching for the map, he
used his dagger to pinpoint his target. "I think we should move first against
Henry's new castle at Disserth."
"We ought to make a few raids into Powys, too," Goronwy suggested. "Let
Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn learn what it'll cost him to be an ally of the English
King." Crossing to the window, he opened the shutter, curious as to the sudden
clamor. "Damn me if it's not Llelo. Turning toward Davydd, he said, "Did you
not hear me, Davydd? Does that not surprise you any?"
Davydd shook his head. "I've been expecting him."
Ednyved smiled at that, but Goronwy looked skeptical. "Davy ' the lad's been
in rebellion against you for the past two years! Gran ^ he's not done much
damage, but he did closely ally himself with IW^ de Mortimer, Senena's
brothers, the Bishop of Bangor, men who ^ you not. Every discontented knave
along the Marches found his w /
211
exile. And
tlelo's manor at Maesmynan, almost as if it were a court in exile. And et you
say you expected him to come to you?"
"Yes," Davydd said, "I did. In your own words, his rebellion did I'ttle
Damage. Why not? Because his heart was never in it."
"My lord!" The guard was one of Davydd's household teulu; he looked no less
startled than Goronwy. "Your nephew, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd/ has just ridden in,
and alone, by God! Will you see him, and if so, shall we disarm him first?"
"Yes to your first question, no to your second." Davydd got to his feet.
Ednyved rose, too, limped to his side.
"No son of Gruffydd's would ever lack for courage," he said. "But Senena will
never forgive him for this."
"No," Davydd agreed, "probably not. But I expect he knows that."
Llewelyn's appearance was a surprise to them both. The unhappy, gangling boy
Davydd had last seen in the Tower bailey was a tall, wary youth well on the
way to manhood. But to Ednyved, it was as if time's boundaries had blurred,
giving him a brief, precious glimpse of a beloved ghost lost in memory these
fifty years past. "My God, lad," he said, "if you're not the very image of
Llewelyn at sixteen!"
Llewelyn gave him one swift, guarded glance, and the illusion faded. The
coloring was there, and the stance, the body language. But the boy was more
tightly coiled than the man had ever been, far more defensive, andas young as
he wasmore deeply scarred. Ednyved smiled sadly, suddenly feeling very old and
very tired. Deferring to Davydd, he stepped back, sank down in the
window-seat.
Llewelyn slowly unsheathed his sword, just as slowly walked forward. Silently
he held out the sword, knelt before his uncle. "I would make my peace with
you. Punish me as you will."
He made it sound more like a challenge than a submission, but Davydd
understood the raw pride of sixteen. He reached for the sword, then reversed
it, handed it back to the boy.
Llewelyn rose, looking not so much relieved as suspicious. "You Pardon me?
Just like that? Why?"
"Why did you rebel against me?"
Llewelyn frowned, said nothing.
''Because your father asked it of you. Am I right?"
^Yes." A grudging answer, but honest. And why do you want to make peace with
me?"
Hiis time there was no hesitation. "Because," Llewelyn said, "En-
gland
mouth.
is the enemy," and the faintest of smiles touched his uncle's
~° I still need to explain why I pardoned you?"
ewelyn shook his head. But it had been too easy, and it was with
222
a trace of defiance that he said, "I admit Iwas in the wrong. Say Of what you
will. But I'll let no man speak ill of my lord father, not n   *
not ever!"
"Fair enough," Davydd said quietly, and Llewelyn was at last ahi to draw an
unconstricted breath. Ednyved was looking at him. wtK heartening good will,
and he could now offer a smile of his o\vn
"Tell the lad what you've done, Davydd. Show him the POD letter." PS
"The Pope?" Llewelyn sounded so bewildered that the men laugh d Isabella rose,
brought Davydd an ivory casket. Davydd easily found th letter he sought, but
he was not sure if Llewelyn's Latin was adequat for the task, and rather than
embarrass the boy, he said,
"It is simple, in truth. We need allies, and who better than the Pope? When I
was fourteen, my father was able to secure papal recognition of my claims to
the principality of Gwynedd. I reminded His Holiness of that, arguing that I
had in effect been made a ward of the Church, and offering to hold Gwynedd as
the Pope's vassal."
Davydd had said his plan was simple, but Llewelyn was dazzled by its daring.
"And the Pope has agreed to this?"
"Well, he did accept the five hundred marks I tendered as my first payment."
Davydd no longer feigned nonchalance, acknowledged the extent of his triumph
with a sudden gnn. "When King John turned England over to the Church, he
reaped some remarkable benefits, for the Pope at once forbade the French to
invade England. It is too much to hope that Innocent might lay such a
stricture upon Henry. But in the Pope's letter, he did say, Llelo, that he was
planning to appoint the Abbots of Aberconwy and Cyrnmer as inquisitors, to
have them investigate my claims against Henry. And that is a beginning."
There was no warmth in the look Llewelyn now gave Davydd, but there was no
small measure of respect. "N> one calls me Llelo anymore, he said, without
belligerence. Davydd nodded agreeably, and when Llewelyn asked, passed him the
Pope's letter. Llewelyn read rapid!) he was fluent in French, Welsh, and Latn,
had begun to learn English The letter confirmed all that Davydd had said,
opened up resplendent vistas for Wales, offered hope. And although he knew
that his father would not have understood, could not have forgiven, for the
firs since Gruffydd's death Llewelyn felt at peace.
16
Degfanwy Castle Nortk Wales
September 1245
roR a time it had seemed as if Davydd's bold gamble would succeed. The Pope
appointed the Abbots of Aberconwy and Cymmer to investigate Davydd's grievance
against the English King, and Henry was summoned to defend himself in the
Welsh village of Caerwys. Outraged, Henry sent his agents to Rome. Embroiled
in a bitter feud with Frederick, the Holy Roman Emperor, the Pope was now
seeking to have Frederick formally deposed, and he welcomed the news that the
English clergy would vote his way at the upcoming Council of Lyons. He then
reassessed Davydd's claim, and withdrew the papal protection from the Welsh
Prince.
rr was on a cool afternoon in late September that Simon returned to the King's
encampment on the banks of the River Conwy. England and Wales had been at war
for more than a year, but Henry had not bestirred himself until August; a
month ago, he had led an army into Gwynedd, where he set about rebuilding at
Deganwy the castle razed by Davydd four years earlier. As Simon dismounted in
the bailey, he saw that some Progress had been made; the great hall had been
roofed. But the castle
5U1 had a raw, unfinished appearance, looked to be what it was, an wen outpost
in an enemy land.
Dispatching his squires to unsaddle their horses, Simon mounted
* steps into the great hall. His friends were seated at a wooden trestle
of f~    1' ^eter de Montfort, and Humphrey de Bohun, son and heir
e Earl of Hereford. Stopping a servant, Simon ordered wine, then
ttos*d the hall.
to c       Was ^e fifst *° see nml- "No! You truly were crazed enough
^hatf,aVe ^enry my word that I would," Simon said, and sat down. j-^98
happened whilst I was gone?"
" a*l grimaced. Will was, of course, the one to give voice to their
214
discontent. "Just the usual pleasures of a Welsh campaign. We're ru ning out
of provisions again. It's gotten so bad that a soldier with farthing loaf can
sell it for fivepence. So we get to dine on stale bread and hard cheese. And
we get to fight off Welsh attacks at any hour of the day ... or night, since
the Welsh know nothing of the rules   f warfare, make raids when all men of
common sense are abed. Then w get to chase them into the woods, where they can
ambush us. What do the Welsh call this accursed land of theirsCymru? Had they
only asked me, I'd have suggested Purgatory."
"Welsh wars are always ugly," Humphrey de Bohun said trenchantly, "if only
because there's so little profit in them. But this one is bloodier than most.
We hanged some Welsh hostages and now they take no prisoners. Just as Will
said, our supplies are nigh on gone, and our men's spirits are scraping the
bottom of the barrel, too. Most would head for home tomorrow if they had a say
in it. As for me, I'm beginning to envy Rob de Quincy his back ailment!"
They all laughed at that, all but Simon. Few believed Rob's excuse for not
joining the campaign; his injury was too convenient to be credible. But few
begrudged his reprieve, or blamed him for being loath to fight his wife's
brother, for Rob was generally well liked, not being ambitious enough to make
lasting enemies. Simon was very protective of his friends, however, and he
said, somewhat defensively, "Rob had good reason for wanting to stay close to
home. His wife's birthing was a hard one; he almost lost her."
This was news to them all, and a matter of mild concern to Will, for Elen was
his cousin. "I knew she was with child again, but not that her time was nigh.
Was she able to give Rob a lad this time?"
Simon shook his head regretfully. "Another lass."
There was a moment of sympathetic silence, broken by Humphrey. "Well, Rob's a
younger son, with no title to pass on. Mayhap a son is not so needful for
him."
It was an ill-chosen remark, for Will had never been formally invested with
the earldom of Salisbury, and the legal tangles surrounding his title were
such that it was at least likely that his son would never inherit it. He
scowled, not so much at Humphrey as at the lunatic complexities of the law,
and Peter de Montfort, ever the peacemaker, said swiftly, "What of your lady,
Simon? When is her babe due?"
"November, around Martinmas."
Will grinned; it never took much to restore his good humor, other lad, I'll
wager. Are you going to name him after me?" u
Simon's mouth twitched. "I might name a hunting dog aft^r 5j' ' Will, but for
certes not an innocent babe. Nell and I have decided up^ Joanna for a lass,
and Amaury for a lad, after my brother." He
He l°°k
215
bout in vain f°r a wme-beanng servant "That means," he concluded,
,   half in jest, "that we have just six weeks to win this war I got back
Rome in time for Harry's birth, I delayed sailing for Acre until Nell
brought to bed of our son Bran, and Guy, of course, was born whilst
were at Bordeaux I promised Nell I'd be there for this one, too "
"I'll tell Henry of your need," Will said dryly "But who'll tell Dav-
ydd7'
Davydd and Humphrey de Bohun were brothers by marnagehis
wlfe was Isabella's younger sisterbut at mention of the Welsh Prince's name,
he looked as if he'd tasted something sour, for the de Bohuns were Marcher
lords, their fortunes rooted deep in the disputed soil of VVales "Did you
know," he said indignantly, "that the whoreson is danng to call himself Prince
of Wales7"
Simon merely shrugged "If ambition be a sin, we can all expect to burn Davydd
may call himself the King of Jerusalem for all I care My concern is to make
the best of this botched campaign, to gam what concessions we can, and to get
back to Kemlworth by Martinmas "
"Best of luck to you, lad I've long since reached the sorry conclusion that
wars with the Welsh are unwmnable "
"Not so, Will " Simon leaned forward, no longer indifferent "The Welsh could
be defeated by the right man, the nght strategy But an English king bent on
conquest would have to be willing to spend vast sums of money, to spill a
veritable ocean of blood First he ought to put a total embargo on those goods
the Welsh get from England, blockade the Welsh coast Then he should strike at
Wales in a triple thrust, from our bases at Chester, Montgomery, and
Carmarthen, a three-pronged attack from the east, south, and west And as he
advances toward the heart of Gwynedd, he must build castles to hold what he's
won At the same time, he ought to take advantage of the great weakness of the
Welshtheir quarrelsome, jealous natureand stir up dissension amidst the other
Welsh princes Lastly, he should fight the Welsh on their own terms, make
lightning raids and retreats, use lightly armed troops just as tney do I'd
also train our men in the use of the Welsh longbow, it can "re half a dozen
arrows in the time it takes one crossbowman to take aim "
aimon paused for breath, pleased by how attentive his audience
? become, even Will looked impressed Having just coolly laid out a
P an for the annihilation of Wales, he now confessed, "But to be honest,
°Pe it never comes to that, for I would rather befriend the Welsh
^ destroy them "
ku h Umf^rey gasped, his outrage at such heresy so obvious that Simon
u\ ^f!d "' know," he conceded "I might feel differently had I lands
ales' I admit as much But the fact is that neither Nell nor I have
216
holdings in the Marches, just a manor or two in Worcestershire, and s I can
afford to be objective. I have no grievances with the Welsh r admire their
grit, their pluck, their mad gallantry. Nor can I fault them for wanting to
curb Henry's influence in Wales. I would that there \va a way to curb his
influence in England!"
Will burst out laughing, but Humphrey and Peter were not amused Peter winced
visibly. "Jesu, Simon! If anything ought to be curbed it is that reckless
tongue of yours."
Simon shrugged again. "A man should be able to speak his rnmd with his
friends, Peter."
Will gave a hoot. "Then you must count all the souls in Christendom as your
friends, Simon, for you speak freely to every man, be he carpenter or cardinal
... or king."
Simon was unrepentant. "I'm not good at dissembling," he said in so sweeping
an understatement that Will laughed again. The servant had finally arrived
with wine. Simon's throat was parched, for he'd been in the saddle for most of
the day, and he took a deep swallow, gagged, and spat the wine into the floor
rushes. "What was that swill?" he gasped.
Will laughed till he choked. "Henry's butler swears it is white wme, but we
suspect it could be anything from verjuice to goat's piss. A land of milk and
honey, this Wales!"
"Well, I'd best find Henry, let him know I'm here" Simon paused, frowning, for
he had acute hearing. "Someone is shouting," he said, just as two men burst
into the hall. Simon knew them both, John de Grey, Constable of Deganwy, and
Sir Alan Buscell, one of the knights in Richard of Cornwall's household. He
and Will were the men of highest rank in the hall and the newcomers headed
their way.
"One of our Irish supply ships . . ." Buscell was badly winded, almost
incoherent, and so it was de Grey who gave them the unhappy
news.
"That fool pilot," he panted. "He ran the ship aground as he tried to enter
the estuaryon the Welsh side of the river!"
Simon and Will exchanged grim looks. "We'd best make haste, Simon. The Welsh
will swarm over that ship like bees out of a hive. pluck it cleaner than a
Michaelmas goose!"
Will often mixed metaphors, although rarely with such abandon. but Simon had
no time now to savor his friend's eccentricities of spe«' "Tell the King and
Earl Richard," he instructed de Grey, then glan^ back at Will. "I have not
even unpacked yet," he said wearily-
s-f>a
217
STENING down to the estuary, Simon and Will saw that de Grey and Ruscell had
not exaggerated the ship's plight The Welsh had been keep-
Deganwy under constant surveillance, and they were not slow to ke advantage of
this gift from the sea They were further favored by the timing of the
accident, for it was low tide, thus enabling them to nproach the ship from the
landward side Some had already succeeded nboardmg the crippled vessel, were
scuffling with the ship's crew The Enghsh had begun launching small boats out
into the estuary Simon and Will joined the rush, scrambled into a rapidly
filling flatboat Soon more than three hundred men were crammed into all
available boats, a motley mix of Norman-French knights, Gascon crossbowmen,
Welsh mercenaries, English foot-soldiers, a rescue force that far outnumbered
the Welsh attackers
The Welsh at once broke off their assault, were in flight by the time the
first boats reached the shore Several boats headed toward the disabled ship,
the others for the beach But as men splashed into the shallows, they reeled
backward under a hail of arrows A lethal weapon, the longbow, it now confirmed
all of Simon's suspicions as to its supenonty over the English crossbow Faster
than the eye could follow, arrows fanned the air, found targets of flesh and
bone, men screamed, began to die
Yet the aerial onslaught was a holding action, no more than that The Welsh
bowmen knew they could slow down but not stop the enemy advance, and they soon
abandoned the attack, retreated toward the surrounding woods After some
confusion, the English survivors set out in wrathful pursuit
Ahead lay the Cistercian abbey of Aberconwy, and some of the fleeing Welsh
disappeared into the monastery grounds, but most vanished into the woods
Following at as fast a pace as the weight of their armor would allow, the
English soon found themselves alone in an unfamiliar forest, dark and silent
It was the silence that was so disquieting to Simon, for he knew
'hat it was deceptive, that all around them were wary, watching eyes
'he autumn trees of oak and birch, the thickets of aspen and hedges of
towthorn provided an impenetrable shield for the denizens of these
eepfy shadowed, dangerous woods stoats, weasels, foxes, deer, rab-
s Bought over by the Normans for their sport, deadly and unpre-
We wild boar, wolves that no longer roamed English hillsand Citing Welsh
bowmen?
5         r §reat helms might deflect a lance, but they limited vision, too
^   ,.Was acutely aware that he could be leading his men into a lethal
e estimated that they'd covered about two leagues in this mad
r
218
229
plunge of theirs, which put them two leagues too far into the enernys terrain.
Raising his hands, he signaled for a halt. The quiet was absolute eerie; even
the woodpigeons were stilled.
"I've learned to trust my sixth sense," he said softly to Will, "anj it is
telling me that we're doing just what the Welsh want us to do ] think we'd
best get back to the ship."
Will needed no convincing. "Right gladly. A soothsayer once pronv ised me that
I'd die in the Holy Land, and I'm damned if I'm willing to
settle for Wales."
Their men were no more eager than Will to chase after ghosts, and welcomed
Simon's command with obvious relief. They had less than an hour till sunset,
and they retraced their steps with nervous haste, casting back over their
shoulders the uneasy glances of hunters who might now be the hunted. The
ground was scattered with acorns, broken branches dried leaves; the forest
seemed to echo with the sounds of their retreat floating on the wind toward
unfriendly ears. So intent were they upon possible pursuit or ambush that they
did not at once smell the smoke, catch sight of the black clouds that spiraled
up through the trees ahead. It was Simon's squire Miles, with the sharp eyes
of youth, who was the first to notice the smudged sky. "My lord, fire!"
The men came to an abrupt halt. There was a moment of hushed silence, and then
a confused babble of voices. But for Simon, there was no need to speculate. As
he gazed up at the billowing smoke, he knew. "Christ Jesus, those fools have
set fire to the abbey!"
Long before they were in sight of the abbey walls, Simon's fears had been
borne out. Most of the English soldiers had not been as diligent in their
pursuit as Simon and Will, and once the Welsh faded away into the woods, they
had fallen back upon the abbey. It had begun with a few men breaking into the
buttery in search of wine, had rapidly gotten out of hand. After plundering
the abbey casks of wine and ale, the soldiers had stripped bare all the
shelves of the bake-house, created havoc in the kitchens. Inevitably, some of
them began to want more than bread or ale.
A soldier's life was not an easy one, but many thought it gave them a license
to loot. And few had any great liking for monks; the Cistercians in particular
were viewed with suspicion, for they were known to co operate closely with the
Welsh Princes. Men began to mutter about go' < to swap stories of abbots who
lived like fine lords. Soon they we ransacking the Abbot's house, the guest
hall, the monks' dorters, V"e ever they thought they might find coins, silver
plate, jeweled ringsmonks had so far offered no resistance, but then a few
soldiers drun or bolder than their fellows forced the church doors, sought to
s from God. An outraged monk tried to stop them; his body v«s '
. ncj crumpled in the shadow of the marble tomb of Llewelyn Fawr. «j one
seemed to know who set the first fire. But by the time Simon d Will came upon
the scene, most of the abbey buildings were in a mes, and the garth was filled
with smoke, with gleeful looters no I nger caring about the worth of what they
stole, grabbing at anything that could be carried away.
Simon was appalled. He plunged into their midst, shouting for them stop, but
few paid him any heed. Will, too, attempted to reassert discipline, rather
half-heartedly, for he knew that, once begun, looting was almost impossible to
check. Like plague, it infected at random, few were immune, and men could only
wait for it to run its course. But Simon was not willing to wait, not when he
saw soldiers carrying off church candlesticks and chalices, even the sacred
silver pyx that held the Host. He grabbed for this last man, and the pyx went
spinning through the air, bounced along the ground like a pig's-bladder
football. Before Simon could retrieve it, though, another looter snatched it
up, darted away.
In the doorway of the church, one of the monks was struggling with a soldier,
clinging desperately to an ivory reliquary. "No," he panted, "you'll not have
it," refusing to relinquish his hold even as the other man beat him about the
head and shoulders. Simon reached them just as the English soldier lost all
patience, fumbled for his dagger. Before he could unsheathe it, Simon grasped
his arm, spun him around and sent him sprawling. He rose spitting oaths, but
at sight of Simon's drawn sword, he decided that Simon was a more formidable
foe than the aged monk and retreated, cursing them both.
The monk did not thank Simon. Clutching the reliquary to his chest, he said
defiantly, "This casket contains our greatest treasures, a lock of St Davydd's
hair and straw from the Christ Child's manger. You'll have to kill me to take
it."
While Simon would have dearly loved to possess such sacred objects, he could
imagine few sacrileges so great as the theft of holy relics. Take the
reliquary back into the church," he said. "Hide it well."
The monk was badly bruised; the white of his tunic was almost as dark as his
scapular, so smudged and soiled was it with smoke and j ers- One eye was
blackened, swollen shut, but the other blazed with perish fury. Looking past
Simon to a soldier brandishing one of the tey s cherished chalices, he cried,
"God smite you English for this! ' ay He curse you one and all, shrivel your
crops in the field, dry up r Wells, strike down your firstborn sons just as He
destroyed the
50118 <* Egypt! May He-" ced Un°n crosse<l himself, backed away. He was too
stubborn to con-
aefeat, though. Long after another man would have given up, he
T
220
221
still sought to turn the tide, swearing and shouting at soldiers too drunL to
listen, even striking about him with the flat of his sword. What last brought
him to his senses was not Will's plea to "let it lie," but th sudden heat upon
his face.
"The wind has shifted, Will!" He gestured toward the burning bafc house, at
the sparks and cinders swirling up into the darkening sU "Unless we have men
sober enough to fight the fire, it'll spread to th church. We've got to get
back to the camp."
When they reached the river, they saw that the Irish supply shin was now
safely in English hands. But the beach was littered with bodies Simon
recognized the coat of arms on a surcoat stiff with blood. Turning the man
over, he removed the helm, stared down into the face of Alan Buscell. Even
after twenty years of war, he still found himself shocked by the random
suddenness of death, found himself remembering the knight who a few short
hours before had run into the hall to warn them of the Welsh attack. Reaching
out, he closed the dead man's eyes, then gestured for his men to enter the
nearest boat.
Dusk was fast falling. As their boat pulled away from the shore, Simon gazed
back over his shoulder at the surging, wind-blown flames. He did not doubt
that Henry would heed his appeal, dispatch men to save the church. But why did
Henry need to be asked? The fire must be visible from the castle. Why did
Henry never take action on his own? Why did he not act as a King ought?
They had almost reached the east bank when the screaming began. Suddenly the
beach was full of fleeing men, shouting and shoving as they sprinted for the
boats. But most were too drunk to run far, were reluctant, too, to discard
their plunder, and they were soon overtaken by the Welsh riders who now
galloped out onto the sands. What followed was a slaughter.
Some of the quicker, more sober soldiers had managed to launch boats, but they
were not yet out of arrow range. They were endangered, as well, by their own
comrades, for the estuary was full of drowning men, men who clutched at oars,
sought to clamber into boats already riding low in the water. As one swamped
boat tipped over, hurling a" its occupants into the river, Simon exclaimed,
"We've got to go back for them!" When Will protested, voicing *e opinion of
them all that the whoresons deserved to drown, Simon g hired toward one of the
floundering men. "That is Humphrey de Bohyf1' he said, and ordered his
reluctant oarsmen to row toward the sin flatboat. he
Humphrey had kept enough wit to abandon his great helm, was still weighed down
by thirty pounds of chain-mail, and he , desperately to the side of the boat,
measuring his life in minutes
heard Simon's shout. He managed to tread water just long enough
erasp an outstretched oar, was hauled, gasping and choking, into
heir boat. They plucked a few fortunate others from the river, too,
before their own craft began to lurch dangerously. Abandoning the
thers to their fate, they rowed rapidly for the far shore.
The cries of dying men followed them, carried clearly across the vvater. Back
on the beach, the Welsh were triumphant. Some were helping the monks to fight
the fire, while others were surveying the ship- Watching from a safe distance,
Simon found himself admiring the military precision of the Welsh assault; he
knew it was no easy task to muster a counter-attack with such speed. Granted,
the Welsh had a powerful motivationoutragefor Aberconwy Abbey was their
Canterbury. But their rapid response spoke also of a shrewd grasp of martial
tactics, and Simon was soldier enough to recognize it, and to salute it.
Will was equally impressed. "That was a rally worthy of Llewelyn Fawr."
Humphrey had been slumped in the bottom of the boat, having vomited up a
remarkable amount of river water. He roused himself at that, mumbled, "His
grandson."
That information meant more to Simon than to the other men, for Elen was his
window to the Welsh world, and he'd often heard her speak fondly of her young
nephew. "Llewelyn ap Gruffydd? Are you sure, Humphrey?"
"That's his household guard, his teulu." Humphrey sat up, pointed. "There . .
. that youth on the sorrel stallion. Now there's one Welshman worth taking;
he'd fetch a prince's ransom."
Almost as if he knew they were speaking of him, Llewelyn reined m his stallion
at the water's edge, looked across the river toward them. He turned then,
gestured to a nearby bowman. They watched as the archer fit an arrow into the
linen string, bent back the elm bow, but without alarm, sure they were beyond
range. A moment later an arrow ftudded into the stern of their boat. Behind
them, the sun sank into me sea, and darkness descended upon the vale of Conwy.
OM Deganwy's battlements, Henry had an unobstructed view of the ^ estuary_and
the abbey. In the soft light of dawn, the devastation m Sseven more dreadful
than Henry had anticipated. Some of the buildbeg-L sm°ldered and the church
was smoke-blackened; down on the He, ' c°uld see bodies, stiffened in the
ungainly sprawl of death. ^vin never seen a sight so sad. He leaned over the
parapet, not
8 until Simon joined him on the walkway. They stood in silence
n
222
for a hme, gazing across at the abbey ruins. The sun was rising Ove the
mountains; a sea-salted breeze stirred up foaming breakers out in the harbor.
It should have been a beautiful day.
"Simon ... do you think that God was punishing us?"
"Yes," Simon said, but then could not keep from adding, "With some
diabolically inspired help from the Welsh."
Henry's head swiveled around; after a moment, he gave a wan smile. "It is a
terrible sin to burn a church," he said mournfully, "{0 burn God's House . .
."
There was sudden activity across the river. Now that the tide was going out,
the Welsh were making another attempt to seize the ship From their triumphant
shouts, they had just discovered what Simon and Henry already knew, that the
ship was deserted. The besieged crew had waited till high tide, then sneaked
down into the waiting boats and paddled to safety under cover of darkness. But
they'd had to leave the cargo behind, and Henry and Simon could only watch
helplessly as the Welsh laid claim to the corn and flour and bacon meant for
Deganwy's larders, Henry's soldiers.
"What a botch," Henry said, almost inaudibly. "What a bloody botch . . ."
"More than you know, Cousin." They turned at the sound of Will's voice,
watched as he hastened up the walkway toward them. "I just talked to that
whoreson of a captain," he said, before letting loose with a particularly
profane oath, one that earned him a frown from Henry. Will didn't even notice.
"There was more than food on that ship," he said, making an obscene gesture in
the general direction of the beach. "There were sixty casks of good wine, and
those God-cursed Welsh got all but one!"
THE rains came in October, and the English encampment soon began to resemble a
quagmire. Men huddled miserably in their tents, having neither warm winter
clothing for their backs nor full rations for their bellies. Cold, homesick,
and hungry, Henry's army was denied even restful nights, for the Welsh were
still determined to thwart the construction of Deganwy Castle, and they soon
learned that their raids were most demoralizing when made in those unsettling
early hours beto dawn. No soldier with any sense ever looked forward to
service in Wa'e a land without towns or villages, a poor place to plunder, to
find worn« but an easy place to die. Yet rarely had a campaign been so wretc
^ as this one, and as the days grew shorter, as snow began to app^ the heights
of Eryri, scarcely a soul in Henry's encampmentsave n himselfbelieved that
this was a war he could win.
223
Although it was only noon, the clouds were so thick and the rain unrelenting
that it seemed more like dusk. Even a blazing fire in the enter hearth could
not keep the chill from the hall, nor could it dispel the gloom. For more than
an hour, Henry had listened as his barons voiced their complaints about the
Welsh war. He was reminded that all they'd gained was a partially constructed
castle, that their foraging paries were ambushed every time they ventured from
camp, that their larders were as barren as their expectations of victory. They
pointed out that his scheme to divide the Welsh by making use of Gruffydd's
son Qwain had so far come to naught; he had released Owain from the Tower,
granted him a house in Cheshire, but few rallied to his cause. They argued
that they were not equipped for a winter campaign, and they pressed Henry from
all sides, demanding that he lead them home.
Henry was not surprised by this lack of support. More and more, he was
convinced that there were none he could rely upon, none he could truly trust.
None who understood why he was so reluctant to retreat. None who understood
his hunger for a victory, his need to blot out the shaming memories of his
last military campaign, that costly, inglorious war with France.
He had moved closer to the hearth, although this was a chill of the spirit as
much as of the body. Now he turned back, let his eyes move slowly from man to
man, but not finding what he sought. Theirs was a common discontent; he saw it
mirrored in the faces of his brother Richard, his cousin Will, the Earl of
Winchester, even Marcher lords like the Earl of Gloucester and Humphrey de
Bohun. As ever, he thought, I stand alone.
It was Richard's resentment that bothered Henry the most. He could acknowledge
that Richard had some cause for disgruntlement; Alan Buscell was the third of
his household knights to die in Wales. But from the first, Richard had shown
little enthusiasm for this campaign, had voiced his opposition so freely that
rumors had begun to circulate, rumors that had Richard siding with his nephew
Davydd rather than his brother the King. Henry knew better than that. The
irony of such rumors was that he was probably more sympathetic to Davydd's
plight than wchard, for family ties had always meant more to him, and as angry
s he was with his nephew's intransigence, as determined to punish e Welsh, he
had never sought Davydd's utter destruction.
But as Henry looked at his silent brother, he felt an unease that
Tent beyond Richard's objections to this war, for he knew that there
y between them the shadow of Gascony, Gascony that he had prom-
to Richard, only to renege at Eleanor's urgings. Upon their return
a . france, Richard had married Sanchia, Eleanor's younger sister,
the'     anc* his new wife were often at Henry's court. On the surface,
Quarrel seemed to have been forgotten, peace restored ... or so
224
Henry had tried to believe. Yet he could never quite stifle a secret fear^
that of all he'd lost in France, his greatest loss was not to be measured in
terms of money spent or lands forfeited, but in the distance he now saw
reflected in his brother's eyes.
A sudden gust of rain-drenched wind turned all heads toward the opening door.
Henry's sense of foreboding only intensified at sight of his brother-in-law.
Logically, he ought to be able to count upon Siinon's support, for how many
men had been so favored by their King? But as he made ready to ask Simon for
his opinion, he was already bracing himself for bad news, for betrayal. "My
lords think we ought to abandon the campaign, withdraw into England. What say
you, Simon? Are you in agreement with them?"
"Of course I am," Simon said, sounding faintly surprised that the question
should even be raised, for he could envision no greater lunacy than attempting
to fight a winter campaign in Wales.
His tone was not lost upon Henry. As if he thought that men of common sense
could not differ on this. As if his way was the only way. As if he did not owe
his King better than this.
"I am astonished by your ingratitude, Simon, yea, and grievously disappointed.
When I think of all I have conferred upon you ... I gave you an earldom, even
gave you my sister. Last year I granted you custody of Kenilworth Castle, one
of the most formidable fortresses in the realm, and agreed to give Nell a
marriage portion of five hundred marks a year. Just a year ago I gave you the
lucrative wardship of Sir Gilbert de Hunfrunville's son, even though my
brother, too, wanted it, and I excused Nell from paying one hundred pounds she
owed a Jewish money-lender. How can you then turn on me like this?"
If he'd hoped that this tallying up of the benefits he'd bestowed upon Simon
would stir in Simon a sense of shame, he had miscalculated. Simon had
listened, first in astonishment, and then in anger. An accusation of
ingratitude was perilously akin to one of disloyalty. The charge stung all the
more because in the past year Simon had violated his conscience in Henry's
behalf. When the English clergy had refus^ Henry's demands for additional
moneys, Simon had reluctantly agreed to act as one of Henry's spokesmen, a
role that had brought him u> conflict with the Bishop of Lincoln, the friend
whose opinion Simon valued above all others.
"Turn on you?" he echoed coldly. "I came to Wales to fight forV0 ' did I not?
What more do you want from me?"
"I want your respect!" ^.
To those watching, it was difficult to decide who looked more s^ tied, Simon
or Henry. Henry clasped his hand to his mouth, a e ^ as involuntary as the
words themselves had been. His discolor
225
as painful to look upon, and yet disarming, too. Simon felt his anger bbing
away, an<^ ne did not make the obvious cruel retort, that respect
oiild not be commanded, must be earned. But his silence was eloquent .
itself, and no less wounding to Henry.
No one spoke; no one knew what to say. Henry swung about, able to escape their
eyes but knowing he could never outrun the memory of this moment, that every
man here would remember it, he most of all. ue summoned up the shreds of his
dignity, said bitterly, "So be it, then. I cannot fight this war alone. We
shall withdraw from Deganwy by week's end."
ON the 28th of October, the English army retreated, leaving behind a garrison
to hold Deganwy Castle. They then laid waste to the Welsh countryside in hopes
of creating famine, and ravaged the neighboring English shire of Cheshire as
well, so that the Welsh could find no succor there for the hunger that would
soon stalk their land. Henry imposed a strict embargo on corn, salt, iron,
steel, and cloth, and vowed that the war was not done.
From Chester, Henry and Richard returned to London. Will and Humphrey de Bohun
rode toward their respective estates in the West Country. Peter de Montfort
headed for his manor in Warwickshire. And Simon raced for Kenilworth Castle,
arriving in time for the birth of his fourth son.
In Wales, they suffered, and they waited for the spring, when the English army
would return.
17
Maesmynan, North Wales
January 1240
«*.
VJ ,   . .LLEWELYN was too tense to sit for long. He kept
-est] erin8 to the shuttered window, back to the hearth, over to the .ste-
jf°le, set for two. Reaching out, he realigned the trenchers, adhe spoons and
knives. Napkins! Rummaging about in a coffer,
226
he finally unearthed two linen squares. Righting an hourglass, he watched time
trickle away, one grain after another. Where was she? Had sh changed her mind?
The knock was so light, so tentative, that he could have imagined it. In two
strides, he was at the door. She was enveloped in a long, d^ mantle, a fragile
wraith camouflaged in shadow. She smiled at sight of him, but seemed hesitant
to cross the threshold. Llewelyn took her hand drew her into his bedchamber,
into the light.
"I alerted my servants. You had no trouble gaining admittance Melangell?"
He so liked the sound of her name that he said it again. She shook her head,
let him take her mantle. Her gown, a plain homespun, had been newly dyed
forest-green, embroidered around the neckline. Llewelyn, who'd never paid any
mind to women's clothes, now found himself unexpectedly touched by the sight
of that decorative stitching. He could imagine her huddled by the fire in her
father's cottage, laboriously seeking to adorn her gownto catch his eye. The
first time he had seen her, she'd been kneeling by the river bank, barefoot,
hair in curly disarray, singing softly to herself, as if she took joy in
scrubbing a shirt. That was the girl he'd hoped to find tonight, a laughing
river nymph, not this solemn stranger, hair demurely braided, eyes downcast.
Never had they been so shy with each other. But never had they been alone in a
firelit chamber, just a few steps away from a bed.
"I have something for you, Melangell."
The locket was delicately crafted, engraved with a slanting M, exquisite
enough to dispel Melangell's unease. With a cry of wonder, she began to trace
the M with her fingertips, in the way that Llewelyn had seen the blind explore
the unknown. "Never have I seen anything so fine. These markings . . . they
have meaning?"
He nodded, and then, inspired, he led her toward the table. Picking up a sheet
of parchment, he scrawled a large letter M. "Mfor Melaneell." As she watched,
enthralled, he filled in the rest of her name. She
i
had never seen it spelled out before, and she sought to trace the parcnment as
she had the locket, recoiling in dismay when her fingers smeared the ink.
Llewelyn hastily recopied her name, then added his own beside it, like
parallel branches on the same tree. Beneath he inked in the da e of his
birthApril 1228and when he explained the meaning ofthese new scribblings, she
laughed aloud.
"But that is my birthday, too! I was born in April just as you wer/s in 1230,
at the time of the great scandal, when your lord grandfa*e
wife was caught with her English lover."
The parchment was forgotten. They smiled at each other, rw
iarveling
227
t this most amazing of coincidences, that they should share the same
birth-month.
Llewelyn reached out; his fingers followed the curve of h-er cheek. »gow fair
you are to look upon ..."
He could feel heat rise in her face. "No," she said regretfully, "I am not.
When the bards sing of great beauties, such women always have hair like flax,
lips like cherries, and skin like snow."
"Then the bards are blind," he said, "for you are beautiful." He hesitated,
compelled to honesty, yet fearing its consequences. "I would not lie to you,
Melangell. You hold my heart. But I cannot wed you."
She had long-lashed brown eyes, eyes that widened now in astonishment that he
should even mention such an impossibility. "I know that, my love. You are a
Prince and I am a tanner's daughter. I am not worthy" She got no further;
Llewelyn kissed her.
In the past, their kisses had been stolen, furtive; this was a kiss of
possession. She did not protest when he began to loosen her primly coiled
braids, shook her head playfully, and gave him back liis river hoyden. "You
said your father will be in Bangor until Thursday? I shall go to him upon his
return, shall promise him that I will take care of you, that you'll want for
nothing. And if ... when we have children, I shall be proud to recognize them
as mine. On that, he will riave my sworn word, Melangell."
Melangell felt a sweet, sweeping relief, for as much as she'd needed such a
guarantee, she'd been loath to broach the subject herself. Now her futureand
more important, that of their childrenwas assured. "Is it true," she asked,
suddenly shy again, "that the English, do not provide for children born out of
wedlock? I've heard it said, but can scarce give it credence, so cruel it
seems ..."
"It is true, nonetheless. Even if the father acknowledges a child as his, the
child has no legal rights of inheritance under English law. It is a hard land,
hardest of all upon bastards and the women who bear them."
"Bastard" was a word that had no sting in Wales. Any children °°m to Melangell
and Llewelyn would be no less his heirs than those subsequently born in
wedlock, in the marriage of state she knew he must one day make. She slid her
arms up his back, feeling an enormous s*nse of pity for those English girls
who must live in a society that made I m e'ther wives or whores. "I am so
lucky, Llewelyn, lucky to be Welsh, c*y to have been on the river bank that
day you passed by . . ."
Llewelyn's elaborate dinner plans came to naught; neither could eat full ^Ut
^e Poured wine with a lavish hand. Melangell dranlc grate-
7- It was highly spiced and potent; one cupful and she felt warmed, it OVved.
She'd never been on a feather mattress before; she clung to
s if it were a thick, fleecy cloud likely to float out from under her.
228
Llewelyn was not having much success with the lacings of her gown His fingers
were too eager, so clumsy that she could not help giggling When he sought to
remove her chemise, though, she put her hand o his chest.
"Llewelyn, wait. I must tell you . . ."
She was suddenly flushed. Llewelyn propped himself up on his elbow, looked
intently into her face. "This is your first time?"
She nodded. "And you?" she whispered.
"No." He leaned over, kissed the curve of her mouth. "Ere I came to terms with
my uncle Davydd, I ofttimes stayed with my aunt Gwladys on her Shropshire
manors. Every now and then, I would accompany her husband's squires to
Shrewsbury on errands, and whilst there, we'd go to the bawdy houses in Grope
Lane." He kissed her again. A familiar fragrance clung to her hair, her skin,
sweet-smelling basil and rosemary spices of the kitchen, the only perfume she
could afford. "I love you, Melangell," he said, and her eyes filled with
tears.
Her skin was a warm, dusky color, and her hands were workroughened, her nails
of necessity clipped to the quick, for vanity rarely found a dwelling place in
a tanner's cottage. She was right; she was no knight's ideal of ethereal
blonde beauty. But when she pulled her chemise over her head, the body she
revealed to Llewelyn was, to him, perfection. He touched a scrape on her knee,
then bent over, put his mouth to the full, smooth breasts, and she wound her
arms tightly around his neck as they sank down into the softness, into her
cloud.
For Llewelyn, what followed was a revelation. His few hurried, awkward
couplings with the whores of Shrewsbury had given him both satisfaction and
shame. In the practiced embraces of bought women bored with a boy's greenness,
women who kept their eyes open as the candle burned down toward his allotted
time, his body's needs would soon blot out all else, even the scratchy straw
mattress, the smell of sweat, the grunting from nearby cubicles. All too soon,
there would be relief, of the sort gained by shooting an arrow skyward, and
then ne would lie quivering, much like that spent bow, aware again of the itch
of flea bites, the stench from chamberpot and sour ale, the woman s
indifference. At seventeen, sex was not yet a pleasure, was rather a burning,
urgent hunger that was neither convenient nor dignified/ tw impossible to
deny.
Now he shared a bed with a girl his own age, a girl with trusting eyes, a
soft, clean body, and he discovered that her youth and innoce ^ and adoration
were far greater aphrodisiacs than mead or °ys'ergut pomegranates. He wanted
to be gentle, wanted to please Melange ^ his need was too intense, the fire
too hot. He gave himself up ^ gladly, came back to reality with reluctance,
dazed and euphonc
fl
229
. enched in sweat. It was then that he saw the tears glistening on her shes,
felt the warm stickiness of her blood on his thigh.
He was at once horrified, contrite. "Melangell, I am sorry, I swear I am- I
never meant to hurt you ..."
"It... it is supposed to hurt, I think." There were echoes of tears her voice,
but she managed a wan smile. When he put his arms round her, she found in
physical intimacy the pleasure that had eluded uer in the sexual act itself.
He was very tender, murmuring endearments and reassurances, and she decided
pain was a small price to pay for this auiet contentment. She was innocent but
not ignorant, knew that the hurting would lessen now that he'd pierced her
maidenhead. She knew, too, that many women took great joy in laying with a
man. While she could not yet comprehend how that could be, she remembered
vividly how Llewelyn had shuddered and groaned, and she felt a pride she'd
never experienced before, that she'd been able to give him such pleasure.
When he wanted wine, she insisted upon fetching it for him; she meant to take
care of him now that he was her man. He seemed to share her sentiments, for as
soon as she got back into bed, he said, "Melangell, what can I do for your
family? If I offered your father five milk cows, would he accept?"
"Oh, yes!" Her father was a proud man, but these were lean times, and she had
four younger sisters.
Llewelyn was pleased, although not surprised. This was the hardest winter he
could recall. "I suppose it was to be expected that the English King would
ravage Gwynedd ere he led his army back across the border.
8ut I will never understand, Melangell, how he could then have laid waste to
Cheshire, too. It served his purposes, increased our suffering, but the people
of Cheshire are English, his own subjects. Did he care naught for them?"
That was not a question Melangell could answer; she knew nothing °f politics,
nothing of kings, and until now, nothing of war. But that w»uld have to
change. In the spring, the English army would return, and Llewelyn would be
amongst the first to answer Prince Davydd's summons. She looked at her lover,
and for a moment of heart-stopping horror, she could actually see him lying
dead on a blood-soaked battleeld. "Llewelyn, tell me the truth. Do you think
Prince Davydd can win «us war?"
Llewelyn was torn between an instinctive desire to protect her and
need to speak his mind freely and frankly to one he could truly
,^st' "Yes," he said, because he had to believe that. Then he added,
am not sure that my uncle Davydd does. As ever, he keeps his
He I C°Unsel' yet it is so obvious that he is sorely troubled, Melangell.
°KS drawn and haggard, looks like a man who has forgotten what
230
it is like to get a good night's sleep. He picks at his food as if suspect^
poison, and he hoards his words like the most mean-spirited of misers In
truth, I do not know why King Henry should cast so long a shadow men say he is
a pitiful soldier. But Davydd is no coward, and yet I see fear in his face."
Davydd's fear meant nothing to Melangell, but Llewelyn's distress meant
everything. Yet she had no comfort to offer, for his was a world beyond her
ken. She experienced a moment of panic; how could she hope to hold him? And
then she leaned over, kissed him on the mouth a kiss that had nothing in it of
passion, but a great deal of tenderness and some measure of despair. He
returned the kiss, with the passion she lacked, and as his desire flared
again, she felt dismayso soon and yet pride, too, that it took as little as
that, just one kiss. This time it did not hurt as much, and afterward, she
soon fell asleep, cradled and safe in Llewelyn's arms.
He lay awake beside her, stroking her hair, marveling how perfectly her small
body fit into his. She stirred as his hand slid down her back, gave a sleepy
sigh. He was not so love-blinded that he could not see how mismatched they
were. She'd said she was no worthy wife for him; in the eyes of others, she
was no worthy mistress, either. Llewelyn, grandson of Llewelyn Fawr, knew well
the value his people placed upon blood. His father had been born out of
wedlock, but to the daughter of the Lord of Rhos. His mother would never
accept Melangell. Nor would the rest of his kin, not his uncles Davydd or
Einion, nor his brothers, his aunts, his clan.
But he had not seen his mother for more than four years. He and Davydd were
allies, not friends, with Gruffydd's ghost forever between them. He had
alienated Einion by making peace with Davydd. Owain was in Cheshire exile, his
younger brothers in London. Until the war with England was done, his aunts
might as well have been in Cathay. He had none to hold him accountable, none
to protest the tanner's daughter he'd taken to his bed. His was the
independence of solitude, of indifference. It seemed strange indeed to him
that never had he felt so alone as he did now, with Melangell's warm body
nestled beside him. Drawing her closer still, he murmured, "I do love you,"
and drifted into sleep.
His dreams, peaceful at first, soon grew fragmented, forebodingHe awoke with a
start to find Melangell already sitting up, clutching the sheets to her chin.
He could hear the pounding now, intersperse with plaintive cries of "Llewelyn!
Llewelyn, wake up!" ,
When he would have risen from the bed, though, Melangell grabb*J his arm.
Theirs might be an honorable liaison, but she was not yet r£ to have others
find her naked in his bed.
232
By now Llewelyn had recognized the importuning voice. "You need
Ot fret, beloved. It is only my cousin." He swung his legs over the side
f the bed, but then paused, seeing she was still in need of reassurance.
"My fatner an<^ Davydd had a half-brother, Tegwared, who died ten
ars agO That is his son and namesake at the door."
The hearth log had burned down so low that the air was icy. Snatching UP h*s
bedrobe, he crossed the chamber, slid the bolt back. Tegwared must have been
leaning against the door, for he all but tumbled into fog room. It was just
the sort of slapdash entrance Llewelyn would have expected him to make; he was
fond of his young kinsman, but never had he known a soul so clumsy, so
hapless. Now, as he introduced Melangell and Tegwared, he shot his cousin a
wordless warning, for although Tegwared had no malice, he had no guile either,
and Llewelyn did not want to take any risks with his unbridled tongue.
Much to Llewelyn's surprise, Tegwared never even glanced toward the girl in
the bed. He sank down upon the nearest coffer, struggling for breath. "Lord
Ednyved ... he bade me fetch you straightaway to Aber. Jesti, Llewelyn,
something dreadful has happened!"
"What? Tell me!"
"It is our uncle Davydd. He has been taken ill." Tegwared's shoulders slumped;
the face he turned up to Llewelyn's was freckled and dirtsmeared and
frightened. "Llewelyn, it is serious. You know how Aunt Isabella is; she'd
flood Aber with her tears for a kitten's cries or a torn gown. But Lord
Ednyved could face down the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse without qualms,
and yet when he told me to get to you, he said ... he said not to spare my
horse."
ISABELLA had been sobbing steadily since Llewelyn's arrival; he marveled that
she still had tears to shed. Ednyved had not moved for hours, sat staring into
the hearth as if it held the answers the doctors had yet to give them.
Llewelyn rose restlessly, crossed to a window-seat. So did Tegwared, who'd
become as adhesive as his own shadow. "Llewelyn," he whispered, "what if he
dies?"
That was a fear to be ignored at all costs; recognition might give it ^ity.
Llewelyn said sharply, "Do not talk nonsense!"
Ednyved's son Goronwy brought his father a cup of mead. He an*, as he did all
else, with deliberation. When he spoke, it took them °y surprise, as if
silence had become natural, safer. "You never SUsPected he was ailing?"
.   Unly belatedly did Isabella realize that she was the one being ad-
onl        *^e one w^° must answer. Ednyved's tone was flat, reflected
y e*haustion. But she flinched away from the words, as if from
232
weapons. "I knew he was troubled," she sobbed. "He's been sleep! so poorly,
and losing weight. But he had no appetite. I thought it w this accursed war
..."
Whatever else she meant to say was lost, so bitterly was she cryin She was
clad in a scarlet gown, an incongruous shade for the sickroom and looked to
Llewelyn like a brightly colored butterfly, innocent and ineffectual. He
pitied her grieving, yet found himself yearning for hk mother's taut, gritty
competence, yearning for someone to take charge What would befall them if
Davydd did die? He'd sometimes indulged in daydreams of power, envisioning
himself as Gwynedd's Prince, hearing again his grandfather's dying declaration
of faith. But such fantasies were safely set in a distant future. Davydd was
only thirty-seven; he'd never given serious thought to his uncle's mortality.
Now, watching Davydd's weeping wife, watching Edynved age before his eyes,
watching that closed bedchamber door, he could think of nothing else.
Ednyved had summoned Einion ap Rhiwallon, one of the famed physicians of
Myddfai, an unwelcome ghost from Llewelyn's past, stirring up too many
memories of his grandfather's seizure. When he finally emerged, his face was
utterly blank, a mask of such resolute stoicism that Llewelyn's hand closed
roughly, involuntarily, upon Tegwared's arm. Isabella got to her feet, but did
not speak. It was left to Ednyved to say in a dulled, tired voice, "Well?"
Einion's eyes did not linger on Ednyved's face, focused instead on the far
wall. "Prince Davydd's court physician has been treating him for what he
believes to be a disorder of the liver. After closely examining the Prince,
and testing his urine, I find myself in agreement with his doctor."
"A liver disorder." Isabella echoed the doctor's words with no emotion, like
one parroting a foreign tongue. "What can you do to ease his pain, to make him
well?"
"His doctor has been giving him potions of dandelion root. I would continue
that treatment. Even though January is not an auspicious month for
blood-letting, I would still recommend it. And there are herbs we can try:
vervain, centaury, chickweed, poultices of burdock."
Those were herbs familiar to Isabella, too familiar, the ingredients of
recipes for headache, coughing fits. She wanted more than how6 remedies for
Davydd, wanted exotic, alien cures, wanted the median of magic. She drew
several ragged, shallow breaths before repeating' "And that will make him
well?" .^
Einion at last forced his eyes to her face. "Madame . . . one's he depends
upon the proper equilibrium of the four humors, those or o     ' phlegm, white
bile, and black bile. Should that balance be dish"1*0'
233
n sicken. Some of the most grievous ailments result from a surfeit of
* t black bile. We call them melancholic ulcers, cancers" ' \{e saw the blood
drain from Isabella's face, saw her lashes flutter, Carted forward as she
swayed. Goronwy was even closer, and no s quick-witted; he caught her just in
time, steered her toward the (tie while shouting for her ladies.
Ednyved had yet to move. He watched for several silent moments Einion
ministered to Isabella, then turned abruptly, limped from the chamber. When
Einion straightened up, he found Llewelyn standing but a few feet away.
"What can we do for my uncle?" he asked softly, and the doctor seemed to sigh.
"You can pray for him, lad," he said. "You can pray for him."
DAVYDD'S dreams had become so troubled that his doctors had begun to give him
peony seeds in hot wine. He'd been skeptical, but had just passed one of the
few restful nights he'd known in weeks. He did not remember the particulars of
his dream upon awakening, only the precious sense of peace. He lay still for a
time, eyes closed, for he could hear people moving about the chamber. As
February ebbed away in a relentless deluge of icy winter rain, he was finding
it harder and harder to rally his dwindling strength, to make the effort that
the presence of others required.
Like flotsam cast up on the receding shores of memory, a sudden image came to
him, vividly, as he lay there. Behind his closed eyelids, a woman's face was
taking form, floating above the bed, haloed by candlelight. He remembered now.
In his dream, he had been ill, toning with fever, and then his mother was
there, summoned by his need, keeping vigil through the night, keeping time and
death itself at bay.
The irony of such a dream was not lost upon him, but neither was lts
Poignancy. He bit his lip, unsure whether he meant to stifle laughter
01 curses, and then opened his eyes as he heard a woman's step apProaching the
bed.
"e was braced for the sight of his wife, whose need for comfort
as beyond him, a burden he could no longer bear. He was wretchedly
ih*16 ^at IsabeUa and he were both victims of his mortal illness. But
Ionian now bending over the bed was no stricken blonde Madonna;
*|ad level, clear brown eyes, dark braids swinging freethe one El n m
Christendom he'd most wanted to see ere he diedhis sister
234
¥f II
235
He caught his breath in disbelief. "Are you truly here? How can
l      I// I
be?
She sat on the bed, with her habitual disdain for sickroom protocol took his
hand. "What, and did you think the small matter of a war would keep me away?
For shame, Davydd, you ought to know me bette than that! Rob accompanied me to
the border, where Ednyved had an escort waiting. So simple it was, I wonder we
did not think of it sooner I would have brought my girls, too, had I but" She
stopped, for his hand had tightened upon hers.
"You are talking too much," he said, and saw her eyes fill with
tears.
"I know," she said, and leaned over, kissed him on the forehead For some
moments, neither spoke. Elen's tears had broken free were trickling down her
cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away her grieving so matter-of-fact, so
natural, that she relieved him of the need to respond to it, no more than he
had to respond to the rain he now heard slanting against the roof.
"You were here last night," he said suddenly. And when she nodded, he smiled.
"I sensed your presence. Only . . . only I thought it
was Mama . . ."
Elen's throat closed up, cutting off all speech. She gained time by turning
toward the bedside table, pouring for him a cup of mead. It was as strong as
men could make it, for he refused to take sleeping draughts during the day,
and the mead was his only defense against the pain She took a deep swallow
herself before leaning over, helping him to
drink.
"Mama died in February, too," he murmured, and then his despair broke through.
"Christ Jesus, Elen, why? If I had but a little more time . . . What is going
to happen to Wales?" His mouth twisted. "Almost, I could believe that God must
be English!"
She was shocked neither by his bitterness nor his blasphemy; she, too, had
cried unto the heavens, had railed against Fate, even God, upon learning that
he was dying. But she summoned up a smile. You need not fear for Wales,
Davydd. You have stalwart allies in Papas greatest friend and his grandson.
Who could you better entrust Gwy nedd to than Ednyved and Llewelyn?"
A man enfeebled by the burden of seventy-three winters. A ffe lad of
seventeen. But Davydd choked back the words, for Elen w° . give him hope, not
a gift to be scorned. If it was pretense, it was n pretense. "Yes," he agreed,
very low. "Between them, theyU Wales well."
^jjjjj Llewelyn had come to terms with Davydd, he unwittingly opened the door
to his brother's cage. Henry and his council decided that Owain night be more
useful as a rival Prince than as a prisoner, and he had been released in July
1244. He had proven to be an unsuccessful lure, for the Welsh stayed loyal to
Davydd. But Henry had not revoked his freedom; he had been dwelling for months
now at Henry's manor of Shotwick in Cheshire. It was there that he got word of
Davydd's death. Within the hour, he was riding west into Wales.
The messenger, sent by an old ally of Gruffydd's, told him that pavydd had
died at Aber that Sunday past, that he was to be buried at the abbey of
Aberconwy. The messenger had confided that Davydd had taken holy vows upon his
deathbed, just as his father had done. Owain had laughed when told that, sure
it would avail Davydd naught. No more than it had availed Llewelyn Fawr,
burning in Hell these six years past, or so he most fervently hoped.
Owain blamed Davydd for all the griefs that had befallen his family, and he
rejoiced in Davydd's death. But above all, he rejoiced in his return to Wales.
After so long and bitter an exile, he was going home, home to claim a crown.
He reached Aberconwy Abbey at dusk on Thursday. The monks recognized him on
sight, even after an absence of five years. From childhood, he had been called
Owain GochOwain the Redand not even a winter twilight could dim the fiery
luster of his hair. When the hospitaller murmured a deferential sainf s day
greeting, he almost laughed aloud, for he had forgotten the date. The first of
March. St Davydd's Day. Two years since his father's death. It suddenly seemed
very symbolic to him that he should arrive at the abbey on this, of all days,
seemed the most promising of portents. I could not avenge you, Papa, he
thought, but I can rule Wales for you, and by God, I will. He turned toward
the hospitaller. "Where," he demanded, "is the Lord Ednyved?"
The nave of the abbey was lit with flickering funeral candles; beyond, all was
blackness. Ednyved was standing on the steps of the High Mar, close enough to
reach out, touch the cold marble tomb of Llewelyn awr. He watched impassively
as Owain strode toward him, looking so rayaged by time and too many sorrows
that Owain almost did not rec"Bfee him.
You do not seem surprised to see me," he said, and the older man
shrUREed
1 am not. I was expecting you."
am K     re ^ou' mdeed?" Owain took a step toward the High Altar. "I fiere," he
said, "to claim what is mine, the crown that Davydd, ^ his soul, stole from my
father."
war!" Elen stepped from the shadows. Starkly clad in mourning
236
black, her eyes circled by darkness, aglitter with anguished rage, made a
dramatic, compelling figure, one to give Owain pause, {QJ, son of Senena would
ever dismiss women as the weaker, softer    n° Had he sensed her presence, he
would have chosen his words x**' greater care, for he did not begrudge her the
right to grieve for- L brother. He decided that the etiquette of bereavement
demande^! K* accord her the last word, and turned, instead, back to Ednyved,
s^ e
defiantly: ^
"Are you challenging my right to the throne of Gwynedd?" "I am." Like Elen's,
this voice, too, came from the shadows b^^A him. Owain spun around, watched
warily as this new threat rr-\0v d into the light. It took him a moment or so
before he realized h^ w
facing his brother.
"Well, well." He shook his head, smiling sourly. "I almost cLid not recognize
you, Llelo. You've grown some, in truth, have even besun to
shave, I see."
"1 recognized you straightaway, Owain. You've not changed .      not
at all."
There was an echo of mockery underlying the innocence of the
- words, a coolly ironic tinge to the tone, neither of which gibed with
Owain's memories of an annoying, irksome little brother. He gave Llewelyn a
second, appraising look. It was a distinctly unpleasant shock to find their
eyes were level; Owain had always been rather prou.d of his
uncommon height.
Ednyved had been watching the two of them watch each other "Today 1 buried my
Prince, a man I loved. I have no patience for gameplaying. Let us settle
thisnow. None would deny the validity of your claim, Owain." Before Owain's
triumphant grin could blossom further he added, "But your claim is no better
than Llewelyn's."
"Llewe" Owain's eyes flicked toward his grandfathers tomt "You mean . . .
Llelo?" His laughter was loud, but not as hearty as he'd hoped. "That is
absurd! He's but a raw boy!"
Llewelyn could have pointed out that in less than two rrmonths, n would be
eighteen. He could have argued that he'd enjoyed Davyd trust, that he was
Davydd's rightful heir. He said, "As eve*, y°u ** slow to grasp the obvious,
Owain. We cannot fight the English and njp each other, too. We bear for each
other as much brotherly lo»ve as bore Abel. But Henry is the enemy. If you
cannot see that, yo indeed a fool." . ^.
Ednyved saw the expression on Owain's face change, &rst' ^, ulous and then
outraged, and he said swiftly, "If you force °ur *\ffl to choose between you
and Llewelyn, you'll sorely regret it. 5°
237
ell choose you. But most will choose your brother. Whilst you lived
the King's bounty at Shotwick, Llewelyn was fighting to expel the
elish intruders. As young as he is, he has gained a name for himself-
uen know he had Davydd's support, and they know he has mine-
Should it come to war between you, he will prevail. But the Wales he'd
n would be a prize not worth having, bloodied and impoverished,
easy prey f°r the English King-"
He moved down the steps of the High Altar. "Llewelyn loves Gwyedd enough to
share it. What of you, Owain? Do you?"
"Yes, damn you, yes!" Owain's cry was spontaneous, heartfelt; Ednyved's taunt
about his Shotwick manor had drawn blood. He could teel other eyes upon him;
the shadows were astir with witnesses, Edyved's sons, the Abbot of Aberconwy,
influential men all, willing hiffi to agree, to accept his accursed little
brother as an ally, an equal. He yearned to scorn Ednyved's warning; he could
not. There was too much truth in what the old man said.
"So be it," he said bitterly. "First we must fight the EnglishThen . . . then
we shall see." Turning on his heel, he stalked up the aisle, vanishing into
the darkness of the nave.
One by one, the others departed, too, leaving at last only Ednyved, Llewelyn,
and Elen standing in silence before the twin tombs of their dead. Reaching
over, Elen squeezed Llewelyn's arm. "Henry is going to get a right sharp
surprise," she said. "As for Owain, I do hope Henry gave him title to that
Shotwick manor; he'll be needing it again by and by."
Somehow she always knew just what to say, what he most needed to hear.
Llewelyn wished he knew how to comfort her in kind. "I thiflk my greatest fear
has been of letting Grandpapa down. Now . . . no\v I pray to God that I do
not."
"I am so glad you made peace with Davydd, lad. I think it eased s mind a
little, knowing you shared his dreams for Wales, knowing wose dreams need not
die with him . . ." Elen's voice wavered. She ^ed not talk further of her
brother. She would mourn him later when she was alone, would mourn him all her
life.
I know Davydd asked you both to look after Isabella," she said
op      "^e asked ^e same of me. I think she might want to return
ngland. After the funeral, she made mention of Godstow, a Bene-
" to* nunnery near Oxford. She's still so distraught that I doubt if she
.^s^er own mind yet. Without Davydd, she's like a lamb without
:ni tii   ^" ^e broke off, no longer trusting herself. Turning as
n     s Owain had done, she, too, retreated into the shadows.
etyn hesitated, casting a sorrowful look back at Davydd's tomb.
238
Slowly he made the sign of the cross, as much a gesture of respect as of
piety, a final farewell, and then followed Elen's receding footsteps
up the nave.
Ednyved walked stiffly down the remaining steps, paused before the other tomb.
Slowly, very slowly, he knelt as if to pray, instead rested his cheek against
the gilded, enameled lions of Llewelyn Fawr.
"They love each other not, those grandsons of yours. But I got them to see
what was at stake. Llelo did not take much persuasion, a good lad . . . Owain,
he needed more convincing. I yoked them into a harness sure to pinch,
Llewelyn, but I gained time for us . . ."
He raised his head, heard only the rasping sound of his own breathing. "My
last service for Wales," he whispered, "my last service for you. This is one
task I cannot see through to the end." Above his head, the candles blurred,
shivered and shimmered in a halo of tears. "I know what lies ahead, but I am
ailing, and so very tired. It will have to be up to the lad, Llewelyn. God
help us, all up to him . . ."
18
Woodstock, England
April 1247
LLEWELYN'S unhappiest birthday had_been his twelfth, coming as it had
»^%£%£Zit on *e»* «±K£^^ -Thfw^^^
r^e^-ss^^-,,,.-
239
of truth, he had been found wanting And it consoled him not at all that his
failure was also Owain's, Owam, he could forgive
His despair was all the greater for being a burden he must bear alone After
Davydd's death, he had reconciled with his uncle Einion, Vet neither Einion
nor Tegwared rode by his side as he approached Henry's Oxfordshire manor He
had wanted no witnesses to what was to come He missed them, though, as he
splashed into the shallows of the River Glyme, for fears echoed too loudly in
solitude Above all, he missed Ednyved's ice-blooded sangfroid, his shrewd
counsel But Ednvved's blunt tongue was stilled He had died in the heat of high
summer, on St Margaret's Eve, as lightning split the sky asunder and
hailstones shredded the leaves from trees, sent birds plummeting to the ground
and men hastening for rosary beads, a gale of such savagery that people knew
it must be an omen of ill fortune, a harbinger of doom And as he rode through
the Woodstock gateway, it seemed to Llewelyn that Gwynedd's fortunes had
plummeted no less fatally than those stormslaughtered birds
At first sight, the royal manor of Woodstock resembled a town, for around
Henry's lodgings were clustered a kitchen, buttery, larder, almonry, stables,
a smithy, other buildings Llewelyn could not identify They were as rich as
Croesus, the English kings, what Welsh prince could hope to equal such vast
revenues7 Llewelyn felt a sudden chill Nudging his mount closer to Owain's, he
murmured, "Shall we lay a wager upon where we'll be come Ascension Day7 Back
in Gwynedd or at the Tower7"
There was no malice in his jest, he'd always been one for whistling oast
graveyards But Owam gave him a baleful stare, for he, too, put Jttle credence
in the English King's safe-conduct "I doubt you'll find tso amusing once
you're mewed up in an English castle keep1"
Had it been anyone else, Llewelyn might have apologized, Owam was hardly the
ideal audience for jokes about the Tower But with Owarn, he most he could
manage was strained civility, and that was more than uwain even attempted "Do
you know what I most admire about you, am Your unfailing good humor," he said
flippantly, thus earning """self another irate glare
r bailey was overflowing with curious spectators, and Llewelyn ^ nibered
having read that Romans had turned out in large numbers ^ as the Christians
sought to convert the lions In the next mo-
' though, all else was forgotten "Jesii, Owam1 It's Mama1" vomi v,603 Was
wamnS by tne stairs of the hall porch, flanked by two tos brL °^s With a
shock, Llewelyn realized that these strangers were ers Owain was already
dismounting, embracing first his mother
240
in
and then the boys. It was not so easy for Llewelyn. Owain had
ftain.
tained contact with Davydd and Rhodri during his confinement at K Tower;
Llewelyn had not seen the boys since the autumn of 1241. RK hung back, still
in his brother's shadow. Davydd showed no such sh" ness. He was a handsome
youngster with bright chestnut hair and C V ffyd's eyes; they were as green as
a Welsh mountain cat's, and remote, too opaque, too wary for the eyes of an
eight-year-old. The ev $ of a hostage.
The change in Senena was no less unnerving; Llewelyn was stunn H to see how
much she'd aged. Wimples had never been a Welsh fashion and the brown braids
that hung down from her veil were threaded through with grey. Her face was
free of cosmetics, a mirror to the bleak est, more barren of terrains, the
rock-strewn, arid wasteland of widowhood. The grey eyes were dry, tearless, as
frozen as the mouth denied the leavening of laughter. Not even now could she
summon up a smile that was a forgotten skill, withered with disuse.
"You need feel no shame," she said in a low, fierce voice. "You did your best
against a far stronger foe." For the most fleeting of moments, those grey-ice
eyes cut toward Llewelyn's face, her first acknowledgment of her second son's
presence. "You did not shame yourselves," she repeated tautly. "You did not
shame your father."
Owain caught her elbow, drew her aside. "Christ Jesus, Mama, why did you bring
the lads?"
For once, Llewelyn found himself in full accord with his brother, why make the
boys unwilling witnesses to a Welsh defeat? "Could you not have spared them
this, Mama?" he asked, and saw that he'd been wrong; she could still smilea
twisted grimace of mirthless mockery
"Do you think it was my doing? Nay, they were summoned at the royal command.
Henry," she said, drawling out the King's Christian name with a truly terrible
contempt, "thought it would be a kindness, a magnanimous gesture from the
victor to the vanquished."
Llewelyn could more easily comprehend an enemy's vengeful rancor than such
misguided benevolence. "Can you keep the lads here, Mama?" he asked quietly,
and when she nodded, he turned, and without waiting for Owain, mounted the
stairs into the hall.
Llewelyn paused in the doorway. There was an unnatural stillness about the
scene before him, an unsettling air of unreality. He welcome it, though, for
how else could he endure what was to come? Mere play acting, he thought. Henry
the complacent conqueror, regally clad in i* velvet. He and Owain the penitent
Welsh Princes. Rehearsed speech^ words that floated on the air like feathers,
with no more weigh substance. And then he saw Elen. ^e
She was standing near the dais, her dark, prideful gaze shining
^acon
242
across the crowded hall, a gaze that held such utter and un-
3   ! fred l°ve tnat nls tnroat tightened   He would have sworn he'd
4ua .gcj nO witnesses   But Elen had known him better than he knew "a elf/
nacl known he would need her here, Elen who shared his dfather's dream, who
did not blame him for having betrayed it $     eyes held, and it was to Elen
that he looked rather than to Henry he moved toward the dais, knelt before the
English King
-uj great hall was festively adorned with spring blossoms and brightly Oven
wall hangings, lit by fully a score of flaming torches Llewelyn s awed by the
luxury of Woodstock, many of the chambers were wainscoted in fine oak, and all
of the windows were set with expensive elazed glass panes The sight of such
splendor only intensified his despair How could he hope to compete with Henry
when Henry had so much wealth, so much power7 How in Christ's mercy had his
grandfather managed to outfight or outwit two English Kings7
And yet it had not lasted A lifetime's work now lay in ruins All his
grandfather had won for Wales had been lost this afternoon He and Owam had
been forced to yield the four cantrefs of the Perfeddwlad to the English
Crown, all of Gwynedd east of River Conwy They'd had to agree to provide Henry
with one thousand foot-soldiers and twentyfour knights should the King call
upon them for military aid Never had Gwynedd been so tightly yoked to the
English Crown
Across the hall, he could see Owam, in earnest conversation with their mother,
he knew without being told that to join them would be an intrusion Neither
Davydd nor Rhodn was in sight Nor was Elen Llewelyn's sense of isolation had
rarely been so overwhelming Not that he was being ignored From the moment he'd
entered the hall, he'd found himself the focal point of all eyes The stares
were uncomfortably obvious, obtrusive, the sort of stare men turned upon
lepers and lamed kggars As if, Llewelyn concluded bitterly, being Welsh was a
defor"ury, too He had rarely been so ill at ease, but pride held him in the
hall, wst as pride kept him away from Senena and Owam
Henry's laughter floated across the hall, exultant, joyful laughter
tat salted Llewelyn's wounds anew Henry was lavishing a conspicuous
'Wount of attention upon several young men and a girl in her mid-
'ens, all of them flaxen-haired, uncommonly fair to look upon Many
Henry's courtiers were casting these new favorites disgruntled glances,
Llewelyn was too distracted to fathom English undercurrents or
toes He wanted only for this wretched night to end
d-pj     didn't hear the woman's approach It was her perfume he no-
"rst» an intnguingly exotic fragrance, subtle yet haunting He turned,
242
wondering how he might obtain some of this elusive, elegant scent f0
Melangell, and found himself gazing into beguiling blue eyes.
"Do you remember me?" she asked. Her tone was friendly, evg faintly
flirtatious, and he readily returned her smile.
"Is a man likely to forget the King's sister, the Countess of Leicester'
Although I suspect that you would be remembered, Madame, were you but a
crofter's daughter."
Nell laughed. "Llewelyn passed on more than those dark eyes I see. He could be
very gallant when he chose, to Joanna's dismay, f0r the women bedazzled by
that honeyed tongue were legion."
Llewelyn laughed, too, for the first time since his arrival at Woodstock. He
wanted Nell to stay, for not only was she fair, she was his grandfather's
sister by marriage, and he hastily sought a topic of conversation. "Those
people clustered about the King, the ones he has been favoring all evening,
who are they?"
Nell's smile faded. "Guy, William, Aymer, and Alice de Lusignan Henry's
half-brothers and sister." She saw Llewelyn's brow quirk at "Henry's
half-brothers," and although he did not say anything, a slight flush rose in
her cheeks. "They have come to live at Henry's court, now that their father is
joining the French King's crusade." She hesitated almost imperceptibly before
saying, "Their motherand minedied last year. I expect you heard?"
Isabelle had died that past June at Fontevrault Abbey, after having been
accused of attempting to poison the French King. Whether there was truth to
the accusation, Nell did not know, did not want to know. The only certainty
was that the accusation had frightened Isabelle enough to send her fleeing to
Fontevrault. Nell's mouth tightened, and she looked challengingly now at
Llewelyn, waiting tensely for his response.
He had, in fact, heard of Isabelle's disgrace; so great was the scandal that
it had penetrated even into the fastness of Eryri. His face remained
impassive, though, and Nell relaxed, favored him with another smile.
"I sought you out at my husband's behest. He withdrew to our own chambers some
time ago, having no taste for court fetes. He would very much like to meet
you, though. Might I lure you away?" She saw him wavering, for he was
admittedly curious about the Earl of Leicester, and clinched his acceptance by
adding, "Elen is there."
HENRY had founded the borough of New Woodstock half a mile no ^ of his manor,
so that his courtiers might have adequate lodgingsSimon and Nell were
enjoying, with his blessings, the use of Eversw a nearby manor built by
Henry's grandfather for his beloved court6    J Rosamond Clifford. As he gazed
about at the bubbling springs, the s a
243
ardens, Llewelyn decided that Simon must stand high, indeed, in Henry's favor.
Simon's chamber was filled with friends, almost as if he were hold. court
himself. Of the other people present, Llewelyn was most imressed with Robert
Grosseteste, the aged Bishop of Lincoln, for that venerable churchman's fame
had spread as far as Wales, and with a tall, ^rind-burned man who looked as if
he'd be more at home in tavern brawls than at the royal palace. When Simon
began to introduce him, ^Tjll interrupted with a grin. "We've met before ...
at Aberconwy Abbey, where our paths crossed, if not our swords. Your battle
tactics were first-rate, lad. I'd have told you that then, but the timing did
not seem quite right!"
Even an hour ago, Llewelyn would have insisted that he could never find humor
in the sacking of his grandfather's burial place. But an hour ago, he had not
yet encountered Will. His mouth twitched, he laughed in spite of himself, and
thus entered into an unspoken truce with two of his English enemies.
Simon and Will wanted to dissect the campaign in great detail, and Llewelyn
was more than willing to join in, having recognized the kinship that soldiers
the world over share. Once they'd refought the battle to their mutual
satisfaction, they permitted the women to redirect the conversation, and the
talk then ranged farther afield, to the earthquake that had rocked London two
months past, to the arrival at the English court of Henry's de Lusignan
kindred, and to the Pope's offer to Henry's brother Richard of the kingdom of
Sicily.
Since the Pope's avowed enemy, the Emperor Frederick, was firmly in control of
Sicily with no intention of abdicating, the Pope's offer was one that only
Henry had taken seriously. Richard had responded with none of Henry's
enthusiasm, remarking caustically that the Pope might « well offer him the
moon.
Amidst the ensuing laughter, Llewelyn marveled that Henry's judgment could be
so flawed. Would he truly have Richard entangle himself m a war he could not
win, all for the glimmer of false gold? Nor was that Henry's only blunder.
Llewelyn had not been long in concluding ' Henry's blatant preference for his
de Lusignan siblings was stirring P resentment. It was not surprising; the
court was a natural breeding ^°und for envy. Henry should have anticipated a
backlash. That he Qn t was significant to Llewelyn, offered him his first
flicker of hope mce his arrival at Woodstock. ^ All the talk was now of the
French King's upcoming pilgrimage to
ttoly Lan(j^ £Qr crusacjing fever was running high. Virtually every
w     Present was vowing to go; even Nell announced that she, too,
ta*e the cross, accompany Simon to Palestine. Llewelyn listened,
244
somewhat bemused. As much as he regretted the fall of Jerusalem t the
Saracens, he could not share their enthusiasm for crusading; ^ enemies were in
London, not Cairo or Damascus.
"Of course you Welsh need not roam so far afield to find infidels" Simon
observed, reading his mind with such unerring accuracy that Llewelyn caught
his breath. But then he saw that Simon's eyes were silvered with laughter, and
he grinned. It came as something of a shock to realize that he was actually
enjoying himself.
During a lull in the conversation, he drew Elen aside to ask her about Godstow
Abbey. "It is close to Oxford, is it not? I ought to call upon Davydd's widow,
Isabella, for courtesy's sakeElen? What is amiss?"
"Ah, love, I thought you knew. Isabella is dead. I was told it was a wasting
fever, but I think she lost heart. Poor lass, she" Elen paused turning like
everyone else, toward the door.
Simon was no less startled than were his friends by the King's sudden and
unheralded appearance in his chambers, but he rose at once, moved to make
Henry welcome. Henry acknowledged the courtesy somewhat distractedly, and as
soon as greetings were exchanged, he blurted out, "Simon, is it true what I've
just heard? That you mean to take the cross?"
"Indeed, I do. I expect"
"But you cannot! You must not go to the Holy Land, not whilst I have need of
you. I want you to accept the governorship of Gascony."
Simon frowned. "Henry, I am sorry, in truth I am. You are my King. But I serve
God, too, and Jerusalem must be restored to Christian control."
Nell had moved to Simon's side, but their guests discreetly withdrew to the
far end of the chamber in order to give Simon and his King some privacy.
Llewelyn was glad to retreat. It seemed strange to him that Henry should have
come himself rather than summoning Simon to his presence, almost as if Henry
were the supplicant and Simon the sovereign, and when Elen joined him, he said
as much to her, secure in the knowledge that no one but she spoke Welsh.
"Exactly," she agreed softly. "The wrong man wears the crown, and God pity
them, they both know it."
"And yet all seems amicable between them. Henry let Simon lodf? here at
Everswell, and they treat each other with perfect courtesy
"Indeed. But that courtesy is like the ice that glazes over a win* pond. It
obscures what is truly happening beneath the surface, a° man ventures out upon
it at his own risk." . 0(
Llewelyn gave her a searching, sideways glance. "You are to Simon."
245
"Yes . . . but not at first, though. I'd never met anyone as free of doubts as
Simon; he raised all my hackles!"
"A man free of doubts sounds truly blessed to me/' Llewelyn said, so wistfully
that she laughed.
"No, love, not so. Too much certainty is more often a curse than a blessing. A
man blind to shading, oblivious to subtlety is a man who cannot compromise, a
battle commander likely to take too many risks, a crusader for Christ who
looks upon the Jew, the heretic, and the infidel as the enemies of God, a
seeker after perfection in a world of mere mortals."
"Those are traits that most men would hold forth as virtues," Llewelyn pointed
out playfully, and she nodded.
"I know, lad," she said wryly. "Well do I know."
"Tell me of Gascony. It is a province in Aquitaine, the last of the English
possessions upon the Continent, no? Do you think Simon will agree to forsake
his crusade, to rule Gascony for the King?"
"Yes . . . eventually."
"And will the King then be grateful to Simon?"
Elen was silent, watching Simon and Henry. "No," she said at last. "No, I
think not."
19
Westminster, England
January 1251
JZ^PIPHANY was by tradition a day of great fes. ^ty at the English court. But
this year's celebration seemed sadly lackis m splendor to Eleanor. So
hard-pressed was Henry for money that even refrained from giving the members
of his household their I    torriary gifts of Christmas clothing, a humiliating
economy for so s    Coving a King. To Eleanor, who was no less extravagant than
her (j   "thrift husband, his new-found frugality was particularly galling ^8
the holiday season.
ttenry has so generous a nature; I know it vexes him to deny us
246
the comforts we deserve. But his priorities are skewed. He still manaee to
find great sums of money for the rebuilding of Westminster Abbey It is a good
thing to honor the Almighty, of course, but the abbey haj a perfectly adequate
church, Sanchia. There was truly no need for Henry to assume such an awesome
undertaking. His masons have been la. boring for nigh on six years already!"
Her sister shrugged. "Did you not tell me just last week that Henry had
coerced a rich Jew of York into giving him fourteen thousand marks money he
then turned over to you?"
"Well, yes, but . . ." Eleanor had begun to bridle. With an effort she curb-ed
her annoyance. Was Sanchia being malicious? Or merely indifferent? After a
moment, she sighed. Richard had been bedazzled by Sanchia's beauty, but once
they were wed, her allure had faded. How else explain Sanchia's moodiness, her
peevish tongue? For certes, her sister had not found with Henry's brother the
contentment she had found with Henry.
At l«ast Sanchia had now been able to give Richard a son. When her first child
died, her grieving had been painful to Eleanor, for that was a sorrow embedded
in her own heart. Earlier that evening, their nurses had ushered her children
into the hall to bid her good night: Edward, her favorite, a handsome,
swaggering lad already in his twelfth year; ten-year-old Margaret, who was to
wed the young Scots King ere the year was out; Beatrice, a fair, giddy child
of eight; Edmund, her baby, not yet six. But two pitiful little shadows had
trailed them into the hall, Richard and John, the sons born after Edmund, the
sons who had not survived.
The brightness in the hall dimmed. "The loss of a child is mayhap the most
common of griefs," she said softly, "and yet it is the wound hardest to heal
..."
"What I do not understand," Sanchia confessed, "is why some women are spared
such grief. I've lost one, you've lost two, Richard's first wife lost three of
her four. But Henry's sister is blessed with babe after healthy babe. How many
has Nell borne de Montfort now, six. Seven?''
"Sbc, I think." Eleanor paused, counting on her fingers. "Harry and Bran arid
Guy and Amaury, that's four. Then she had a fifth son, Ricn' ard, two springs
ago, after she'd accompanied Simon to Gascony. An her lass, Joanna, was born
last June. I have to agree, Sanchia; she's luckie1 than she deserves. But her
children are a likable lot, nonetheless, older boys have been my Edward's
companions since their cradle day < and Speaking of babes, I almost forgot to
tell you! Henry's niece, E16,, de Quincy, has been brought to bed of her
third, another lass, sad to say-
247
"Elen? Ah, yes, the Welshwoman," Sanchia said, with another shrug, one of
dismissal. "Henry beckons to us from the dais. I marvel he noticed us, so
taken up is he with those de Lusignan kinsmen of his. Do you never tire of
their constant presence? Were I you, I'd fear lest I'd find one secreted under
Henry's bed!"
Although she needn't fear eavesdroppers, for Sanchia's arrow had Ijeen
launched in langue d'oc, the language of their native Provence, Eleanor was
irked, nonetheless, by her sister's sarcasm. "Henry loves his family well,"
she said coldly. "Can you fault him for that?"
"They are not worthy of Henry's favor, Eleanor. None at the court can
comprehend why Henry dotes upon them so, for no one else can abide their
arrogance and avarice and haughty ways, not even Richard or Nell. Yet Henry
has done naught but lavish honors upon them. It was disgraceful enough when he
wed Alice to the Earl of Surrey's heir and gave William the earldom of
Pembroke. But to force the monks of Winchester to elect Aymer as their
Bishopthat is an outrage, Sister! Aymer is twenty-three years of age, a
boastful, unlettered rakehell, ignorant of the Scriptures, of"
"Enough! Think you that I do not know how unfit Aymer is to wear a bishop's
mitre? These de Lusignans have naught to recommend them but handsome faces and
Henry's blood. They stir up dissension at the court, make enemies with awesome
ease, and they give nary a thought to Henry's welfare. I cannot begin to count
the times they have brought shame upon him. Just a fortnight ago, Guy de
Lusignan returned from the Holy Land, and on his way to London, he passed the
night at Faversham Abbey, where the Abbot was kind enough to lend him horses
for his journeyhorses that Guy never returned! But what matters my opinion as
long as they hold Henry's heart? I understand it no better than you do,
Sanchia. Mayhap they stir up memories of Henry's mother ... I just do not
know! I do know, though, that I will not grieve my husband by seeking to
separate him from his kinsmen. Nor will I allow anyone to speak ill of him in
my presence."
Sanchia did not reply, and Eleanor relented, satisfied that she had
made her point. "I know my enemies accuse me of influencing Henry
unduly. To hear them talk, John Mansel and I are the puppeteers and
Henry our hapless puppet. Well, that is arrant nonsense. Naturally I
seek to counsel Henry, but he is very much his own man, and those
who think" She swallowed the rest of her complaint, for they had
eacned the dais, and she found a sweet smile for Henry, a spurious
,ne *or his brothers, Aymer and William de Lusignan. She did not have
n8 to endure their company, however, for within moments Richard
as moving toward them.
248
"I've just been told," he said, "that Simon de Montfort is on his way into the
hall."
Henry swung around. "That cannot be! Simon is in Gascony!"
Richard shook his head. "My servant says he was riding a welllathered horse,
accompanied by only three men," he said, and Henry frowned uneasily.
People were already turning, staring. Simon did not even pause to acknowledge
the surprised greetings of friends. He strode toward the King, leaving a trail
of whispers in his wake. As he knelt before the dais, Henry felt a prickle of
resentment that Simon should dare to corne before him like this, unshaven,
boots muddied, mantle dark with dust Although bloodshot, glazed with fatigue,
Simon's grey eyes were smoky, burning with such intensity that Henry's protest
froze on his lips.
"Your Grace," Simon said, "I bring you grievous news. Gascony is at war."
THEY had withdrawn from the great hall in urgent haste, seeking the privacy of
Henry's Painted Chamber. There they listened in shocked silence as Simon told
them that Gascony was aflame with rebellion, a revolt led by Henry's own
kinsman, Gaston de Beam, in alliance with the lords of Fronsac and Albret and
Bordeaux's powerful del Soler family.
Henry's dismay found expression in angry reproach. "Jesii, Simon, how could
you fail me like this? Your task was to bring the rebels to terms, to quell"
Simon's exhaustion overrode deference. "By God, your memory is pitifully
short! I did just that upon my arrival in Gascony. I negotiated truces with
France and Navarre, I besieged and captured the rebel castles of Fronsac and
Gramont, and then I sent Gaston de Beam to you for justice. A rebel, a traitor
to his liege lord, a brigand who'd preyed upon his own vassals, shamed women
and plundered towns without pity, a man who bloody well deserved to hang. But
you saw fit to pardon him, to restore him to power, to send him back to
Gascony, did you not. The self-same Gaston de Beam who is once more in
rebellion against the Crown!"
Henry flushed darkly. "Gaston is my wife's first cousin, and he swore upon his
honor that he would keep faith with me!"
"And you believed him? A man more false than the serpent, m° treacherous than
Judas? Henry, how could you be so trusting? Gas de Beam is my kinsman, too,
for he wed the daughter of my t>rotn widow. But had he been my very brother,
I'd not have winked a crimes. I'd have hanged him higher than Haman, and had
you that, this rebellion would never have happened."
249
"Whether I erred or not in pardoning Gaston, it is done and beyond ca\\ Mayhap
had you not treated the Gascon lords so harshly, they'd not have been so quick
to join forces with Gaston. As it happened, Gaston sent his chaplain to court
barely a fortnight ago, with a saddlebag full of complaints against your rule.
Gaston claims that you have been arbitrary and unjust, that you have
imprisoned lords without trial, seized their castles, and destroyed their
vineyards. What say you to these charges, Simon? Do you deny them?"
Simon had been listening in astonishment. "That I have been unjust, indeed I
do denyupon the surety of my soul! But for certes I do not deny that I
imprisoned the lords of Gramont and Soule, or that I seized their strongholds.
How else would you have me deal with rebels? These men call themselves lords,
but in truth they are no better than brigands. You want to know if I have
succeeded in restoring order to Gascony? Ask, then, the common people, ask the
pilgrims and townsfolk and merchants who can now travel the roads without fear
of ambush, who can sell their goods for fair prices, who need no longer hide
their women when their lord rides into townask them if I have been unjust!"
The discussion was not going as Henry wished; somehow arguments with Simon
never did. "That may well be," he said cautiously, "but surely you cannot
expect me to dismiss the testimony of viscounts and barons. The word of a lord
must count for more than the word of a carpenter or a blacksmith, Simon."
"If memory serves, Our Lord Christ was a carpenter," Simon could not resist
gibing. He immediately regretted it, for Henry's face splotched with angry
color, and he said swiftly, "Wait, my lord. I ask that you hear me out. Of
course I am not saying that all men have equal rights. I believe no less than
you do in a nobility born of blood. But privilege carries with it obligations.
A lord has a responsibility to those of lesser rank. He must not abuse his
power, he must not persecute the weak, and he must safeguard his people as
best he can. In return for their loyalty and obedience, a lord pledges his
protection to his subjects. It
18 a debt of honor," Simon concluded passionately, for what he had just
articulated was his concept of kingship. He waited now for Henry to agree with
him, to avow his own adherence to these same principles of I***. waited in
vain.
Henry was frowning. Once, years ago, Henry had summoned a
t Fh   ^k'to ^*s court' demanded of the man why so few Jews came
had 6 C0nvers*on houses he had set up throughout the country. Henry
Faith 3nte<^ to know why the Jews were so loath to convert to the True
' why they shunned salvation, and he had listened intently, if
hjgjj^Prehendingly, as the rabbi spoke of Yahweh, the God of Israel.
r Simon nor Henry had been able to understand why people
250
T
253
should cling so obstinately to a false faith, but it seemed to Simon no that
the look upon Henry's face was the same as upon the day he<, confronted the
aged rabbi, his the baffled expression of one encounterm an alien philosophy,
a creed both mysterious and menacing. °
"I am King by God's Will," Henry said slowly, "not by the approv i of my
subjects. My covenant is therefore with the Almighty, not with my people. But
I do, of course, desire for my subjects the King's Peace If these barons are
as lawless as you say, mayhap they deserve the punishment you have meted out
to them. Yet not all of the complaints come from the highborn. What of the del
Soler family?"
Simon was silent, grimly weighing the implications of Henry's words He was
uncommonly well-read for a man of his rank, knew that even King John of ill
fame, Henry's notorious father, had possessed a sense of noblesse oblige. A
king who did not was a king unfettered by duty counseled only by his own
conscience. For all Henry's piety and good will, was his conscience enough to
sustain the burden of government' Simon thought not.
Only when Henry repeated his question did Simon rouse himself, say
impatiently, "My liege, you know the offenses of the del Solers fully as well
as I. When an election eve mgle'e broke out in Bordeaux between the city's two
rival factions, the del Solers and the Colom family, I hastened to the scene,
ordered the fighting to cease. The Coloms heeded my command, but the del
Solers did not, had to be subdued by force. I thought you were in agreement
with me, for when Gaillard del Soler fled to England, you ordered him to be
remanded into my custody and imprisoned."
"Not precisely," Henry snapped. "We determined that Gaillard del Soler and his
confederates should be tried before a Gascon court. But you did not bother
with such legalities; you simply cast the man into prison!"
"What if I did? Christ Jesus, Henry, I was fighting a war-your war!"
Henry could not deny the truth in that. Simon had moved to his side, and Henry
took a backward step. He was five feet, nine inches tall, and usually quite
comfortable with his height, but not now, no next to Simon, the last man in
Christendom he wanted to look up °"I am not defending the del Solers, Simon,"
he said, in a more con ^ iatory tone. "I seek only to find out all the facts.
From what I've nea^ that rioting in Bordeaux was bloody, indeed; I know some
of y°"r ° u household knights died in the fray. But the del Solers claim that
y did favor the Coloms from the very first. Is that true?" .ojas
Simon nodded. "Yes, I did. Shall I tell you why? Because the co^ ^ are wine
merchants, dependent upon trade with England. They
sted interest, therefore, in maintaining close ties with the Crown. Yhereas
the del Solers are no longer engaged in trade, and they have llied themselves
with the local lords, with outlaw barons like Raimond, V'scount of Fronsac.
Can you find fault with my reasoning?" he demanded, and when Henry reluctantly
shook his head, he followed Henry w the hearth.
"I did not seek the office of Seneschal. This was a burden you thrust upon
rne, Henry. I had taken the cross, was about to depart for the u0]y Land when
you entreated me to delay my pilgrimage, to go, instead, to Gascony and govern
it for you. It was agreed that I should serve a seven-year term, with absolute
authority to act on your behalf. You violated that agreement when you pardoned
Gaston de B£arn, and now you show yourself willing to listen to my enemies, to
give credence to traitors and rebels."
Simon drew a sharp breath, reluctant to reveal how deeply affronted he was by
Henry's accusations; he had far too much pride to admit he felt betrayed by
his King's lack of trust. "Shall I resign my command? I will relinquish it
this very night if that be your wish, and resume my crusader's vow, asking
only that you reimburse me for the heavy expenses I have incurred in your
service. If, however, you wish me to continue as Seneschal, I will do so, but
only if I have your full support. The choice, my liege, is yours."
Henry hated nothing so much as being backed into a comer. He glanced unhappily
at Eleanor and Richard, silent witnesses to his clash of wills with Simon, but
neither showed any inclination to intercede. His hesitation was only
momentary, though; despite his dissatisfaction with Simon's performance, he
knew of no one who could do better. Moreover, to accept Simon's resignation
would be to admit that his appointment had been a mistake, just as his brother
Richard had once argued.
"I want you to continue as Seneschal," he said. "It was no easy task I set
before you; I know that. You have my every confidence, and to prove it, I
shall grant you an additional three thousand marks to quell
1*rebellion."
That was not the answer Simon had wanted. "So be it, then," he &&d, sounding
so weary that Henry finally noticed just how utterly Busted he looked.
y Good Lord, Simon, did you sleep at all on your way from Dover? ^u ^ly should
get some rest. But first, stay and sup with us. We're
8 a special mummery, a pageant about St George slaying the dragon."
re
Simon
mustered up a smile. "Thank you, but no. Right now I seek
Qnj »*iwoi.cicu up a aiiuie.     iiiaitA yuu, uui uu. xxigiii iiuw 1 seeK
1 ^ a atri and then a bed, for I depart at dawn for Kenilworth, where to
raise additional moneys by selling some of my forests. And
I ho,
252
1
then, of course, I want to visit His Grace, the Bishop of Lincoln; Neji and I
entrusted our two eldest sons into the Bishop's keeping, so that they might be
properly educated." As he spoke, Simon moved toward Eleanor, kissed her hand,
and Henry's ring. He was at the door before Henry cried out.
"Simon, wait! I have grievous news for you. We have learned that my cousin,
the Earl of Salisbury, is dead."
"Will?" Simon swallowed, then leaned back against the door. His eyes remained
dry, but the pupils had dilated so suddenly that the irises seemed utterly
black, bereft of all color, all light. Henry had rarely seen him so shaken,
and he was at once contrite.
"I ought not to have blurted it out like that, but I'd forgotten you were such
friends. He died well, Simon, died a hero's death. We can all be proud, can
glory in his martyrdom."
Simon nodded mutely. Making the sign of the cross, he turned, swiftly departed
the chamber.
Henry was not at all satisfied with the outcome, yet he did not know exactly
what he'd wanted from Simon, and that uncertainty only intensified his
frustration. "It is troubling enough," he complained, "that Simon can see only
blacks and whites. But he also demands that all men be as color-blind as he
is!"
"You know I bear no love for Simon de Montfort," Eleanor said, after a long
pause. "But I do think he is right in this, Henry. Rebels must be punished,
and retribution must be swift. Whatever his other faults, Simon does
understand that."
This was not the first time that Henry had found himself at odds with his
wife. It never failed to surprise him that so feminine, so delicate a woman
could be so resolute, so remorseless. He could not help envying her absolute
certainty, her sure sense of right, and he worried sometimes lest she think
him unmanly, for he knew she made a more implacable foe than he. She'd
insisted he was too lenient with the Welsh, she shared none of his concerns
about converting the Jews, would have gladly expelled them all from their
realm, and he knew she cared no more than Simon that rebels were denied due
process of law. In truth, Henry was not all that disturbed himself by the
illegality of it, would not have objected had he not been forced to deal with
the aggrieved complain'5 of those who felt wronged by Simon's summary justice.
Turning away from Eleanor, Henry looked challengingly at his brother "Am I to
assume from your silence that you, too, disapprove?"
"In fact, I agree," Richard said coolly. "Now that you've comrnitte^ yourself
to Simon, you have to support him. You owe the man much. That does not mean,
however, that I've changed my mindyou more than two years ago that de Montfort
was the wrong man
253
(j,e task at hand He is more than capable of conquering a * province, utterly
incapable of pacifying it afterward Whilst Simon excels^ at breachmg walls,
your Seneschal should be able to mend fences, tooo But you paid me no heed,
you would have yourself a soldier Well, trr-»at is what you got, one of the
most celebrated soldiers in Christendom - I daresay he'll quell this latest
rebellion soon enough, I've heard it sai-id that the Gascons 'fear the Earl of
Leicester more than lightning ' It is what you wanted, Henry, is it not7 So do
not complain to me because yc=>ur soldier Joes not act like a statesman "
"And I suppose you would have been the ideal choice? The truth
1S/ Richard, that you've never forgiven me for revoking that grant, for giving
Gascony to my son instead of to you1"
Richard rose, stalked to the door "Take heart, Henry If all else fails, you
can always go to Gascony yourself I'm sure the reb»»«ls would surrender at
once, for who would dare to defy the victor of SESamtes7"
Henry flinched, but Richard didn't see, he'd already slair^med the door
Eleanor came hastily to her husband's side "Pay Richard 1 no mind, beloved
Gascony is part of our Edward's inheritance It belong £$ by right to him, not
to Richard "
"I know, "Henry said morosely "But he is my brother, and * it grieves me that
we should be at odds over this Damn him' Damn him and Simon both1"
He had slumped down in the closest chair, straightened T up hopefully as the
door flew open But it was not a repentant Richarird, it was his son Henry's
spirits soared at sight of the boy He adored all his children, but Edward held
a special place in his heart, Edw^vard, his firstborn, Edward who gave every
promise of one day being <&as tall, as fair, and as fearless as his famous
grand-uncle, Richard Lionh.r»eart
"I heard that Uncle Simon was here1 Is it true, Papa' Has - he come tack from
Gascony7"
Henry stiffened Striving for nonchalance, he said, "Yes, l.llad, he is tack
You just missed him, in fact "
"Mayhap I can still catch him then," Edward exclaimed, and 1 whirled, "otang
from the chamber as precipitately as he'd entered
"Ah, Henry        " Eleanor reached out sought without success to , e~some of
the tension from his neck and shoulders "You rnmust not « hurt you, beloved
Edward is just at that age when lads arfare easily "^azzled by swordplay, by
battlefield heroics, and Simon is      -     "
*   """ *"-'"n.a, anu JUI1UI1 IS        .-
*ne did not complete the sentence She did not ha\e toc=>, Henry
to ! / f°r her " '        the 8reatest soldl«- m Christendom^,' " he ^°ted
bitterly
f            *«.w    MAM   *iv/t.   nave   UJ U'/   * *»-**.i._y
for her " '        the greatest soldier in Christendom^,' " he
C$£
254
FROM the south solar window of the Bishop of Lincoln's gazed down upon
Danesgate. Sleet had been falling since   'A^' ^oo and two carts had just
collided on the steep, icy hill, spilii      m°tll'ng, and crated chickens and
sacks of flour into the street A ^ Wil>e ^e&
cl<   f\ OTrMi.j       &
gathered, drawn by the creative profanity of the drivers. But V^ S°°n
oblivious to the chaotic scene below him. He was seeing the 'm°n *"** upon the
muddy waters of the Nile, above an empty coo S^tune* sky. PP^olored
"Mansourah," he murmured, turning away from the wind was the name of the
village. The French King's hot-headed b ft, ^^ the raid. Will warned him that
they were badly outnumbered rT^ paid no heed. Then when the Saracens attacked,
he tried to fl to drown in the Nile. Not Will, though. He held his ground,
reh^ yield, saying he'd die ere he surrendered to infidels. So impressed     to
the Saracens with his courage that the Sultan of Babylon saw thatlv had an
honorable burial."
Taking a seat across from the Bishop, he said softly, "I am proud to have
called him friend. Few men are given such a glorious ascent into Paradise. But
I shall miss him, more than I can say . . ."
"And you wish with all your heart that you had been there to fight beside
him," the Bishop said, eliciting from Simon a startled smile.
"Have you turned soothsayer now? How well you know me. Not that I yearn for
martyrdom! But at least Will died in the service of the Almighty; his death
had meaning. I had three near-misses with death myself in the past
twelvemonth," he admitted, somewhat to the Bishop's surprise, for he rarely
shared secrets of risk. "All men die, of course and no Christian should fear
death. But should my wife be made i widow, my children made fatherless, what
comfort would they have knowing I died for a fickle King's favor?"
"But did the King not promise to support your efforts against the rebels?"
Simon gave a mirthless laugh. "Do you remember the legend of the birds of
paradise? Surpassingly beautiful and dazzling to watch on wing, but they could
never land, for they lacked feet. Well, Henn^ promises soar upward, too, in
flights of golden rhetoric, but they n ^ make it back to earth. Today he
pledges me his eternal Pf^"^ ^ morrow he may well lend an ear to Gaston de
Beam again.      ,,gastcr reached for a wine cup, but now he set it down with
a thu          v has no more loyalty than Lucifer, is hand-in-glove with the
 ^ Navarre and Castile. His sworn word is spit on the wind. So    ^ '^^ can
Henry give credence to anything he says? It is almos wanted to believe ill of
me!" j have s
"Mayhap he does, Simon. Although in fairness to Henry-
255
ices besides Gaston de Beam's have been raised against ^thato*6^
.,'u." chinned. "I never thought I should have to defend
' Simon was sw^ ^
jelf to yo '       rpne older man leaned across the table, laid his hand "Nord
" ^^^ ,,j ^0 not fauit yOU for treating brigands as they -r°n ^"TH     e Gascon
lords hate you because you sought to uphold
t^>AT*V£.    I *'c .    .i      fj    ^11 :_!./-.   _-. __      T   J ^ .i_
J.1-. .. ~1_     J.L. J.
des*1^'6' ,    . j^ ancj to defend Christ's poor. I do regret, though, that "*
^eteen so inflexible, so loath to listen" ^ -When? What have you heard?"
King's Seneschal always came to the town of Saut to take the
men's oaths of fealty, a privilege they held very dear. But you
t°WnSd that they come to you at Saint-Sever, and when they refused,
''""""Had I gone to Saut for the oath-taking, the other towns would have
demanded the same privilege. It just was not practical, made no jense. I all
but slept in the saddle as it was!"
The Bishop nodded. "I do not doubt that you were hard-pressed for time. But
sometimes, my son, there are other considerations than practicality. You are
the best horseman I've ever seen, for you know how to guide your mount with
the slightest pressure of your knees, whilst keeping a light hand on the
reins. If you could but learn to use the same sure touch with men, Simon,
you'd find them less likely to balk."
Simon was quiet for a time. The Bishop's criticism was not as easily dismissed
as Henry's, for if Henry's judgment was dross, Bishop Robert's was unalloyed
gold. Moreover, he was deeply touched by the Bishop's fond use of "my son."
"As ever, you counsel wisely," he said at last. "My temper does catch fire too
fast, and I too often let my stubbornness lead me astray. I have tried to
learn patience, but my "solve takes me only so far. In truth, my lord, I do
not think I can '"""ge my nature."
The Bishop's smile was still compelling, belying the burdens of ill
th and age. "No," he conceded, "probably not. Try to remember,
JQ^T'.that neither can Henry. Now ... no more lectures. You have
** vo   h /S Conscience and a knight's honor; betwixt them, they shall
"mere   /°Ugh to a safe harbor. Let us talk, instead, of more cheerful
3uld ° -yuUr S°nS' They are fine lads' Simon' mayhap not the scholars
o<l hea^     Latin in Particular seems to elude them. But they have
: boistero 3nd m°re than thdr Share °f plu°k' At timeS they C3n be .?
spiri*0!18 *°r 3n °^ man/s liking, but we expect blooded stock to Ham, a dk
you wil1 be wel1 pleased with their progress."
Bran looked uncommonly neat and well-scrubbed to
256
Simon. Harry was twelve now, and Bran ten, and Simon was amazed at how fast
they'd grown in the six months since he'd seen them last They'd seemed
somewhat subdued as they entered, as if expecting to be called to account for
found-out sins, but at sight of their father, they abandoned all decorum,
flung themselves upon him with joyful shrieks "Papa! You're back! For how
long? Is Mama with you? When can"
"Enough!" Simon laughed. "I cannot answer if you assail me both at once. Your
mother is back in Bordeaux with your little brothers and sister, but I brought
you her latest letter and some surprise packages. I expect to be at Kenilworth
for just a month or so, however long it takes me to raise funds. Whilst I'd
not want to interrupt your studies, 1 would like you to spend some time at
Kenilworth with me. Now . . . other
questions?"
The boys exchanged glances, elected Harry as spokesman. "Papa . . . when you
go back to Gascony, can we go with you?"
Simon slowly shook his head. They knew better than to beg, but they looked so
disappointed that Simon actually found himself wavering for a moment. "You
know that is not possible, lads. I see no reason, however, why you cannot take
a brief respite from your lessons, pass a fortnight in London with your cousin
Edward. That is, if Bishop Robert agrees?" he added, and the Bishop gave an
amused nod, marveling anew that Simon, of all men, should be such an indulgent
father.
Simon's sons politely expressed their thanks, but it was obvious they
considered London a poor substitute for Gascony. It was Bran whose discipline
broke first. "Why must you go back to Gascony, Papa? Why can you not come home
to stay?"
"Because I gave the King my word, Bran."
Bran bit his lip. "I know you say a man must keep his word, Papa. But the King
does not always keep his word! So why, then, must you
still serve him?"
Simon was taken aback, gave a rueful laugh. "Amidst your study of Latin and
arithmetic and geography, have you taken up law, too?" But that was an
evasion, and he owed the boy better than that. Reaching out, he drew Bran to
him. "I serve Henry because he is the King." Bran said nothing; it was clear,
though, that he found it an unsatisfactory answer. Simon looked over at the
Bishop and shrugged. He was not ye' ready to admit, even to himself, how
unsatisfactory an answer it was to him, too.
THE sky was beginning to lighten in the east; the last stars were fadi^e from
sight. April had been a month of sudden, chilling rains, slowu'o down Simon's
assault upon Castillon Castle, but it was May now a
257
the siege was drawing to an end. Peter de Montfort had no doubts of that, for
Simon had told him this would be the day that the castle fell, and Peter had
learned to trust Simon's military judgment. Castillon haij dominated the River
Dordogne since the ninth century, but it was not so formidable a stronghold as
Fronsac and Gramont, castles said to be impregnable, castles captured by
Simon. Peter felt certain that the rebel Viscount, Pierre de Castillon, would
be a prisoner or a corpse before this day was done.
Now, however, his immediate concern was for Simon. Mining was the slowest
means of taking a castle, but the most effective, and once they had broken
through Castillon's outer defenses, Simon put his men to work with picks and
shovels. Day by day, the tunnel snaked forward, while Simon kept the defenders
distracted with a relentless barrage from mangonel and trebuchet. At last the
mine was ready, having been cautiously and laboriously dug across the inner
bailey, up under the southwest corner of the castle keep. Rising by cover of
night, Simon's men had stuffed the tunnel with brushwood, with the bodies of
newly killed pigs, and they were about to set the fatal fire. Fueled by the
lard, the flames would swiftly engulf the timbers used to shore up the runnel
roof, and when the tunnel collapsed, so, too, would the section of the keep
above it.
Peter did not expect the mine to fail. But he was disturbed that Simon had
insisted upon going down into the mine himself while the fire was set, for he
thought that was a needless risk. Peter hated mines, could not endure such
close confinement, and he was well aware of their dangers; it was not uncommon
for them to collapse upon their builders, and the image of a flame-filled mine
seemed to him verily a description of Hell.
The entrance to the mine was concealed by a wooden structure called a cat.
Much to Peter's relief, he finally heard running footsteps, and men began to
scramble up to safety. Simon's face was smudged with smoke and soot, but he
was grinning. He coughed, laughed, and coughed again. "We've a right beautiful
bonfire going, Peter. I'll wager those sluggards will still be abed when the
keep comes crashing down around them!"
Simon had been up for most of the night, making ready for the final assault.
He took time now to eat a hasty breakfast of bread and cheese, Cashed down
with a spiced red wine, all the while giving last-minute mstructions to his
captains. "When Castillon falls," he predicted, "so, °°, will the rebellion.
They'll all come on the run, seeking terms."
"They already offered terms," Peter reminded him, and Simon grinned 'gain.
"Yes," he said, "but now the terms will be mine," and he signaled
258
for the bombardment to begin. The mangonels heaved boulders into the inner
bailey, and the trebuchets hurled the dreaded Greek fire, which not even water
could extinguish. The castle came rapidly to life; men appeared, yawning and
cursing, upon the roof battlements, at the narrow arrow slits.
Simon had been both besieged and besieger, and he knew how unpleasant
conditions must be for those mewed up within the keep denied light or fresh
air, unable to escape the pungent stink of the latrines, having to ration
every swallow of water, to count every mouthful of food. "I think we've been
able to locate the underground spring that feeds their well," he said. "If the
mine does not work, we can salt the spring. That should bring a surrender in
short order!"
But there was no need for contingency planning. The underground fire soon set
the timbered roof ablaze, and when the tunnel caved in, the corner foundation
of the keep cracked, split open in a shower of rock and mortar and ash. A few
died in the collapsed rubble, more died trying to keep Simon's men from
gaining entry at these gaping holes in the wall. But the defenders were
outnumbered, and the momentum was with the attackers. Simon's men soon had
control of the lower floor. Fighting his way up the stairwell, Simon
discovered that the Viscount had barricaded himself in his private chamber,
and Simon's demand for surrender was met with a volley of verbal abuse.
William Pigorel, Simon's Gascon lieutenant, joined Simon in the stairwell,
suggested that he remind the Viscount that the rules of warfare permitted the
hanging of an enemy garrison if they held out after all hope was gone.
Simon shook his head. "From what I know of Pierre de Castillon, he'd not turn
a hair if we hanged his entire family from the battlements, as long as his own
skin was safe. No, I've a better idea. Send some men up on the roof. Let's see
what happens if we stuff burning brands down the louvres."
They soon heard a commotion from within the chamber, as the trapped men sought
frantically to put out the fires, and while they were thus occupied it was
simple enough for a stout soldier with an axe to split the door asunder. Simon
was among the first into the chamber.
"De Castillon!" he challenged, and the Viscount moved to meet him. But no
sooner had they crossed swords than Simon knew he was facing an inferior
opponent, one who was, moreover, on the verge o panic. He easily parried the
other man's thrust, with enough force stagger them both. Recovering first,
Simon lunged, and his sword nea y sliced through the overhead bed hangings. De
Castillon reeled backward, suddenly enveloped in billowing folds of Tripoli
silk. He bump6 ^ blindly into the bed, sprawled into the rushes, much to the
amuserne
259
Of Simon's soldiers, and by the time he managed to free himself from the
shrouds of bedding, Simon was standing over him, sword poised above his
windpipe.
"You may yield," Simon said calmly, "or you may die," and de Castillon gasped,
"I yield," his sword clattering to the floor.
Afterward, there was much to be done. Simon's men had to make sure that the
tunnel fire was extinguished. There were prisoners to be counted, and ransoms
to be calculated, wounded men to be tended, and messengers to be dispatched,
bearing word of Castillon's fall. Much to Pierre de Castillon's annoyance, he
found himself shunted aside, utterly ignored, as if he were a person of no
importance. He fumed in silence for a while, then demanded that he be taken to
Simon, and he vvas so insistent that his guards finally grew tired of
listening to his complaints, escorted him up the stairs into his own
bedchamber.
His resentment flared even higher to find that Simon had appropriated his
private quarters. Nor did his temper improve any when Simon disregarded his
presence, continuing to dictate letters and give orders.
"Put the wounded in the hall until the smoke clears from the downstairs
chamber. The cellar is still intact? Good, we'll use it for a dungeon. You'd
best set men to digging grave pits, Peter, and" Simon paused, looking up as
the Viscount wrenched free of his guards, pushed toward him.
"My lord of Leicester, how much longer do you mean to keep me waiting? Your
manners, sir, are insufferable. I demand to know what ransom you seek."
Simon's eyes narrowed upon the other man's flushed, sweaty face. "That, my
lord de Castillon, will depend upon your allies of the moment. In the
meantime, you may make yourself comfortable with the rest of your menin the
cellar."
Castillon's mouth dropped open. "You cannot be serious! You'd imprison me with
the common soldiers? I am a lord, am entitled to be heated with the respect
due my rank!"
Simon merely looked at him. "Men of honor I treat honorably," he said tersely.
As his delighted soldiers shoved the sputtering Viscount toward the door, one
of his squires knelt by his chair.
"My lord Simon, may I bandage your hand now?" the youth entteated, and Simon
leaned back in his chair, glancing toward de Castillon *>* a sardonic smile.
''Indeed, Philip. God forbid that I should bleed all over my lord de
stillon's bedchamber." He nodded, and his men dragged their out-
r ^ Prisoner into the stairwell. Suddenly realizing that he could not
"^iriber when he'd last slept, Simon made a gesture of dismissal. "I'd
260
best get some rest whilst I can. Peter, you are in command. Be merciful,
though, and do not awaken me unless we come under attack. No, lads, do not
bother," waving his squires away when they would have helped him undress.
"Just remember to clean the blood from my sword . . ." That was his last
coherent thought; flinging himself down upon the bed, he fell asleep almost at
once.
It seemed only moments later that someone was shaking his shoulder, but as he
sat up, Simon saw that shadows had spilled from the corners; daylight was
done. Peter was bending over the bed. Although Simon could not make out his
face, his voice sounded strained. "Simon, wake up. Your lady has sent her
sergeant . . ."
Simon went cold, for Nell would not dispatch Andrew de la Brach on a routine
errand. "Those whoresons have not dared to besiege the castle at Bordeaux?"
There was a flare of light as someone struck a flint, and Simon's eyes
flickered to Andrew's face. He was a taciturn man in his mid-fifties, utterly
loyal, utterly imperturbable. Now he looked even grimmer than usual.
Kneeling in the darkness by the bed, he said, "My lord, it is not your lady.
It is your daughter, your babe, Joanna. She has been taken right bad, and Lady
Nell. . . she begs you to come with all haste."
IT was dawn by the time Simon came within sight of the city walls of Bordeaux,
but the sky remained shrouded in thick, grey clouds. As early as it was, the
city was already stirring, and as Simon rode through the Medoque Gate onto Rue
Sainte-Catherine, people stopped and stared, for even the smallest child
recognized the King's Seneschal on sight. The looks directed at Simon were
both admiring and resentful, in equal measure, for the town was divided
between those who saw Simon as a saviour and those who saw him as Satan. Peter
was acutely aware of the stares; Simon was not. He could think of nothing but
his ailing child, could hear nothing but Andrew's ominous words, "taken right
bad . all haste." And yet he could not believe that his daughter might be
dying. His son Amaury had once fallen ill with the tertian fever, but he'd
recovered, even after the doctors had despaired. So, too, would Joanna.
The castle known as Ombriere occupied the east bank of the Riyer
TTiP
Garonne, site of a stronghold since the days of the Roman Empire. int: ancient
rectangular keep called the Arbalesteyre dated from the eleven^ century, had
little of the comfort and none of the luxury to which Ne was accustomed. But
Ombriere was safe, and that was what matter* to Simon. As he rode through the
gatehouse, a cry went up and pe°P
261
hastened out into the bailey. Simon saw none of them; his eyes had fastened
upon the man standing by the entrance to the keep.
Geraud de Malemort was the Archbishop of Bordeaux, and it should have seemed
natural that he'd be here in Nell's time of need, ready to offer solace, the
comfort of their Church. But Simon knew better, for he jcnew Geraud de
Malemort. The Archbishop was a politician, not a priest, little given to
succoring the sick, and he was no friend to Simon.
He came forward, halted by Simon's stallion. "The ways of the Almighty," he
said, "passeth the understanding of man," and it was in the unsympathetic eyes
of an enemy that Simon learned of his daughter's death.
oMBRifeRE's chapel was ablaze with torches and candles, at Nell's insistence,
for Joanna had been afraid of the dark. Simon had lost all track of time, did
not know how long he had been kneeling by his daughter's coffin. For once,
prayer had failed him. Rising stiffly to his feet, he confessed, "No matter
how often I tell myself, 'Thy Will be done/ I cannot stifle a voice that
cries, 'Why?' "
Nell was standing on the other side of the coffin, gazing down at their child.
"She could be asleep," she whispered, and then looked up at Simon. "The
Archbishop of Bordeaux told me that too much grieving was an affront to the
Almighty, for it showed that I lacked faith, that I doubted Joanna had been
taken to the bosom of Our Lord Christ. I told him, in turn, that he was one of
God's great fools."
Simon joined her beside the coffin, saying grimly, "Good lass."
Nell reached down, smoothed her daughter's blanket. "It was not our first
quarrel. Were he not a Prince of the Church, I'd have had him ejected from the
castle. You see, when Joanna . . . when Joanna was stricken, I sent for the
doctors of Saint Jacques Hospital, but they could do nothing for her. I
remembered that when Guy had been afflicted with the same cough, we'd boiled
water, made a tent of blankets and let him breathe in the hot vapors. We tried
that, too, with Joanna, but she steadily worsened. I'd heard that there was a
Jew in the town, a man skilled in the healing arts, so I ... I sent for him,
which did outrage *e Archbishop mightily."
Seeing that she had shocked her husband, too, Nell said defen-
^y, "I know the Church forbids Christians to seek out Jews for heal-
?& but in truth, I did not care! I would even have turned to an infidel
acer> doctor, had I thought he could save Joanna. But she died . . . died
ere we could find him."
"fir hand had clenched upon the edge of the coffin, whitened to
262
the bone, and Simon quickly covered it with his own. "I ought to have been
there for her, for you."
"For your sake, I am glad you were not. It was dreadful, Simon She . . . she
suffered so. I thought sure each coughing spasm would be her last. She could
not breathe, kept crying, 'Mama, Mama . . .' " Ney had begun to tremble, but
she had no more tears to shed. "I could cj0 nothing for her. She was my child
and I could do nothing for her . . /
Simon pulled her into his arms, into a despairing embrace so tight that she
gave an involuntary gasp. The chapel door was pushed ajar they were being
watched by their sons Guy and Amaury. Amaury, who was just five, whimpered,
and Guy put his arm around his brother's shoulders. But neither boy dared to
venture into the chapel, for they had never seen their father weep before.
20
Bordeaux, Gascony
April 1252
IN ELL was dictating a letter to her scribe when Simon returned to Ombriere.
She had not seen her husband for a fortnight, as he'd been refortifying the
castle at Cuzbac, and the letter was forgotten. It was not until several hours
later that Simon happened to notice it lying upon the table in their
bedchamber. "What is this, Nell?"
"I was writing to Bishop Robert. Shall I delay dispatching it until you have
had a chance to add your own greetings?" she suggested, and Simon nodded.
"I do not want to repeat our news. What have you told him so wr' "About the
latest troubles with Henry. I told him that when we returned to England at
Christmas, you offered again to resign y° command, asking only that Henry
reimburse you for your expenses/ but Henry refused to pay, in clear violation
of your agreement!" Tnr months later, echoes of indignation still colored
Nell's voice. "I to Bishop Robert that even Henry's Queen was disquieted by
his dupl'0''
263
And then I explained how, whilst we were still at York, Henry received more
complaints from those Gascon renegades, and he decided to send Henry de
Wingham and Rocehn de Fos to Gascony How very like Henry that, after you
succeeded in quelling the rebellion for him, he should then reward you by
appointing a commission of inquiry into your conduct'" Nell drew a calming
breath, it didn't help "Lastly, I told Bishop Robert that Henry's
commissioners concluded that you had indeed treated some of the Gascon lords
harshly, but no more than they deserved, and I expressed the hope that Henry
would now cease his witless meddling "
"That hope," Simon said caustically, "is a broken straw Any man who long
serves Henry comes to understand exactly how Sisyphus must have felt "
Anticipating her query, he added, "Sisyphus was a King of Corinth who
displeased a pagan god of the Greeks According to the legend, he was condemned
to pass all eternity laboring to roll a huge boulder up a steep hill, only to
have it roll down again as soon as he'd reached the summit"
"A man may be God's anointed and yet an idiot, too, my brother is living proof
of that But let's speak no more of Henry, beloved Come, sit beside me on the
settle, for I have news for you, news that not even Henry's foolishness can
tarnish " Taking Simon's hand, she said, "I am with child again "
Nell was right, her news drove all thoughts of Henry from Simon's head "This
is the seventh time you've told me that, and each time it is like the first We
have in truth been blessed, Nell When is the babe due'"
"October Now he back, Simon, and rest, whilst I tell you all the London
gossip, culled from Elen's latest letter " He did as she bade, pillowing his
head in her lap, and she told him that Richard had received a pair ot water
buffalo for his menagerie, much to Henry's envy, for such creatures had never
before been seen in England, that their de Lusignan half-brother William had
poached deer from the Bishop of Ely's private park, and then forced his way
into the Bishop's Hatfield manor, where he and his men plundered the Bishop's
wine cellar, and that a two-year-old child in a Kent village had shown powers
to heal 'he sick Simon listened in silence, only the flicker of his lashes
assuring her he did not sleep His eyes snapped open, however, when she
murmured, "And then, of course, there is the scandal about Henry's Queen, , °w
tnat her love affair with Llewelyn of Wales has become common knowledge "
^hat?" Simon relaxed again, lay back in her lap "You caught me ' he confessed
"I was not listening But I was thinking of you and
Dabe Do you rpmpmbpr. Npll. what I vnwpd nn niir wprfdine ni^ht?
^ati
be Do you remember, Nell, what I vowed on our wedding night7 would keep you
close, that I would keep you content, and that
264
I would keep you safe. Well, seven children in fourteen years is proof that
I've kept you very close, indeed, and I think I've managed to content youmost
of the time. But there has been precious little peace in our marriage. Too
often you've found yourself torn between husband and brother, too often found
yourself my hostage to Henry's enmity, and neither of us expected that on the
day we exchanged vows. In truth, Nell ... no regrets?"
A flippancy was already forming on Nell's tongue, but it was so unlike Simon
to ask such a question, even in jest, that she heard herself saying, instead,
"No, Simon. No regrets at all."
He reached for her hand, held it against his cheek. They'd had more than their
share of quarrels in recent months, reflecting the strain of Simon's
increasingly precarious position, and this moment of quiet and utter intimacy
was both a healing and an affirmation. They remained together on the settle,
not moving even as the chamber began to fill with shadows. And then the
message came from the King.
Simon was forewarned by the very first words, for Henry had dispensed with the
stock phrases of friendship, the conventional courtesies. The letter was
addressed not to "The King's faithful and well-beloved brother-in-law," but
simply to "The Earl of Leicester." Moving toward the last burning candle,
Simon began to read. Watching from the settle, Nell saw the blood drain from
his face. "Simon? Jesii, you look What is wrong?"
"Henry has summoned me back to England. I am to appear before his royal court,
to defend myself against the charges made by the Gascon lords."
"Mother of God . . ."To Nell, there was an appalling familiarity about this
moment. It was as if she were reliving that ghastly August day twelve years
ago, when Henry had suddenly turned upon Simon, shamed them both before his
court, and banished Simon from England. "Simon . . . Simon, what shall you
do?"
Simon swung around. "What do you think I'll do? I shall return to England,
confront those who've slandered me. If they have accusations to make, then by
God, let them make them to my face!"
UPON their arrival in London, Simon and Nell were heartened by how rapidly
their friends rallied to their support. The Bishop of Durham offered them the
use of his riverside manor, and when their barge headed downriver toward the
Tower, where Henry was currently in residence/ they were accompanied by Walter
de Cantilupe, Bishop of Worcester/ Peter de Montfort, and Rob and Elen de
Quincy. Elen was surprised by how often people along the bankside, recognizing
Simon's Silver U" '
265
raised a cheer. Nell, needing the distraction, was more than willing to
enlighten her.
"Several years ago," she explained, "Henry enraged the citizens by granting a
fair to the abbey of Westminster and then ordering the townsmen to close all
city shops whilst the fair was in progress. Their discontent festered and two
springs ago became outright defiance. Luckily, Simon was then in London, and
he and Richard interceded with Henry on the city's behalf. Londoners do not
forget a wrong done them. Nor do they forget their friends."
Elen followed Nell's gaze, toward the stern of the barge where Simon was
listening to the Bishop of Worcester. Lowering her voice, she touched Nell's
bejeweled fingers with her own. "Nell . . . how are you and Simon bearing up?
Is there naught I can do?"
"You're here; that counts for much." Nell's eyes were still probing her
husband's face. "Simon is lucky," she said softly, "for he has his anger to
sustain him. My anger burns brightly by day, but night quenches its flames,
and my fears . . . they are legion, Elen. I fear for my children's future. I
fear that Simon will not be able to hold his temper in check. I fear the
King's disfavor. And I fear that the day might well come when I will learn to
hate my own brother."
Henry refused Simon's request for a private audience, and when Simon and Nell
were ushered into the Blundeville Tower, they found Henry's chamber packed
with hostile eye-witnesses. Henry was seated in a heavy oaken chair, fashioned
like a throne, and beside him stood Geraud de Malemort, the Archbishop of
Bordeaux, and the Viscounts of Fronsac and Castillon.
Simon strode forward, knelt before the King. "These men have spoken against
me, and they have lied, my liege. I demand the right to defend myself against
their slander. I demand the right to be heard."
"You shall be heard, my lord of Leicester," Henry said coldly. "The trial
begins at Ascensiontide, the ninth of May, in the refectory of the abbey at
Westminster."
Simon looked at Henry, then at the Gascon lords, and his temper flamed, even
as Nell's hand tightened upon his arm. "How is it that you are so eager to
give credence to traitors? You know I have served y°u faithfully; no man dares
say otherwise. So why, then, does my word c°unt for less with you?"
Henry's head came up. "If your innocence is so evident, my lord,
hy fear an inquiry? Indeed, your fame should shine all the brighter tor it."
And after that, there was nothing more to say.
S*J
266
"MY liege, my lords, I am Gaillard del Soler, son of the one-time Seneschal
and Mayor of Bordeaux, Rostand del Soler, may God assoil him I am here not to
speak in my own behalf, but of the wrongs done n\y father. He was forcibly
seized by the Earl of Leicester's men, cast into prison despite his age and
ill health, and held there until his death, fyty father did not deserve such a
fate, for he was a good Christian, a loyal subject, a man respected by all. It
is too late for him, but you can do justice to his memory. You can censure the
man who treated him so harshly and unfairly, and I earnestly entreat you to
judge the Earl of Leicester as he deserves."
"Thank you, Messaire del Soler." Henry shifted in his seat, looked
challengingly at Simon. "My lord of Leicester, do you wish to respond
to these accusations?"
"Yes, Your Grace, I do." Simon rose, moved toward the dais. "To hear Messaire
del Soler tell it, I seized his father at random, on a mere whim. A most
affecting tale, but he has omitted a few significant facts. Rostand del Soler
was taken as a hostage in consequence of the bloody rioting that broke out in
Bordeaux in June of 1249. Men died in that rioting, including the city's Mayor
and three of my own household knights, because the del Solers refused my order
to disperse. But far from being treated harshly, Rostand del Soler was lodged
in the royal castles of Ombriere and Roquer, where he was permitted servants
to tend to all his needs. Does Messaire del Soler dare to deny that? Need I
summon witnesses to confirm this?"
Gaillard del Soler gave Simon a look of naked hatred. "My father died at
Roquer Castle! Dare you deny that?"
"No. Rostand del Soler did indeed die in my custody. Shall I tell the court
why? When your father fell ill, he asked me if you could take his place. I was
agreeable to this." Simon paused; he had an instinctive sense of timing. "But
you were not willing," he said, "were you?" And when Gaillard del Soler did
not answer, Simon glanced back at Henry. "I think," he said, "that I have
responded to the accusations."
"i am Raimond de Fronsac, here under safe-conduct of the English KingI do have
numerous grievances against the Earl of Leicester, as do my neighbors, the
Viscounts of Gramont and Soule. He seized my castle of Fronsac, holds it to
this day. He laid siege to Raimond Brun's castle at Gramont, then cast the
Viscount into prison without benefit of trial. He also imprisoned the Viscount
of Soule, and last summer he did capW6 the Viscount of Castillon's stronghold,
whilst detaining the Viscount f°r ransom, and the castle still remains in his
hands. He destroyed o& vineyards, our main source of income. He paid no heed
to our cofl>
T
267
plaints, treated us as if we were peasants, men of low birth. And all of jj,js
I am willing to swear upon the most sacred of holy relics."
"i am Sir Peter de Montfort of Beaudesert in Warwickshire, liegeman to the
Earl of Warwick. It was my privilege to serve in Gascony for the past three
years with my lord of Leicester. I am a witness, therefore, to those events
described by the Viscount of Fronsac. Earl Simon did indeed seize the
Viscount's castle; the man was in rebellion at the time! The Viscount of Soule
was imprisoned after he refused to appear before the Seneschal's court. The
Viscount of Castillon was no less of a rebel, no less of a traitor. These men
claim their income is derived from their vineyards, but that is a lie. They
are, in truth, brigands, who prey upon passers-by and pilgrims."
There was an angry murmur from the Gascons, but Peter ignored them. "The
Viscount of Fronsac is a brigand," he repeated, "and his past is a bloody one.
He ravaged the region of Labour, sacked the town of Blaye, gave shelter to
Gaillard del Soler and his brother Pierre, who were then fugitives from royal
justice, having fled Bordeaux after the rioting."
"Fugitives from Leicester's justice!" Gaillard del Soler interrupted hotly,
and Peter snapped,
"The Earl of Leicester was the King's Seneschal, his regent in Gascony,
appointed to act in the King's stead. What he did, he did in the King's name,
on the King's behalf."
"Then why," Pierre de Castillon jeered, "was he summoned to defend himself
before the King's court?"
Peter turned, looked directly at the King. "Why, indeed?"
"i am Pierre de Lignan, Abbot of the Benedictine Abbey of Sainte-Croix in
Bordeaux. I would tell you this, my lord King. The Earl of Leicester has
caused needless suffering in my city. He unfairly favored the Coloms over the
del Solers, raising serious doubts about his neutrality. After he demanded
hostages from the del Solers, he destroyed Rostand del Sows house, in
violation of city statutes, and when challenged, he disregarded our
complaints, saying that the King had instructed him to Put down a rebellion
and by God, that was what he meant to do. I ask y°u> do not send him back to
Gascony."
*°UR Grace, I am Amanieu Colom, Mayor of Bordeaux. I have been "fining with a
troubled heart these weeks past, as the Earl of Leicester
268
has been defamed by men unworthy to stand in his shadow. The testimony of the
del Solers is tainted, my lords. There has long been bad blood betwixt our
families, and they resent my lord of Leicester for not giving them a free hand
in the city. They do not speak for Bordeaux. I have here a letter from the
commune. May I read a portion aloud? 'The Earl of Leicester has governed with
patient strenuousness, with prudent circumspection, with just moderation, with
persevering clemency, assisting loyal subjects and punishing rebels, without
danger to any or profuse expenditures.' That, my lords, is the verdict of the
Bordelais."
"SINCE my lord Gaston, Viscount of B6arn, could not be present before the
court, I am authorized to speak for him. The Earl of Leicester has treated the
Viscount of Beam with unrelenting hostility, and it is our belief that this
hostility is of a personal nature. The County of Bigorre is claimed by
Gaston's wife, Mathe, and by Esquivat de Chabanais, who happens to be de
Montfort's kinsman. We suspect, therefore, that"
"That is a damnable lie!" Simon was on his feet. "When the Countess of Bigorre
died last year, she bequeathed her lands to her grandson, Esquivat. Whilst I
agreed with her choice, that did not affect my dealings with Gaston."
The Archbishop of Bordeaux smiled, not pleasantly. "Naturally you would say
that, my lord."
"When men want to throw hounds off a scent, they drag a herring across the
trail. That, my lord Archbishop, is precisely what you seek to do here today.
By impugning my motives, you hope to distract the court, to turn attention
away from the man who ought to be on trial, Gaston de B6arn. The man who
plundered the town of Dax. The man who shamelessly intrigued with the King of
Navarre. The man who disavowed allegiance to England, to the King who then
pardoned him!"
Henry jerked upright in his chair. "I had my reasons for pardoning him!"
Simon moved forward. "Tell us then, my liege. Tell us what they were. I
daresay every man here waits with bated breath for your revelation."
"I am not answerable to you, de Montfort! I am not answerable to any man!"
In the silence that followed, Henry sensed that he had somehow erred, somehow
played into Simon's hands. His barons were exchangu* glances; their
disapproval was a palpable thing, a sudden presence the court. Simon said, "As
you say, my liege," returned to his seat.
5*S
269
"iff name is Bertrand Lambert, my lords. I am a citizen of Bordeaux, where I
have an apothecary shop, close by the Hospital Saint-Jean. I am here to speak
on behalf of the Earl of Leicester. Ere he came to Gascony, the land was in
turmoil. Men were loath to travel the King's roads, for the lords of Fronsac
and Gramont set up barriers, charged unlawful tolls. They gave shelter to
outlaws and felons, and turned them loose upon the countryside to rape and
pillage. They refused to pay merchants fair prices for their goods. They put
men in fear for their lives, for their women. And then the Earl of Leicester
came, and it all changed. My lords, think you that the Gascon people care that
the Viscount of Gramont was cast into prison without a trial? We cheered when
my lord of Leicester ordered these brigands hanged. Would that one dangled
from every tree in Gascony!"
"WE, the deputies of Bayonne, do humbly urge Your Grace not to send the Earl
back to Gascony. We do not grieve for the rebel lords he imprisoned; they well
deserved it. But the Earl confuses dissent with disloyalty, ignores legitimate
complaints, and treats our land like a conquered province. Our citizens long
for peace, and the Earl by his very presence stirs up controversy, even
amongst men of good will. His task is done, Your Grace. We beseech you to heed
our pleas, to banish the Earl from Gascony."
"MY lord of Leicester, do you wish to address the court?"
"I do, Your Grace. Gascony has long been a thorn in the English Crown. Its
lords are known to be the most faithless in Christendom, men who barter their
honor like whores. Three Seneschals in succession had failed to restore order
to the duchy. At the King's urgings, I undertook to crush the rebellion. I
have listened as men complained that I was too harsh, too unyielding, and
indeed, I make no apology for it. I know no other way to fight a war. Granted,
I was not always scrupulous 'bout observing legal formalities. But as I see
it, men who defy the law do put themselves beyond the law. If I have given
citizens reason to doubt my good intentions, I do regret it. Ask me not to
shed tears, *ough, for rebel lords like the Viscount of Gramont, or those who
alhed themselves with him, like the del Solers. They well deserved any S^f
they got, and if there was justice, Gaston de Beam would be rotting no* in
Hell."
For a moment, Simon's eyes swept the chamber, coming at last to
j ^r/s face. "I sought to serve my King, to protect the powerless, and
^ willing to submit myself to the judgment of my peers, to the
270
T
judgment of the Almighty. I do not doubt that I shall be fully vindicated
indeed am ready to try my innocence upon the field, in trial by combat' if my
accusers be willing." He paused. "I see they are not. Well, then let my
actions speak for themselves. I acted in good faith, and no man can do more
than that."
"MY lord of Cornwall, you have something to say?"
"Yes, my liege, I do." Richard rose to his feet. "For five weeks now we have
been listening to testimony, weighing evidence. I think it is time we reached
a decision. I know I have heard enough. What say you my lords?"
Henry was caught off balance, none too happy at having the initiative taken
away from him like this. But his lords were already murmuring their assent,
looking to Richard.
"It is my opinion," Richard said slowly, "that the Earl of Leicester deserves
no censure. I think he has proved beyond question that he was but following
the King's orders."
Henry sucked in his breath. That Richard could so betray him like this! Did
the loss of Gascony mean so much to him, that he'd side with de Montfort
against his own brother, against his King?
The Bishop of Worcester swiftly followed Richard's example, proclaiming
Simon's innocence in ringing tones. That was no more than Henry would have
expected, for he knew the Bishop was an intimate of Simon's. He seethed, but
felt no surprise when the Earl of Hereford now declared for Simon; Hereford's
eldest son was Humphrey de Bohun, another of Simon's friends. But the Earl of
Gloucester was getting to his feet, and Henry's confidence began to return,
for he knew Gloucester had no liking for Simon. He was stunned, therefore,
when Gloucester said,
"My liege, I can find no fault in the Earl of Leicester's conduct. As I see
it, you sent the Earl to Gascony to quell a rebellion, and he did just that."
Henry often had dreams of betrayal. Now he found himself unable to awaken from
one, as his barons and Bishops continued to speak out in Simon's favor. Roger
de Quincy, Earl of Winchester. Roger Bigod. Earl of Norfolk. Walter Kirkham,
Bishop of Durham. Men he'd trusted But his wife's uncle, Peter de Savoy, Earl
of Richmond, had yet to be heard. Peter was known to be an eloquent orator,
and Henry clung the last tendrils of hope as he rose; mayhap Peter could still
sway t"e ' make them see Simon as he truly was, stripped of his aura of
invincuw-, and righteousness. ds
"My lords, I am not surprised we are in full agreement, for the
271
nermit no other conclusion I can but echo the findings of Your Grace's ovvn
commission of inquiry, the one you chose to disregard, that the Earl of
Leicester did treat certain lords quite severely, but no more than tney
deserved "
After that, Henry ceased to listen Never had he felt so alone A Deliberate
affront, he had no doubt of that His lords were making use Of de Montfort to
diminish the powers of the Crown Well, they'd not get away with it He could
still override them all, impose his own will upon them, as his father would
have done He raised his hand for silence But as he gazed out upon a sea of
expectant faces, his resolve wavered "I have heard your judgment ," he began,
and then his courage failed him He simply could not summon up the fortitude to
defy them all, de Montfort, his own council, the Church, his barons "It would
appear," he faltered, "that the Earl of Leicester has proven his innocence to
the satisfaction of this court," and as he slumped back in his seat, he knew
that he'd carry to his grave the bitter memory of Simon's triumphant smile
SIMON and Nell had celebrated into the early hours of the morning, and as they
entered the abbey refectory the next day they looked fared, but content Henry
did not appear to have gotten much sleep, either His blue eyes were puffy, and
a tiny muscle was twitching in his cheek, an infallible sign of stress
"My lord King " Simon approached the dais "Whilst I am, of course, gratified
by the judgment of your court, I think it might be best if I now renounced my
command I am willing to resign this day, provided that I am indemnified for
the heavy expenses I incurred in the governance of Gascony If, however, you
wish that I continue as Seneschal, I am willing to serve out the three
remaining years of my term "
"Are you willing, indeed7 Most magnanimous, my lord Earl As it happens,
however, I choose to reject both of your offers I have no Mention of paying
your debts Nor do I wish you to return to Gascony "
The last of Henry's speech was almost drowned out in the sudden uproar that
swept the court Men were all talking at once, in rising tones ° astonishment
and indignation, and Henry had to struggle to make """self heard
Silence, whilst your King speaks1 Last night I did give much thought
,   ^e problem posed by Gascony, and I have reached a decision It has
8 been my intent to give that realm to my firstborn son, Edward In
^ss than a fortnight, Edward shall be thirteen On that day, I mean to
n est him with the duchy Furthermore, a truce is to be declared, from
Until Candlemas, at which fame I hope to go myself to that troubled
272
land. The Earl of Leicester is not to resume his former authority; I su send a
bailiff to take control of the government. I hereby order the R i of Leicester
to release those Gascon lords he is holding as hostages H is also to surrender
the castles of Fronsac, Castillon, and Sault de M vailles, and as I have
issued an order for the release of the Viscount Gramont, that lord's castle is
to be turned over to Pierre de Bordea forthwith. Then"
"Pierre de Bordeaux is Gramont's cousin!" Simon's disbelief ex ploded into
outrage. "You're telling me I must allow those castles t become outlaw
strongholds again? For what purpose, then, did I spend four wretched years in
Gascony? For what purpose did I endure this trial at Westminster? To have you
annul the court's verdict at your whim?"
On a nearby table lay the court exhibits, the documents and sworn affidavits
that had been presented in the course of the trial. Reaching for a charter
bearing the King's seal, Simon thrust it toward Henry "This is the covenant we
made four years ago. It clearly states that I am to be given full authority to
govern Gascony, and that you are to assume responsibility for my expenses. I
demand, my liege, that you keep faith with me, with this charter. You owe me,
and well you know it, for 1 have impoverished my earldom for the sake of your
honor. You gave me your sworn word! Are you now saying that the King of
England's word is worthless?"
Henry grabbed the parchment, crumpled it in his fist, and flung it to the
floor at Simon's feet. "I'll not keep these promises! I'll not keep any
promises to a traitor!"
The court erupted in pandemonium. In two strides, Simon was up on the dais,
and Henry jumped to his feet in alarm. "That is an accursed lie," Simon said,
slurring the words in his rush to get them said, "u you were not shielded
behind the dignity of the Crown, this would have been an evil hour for you!
Had any other man dared to call me traitor, he'd have paid for that insult
with his life."
"You dare" Henry looked around wildly for the captain of his guards. "I want
this man taken to the Tower, want him" ,
"No, Henry, you do not!" Few had seen Richard move with su ^ speed; in the
blink of an eye, he was on the dais, too, between the men. "For the love of
Christ, brother, think wbiat you do!" 1°** ^ his voice, he ignored Henry's
attempt to shake off his restraining "Look around you, Henry. Do you think
these men are goingto
this
very
you to arrest de Montfort? Yesterday he was exonerated in ttl .^ court, by
your own council, by the most powerful lords of y°u ^ ^ by the prelates of the
Roman Catholic Church. And yet today y ^ him a traitor, proclaim your promises
have no value, and wan
273
jjnprisoned1 What do you seek to do, provoke a rebellion here and w? Do you
not know what can befall a king abandoned by his own
.    r\ll
Other voices were being raised now The Bishop of Worcester and ter de Savoy
had begun to echo Richard's arguments, and John Manappearing as if from
nowhere, hissed urgently, "Sire, you cannot
do this1"
Henry pulled free from Richard's grasp His eyes darted from face
to face, seeking support, finding only hostility "Get away from me, all
f you1" he cried "You are luckier than you deserve, de Montfort Never
have I regretted any deed so much as I regret that I ever permitted you
to make England your home, to possess lands and honors here "
"At last," Simon said, "you do speak the truth I've long known that you wished
me ill I suspect that the whole purpose of this trial was to enable you to
declare me a traitor, thus allowing you to bestow my estates upon your de
Lusignan half-brothers'"
Henry gasped, for he had indeed considered the possibility of confiscating
Simon's lands But he had discussed it only with Eleanor and Richard, and so
negative had their responses been that he'd never gone beyond wistful
conjecture Now he whirled, gave Richard a look of enraged reproach, and Simon
said scornfully, "No one needed to tell me I know you "
Henry had not inherited the notorious Plantagenet temper, the savage fury that
spawned a legend, that these Angevin Kings did claim descent from the Devil
Henry's rages were less spectacular, less irratonal, more ineffectual Now,
however, he felt such hatred that he feared he might choke on it "Go to
Gascony, then1" he shouted "If TOU crave war so much, seek it out' Go and be
damned'"
'I will indeed go to Gascony, and I shall not return untilungrateful *ough you
areI have subdued your enemies, flung them at your ^ With that, Simon turned
his back upon his King, stalked from the lamber
Nell followed in haste, caught up with him some moments later,
ne m tne Chapter House Another of Henry's projects, it was nearly
> P'eted, and ablaze with summer sunlight, for Henry's stained-glass
had yet to be installed in the soaring windows Simon was stand-
iJ    e ^ctern, and when she reached him, she found that he was
Ambling with rage
o J"1011' do not do this," she pleaded "Do not let him goad you
8 back "
Dtj | at w°uld you have me do, Nell, just walk away7 What of the
hjtg a e ^°u well know what it cost me to garrison those castles,
n-at-arrns Would you have me beggar myself on Henry's
274
account?" Adding ominously, "And I do have some scores to settle in
Gascony."
Nell knew it was futile to argue further, but she would have pet. sisted,
nonetheless. Just then, however, their son Harry appeared ir,
the doorway.
"Papa . . ." He came forward hesitantly, keeping his eyes imploringly on
Simon. "Papa, take me. Take me with you when you go back
to Gascony."
Simon looked at the boy, and then nodded. "All right," he said and Harry let
out a jubilant yell, which echoed eerily in the vast, empty
chamber.
Nell bit back a cry of her own, one of protest. In just five months
Harry would be fourteen; it was time he began his schooling as a squire.
Nor could he have a better teacher than his father. But it would be hard
to let him go. It would be hard to let them both go, for she and Simon
had decided that if he returned to Gascony, she would wait out her
pregnancy at Sutton, her manor in Kent. Now, faced with the prospect
of losing both her husband and son, thinking of the lonely nights she
faced, thinking of the uncertainty, the fears for Simon's safety, she could
not blink back the tears, hot, angry tears that streaked her face and
startled her husband and son, for she was not a woman who easily
wept.
Simon's "Nell?" and Harry's "Mama?" echoing in her ears, she shook her head
impatiently, backed away from them. "Damn Henry!" she cried. "Damn him to
everlasting Hell!"
HARRY was delighted when Simon summoned him to La Reole. Harry had fretted all
summer long, watching his father's war from the safety of Bordeaux. But La
Reole's castle had been repeatedly besieged by the rebels, and Harry was
hopeful that it might come under attack again. Since his arrival, he'd passed
many happy hours prowling the battlements of the round towers, peering down at
the River Garonne and envisioning himself the hero of an enemy assault. But on
this rainy afternoon in early September, the weather confined him to the keeP'
and once his chores were done, he wandered about restlessly, until found Peter
de Montfort in his father's bedchamber. ,
- -i j .. ,Qmomv,pr a time when Peter had not been a P3^
.- twrenf*
found Peter de Montfort in his fathers Deauumurci.
Harry could not remember a time when Peter had not been a P^ of his father's
life, for their friendship stretched back more than twe ^ years, to the time
of Simon's arrival in England, a young knig twenty-two, ambitious and
impoverished. Harry liked Peter vje f.   ^
-     - -^, ,,, ,,; father shouid have t*^.^
of his father's life, for years, to the time of
yeaia, iu u._ v _^
twenty-two, ambitious and impoverished. Harry liked rerci .. .^ but he'd
wondered sometimes why his father should have be ^ a man who seemed to be his
utter opposite in all particulars, c
275
cglf-contained, easily overlooked. Or so Harry had thoughtuntil that jyfey
morning in the refectory at Westminster, when Peter dared defy the King. After
that, Harry had decided there must be truth to the old adage/ the one about
still waters running deep.
"We heard many stories in Bordeaux of Papa's campaign, but you were there,
Uncle Peter. Tell me what it was like. Tell me about the ambush gone wrong and
the siege of Montauban."
Peter was sharpening his sword on a whet-stone, slowly and deliberately, as he
did all things. "Fetch me that rag, lad. Well . . . the ambush. Now, that was
a day. Your father had set a trap for the Gascon rebels, but they got wind of
it, and attacked the men lying in ambush. Several of Simon's men were
captured, including Baldwin de Grey, the knight in command. I'm sure you know
him; he's been long in Simon's service. One of the men managed to escape,
reached Simon with word of the ambush. Simon was less than two miles away, and
he at once set out in pursuit. We were hard put to keep pace with him, in
truth! He struck the Gascon rebels like a lightning bolt, lad, scattering them
in all directions, and slashing the ropes of his captured men, he set them
free."
Peter glanced up, smiled into the boy's star-filled eyes. "It was a sight to
see, Harry. But then the Gascons rallied, and cut Simon off from the rest of
his men. They'd recognized him, you see, knew that his capture or death would
win their war, and Simon found himself overwhelmed by numbers. He kept them at
bay for a time, but then they killed his stallion. He was in grave danger,
lad. But Baldwin and the men he'd freed flung themselves into the fray, held
the Gascons off until Simon could mount another horse." "And then?"
"Why, Simon won the battle, of course," Peter said. "A bloody battle it was,
too, lasting half a day, but the victory was ours, and amongst the prisoners
taken, one was a del Soler."
"What of Montauban? Is it true that Papa was nearly captured?"
'Indeed. Montauban is a formidable castle, but when we reached
''' we discovered that it was poorly garrisoned, its larders nearly empty.
e rebels, learning of Simon's presence, laid siege to the castle, and it
|°ok grim for a time. We had to yield some of the prisoners we'd taken
tor, much to Simon's dismay. But the devotion of his soldiers saved
(oil save<^ us all- Men are right willing to fight for Simon, lad, will
w him even unto the far reaches of the netherworld, and thev"
turn even unto the far reaches of the netherworld, and they"
I^ood God, Peter, what sort of nonsense are you filling the lad's with?"
,      Ux>d God, Peter, what sort of nonsense are you filling the lad's
eaa WitV.7"
PJB        'e Pgter was telling me about your triumph at Montauban, v*> about "
276
T
"Triumph? We did escape with our skins, by the grace of the AI mighty. Heaven
spare me too many more triumphs like that," Simo said dryly, but when Peter
laughed, not taken in by Simon's protests tions, Simon laughed, too.
"The rain has let up, Harry. Come out to the bailey, and I'll my you another
lesson in swordplay," Simon suggested, and laughed again for Harry had jumped
to his feet so eagerly that he almost fell over Peter's whet-stone. But as
they emerged from the stairwell, the King's messengers were being escorted up
into the keep.
Simon knew the first one, Rocelin de Fos, Master of the Templars The other man
identified himself as Nicholas de Meuilles. They both showed the edginess of
men bearing unwelcome news, but Simon expected nothing else from Henry, and he
was not surprised to be told that Henry was insisting he honor the truce with
the Gascon rebels. He heard them out, then shook his head.
"Quite impossible. Were the Gascons honoring the truce when they besieged me
at Montauban? I just succeeded in raising the enemy siege here at La R6ole,
and the rebels are still in the field. Not even Henry can expect me to lay
down my arms in the midst of a war."
The men exchanged troubled glances. "The King thought you might say that, my
lord. He therefore instructed us, should you refuse, to inform you that you
are relieved of your command."
Harry gave a stifled cry, jammed his knuckles against his mouth. Simon's men
gathered around him, closing ranks against the enemy. Simon alone seemed
unperturbed. "Under the terms of our agreement," he said coolly, "the King
does not have the authority to dismiss me. I'd never have accepted this
command if I had to serve at the King's pleasure."
Nicholas de Meuilles sighed, reached into his tunic and drew out a parchment
scroll. "You say he cannot dismiss you, my lord, but he says he can, and he
has. Here, see for yourself. These are letters patent, bearing the King's own
seal."
Simon reached for the scroll, scanned it rapidly. "This changes nothing. The
King cannot dismiss me, and I do not choose to resign. Crossing to the hearth,
he thrust the letter into the flames, then turned back to face the astounded
messengers. "Tell the King," he said, "*at if he wants my resignation, he'd
best make it worth my while."
MUCH to Harry's excitement, Simon agreed to take the boy along * * he laid
siege to Guilhem Seguin's castle at Rions. Their assault o ^ confirmed Harry's
conviction that war was great fun, for the Gascu
277
had put up feeble resistance, and Simon was soon master of Seguin's
stronghold.
When the messenger galloped into Simon's encampment, Harry followed him into
the castle keep, for his mother's time was nigh, and any day now they might
get word from England. He found Simon by the hearth, an open letter in his
hand, and his step quickened.
"Papa? Is the letter from Mama? Has the babe been born?"
"No, lad, the letter is from your uncle Richard. He writes to tell me that
when parliament assembled, the King sought in vain to rouse the lords against
me. Richard reports that Henry now realizes he has no choice but to buy back
my command. He offers seven thousand marks, and agrees to pay the debts I
incurred in his service."
Seven thousand marks sounded like a lot of money to Harry. "Will you accept,
Papa?"
"Yes," Simon said. "Right gladly."
He did not look glad to Harry, though. "Papa, what will you do then?"
"We shall withdraw into France, you and I. And once your mother has the babe,
she and your brothers will join us there."
Harry had never lived in France; England was the only home he'd ever known.
"Papa . . . will we be going back to England?"
"No, Harry," Simon said. "We will not be going back."
21
Paris, France
Octoler 1253
H(
"C
I^IMON, think what you do! Do you not re^e what a great honor has been
bestowed upon you? Accept the French ^tter, be their Seneschal. It would mean
that, until the French King's tarn from crusade, you'd be the virtual Regent
of France!"
I know that, Nell." Simon's patience was fraying fast. "But I cannot , cept.
I've pledged my allegiance to the English King. How, then, could ^e the King
of France? It would not be honorable."
278
Nell slammed her hairbrush down upon the table. "This is strange talk, indeed,
from a man who swore he'd never again set foot in En gland!"
"That was said in anger. Like it or not, Nell, our future lies in England,
lies with our lands."
"I am not saying we should abandon our estates. You know me better than that!
But I do not understand why the Earl of Leicester cannot also be Seneschal of
France. I do not understand why you must sacrifice so much for your pride,
why"
"Enough! It was my decision to make, not yours, and it is done Now let that be
an end to it!"
"I know I cannot expect to change your mind, for your stubbornness would put a
mule to shame. But at the very least, you can hear me out!"
"When do I not hear you out? If there's a way to silence you, short of
stuffing a gag in your mouth, I've yet to discover it. But this argument is
senseless, for you ought to welcome my decision. Henry is your brother, not
mine!"
"Damn you, my loyalties are yours and yours alone!"
Simon's anger vanished, as if by alchemist's magic. "That is the most hostile
declaration of love I've ever gotten," he said, with a grin, and as he studied
his indignant wife, honey-colored hair cascading about her shoulders, blue
eyes aglitter, cheeks flushed, he was suddenly conscious of how desirable she
looked. His eyes followed the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, moved up to
her face, and saw that she was well aware of the erotic turn his thoughts had
taken.
"No," she warned, "not this time. This is one quarrel that's not going to end
in bed!"
"Were you not so fair," he pointed out, "I'd not be so easily distracted. A
pity you were not plain as a hedge-sparrow, for I daresay we'd then have far
more satisfying fights!"
The deliberate lunacy of that logic almost earned him a smilealmost. Although
Nell was amused, she was not yet mollified. When she started to say so, Simon
silenced her with a lingering kiss, one that did not end until she'd entwined
her arms around his neck. But as he drew her toward him, she suddenly pushed
against his chest, shoving him backward onto the bed. Yet even off-balance,
his were the reflexes of a soldier, and as he fell, he grabbed her wrist,
pulling her down on top of him,
"Simon!" Nell scowled at her husband. "Jesu, you're as quick as fox," she
complained, "and just as sly." But she made no attempt free herself, and the
corners of her mouth were curving upward.
Simon kissed that suggestion of a smile, slid his leg between
279
thigh5- "It appears, Madame, that you're my prisoner. Shall we discuss
terms?"
Nell ran her fingers caressingly along his throat, then pricked his skin with
her nails. "No surrender, my lord. I might, however, consider a brief respite,
rather like a Christmas truce, with the understanding that hostilities shall
resume after"
"Lord Simon, an urgent A thousand pardons!" Footsteps echoed a hasty retreat,
a door slammed.
Simon reluctantly swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I dare not bid a
servant to enter," he said, "for you look far too wanton to be
a wife-"
Nell assumed an even more provocative pose, while favoring him with a
mockingly seductive smile. "Fortunately for you," she said, "I am both a
wanton and a wife," and Simon laughed, moved toward the door.
Nell took advantage of his brief absence to strip off her gown, chemise, and
stockings, and when Simon returned, he found her waiting in their bed,
reclining in an artful tangle of sheets and silken blonde hair. But the effort
was wasted; he did not even notice. "Of all the men to be sending me urgent
messages," he said, "for certes Henry ought to be the last one in
Christendom!"
Nell was not as surprised. "Henry," she said caustically, "has ever had a
rotten sense of timing. No, Simon, do not read it... not yet. Whatever he has
to say, it will but sour your mood. Put it aside till later."
Simon could not deny the common sense of that, but still he hesitated. "I
hear," he said, "that since his arrival in Gascony, Henry has been sore beset
on all sides, has had naught but troubles."
"As well he should! Unchristian it may be, but I can find no pity for his
misfortunes; he has earned each and every one. When that wretch Gaston de Beam
rebelled again and allied himself with the King of Castile, it did seem like
divine retribution to me! Now do let that letter be, Simon. Henry can wait. I
cannot." She pressed her point home with some strategic slippage of the covers
and succeeded in luring Simon back to bed.
But curiosity could exert a potent pull of its own, and when Nell noticed that
Simon had brought the letter with him, she gave up the struggle. "You might as
well open it. I absolutely refuse to have you Baking love to me and thinking
of Henry!"
I daresay you'd hold my attention," Simon said, managing to be " wry and
gallant, but he was already breaking Henry's seal. Nell tched his face change
as he read, astonishment and satisfaction and
T
280
amusement and suspicion blurring, one into the other. Looking up, ne said, "It
is a plea for help. Henry wants me to come to his camp aj Benauges, to aid him
in his war against Gaston de Beam." "Simon, be serious! What does Henry truly
want?" "Nell, I am not jesting. Listen for yourself: 'We command and request
you to come to Gascony and discuss matters with us; if you think that it
befits neither our honor nor yours to remain with us, you can withdraw when
you please, without incurring our indignation.' Need I read further?"
"God and all His angels! May I see?"
Simon passed her the letter. "I will never understand the workings of Henry's
brain. Were our positions reversed, I'd have willingly endured the rack ere I
asked him for help!"
"Henry is either an idiot or an utter innocent. I can never make up my mind
which" Nell stopped abruptly, staring at her husband. "Mother of Christ . . .
you're going to agree! You're going to come to his rescue!" It was one of the
few times that Nell had seen Simon look selfconscious. "His need must be
grave, indeed, for him to ask me for help, Nell. But you may be sure that
we'll not lose by this. My services will not come cheaply."
"That is well and good," Nell conceded, "but. . ." She frowned, not knowing
how to articulate her unease, her instinctive sense that it would be better
for Simon to distance himself from her brother the King. "Do you not see?" she
cried. "Henry does not deserve your help!"
"I'd not dispute that, Nell. But I do not do it for Henry. I do it for myself,
because it is what I ought to do."
Nell started to speak, stopped, and looked for a long moment into his eyes.
Then she sighed, entwined her fingers in his. "Whatever am I going to do with
you, Simon?"
He pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand, another into the hollow of her
throat. "I have a suggestion or two," he murmured, and Nell forgot she was
playing a wanton, began to giggle like a little girl. "You are wicked, my
lord," she chided softly, and ducked modestly beneath the sheets. Simon
followed, and when they surfaced for air, amusement had given way to urgency.
Throwing off the covers, they rolled over into the center of the bed, where
she assisted him in removing his clothing, tearing his runic in her haste, a
rip he would later delight in teasing her about. Henry's letter was crushed
beneath their naked bodies, at last fluttered to the floor, where it lay
forgotten amidst the rushes of basil and mint, not to be retrieved till the
morning.
C*E
281
UPON getting word of the Bishop of Lincoln's illness, Nell hastily took hip at
Boulogne. But she was not in time. Bishop Robert died at Buckden palace on the
9th of October.
THE de Quincy manor of Stevington was only a day's ride from Buckden, and
there, at least, Nell's arrival could not have been better timed, for she
found Elen abed and in need of comfort, having almost miscarried on St
Edward's Eve.
Elen's chamber was bright with sun, and Nell resisted, with difficulty, the
urge to slam the shutters upon the light and air so fatal to a sickroom. But
if ever Elen's eccentricities should be indulged, now was the time, for Nell
thought it unlikely that Elen would be able to carry this baby to full term.
That fear was Elen's, too. "This is the second time I've bled, Nell. All my
pregnancies have been difficult, but in less than a fortnight, I'll be
forty-six. If I lose this babe ..."
"Of course you'll not lose this babe! I've known women who birthed healthy
babies until they were nigh on fifty. My own mother was older than you when
her last was born. I want you to promise me you'll not fret. That will do
neither you nor this little lad any good," Nell said, patting Elen's abdomen
and eliciting from Elen the flicker of a smile.
"I am glad you are here, Nell. It is good of Simon to spare you ..."
"I'll stay as long as you have need of me, dearest. I ought to warn you,
though, that my Bran will have your household in constant turmoil!" Elen's
smile was sleepy, and Nell leaned over, kissed the older woman on the
forehead. "Rest now, you and the little one . . ."
Descending the stairs into the hall, Nell took up pen and parchment, began a
letter to Simon, explaining that she and their son would be delaying their
return to France. She wondered if he'd gotten her other letter, the one
informing him of Bishop Robert's death. She hoped not, hoped he had a day or
two yet ere he must grieve. Bishop Robert had been seventy-eight, in ailing
health, and died in God's Grace, but Simon had loved him well. She reached
again for the quill. She'd tell Simon about the bells that the Bishop of
London claimed to have heard on his way to Bishop Robert's deathbed, bells
chiming in a deep wood miles from any church. Mayhap Simon could take comfort
in that.
"Mama!" Bran was gasping for breath, reeled to a stop before her chair.
"Riders are approaching, and they're Welsh, Mama, I could tell ty their
mustaches! Do you think it could be a raid?"
"Of course, darling. What could be more likely than that the Welsh Quid
choose, after six years of peace, to ride hundreds of miles into
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England and attack the Bedfordshire manor of their own kinswoman?" Bran
grinned, unfazed by her sarcasm. "I did not really think so " he admitted,
"but I could always hope ..."
Nell reached out, rumpled his hair. To her amusement, he quick! smoothed it
back into place; at thirteen, he was suddenly showing a interest in his
appearance. Moving to the window, she discovered that for once Bran had not
allowed his imagination to embellish his accuracythe riders entering the
bailey were indeed Welsh. After a moment, she smiled, then glanced back over
her shoulder at her son. "You'd best mind your manners, lad. We are about to
entertain a Prince."
"ELEN shall be so joyful when she awakens, finds you here."
Llewelyn smiled. "We have a saying amongst my people: Eilfam modryb dda; a
good aunt is a second mother. Elen is very dear to me. Since my aunt Gwladys
died, she is all the family I have. Save Davydd and Rhodri, of course."
Despite Nell's reputation for compulsive candor, she was not utterly without
tact, and she made no mention now of Senena, Llewelyn's verymuch-alive mother,
reputed to be residing in Owain's half of Gwynedd. Instead, she looked across
the hall, toward Llewelyn's young brother. Davydd was restlessly swinging a
shutter back and forth, but he came readily when she beckoned.
"Davydd, mayhap you'd like to go out to the garden, join my son and the Lady
Elen's daughters. Hawise and Joanna are just babes, but Anne and my Bran are
near your age, and"
"Madame, I doubt that I'd have much in common with children." Davydd's voice
throbbed with such convincing indignation that it was a moment before Nell
caught the gleam of laughter in his eyes.
"Alas, I have mortally offended you," she murmured, with such mock remorse
that Davydd conceded her the game.
"I would forgive so beautiful a lady right gladly," he declared, mixing callow
gallantry with a genuinely engaging grin, reminding NelJ anew what a mercurial
age fifteen was, so precariously balanced between child and man.
Davydd glanced at his brother. "When we passed through the village, I happened
to notice a girl drawing water from a well. I tnm^ ought to go back and offer
her my help." ,,
"The soul of chivalry," Llewelyn drawled, waving him on. Davy grin widened; he
was gone in a flash. ,,j
"He's a handsome lad, your brother. But I'd wager he's a hand too. How long
has he been back in Wales?" , ^
"Five years. Your brother the King freed Rhodri and Davyd
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vear after Woodstock. And in truth, he is a hellion. But so was I when I was
young."
"And now you're all of what ... a staid twenty-four? An aged twenty-five?"
A sudden shriek floated in from the gardens, sending them both rushing to the
window. Llewelyn smiled at sight of Elen's daughters. Aeed three, eight, and
eleven, they so resembled their mother that it was as if he'd been given a
magical glimpse of a young Elen he'd never known, at varying stages of her
childhood. The girls were gazing up at a huge apple tree; only belatedly did
Llewelyn notice the boy swinging from branch to branch, a good twenty feet
above the ground.
"Bran! Get down ere you break your fool neck!"
Tree-climbing did not seem so great a sin to Llewelyn; he could not help
laughing. "Speaking of hellions ..."
"One I could withstand, but five?" Nell's smile was rueful, and yet perversely
proud, too. "Harry, my firstborn, is not as willful as Bran, but he's just as
reckless. And Guy, God love him, not a day passes that Guy does not get into
trouble of some sort. Whilst my last two changelings ..." Nell stopped, then
laughed. "But I doubt that you're waiting with bated breath for me to
chronicle the woes of motherhood!"
"My lady, you could read from your steward's account book and still hold my
interest. Now ... I believe congratulations are due you, for I seem to
remember Elen mentioning that last year you gave birth to a daughter."
Nell nodded. "A beautiful lass she is, too, if I say it who should not. Simon
wanted to name her Eleanor after me, but I favored Isabella, after my sister.
So we did compromiseupon Eleanor."
"A variation, I believe, of Helen, no? Did you know that's Elen in Welsh?"
Nell nodded again. "That is what we call herEllen. I never could brook Eleanor
and we cannot have two Nells."
"And your lord husband? He is not with you, then?"
"No. Simon is in Gascony ..." Nell paused mischievously, before adding, ". . .
fighting beside my brother the King."
She got the response she wanted; Llewelyn's jaw dropped. "I see at surprises
you. I cannot imagine why, for my husband has a very torgiving nature."
Llewelyn's mouth twitched. "A saint, in truth," he agreed, no less andly. "Not
being a saint myself, I can only guess at this, but I'd wager , must be
enormous satisfaction in being begged for help by a man ho so wronged you."
or a moment, he thought she might take offense, but then she (ned. "Well,
there is that, too," she admitted. "But all jesting aside,
284
when Henry asked my husband for help, Simon willingly gave it, and how many
men would have done so in Simon's place?" They'd resumecj their seats, and
Nell reached over, touched his hand. "So far the talk has been all of my
family. What of yours? Do you have any children of your own yet? No? A wife,
then? Why ever not? I daresay Wales is fmj of girls dazzled by those dark eyes
of yours, but you truly ought to have a wife. I think What? Why do you laugh?"
"Because," Llewelyn confessed, "I cannot decide whether you are flirting with
me or mothering me!"
Nell was taken aback; then she, too, began to laugh. "Both, I suspect! I
suppose I could have a son nearly your age, for I shall be thirtyeight in
December," she said, hers the confident candor of a woman still sure of her
allure. "And I've ever been a flirt, that I cannot deny."
"And your husband, he's not jealous?"
"Regretfully not. Which vexed me when first we wed, I admit. Not that I was
ever so foolish as to try to provoke his jealousy, but I did feel slighted,
nonetheless. Until I realized why. For a woman, there can be no greater sin
than infidelity. To Simon, the very suspicion would be an insult, as if he
believed me capable of such dishonor. And whilst such faith might not be as
much fun as an impassioned fit of jealousy, it is a far greater compliment, do
you not think?"
Llewelyn nodded. "What I think," he said, "is that Simon de Montfort is a most
fortunate man."
"So I keep telling him! But no ... I am the lucky one, Llewelyn, for I have
been blessed with two good marriages, albeit as unlike as chalk and cheese.
With William, it was a ... a refuge, like being nestled before the hearth on a
winter's eve. I was very young when he died, and mayhap that kind of
contentment might have palled in time, but I cherish my memories ofWilliam.
Now marriage to Simon . . . well, that has been an altogether different
experience, that has been bonfires and lightning bolts and shooting stars, and
whatever you do, never repeat that to another soul!"
It had been a while since Llewelyn had laughed so much. For too long, his
relationships with women had begun and ended in bed; he'd forgotten that
conversation could hold pleasures of its own. "So, then, you'd choose tumult
orer tranquillity, passion over peace?"
"Poetically put, but yes, of course! Who would not?" Nell leaned across the
table, propped up on her elbows, her face cupped in her hands, a pose of
calculated charm. But it was with genuine curiosity/ not coquetry, that she
said, "And what of you? I am not talking of bedmates now; what man does not
have his share of those? But ha there never been a woman who mattered to you?
A woman to haun your memory?"
285
Llewelyn set his wine cup down. "Yes . . . there was one. But we were very
young, and what drew us together did not prove strong enough to keep us
together. Mayhap if we'd had a child . . ."He shrugged, then raised his eyes
to Nell's. "You did take a great risk, Lady Nell, in marrying for love, a
foolhardy risk ..."
"Yes ... I suppose I did." And then she flashed a vivid, impish smite- "But
what is a thing worth, Llewelyn, if it comes with no risk?"
"HOW long must you stay abed?"
Elen grimaced. "Lord pity me, the midwife says at least a week! So your
company is indeed a godsend, Llewelyn. Sit beside me on the bed so we may
talk. I'm surprised that Davydd agreed to accompany you; I very much doubt
that Senena ever spoke kindly of me!"
"I daresay you're right, but whatever Davydd's opinion of you, Aunt Elen, he's
not shared it with me. I would that he did, would that I knew what goes on in
his head. He's quick to laugh, quick to jest, but not to confide. We've never
once talked about his years as a hostage. If he nurtures a grudge, blames our
mother for making that Devil's deal with Henry, none but Davydd knows it. He
divides his time betwixt my lands and Owain's, comes and goes as he pleases,
the way a cat doesalways on his own terms."
Elen smiled. "A cat... I like that. It fits Davydd wellindependent and
beguiling and inscrutable. Your grandfather played a game like that as a lad,
matching people and animals, and I often play it with my lasses. Now Henry
would be ... what? A peacock, resplendently feathered, yet unable to fly very
far. And his Eleanor, a swanbeautiful, but bad-tempered, and oh, so vain.
Owain? There you have me, lad. Your brother has ever been an enigma to me. I'd
have wagered a king's ransom that he'd war on you after Woodstock, so sure was
I that he'd seek to claim your share of Gwynedd."
"So was I," Llewelyn admitted. "Remember, though, that he was content to dwell
all those months in Cheshire, not returning to Wales until your brother died.
You ask what beast Owain might have been? What of a cob? A hardy breed, with
strength and endurance, but hapPlest in harness, not one for forging ahead on
its own."
Elen laughed, but Llewelyn was in earnest. "I've come to believe j13*/ if left
to his own devices, Owain is content to amble along at a U8gish pace. But that
may well change, for I fear he has found a rider
0 aPPty the spursour mother."
Sen's smile faded. "Tell me."
by         en Davydd turned fourteen last year, he reminded usprompted my
mother, I daresaythat under Welsh law, he was entitled to a
286
share in the governance of Gwynedd. Owain agreed to cede to him th commote of
Cymydmaen on the Llyn peninsula. But he is no lonee content with that. He now
argues that he deserves no less than a hjii third of Gwynedd. And Owain has
agreed to this madness. Mayhap he truly believes it is just, most likely he
seeks merely to spite me, but whatever his reasons, he is adding fuel to a
fire that might well enguif us all."
"For you cannot agree."
"How could I? Wales has never been so weak, so vulnerable to English conquest.
If we were to split Gwynedd into three separate, petty principalities, Christ
Jesus, but we might as well cede Wales to the Crown here and now!" Llewelyn
drew a sharp breath. "But Davydd is too youne to understand that. I love my
brother, do not want to see him estranged from me. Yet I very much fear it may
come to that. If only Aunt Elen? What is it?"
Elen had gone grey; sweat suddenly stood out on her forehead, her upper lip.
"Fetch Nell," she gasped, and doubled over, her body contorting. "Hurry . . ."
BRAN wandered over to the stairs, gazing up at Elen's bedchamber door. It
seemed to him that his mother and the midwife had been closeted with Elen for
an eternity. How utterly, eerily quiet it was! He glanced uneasily at Elen's
husband, slumped in a chair by the hearth. How could the man just sit there?
Bran was not sure what Rob ought to do, but he felt certain his father would
have taken action of some sort.
Hawise and Joanna were in bed, but on the settle Anne sat very still, hands
clasped in her lap, head bowed so that Bran saw only a spill of dark hair, as
shining-black as his own. He wished she would go upstairs like her sisters;
pity was not an emotion he knew well, and he averted his gaze, not knowing
what to say to her. Moving back to the table, he occupied himself in scraping
his thumbnail through the wax splattered around a brass candelabra. When
Davydd joined him, they passed some moments in silence, eyeing each other
warily.
Bran made the first overture. "If you are the Lady Elen's nephew and I am her
cousin, does that mean we are kin, too?" .
That had never occurred to Davydd. If he was Bran's cousin, di that make him a
kinsman, too, of the English King? "I suppose it does, he conceded grudgingly.
"But of course you do not have Welsh bloo
Bran raised his chin. "Who'd want it?" ,t
But they'd forgotten Llewelyn was within earshot. "You
ate ]^
jesting, of course, for neither of you could be so ill-bred as to be sq ^
bling at a time like this," he said, with enough ice in his voice to s
287
layers up two youthful spines. They were mumbling hasty assent as the
bedchamber door opened.
Rob sprang to his feet. "Nell ..."
Nell came slowly down the stairs, holding onto the railing as if she
eded the support, and even before she stepped into the light, they
v ew. "Rob, I am so sorry. But we could not stop the bleeding. She lost
the babe . . "
gob flinched and his eyes closed; after a moment tears began to aueeze through
his lashes. Nell, fighting back tears of her own, put her arms around him, but
he pulled away, moved toward the stairs.
No one spoke until the midwife emerged onto the landing; at that, Anne began
to sob. Nell drew the child to her, held her as she wept. When Anne would have
started for the stairs, though, Nell shook her
head.
"No, darling, not yet. She . . . she is very distraught, Anne, needs to be
alone now with your father."
Bran was hovering helplessly at his mother's elbow, standing so close he was
almost treading upon the hem of Nell's gown, standing close enough to hear her
whisper. It sounded to him as if she said, "It is a dreadful thing to lose a
child," but he wondered why she called Anne by her sister's name, why she
called her "Joanna."
NELL'S dream was muddled, lacking coherence, but disturbing enough,
nonetheless, that awakening was a relief. The chamber was dark, dawn still
hours away. She started to sit up, remembering just in time where she was. As
Stevington had only one bedchamber and a small loft for the children, the
women were sleeping in Elen's chamber while the men bedded down in the hall.
Nell's eyes were adjusting to the shadows, and she could distinguish now the
sleeping forms of their ladies, stretched out on pallets by the bed. Elen was
having a restless night, too; Nell could feel the bed shifting under her
weight.
"Elen?" she said softly. "Elen, I'm awake. Would it help to talk?" 'here was
no response. Elen had flung the covers off, although the oom was chilled.
Leaning over, Nell drew the blankets up over Elen's b*ed shoulder.
Merciful God!" She gasped, staring down at the other woman in
or, for her fingers still throbbed with heat. Elen's skin was searing
0 th« touch.
his bpT°R WaS Ur8entty summoned from nearby Bedford, and he did ' but Elen's
fever did not abate. As the infection spread, she
288
grew progressively weaker, drifting in and out of delirium, respondin neither
to herbal potions nor sponge baths. Nell had often suspecte!j that Elen was
the core, the very marrow of the de Quincy family a now Rob was like a ship
without a rudder. He spent every waking ho at his wife's bedside, and the
burdens of Elen's illness fell not up0 him, but upon Nell. It was she who kept
the household functioning who gave instructions to the stricken servants, who
nursed Elen ami comforted her terrified children. And it was Nell who finally
sent f0 the village priest.
He was very young, this his first parish, and exceedingly sorry to have been
summoned, for the dying woman was not just the lady of the manor, she was the
niece of the King. What if she did not regain her wits? She could not be
shriven if she could not confess her sins answer the Seven Interrogatories.
But if she did not receive Extreme Unction, she would be damned. If he so
failed the King's kinswoman what would be his fate, his punishment?
All day his little church had been pealing passing-bells, alerting his
parishioners to pray lor the soul of a sister Christian in her hour of need.
But at dusk, Elen stirred, and to his heartfelt relief, her dark, feverlit
eyes held a spark of recognition.
"Rob . . ."
"Here, love." Shouldering the priest aside, Rob bent over the bed. When Elen
reached out to him, her fingers twitched, but then fell limply back upon the
blanket, and she looked at her hand in bewilderment, as if puzzling why it no
longer obeyed her brain.
"Bells ... I dreamed of bells," she whispered; why was it such an effort to
talk? "But I still hear them. Rob . . . ?" Her husband's eyes were red-rimmed
and swollen; he covered her hand with his own, squeezing so tightly that she
gasped. The candles seemed inordinately bright, blurring and wavering, casting
foreshortened shadows. Elen looked past Rob, her gaze wandering the room,
moving from Nell to Llewelyn and then back to the priest.
"Sir Robert . . ." The priest cleared his throat, began again, saying with as
much authority as he could muster, "You must withdraw now, leave me alone with
your lady so she may make her peace with Alnug . God and Christ the Redeemer."
Setting down the pyx that held Host, he fumbled for his vial of holy water,
sprinkled it upon the.^f and launched into the formula he knew by heart. "Thou
shalt spn me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be cleansed. Thou shalt      ^
"No!" Elen was shaking her head, turning it weakly from si side. "I cannot be
dying, not now, not yet ..." , jgjjv-
How often had he heard that. To Christians, death offered
289
ranee; why did they cling so to life's sorrows and woes? "It is God's
Will/ my lady."
"No!" Elen tried to sit up, sank back against the pillows. "I have a
three-year-o^ daughter. She'd . . . she'd not even remember me! How could that
be God's Will?"
He had no answer for her. He shook his head mutely, watched helplessly as Rob
knelt by the bed, gathering Elen into his arms. In the silence that followed,
they could hear Rob's voice, murmuring broken words and endearments. As
desperately as he wanted to see Elen safely shriven, the priest could not
bring himself to intrude upon a moment of such despair.
"Madame . . ." He turned at the sound, saw that the children's nurse had
slipped into the room, was conferring quietly with Nell. Catching a few words,
he guessed the rest, and gave an involuntary cry of protest.
"No! God must come first!"
But Nell ignored his outburst, brushing past him and approaching the bed.
"Elen . . . dearest, do you want to see your daughters now?" When Elen nodded,
she leaned over and, with a corner of the sheet, gently blotted the tears from
Elen's face.
THE young priest fidgeted, pacing a path to the hearth and back. He could feel
Llewelyn's dark, brooding gaze upon him all the while and that only
intensified his unease, for in his heart he was convinced the Welsh were
pagans, false Christians. Elen's daughters had been up with her for at least
an hour, mayhap the last hour of her life. When at last he heard Nell's
footsteps on the stairs, he hastened forward, only to come to an abrupt halt
at sight of her, for her face was blanched of all color, a mask of such
desolation that he impulsively put out a supportive hand, remembering just in
time that she was the King's sister. "Madame, you must fetch the children.
There is no time"
'Are you mad? Think you that I would deny Elen this meagre comfort?"
.      Madame, Lady Elen is dying! All that matters is her immortal soul.
*s been out of her head with fever for days, but she is lucid now,
that time is too precious to waste like this. She must make her
.., essi°n ere the fever returns, for she cannot be shriven if she is not
m her senses."
f0r, e^ sfared at him, and he wondered if she, too, might be feverish, "She
    Patches of color suddenly stood out across her cheekbones. WlU be shriven,"
she said huskily. "You will see to that."
290
"My lady, you do not understand"
"No," she said, "you are the one who does not understand." Reaching out, she
caught his arm. He had never seen a hand so elegant fingers long and tapering,
nails perfectly manicured, a hand that had never known hard manual labor. He
stared at it in fascination, accustomed to the broken nails and swollen
knuckles of the village women thinking that Nell's hands were verily as white
and smooth as the marble statue of the Blessed Lady he'd once seen in a
Canterbury church. But those delicate, bejeweled fingers had a surprisingly
strong grip, and as he looked up, he found himself frozen by what he saw in
her eyes.
"Elen shall have this time with her daughters," she said. "Then you shall hear
her confession, see that she is shriven, and if she cannot make the proper
responses, you will make them for her. You will gjve her the holy viaticum,
and you will do all you can to ease her last hours. Above all, you will never
even hint to Rob or her children that you have any doubts whatsoever as to the
validity of these Sacraments."
The priest was appalled. "But. . . but Madame, you are asking me to"
"I am asking nothing. I am telling you that should you fail Elen in this, you
will find that the Almighty's mercy is far greater than mine."
The priest swallowed. All knew the stories told of King John, that he was of
the Devil's brood, that the Plantagenet seed first took root in the womb of a
witch, the demon Countess of Black Fulk of Anjou. He looked now at the woman
before him, King John's daughter, and even as he nodded, he thought, All true,
Christ keep me safe, the tales be true!
BRAN awakened shivering, for the hall fire had long since gone out. Reaching
for his clothes, he dressed hurriedly under the blankets, for he lacked a
chamber pot and would have to go outdoors to relieve himself. But as he got to
his feet, he noticed his mother, seated alone at the trestle table. Snatching
up a man's mantle from a nearby sleeper, he crossed the hall. Nell was leaning
forward, her head buried in her arms, and he thought she slept. But as he
draped the mantle about her shoulders, she raised her head. "Bran? Is it dawn
yet?"
He nodded. Her gown was badly wrinkled, stained with sweat and water
splotches. Even her hair had lost its lustre; spilling from an untidy chignon,
it framed her face in stray wisps and tangled tendrils, lacking color or sheen
in the harsh morning light. The mother Bran knew bes was a glamorous, worldly
creature, high-tempered and high-spin*6 by turns sarcastic and merry, but
always elegant, always unpredictaf '
utterly unlike the drab, ordinary mothers of his less-fortunate
friends-
292
This haggard, disheveled woman seemed a stranger. But if her sudden
vulnerability unnerved him, it also fired his protective instincts, and vvhen
she rose, he trailed her across the hall.
Llewelyn was stretched out upon the settle. Nell leaned over, shook jus
shoulder. "Llewelyn, it is dawn." He opened his eyes, and she saw that he had
not slept, either. He was sitting up as the bedchamber door opened.
The young priest came wearily down the stairs. "It is over," he said, making
the sign of the cross. He had dozed during the night in a chair by Elen's bed,
so great was his relief that he had been able, after all, to administer the
Last Rites, thus offending neither the Almighty nor the Countess of Leicester.
But his position had been a cramped one, and his muscles were constricted and
sore. As he sank down on a bench, his gaze fell upon the platter of food,
flaky pasties filled with cheese and beef marrow, stone-cold, flecked with
congealed grease, but still rich fare to an impoverished priest, and
irresistible to a man who'd not eaten since noon the day before. Tucking a
napkin into his cassock collar, he helped himself to a pasty, and then
another.
"She was at peace, at the end, all her thoughts given over to God," he
volunteered, the falsehood not weighing heavily upon his conscience, for it
was what he was expected to say, what the bereaved wanted to hear. "My lady .
. . mayhap you might mention to your royal brother that I was the priest who
ministered to his niece? It would be such an honor, that my name might be
known to the King . . ." Nell's response was not encouraging; she merely
looked at him. Deciding it would not be seemly to push further, he sighed,
swallowed the last mouthful of pasty, and gestured politely toward Llewelyn.
"My lord, if you could pass me that flagon of ale ... ?"
Llewelyn reached for the flagon. It was full and the ale sloshed over the rim
as he lifted it. His fingers clenched around the handle, and then the flagon
was slamming into the wall with such force that men scattered m all
directions, seeking to evade the flying shards. The priest scrambled to his
feet in alarm, but Llewelyn never even glanced his way. He was Supping the
edge of the table, staring at the platter heaped with pasties, "ith a wild
sweep of his arm, he sent it spinning to the floor, and then brought his fist
down upon the table, again and again, not stopping ""til the trestle boards
buckled.
His breath was coming fast and uneven; he could hear it now,
,choing in his ears. He could even hear his heart beating, no less rapidly,
r so still was it of a sudden in the hall. He looked up, saw the silent
en' tne fearful priest, the watching women. No one spoke, but the
^J*nor dogs crept from hiding, began to feast warily upon the pasties
Wri among the floor rushes. Davydd pushed his way toward Lie-
292
T
293
welyn. His eyes were wide, filled with wonder. As he passed the priest he
murmured, "Did no one tell you? My brother cannot abide ale/' arJ a few men
laughed nervously.
Nell jerked the napkin from the priest's neck, stepped toward Lie welyn, and
it was only then that he became aware of the blood tricklino down his wrist.
He stood without moving as she bandaged his hand then turned, walked toward
the ash-filled hearth. Nell watched him gono one else dared to follow.
As men began to clear away the wreckage, Nell laid claim to a soldier's flask,
tilted it up and drank deeply of the pungent, spiced wine then startled the
priest by passing the flask to him. He accepted gratefully, but it took
several swallows to nerve him to approach Nell again "I am sorry, my lady," he
blurted out, "sorry I was not of more comfort, sorry I must now trouble you
further. But the little lasses, they must be told. I daresay they're awake by
now, for this din was for certes enough to raise the dead" He bit his lip; a
lamentable choice of words! "My lady, Sir Robert is sore crazed with grief;
never have I seen a man so stricken, in truth. I doubt that he can . . ." His
words trailed away. For an awful moment, he feared that Nell might expect him
to be the one to tell Elen's daughters. But then Nell got slowly to her feet.
Unlike the open, wooden stairway that led to Elen's bedchamber, this was a
narrow, spiral staircase, giving access to the roof, the battlements, and the
small loft squeezed under the eaves. Gazing upward, Nell could not detect a
glimmer of light, nor a whisper of sound. She lifted her skirts, put her foot
on the first step, but could go no farther. Clutching the rope railing, she
faltered, then sank down upon the stairs. At approaching footsteps, she looked
up reluctantly. But it was Llewelyn, not the priest, and when he held out his
hand, she readily took it, let him help her to her feet.
They stood quietly in the shadows of the stairwell. From the sound of her
breathing, he suspected that she wept. He put his arm around her shoulders and
she leaned against his chest. After a time, she said softly, "There can be
burdens too onerous, too painful to be borne. Whenever I feel that I cannot .
. . cope, I try to think what Simon would do. I know he'd find the strength to
do what he must, and knowing that, I can somehow find the strength, too. Until
now ..."
Since his frenzied outburst, his futile, rending denial, Llewelyn ha felt
nothing, only exhaustion, numbness. Now a surprising ennotio flickered
faintlyenvy for Simon de Montfort, for how many men wer ever loved so
passionately? But then there came to him his last memory of Rob, his desperate
deathbed vigil. Rob had been well loved, too. what man in his right senses
would envy Rob now? Llewelyn ore
fistricted breath. God pity Rob, God pity all who gave their hearts ^ith such
reckless abandon. "Nell ... do you want me to go up with
you?"
"No. No, it is best that a woman be the one to tell them." Nell tood for a
moment longer in his embrace, and then, lifting her skirts again, she started
up the stairs.
22
Beaagfelert Priory Nortk Wales
June 1255
T,
L HEY'D been roused from sleep, and they stumbled, yawning, into Llewelyn's
bedchamber, blinking at the sudden flaring of torch-light. Llewelyn stood
motionless in the shadows, listening in silence as his scout told them what he
already knewthat his brothers, Owain and Davydd, were leading an invading army
into his lands.
He watched them intently, saw their faces change, their sleepiness vanish.
Only his cousin Tegwared seemed truly startled; Tegwared inhaled optimism as
naturally as he did air. Gruffydd and Goronwy ab Ednyved had followed in their
father's footsteps, wielding their swords m the service of Gwynedd's Prince.
Like Ednyved, they were shrewd, cynical, and utterly unsentimental, not to be
surprised by a brother's betrayal. His uncle Einion showed no surprise,
either, only dismay. Llewelyn understood, and felt honor-bound to offer a
reprieve.
'This is no quarrel of yours, Uncle, not when you'd find kinsmen °n both sides
of the battlefield."
,     Ah, but that is the Welsh way, lad." That was too true for humor,
°ugh; only Einion smiled. He was greatly tempted to take advantage
levvelyn's generosity. It would be no pleasant task, explaining to
^^na tnat he'd backed the wrong son. Moreover, he sympathized
'o be   V^C^'S c'a^m' f°r in his heart he believed that Gwynedd ought
divided equally amongst all of Gruffydd's sons, as the ancient
294
Welsh laws decreed. But his affections ran contrary to common sens and he
heard himself saying, "It is an easier choice than you think Llewelyn. I have
never liked Owain."
This time Llewelyn did smile. "Neither have I," he said, no mo than that, but
Einion needed no more. He returned his nephew's smil and for the moment, at
least, his sister, Senena, was forgotten.
Llewelyn moved into the light. "Mayhap it was inevitable that Owain and I
would have a day of reckoning. Now that it has come so be it But I want our
men to understand this, that Davydd is not to be harmed "
Tegwared and Einioix nodded approvingly, but Llewelyn caught the skeptical
look that passed between Ednyved's sons, and he could not keep a defensive
note from creeping into his voice. "As young as Davydd is, he does not fully
comprehend the consequences of what he's done."
Goronwy carefully avoided his brother's eye. He'd have wagered that Davydd was
no innocent; even as a lad, he had been one for poking sticks into hornets'
nests. But he knew better than to argue. Instead, he said, "What mean you to
do, Llewelyn?"
Llewelyn crossed to the table. The map was crudely drawn, but that didn't
matter. He'd had twenty-seven years to learn the lay of his land, knew the
depths of every river, the twistings of every mountain trail.
"They circled around Cricieth Castle, are now heading north. To get from
Eiffionydd into Arfon, they'll use the Bwlch Mawr Pass." He gestured toward
the map, then said grimly, "And there they will find us waiting for them."
IT was not lack of sleep that had soured Davydd's enthusiasm. He was still
young enough to savor novelty, and camping out under the stars seemed part of
the adventure. Nor was he fazed by the weather. It was surprisingly hot and
humid for June, and rain had been falling intermittently since dawn, but rain
was so common an occurrence in Wales that Davydd never gave it a thought. It
was his quarrel with his brother that rankled.
Davydd had tried to be tactful, but Owain had flared up almost at once,
pointing out scathingly that, as he was thirty-six whilst Davy still lacked a
fortnight till his seventeenth birthday, his battlefield experience was
considerably greater than his brother's. Davydd coul dispute that, but it did
occur to him that Owain had fought two war ^ one against their uncle Davydd
and one against the English King/ he'd lost them both. , ap.
Davydd still felt that their campaign was being conducted m a   ^ hazard,
needlessly risky manner, lacking clear objectives. So iar
295
hindered Llewelyn's lands in Eiffionydd, to no great effect, and this
orning they'd pillaged the abbey grange at Cwm, for Owain believed
the Aberconwy monks to be too favorably inclined toward Llewelyn.
But Davydd wondered what they'd accomplished, aside from scattering
a flock of panicked sheep.
pitched battles were rare in Wales, where warfare most commonly onsisted of
hit-and-run raids. It might well be that Llewelyn would 'eld before their show
of force and offer terms; Davydd fervently hoped o But he thought it was at
least as likely that Llewelyn would choose to confront them. They had the
greater numbers, but he would be able to choose the time and the terrain, and
Davydd felt they should be taking more precautions, posting additional guards
at night, sending out scouts to range farther afield. Suggestions that had
seemed eminently sensible to him, but to Owain presumptuous enough to spark
their most serious altercation, one that still smoldered after several hours
of morose silence.
Rain had begun to fall again; the peaks of Bwlch Mawr and Mynydd Craig Goch
were shrouded in grey mist. Owain could hear his men beginning to grumble;
they'd soon have to call a halt. Glancing over his shoulder, he sighed.
Davydd's face was too expressive for his own good. So the lad was still
brooding. He eased his stallion, waited for Davydd to catch up. "We'd best
give some thought as to how we'll be dividing Gwynedd. I'll have all of Mon
and Llyn and Arfon, but the rest is up for the taking. Just remember, ere you
put in your bid, that we must make some provisions for Rhodri, too."
"Do you mean to leave nothing to Llewelyn, then?"
Owain smiled. "I'd leave him enough ground to be buried in, I suppose."
Davydd swung about in the saddle. For certes, Owain was jestmg . . or was he?
"I do not want Llewelyn killed!"
Owain forgot at times just how young the boy was. "I do not seek
L'elo's death. But I know what can happen on a battlefield. This is no
game, Davydd." Drawing rein, he reached over, put his hand on his
'other's arm. "I thought you wanted this, lad. I thought you wanted
'^aHs rightfully yours."
I do! But . . . but I would that there was another way."
"TK
m   n      e is not'" Owain said, then raised his hand for silence, frownJ5-
tiy now Davydd heard it, too. Heads were turning, men straining
"TU 6 °^ 'ne^r scouts was galloping toward them, gesturing wildly. "Y0 "ere's
an army at the head of the pass, my lord," he gasped.
'"brother's army, waiting to do battle!"
began 6re Was a moment of stunned silence, and then all within earshot alking
at once. Owain's captains were shouting questions, but
296
his response was drowned out by a sudden clap of thunder. DavycM' mount shied
as thunder sounded again, directly overhead this time, and he had to waste
precious minutes calming the animal before he was abl to push through to his
brother's side.
"Owain, you've got to send a man out with a flag of truce, offer t talk!"
Owain looked at him as if he'd lost his senses. "Talk? I'll iej m sword do my
talking for me!"
"Owain, we've got to gain time! Our men are not ready to fight They need to
get their blood stirred up first, you know they do. Send word to Llewelyn that
you want to negotiate, to"
"And have Llelo think I fear him? I'd be damned first!"
"Owain, wait" Davydd was never to know, though, if he might have prevailed,
for Llewelyn had no intention of giving them the time they so needed. Even as
they argued, his army was advancing. Owain swung his mount about, began to
shout commands. Davydd found himself alone, forgotten.
Not knowing what else to do, he sought to follow his brother. But it was his
stallion's first battle, too. Already unnerved by the storm, the horse
panicked at sight of the running, yelling men. It swerved suddenly, then
bucked, and Davydd, taken by surprise, went flying over its head.
His first reaction was utter disbelief; he could not even remember the last
time he'd been thrown from a horse. He shouted, but the stallion was already
in full flight from the battlefield. Becoming aware of his danger, Davydd
scrambled to his feet, unsheathing his sword.
He was shocked by what he saw. He had been prepared for a battle to be violent
and bloody, but not so chaotic. Gazing about him at this seething mass of men,
he wondered despairingly how he could even tell who was the enemy. Only lords
wore heraldic devices; so who fought for Owain and who for Llewelyn?
He moved forward, caught up in the current. The rain was coming down heavily
now, and the ground was growing slippery; men were losing their footing,
stumbling in the muddy marsh grass. From the corner of his eye, Davydd saw a
man fall. Before he could regain his feet, another soldier was astride him,
wielding an axe. Davydd yeue and the man whirled to meet this new threat. As
his would-be victim rolled out of range, he swung at Davydd; the blade sliced
through the air only inches from Davydd's helmet. He was raising the axe aga
when Davydd's sword thrust through his leather gambeson, up un his ribs.
Davydd was no stranger to death; he'd seen executions, and o a man murdered in
a London street brawl. But those deaths la*6
a man:
297
avvful intimacy, the immediacy of the battlefield Splattered by the blood Of
the man he'd just stabbed, Davydd had to fight back a sudden queasiness But at
the same time, he felt a surge of pride He'd matched his ^5 and his training
and his courage against another man, and he'd
won
"My lord1" The soldier he'd saved was beside him now, grinning [us gratitude
Only then did Davydd recognize him as one of their sentries, but that was
something he meant to keep to himself If the sentry survived the battle, he'd
tell and retell the tale of his rescue It never occurred to Davydd that he
himself might not survive
The ground squished under his feet, for they were well away from the road by
now Davydd knew there were extensive marshes between Myrtydd Cenm and Bwlch
Mawr There were patches of quicksand, too, but he tried not to think of that
Sheets of silver rain were obscuring visibility, he could only speculate as to
the whereaboutsor the wellingof Owam and Llewelyn Lightning seared the sky to
the west, and he ran his hand uneasily along the metal links of his hauberk As
if he did not have enough worries at the moment1
A soldier was bearing down upon him, sword already well-bloodied Davydd
parried the man's thrust, numbing his arm from wrist to elbow The soldier
staggered, regained his balance and lunged again Again Davydd deflected the
blow He had always begrudged those tedious hours of tiltyard practice Now he
had only a moment to thank God for them, and then the man was once more
pressing the attack
They circled cautiously When Davydd swung, his sword encountered only air, for
the other man was as quick as a ferret They were so intent upon the stalk that
they didn't realize the ground was becoming soft, not until the soldier took a
backward step and found himself sinking up to his knees He spat out a startled
oath, and when he looked at Davydd, for the first time there was fear on his
face
Davydd was no longer a threat, though, he, too, was mired in the thick,
viscous mud He experienced a flash of instinctive panic, but froze until it
passed, until he could slowly start to work his way back to firm ground By the
time he had extricated himself, he was panting, relieved [ut of all proportion
to the danger posed by the quavering, sodden sands
The soldier had also kept his head, and together they struggled back
° solid footing For a moment or two they eyed each other wanly,
^ they'd both lost the stomach for further killing The soldier, more-
,,    'Was now looking beyond Davydd's height and man's build, seeing
1^ j      away wnikt yOU still can, lad," he said "There is no madness
! dying for a cause already lost "
298
T
299
"Lost?" Davydd frowned, and the soldier gestured impatiently "Look around you.
Owain ap Gruffydd's men are on the run. Loot ing of bodies has begun, the
surest sign yet that it's done, and n surprise, for my lord Llewelyn is twice
the soldier Owain could eve hope to be." With that, he turned away, seeking to
gain what he, too could from the dead.
Davydd pulled off his helmet, ran his hand through his sweatsoaked hair. The
sky was clearing; the storm had passed them by. So it seemed, had the battle.
His brother's armywhat was left of itwas in flight, some wading across the
shallows of the River Desoch, some scattering toward the wooded slopes of
Bwlch Mawr, others bogged down in the rain-drenched marshlands, easy prey for
Llewelyn's pur. suing soldiers. Davydd found himself alone on a muddy field
with the dead, the dying, and the looters. No one paid him any mind, and he
did not know what to do next. At last he decided to head west, for there was a
monastery a few miles away at Clynnog. Once there, he could then try to reach
his own lands down in Llyn. After that? He had no idea. As it threaded its
serpentine way through the marshes, the river gained in silt what it lacked in
depth, and its color was an unappealing yellow-brown. But Davydd was too
thirsty to care. Kneeling, he cupped the brackish water in his hands, drank
greedily. "Cadell, that's him!"
"You're daft, man! He's a lord, would be mounted." "I'm telling you, it's him.
I've seen him often enough to know!" Davydd did not like the sound of that. He
jumped to his feet and spun around. Two men were approaching him, one from
each side. He took an instinctive step backward, and nearly slid down the
embankment into the river.
"Careful, lad!" One of the men was reaching out, as if to offer a hand, but
retreated when Davydd raised his sword. "We mean you no harm, God's truth! Our
lord has promised a gold ring to the man who sees to your safety."
"Llewelyn did that?" Davydd was startled enough to let down his guard. Both
men nodded vigorously, and he felt a sudden pang ot remorse, remembering
Owain's callous joking about graves. They saw his hesitation and the younger
one held out his hand. It was a gesture as disarming as it was courageous, and
Davydd impulsively lowere his sword, then offered it, hilt first.
They accepted it gravely, and for a moment all three of them too^ pleasure in
the solemn formality of surrender, evoking as it did ecn of those tales told
around campfires and winter hearths, tales of cniv   ,
rooted in the Welsh legends of Arthur and his knights of the
^
II
Round. Then the older soldier let out a gleeful whoop, clapped his
ornpanion on the back. "You stay here, Cadell, whilst I fetch our lord!"
He was off like a shot. Cadell looked suddenly uncertain. Glancing
hvly at Davydd, he asked, "Have I your word, my lord, that you'll not
try to flee?" Much relieved when Davydd nodded, he unfastened a flask
from his belt, passed it politely to Davydd.
Sitting down on the river bank, they shared the flask, and Davydd found
himself quaffing the warm ale as if it were vintage wine. Cadell was very
young himself, and somewhat awed, for he'd never expected to be in such
intimacy with one of his Princes. "This was my first battle," he confessed,
"and I cannot say I fancied it much. It was not at all as I thought it would
be."
Davydd reclaimed the flask. "The first time I lay with a whore," he said,
"that was a letdown, too. I wondered afterward why men craved women's flesh
more than meat or mead. But it did not take long to develop a taste for it.
Mayhap it is the same with battles."
Cadell laughed. "War and women . . . they both do heat the blood for certes.
But between the bed and the battlefield, it's not much of a choice. I know a
lass called Enid who can light a bonfire just by . . ."
Davydd smiled, but he was no longer listening. He was thinking of the coming
confrontation with his brother. Llewelyn was the very last man in Christendom
whom he wanted to face right now. With that realization, he began to think of
ways to avoid it, shooting Cadell a sideways, appraising look. No longer two
against one. Moreover, his identity was in itself an invincible shield; Cadell
would never dare to draw a sword upon his lord's brother. He rose, stretched
as casually as he could, and then reached over, snatched up his sword.
Cadell at once tensed. "What is it? Where do you go?"
"I just remembered a pressing need to be elsewhere. Convey my regrets to
Llewelyn."
But what Davydd had not anticipated was Cadell's outrage. Jumping UP/ he
cried, "You gave me your sworn word!"
Davydd shrugged, then leveled the sword. "That is far enough,"
he warned. Cadell paid him no heed, continued to advance, and Davydd
discovered that he could not thrust his blade into the other youth's belly.
" an oath, he flung the sword aside, and swung at Cadell. The blow
Ver connected; Cadell was quicker than he looked, and as he ducked,
vydd s fist just brushed his chin. They traded punches, then grappled
Cadell slipped in the wet grass, dragging Davydd down with him. w .    ev
rolled about, pummeling each other. Davydd's was the greater he '8ht and he
was eventually able to pin Cadell down. "Will you yield?" PaWed, but Cadell
stubbornly shook his head.
300
"You gave me your word," he repeated, as if nothing else mattered and Davydd
swore again. Neither he nor Cadell had realized they'd gathered an audience,
not until Davydd turned his head, caught a glimpse of muddied boots. He
struggled to sit up, his heart thudding wildly for he already knew what he
would see. The stallion was a smoke-grey' well lathered, its mane smeared with
blood, Llewelyn's favorite destrier' Davydd's breath froze in the seconds
before he forced himself to meet his brother's eyes. Llewelyn's face was
shadowed by his helmet; he sat motionless on the grey stallion, staring down
at Davydd, saying nothing until the silence itself became more intolerable to
Davydd than any reproaches Llewelyn could make.
He got slowly to his feet, began to walk toward Llewelyn. He made no attempt,
though, to wipe the mud from his face, hoping it might camouflage some of the
hot color burning his cheeks and throat. "l've always heard tales," he said,
"about men emerging from battle covered with glory. But I cannot remember
anyone ever mentioning mud!"
He'd long ago learned that humor was a most effective defense, particularly
with Llewelyn; amusement, no less than charity, covered a multitude of sins.
But now he searched his brother's face in vain, could find not the least
glimmer of a smile, and as they looked at each other, Davydd began to realize
that he had at last committed an offense which could not be laughed away.
THE rain had not dissipated the heat, and Llewelyn's tent was stifling When
Davydd rose, the guards tensed, watching him intently as he crossed to a
coffer. Picking up a flask, he retraced his steps, thrust it at his brother.
"Drink," he said. "If ever we had an excuse to get drunk, it's now."
Owain accepted the flask with the indifference that had characterized his
every act since the moment of his capture. Still utterly stunned by the
magnitude of his defeat, he seemed in a state of shock, and the grey eyes that
now focused upon Davydd were dulled by disbelief. I will never understand," he
said, "how God could so favor Llelo."
Davydd bit back the tart reply that God usually favored the better battle
commander. "It could be worse," he pointed out. "You could have been horribly
maimed, skewered through like a stuck pig an"le for dead with your guts
spilling out into the mud. There are vvor things to lose than a battle,
Owainlike your head, or Jesu totlen' your privy member!" His mock shudder was
not entirely feigned- ^ grinned, then said, more seriously, "At least you are
alive, Owain^
Owain gave him a sourly patronizing smile. "For the moment,
301
said/ investing his words with such ominous portent that Davydd lost patience.
"For the love of Christ, Owain! You cannot truly believe Llewelyn would have
you put to death?"
At that moment, the tent flap was pulled aside and Llewelyn entered, followed
by Goronwy ab Ednyved. At sight of his brother, Davydd cried, "Tell him,
Llewelyn. Tell him his life is in no danger!"
Llewelyn's eyes cut toward Owain. "I am not Cain," he said tersely. Davydd was
about to utter a triumphant "I told you so" when Llewelyn added, "You'd best
make yourself ready, Owain. Your guards are waiting to escort you to Dolbadarn
Castle."
Owain rose to his feet. "Post your guards," he said. "It will avail you
naught, for your prison will not hold me for long."
Llewelyn merely shrugged, and Davydd glanced uneasily from one to the other.
The enmity between his brothers had always been a secret source of amusement
to him, and it had fed his sense of superiority that Llewelyn should nurture
childhood grudges, that Owain should obstinately cling to the use of "Llelo"
as if a boy's name somehow diminished his brother's manhood. Davydd had long
ago learned how to turn their rivalry to his own advantage, had become adroit
at playing them off against each other to his benefit. But his fondness for
them both was genuine, and only now was he realizing how greatly he'd
underestimated the depths of their rancor.
"How long do you mean to keep Owain at Dolbadarn?" he demanded, had his answer
in Llewelyn's silence. "My God, Llewelyn, you cannot"
"Davydd!" Owain grabbed his arm, swung him around. "Do not beg for me," he
said fiercely, "not now, not ever!"
"But it is my fault!"
"No." Owain's grip loosened; he shifted his hands to Davydd's shoulders. "No,
lad," he repeated, "it is not. I knew the stakes even if you did not."
Davydd did not know what to say, and watched mutely as Owain followed his
guards from the tent. Llewelyn ignored his departure, keepmg his eyes upon his
younger brother. Davydd reached for Owain's f«gotten flask, drank until he'd
gotten his bravado back.
"What now? What happens to me? Am I to be imprisoned, too?"
"Yes."
Davydd dropped the flask. "For how long?" That depends upon you, Davydd. I'll
release you as soon as I can sure you comprehend the consequences of treason."
Davydd flushed. "It is not treason to claim what is rightfully mine!" «is,"
Llewelyn said, "when you lose."
302
T
303
He gestured and the guards moved forward. Davydd did not b IL
as they led him from the tent, he shouted defiantly, "I'll never    '
.'.- i-_ti</ Say
He gestured and the guards moved toward, uavyaa aia not balk but as they led
him from the tent, he shouted defiantly, "I'll never I'm sorry, never! My only
regret is that we lost!" ^
Llewelyn said nothing. For a time, neither did Goronwy. Bend down, he
retrieved the flask, handed it without comment to Llewelv "You ought not to
have promised him his freedom," he said at la » "Better to have kept him in
suspense."
"I know," Llewelyn admitted. "But I had to give him that rea surance, Goronwy.
You see," he said softly, "beneath all that bluster he was afraid."
ALTHOUGH Anian, the Abbot of the Cistercian abbey of Aberconwy, was both
friend and ally to Llewelyn, he was not pleased to be told that Llewelyn had
just ridden into the abbey garth. The abbey had benefited in no small measure
from the favor of its greatest patron, Llewelyn Fawr It was he who had
generously absolved the White Monks of the need to entertain the princes of
Gwynedd or their households. As no prince traveled without a large retinue,
this was no insignificant saving to the abbey larders. But it was a privilege
rarely invoked, for abbots were not political innocentsif they were, they
weren't abbotsand there was nothing politic in refusing hospitality to one's
liege lord. Anian could only hope that Llewelyn's entourage would not be too
numerous, or too hungry.
He forgot all about the abbey larders, though, at sight of the woman. He was
too pragmatic to deny entry to his Prince's concubine, but he was enough of a
moralist to want to, and he could not help giving Llewelyn a look of wordless
reproach. When he did, Llewelyn burst out
laughing.
"I know how heartsick you'll be," he bantered, "but we cannot accept your
hospitality. We're on our way down the Conwy valley to Trefriw, where I have a
hunting lodge."
Anian laughed, too, from sheer relief. "How then may we serve you, my lord?"
Llewelyn's smile faded. "I've come to visit my grandfather's tomb'
"YOUR lord father is buried here, too, is he not?" ,
Llewelyn nodded. "The English King finally gave his consent an
he lies now where he belongs, with his kinsmen." f
Eurwen arched a brow. "I do hope he does not lie too close to y
uncle Davydd," she murmured slyly, "else they'd get precious
Eternal Peace."
Llewelyn grinned, slid his arm around her waist as they entered , abbey. The
women in his life were usually slim and dark, sweetjnpered bedmates who evoked
unconscious echoes of the gentle Mei neell. Eurwen was an anomaly, therefore,
as she was cheerful and cheeky, uncommonly tall for a woman, with a vigorous
brisk stride, a buxom hour-glass figure, and masses of thick, tawny hair which
more than did justice to her name, for "Eurwen" was derived from the Welsh
word for "gold." Llewelyn was fonder of her than he had yet to admit, and he
was suddenly glad that she was here with him, sharing the culmination of his
victory in the mountain pass at Bwlch Mawr.
Eurwen seemed to sense his mood, for she came to a sudden halt, then said with
unwonted seriousness, "I think your grandfather would be very proud of you
this day."
Llewelyn nodded. "Yes," he agreed softly, "I think he would."
The abbey was not utterly dark, for the Cistercians believed stainedglass
windows to be sinfully ornate. But coming in from sun-dazzling daylight,
Llewelyn and Eurwen were momentarily blinded. They did not see the woman
standing in the shadows of the choir, and they both jumped when she suddenly
spoke.
"I knew you'd come here sooner or later," she said.
As she stepped forward, Eurwen understood why they'd not noticed her, for she
wore, like a cloak of invisibility, the stark black of mourning. She wondered
who this aging widow was, that she dared to speak to Llewelyn with such
familiarity, and then the woman said, "Get rid of your harlot. We need to
talk."
Eurwen gave a gasp of pure outrage, started indignantly down the nave. But
Llewelyn put a restraining hand on her arm. "Your grievance is with me,
Mother," he said coldly, "not with Eurwen. Do not take out your anger on her."
Eurwen's eyes widened. She glanced quickly at Llewelyn, then at Senena. "I'll
await you in the cloisters, my lord." He nodded and she moved reluctantly up
the aisle, casting numerous glances back over her shoulder.
"I demand that you free your brothers. I want you to give the order f°r their
release now, this very day."
I will release Davydd right gladlyonce he's shown he can be ted-1 cannot free
Owain, and you well know it, Mother." Senena's hand closed upon his arm. "What
if I can persuade Owain
10 a§ree to your terms?"
Even ifallowing for miraclesyou did get him to agree, he'd ^ ,er no'd to it.
Once free, he'd devote every waking hour to vengeance, that, too, you know."
lewelyn looked for a long moment into his mother's face. "Wales
304
is not yet whole," he said. "All of Gwynedd east of the Co in English control.
I mean to remedy that, to regain what    ^ ^ ^ from us at Woodstock. But I
cannot fight the English and rT^ Stolen not if I can help itand I can." warn-
too
still ^
3 stol^
But the passion in that answer was lost upon Senenaonly the refusal. "Damn
you, Owain is your brother! Are'     6 ^^ me you'd have him pass the rest of
his days shut awav k ^^ sun?" y    °m *«
Llewelyn moved away, crossed to his grandfather's massive He stared down at
the enameled lions, the emblem he'd tak      °a^' own. "If the battle had gone
to Owain and I was the one being h Dolbadarn, would you now be pleading with
Owain on my (Lh in
on my behalf? I
own.    It the battle nad gone to Uwam and 1 was the one being h Dolbadarn,
would you now be pleading with Owain on my beh 10 doubt it." '!
Senena followed him, again caught his arm. "What do you from me? Do you want
me to beg? Forget Owain, then; do not do it f him. Do it for me, because I am
your mother and I ask it of you "
She felt the sudden tautness in his arm, felt a quiver of tension contracting
the muscles, and thought she'd won. But then he raised his eyes to hers.
"No," he said, and Senena stepped backward, struck him across the face. He was
much taller than she and could easily have avoided the blow, merely by jerking
his head away. But he did not, and somehow that seemed to Senena the ultimate
rejection.
Tears of rage and disappointment filled Senena's eyes, but she willed them not
to fall. Even in the subdued church lighting, she could see that Llewelyn had
lost color; the imprint of her slap showed on his cheek like a brand. He made
no attempt to stop her, though, as she turned to go. She took a few steps,
swung back to face him.
"You are going to pay a great price," she said, "for Llewelyn Fawr's dream."
Discretion had taken Eurwen as far as the door, but curiosity 1 then diverted
her toward the shelter of a large, stone pillar. Now -' hastily crossed
herself, for Senena's last words sounded to her aln^ like a curse. She shrank
back behind the pillar as Senena passed, venturing out until the older woman
had left the church. ^
Llewelyn was still standing by his grandfather's tomb. He d> move, not even
when she said his name. "I could not help over e      ^ she confessed. "Do you
want to talk about it, love?" But she surprise at all when he shook his head.
23
Isleworth, Engfland
September 1250
J^ROM his father, Hugh de Lusignan had inhered the county of La Marche, and
from his mother, the rich lands of ouleme. He alone of his brothers was not
despised by the English People for he alone had made no claims upon Henry in
the name of Kinship. Henry was not as fond of Hugh as he was of William,
Aymer, Ooffrey, and Guy, for their relationship was not one of need. But he
was determined, nonetheless, to make Hugh's first visit to England a memorable
one, never thinking that to indulge in lavish spectacles might not be wise in
a year of poor crops, rain-rotted harvests.
miles west of London lay Richard's favorite residence, his riverside
r at Isleworth. After a bountiful noontime dinner meant to lull
into an agreeable frame of mind, Richard was taking pride in
ing his guests the luxuriant gardens and elaborately constructed
"sh ponds.
The ground was muddy, for it had been raining almost daily since
d-Augusi. Richard's wife, Sanchia, lagged behind, complaining of the
S08gy footing, and Nell felt constrained by courtesy to keep pace with
he was grateful when Simon lingered, too, for Sanchia was not a
°mpanion of her choosing.
;*k Chard and Hugh nad continued on' and now their voices drifted : frovJr"
 hunud September air, quarrelsome echoes that brought 'Sain h!? Sanchia/s
face- "Jesii," she muttered, "if they are not arguing J"|°ut *at poor child
killed by the Jews!" "toat child?"
'°ucomei'f!nped' for sne'd not heard her son's approach. "Where did %ard "
m/   d' I thought you were watching your brothers in the
Was not yet eleven, but he was already displaying a single-
306
T
307
mindedness many an adult might envy. Refusing to be distracted repeated with
polite persistence, "What child, Mama?" '   e
Nell hesitated. She did not believe in sheltering her children honest answers
to even the most awkward questions. But she did look forward to offering an
explanation under Sanchia's hostile eve defending the Jews, she found herself
torn between her sense offairn and her faith.
"It happened in Lincoln," she said slowly. "A Christian child's bod was
discovered in a cistern close by a Jew's house. The Jew was arrest d and
confessed that he and other Jews had abducted the child, the crucified him in
a vile ritual meant to mock Our Lord Jesus. He implicated a hundred others,
and Henry ordered them taken to London for trial where all but three were
found guilty. Eighteen were put to death last Christmas, but twenty-one were
freed this past May, at your uncle Richard's behest."
Amaury was not shocked by the crime itself, for he had often heard people
gossiping of ritual killings done by Jews. Although such murders were always
set in conveniently distant parts of the country, Amaury did not doubt them,
for his chaplain had taught him that the Jews were in league with the Devil.
But he was very shocked that his own uncle should have condoned such evil, and
he gasped, "Why, Mama' Why?"
"Because Richard believed them to be innocent, lad."
"But . . . but they were Jews!"
Nell sighed. "I cannot pretend that I understand a people who willfully reject
Our Saviour. It may be that the Lord God put them in our midst as a test of
our own faith. But we must not assume a man is guilty merely because he is a
Jew, Amaury. In this sad case, there were doubts about their guilt and so"
"Nonsense," Sanchia interrupted. "One of the Jews confessed, did
he not?"
"Under torture." But Simon had no interest in arguing with Sanchia, for he'd
long ago dismissed her as vain and frivolous. It was his son s view that
mattered. "Can you tell me, Amaury, who is the greatest sinnera Jew, an
infidel Saracen, or a heretic?"
That was a question Amaury could answer with ease; so well versed was he in
his catechism that his parents were considering for him career in the Church.
"The heretic, of course, Papa, for he knew Chns and then denied Him." .
Simon nodded. "Just so. But even the heretic has legal nShtSl does the Jew. It
is true that the Lincoln Jews were found guilty-   . doubts remained, for what
a man says on the rack is not reliable, ^ Not all believed the verdict was
just. Brother Adam Marsh did not, convinced me that justice had not been done.
He felt compelled to sp«
t On the Jews' behalf, as did his brother friars, even though they
° rurred muc^ abuse f°r it- And so it has been for your uncle. He would
ve gained from their deaths, for last year the King was so hard-pressed
jnoney that he sold all the English Jews to Richard. Had they been
nged, Richard would then have inherited all their estates. Instead, he
cured their release, and Londoners will not soon forgive him for it.
ftjat was an act of courage, Amaury."
"That was an act of lunacy," Sanchia snapped. "Till the end of his
days* men w^ l°°k at ^*m askance' and all f°r what? If Henry would on]y have
heeded Eleanor, expelled the Jews from the kingdom as he ought, none of this
would"
She stopped in mid-complaint, for Richard and Hugh de Lusignan were coming
back. Richard looked so disgruntled that it was obvious he'd been defending
himself to Hugh with little success. Nell saw all their carefully laid plans
going up in smoke, and she hastily suggested they move on to the tiltyard.
There Nell and Simon's sons, Harry and Bran, had been taking turns at the
quintain with their cousins, Edward and Hal, Richard's eldest son, while Guy
de Montfort and Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester's son, watched
enviously. Now that they had a more distinguished audience than two eager
thirteen-year-olds, the youths launched into mock warfare. In the first run,
Bran unhorsed Hal, much to Simon and Nell's delight, for Bran was but sixteen
to Hal's twenty-one. In the next run, all were surprised when Harry's lance
hit Edward's shield with enough force to send Edward sprawling into the
sawdust.
"So much for Henry's bragging." Hugh laughed. "To hear him talk, that lad of
his was born to the saddle, and handles a sword with the skill of
Charlemagne."
"Henry was not exaggerating Edward's prowess," Richard said, rather coolly.
"Edward is a fine swordsman, and he won high honors at his first tournament in
June. You're not seeing him at his best. He quarreled bitterly with Henry
yesterday and I expect it is still much on his mind."
"You mean Henry actually took the lad to task for some misdeed? thought he'd
see that as sacrilege!" Hugh laughed again. "In truth, ve never seen such a
doting father. It is understandable with Edward,
n!-6'8 3 likely lad' But Henrv codcues aH his brood, even that little lass
rus- and her deaf as a post and mute as a swan! Yet he shows nary a qualm
about keeping her at court."
A     e shook his head in bemusement, oblivious to the frozen silence. °rd of
La Marche and Angoul£me, he'd never needed to develop a "'jj^ty to atmosphere,
"tell bit her lip, reminding herself that they wanted this man's good
30S
will. "I would advise you not to speak ill of Katherine in Henry's hearing"
she said flatly. "He cherishes her no less for being a deaf-mute, mayh more.
He once overheard one of his chaplains bewailing her birth, savin it was not
fair that God should punish the King and Queen with a dumv child. Never have I
seen Henry so wroth. He cursed the priest roundi said God had given them
Katherine not as punishment, but because sh would need more love than other
children."
Hugh was in his mid-thirties, the eldest of Isabelle's de Lusigna offspring,
and the handsomest; he had his mother's sapphire eyes, hair like sun-silvered
flax, and now his smile was dazzling. "Henry is moonstruck, in truth. I
suppose if he had an idiot child, he'd find cause for pride in that, too!"
Nell's head swung toward her husband. With the utter certainty born of
eighteen years of wedlock, she knew precisely what Simon was about to saythat
Hugh might well be right, for Henry did seem to take pride in his idiot
half-brothers. She could already hear the sardonic inflection, the scorn Simon
could wield like a whip. She caught her breath, and then discovered that
mental telepathy worked both ways. As her eyes met Simon's, she saw his mouth
twist down. "I think Edward is in need of cheering," he said, in a voice husky
with rage, and turning abruptly, he strode away.
Edward was wiping mud from his face, ignoring Harry's gleeful gibes. Theirs
was a rivalry that stretched as far back as the cradle, a bond of more than
blood. Edward was not a gracious loser; he'd had too little practice. But he
was not too proud to learn from his mistakes, and despite his evident chagrin,
he listened intently as Simon pointed out where he'd gone wrong.
At seventeen, Edward was already taller than Henry, taller than most men. He'd
inherited from his father a drooping left eyelid and, as a child, Henry's fair
coloring. But his hair had begun to darken as he approached manhood, and in
temperament, he could not be more unlike his insecure, erratic father.
As they watched him conferring with Simon, the same thought was in all their
minds. It was Hugh who put it into words, saying dryly. "That boy might well
make me believe in changelings. Whatever did he do to incur Henry's
disfavorrape a nun?"
Sanchia thought that a jest in very poor taste, and she, too, turne away, upon
the pretense of watching Bran cross lances with Han) Richard and Nell did not
have that option. They exchanged glan<*s' concluded the time was now. .^
"Edward has been running wild for some months," Richard reluctantly, for he
was fond of Edward, did not relish laying bare
309
weaknesses before Hugh de Lusignan. But there was no help for it; coward was
becoming part of the problem.
"At first it was more mischief than malice. Edward and the youths in his
household would race through village streets at midnight, sending panicked
sleepers flying to their windows. Or they'd take a man's wagon, jater leave it
in a cemetery. But their behavior soon grew more unruly, more offensive. They
began to molest women, to harass monks, to stop travelers on the road and
seize their horses and goods. Earlier this sumrner, Edward came to my castle
at Wallingford, in the Thames valley. AS it happened, I was absent, and he and
his companions then invaded the nearby priory, where they despoiled the
buttery and wine cellar, beating those monks who dared to object. I urged
Henry to chastise him, but Henry insisted it was merely youthful high
spirits."
"There was some truth in that," Nell conceded. "I daresay my own sons have
sins on their souls that I'd rather not know about. But what Edward did upon
his return from Wales last month can in no way be dismissed as mere high
spirits. He became irked with a man he encountered on the road; mayhap the man
did not readily yield the right of way. But whatever the man may have done, he
did not deserve the punishment inflicted upon him. Edward ordered his servants
to seize the poor wretch, and at his insistence, they cut off an ear, gouged
out an eye."
Hugh had listened impassively. "The man was lowborn, was he not?" And when
Richard nodded, he shrugged. "Well, then," he said, letting the sentence trail
off significantly.
"That made it all the more outrageous, that the man was so defenseless," Nell
said sharply, and Hugh grinned, winked at Richard.
"I'd wager," he said, "that I'm now about to get a sermon on the ethics of
power, as decreed by Simon de Montfort."
Richard saw the pupils of Nell's eyes contract, and he reached for
her arm. But she shook off his hand. "My husband does indeed believe
wat power is entrusted to man by the Almighty, and the protection of
*"hnsf s poor is an inherent obligation of that power. But I am quite
capable of speaking for myself. You may fail to see it, but the implications
of Edward's behavior bode ill for him, for Henry, and for England. The
c°mmon people have begun to fear what sort of king he shall be. They
°nder if he would abide by his coronation oath, which promises peace
a justice to all Christians, even the lowly born. They suspect he would
honor the Runnymede Charter, that he would rule by whim, not
']?     ^ev klame Henry for yet another failing."
5j] ^Cnard gave his sister an approving look, pleased that she had not
Wfid her anger to divert her from the purpose at hand. "Nell is right,"
310
he said. "Edward has given men another stone to fling at Henry's door They
quote from Scriptures, that a man who spareth his rod loveth not his son. And
they say it is no surprise that Henry should be found wanting as a father,
just as he has been found wanting as a king."
Hugh prided himself upon the fact that little surprised him. But this did;
he'd not expected such unsparing candor. "I see," he said. "S0 we're telling
the truth. Very well, that's a game I can play, too. Either we assume the Lord
is not always infallible, after all, or Brother Henry is a private celestial
joke. But what of it? What do Henry's shortcomings have to do with me?"
"Not Henry's shortcomings, his troubles. I doubt that you realize just how
precarious his position has become. Ever since he came of age Henry has been
at odds with his barons, but never like this. First his duplicity over the
Castilian invasion, then the Sicilian madness. As a result, he has utterly
lost the trust of his lords, and trust"
"I know about the 'Sicilian madness,' as who in Christendom does not? Ever
since the Emperor Frederick's death, his empire has been unraveling faster
than the eye can follow. I understand the Pope tried repeatedly to coax you
into accepting the crown of Sicily, an offer you declined, quite sensibly,
since Frederick's bastard son, Manfred, is firmly in possession of Naples. But
when the Pope then made the same offer to Henry on behalf of his younger son,
Edmund, Brother Henry snapped at the bait like a starving trout. He would,"
Hugh said and laughed derisively before adding, "I do not give a farthing for
Sicily. I would like to know, though, if the rumors be true about the rest of
Frederick's domains. Is it true that you are seeking the German crown for
yourself? 'King of the Romans,' a fine, high-sounding title! What of it,
Richard? I've laid a wager with Aymer that you are, indeed, angling for a
kingship. Is my money safe, my wager won?"
Richard could not hide his displeasure. "You ought to know better than to pay
heed to common gossip," he said stiffly. "I would that I could share your
indifference about Sicily. But Henry has entangled himself so deeply in the
Pope's web that I see no means of escape. He has pledged to send an army to
Sicily, and if that were not enough, to pay all the papal expenses of the war
against Manfred, 135,000 marks, more than twice the annual revenues of
England!" ,
"It would take a veritable miracle for Henry to raise that kind ^ money," Nell
said. "But if he does not, the Pope will excommunica him and lay all England
under Interdict!" j
Hugh laughed again. "Henry must be a source of con"*f\was abiding comfort to
his enemies! So much for his Sicilian folly. W"a this talk about Castile?"
311
Nell shook her head. "It was not Henry's finest hour. He was in Gascony at the
time, after he'd been forced to ask Simon's help in putting down Gaston de
Beam's rebellion. Richard and Eleanor had remained in England, acting as
regents in his absence, and he sent them an urgent request for money, claiming
that Gaston de Beam's ally, the King of Castile, was about to invade Gascony.
But it was not true; although no one in England knew it yet, Henry had
dispatched John Mansel to Castile with a peace offer. Unfortunately for
Henry's scheme, whilst parliament was debating his demand, Simon happened to
arrive unexpectedly in England. He was astonished by this talk of invasion,
and explained that negotiations were in progress for Edward's marriage to the
King of Castile's sister. Simon was right, of course; the marriage took place
ere the year was out. But Henry's barons never forgave him for so blatant a
lie. Now he could swear upon the Holy Cross itself, and I doubt they'd believe
him."
"You are sure Henry is King John's flesh and blood? How any son of John's
could be so inept at intrigue . . ." Hugh shrugged. "I daresay we could stay
here till Vespers, swapping droll stories of Henry's blunders. But I suspect
you had more in mind when you lured me down from London. Just what is it that
you want from me?"
Richard could not help bridling. "I assure you we were not making sport of
Henry's weaknesses. We were seeking to convince you that he has ventured out
beyond his depth, that he right desperately needs someone to throw him a
lifeline. We hoped it might be you."
Nell found no encouragement in Hugh's skeptical smile, but she was determined
to try. "Henry is more vulnerable than he realizes, Hugh. Things cannot
continue as they are now. Unless Henry agrees to make reforms, they are going
to be forced upon him. But he still has time to mend his ways, and he could
help himself immeasurably by reining in his de Lusignan half-brothers, your
brothers."
Richard was nodding grim agreement. "You must understand, Hugh, just how hated
they are. To be honest, even had they been saints, they'd have stirred up
jealousy, so lavish has Henry been with his gifts, wardships, benefices. But
believe me when I say they have acted more like fin possessed than saints. Not
even a bishopric has sobered Aymer. bitterly has he quarreled with his monks
at Winchester that he went fonH*3S t0 'O°k tnem m tne abbey church, kept them
confined without th    ft°r 3 ^ t*lree days! Christ Jesus, how can you laugh?
You find
a fitting behavior for a Prince of the Church?"
^     ell vvas equally outraged. "I wonder," she said, "if you will find
y0u-0ry amusing, too. When one of Henry's cooks somehow offended
rotner Geoffrey, he had the man seized, taken to Guildford, where
312
he entertained himself by hanging the man by his heels, then having every hair
plucked from his head. The man died, Hugh, and Geoffrey dismissed the killing
with jests about bad cooking!"
Hugh was no longer laughing. "I assume complaints were made to Henry?"
"Yes," Nell admitted. "Henry's master of cooks came to him, as did the poor
soul's family. Henry ... he refused to take any action."
"Then what, pray, do you expect me to do?"
"Henry is unwillingor unableto curb their excesses," Richard said slowly.
"You're their elder brother; they might listen to you. If they care naught for
Henry's welfare, they must care for their own. If they continue to act in so
lawless and unchristian a manner, they might well find themselves answering to
men far less indulgent than Henry."
"They've feathered a right soft nest for themselves," Nell interjected
bitterly. "I doubt that they'd want to lose it. If you tell them that, Hugh-"
"No," he said, "I think not. They are Henry's problem, not mine, and I'd as
soon keep it that way. Better they should be in England, bleeding Henry white,
than back in Poitou, bleeding me white!"
Nell stood watching as Hugh headed toward the manor, with Richard trailing him
like a laggard shadow, shackled by the bonds of hospitality. Not so Nell. She
turned, wandered down the slope toward the river. Rows of ash trees lined the
bank, deep-green foliage feathered with clusters of amber, the seeds of
autumn. Occasionally she trod a leaf underfoot. The sky seemed boundless,
putting her in mind of a seascape, one that lacked even a single sail. She
could see not a wisp of clouds, but it was a September blue, too bright and
metallic for summer indolence.
She'd never given much thought to the seasons. She'd always taken her world
just as it was, a world vibrant and vital and earthy and at times implacable,
shy of nuance, alien to subtleties. But now she found herself caught up in an
inexplicable surge of sadness, a nostalgic longing that seemed somehow rooted
in her sudden awareness of the ebbing summer.
"Nell?"
"Simon?" She spun around. "Hold me," she said, surprising herself as much as
Simon. She saw a dark brow arch upward, but he put his arms around her, drew
her under the wavering shadows of a nearby ash.
"At the time, I thought it best not to linger," he said. "I did^no trust
myself, in truth. Was I wrong, Nell? Ought I to have stayedj'che
"No, Simon. We did but waste our time, waste our breath." ' said no more, and
he asked no questions; he'd known their appeal wo
323
fail. Nell slid her hands up his back; she could feel the tautness of muscle,
the body less supple than in his youth, but no less lean, the flesh still
firm. A body she knew better than her own. She still found it hard to sleep in
a bed alone, needing to be able to reach out to him, to hear his breathing in
the dark.
"Did de Lusignan's refusal distress you so much, then?" he asked softly/
bending his head so that he could touch his lips to the downcast curve of her
mouth.
"No, it's not that. This will sound foolish, but of a sudden I felt so very
sad, as if I'd suffered a loss." In the distance, Nell could hear voices, loud
and youthful, boisterous; their sons were approaching. She released Simon's
arm and stepped back, no longer the lover, once more the practical helpmate,
the political partner.
"I did learn something whilst we talked, Simon, and it is not good. I think
the rumors are true. I think Richard does mean to gain for himself the German
crown."
"I'd feared it was so," he confessed. "I've no reason to wish Richard ill, but
for England's sake, I hope he fails. Without him, Henry will be a ship without
a rudder."
"You see a storm gathering," she said, and he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I can tell you that for a certainty, Nell. I can tell you,
too, where it will break firstover Wales."
RHODRI ap Gruffydd arrived at Cricieth Castle on a drear, blustery afternoon
in mid-October. The sea churning the shore was a dull, leaden grey, and the
rain was constant. Rhodri was not surprised to get a sullen, ungracious
welcome from his brother; on such a dismal day, not even a saint could have
mustered much cheer.
Davydd showed no interest in Rhodri's gossip, and he brusquely refused his
brother's offer to play chess or tables. After a few sarcastic rebuffs, Rhodri
lapsed into a faintly offended silence. He thought he deserved better; he'd
ridden through a rainstorm for Davydd, after all. But he had to admit that
Davydd was generally good company. Captivity had not repressed his flippant,
irreverent humor, and even within the confines of Cricieth Castle, he somehow
found material for ribald, corn!cal anecdotes and practical jokes. Rhodri
wondered how he could be s° Mthe, so cocksure after more than fifteen months
at Cricieth. But en/ Davydd had always been an enigma to him. He loved Davydd,
^ed him, by turns resented and admired him. Yet he'd never underst°°d him.
.         was not even the natural rivalry of brothers so close in age, for
Ould not remember a time when Davydd had not utterly overshad-
314
owed him. He'd heard that Davydd had distinguished himself in the fighting at
Bwlch Mawr, would have expected no less. Davydd never lacked for courage, had
always raced recklessly ahead while he hung back. He could not change his
nature, could not help being cautious deliberate, introspective, not traits to
be scorned by any means, but traits that seemed dull, blandeven to himwhen
compared with Dav ydd's hell-for-leather dazzle.
Was that why Davydd had garnered all the love, all the approval? Rhodri had no
memory of his father, but he had few illusions about the other members of his
family. His mother had never paid him much mind, and for his brothers, it was
always Davydd who mattered, Davydd who came first. When, three years after the
Treaty of Woodstock, the English King had demanded that Owain and Llewelyn
again yield up a brother as hostage, Rhodri knew they'd never even considered
surrendering Davydd. He, Rhodri, was the last-born, the after-thought, the
expendable one. And so he had returned to England, passed four more years at
Henry's court, comfortable years, not unpleasant ones. But always the question
remained, a query to come to him in the early hours of dawn, in moments of
solitude. Why was it always Davydd? Why Davydd and never him?
As he stretched his muddied boots toward the hearth, Rhodri's eye was drawn to
an object half-hidden in the floor rushes. Leaning down, he fished out a
woman's garter. "Yours?" he said, and Davydd grinned.
"The lass who does my laundry. We were wondering where she left it." Reaching
for the garter, he deftly tucked it away under his pillow.
"I think you could find a woman in a Benedictine monastery," Rhodri said, and
Davydd grinned again.
"From what I've heard about some of the monasteries, that would be no great
trick!" Davydd's spirits were beginning to rise; he could never be depressed
for long. Sprawling upon the bed, he said, "Have you seen Owain?"
Rhodri nodded. "I was at Dolbadarn a fortnight ago. He's doing as well as
could be expected." The words sounded stilted, even to him; he saw Davydd's
eyes flick toward him, then away. "Davydd . . . how long do you intend to stay
here?"
"That is a question you ought to be asking of Llewelyn, not me.
"You hold the key to that door, and you well know it. Llewelyn would have
released you months ago if you'd only curb your tempe and your tongue. He does
care for you, Davydd."
Davydd glanced up, and Rhodri marveled that his eyes could seern so luminous
one moment, so frigid the next. "I suppose he does, said. "But he put Gwynedd
first, Rhodri. Owain put me first.
"What are you seeking to prove, Davydd? How does it help Ovf
315
to have you caged, too? I never knew you had such a craving for martyrdom!"
Davydd scowled, but his mouth was twitching, and in a moment, he was laughing.
"I know how you like to lecture me, but I suspect there's more to this than
you're telling. What do you know that I do not?"
Rhodri's smile was sheepish. "You always did read me too well. You're right, I
have found out something. Llewelyn is coming to see you again. I thought that
if you had advance warning, you'd have time to think, to realize what is at
stake. For God's sake, Davydd, tell him what he wants to hear and he'll set
you free. It is as simple as that!"
Davydd leaned back against the headboard, then slowly shook his head. "You are
wrong, Rhodri," he said. "Nothing is as simple as that."
LLEWELYN dismissed servants and guards before turning toward his brother.
Davydd was leaning against the table, his pose a little too calculated, his
nonchalance not quite convincing. Llewelyn shut the door. "We need to talk,
Davydd."
Davydd's shoulders shifted, a half-shrug. "If s fortunate, then," he said,
"that you happened to find me in."
Llewelyn parried the thrust with ironic agreement. "Very fortunate." He moved
into the room, not halting until Davydd was but an arm's length away. "What do
you know of the Lord Edward's dealings in Wales?"
That was not the opening Davydd had anticipated. "The English King's son?
That's a right odd question; Cricieth is no hermit's cell, after all. Edward
has held the crown lands in Wales for nigh on two years now, and I could
almost believe he was secretly in your pay, so faithfully has he been sowing
seeds of rebellion."
That mordant appraisal drew from Llewelyn an involuntary smile. "Your arrow
just hit the target dead-center," he said approvingly. "Edward has indeed
played into my hands at every turnappointing corrupt or inept officials,
entrusting so much authority to Geoffrey Langley, a man foolish enough to
think he could treat Welsh freemen like English serfs."
Despite his determination to remain aloof, Davydd felt his interest etching
fire; something was in the wind. "I always thought Langley w°uld eventually
make one mistake too many. Has he?"
'He seeks to introduce English law into the Perfeddwlad. He would
°rn the ancient laws of Wales, would govern our cantrefs as if they
la rf ^art °^ ^-heshire. He would make our people aliens in their own
Wn I ^ ^y^ have none of it. There were some who hoped Edward
111(1 see his folly, but this August he paid his first visit into Wales,
316
T
317
and nothing changed. Now ... it will. The men of the Perfedchvl ri have come
to me, have asked my help in ridding them of these Enelisk intruders. I told
them I would."
Davydd's eyes had begun to shine. "So it is to be war," he said and Llewelyn
nodded.
"I expect to be ready to cross the River Conwy by All Saints' Day I'd like to
have you at my side when I do, Davydd."
"And what do I have to do first?" Davydd demanded. "Grovel? Beg forgiveness?
Swear a blood-oath of loyalty?"
"No."
"No? Just like that?" Davydd's unease flared into an emotion he was more
comfortable withanger. "Why?"
That was a reaction Llewelyn had expected, though; he was still young enough
himself to remember that at eighteen, pride could bum higher than any fever.
He waited, saying nothing, and Davydd finally blurted out, "So I am to be
released, restored to favor. What else?"
"Is that not enough?" Llewelyn asked dryly, already knowing the answer he'd
get.
Davydd raised his chin. "No," he said, greatly daring, and then his brother's
smile told him that he had in truth risked nothing at all.
"The lordship of half of Llyn, and the cantref of Dyffryn Clwyd."
Davydd sucked in his breath. "Christ, Llewelyn, if you'd only offered that a
year ago . . ."He turned away, almost at once swung back to face Llewelyn. "I
will be accountable to you, of course. But what of the revenues? They'll be
mine?"
Llewelyn nodded. "You'll earn them," he said. "Lest you forget, Dyffryn Clwyd
is still infested with the English. We'll have to evict them ere you take
possession, lad."
Davydd grinned. "That," he said, "will be half the fun!" But even as he spoke,
a shadow crossed his face. "What of Owain?"
"I cannot trust him, Davydd," Llewelyn said quietly. "You know I cannot."
"Can you trust me?"
"I suppose I'm about to find out, am I not?"
Something flickered in Davydd's eyes, too quick to catch. "You re taking a
great risk," he said. "You do know that?"
"Yes," Llewelyn said, "I know. But a beautiful woman once told me that there's
nothing worth having without risk, and who am 1to dispute a lady?"
"I never thought women were ones for risk-taking."
"This one isNell de Montfort," Llewelyn said, and smiled at tnf
boy's surprise.
"I met her at Stevington. She is the King's sister, no?"
"Yes, she is that. But first and foremost, she sees herself as Simon
de Montfort's wife/- It was not working; banter could not dispel ghosts, could
not ex-rise Owain's presence, and they both knew it. Davydd's eyes nar-
° wed, caught the light like a cat's. "And how do you see yourself,
Llewelyn?" he said, with sudden bitterness. "As the Saviour of Wales?"
Llewelyn's gaze did not waver. "I think I'd prefer Holy Redeemer,"
.    murmured. "It has more of a ring to it, would probably look better
on charters."
A heartbeat's pause, and then they both were laughing. Llewelyn
opened the door and, still laughing, they left the chamber, emerged into
the mild October sunlight, within sight and sound of the sea.
FROM the pen of a thirteenth-century Welsh monk, in The Chronicle of
the Princes:
Edward, son of King Henry, came to survey his castles and his lands in
Gwynedd. And then the magnates of Wales, despoiled of their liberty and
reduced to bondage, came to Llewelyn ap Gruffydd and mournfully made known to
him that they preferred to be slain in battle for their liberty than to suffer
themselves to be trampled in bondage by men alien to them. And Llewelyn was
moved by their tears. And at their instigation and by their counsel, he made
for Perfeddwlad and gained possession of it all within the week.
FROM the pen
the Princes:
24
Westminster, England.
April 1258
j, I>|ATURE was occasionally bountiful, but never
s    ' and for two years now, the people of England and Wales had been
s .ennS cruelly from its vagaries. Severe winters followed by late, cold
8s had played havoc with the harvests, and famine soon stalked
I
318
the unhappy land. When Richard, now King of the Romans, dispatched from
Germany fifty ships heavily laden with grain to ease his country men's misery,
Henry provoked a torrent of outrage by seizing the shin and offering the
cargos for sale at inflated prices; so infuriated were th Londoners that Henry
was forced to back down. It was in this climat of ill will and mutual mistrust
that the Hoketide parliament was sched uled to meet, to consider Henry's
urgent need for money and the noless-urgent problem posed by the insurrection
in Wales, where Llewelyn ap Gruffydd now reigned supreme.
EDWARD paused in the doorway of the great hall, looked back at his parents. He
understood their somber demeanor, for the anniversary was approaching of their
daughter Katherine's death, and they were discussing with Henry's chaplain
their plans to mark Katherine's yearmind. Edward knew they still grieved for
the little girl, grieved, too, for the son they'd lost that same year, a
sickly infant who passed, too quickly, from cradle to coffin. But Edward was
not yet nineteen, too little schooled in grief himself to comprehend the
sorrow of a parent for a dead child; it seemed to him that they ought to have
come to terms with their loss by now, and he watched them with the
inarticulate, impatient sympathy of the very young.
"Edwardo?" Eleanora was looking at him with concern, and he found a smile for
her. He'd not yet bedded her, for she was just thirteen, but she was
sweet-tempered, easy to please, so obviously adoring that he was confident
she'd prove herself a most satisfactory wife, and he'd done what he could to
ease her homesickness for Castile. Taking her hand, he led her out into the
April dusk.
"They've aged so in the past year," he said.
She knew whom he meant. "How old are they?"
"I'm not sure about my lady mother; she never would tell! She's still of
child-bearing age, though, and my father . . . he'll be fifty-one come
October."
"But that is very old, Edwardo," she pointed out, so earnestly that he had to
smile.
"I know, lass, but it is more than age. It has not been a good year for them,
or for England ..."
She nodded. "The King was distraught by his failure in WalesShe caught
herself, but not in time. Wales was a sensitive subject, 'or it had been
Edward's failure, too. That past August he and Henry had led an army into
Gwynedd, but their campaign had ended in disaster They'd gotten no farther
than Deganwy Castle, had been forced to retre3 in less than a month, leaving
Llewelyn ap Gruffydd in unconteste
pr
329
tro) of Edward's Welsh lands. "I am sorry," she began shyly, but pHvvard
shrugged, leaned down to kiss her cheek.
"You are leaving?"
"I'm supping tonight with Hal and the de Montforts." He beckoned
the captain of his guards, hovering within earshot, then raised Elea-
Ora's hand to his lips in a more formal farewell. He noticed neither the
jjgappointment in her eyes nor that she stood there for some moments,
watching him cross the New Palace yard.
"No, Giles, not to the stables, to the wharf. We need my barge, no horses this
night; we're for Southwark."
The other man paused in the act of signaling to the waiting guards, looked at
Edward in surprise. "Southwark? I thought, my lord, that you said you were
meeting your cousins?"
Edward grinned. "I amat the Half-Moon."
The captain grinned, too, for the Half-Moon was one of the better known of the
bankside brothels. "This is one night," he said, "when those men not on duty
will be right envious of those who are!"
EDWARD could have predicted what he would find at the Half-Moon, for he knew
his cousins well. There was no sign of Hal, who was late again. Bran was in
the midst of a noisy, high-stakes dice game, while Harry had managed, as
always, to snare the prettiest whore in the house, a surprisingly fresh-faced
lass who'd yet to lose her country-girl bloom, and whose hair was not only the
shade of newly churned butter, but even looked reasonably clean. Seated on
Harry's lap, she was occupying most of his attention, and he did not notice
Edward's approach, not until Edward leaned over, claimed his tankard of ale.
Unfazed by the theft, Harry looked up, gave his cousin a wide, welcoming grin.
He was slightly drunk, but his good humor was not dependent upon ale; he had
none of his father's intensity or fervor, none of his brother Bran's perverse
unpredictability. Harry was by far the best-liked of the de Montfort sons, for
he had a happy-go-lucky disposition, a cheerful outlook, and a generosity of
spirit that enabled him to defer to Edward's compulsive need to command.
Because he was also willing to accept any dare, willing to follow Edward into
the seediest ^nkside tavern, to defy the City Watch and take part in midnight
horse races, heedless of risk, he had long been Edward's favorite companion,
at>d their friendship had not yet suffered from the increasing animosity of
their fathers.
With Bran, it was not so simple; he and Edward had a much more
Tatic relationship. There was affection on both sides, and a mutual,
Edging admiration, but their rivalry was constant, for tension was
320
inevitable with both youths so unwilling to relinquish the reins. Bran
acknowledged Edward's entrance now with a casual wave, but did not come over;
he would not leave the game as long as he was winning
Edward took a seat opposite Harry, signaling to one of the girls for more ale.
Brothels were not allowed to serve food or drink, but Edward's ale was
delivered with dispatch; he and his de Montfort cousins were known here, and
treated with an uneasy mixture of awe and apprg.
hension.
Within the quarter hour, Hal hastened in, flushed and out of breath He had
arrived only that morning from his father's manors in the West Country. With
Richard in Germany, much of the responsibility for     j maintaining his vast
English estates had fallen upon Hal, and he at once launched into a humorous
account of his troubles with guileful bailiffs and unruly tenants. He showed
no resentment, though, when Edward interrupted. Although he was twenty-two, he
seemed much youngergiven to sudden enthusiasms, readily influenced, Edward's
eager echo.
"We've more important matters to discuss, Hal. Harry, get rid of
the wench."
"Go to the Devil," Harry said amiably, slipping his hand into the girl's
bodice. But when Edward persisted, he gave an exaggerated sigh. "What is your
name, sweetheart?" When she murmured "Maud," all three of them looked at her
with new interest, for harlots invariably chose for themselves fanciful names
like Clarice and Petronilla. Maud was real, spoke of an innocence but recently
lost. Harry pressed a coin into her palm, coaxed a promise to wait, and as she
slid off his knee, he shot Edward a look of warning. "You'll have much to
answer for.
Ned, if I lose that one!"
"She'll keep," Edward said. It was probably true; he could not deny '    that
Harry had a way with women, even with whores, who were usually as sentimental
as horse-traders. "Hal needs to know what has been happening whilst he's been
gone."
"That's easy," Harry said. "Parliament met, Uncle Henry sought money to pay
off the Pope, the lords balked, and all Hell broke loose^ Edward ignored
Harry, kept his eyes upon Hal. "Right from *£ opening session, there was
trouble. John Fitz Geoffrey leveled ^^ against our de Lusignan uncle Aymer,
claiming that Aymer's serv attacked his manor at Shere, killing one of his
men. He demanded ju of my father the King, and when my father was loath to
bring *^ against Aymer, most of the barons took Fitz Geoffrey's side. But i
our Welsh woes that stirred up the most commotion." ap
"Is it true what I heard in the West Country, that Lle^ey Gruffydd has made a
pact with the lords of Scotland?"
321
Edward nodded grimly; his memories of their abortive summer campaign still
rankled. "Llewelyn is drunk on delusions, which the yVelsh fancy even more
than mead. There are rumors that he now dares to call himself Prince of
Wales."
"What you call delusions, Ned, Llewelyn doubtless calls victories." None had
heard Bran's approach, not until his voice cut through the smoky air above
their heads. "He did drive Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn out of Powys, did overrun
the Perfeddwlad, and did send your army reeling back across the border . . .
did he not?"
This was the sort of razor-edged banter in which they all engaged, but Bran's
mockery had a sharper bite than usual, cut a little too close to the bone; he,
too, had been drinking. Edward regarded him with unfriendly eyes, then turned
back to Hal.
"William de Lusignan was sorely affronted by Llewelyn's triumphs,
and"
"Of course," Hal interrupted, nodding knowingly. "He has the most to lose,
after all, what with his wife being heiress to the Pembroke estates in South
Wales." He had an unfortunate penchant for belaboring the obvious; all knew
William de Lusignan was Earl of Pembroke by right of his wifethat being the
most controversial of the lucrative marriages Harry had made on behalf of his
de Lusignan kindred, and Hal earned himself an impatient look from Edward.
But the name of William de Lusignan had acted upon the de Montforts as a goad.
Harry no longer slouched bonelessly in his seat, and Bran made a sweeping
gesture, came close to knocking the candle from the table into Hal's lap.
"That whoreson de Lusignan claimed that the other lords lacked the will to
fight the Welsh," he said tautly. "He accused my father and the Earl of
Gloucester of having a secret understanding with Llewelyn, and then . . . then
he even dared to call my father a traitor!"
Hal whistled through his teeth; he could not imagine any man
having the courage to challenge his uncle Simon like that, not to his
ace. "He said that and still lives?" he asked, amazed, and Harry nodded.
Regretfully, yes. Papa would have killed him then and there had
*e King not thrust himself between them!"
a* ^ not have given to see that!" Hal's eyes sparkled. Harry «rart did not
share his amusement; they passed some moments ;0 ^antty denouncing William de
Lusignan. Hal was tempted to tease, ^mind them that William de Lusignan was
their uncle, too, but Da* a§ainst it; Simon's sons were unlikely to find any
humor in that ^ar blood-bond.
v\4t brn ^OUn8 harlot was back, whispering something in Harry's ear ^ught him
swiftly to his feet. "If s now or never," he said dra-
322
matically, and swaying slightly, headed for the stairs, his arm around the
girl's waist. A moment later, Bran rose, too, and as Edward and H 1 followed
his gaze, they saw why. Hal pointed. "That lad, there, is that
not your brother Guy?"
Bran grinned. "Harry and I thought it was time he ploughed his first furrow.
He is fifteen, after all. But I think he's had his fill of ale If he gets too
greensick, this visit may not only put him off ale, it could
put him off whores, too!"
They joined in his laughter, watched as he made his way across the crowded
common chamber toward Guy. And then Edward leaned across the table. "I've more
to tell you, but I had to wait till we were alone There is a meeting being
held this very night, one that bodes ill for my father. I do not know all
their names yet, but our uncle Simon and the Earls of Gloucester and Norfolk
are the leaders."
Hal was impressed. "How did you find out about this meeting
Ned?"
Edward shrugged. "How do you think? I have eyes and ears where
I need them; money loosens most tongues. I do not know what their intent is,
but I like it not. They are men whose voices would be heeded, and they have
long been disgruntled with my father's government."
"Ned ... do not take this amiss, but we all know there is a need for reforms
of some sort. Even you have said as much. So why oppose
them now, why not"
"Why not? Would you let these men dictate terms to my father, to the King? A
king is responsible for his subjects, not to them. It is true that a king
ought to be ruled by the laws he makes, but no man can force him to obey the
law. A king's transgressions must be left to the judgment of God. For certes,
he is not accountable to self-seeking knaves
like Gloucester!"
"But what of Uncle Simon? Do you not believe he is sincere?" Edward hesitated;
his feelings for Simon were clouded with ambiguities and ambivalence. "Yes,"
he said, "I do believe Simon is sincere. And that, Hal, might well make him
the most dangerous of the lot. But he saw that his cousin did not comprehend.
Reaching across the table, he caught Hal's hand. "Swear to me," he said.
"Swear that whatever happens, you'll stand by me." "Jesu, Ned, of course I
will!"
"No," Edward said, with such intensity that Hal's smile faded. "No1 like that.
Swear to me not as your kinsman, but as your King-to-be. His fingers were
digging into Hal's wrist; they were perilously clo to the candle flame. Hal
felt a thrill of edgy excitement, a sense th»
jA A     SEl^
they were on the verge of momentous happenings. He nodded,     ^ with
self-conscious gravity, "I do so swear." Neither youth noticed
w
323
(Uey were being watched. Across the chamber. Bran drank and bantered ^ith his
companions, but kept his eyes upon his cousins all the while.
was Simon's turn to take the oath. He came forward, picked up the crucifix/
and for a moment his eyes flicked from face to facesolemn, shadowed by
torch-light. Richard de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, no friend Of his. Roger
Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, England's Marshal. His younger brother, Hugh. Their
brother-in-law, John Fitz Geoffrey, so recently wronged by the de Lusignans.
Peter of Savoy, Earl of Richmond, for they'd found a surprising ally in the
Queen's uncle. And, as always, Peter de Montfort. Simon closed his fingers
around the crucifix, held it up to the light.
"I do swear," he said, "as you have done, to help one another and those
belonging to us, against all people, doing right and taking nothing that we
cannot take without doing wrong, saving faith to our lord the King of England
and to the Crown."
ON the last day of April, they came in full armor to Westminster. Although
they put aside their swords before entering Henry's presence, he was so
alarmed that he blurted out, "What is this? Am I your prisoner?" The Earl of
Norfolk hastened to assure him that was not so, but then set forth their
demands, that Henry and his heir, the Lord Edward, swear upon the Holy Gospels
that they would accept the counsel and advice of "twenty-four good men of
England." Not for the first time, Henry shrank from confrontation, reluctantly
swore that he would accept their reformsmuch to Edward's dismayand it was
agreed that parliament would reconvene on June 11 in the Dominican friary at
Oxford.
^TH sides came armed to Oxford, under the pretext of preparing for war with
Wales. More than a hundred barons gathered for the opening sessi°n of
parliament, more than twice the usual number. After selecting e committee of
twenty-four, twelve chosen by the barons and twelve X the King, they began to
air their grievances. Henry was accused of
ating the Runnymede Charter, of not keeping his promises, of fa-
, °nr'8 aliens over his own subjects, of allowing corrupt sheriffs to sell
shce and plunder their shires, of refusing to consult with his lords,
.   n of forbidding Chancery to issue any writ that was adverse to his
'Brothers' interests. Sicily. The de Lusignans. The complaints were er°us,
irate, andto Henrybrazenly presumptuous.
325
But Henry could do naught but listen, and inwardly seethe, as his barons
appointed Hugh Bigod as justiciar, as they declared that henceforth
parliaments would meet three times a year, as they declared that sheriffs were
to be chosen by the local gentry of each shire and serve for only one year. It
was, for Henry, a profoundly humiliating experience It was no less of an
ordeal for his de Lusignan half-brothers, William de Lusignan, in particular,
was in a continual state of embittered, impotent fury, and as he dismounted in
the friary garth, it took only a glimpse of the one white-robed monk amidst
the black-clad Dominicans to put him into a murderous rage.
"There's that Welsh bastard now," he said, loudly enough to turn heads. The
Abbot of Aberconwy turned, too, but Anian then offered the ultimate insult,
letting his eyes pass over William with utter indifference as he paced
sedately toward the Chapter House. William swore again, far more profanely
this time. Of all that he'd so far endured in these ten days at Oxford, it was
the truce with Llewelyn ap Gruffydd
that he found most intolerable.
"You tell me, Geoffrey, that those misbegotten whoresons were not in league
with Llewelyn from the beginning! That puking priest's safeconduct was dated
]une second, nine full days ere parliament began, and who just happened to
escort him to Oxford? Leicester's lap-dogPeter de Montfort!"
Geoffrey shrugged. Unlike William, he had no lands in Wales, and
in consequence, he did not share William's obsession with Llewelyn ap
Gruffydd's ambitions. "A murrain on Wales, on all the Welsh," he said
impatiently. "What of our interests in England? What ails Henry? Why
did he ever agree to this accursed parliament? When I confronted him,
he claimed there was no other way to get the money he needs. He
rambled on about the Pope's threat to excommunicate him, insisted he
had to accept these reforms to get any aid from his barons. Why does
he not just demand that they obey him? Sometimes 1 wonder how tn
"- «-Qr-t \ackine all backbone as he does!"
. «« to be made of wax. WU
- frowning
^tton^l^'M^^oneffarheWtf^^^^
SilgESSSS*88"'
Was bad.
"You'd best get to the Chapter House," he said, "and right qui^ they have
sprung upon us an act of resumption, which would corn^ all those of foreign
birth to relinquish any castles and manors given i,
^em by the King!"
V/Uliam paled, for an act of resumption would take from him ^ only Hertford
Castle, but the royal demesne manors of Essendon, Bt, ford, and Bampton. With
Geoffrey hard on his heels, he started fort
Chapter House at a dead run.
there they found the chamber in turmoil. Men were yelling, sw(il ine Their
brothers Aymer and Guy were offering dismayed, bluste^ defiance. So was
Edward, who saw this action as an intolerable J straint upon the powers of
kingship. No one thought to appeal to H&, he sat, forgotten, as the debate
raged on about him.
William strode to the center of the room, by sheer persevev managed to shout
down the others. "Is it true that you would de» men of alien birth the right
to hold English castles?" He got a resom roar of assent; fully a dozen voices
cried out it was so. He whirle<j? toward the man he most blamed for their
plight, pointing an ac^, finger at Simon de Montfort. '
"What of Leicester? He's no more English than I am, yet h*u the most
formidable castles in all of England! Suppose you expk lord, why this act does
not apply to you. Tell us how you can J^ keeping Kenilworth and Odiham!" '
Simon rose without haste. "I have sworn an oath," he s^, uphold the Provisions
we have agreed upon here at Oxford j ° therefore, yield Odiham and Kenilworth
to the King. I woul<JN JJ' got no further; the chamber erupted into cheers and
laughter, |(1. Simon's enemies as well as his friendstook malicious pleasut,
4e Lusignans' discomfiture.
William de Lusignan was, for the first time in his life,| speechless. It was
Aymer who came to his assistance, saying sea'    ^ ^ "My lord of Leicester may,
indeed, surrender his castles. For (, 5 V" i-'-~ -* Vinlv oath of poverty, beg
his bread by the t(. 1*7,
- ">" manors J*ldf^
speechless. ItwasAymerwi-^ der his castles, roi^
"My lord of Leicester W'?^, beg his bread by the^ he may even take a holy oa h
of poverty^ 6       ^s       ^
But do" not expect us to ^^^, and he and he alo^ ^ were given to us by our
brother me
right to ask for their return. answer was almost^^
were given to us vy ""
right to ask for their return. answer was almost.^..^
Henry looked acutely ,*«/'     d to be guided by ^c& » to many in the chamber.
I hav   agr meet me eyes o!% ,?.
my lord barons," he mumbled, «**B     g ^ tQ ^
outraged brothers or his incredulous^ ^ ^ excony^
lament to them. Did they ^£    not__just this one*^ Detailed to pay the Pope?
Could they         ^ bone.w         J
selves in his place? How sick he was ot «,
326
constant wrangling, this endless strife. But that was not something h could
ever confess, for he knew they'd never understandEdward least of all.
The Earl of Gloucester, no less furious now than the de Lusignans was glaring
first at Aymer, then at William, as if unsure which one more deserved his
loathing. "I daresay you never expected a day of reckoning But it is here and
it is now. Fifteen of the King's castles are in the hands of foreigners, and
we sayenough!"
William had recovered his aplomb. "Say what you will, but we'll never agree to
relinquish our castles, our landsnever! And that, my lord, I do swear to you
on the very wounds of Christ!"
Men muttered angrily, but the de Lusignans held firm, and Simon at last lost
all patience. "The choice is yours, my lords," he interrupted "Either your
castles or your heads."
And that brought silence to the chamber, for none who heard Simon could doubt
he meant exactly what he said.
EDWARD was tense, defensive. "I suppose," he said, "that you think ill of me
now, that I've earned your scorn for refusing to abide by the Provisions."
To his surprise, and somewhat to his relief, Simon shook his head. "No," he
said, "a man should not offer his word lightly. If you have doubts, better you
resolve them first, for an oath, once given, is inviolate."
Edward's eyes flickered. "Are you so sure, Uncle, that I'll come around to
your way of thinking?"
"Yes," Simon said, and softened the arrogance of that answer with a smile. And
then he was on his feet, turning toward the door, for he'd heard the sound of
boots on the stairs, coming too fast for a commonplace errand.
Harry burst into the room, out of breath, but flushed with excitement. "Papa .
. . they've fled! The de Lusignans and de Warenne, they're gone!"
WOLVESEY Castle, official residence of the Bishops of Winchester, had
withstood a savage assault in the twelfth century, but the luxury-loving Aymer
had preferred a palace to a fortress, and when the barons followed the
fugitive de Lusignans to Winchester, Aymer and his brothers discovered that
they had neither the supplies nor the will to endure a prolonged siege. To
resist would be to give the barons what they mos wanted, an excuse to reduce
the castle to rubble, to treat its defenders
327
rebels. Their sense of self-preservation prevailed over pride, and Avmer
reluctantly gave the order to surrender.
They met in the great hall, and when Aymer, acting as spokesman for his
brothers, announced that they had reconsidered, would now be willing to honor
the Oxford Provisions, he garnered only a burst of derisive laughter.
That was most magnanimous, the Earl of Norfolk allowed, but too late. They'd
had their chance at Oxford. Now . . . now they were no longer welcome in
England, were to be banished from Henry's domains, never to return.
Henry's brothers were stunned, but when they appealed to Henry, they had their
answer in his averted eyes, in his wretched, shamed silence.
THE weather continued its perverse disregard for seasons, and famine and
plague hovered dangerously close at hand. July saw the departure of the de
Lusignans for France, after a disastrous farewell banquet at Aymer's
Winchester manor. A number of the highborn guests were afterward stricken, and
several died, including the Abbot of Westminster and the Earl of Gloucester's
brother. Gloucester himself fell ill, and for a time there were fears for his
survival. Inevitably, suspicions of poison followed. Although proof was
lacking, most men were only too willing to believe the worst of the de
Lusignans. Their banishment was welcomed with widespread and heartfelt joy.
Henry alone mourned.
The day had begun with a hint of hazy sun, and Henry had morosely agreed to
John Mansel's suggestion. Mayhap Mansel was right; mayhap a leisurely
excursion on the Thames would raise his spirits. But no sooner were they
heading downriver than the wind began to rise. The sky darkened so suddenly it
was as if night had fallen. As a youngster, Henry had once been trapped out in
a thunderstorm of awesome vio'ence; it had so scarred his memory that, even
now, a sky streaking with lightning would evoke uneasy echoes of that child's
fear. He ordered "is boatmen to make for shore, but the tide was against them,
and by we time they tied up at the Bishop of Durham's dock, Henry was soaked
to the skin and shivering uncontrollably.
The Bishop came out to welcome his unexpected guest, and after
°ne look at Henry's pallor, made haste to escort him into the hall,
touting for servants to light a fire for the King's Grace. Henry followed
^atefully, only to come to an abrupt halt in the doorway. In his anxiety
escape the storm, he'd completely forgotten that Simon de Montfort
ways stayed at Durham House while in London.
Simon had been sharing a flagon of wine with the Franciscan Adam
328
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329
: Bishop of Worcester. Simon's affinity for clerics had 10 of embittered
wonderment to Henry; it invariably pUf LJ ^
Marsh and the Bishop of Worcester. Simon's affinity for clerics had 10 been a
source of embittered wonderment to Henry; it invariably put j^-jj in mind of
the old adage, the one about the Devil quoting Scripruje With the possible
exception of Peter de Montfort, Marsh and Worcest were the men who stood
closest to Simon, companions, confidant Henry hated them for that. They
greeted him with concern, and h hated them for that, too.
Simon was holding out a wine cup. When Henry didn't move, he said, 'Take it,
my liege, and make yourself easy, for the storm is passing "
Henry yearned to knock the cup from Simon's hand. "I am indeed fearful of
lightning, I'll not deny it. But far more than any storm, I d0 fear your
ambitions, de Montfort!"
He heard an intake of breath, Adam Marsh's involuntary, shaken protest. But he
could read nothing in Simon's face. Simon turned, set the cup down upon the
table. "Your greatest failing, my liege," he said curtly, "is that you've
never learned to tell your friends from your ene-
mies.
"Do you dare to call yourself my friend?" Henry demanded, incredulous, and
Simon slowly shook his head.
"No," he said. "But I need not be your enemy."
"You are my enemyadmit it! You've done all you could to poison men's minds
against me, against my brothers. You harried them mercilessly, and even after
you brought about their utter ruin, that was not enough for you. No, you had
to send your son after them, had to"
"My son?" Simon was frowning. "What in God's Name are you talking about?"
"As if you did not know! Your Harry followed my brothers to Boulogne, so
stirred up the people against them that they had to take refuge in a local
priory, to appeal to the French King for aid!"
"Harry did that?" Simon's astonishment was so obviously unfeigned that Henry
decided that, in this at least, he may have wronged Simon. But then Simon
laughed, and Henry choked anew on his hatred.
"I know what you seekto make of me a crippled King. I know all about your
plotting. I know that you tried to get the London aldermen to take an oath to
your precious Oxford Provisions, and when they balked, you and Norfolk
summoned the citizens to the Guildhall, where you got them so wrought up that
they acclaimed the Provisions as they were Holy Writ." Simon's continuing
popularity with Londoners both baffled and infuriated Henry, and it was with
real venom that^he added, "Go ahead, pander to the rabble if you have so
little pride, will avail you naught!"
"Simon." Adam Marsh's voice was deceptively calm; his eyes g*
way his anxiety. But for once Simon seemed to have his temper in heck. He
glanced at his friend, then back at his King.
"I took an oath to keep faith with the Provisions. Need I remind u that you,
too, swore such an oath?"
"No," Henry snapped. "I remember."
"For all our sakes," Simon said softly, bleakly, "I hope you do."
25
Paris, France
June 1259
INlEiTHER the English nor the French yearned for a lasting peace, but their
sovereigns did, Henry because he had more than enough enemies at home and
Louis because he believed that Christian kings were natural allies. Although
it took Henry and his brotherin-law, the French King, fully five years, it was
at last agreed that Henry would renounce his claims to Normandy, Anjou,
Touraine, Maine, and Poitou, and, as Duke of Aquitaine, do homage to Louis for
Gascony, all that remained of the once-vast Angevin empire. Louis, in turn,
promised to pay Henry the sum necessary to maintain five hundred knights for a
two-year period, the knights to be employed only in the service of God, the
Churchor the welfare of England.
The impending peace was not popular with the English, even less
80 with the French, but it was not public disapproval that threatened to
sabotage the treatyit was the will of one woman. Henry's sons, Edjvard and
Edmund, were required, too, to renounce their claims to the °st Angevin
domains, and so were King John's other surviving children, "Knard, King of the
Romans, and Nell, Countess of Leicester. Much to j/nry's chagrin, Nell balked,
refusing to make any renunciation until penry P^d her the considerable sums
due her as widow of the Earl of
woke. Despite the unrelenting pressure brought to bear upon her, h- remained
adamantno renunciation without repaymentand if
resolve caused any embarrassment for Simon, who'd been one of
tpPPI
330
T
333
the chief English negotiators, none but he knew it. Henry fumed in vain Simon
supported his wife, and Louis seemed likely to need every partic/ of the
patience for which he was so celebrated.
FROM the dais, the French Queen had an unobstructed view of the entir hall,
and she had no difficulty in locating Simon and Nell de Montfort They were, as
always, encircled by friends and admirers, although this evening they were
sharing center stage with their nephew, the Lord Edward. Marguerite lowered
her voice, glancing toward her husband "Well? Had you any luck this afternoon?
Were you able to make Nell see reason?"
Louis shook his head. "Those who dismiss women as the weaker sex," he said
mildly, "have never met the Countess of Leicester."
Marguerite frowned. "Has she no thought for her brother? She is making poor
Henry look a right proper fool. I even heard people jesting about it this
forenoon, saying that if Henry lacks the wherewithal to be a man, his sister
for certes does not!"
"I would that she'd not chosen to hold the treaty hostage, and cannot sanction
her methods. But in truth, my dear, her grievances against Henry do have some
merit. She was but fifteen when she was widowed, and it was Henry who
negotiated on her behalf with her husband's brother. Their Runnymede Charter
provides that an English widow is entitled to fully one-third of her late
husband's lands. But Henry accepted six hundred marks a year for Nell, when by
rights she ought to have gotten two thousand. He then permitted the Marshals
to delay payments, to fall far into arrears. And once the Pembroke earldom
passed to his de Lusignan half-brother, he even took it upon himself to waive
some payments altogether. No, for all the affection I bear Henry, I must
confess that some of his actions passeth all understanding."
"I'll grant you that Henry has been remiss. Even so, where does Nell get the
gall to defy two Kings and the Church? Do not ever tell my sister this, for
Eleanor would never forgive me. But at times I find myself admiring Nell's
sheer pluck!"
Louis smiled. "Yes," he said, "I like her, too."
"Not too much, I trust," Marguerite murmured archly, for Nell was, even at
forty-three, still a very handsome woman. "Since we are making confessions, I
might as well admit that I enjoy Simon's company,toa To hear Henry talk, the
man is verily the Prince of Darkness, but in truth, I" She paused, alerted by
her husband's frown. "Louis?'
"The Earl of Gloucester just entered the hall," he said, and she gav a
comprehending nod.
"You fear trouble with Edward? Why are they so at odds?"
"Conflicting claims to Bristol Castle, I believe. Moreover, they like ch other
not. But Simon, too, bears Gloucester a grudge."
Louis signaled for wine, waited until his cup-bearer withdrew from arshot.
"Gloucester and Simon were allies by expediency, not choice, and they were not
long in falling out. I've been told, they quarreled bitterly during the
February parliament over their Oxford Provisions. Gloucester wanted the
reforms to apply only to the King, whilst Simon masted that they should apply
as well to the barons themselves. Gloucester jj a great landholder, and he was
not eager to have the reforms extended to his own tenants. It probably could
have been settled amicably, but Simon lost his temper, as usual, and he and
Gloucester had a blazing row. The Earls of Norfolk and Hereford prevailed upon
Gloucester to make peace with Simon. But it was a false peace, in truth, and
in this past month they've spent as much time wrangling with each other as
they have negotiating the treaty."
Marguerite found the prospect of a public quarrel exciting, but for decorum's
sake, she sought to sound disapproving as she said, "Do you truly think they'd
argue here and now, before all the court?"
Even as she spoke, voices were rising, heads turning. "Yes, my dear," Louis
said dryly, "I do," and came hastily to his feet. Marguerite rose, too, eager
to see. "How ill-bred the English are," she marveled, remembering, too late,
that Simon was French.
Simon was regarding the Earl of Gloucester with undisguised contempt. "You are
mistaken, my lord," he said, managing to imply that Gloucester's "mistake"
could only be the result of moral obtuseness or evil intent. "The Oxford
Provisions are neither extreme nor radical. We seek only to counsel the King,
to restore harmony to the realm, and to see that no man be denied justice. Any
problems that have since arisen may be traced to the unwillingness of some to
put aside their self-seeking wd think of the common good."
"Self-seeking?" Gloucester sputtered. "By God, you've a droll wit, de
Montfort! That you, of all men, would dare to accuse another of selfseeking!
What of the treaty?" Swinging about, he pointed an accusing toger at Nell.
"For months we have labored to reach an accommodation with the French, only to
have this womanyour womanset our efforts naught! Were she my wife, you may be
sure she'd do as she was "Jden, and right quickly. But you, my lord of
Leicester? Not only do y°u indulge her willfulness, you argue in her behalf!
Which means Y   er that you cannot control your own wife, or that she acts in
this as
_ puppet, and neither explanation does you credit! If she does not" My lord."
Simon's voice was suddenly soft, and those who knew
332
him best tensed. "Think carefully ere you complete that sentence. D0 you mean
to threaten my wife? Because if you do, my lord of Gloucester I trust you are
willing to accept the consequences."
Gloucester hesitated; although he was not intimidated, Simon's rep. utation
did warrant a certain degree of caution. "Of course I am not threatening the
Countess of Leicester," he said impatiently. "I was but "
"being offensive," Edward interrupted, more than willing to put his oar into
these turbulent waters. "I think you owe His Grace of Leicester an apology.
You do, for certes, owe one to my aunt!"
"What I owe you," Gloucester began heatedly, but at that moment Louis reached
them.
"My lords," he said, "this is not seemly." And it took no more than that, for
Louis had long ago mastered that art which still eluded Henry, the ability to
command respect, both as a man and monarch. Moreover, Gloucester and Simon now
became aware of their amused audience, for the French court was highly
entertained by this diverting display of English bad manners. Summoning up
what grace they could, both offered apologies to Louis. Neither one apologized
to the other, but Louis was too much of a realist to expect that. Instead, he
engaged Gloucester in conversation, deftly piloting him away from Simon and
Edward.
Simon said nothing; he was too angry, did not yet trust himself to speak.
Edward claimed the nearest man's wine cup, drank deeply. It was left to Bran
to articulate their shared outrage. "That man," he said bitterly, "has a
poisoned tongue. It would give me great pleasure to cut it out by the roots."
"You always were a greedy sort, Bran." Harry was fumbling for a coin. Flipping
it up into the air, he said, "Call it." The jest was a grim one, but it
worked; some of the tension was dispersed by laughter.
"Simon?" Nell was so flushed that Simon took her arm, drew her aside. "Simon,"
she said softly, "I am so sorry. The last thing I wanted was to give your
enemies a weapon to use against you."
He shrugged. "Whilst I was in the Holy Land, I learned a Saracen proverb: The
dogs bark, but the caravan passes on. That may be infidel wisdom, but it is
wisdom all the same."
"Yes, but . . ." She bit her lip, and Edward, close enough to overhear this
brief exchange, stepped toward her. He was very fond of Nellfor unlike his
father, he did not blame her for her loyalty to Simon. Since both Church law
and common law bound a woman to obey her husband/ Edward did not see how Nell
could do otherwise than support Simon/ and whilst he would not have tolerated
Nell's volatile spirits in his ovw Spanish bride, he found it easy enough to
indulge a favorite aunt. But could not resist teasing, even as he put an
affectionate hand on Nell's am^
"Does this mean, Aunt Nell," he murmured, "that you no long6
333
care about your dower payments, that you'll make the renunciation?"
"No!" The answer was so unpremeditated, so lightning-fast that both Simon and
Edward laughed.
Looking about for a secluded corner, Simon's eyes lit upon a heavy, carved
screen. "Come with me," he said, and steered Nell toward the privacy of that
oaken partition. "Now . . . tell me. Do you not believe your grievance against
Henry is a just one?"
"You know it is, Simon! Henry has cheated me not only of my dower, but of my
share of our mother's inheritance. To please her, he agreed to relinquish any
claims to her lands in AngoulSme, which was his rightbut then he dared to
renounce my claims, too! And what of the vast sums he's borrowed from us over
the years, money never repaid, and" She stopped, for Simon had put his finger
to her lips. After a moment, she managed a smile. "The answer to your
question," she said, "is yes."
He nodded. "Then what more need be said? We both know Henry's sworn oath is
worthless. A Christian would keep a vow made upon the True Cross; even a Jew
would hold to an oath sworn upon his own holy book. Henry would be false in
either faith, and I'd sooner grapple with an eel than try to keep him to his
word. But this treaty is a forked stick, enabling us to pin him to the ground.
In truth, Nell, we'd be fools not to make use of it."
"I know. But Simon, I do not want to see you hurt on my behalf!"
"Would you have me fear Gloucester? That stoutheart might have been sired by a
weather vane, so faithfully does he follow the prevailing winds!" Simon
reached out, put his hands on Nell's shoulders. "Believe me, Nell, when I say
I am not loath to uphold your rights. Whatever you can gain for our children
gladdens me. Moreover, I do owe you this. For all of our marriage, you have
stood by me, and that loyalty cost you a brother's love, a King's favor. So it
gives me pleasure, my heart, to do this now for you."
"Ah, Simon . . ."His endearments were rare, all the more cherished m
consequence. "There are times," she said, "when I could right cheerfully push
you down a flight of stairs. But there are other times, like now. . ."
He grinned. "Hold that thought," he .said, "until tonight," and taking her
hand, he led her back into the hall.
They were joined at once by Edward and their sons, which did not Pass
unnoticed. Marguerite frowned, touched her husband's arm. "It ^ems to me," she
said, "that Edward is too much in Simon's company
ese days. Henry would not approve." .    'No, he would not. It is not
surprising, though, that Edward and
°n should seek each other out. Simon could have no more valuable
334
ally than the King's son. And Edward, for all his youth, has a fine gras of
military tactics. Divide and conquer, no? If he could somehow WIT, Simon away
from the other disaffected barons, he'd be doing Henry great service."
"Do you think Edward might succeed?"
"Should God so will it. But I think it unlikely, my dear. In all th years that
I've known Simon de Montfort, only two men were able to influence his
thinking, the sainted Bishop of Lincoln and the Franciscan Adam Marsh, and
both are dead."
"Well, then, is there any chance that Simon might sway Edward? He is only
twenty, after all."
"My first inclination would be to say no; we both know how headstrong Edward
is, and how willful. But Simon ought never to be mjs. prized, not a man who
could win himself an earldom with his tongue1 Nor has he changed much over the
years; he still burns with all the zeal and ardent conviction of his youth. It
is a contagious infection, Simon's passion, and a dangerous one, for he can
imbue the most ordinary task with all the color and allure of a holy quest. As
to whether Edward will be immune, only time can tell."
"I pray to God he is," Marguerite said, "lest he break Henry's heart."
Louis nodded somberly. "Whatever happens," he said, "I very much fear that
naught but strife and discord lie ahead for the English."
Even after twenty-five years of marriage, Marguerite could find herself
surprised by her husband's lack of rancor. "Given the bad blood between our
two countries, most French kings would welcome English dissension. Is there no
man, Louis, whom you count your enemy?"
He considered the question gravely, as if it had been seriously posed; humor
was no less a foreign tongue to him than English. "The Jew, the heretic, the
infidel, all who deny the Lord Christ," he said, "they are my enemies."
"But not the King of England."
"No, not Henry." And then he smiled. "And not Simon de Montfort, either."
AT the insistence of the French King, fifteen thousand of the marks to be paid
to Henry were set aside, to be held while Nell's claims were submitted to
arbitration. Nell then agreed to make the necessary renunciation, and the
treaty was finally ratified in Paris on December / in the presence of both
monarchs.
<r*s
335
HE Oxford Provisions stipulated that there were to be three parliaments
year, and in late January 1260, Simon and Nell sailed from Normandy.
But Simon's haste was for naught. The Candlemas parliament could not
meet, for Henry was still in France. There were urgent matters to dis-
ss Llewelyn of Wales was besieging Edward's castle at Buellt, and
there were reforms still to be implementedbut nothing could be done in the
King's absence. As long as Henry remained in France, he effectively paralyzed
the opposition.
"i would be heard," Simon said, striding toward the center of the chamber. "I
have listened as you berated the King, accused him of bad faith, and bewailed
our plight. But we are not as powerless as some of you seem to think. There is
an obvious solution, so simple I marvel that none of you have thought of it.
We no longer wait for the King; we hold the parliament now."
There was a shocked silence; more than one lord looked at Simon as if he'd
suddenly lost his senses. Hugh Bigod, the Justiciar, was shaking his head in
disblief. "You cannot be serious!"
"Indeed, I am. What could be more logical? Are we to permit the King to
cripple all our reforms merely by fleeing to the French court? If so, my
lords, the Oxford Provisions will be meaningless, will"
"But to summon parliament in the King's absence?" Bigod was not the only one
to seem shinned; even some of Simon's supporters looked uneasy. "My lord of
Leicester, think what you are suggesting. The King would no longer be the
ship's captain, would be no more than a figurehead, carved upon the snip's
prow!"
"Nonsense," Simon said impatiently. "To put it in your terms, we are only
asking for a say in plotting the ship's course. If we have no right to meet
except at the King's pleasure, we are utterly at his mercy. Is that what you
want, my lords?"
Glancing about the chamber, Simon saw that the younger lords were ^ginning to
nod agreement. The Earl of Surrey had made a complete tonabout since the
expulsion of his de Lusignan brothers-in-law, was now one of Simon's more
fervent disciples, and he and the young Earl °> Derby were caught up in the
sudden excitement, echoing Simon's arguments to their neighbors. But Simon
knew they were too youthful, too ^Uow, to influence the others. "What say you,
my lord Bishop?" he asked.
Walter de Cantilupe, Bishop of Worcester, was a friend, but a man such
integrity that his opinion would not be suspect. Getting slowly s feet, he
said, "My lord of Leicester is proposing a radical reform, e not to be
undertaken lightly. And yet. . . and yet, how else can e redeem the
Provisions?"
336
Looking about him, Hugh Bigod saw, to his dismay, that Sim0 might well
prevail. Most of the men present lacked Simon's imagination his audacity, but
they did share his frustration, and as Simon now explained it, his proposal
began to seem more and more reasonabl Men repeated the Bishop's query: what
else, indeed, could they do?
"I do not know what alchemy you work here," Bigod said softly to Simon. "But
I'll not let you infect us with your madness." Raising his voice, he said,
"The Lord Edward sent me word that he would be attending this session. He
ought to be here within the hour. Which of you wants to tell the King's son
that you mean to hold parliament in his lord father's absence, against his
lord father's express wishes?"
Edward's fiery temper was already becoming a byword, and Bigod saw disquiet
flicker from face to face. As he'd hoped, Simon's spell began to waver before
the reality of Edward's outrage, and Bigod turned triumphantly to face Simon,
sure that he'd wonuntil he saw Simon's
smile.
"I think you will be most interested in what the Lord Edward has to say,"
Simon said, raising his hand for silence. "You see, he and I are in agreement.
He, too, thinks that parliament ought to meet."
THOROUGHLY alarmed by the reports coming across the Channel, Henry took the
French King's advice and hastily returned to England. Accompanied by armed
mercenaries, he arrived in London on Friday,
April 23.
William Fitz Richard, the city's Mayor, and both city sheriffs were summoned
to the Bishop of London's manor, where they were confronted by a very angry,
very distraught King, who ordered them to bar the city gates to the Earl of
Leicester and the Lord Edward, his son and
heir.
Henry's brother was a silent, disapproving witness to this harangue. Richard
was accustomed to Henry's histrionics, but even he had been shocked by this
latest tangent of his brother's, and as soon as they were alone, he said
incredulously, "Henry, you cannot mean this! How could you possibly believe
that Edward has been plotting to depose you?'
"You think I want to believe that? Blood of Christ, Richard, we're talking of
Edward, my flesh-and-blood, my firstborn! But what else can I think? Has he
not allied himself with that treacherous, swagger"^ hellspawn? He does de
Montfort's bidding, Richardmy own son! He backed de Montfort's treason, agreed
to have parliament meet m J absence, and when de Montfort and his lackeys
dared to dismiss\ wife's uncle, Peter of Savoy, from the royal councilmy own
coun ^ Edward even agreed to that, too! He is evil, Richard, evil, and danw
337
everlasting Hell for his double-dealing, that I swear to you upon the very
bones of St Edmund!"
"Who?" Richard said coldly, "Edward or de Montfort?" and Henry ave him a
startled, reproachful look.
"De Montfort, of course. Jesu, Richard, what ails you?" "Henry, do you ever
listen to yourselftruly listen? The man is infuriating, arrogant, and
Lucifer-proud, but the Antichrist he is not, Brother. And in all honesty,
you've done your share to poison that well,
too."
'That's a damnable lie! I've been more than fair to that whoreson."
"By selecting Gloucester as one of the men to arbitrate Nell's dower claims?
I'd say you have a right quaint concept of fairness." Richard shook his head
wearily. "So far you've called de Montfort a whoreson, a traitor, a liar, a
hellspawn. Have you forgotten that he is also our sister's husband?"
"And have you forgotten that he brought hired mercenaries with him from
France? Or that he holds Kenilworth and Odiham, two of the most formidable
castles in Englandcastles he swore to surrender to the Crown! The man is a
menace, Richard, a danger to us all; how can you not see that?"
"He did yield the castles," Richard pointed out. "The barons then returned
them to his custody." But his heart was not in his defense; he was furious
with Simon, too. "Henry, this serves for naught; we can argue about de
Montfort from now till Judgment Day. But what of Edward? How can you doubt his
loyalty? Do you not realize how much Gloucester hates him? Since Gloucester's
return to England, he and Edward have quarreled each time they've met, twice
almost coming to blows! Whatever he has told you is suspect, Henry, is"
"There was a time when you were right fond of Gloucester!"
"Do you truly think I need you to remind me that the man is my stepson? Yes, I
was once wed to his mother, and yes, I was fond of him. He was a likable
ladthen. But now I'd sooner trust a Gascon, and I'd believe a converted Jew
ere I would Gloucester. Lest you forget, he was °ne of the lords responsible
for the Oxford Provisions. Yet this is the "^TI who now seeks to curry favor
with you, the man who would poison y°ur mind against your own son!"
Edward's actions speak for themselves," Henry muttered, and ^ed away to pour
himself wine. ^ Richard followed, unrelenting. "Tell me again," he demanded.
"Tell
you mean to hold to this madness, refusing to see your son."
Idar SPUn around- "Do you not tnink I want to see the lad? But
from nOt/ ^*cnard' I dare not- F°r if I were to see him, I could not keep
ernbracing him, from forgiving him any sin, even treason ..."
338
IT
There were tears in Henry's eyes, and Richard's irritation ebbed away. It was
fifteen months since he had returned from Germany, arid while he did not
repent of his decision to stand by Henry in his tin, of need, his resentment
had begun to fester, for Henry had taken hi homecoming for granted. But he had
not consolidated his hold on Ger many; the King of Castile was a rival
claimant for the German crovvn. and the Pope was no longer offering his
unqualified support. Richard thought it the ultimate irony that, in seeking to
secure Henry's throne he might well have sacrificed his own. Looking at his
brother now' though, he felt a sharp throb of pity.
"I'm going to Edward," he said. "If he can satisfactorily explain his
behaviorand I'd wager the surety of my soul that he canI am then bringing him
back here, so he may make his peace with you. Do you
agree f
Henry swallowed. "Yes," he whispered. "Please .
"HOW could he believe that of me?" Edward sounded stunned. "That I meant to
depose him and rule in his steadChrist, that is madness!"
"Kings are prone to madness of that sort," Richard said grimly. "But in his
heart, lad, he knows you'd not betray him, wants only to be reassured of
that."
"This is that whoreson Gloucester's doing!"
Richard nodded. "Gloucester baited this hook with care, and Henry could no
more resist it than he could fly, for the mere mention of Simon's name can
throw him into a frenzy. In truth, lad, where Simon is concerned, he is like
one possessed, so consumed with suspicion that it has clouded his wits,
allowing him to think the unthinkable."
"No matter how much he hates Simon, how could he ever suspect me? What I've
done, I've done for him!"
Edward had begun to pace. "My uncle Simon would never plot to depose the King;
in that, my father wrongs him. But he is besotted with those damnable
Provisions, so much so that I think he's gotten them confused with the
Commandments. When he began to feud with that Judas, Gloucester, I sought to
turn their discord to our advantage. And I did, Uncle! Simon trusts me now,
confides in me. He Why do y°u look at me like that? Do you not believe me?"
"Yes, lad, I believe you. I do not doubt that was your intent. BU you are no
longer traveling that road, Edward, have been led astray* into" .,
"What are you saying, Uncle? That I've become Simon's pupr ' Think you that I
am so weak-willed, so simple?" . ,^
"No, Edward, merely young. You are not the first one to misj11 "
339
He Montfort's ability to bedazzle. I've watched him for nigh on thirty vears,
and even I do not fully understand how he so easily inflames the pagination.
But again and again I've seen him"
"With all due respect, Uncle, that is nonsense!"
"Is it? Tell me this, then. Why did you support Simon's demand to hold
parliament in your father's absence?"
"Because," Edward said angrily, "Papa had miscalculated, and badly. I do not
understand how he can be so short-sighted. Better to deny a fieht altogether
than to grant it and then seek to disavow it. By agreeing to hold regular
parliaments, and then reneging, Papa did needlessly stir up rancor and
resentment. It is dangerous to make men feel cheated; that is not the way to
handle them. Give them nothing and they have nothing, then, to lose. Rather,
give them a little, lest they ask for a lot, just enough to content them, not
enough to whet their appetites for more. Jesu, Uncle, it is so simple! Why can
my father not see that?"
"So you were seeking only to repair the damage done by Henry's foolishness?
Fair enough. But answer for me one question. How did holding that parliament
serve your interests as the next King of England? What happens once you're on
the throne and your lords want to follow Simon's example?"
"You said one question, Uncle, not two." But Edward's sarcasm was defensive,
and color was rising in his face. "The answer is easy. Once I am King, I would
forbid it, of course. Men will not defy me as they do my father."
"But did you not just arguevery convincinglythat it was a great mistake for a
king to confer a privilege and then revoke it? Simon's parliament would set a
dangerous precedent, one to haunt future kings, to haunt you, Edward. He took
from you a measure of your authority, even made of you an accomplice in his
usurpation. And yet you'd have me believe that you'd not been infected by
Simon's zeal, that you were totally immune to his blandishments!"
Edward turned away without answering, and Richard relaxed in s seat, content
to wait until Edward's pride would permit him to ask how he could make peace
with his father. He was well pleased with what he had accomplished, for
Henry's breach with his heir had to be ealed at all costs, and if in the
process, he'd just sown some lasting seeds of enmity between Edward and Simon
de Montfort, so be it.
s   u are not being fair!" Edward's indignation was colored with genuine
"Tnse, for his past experience had led him to expect people to accept Hj
excuse he deigned to offer, even to make the excuses for him. "I ght you would
understand," he said, and Simon shook his head.
340
"No," he said, "I do not. In these past months, we've spent count less hours
discussing the Provisions. You agreed wholeheartedly that they must be upheld,
that there was an urgent need for reform. Yet after just one meeting with your
father, you are now willing to disavow all our efforts?"
Edward's mouth tightened. "I love my father too much to cause him further
grief," he said, and Simon reached out, grasped his wrist
"If you truly love your father, lad, do not abandon him to evil counsel, to
men like John Mansel and Gloucester. Use your influence Edward, lead him back
to the right path. Set him an example, show him that a king must keep his
oath, that he must think of the common good, for even the least of his
brethren are deserving of justice. If the Lord God pays heed even to the fall
of a sparrow, can the King do less? These are lessons he must learn, Edward,
lessons you alone can teach him."
As flattering as Simon's appeal was, the message itself was alien to Edward.
As far as he could determine, Simon's politics seemed to be a peculiar form of
Christian chivalry, in which the ideals of knighthood were sanctified by
faith, and he'd quickly concluded that Simon had paid too much heed to the
visionary Bishop of Lincoln, for such an uncompromising code of ethics
belonged in Camelot, not England in God's year 1260. It was never Simon's
political theories that Edward had found so seductive; it was the blazing sun
of his enthusiasm, the camaraderie of a shared quest with the greatest soldier
of their age. But that singular sense of comradeship was no more; that, his
uncle Richard had destroyed, utterly and for all time, leaving behind a
residue of bitterness, self-reproach, and resentment.
He jerked free of Simon's hold. "I am beginning to think that your enemies do
well to suspect your motives. What would you have me do, fight my own father?"
Simon stepped back. "I would have you honor your word. Is that too much to ask
of you? Of a sudden, I think it is."
Edward flushed. "It is not for you to criticize me, my lord Earl. A man may be
judged only by his peers, his equals. I am a King's son, and therefore I am
answerable only to my father, the King of England, and my uncle, the King of
the Romans. Not to you!"
Simon was now flushed, too. "Yes," he said scathingly, "you are indeed Henry's
son!"
"I am also the grandson of King John, a man who did not forge' his enemies.
You'd best bear that in mind!" Edward's anger had blinde him to all but Simon.
Turning, he brushed past Nell as if she were not there, stalked from the
chamber.
There was an involuntary cry of "Ned!" from Harry, and then tn slamming of the
door. Simon had moved to the hearth. Nell followe -
341
put her hand on his arm. He shrugged it off, but she forbore to take offense,
for she knew the depths of his disappointment. "You tried," sne said. "What
more could you do?"
"He never believed in the Provisions, Nell. If he had, he could not have
renounced them with such ease. Lies, all lies! He cares naught for the
Provisions, naught for our common enterprise. So he does not forget f,is
enemies? Well, neither do I!"
Simon swung about, reaching for his mantle, and Nell cried, "Where do you go
at such an hour?"
"Wherever my horse takes me," he said brusquely. "I need the air, need time
for my anger to cool. Do not wait up."
She did not like the idea of his riding abroad, alone, at night, but she knew
it would be futile to protest. "Just do not jump any fences," she shouted
after him. "Last time you almost broke your neck!"
An unhappy silence settled over the chamber, for Harry and Bran were no less
troubled than Nell by this sudden rupture with Edward. But Guy appeared
unfazed. "I am Edward and answerable only to God," he said mockingly, "for I
am surely a sovereign's son!" He was a clever mimic, but a cruel one, too, for
Edward did have a slight lisp. Bran's mouth twitched, Nell frowned, and Harry
snarled:
"Curb your tongue, you impudent whelp!"
Guy had inherited his full share of Simon's volcanic temper, and at seventeen,
he was still exploring the outer boundaries of manhood. "I take no orders from
you, Harry!"
Nell was not pleased, but she did not interfere. She and Simon believed their
sons should settle their own disputes, and intervened only when blood seemed
likely to flow.
It was Bran who acted as peacemaker, in his own inimitable way. "I've got ten
marks, Mama, that says the cub knocks Harry on his arse."
Harry snorted. "If you've got ten marks," he gibed, "it means you filched my
purse again!"
"I most certainly did not," Bran said. "If I was going to steal from anyone,
it would be from Amaury!" As Amaury was the one miser in a family of
incorrigible spendthrifts, that got a laugh. But then Bran's grin faded. "Why
be so quick to defend Ned, Harry? How can you justify what he's done?"
"I do not! But I find it easier than Papa to understand. We would "* loyal to
Papa unto death. So how, then, can we fault Ned for being loyal to his
father?"
Nell saw that he'd scored some points with Bran, who looked suddenty
thoughtful, but not with Guy, who said, "Yes, but Papa is in the
§nt and Uncle Henry in the wrong!" And that no de Montfort would
djsputg
342
Harry and Bran drifted over to the hearth, where they began a 1OW. voiced
discussion of Edward's defection, laying plans to bring him back into the
fold. Guy watched, looking both left out and sullen, and Nejj gave him a
curious glance. "You do not like Ned, do you?" she asked and saw his eyesgrey
like Simon'sbecome suddenly wary.
"No," he said, no more than that, and Nell decided not to press further.
Returning to her seat, she picked up her account book. But she found it
difficult to keep her mind upon household expenses, for her ears still rang
with Edward's angry warning, that he did not forget his enemies. Was that how
he truly saw Simon nowas an enemy?
"Mama."
Glancing up, she smiled. Her three elder sons so resembled Simon that she
often found herself indulging them more than she ought, caught by a sudden
grin, a familiar gesture, by tantalizing glimpses of a ghost, the young
Frenchman who'd so long ago won her heart. Her youngest son, eleven-year-old
Richard, also bore Simon's stamp, while her girls, Ellen and the daughter
buried in Bordeaux, had inherited her coloring. But Amaury was the anomaly.
With his sturdy frame, his curly chestnut hair, he bore so little resemblance
to his dark, long-legged, boisterous brothers that Guy occasionally called him
a changeling. Amaury responded to such taunts with serene indifference, thus
confirming to Simon and Nell that they'd been right to choose for him a career
in the Church.
The Archbishop of Rouen had offered Amaury a prebend, and the boy was to sail
for Rouen that summer, where he would be installed in his new benefice,
continuing his studies under the Archbishop's benevolent eye. Nell was
delighted that they had secured so prestigious a post for Amaury, but she
would miss him, too, more than she could admit, for their society expected
sons to be sent away from home at early ages, expected mothers to acquiesce in
long separations.
Amaury looked troubled; he, too, had been a witness to his father's
confrontation with his cousin Edward. Nell gestured for him to sit upon her
foot stool, waited with unwonted patience for him to confide his concerns. He
fidgeted, then blurted out, "The King hates Papa!"
"Yes," Nell said slowly. "I fear he does."
"He does not mean to honor his word, does he, Mama? He is not going to abide
by the Provisions."
"I would hope he does, but his attempt to thwart parliament does not bode well
for the future, lad."
"Mama . . . will there be war?"
"Jesii, no!" Nell stared at her son. "Whatever Henry has done, he is still the
King, and your father has sworn an oath of fealty to W"' Think you that Simon
could forget that?"
343
"But Papa has sworn to defend the Provisions, too, Mama. What if he has to
choose?"
"God willing, it will never come to that, Amaury," Nell said, firmly enough to
forestall further questions. Amaury looked relieved, soon vvandered over to
engage Guy in a game of tables. But as Nell stared down unseeingly at her
account book, the seed planted by her son took root, for with a
fourteen-year-old's forthrightness, Amaury had been the first one who dared to
put Simon's dilemma into words. What if he had to choose? Despite her
assurances to her son, it was not a question Nell could answer. She doubted
that Simon could have answered it, either.
HAVING reconciled with his son, Henry then sought to bring Simon to trial,
charging him with perjury and lese-majeste. But his council balked, and the
French King was dismayed by Henry's bad faith, dispatching the Archbishop of
Rouen to England to speak in Simon's defense. Henry was forced to back down.
He then took a page from his father's book of tricks. Just as King John had
persuaded Pope Innocent In to annul the Runnymede Charter, Henry now appealed
to Pope Alexander IV, and in June 1261, he triumphantly made public the papal
bull invalidating the Oxford Provisions.
But he had misjudged the mood of his countrymen. His barons were outraged;
even the Earl of Gloucester rallied to the opposition. Simon, Gloucester, and
the Bishop of Worcester went so far as to summon three knights from each shire
to St Albans, a truly revolutionary step, for this was the first time that men
other than lords were to be given a voice in the affairs of state. Edward
cleverly countered their move by having Henry hastily summon the knights to
meet with him on the same September day at Windsor, and the confused knights
chose the safer course, stayed home. Both sides began to recruit foreign
mercenaries; conflict seemed inevitable.
And then the Earl of Gloucester once again switched sides, came to a private
understanding with Henry. The barons were so shaken by fas defection that
Simon's "common enterprise" began to fall apart. APpalled, Simon cursed his
irresolute allies in vain. Declaring that he'd never known a people as
faithless as the English, he withdrew to France m a fury, vowing to go on
crusade.
In Simon's absence, the barons agreed to submit their dispute with Henry to
the judgment of his brother Richard, and in May of 1262, 'ucnard found in
Henry's favor. In July, Henry followed Simon to France, ,. ere he sought to
have Simon arraigned before the French King. Again,
1118 attempt failed.
As 1262 came to a close, it seemed that Henry had won. The barons
344
were in disarray, Simon in voluntary exile, the Oxford Provisions declared
null and void. But Simon refused to repudiate the Provisions and such was the
shadow he cast that until he did, Henry's victory was in doubt. The country
was uneasy. In November, there were ugly antiSemitic riots in London, for as
always in times of stress, the unfortunate Jews served as scapegoats. Along
the Welsh Marches, strife flared up again. Charging the English with
violations of the truce, Llewelyn laid siege to Edward's castles of Deganwy
and Disserth. And all men turned their eyes toward France, wondering how long
it would be before Simon de Montfort returned to England.
26
DolLadarn, Nortk Wales
April 1263
tr
tf\
JL TELL you, Owain, England totters on the very brink of civil war!" Davydd
gave an excited laugh. "Edward and the young de Montforts spent last year in
France, fighting in tournaments and ale-houses. Henry was at the French court,
doing what he could to give grief to de Montfort, whilst his brother Richard
was chasing a phantom crown the length and breadth of Germany. But they are
all back in England noweven that de Lusignan half-brother of Henry's." Owain
yawned. "Aymer?"
Davydd frowned. "Williamthe Earl of Pembroke," he said with strained patience.
"Do you not remember, Owain? Aymer died in Rome. So ... the stage is set. But
the principal actors are still biding their time, for the play cannot begin
without de Montfort. All of Christendom now looks to France, waiting for de
Montfort to make up his mindas u there is any doubt what he'll do! Henry has
alienated most of the young lords, Gloucester and de Warenne and even his own
nephew, the Lord Hal, and they've been entreating de Montfort to lead them,
to"
"I thought Gloucester backed the King," Owain said, and Davydd
slammed his mead cup down upon the table. ,
"Jesus wept, where are your wits? Gloucester died last summe .
345
It is his son I speak of, Gilbert de Clare. Do you not read my letters?"
Owain flushed. "For certes I do. But English affairs now hold little interest
for me, Davydd. What is the point, after all? Whether Gloucester allies
himself with the King or de Montfort, it is all the same to me. VVhatever
these English lords do, the morrow will find me still here at Dolbadarn, will
it not?"
Davydd winced. He did not begrudge Owain his anger, but there was more
self-pity than bitterness in Owain's lament. In recent months, Davydd had
noted a marked deterioration in his brother's spirits. Senena's December death
had struck Owain a telling blow. He alone of Senena's sons truly mourned her
passing, and his grieving had yet to show signs of healing, for his yesterdays
were all he had.
The silence was so prolonged that Owain at last became aware of it. "So tell
me, lad," he said, too heartily. "How is that red-haired lass of yours? What
is her nameMeryl?"
"Meriel. But that was over months ago. My current lady's name is Eleri."
Davydd rose, crossed to his brother. "When I was speaking of the English
King's woes, I was not just making idle conversation. The English turmoil
matters, matters more than you know. Will you hear me out?"
When Owain nodded, Davydd gestured toward the closest bench. "Sit then, whilst
I refresh your memory. When Gloucester died last year, his son hastened to
Boulogne, where he sought to persuade Henry to give him seisin of the de Clare
estates. Henry balked. Legally, he was within his rights; Gilbert was just
nineteen then, two years shy of his majority. But politically, his refusal was
madness, yet another of Henry's self-inflicted wounds. Let me tell you about
the young Earl. Men call him 'Red Gilbert,' for like you, he has fiery hair .
. . and like you, a fiery temper. Henry made an enemy in Boulogne, and
needlessly. Moreover, he succeeded in estranging Richard's firstborn, for Hal
counts Gilbert as a friend."
"So Gloucester is nursing a grudge? What of it?" But Owain's indifference was
feigned; he was listening in earnest now.
"Three days ago, Edward crossed into North Wales, bringing supplies to his
garrisons at Deganwy and Disserth. It will avail him naught, °f course, for
both castles will fall to Llewelyn sooner or later. You'll not like hearing
this, Owain, but I daresay our brother has given Edward some sleepless nights
of late. You see, he now poses a threat twice-over '° England. No Welsh prince
ever wielded the power he does, not even ^ grandfather. Moreover, he and Simon
de Montfort are much too jpendly for the English Crown's comfort. Once de
Montfort returns from rance, he'll seek Llewelyn out, and that is an unholy
alliance in truth, ne to put the fear of God into any English king, much less
a timid soul ^ Henry!"
346
"Do you truly think I want to hear you laud Llelo's prowess on th
battlefield?"
"But if he were not so formidable a foe, Owain, Edward and Henry would not be
in such desperate need of Welsh allies." Davydd's smile was sudden, sardonic.
"Our grandfather profited right handsomely from the last English civil war. I
expect to profit no less from this one."
Owain's eyes widened. "What mean you to do, lad?"
Davydd's smile lost its edge. "I mean," he said, "to set you free "
THERE were just thirteen months between Gilbert de Clare and his younger
brother, Thomas, and they could have been taken for twins, for they had
inherited the same stocky build, the same flaming red hair, and an apparent
infinity of freckles. But Thomas lacked Gilbert's irascibility, his prickly
pride, and Edward found him to be a more amiable companion than the young Earl
of Gloucester. Thomas was intelligent, Oxfordeducated, but he had a full
measure of common sense, too. Above all, he was a good sport, and while he'd
voiced some qualms about this midnight meeting of Edward's, he was now riding
at Edward's stirrup.
"Do you trust him?" he asked, casting an uneasy glance over his shoulder, for
the Welsh woods were utterly black. They seemed to have entered a long, leafy
tunnel, bereft of even the faintest glimmer of starlight, but alive with
unseen eyes.
Edward grinned. "Trust a Welshman, torn? Are you daft?"
"Then what are we doing out in the middle of the forest, in the middle of the
night?"
"Because he could not come to me. Would you have him ride into Deganwy, brazen
as you please? With Llewelyn's men keeping vigil day and night?"
Thomas said nothing. Edward had logic on his side, but Thomas had an
uncomfortable suspicion that Edward relished the intrigue, even the risk.
Their Welsh guide now reined in his mount. "We are here," he announced,
although to Thomas this glen looked like every other woodland clearing they'd
passed through since leaving Deganwy. Edward signaled for his men to wait, and
he and Thomas dismounted.
Thomas immediately tripped over a hidden root, nearly falling flat' to his
chagrin and Edward's amusement. "I can just see us," he gruff1" bled, "waiting
out here till dawn, whilst this phantom ally of yours is comfortably abed back
at Aber. This is just the sort of perverse jest appeal to a Welshman!"
The laughter startled them both. They spun around, hands grop^S for sword
hilts, as Davydd, still laughing, stepped from the shado
347
n\{ I'd meant to lure you out here under false pretenses," he said, "it would
not be for a jest, but for an ambush."
Edward was annoyed; the initiative seemed suddenly to lie with rjavydd. "torn,
meet Davydd ap Gruffydd, brother of the Prince of Gwynedd."
"I do believe Llewelyn calls himself Prince of Wales these days," rjavydd said
dryly, and Edward shrugged.
"He can call himself Prince of Palestine. But that is not a title recognized
by the English Crown."
Now it was Davydd's turn to shrug. "Your recognition might matter in London,
but west of the River Dee, it is Llewelyn's writ that holds sway. And you, my
English lord, well know it. Why else would you have agreed to meet me tonight?
Because you had an urge to take a midnight ride by moonlight?"
Thomas began to bristle, for he'd taken an immediate dislike to this arrogant
Welsh rebel; even if Davydd's treachery was to their benefit, he could not
respect a man who so blithely betrayed his own brother. But Edward gave a
loud, ringing laugh.
"I was told you had a tongue sharp as a Fleming's blade. By God, now I believe
it!"
"And I was told you're one for getting right to the heart of a matter. Shall
we talk of my brother's intended alliance with Simon de Montfort and what
you're willing to do to thwart it?"
Edward had now taken the measure of his adversary, had begun to enjoy himself.
"If you ally yourself with me, I'll make it worth your while; we both know
that. What I do not yet know is why you are willing to forsake your brother,
to take up with his sworn enemies."
"The answer to that is simple," Davydd said. "I want my brother Owain freed
from Dolbadarn Castle."
Thomas abruptly revised his unfavorable estimation of Davydd, finding it truly
admirable that Davydd should favor a brother powerless and forgotten over one
who wore a crown. But Edward was regarding Davydd with a skeptical smile.
"I see," he said. "So it's to be a holy crusade to rescue Owain ap Gruffydd
from his unjust confinement. Fair enough; every war needs ifs reason, and that
will do as well as any, might even rally the Welsh '° y°ur side. But I am no
unlettered Welsh herdsman, so spare me any heartrending tales of Brother
Owain's suffering. Men do not fight wars or love. They fight for vengeance or
for power. Which spurs you on?"
Davydd's face was utterly in shadow, but his voice was full of Rockery. "God
forbid that I should offend the King's son, but why st>ould I care whether you
believe me or not?"
Should I assume, then, that you seek nothing else for yourself?
T
348
Your only demand is your brother's freedom?" Edward murmured, n
less mocking.
There was a silence, and then Davydd laughed. "I'm no unlettered Welsh
herdsman, either, my lord. What do I want from you? As much as I can get, of
course. In my place, would you ask for less?"
"No," Edward admitted. "I'd ask for the moon. But I think we can come to
terms. We'd find it acceptable for you and Owain to rule in Llewelyn's stead.
And what of Llewelyn? He's kept you on a tight rein these six years past. Do
you want him dead?"
"How you English fancy the blood-feuds of the Welsh! You are never happier
than when we are fighting one another, are you? But I'm afraid I must
disappoint you. I would see Llewelyn lose his crown, not his head. I cannot,
of course, answer for Owain."
Edward nodded. "That sounds straightforward enough. Which at once arouses all
my suspicions!"
Davydd grinned. "I see," he said, "that we do understand each
other right well!"
MOST men coordinated their labor with the sun; they rose at dawn, worked
during the hours of daylight, and with the coming of darkness, they slept. But
Llewelyn followed his own inner clock, devoting most of his waking hours to
the governance of Gwynedd. It was not at all unusual for him to be awake and
active long after the sun had set, and so, despite the lateness of the hour,
Goronwy ab Ednyved was not surprised to find Llewelyn in Abefs great hall,
sharing a flagon of wine with his kinsmen, Tegwared and Einion.
They seemed to be celebrating. Llewelyn had tilted his chair back, was resting
his feet on the table edge, in a rare moment of repose, and it was obvious the
wine had been flowing freely. At sight of his Seneschal, Llewelyn grinned.
"Goronwy! We did not expect you back till week's end. But your timing could
not be better, for we've reason for rejoicing. Come, join us, and hear the
news from England."
Goronwy was not accustomed to thinking of Llewelyn as vulnerable, yet looking
at the younger man now, he found the words suddenly catching in his throat.
But it was best done quick and clean, like an amputation. "Your news can
wait," he said brusquely. "Mine canno Davydd has allied himself with Edward,
has risen up in rebellion again
y°u'" the
Llewelyn froze, and then very slowly lowered his chair back to floor. "No," he
said, "that cannot be." Goronwy did not contradict^ allowing him a few
merciful moments of disbelief. But there'd t«e ^ conviction in Llewelyn's
denial. Beneath the surface shock, on a*1
349
level of awareness, lay an instinctive understanding, that if loving Davv<jd
was easy, trusting him was folly.
Shoving the chair back, Llewelyn got to his feet. Neither Einion nor Tggwared
could meet his eyes; they, too, had laughed at Davydd's jjreverent humor,
admired his courage, responded to his charm. Lleyvelyn moved away from the
lamplight, into the sheltering shadows. Should he have seen this coming? He'd
had his share of quarrels with pavydd, but even now, none that seemed serious
in retrospect. So many hours spent discussing the prospects of their people,
the future of Wales. Had Davydd ever shared his dream? Or had he been deluding
himself
all along?
It was uncommonly warm for late April, and the fire had been allowed to burn
out. Llewelyn found himself standing before a smoldering hearth, staring down
at the dying embers, flickering weakly amidst the charred, powdery ashes. His
friends did not approach; they waited. "Goronwy."
The older man untangled his legs, pushed away from the table. "What can I tell
you?"
"Rhodri... is he, too, rebelling?" "As far as I know, he seems to be holding
aloof." Llewelyn could take some consolation in that, but not much. "Rhodri's
loyalties are to Davydd, not to me," he said. "We'd best keep him close, lest
temptation beckon."
His voice was quite even. Goronwy looked intently into his face, was satisfied
with what he saw. "We'll keep Rhodri under watch, discreetly done, of course,"
he said approvingly. "What of Davydd?"
"I could have forgiven Davydd much, but not an alliance with the English
Crown. He might as well have invited the English army into Wales, as our
mother did. It was not just his own future he was willing to risk, it was the
sovereignty of Wales. And that," Llewelyn said, still m deceptively
dispassionate tones, "I am not likely to forget."
"I think most of our people will hold fast for you. But Davydd will
a*act followersmalcontents, self-seekers, and those who feel Owain
s been wronged. There are more of them than you wish to admit,
ewelyn. We must move quickly, therefore, to cut Davydd off from his
ould-be allies. I would suggest we lead an army into his lands, lay
Waste to the Dyffryn Clwyd"
" will not come to that, Goronwy. I think it is time you heard my ^ s- Davydd
was shrewd enough to realize he'd have no chance to le» ovv me without English
aid. But he is about to learn an important ^vjjj 5"ln English reliability. You
see, come the morrow his English ally "ton H Partm8 Deganwy with all haste.
Henry has urgently sumed Edward back to England."
350
Goronwy gave an audible gasp, then roared with laughter. "I think I'd barter
my birthright to see the look on Davydd's face once he knows!" That thought
sent him into another paroxysm of laughter, but he soon sobered. "Llewelyn,
this makes no sense. Even for Henry, this is a remarkably bone-headed blunder.
Surely he must know that, by recalling Edward, he is crippling Edward's
ambitions for Wales?"
"He knows, Goronwy. But though Henry sees me as a threat, he is now facing a
greater one. On Wednesday last, Simon de Montfort landed at Dover."
THEY had ridden all night, by dawn were approaching the English border. But
there was no trace of sun; the sky was swathed in a wet, grey mist. By now
they were only a few miles from Cheshire. Eleri felt no surprise, though, when
Davydd suddenly signaled for a halt. It was true that England meant safety. It
also meant exile.
A short distance from the road, a narrow stream wound its way through the damp
grass. Davydd slackened the reins, allowed his mount to drink. A few of the
men took advantage of this respite and dismounted, stretching and yawning.
Eleri followed Davydd to the stream.
"There is still time," she said softly. "Return to Aber, beloved, seek
Llewelyn's pardon."
"By all means," he snapped. "Owain is right lonely, after all. I daresay he'd
be delighted to share his quarters at Dolbadarn with me."
"Llewelyn loves Owain not. You he loves well. He'd forgive you, Davydd. Mayhap
not at once, but in time"
"No!"
Eleri reached over, touched his arm. She was only twenty to his twenty and
four, but at that moment, she felt much the older of the two. "I know how
painful it would be to humble your pride, but Davydd, think! Would you truly
rather rely upon Edward's charity than Llewelyn's mercy?"
He jerked free. "It is not charity! Edward will make me welcome, and not out
of Christian kindness. If I had to depend upon his benevolence, I'd end up
begging my bread by the roadside. But he needs me, Eleri. Our first attempt to
overthrow Llewelyn was thwarted by »te' Simon de Montfort, and Edward's
half-witted father. But our chance will come again, and when it does, Edward
can have no better weap at hand than Llewelyn's brother." (
This was said with a certain degree of bravado, for Davydd was ^ as sure of
his prospects at the English court as he'd have Eleri be ^ But she did not
seem impressed by his argument. She was 1°°^L,. him somberly, and when he
stopped speaking, she urged her horse
351
"Kiss me, Davydd," she said, and he leaned toward her. When his fingers
touched her cheek, he found her skin wet, but whether she wept Or not, he
couldn't tell, for a light, warming rain had begun to fall.
"I leave you here," she said. "Go with God, my love."
"What? But you're coming with me!"
"No," she said, "I am not."
Davydd sucked in his breath; that was a defection he'd not expected. Pride
prevailed, though. "I see," he said cuttingly. "I suppose I ought to have
foreseen as much. After all, you only promised to love me unto death and
beyond. Not a word was ever said about exile!"
"I do love you, Davydd. I loved you enough to share your bed without a
priest's blessing."
"If you love me, why will you not come with me?"
"I should think the answer to that would be obvious. I was willing to play the
whore for you, with no regrets. But I will not play the fool. I speak no
English, no French. I know not a single soul in all of England. What would
befall me, my love, once you tired of me?"
"What makes you think I would tire of you?" he demanded, and she smiled sadly.
"You tired of all the others, Davydd," she said, and pulled up the hood of her
mantle. "Farewell."
"Eleri!" But she was already turning her mare. The rain was coming down
heavily now. "Go then," Davydd said. "If you have so little faith in me, go
and be damned! And tell Llewelyn this for me, tell him I'll be back!"
27
Tower or London
June 1263
v O IMON and his supporters met at Oxford in May,
savi    t0 *reat as enemies those who would not uphold the Provisions,
'he I ^ °n^ tne ^n8 and his famity- But Henry held his ground, and
n§'Simmering discontent soon flared into violence. The Earl of
352
Derby, wild and lawless and true only unto himself, sacked the to\vn of
Worcester and burned the Jewry. The young Earl of Gloucester led an army west,
and seized the Bishop of Hereford, most hated of Henry's foreign advisers,
casting him into prison and laying siege to the royal castle at Gloucester.
Simon then assumed command, and they marched north to besiege Bridgnorth. The
attack was coordinated with Llewelyn of Wales, and the town and castle soon
surrendered. Simon then swung south, toward London, and a panicked Henry took
refuge within the Tower.
EDWARD reached London in late June, at once sought out his father. As he
crossed the Tower's inner bailey, he came upon his uncle Richard, and together
they made their way toward the royal apartments.
"I hope the sight of you gladdens Henry's eyes. In truth, lad, you'll find him
sorely distraught. He has been greatly disheartened by the ease
of Simon's victories, and"
Edward spat out a virulent oath. "I am heartily sick of hearing Simon de
Montfort lauded as another Caesar. I for one do not fear to face him on the
battlefield. Indeed, the sooner the reckoning comes, the better
for England, for us all."
Richard did not agree. His was a lonely, unorthodox conviction that war was
man's ultimate failure. But that was not a view he would ever share, much less
seek to proselytize, for so foreign a philosophy would win him no converts,
only scorn.
They'd passed through the great hall, had now reached the stairs leading to
Henry's private chamber in the Blundeville Tower. Richard reached out, put his
hand on his nephew's arm. "Wait," he said. "Ere we go up, I would speak with
you about Bristol. The accounts we heard were garbled, confused. What is the
truth of it?"
Edward shrugged. "Briefly put, some of my soldiers ran afoul of the townsfolk.
Most likely, one of them got too familiar with a citizen s wife or daughter.
Mayhap it took no more than their Flemish accents; never have I seen so much
suspicion of foreigners. But whatever sparked the fire, in no time the city
was ablaze. It got so ugly that we had to retreat into the castle, and soon
found ourselves under siege!" Edwar shook his head in remembered astonishment.
"Fishmongers and tann* and peddlersJesu alone knows where they found the
couragewere in a deep hole, in truth, for the castle larders were poorly
victuale ^-"hinatelv. the Bishop of Worcester was within a day's ride of Bris
o^
j - ~wa*P the townspeople^
and peaaiersjca^
were in a deep hole, in truth, for the castle larders were puuiv -      .  ,
Fortunately, the Bishop of Worcester was within a day's ride of Bns ^ He came,
at my urging, and managed to placate the townspeop' return for my pledge to
make peace with de Montfort and the
rebel barons."
353
"A pledge you had no intention of honoring," Richard said quietjv and Edward
gave him a surprised smile.
"Of course not. Uncle. Have you forgotten who Worcester is? He's de Montfort's
pawn!"
"No, Edward, he is not. He is a man of conscience, deserves better than he got
from you. But my concern is not for Worcester, it is for you. There are two
things no man can hope to outrun in this lifehis shadow and a reputation for
duplicity and double-dealing. You give your word too lightly, lad. A king who
cannot be trusted"
"Uncle, enough. I know you mean well, but I need no lecture upon the sacred
worth of a man's sworn oath. That sounds suspiciously like the gospel preached
by my uncle Simon." Edward put his foot on the stairs, then paused. "Tell me,"
he said, "have you had word from Hal?"
Richard slowly shook his head; his eldest son's defection to Simon de Montfort
was a constant ache. "Hal has been caught up in the fervor for reform," he
said. "As a lad, he was always bedazzled by tales of Camelot. But in time
he'll realize that this is a false quest."
His apologetic defense would have found no favor with Henry, who saw Hal's
apostasy as a particularly reprehensible form of treason, but Edward was more
indulgent; he, too, wanted to believe that Hal was a victim of Simon's
sorcery, that the spell could be broken. "Sooner or later, we'll have a chance
to talk, Uncle, and Hal will heed me. He always does."
Henry's chamber was a magnificent octagon, gleaming in white and gold, lit by
four soaring bay windows; there was even a small, private oratory, hidden
behind an elaborately carved screen. But the room was empty, Henry nowhere in
sight. Puzzled, Edward moved forward. "Papa?"
"Edward?" Henry poked his head around the screen. "Edward, thank Christ!" He
stumbled on the oratory step, flung his arms around Ws son's neck. He was five
inches shorter than Edward, forty pounds lighter, but never had he seemed so
frail, so slight; his very bones were as hollow and brittle as a bird's,
Edward thought, shocked. He put his
31711 around his father's shoulders, catching the smell of sweat, the heavily
sugared wine Henry so liked. "Disheartened," his uncle Richard nad said,
"distraught." Nay, this was far worse; this was defeat.
"I was praying," Henry confided. "But . . . but sometimes I fear JV3' *e Lord
no longer listens. If I have not offended Him, why has rj 'Orsaken me in my
time of trial? I am alone amongst my enemies, Ward, and I know not whom I can
trust."
of th *>3*>a' *at *s not so- ^ou ^ave me anc* Uncle Richard, the support e
French King and His Holiness the Pope. Even here in London, are n°t
friendless. The rabble and their renegade Mayor may have
354
been beguiled by de Montfort, but the citizens of substance, the aldermen,
still hold fast for the Crown."
"Do they? Do they indeed?" Henry laughed shrilly. "Tell me this then. If the
aldermen and merchants are so loyal, why have they refused to lend me any more
money? My coffers are well-nigh empty, Edward and they know my need, yet they
will not extend me another farthing of credit! I threatened and cajoled by
turns, even beseeched, to no avail What will we do now, lad? How can we fight
a war without money? Your Flemish mercenaries will desert you in droves if you
cannot pay them, and"
"Papa, this serves for naught. What of the Templars? Did they, too refuse you
credit?" Henry nodded mournfully, and Edward swore, began to pace. "You must
not fret, Papa. Leave this to me; I'll not let you down."
Henry's shoulders slumped; he mumbled an indistinct "Gratia Dei," moved to the
table and poured more wine. To Richard, there was something pathetic about his
instant relief, his utter trust. How many people, he wondered, realized that
Edward was, at the untried age of twentyfour, the uncrowned King of England?
This talk of money gave him more than a twinge of guilt, for he had vast
resources at his disposal; shrewd business dealings had made him one of the
richest men in England. But he had never been a prodigal spender, and Henry
was already deeply in his debt, money never to be repaid. He watched Edward
stride about the chamber, while Henry settled himself into a cushioned
window-seat; he seemed much calmer now that the burden had been shifted onto
Edward, asked no awkward questions. It was Richard who finally said, "Just
what do you have in mind, lad?"
Edward flung himself into Henry's chair of state, swung a long leg over the
lacquered arm-rest. "What would you do if the drawbridge were closed to you,
Uncle? You'd look for a postern gate, no? Well, so shall I."
THE New Temple of the Knights Templar lay beyond the city walls, between Fleet
Street and the River Thames. The Templars, "soldiers of Christ," were the most
martial of the religious orders, and the wealthiest, for although they had
originally been founded to fight the infidel, they had in time become the
financiers of Europe, money-lenders and bankers for the Crown, the Church,
prosperous merchants, the trade guiw*' Their London preceptory looked at first
glance like a small city in *" of itself, but a city without denizens, for the
knights retired at Comp11" ^ Edward had known this; he and his men passed
through the ga'e
355
into a world of cloistered silence and deepening summer shadows, a vvorld of
deceptive, timeless peace.
"I am Brother Raymond." The warden was irked at being roused from bed, for he
would have to rise in just a few hours for Matins. "How may I be of service,
my lord?"
"I regret intruding upon you at such an hour, Brother Raymond, but I am here
at the behest of my mother, the Queen. A few months past, she gave up some of
her jewels as security for a loan, and the recent unrest in the city has made
her fear for their safety." Edward smiled at the Templar, man to man, and
shrugged. "Foolishness, I know. But she'll not rest easy until I have seen for
myself that her qualms are for naught."
The warden was not surprised that Eleanor should be behaving so capriciously;
he held Henry's willful Queen in no high esteem. "So be it," he said
reluctantly. "If Your Grace will accompany me, I shall take you to the
treasure-house. I would ask that your men maintain silence, though, for the
knights' hall lies above it, and my brothers are abed."
The undercroft of the hall was as dark and damp as a crypt, just as
foreboding. Following the feeble glow of their lanterns, Edward's men advanced
cautiously, weaving their way amidst the heavy coffers. The warden glanced
back, saw that Edward had stopped. "Ah, no, my lord, those are the treasuries
of the city guilds. The Queen's caskets are over here."
He was never to be sure exactly what happened next. He thought he heard Edward
say, "But this is what I've come for, Brother Raymond." Bewildered, he started
to retrace his steps. If Edward signaled, he never saw it. But someone shoved
him forward, causing him to stumble, and then a hand was clapped roughly over
his mouth. He struggled, to no avail, within moments was overpowered. Bound
and gagged, he lay helplessly on the floor, watching in appalled rage as the
roen produced hammers from beneath their mantles, muffled them in burlap, and
set about smashing the locks on the guild coffers.
They were very efficient, moving systematically from coffer to coffer,
emptying the contents into large woven sacks. "Enough," Edward said
at last. "We can carry no more." As they began lugging their booty
ovvard the door, he bent over the warden, set a lantern on the closest
otfer. "You'll pass an uncomfortable night, I fear. It cannot be helped,
°ugh." There was sympathy in his voice, but no trace of shame.
h°ugh his face was in shadow, the Templar would later swear he
Was smiling.
«~Ss£
356
EDWARD'S raid on the. New Temple netted him a thousand pounds. He prudently
did not linger in London, made a hasty withdrawal to Windsor Castle. It was a
wise move, for as word spread of the theft, outrage^ Londoners spilled into
the streets. Within hours, the city was in turmoil Enraged mobs roamed about,
setting fire to the houses of prominent royalists, assaulting foreigners. When
the tumult did not subside, John Mansel and the Queen's uncle, the Archbishop
of Canterbury, fled to Dover, where they took ship for France. To the
reformers, Mansel was Henry's evil genius, and Richard's son Hal brashly
sailed in pursuit Much to Richard's dismay, Hal was captured in Boulogne by a
French lord rumored to be acting at the English Queen's behest. Richard
withdrew to his castle at Berkhamsted, where he labored to bring about his
son's release and attempted to stave off civil war, imploring Simon to meet
with him at Twyford Bridge.
But Simon was not yet ready to negotiate. He swung east, avoiding London, and
was given an enthusiastic welcome in the towns of the Cinque Ports. The
Bishops of London, Lincoln, and Chester were dispatched to Henry, bearing
Simon's terms for peace: that Hal be set free at once, that Henry again swear
to uphold the Oxford Provisions, that he expel his foreign mercenaries and
surrender Dover and other castles of strategic importance to the barons. Simon
then assumed control of the port of Dover, thus severing all communications
with the continent. Trapped in the Tower, Henry was forced to face the most
bitter of facts, that it had taken Simon just six weeks to reduce England's
King to utter impotence.
"ARE you certain you know where the man lives, John?"
John de Gisors glanced back at his companions. "Somewhere along Bishopsgate
Street, not far from St Helen's nunnery." Reining in his horse, he beckoned to
a passing youth. "You there! Where will we find the house of Mayor Fitz
Thomas?"
De Gisors was known on sight to most Londoners; he'd been a aty alderman for
nigh on thirty years, three times Mayor. The boy hastily doffed his cap,
offered to act as guide, and after escorting them through the wide, wooden
gateway of the Fitz Thomas manor, he was not disappointed. De Gisors was that
rarity, a wealthy merchant who spen freely; he flipped the lad a silver
half-penny. .
De Gisors's nephew hastened to help him dismount, for his un was no longer
young and his girth, as much as his fine woolen tu    ' proclaimed him a man of
means. "Thank you, Clement," he said, n ing himself from the saddle. A servant
came from the stables, an
357
. e ied their horses across the courtyard, Clement looked about with
considerable interest.
"Fitz Thomas might pander to the rabble, Uncle, but he stints him.glf little.
A baron would not scorn to shelter here," he said admiringly, and de Gisors
grunted.
"Fitz Thomas does not lack for money. He's a draper by trade, deals jn only
the finest wools and silks. He comes from one of London's most distinguished
families, Clement, is nephew to a former Mayor . . . which makes his behavior
all the more despicable, for he is betraying his own."
They were admitted by a young serving maid. Within moments, a woman was
crossing the hall toward them. She was neatly dressed in a bright blue gown
and snowy white wimple, but her hands and apron were streaked with flour.
Unselfconscious, she smiled, explaining, "We've a new cook; I was showing him
my favorite eel pasty recipe."
"Dame Cecilia." De Gisors bowed over a slim, flour-dusted hand. "I believe you
know Augustine de Hadestok. This gentleman is Richard Picard, like myself a
court vintner, and this is my nephew, Clement, newly come to London."
"I'll send a servant to see to your comfort whilst I inform my husband that
you are here. He may not be able to see you at once, for he is meeting in the
solar with Sir Thomas Puleston."
Clement had a sharp eye, caught the expressions of distaste that flickered
across the faces of his companions. As soon as they were alone, he queried,
"Who is this Puleston? I gather you like him not, Uncle."
"Indeed not." De Gisors lowered himself onto a cushioned bench. "Puleston is
not one of us, even though he did marry into one of London's better families.
He comes of Shropshire gentry, is a royal justice ... and a born conniver. He
and de Montfort are two of a kind, arrows shot from the same bow. He's the
Earl's sworn man, cares not who knows it. He"
Cutting himself off abruptly, he got stiffly to his feet. Clement turned "i
time to see a figure emerging from the corner stairwell. While it was obvious
that this dapper, youthful man was their host, he so little resembled de
Gisors's lurid characterization that Clement could only stare, fouth ajar. As
Fitz Thomas drew near, he saw that the Mayor was not as young as he first
appeared, but he could still more easily have been kwn for an Oxford student
than a merchant in his mid-forties. Of slight ^d, with fine, flaxen hair,
Norse-blue eyes, and a friendly, ingratiating , "^e, he seemed so innocuous to
Clement that he found himself doubt-
8 his uncle's judgment, wondering how they could possibly see this
mannered draper as Lucifer's henchman. n         mas Fitz Thomas greeted them
affably, as if they were friends,
Political rivals, bade them be seated, and promised to be with them
358
shortly. Clement held his tongue until Fitz Thomas disappeared into the
stairwell, and then blurted out, "That is the firebrand Mayor? Jesu Uncle, he
looks like a clerk!"
De Hadestok gave a derisive snort, and de Gisors said grimly, "A_ pearances
can mislead, lad. To look at the magpie, you'd not think a bird with such
beautiful plumage would be a thief, a scavenger that feeds upon other birds'
eggs. Fitz Thomas may indeed look like a church deacon, but he has the soul of
a pirate. He has a diabolical ability to stir up a crowd, has turned the
Folkmoot into a dangerous weapon and learned to unleash the London rabble at
his will."
"The Folkmoot? Is that not a public meeting of London freemen? I thought it
had fallen into disuse, was little heeded nowadays."
De Gisors nodded. "That is what makes Fitz Thomas so formidable a threat,
Clement. He has resurrected the Folkmoot, made of it his own creature, serving
his ends. Had you but seen him yesterday noon" He broke off, shaking his head.
"The Folkmoot met, as always, at Paul's Cross, but never have I seen such a
gathering. So many men turned out that there was not a foot to spare in all of
the churchyard, and they cheered lustily as Fitz Thomas preached them a
fire-and-brimstone sermon. To hear him tell it, the Oxford Provisions were
like Holy Writ, and when he finally put it to a vote, asking if they supported
Simon de Montfort and the Provisions, the simple fools shouted their 'yeas' to
the heavens, as if they'd been asked to acclaim Christ the Redeemer!"
"John ..." Augustine de Hadestok gave a warning cough, and de Gisors spun
around. If Fitz Thomas had heard the last of this harangue, it did not show on
his face; his smile did not waver. Another man had followed him out of the
shadows of the stairwell. Clement knew this dark, saturnine stranger must be
the hated knight Puleston. Unlike Fitz Thomas, the wolf in sheepskin, Puleston
at least looked the part; he could have been the reincarnation of every
pilgrim's fears, the wicked brigand lurking in every dark woods, around the
bend of every lonely road. Puleston had a rakish, sardonic grin and
penetrating black eyes, Clement had a sudden irrational conviction that they
could see into his very soul, and he flushed, looked hastily away.
After an exchange of ice-edged greetings, Puleston made an unhurried
departure. Fitz Thomas wandered over to the trestle table littered with
sealing wax, pens, letters, and parchment scrolls. They were in disorder, for
Augustine de Hadestok had been riffling through them, and when Fitz Thomas
glanced up at his guests, his smile was knowing' ironic. "What may I do for
you, gentlemen?"
"Do you still mean to go to the King, demand that he accept Provisions?"
359
"Demand, no. Urge him, yes. He must realize that support for the provisions
runs deep in London. Our last Folkmoot"
"was a farce," de Hadestok said indignantly. "You've given a voice to the
lowest elements in the city, whilst utterly ignoring the views of men of
consequence, men of property. And when we sought to rebut you, we were shouted
down!"
Fitz Thomas shrugged. "It is unfortunate," he said, "but not surprising/ that
rudeness ofttimes follows apace of revolution."
De Gisors gasped. "You admit, then, that you seek to foment a revolution?"
Fitz Thomas looked at them. "Do you not know, Master de Gisors," he said
softly, almost gently, "that you are even now living through
one?"
Richard Picard, hitherto silent, now blistered the air with an embittered
oath. "I told you we were wasting our time, John. Let's be gone from here."
"Not yet." De Gisors moved toward the Mayor. "You are no fool. You must
realize the danger in what you are doing. In courting the rabble, you imperil
the entire social order. Why are you doing this? What do you seek to gain?"
" The rabble'?" Fitz Thomas echoed, no longer amused. "I suppose by that you
mean the men of the craft guilds. I'll grant you that the fishmongers, the
cordwainers, and potters do not enjoy the same stature as the trade guildsthe
shipping magnates like you, Master de Hadestok, or the vintners like you,
Master de Gisors. But the members of the craft guilds are decent, hard-working
men, men entitled to a say in the government of their city, and that you have
denied them."
De Gisors was shaking his head. "Nay, you wrong me. We may have been often at
odds with upstart craftsmen, but I would not call them 'rabble.' It is not
their influence I fear. It is the journeymen, those who work for wages, the
riffraff, the baseborn. Can you deny that such roen are fickle, untrustworthy,
ever on the edge of violence?"
Ktz Thomas leaned back against the table. "During my term as sheriff," he
said, "I often attended inquests. The verdicts were varied, ranging from
murder in a street brawl to death by mischance to the most common cause, river
drowning. But when it came to the disposition of ^e dead man's property, again
and again the finding was the same: °°ds and chattels had he none.' When men
have nothing to lose, ° "emen, when they are given no stake in what you call
the 'social
er' is it truly so surprising that they do not share your belief in the **<%
of the law?"
" I wanted to hear a sermon on the plight of Christ's poor, I would
360
T
362
be at Mass," de Hadestok jeered, and Picard chimed in, no less m ingly. De
Gisors and his nephew were silent, the former looking y and troubled, the
latter intrigued in spite of himself. Clement no lon wondered why so much
controversy swirled around Fitz Thomas- th man's passion was contagious. '   e
"What do you hope to accomplish?" he asked, not to bait the Mav but because he
truly wanted to know. They all sensed his sincerity- h earned himself
glowering looks from his companions and an hon answer from Fitz Thomas.
"On more than ten separate occasions, King Henry has seized co trol of the
city's government. I want to make sure that never happen* again. In the past,
aldermen have abused their office, getting special tax exemptions, brazenly
favoring their friends and family. That, too, I would stop. I would protect
our city's rights against the encroachments of the abbey at Westminster. I
would gain recognition for the craft guilds."
He paused, his eyes flicking from face to face, and then burst out laughing.
"What did you expect me to saythat I meant to sell my soul to the Devil, my
city to the Saracens? That I yearned to be a kingmaker? My aims are more
modest than that. I want to protect the welfare of my city. I want to see the
Oxford Provisions accepted by all men, its reforms carried out. If I would
also like to become London's most memorable Mayor, what harm in that? I said
my aims were modest. By the grace of God Almighty and the Earl of Leicester,
they are attainable, too." He smiled suddenly. "I think, gentlemen, that is
what frightens you so much."
"I was wrong," de Gisors snapped. "You are indeed a fool. All this talk of the
common people, the craftsmen, apprentices, beggars. What do they mean to a
lord like Leicester? He will make use of you as long as it serves his
purposes, but he'll never see you as an ally, an equal. He'll" He paused, for
Fitz Thomas was laughing again.
"Of course the Earl of Leicester believes in the supremacy of bloodwhat lord
does not? You are right when you say the Earl does not see me as his equal. If
one of my sons sought to wed his daughter, I daresay he'd be greatly
affronted." He moved forward, stopped in front of de Gisors.
"Leicester might deny my son a highborn bride, but he would not deny him
justice. You asked why he would care about the fate of» fishmonger, a tanner?
Because even the lowest wretch is deserving God's mercy, the protection of the
King's laws. He believes that, y°<| see. I've never known another lord who
did, but Simon de Mon truly does. I'll not deny that self-interest colors his
views; what o ' Only a saint is deaf to that voice. But the Earl has a
heartfelt vision
way the world should be. I like his vision, Master de Gisors, I like ,vell- So
do the citizens of London."
1 "Come away, John," Richard Picard urged, and this time de Gisors heeded him.
He turned, followed the others across the hall. But at the door, ne st°PPe<i/
glanced back at the Mayor.
"You do not understand," he said tautly, "do not realize what is t stake.
There'll be no going back. England will never be the same!"
Fitz Thomas nodded. "God willing," he said, "indeed it will not."
Ou July 13, Henry capitulated, sent Simon de Montfort word that he would abide
by the barons' terms. But his belated recognition of reality was not shared by
his outraged Queen. Telling Henry that if he lacked the backbone to resist
these rebels, she did not, Eleanor announced her intention of joining their
eldest son, Edward, at Windsor Castle. Henry, his nerves raw and bleeding,
angrily bade her go, and within the hour, her bargemen were rowing away from
the Tower, heading upstream.
Her ladies were obviously ill at ease as the Queen's barge struggled against
the current, for Beatrice and Auda would bear the brunt of Eleanor's temper on
the twenty-mile journey to Windsor. Moreover, both women were fearful of river
travel, and Eleanor's anger had propelled them out onto the Thames less than
an hour after the cresting of high water. They sat stiffly upright, clutching
the edge of their seats, dreading the moment when their barge would have to
shoot the bridge. If Eleanor shared their misgivings, it didn't show. In high
dudgeon, she was railing indiscriminately, heaping verbal abuse upon her
husband, Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Gloucester, Londoners in general and
Mayor Fitz Thomas in particular. When she began to berate their boatmen for
their clumsy piloting, her ladies exchanged glumly resigned glances; this was
going to be a very long trip.
The Queen's barge soon attracted the attention of youngsters fishing along the
river bank. One, bolder than his companions, shouted, "Go tack to France!" The
others took up the taunt. Eleanor was incensed enough to demand that they be
punished, but her knights quickly pointed °utthat the boys would vault a
fence, disappear into an alley long before weir barge could reach the shore.
Eleanor could not refute their logic ^subsided, still fuming.
Such displays of antagonism had become all too common of late. 'he rnnoi ~ -
»        rf ^, " ""
most unpopular Queen since the Conquest, Eleanor was attacked
her n..j .
--«i uispiays 01 antagonism naa oecome all too common ot late.
e most unpopular Queen since the Conquest, Eleanor was attacked
' "er extravagant spending, her foreign birth, her multitude of ac-
Ijrf'tive relatives, even for Henry's foibles, andunfairlyfor the crimes
enry's de Lusignan kin, whom she detested. But nowhere was she
362
more hated than in London, where she'd alienated the citizens by taxing all
boats using the Queenhithe wharf, by claiming a payment of "queen's gold."
Much of the time, she was indifferent to the hostility of her subjects, but
her anger had made her vulnerable, and as she listened now to the gibes of
these London youngsters, she found herself re membering the exuberant welcome
Londoners had accorded her upon her first entry into their city, so many years
ago.
So caught up was she in these regretful reveries that she did not at once
notice their barge was losing ground, beginning to drift. The oarsmen were no
longer rowing. When she rebuked them, they pointed "Madame, look!" Turning,
she was unable to stifle a gasp. Ahead lav the bridge. It was always a
formidable obstacle to river traffic, but never had it presented so daunting a
barrier, for it was thronged with an angry crowd, men, women, even children.
They filled every available space, leaning recklessly over the railing,
blocking the narrow pathway, trapping carts and pack mules, even hanging out
of the windows of the houses lining the bridge. As Eleanor stared,
disbelieving, a hoarse shout went up: "She comes! The bitch comes!"
"Madame." The captain of her guards half-rose, causing the barge to rock.
"We'd best return to the Tower. We can resume our journey once that rabble has
been dispersed."
"Indeed not!" Eleanor raised her chin. "I'll not be affrighted by common
churls. We continue on to Windsor." She gestured to the oarsmen. "Row!"
Reluctantly, they obeyed; the barge lurched forward. The cries of the crowd
grew louder, more strident. Eleanor sat still, head high, staring straight
ahead. They could hear the roar of the river now, pounding against the piers.
The tide was quickening, waves slapping the sides of the barge; they were soon
drenched in spray. The oarsmen steered toward the widest arch, in mid-bridge.
Above it rose the small chapel of St Thomas a Becket; it, too, had been
invaded, angry, contorted faces showing at the open windows. The first missile
to strike the barge was a raw egg. It landed beside Beatrice, splattered the
Queen's seat cushions. Beatrice screamed and a second egg flew through the
air, thudded onto the floor of the barge.
There was a sudden silence, and then an exultant shout, a collective cry of
triumph. Within moments the air was alive with invective. "Drown the bitch!"
The cry rose from a hundred throats; mud and garbage raine down upon the
barge. Eleanor's ladies were screaming. In fending ° the barrage, one of the
boatmen lost his oar; the barge spun in a arc ' caught by the current. Eleanor
was knocked to the bottom of the CH> As it smashed against the pilings, she,
too, began to scream. a
The arch loomed ahead; it would later haunt Eleanor's dreams
363
an
ateway to Hell. She was sure they were going to drown, gabbled an coherent
pjea to tne Biessed virgin. Auda was mute, too terrified for
neech, Beatrice sobbing, and the knights appealing to St Mildred, begriflcr
her to spare them on her day. Only the boatmen kept their heads. Rowing like
fiends, they fought the river, until, sweating and cursing, they broke free
from the surging current, began to pull clear of the
bridge-
But those on board had no time to rejoice in their reprieve, for some in the
crowd now resorted to a more lethal bombardment. No longer were they throwing
rotten apples and raw eggs; rocks began to splash into the water around the
barge. A knight cried out as one ricocheted off an oarlock and struck his leg.
The men grunted, pulling on the oars, but they were still within range, and
when a large rock crashed into the stern, an oarsman gasped, "Sweet Jesus,
we've sprung a leak!"
They were not that far from shore; the wharf at Botolph Lane was less than
twenty feet away. But as they rowed toward the bank, the crowd began to surge
from the bridge, racing them to the wharf. Knowing they'd never make it to the
Southwark shore, the boatmen continued to row for all they were worth. They
reached the wharf before the mob, scrambled to safety just as the first of
their pursuers rushed onto the pier. The knights fumbled for their swords, but
the men had come to an uncertain halt. There were few among them who truly had
murder in mind; they resorted, instead, to a more familiar weapon, the only
one available to the powerlessridicule.
Encircled by her knights, clinging to her terrified women, Eleanor heard
herself mocked as the "foreign witch," as harlot and spendthrift, a
French-born Circe. Hatred for her ran deep. Men who drank enough of that
draught might well have gotten intoxicated on it; the spectre of violence
still overhung the wharf. But something was happening in Botolph Lane. People
were beginning to shout, pushing and shoving, retreating. Men on horseback had
come into view. The city sheriffs were known to many, but Londoners had never
been over-awed by authority, "'hat broke up the crowd was a nameFitz Thomas.
With the realization that their Mayor was in their midst, their ranks
Parted as if by magic, and he passed through, rode onto the wharf. As
e reined in his mount before his Queen, Eleanor knew she was now
sate/ as safe as if she were still at the Tower. "God's mercy," she whis-
P^d, and then, "Jesu, my coffers!" Whirling, she stared in horror at
. "^e, already half-submerged. "My jewels," she wailed. "My gowns,
^ at *e bottom of the Thames!"
£l   '0 be rescued by a man she so detested was a great humiliation for
^a£or, but she found it all the more galling that she could fault neither
navior nor his manners. Although Fitz Thomas refused to make
364
the arrests she demanded, he made his refusal sound perfectly reas able,
explaining that the culprits had long since fled. When she \v0 not allow him
to take her back to the Tower, insisting she must h her own mare, her own
escort, he dispatched a man to fetch horses and men, and he was able to
disperse the crowd with impressive ea requiring no more than good-natured
banter.
It infuriated Eleanor that this man, a mere draper, should wi u more influence
with Londoners than she, the Queen, did. Moreover she doubted that he was
truly sorry she'd been subjected to such a ordeal. He said he was, offered
apologies on behalf of his city, but whe one of the sheriffs burst into
laughter at sight of her, Fitz Thomas quicklv
came to the man's defense.
"You are usually so elegant, Madame," he said tactfully, "ft ^ but take him by
surprise to see you looking so ... so bedraggled." And as Eleanor gazed down
at her sodden skirts, her egg-splattered bodice he added, "And you do have
that daub of mud on your nose . . ." He sounded solicitous, but the corner of
his mouth twitched, and she suspected he was fighting back a grin.
"Admit it, this amuses you," she accused. "Lowborn rabble, the dregs of your
city, tried to murder me, their Queen, and you care naught!" '
"I regret, Madame, that you were so ill-treated. I do not make excuses for
them. But 1 will not pretend that I was surprised by what happened. If horses
are kept on too short a tether, they're like to run wild when at last set
free. So, too, are men."
"How dare you! You make it sound as if this were somehow my
fault!"
"You have courage, Madame. I would that you also had . . ." He left the
thought unfinished, but before she could pursue it further, he was turning
away. She recognized the man approaching, the one Fitz Thomas had sent to the
Tower, and she frowned. What ailed the lackwit. Why had he not brought back
horses, knights of her household? She watched impatiently as he conferred
briefly with Fitz Thomas, saw the latter shoot her a startled look, and moving
forward, caught his sleeve "What is it? Why did this idiot return alone? What
is wrong?" "Madame . . ." It was the first time she'd seen the imperturbable
Fitz Thomas at a loss. "It seems a crowd has gathered at the Tower^ word
having spread of your . . . mishap. My man says the rnoo ugly, and the King .
. . well, he is loath to open the gates as.longad they remain without. He sent
word that I should escort you, insw to the Bishop of London's palace." ,n
He saw the color crimson her cheeks, and found htoself,,fe? ^Jay, emotion he'd
have sworn the Queen did not deservepity '" «yt Madame, that he had your
safety in mind, not wanting to expo
365
insults and abuse," he said, knowing that might wellbttawisiiliwell be tat '°
'knowing, too, that a woman as proud as Eleanor would be staeossW 1 be shairal
bUt theless, for prudent though Henry's action might be, heroic
iiwawmoBriheroic it TO n°n£He could hear his men laughing, knew the jests they
wouldsoce&iow would son wrapping' a11 at Henry's expense, and he said quietly,
"I farMiMiriP "I fear, Mi |f Se that you must accept my offer of assistance,
after all." In."
"I'd sooner walk barefoot through hot coals!" she spat, but sl( lit wind but
she M eed the timid reproaches of her women to know she did nitbveitatifadid
not tint n° iuxury of refusal; what other choice had she? "Help me
momtvowutaoni mount you " she commanded, and as Fitz Thomas obeyed, she said
Tkisi taa said, "TW h°rS ' to you upon all I hold sacred, that I shall never
forjt'thritlijiol rr forget fa
day     never!"
Fitz Thomas's eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of his QinerraCW" his
Queens ddied, disheveled appearancethe gown soaked with rivet rated river
water Beared with dirt and egg stains, the wimple tilted askew, fchaiiitvoew,
the ta tumbling untidily down her back. "Indeed, Madame," he said, Is d bus
said, "thsis a day I shall never forget, either," and this time he did not
rraiie stao.ot troubled hide his grin.
APPROACHING from Dover, the barons would normally have entedtfitatoae enteredh
aty through Aldgate, but the Mayor had requested that they tone smraiihey come
IB from the north. They knew, therefore, that some sort of
welcotwwimlwwelcomem planned. None of them, however, were prepared for what
awaitdte/iltewawaited to as they rode through Cripplegate.
What struck them first was the noise. Bells were so muchaprt Iwihuiuch a pat
of their world that most men had long ago developed selective kannrisyfctive
heating blocking out the constant chimingfor Matins, Prime, None, i/spe^s/
snone, Vesps Compline, Lent, for festivals, births, marriages, funerals, for
otteUistnol for city eta tons, pageants, processions, coronations, military
victoriesWsprqW-eesbells p daimed virtually every aspect of daily life. But
they had heard uiiiiiliibisueard nottaj !ie this wild cacophony; the very air
seemed to vibrate with thepealiikdtrfth the pealing ^ so many church chimes.
Simon had never seen London look so festive. Banners wffliuuiljswzirs were tag
from the windows of upper stories, stretched across the narrastrntonErmarrow
sW
a|x>ve their heads. In place of the customary bundle of leaves
sijulifajiiesTaves sign*?
*« presence of an ale-house, the ale-stakes were draped withdrew Aw with
floweis
^ doors were festooned with hawthorn and green birch. SomkoujJoiraoS Some ho*
Aiders even had bonfires burning, as if it were the vigil of St|« t irtjfiioof
St Johitne
Phst. Most amazing of all, the streets were reasonably clean hraujmblean;
theuk-
^ must have been working since first light, for much of tihtdebtaiiiio of the
deta
Sone. Even the usual stray pigs and dogs were not roaming wkjimtfi-aming at4
366
only a large grey goose was in sight, hissing and flapping its wings when
foolhardy children ventured too near.
"Papa!" Harry spurred his mount forward, until they rode side b side. "Listen
to them," he marveled, gesturing toward the people thronging both sides of the
street. "I would that I had a shilling f0r every cheer you're getting!"
"Mayhap you could pass around an alms-cup," Simon said dryly but his
nonchalance was feigned. He was both taken aback and touched by the response
of the London crowds. They had turned out in large numbers to witness the
barons' triumphant entry into the city, and clapped loudly as the men rode by,
surging out into the road to offer food and flowers, sharing wineskins with
the delighted soldiers. But for Simon they reserved their most fervent cheers,
for Simon they saved their heartfelt acclaim.
Joyful shouts of "Leicester!" echoed on the summer air, competing with the
pealing bells, heralding his progress down Wood Street. Simon had never
experienced such an outpouring of emotion. It was disconcerting at first, but
exhilarating, too. Gazing upon this sea of friendly faces, he felt a shock of
recognition. These peoplebakers and carpenters and skinners, men of humble
tradesthey were his true allies. They understood his commitment to the
Provisions, shared it as men of his own rank did not.
Most of Simon's supporters were young, and they were thoroughly enjoying their
sudden celebrity status. Harry in particular won the crowd's favor, for he was
quick to bandy quips, to accept proffered wineskins, to flirt with pretty
girls. A woman had run out into the street, draped a garland of honeysuckle
around his stallion's neck, and he was amusing the spectators by flinging
flowers to lasses who'd caught his eye, even leaning recklessly from the
saddle to claim a kiss from a buxom redhead This delighted those watching,
save only the young Earl of Gloucester, who yearned to see Harry lose his
balance, fall flat on his face. But Harry had been blessed with an athlete's
grace; he straightened up, his cheek smeared with the girl's lip rouge, and
acknowledged the crowd's cheers with a jaunty wave.
"If there was any justice, he'd have broken his neck," Gloucester muttered,
earning a speculative glance from his brother. Thomas na not been sharing in
the general rejoicing. Once it had come to war, n had no choice but to support
his elder brother; he was not altoge happy about it, though, for in being
loyal to Gilbert, he was force be disloyal to Edward, his friend and future
King. He'd noticed G&>e^ displeasure, wondered what had soured his brother's
mood, w should have been a day of triumph for him; Thomas knew that       ^
genuinely believed in the Provisions, in the need for reforms. N
367
ke studied his brother's scowling profile, a glimmer of comprehension came to
him.
"Does it vex you so much, Gilbert, that the cheers are for 'Leicester,' not
for 'Gloucester'?" he asked, saw his brother's fair skin stain with
color.
"No, of course not," Gloucester snapped. "Why should I stoop to court the
commons? I leave that to Leicester. But the fact is, torn, that I was the one
who captured the Bishop of Hereford, not Leicester. We're equal partners in
this enterprise, and it ill behooves him to claim all the
J'A   "
credit.
"I doubt that is his intent," Thomas said mildly. "But whether he wills it or
not, the Earl of Leicester is a magnet for all eyes. That, too, is a fact,
Gilbert, one you'd best learn to live with, for any man who is linked with
Leicester is bound to find himself standing in the Earl's shadow."
"Must I learn to live with his whelp, too?" Gloucester said, gesturing toward
Harry. "Look at that fool!"
At first glance, the timber-framed house opposite St Peter's Church looked no
different from its neighbors. But no soldier passed it without craning his
neck, staring up at the woman framed in a window of the overhanging upper
story. Theirs was a society in which fairness was idealized, and she had been
graced with a remarkable shade of silverblonde hair; it hung loose down her
back, shimmered as the sun struck it, a gossamer cascade of light. Harry
stopped his stallion so abruptly that the animal reared, pawing the air.
Harry's hat was off in a gallant sweep; snatching the honeysuckle garland from
his horse's neck, he held it aloft, and then sent it spiraling up through the
window, into her outstretched hands.
The spectators applauded; the woman leaned out, crying, "Wait, ffly lord!" A
moment later, she tossed an object from the window, something wrapped in
homespun. Harry caught it deftly, grinned, andto the disappointment of the
crowdtucked it away in his tunic before anyone could see the contents.
Bran at once spurred to his side; Gloucester and Thomas, no less ^"ous,
followed. Under their badgering, Harry laughed, gave them a T^se o{ a large
metal key. "Lord God," he said, casting his eyes Kyward, "if I remember naught
else in this life, let it be the location of that house!"
, d Bran and Thomas laughed, too; Gilbert de Clare did not. "This is Pj. ay of
consequence," he said, "a day to herald the triumph of the it b S10ns/ our
victory over the King. It is bad enough that you demean
V chasing after whores without blaspheming, too."
""V was enjoying himself enormously, too much so to take of-
368
fense. He contented himself with a mock grimace. "Gilbert, how sour the
grapes!"
Bran was shaking his head sorrowfully. "He is right, Harry. Y0ur whoring is
shameful." He glanced back at Gloucester, smiling. "But you must bear in mind,
Gilbert, that not every man has been blessed with a wife like yours."
Most people would have taken Bran's comment as a pleasantry indeed, as a
compliment. To those in the know, it was a knife thrust under the ribs.
Gloucester had been wed at the age of ten to one of Henry's de Lusignan
nieces, and their mutual animosity was so pronounced, so notorious, that when
the court learned of Alice de Clare's pregnancy, it was greeted with
disbelief, hilarity, and a predictable spate of ribald jokes. Now Gloucester
lost color so fast that his freckles seemed to take fire. Thomas kneed his
mount, moving between his brother and Bran, not drawing an easy breath until
Simon's sons passed on, quickening pace to catch up with their father.
Harry's expression was quizzical. "You do go for the vitals, lad. That barb of
yours drew blood."
"I meant it to," Bran said. "torn is a good sort, but Gilbert is an ass. I
could stomach his hypocrisy if he were not also such a hothead."
"Yes," Harry agreed, "a pity he does not have your saintly temperament." He
looked over at his brother, blue eyes agleam. "Alas, though, I thought you
were defending my honor!"
"I do, Harry, all the time. You know I could never resist a lost cause," Bran
said, and laughing, they spurred their horses, churning up clouds of thick,
red dust, overtaking their father just as he turned into Cheapside.
Taking note of the rouge smearing Harry's cheek, Simon said, "I see you
decided to ask for alms, after all."
Harry grinned, unabashed, then gave an exclamation of awe. Ahead of them
waited half the city, or so it first seemed. Never had Harry seen so many
people gathered in one place. Cheapside had so much open ground that jousts
were held here; now the entire area was overflowing with exuberant Londoners.
Staid merchants and matrons, cocky apprentices, ragged beggars, parish
priests, garishly dressed prostitutes, nuns from St Helen's, minstrels and
jugglers, shrieking children, pi»" pockets on the prowl, beaming craftsmen,
Franciscan friars, coquettish young girlsall quarters of the city had turned
out for his father. The sceneso colorful, congested, and tumultuousput Harry
in mind o paintings he'd seen of Judgment Day, when all should be summone
before God's Throne. Only the Jews were absent; in that vast crowd, there was
not to be found even one of the white badges that Henry &a decreed for every
Jew above the age of seven. Although the Jewry a;
369
just north of Cheapside, none of the inhabitants had been tempted by tne
victory procession. They knew better; in good times or bad, there was danger
in being a Jew.
"Leicester, Leicester!" It was a rhythmic, pulsing chant, rising above the
clamor of the bells, a wave that had been gaining momentum as they rode down
Wood Street, cresting now in Cheapside, engulfing them in raw, surging sound.
"My God, Papa," Bran gasped, "they'd make you {(ing of London if they only
could!"
Simon smiled, then shook his head. "No, lad. If London has an uncrowned King,
there's the man." And he gestured toward the steps of St Mary-le-Bow, where a
euphoric Thomas Fitz Thomas awaited them.
As Simon reined in his stallion, Fitz Thomas moved forward eagerly. "Had there
only been time, my lord, we'd have been able to give you a truly memorable
welcome. We'd have had pageants and white doves and conduits running with
wine. But as I look about us, I can see that my Londoners have given you a
gift of far greater valuetheir hearts."
"I'd heard that you had a way with words. I think we are fortunate, indeed, to
have your eloquence harnessed on behalf of our cause. From here, we go to the
Tower, to the King. This was your victory, too, Master Fitz Thomas. Have you a
horse at hand?"
"By some strange chance . . ." Thomas Puleston was grinning broadly, leading
forth two well-groomed palfreys, and Simon laughed.
"I ought to have known, torn, that you'd never be caught unawares! Now . . .
the King awaits us."
Fitz Thomas and Puleston quickly mounted, but the latter then said, "My lord,"
while giving the Mayor a nod, jerking his head toward the pillory across the
road.
Fitz Thomas understood what the silent message meant, but still he hesitated.
The men in the pillory looked utterly miserable. Bent forward from the waist,
heads and hands locked into the wooden frame, they must be suffering, for not
only was the position an acutely uncomfortable one, the weather had conspired
to add to their woes; it was a Particularly hot and humid afternoon. It was
Fitz Thomas's hope that Simon would order them freed, for that was just the
sort of dramatic, generous gesture sure to appeal to his Londoners. But he did
not want ^ything to mar the mood of this day, and he suspected that Simon was
not a man to muster much sympathy for lawbreakers. Puleston had listed,
however, that Simon would free the men, and gambling now °I^1S friend's
greater familiarity with the Earl, Fitz Thomas said loudly, hose poor
wretches! Think you, my lord, that they might be deserving ' mercy on such a
day?" S)J Simon glanced toward the pillory, then back at the Mayor. "On
a day, Master Fitz Thomas, all men deserve mercy," he said, setting
370
off another burst of cheering, for the urbane, cynical Londoners were also
capable of the most mawkish sentimentality.
Fitz Thomas paced his mount to Simon's stallion, experiencing a moment such as
few men were ever granted, one of pure and perfect happiness. A soldier the
Earl might be, the best in England he'd Wager but he was not utterly lacking
in political instincts. De Gisors was wrongthey were allies in truth and in
deed, together would make a new England. "This is how Adam must have felt," he
said, "in the days ere man's fall from grace, when there were no boundaries,
only pennybright possibilities."
Simon gave him a sideways smile. "You'd best bear in mind," he said, "that
there are snakes in our Eden, too, Master Fitz Thomas."
Fitz Thomas laughed, not in the least deceived by Simon's skepticism, for as
their eyes met, he was swept with certainty, an instinctive awareness beyond
refuting, that the Earl of Leicester shared his dreams for England, that
Simon, too, saw this day as a new beginning.
ARRIVING at the Tower, they found Henry awaiting them in the great hall.
Flanked by his Queen and brother Richard, he looked haggard, even unwell. As
Simon and the Earl of Gloucester knelt before him, Simon was startled by how
much Henry had aged in the months since their last encounter. In stark
contrast to the wan, dispirited Henry, his Queen glowed with vivid, defiant
color. Her cheeks flamed, her throat glittered with jewels, and her gown was a
deliberately dramatic crimson, as red as blood. When Simon kissed her hand,
those elegant, ringed fingers twitched, clenched involuntarily. She would, he
thought, nail her flag to the mast ere she'd run it down.
"My liege," he said. "There is much for us to discuss: the justiciarship, the
appointment of guardians of the peace, the removal of foreign garrisons from
royal castles, and your son Edward's refusal to yield Windsor Castle. Will it
be convenient for Your Grace to meet with us on the morrow?"
"And if it is not?" But Henry's flare of temper was fleeting; it lacked fire,
even conviction. "On the morrow," he agreed listlessly. "Now I am tired, my
lords. I wish to retire to my private chambers."
Eleanor gave Simon a look that all but scorched the air. "I trust that meets
with your approval, my lord of Leicester?"
Simon deflected the sarcasm with silence, and Eleanor took her husband's arm.
They horned away, rather pointedly snubbing the Mayor, who seemed to shrug off
their rudeness with equanimity. Gloucester shoute after them, "We'll also be
discussing my estates. I'm sure Your Grace
372
j,as reconsidered, that you're now willing to give me seisin of my lands!"
Richard had not accompanied his brother. Moving toward Simon, ne said quietly,
"I should like to thank you for all your efforts on my son'S behalf."
"I was glad that I could be of assistance. It is my understanding {^at, due to
the French King's intercession, Hal is soon to be freed?"
Richard nodded. "God be praised," he said, and then, "Simon, it ought never to
have come to this."
"Your brother gave me no choice," Simon said coolly.
"I'll not deny that Henry made mistakes, more than his share. But I doubt that
you are as blameless as you seem to think."
Simon said nothing, and Richard turned, slowly followed after Henry. With the
departure of the King and Queen, the atmosphere in the hall changed
dramatically, the mood becoming festive. Wine began to flow freely; there was
much bantering and raucous horseplay among the younger knights. Simon let them
have their fun, uncharacteristically indulgent, while he shared a flagon of
malmsey with Peter de Montfort and Hugh le Despenser, who'd served as
Justiciar in those heady days following the adoption of the Provisions, only
to be dismissed by Henry as soon as the opportunity arose.
"You did it, Simon," Hugh exulted. "By God, you did it!"
"So it seems," Simon agreed, somewhat absently, for his attention was focused
across the hall, upon the boisterous Marcher lords. "I would that I could
truly trust them," he confessed, "but they are a faithless breed. I keep
remembering Roger de Mortimer, who swore with such passion to uphold the
Provisionsuntil the Crown made it worth his while to switch sides."
Neither Peter nor Hugh disputed him; the Marcher lords had never been known
for constancy. "What think you of Gloucester, Simon?"
"I think he's of finer mettle than the Marchers, Peter, but Christ, he's
green, badly in need of seasoning." Simon frowned, for the Earl of Derby was
now sprawled in Henry's chair of state, a needless provocation. But this was a
day for rejoicing, not rebukes. Catching a servant's eyes, Simon ordered
writing materials, then beckoned to one of his squires.
"Ranulf, find me a courier, a man I can trust. He is to leave within the hour
for Kenilworth. Tell him the letter is to be given only into the nds of my
Countess. Tell him, too, not to tarry."
Peter and Hugh having tactfully withdrawn, Simon sat for a time looking upon
the jubilant pandemonium that rocked the hall. His sons ^ere in the very midst
of it, celebrating noisily. As he watched, Harry "'d Bran began to toss a
wineskin back and forth, as if it were a pig's
372
bladder football, shouting with laughter when the inevitable happeri , and it
sprayed all within range. Simon smiled in spite of himself, the picked up a
quill pen.
"To my dearest wife, greetings." He was already envisioning Ne^ response.
She'd impatiently break the seal, scan the letter rapidly f0 the heart of the
message, and only then would she go back to the beginning, study it with
careif the news was good. It was the way she always read letters; he knew her
habits as well as he did his own How she would have enjoyed this day, even the
noise and confusion and crowding. She so loved pageantry and spectacles, would
have reveled in it all. He paused, then put the pen again to the parchment.
"Beloved," he wrote, "we have won."
28
London, England
October 1263
A±AL had not removed his mantle; as he spoke, his hands kept fiddling with the
clasp. So tense was he that when the pin pricked his thumb, he did not even
notice the trickle of blood. Those who knew Hal best sometimes joked that he
must be a foundling, so lacking was he in the volatile Plantagenet
temperament. He was by nature placid, eager to please, and now his distress
was genuine. There was entreaty in the look he directed toward the silent
witnesses: his aunt Nell, his de Montfort cousins, the Bishop of Worcester,
Peter de Montfort, the Mayor of London. He encountered no understanding,
though, only mute accusations.
"Uncle Simon . . ." For it was Simon whose approval mattered, Simon who could
reward with a smile, sear with a glance, Simon whose eyes had taken on the
color of smoke, the glaze of ice.
"I thought you truly believed in the need for reform, Hal." Hal flinched; his
uncle's voice was low, yet crackled with intensity' with barely suppressed
outrage. He was suddenly very grateful that ni»
373
cousin Ned had offered to come with him. "I do, Uncle/' he said plaintively/
"I do! But this estrangement is breaking my father's heart!"
If he'd hoped to gain Simon's sympathy, he should have known better. Simon's
eyes moved past him dismissively, focusing instead upon the man leaning
against the door.
"You're becoming quite adroit at fishing in troubled waters, Edward. Lest it
go to your head, you might do well to remember that some gsh will snap at any
hook, take any bait."
Edward smiled coolly, saying nothing, but color flooded Hal's face. "Uncle,
that is unfair! Ned did not buy my support!"
Simon's smile was no less sardonic than Edward's. It was Bran who said, with
high indignation, "And what of Tickhill? Ned's manor, now yours!"
"I admit Ned gave me Tickhill, but that is not why I heeded him ..." Hal
faltered, for he could find on their faces nothing but disbelief. Mustering
what dignity he could, he said, "I cannot forsake my father, but this I
promise you, Uncle, that I'll not bear arms against you."
"How very reassuring," Simon said, so sarcastically that Hal flushed anew. Too
hurt to hide it, he turned on his heel, bumping into Edward in his haste to
escape the chamber.
"God keep you, Aunt Nell." Edward included Harry and Bran in his farewell,
while pointedly ignoring Guy. Opening the door to follow Hal, he paused. "I
have some advice for you," he said, in an altogether different tone, one
overlaid with unmistakable menace. But the warning was not directed at Simon;
he was staring at Thomas Fitz Thomas. "Do not stand again for Mayor. Even if
you win, it will avail you naught, for my lord father will dispatch a royal
writ to the Exchequer, forbidding them to admit you to office."
Fitz Thomas had heard that Edward now harbored an embittered grudge against
Londoners, blaming the innocent and guilty alike for what had befallen his
mother at the bridge. But Fitz Thomas had not known that he was to bear the
brunt of Edward's hostility. It was a sobering thought, the realization that
he must count the King's son as his enemy.
"Does Henry plan to issue a writ forbidding the winter snows, too?" Simon
inquired, and Edward swung around, Fitz Thomas forgotten.
"My father is England's King, whilst you, Uncle, are but a failed KD*\. It is
over for you, Simon; do you not know that yet? You had your foment in the
sunyour entry into Londonbut your support has tegun to bleed away. By
Christmas, you'll stand alone, utterly alone."
"The Earl of Leicester holds London, my lord," Fitz Thomas said, ^d Edward
laughed.
374
"You have just proved my point. Master Fitz Thomas. These are the only allies
you have left, Simonlowborn fishmongers and blacksmiths and beggars. But
mayhap you can convert a few Jews." Still laughing, he turned, sauntered
without haste from the chamber.
No sooner had he gone than Simon's sons exchanged glances, moved with
conspicuous nonchalance toward the door. Nell tensed, but then she saw Peter
rise, too, slip silently after them. Fitz Thomas was bending over her hand,
taking his leave; she gave him the smile meant for Peter.
"Master Fitz Thomas." The Mayor stopped, glanced back over his shoulder, and
Simon said, "Do you plan to stand for reelection?"
"Of course," Fitz Thomas said, closing the door quietly behind him.
Simon's tenuous control of his temper lasted until Fitz Thomas's departure,
but not a moment more. "Christ Jesus," he exploded, "never have I known men so
fickle, men whose words mean so little! Hal's betrayal ought not to have
surprised me, for I've lost count of the Marcher lords who've been bought by
Edward. So much for allies of high birth! Look at your cousin, Nell, look at
de Warenne. He boasts the best blood in England, yet he swings like a
weathercock in a high wind, first supporting the de Lusignans, then endorsing
the Provisions, and now . . . Damn him if he's not let Edward befool him
again, just like Hal!"
"I know, love," Nell commiserated, no less indignant than Simon. "Hal's
ingratitude is unforgivable. He'd still be languishing in French captivity if
not for you!"
The Bishop of Worcester had yet to move. Cloaked in shadow, he sat,
unobtrusive, observant, for he had a gift for stillness that even a cat might
envy, a heavy-lidded gaze that missed little. He was living, breathing proof
of the deceptiveness of outer packaging, for he was squat, barrel-chested,
jowled and florid, looking like the very reincarnation of the merry,
wine-swilling monk of popular folklore. But his appearance could not have been
more misleading. He was in reality an ascetic and an intellectual, austerely
pious yet intensely ambitious, one who adhered to a rigid code of honor, a man
either blessed or cursed with an analytical eye, a distaste for sentiment. He
had never learned to value humor, or he might have appreciated the irony
inherent in his friendship with Simon, Simon who was impulsive and outspoken
and often reckless, all traits the Bishop earnestly deplored.
He waited, rather impatiently, for Simon's anger to run its course/ and then
said, "There was some truth to Edward's boasting. Simon/ your position is more
perilous than you seem willing to admit."
"Simon does not lack for support! It is not just the Londonersw have rallied
to him. The other towns, the Oxford students, the Franci cans, even the parish
priests"
375
"What you say is correct, Madame. Your husband is held in great esteem by
those you've just named. Unfortunately for him, for us all, that is not true
for the men of his own class . . . and therein lies the danger. When the
Provisions were first adopted, the barons were united in opposition to Henry.
Now . . . now that is no longer so. They still resent Henry's follies, scorn
his weaknesses, but they are not following us down this road. You've scared
them, Simon. Your peers do not share your zeal for reform. They never did."
"I do not believe that," Simon said sharply, and the Bishop shook his head.
"You do not want to believe it. The fact is, Simon, most men prefer the devil
they know . . . even feckless, hapless Henry. The King, God save him."
"He is my King, too, Walter. I do not seek to depose him!"
"No . . . but you would rein him in, curb his more lunatic whims, by force if
need be, make him answerable to his council. You'd even hold parliament
without him. Ah, Simon, do you not see? You'd take us down a road dark and
unfamiliar, with no map, no lanterns, no known landmarks. Little wonder men
balk! For such a journey as that, you'll need every ally you can get. The
support of Londoners and university students will not be enough. You'll need
men of high birth, men of wealth and renown."
"You mean Gloucester."
"Yes . . . Gloucester. He is the linchpin of our cause, for without his
backing, the Provisions are bound to fail. But already he is shying away, and
you do nothing to hold him fast. To the contrary, you"
"What would you have me do? He lacks seasoning, bristles if any man even looks
at him askance. Is it my fault that he takes offense at shadows?"
"I grant you he is no easy ally: too thin-skinned, too prideful, and so
jealous of you that he's like to sicken on it. But he does believe in the
Provisions, Simon. If you would but play to his pride, take him into your
confidence . . . and put an end to his foolish feuding with your s°ns. There's
bad blood between them, and when you seized John Man^I's lands, gave them over
to Bran"
"What of it? Why should I not make provisions for Bran?"
Nell was no less quick to chime in. "Have you forgotten that Bran ^ a second
son? Simon's title and the bulk of our estates will pass to narry. But Bran
and his brothers must be taken care of, too."
They stared defiantly at Bishop Walter, in this utterly united, as ey Were in
most things, and he knew it was useless to argue propriety r Political acumen.
With Simon and Nell, discretion would never take ^dence over the protective
passion of parent for child. "I tell you
376
T
only that it would have been better had you bestowed the lands else where; at
the least, you ought to have consulted Gloucester ere you made the grant. If
you would but indulge Gloucester's crotchets, seek
to gain his good will"
"I am his ally, not his wet-nurse, Walter. Your young lordling has passed
twenty winters, is old enough to know his own mind. If ne believes in the
Provisions, he will defend them. If he does not, all the pampering under God's
sky will not avail."
The Bishop rose from the shadows, made a strategic withdrawal knowing full
well that Simon would balk if pushed. Simon had risen' too. Nell watched as he
paced the chamber, to the window, back to the hearth, to the window again. She
could take pleasureeven at such a momentin his quick, sure step. She had never
known a man so at ease in his own body; even on those rare occasions when he'd
had too much wine, he was not clumsy, never awkward in his movements. It was
Nell's private conviction that Simon had been singularly blessed, and not just
with a cat's grace. In the twenty-five years that they'd been married, only
twice had he been laid low with a raging fever; so infrequently did he suffer
from headaches or hacking coughs or even the inevitable winter colds that Nell
sometimes resented his apparent immunity to the disagreeable afflictions that
vexed the rest of mankind. And now he seemed no less impervious to aging.
He would be fifty-five in December, but his energy still burned at full flame;
he could outride men half his age, and, to Nell's secret satisfaction, he
looked years younger than either of her brothers. Unlike Richard, whose
hairline had begun to recede while he was in his forties, or Henry, whose bald
spot perfectly resembled a monk's tonsure, Simon's hair was still thick and
luxuriant, if no longer the color of ink. Even before he'd reached fifty, it
had begun to whiten, was now the purest shade of snow, much to Nell's delight.
On those days when he was not infuriating her with his obstinacy, she counted
herself very lucky, indeed, that her husband was still so pleasing to her
eyes. But if there was an erotic shading to her thoughts, there was also an
underlying
sense of unease.
"Simon . . . have you given any thought to returning to France?
"Yes," he said, surprising her by how readily he made that admission. "Of
course I have. But it would be confessing defeat, Nell, would be an
acknowledgment that Henry had won. The moment my ship raise anchor, he'd
revoke the Provisions; we both know that. If I leave W gland, we lose any
chance for reform, and place all we have in jeopard' As soon as he dared,
Henry would declare our lands forfeit. If war d come, I would rather we fought
over the Provisions than over Ke worth."
377
"Is that what you see ahead of us, Simon . . . war?"
"All too often," he conceded. He was back at the window; it was t with costly
glass panes, for the Bishop of Durham did not believe S n must mortify the
flesh to find salvation. An early October dusk s settling over the city;
lantern lights flickered like floating fireflies as nver boats passed the
Bishop's dock. Simon watched in silence for a .jjne. " 'Fishmongers and
blacksmiths and beggars/ was that what Edward called them? They may be men of
low birth, of humble trades, but they do not lack for courage. Their support
for the Provisionsfor me could cost them dear. I cannot forsake them, Nell."
He turned as she reached his side, saying, "Can you understand?"
She nodded, and he slid his arm around her waist. "I've always been so sure,"
he said, "so certain of tomorrow. I always felt confident that I knew what God
wanted of me. But now . . ."
She'd often teased him about that very certainty, pointing out that his will
and God's Will seemed to coincide more often than not. But she could find no
humor in this unexpected confession of doubt. "Hold me dose," she said. "I
feel so cold of a sudden."
THE October parliament broke up in rancorous disarray, hopelessly deadlocked
over the issue of whether Henry should have the sole right to appoint officers
of his household. As the Londoners rashly defied the King by re-electing
Thomas Fitz Thomas by acclamation, Henry and Edward withdrew to Windsor, Simon
to Kenilworth, and a tentative truce was worked out. But it lasted only until
December, when Henry suddenly marched on Dover Castle. He was denied entry by
the constable, and Simon hastened south with a small force. Reaching London by
the first week of Advent, he encamped with his men across the river at
Southwark and dispatched scouts to track the whereabouts of the royal army. A
disquieting lull followed, what all knew to be a counterfeit peace.
110 weather had been rainy and unseasonably mild, but the temperature plunged
suddenly on the night of December 10, and Londoners awoke
* tne morning to a world of frozen, foreboding beauty. Icicles adorned *«
eaves of every roof, festooned the branches of barren trees, sheathed ^stakes
and shop signs, spangling the city in a shimmering, transcent glaze. The
streets glittered in the greying dawn, powdered with °w' ice-encrusted. The
air was crystalline, too, the sky the color of "Shed pearl, streaked with
light wherever the sun sought to break
thro,
'u§h. It was a day for awe, not for travel; under cover of darkness,
378
r
379
nature had contrived a dazzling December panorama, but man ventured into this
frigid tableau at his own risk.
And yet John de Gisors, a man accustomed to sleeping late, a man whose age and
wealth demanded self-indulgence, now stood shivering on a wind-whipped street
within sight of the bridge. It was dubious consolation that his companions
looked no less discomfited; like him, they were finding the suspense as
penetrating as the cold. Augustine de Hadestok had lost his bluster. Richard
Picard seemed uncommonly subdued, too. Only Stephen de Chelmsford's smile was
spontaneous, for he burned with a young man's passion, undimmed by the chill,
the early hour, any belated doubts.
John de Gisors was not plagued with last-minute regrets, for he was convinced
that his own interests, his city's future, and his King's welfare could best
be served by the death of Simon de Montfort. Yet it was unnerving,
nonetheless, to be so close to fruition, poised as they were between planning
and performance. At last he saw Adam running toward them. If he had a surname,
de Gisors never knew it; what he did know was that this Adam was a seasoned
soldier, a man willing to take great risks for the right price, a man as
capable as he was cocky, to judge by his triumphant grin.
"If s done," Adam announced, only a little out of breath. "The guards were
sleeping. Taking the bridge was almost too easy, no fun at all!" He held up a
large metal key. "This opens the gatehouse. Without it, no man can lower the
drawbridge." He balanced the key tantalizingly for a moment, then flipped it
through the air. John de Gisors nearly fumbled the catch, clutching the key
awkwardly to his chest as Augustine de Hadestok demanded edgily:
"But others have keys to the gatehouse; the Mayor for certes, the sheriffs,
mayhap that whoreson Puleston now that he's been elected
constable"
"Make yourself easy, friend." There was genuine amusement in Adam's smile, and
affable contempt. "We're a half-mile ahead of you. The door of the gatehouse
has been chained shut and locked . . . with this," he said, producing a second
key.
"I'll take that," John de Gisors said swiftly, thinking it advisable to
reassert their authority over this insolent hireling. "Are you sure your men
can hold the bridge?"
"You'd best hope so," Adam drawled, the sound of his laughter floating back to
them as he began to retrace his steps, moving at a provocatively leisured
pace.
They watched him go in silence, as if stunned by their own success; De Gisors
gave an audible sigh, echoing Adam's boastful "If s done/ but with far more
fervor. "Even as we speak," he assured his accom-
plices, "the King is leading an army from Croydon, whilst the Lord Edward
approaches from Merton. By the time de Montfort realizes his peril, it will be
too late. With the bridge closed to him, he'll be trapped between the river
and the royal army. God willing, this shall be a day we'll long rememberThomas
Fitz Thomas most of all!"
SIMON had chosen to quarter his men in Southwark partly for safety's sake,
London offering a handy retreat should the need arise, and partly for
convenience, Southwark having enough open space to accommodate an army
encampment. But Simon had not taken into account the tempting proximity of the
Southwark stews. Few soldiers could resist the lure of the bankside bordellos,
and Simon suspected that most of his men had been sampling the hospitality of
the Southwark whores. For certes neither of his sons had abstained; on his way
to Mass at St Mary Overie, Simon had encountered Bran and Guy, just returning
to camp, blearyeyed and disheveled.
Simon could summon up no sympathy for their morning-after malaise, never
having suffered a hangover himself. During Mass, a time when his thoughts
should be turning only to God, he could not help brooding about their constant
carousing. As impatient as he was with his own weaknesses, the foibles of
other men, he'd always found a wealth of forbearance for the shortcomings of
his sons. So proud was he of their courage, their high spirits, their
impassioned loyalty, that it had been easy to indulge them, to overlook their
lack of prudence, to excuse their skylarking, their tempers. Even their
whoring and hellraising could be shrugged off as the inevitable folly of
youthat first.
But Simon's tolerance was beginning to wear thin. They were no longer raw
striplings; Harry was twenty-five, Bran twenty-three, and Guy twenty-one, men
grown by any standard, even a permissive parent's. Just how reliable were
they? A question not even love could deflect, a question he could deny but
notin all honestyanswer.
"My lord." Simon's anger at being interrupted at prayer died away as soon as
he recognized the intruder. He rose without a word; so did his companions.
Under the curious eyes of the congregation, they followed Simon's scout from
the church.
Their squires had anticipated trouble; the horses were waiting. Turnjng to
face Simon, the scout blurted out his news in one gulped breath. My lord, you
are in grave danger. I kept watch on the Lord Edward's canvp at Merton, as you
ordered, and early this morn he bestirred his men, took the road northtoward
London. Once I realized his intent, | did not spare my mount, but he is not
that far behind me, and Merton
18 ei§ht. . . nine miles away at most."
380
Simon did not bother to ask if Edward's army outnumbered his own, taking that
as a given, for he had less than a hundred men, and only twenty or so were
knights; he'd been awaiting reinforcements. "You've done well," he said, with
a smile that brought a pleased flush to the youth's face, then swung up into
the saddle. While he was not particularly alarmed, there was no time to tarry.
Upon their return to their bankside encampment, they found a scene of
considerable commotion. Even the most drink-sodden of the soldiers were no
longer abed. The tents stood empty, while men mulled about in loud,
quarrelsome confusion. At sight of Simon, they surged toward him in obvious
relief, all talking at once. Simon finally got a coherent account from Guy and
the young Earl of Derby. The latter looked even worse than Simon's sons,
greensick from too much ale, not enough sleep, but he was wide awake now, and
once Simon heard his news, he understood why; he could think of no greater
stimulant than an approaching army.
This latest warning came not from one of Simon's scouts, but from a farmer
sympathetic to Simon's cause. He swore that Henry had left Croydon at dawn,
leading a goodly sized force up the London road.
Simon's smile was wry. "Passing strange, for it seems that Edward also plans
to come calling on us. A pity they shall ride all this way in vain, but of a
sudden I have a great desire to spend the day in London!"
The men laughed, and without waiting for orders, scattered toward their tents,
snatching up what belongings they could. The atmosphere in the camp had
dramatically altered; an air of edgy excitement prevailed, the satisfaction of
a fox about to outwit the hounds.
Simon's jesting had set their mood, but Simon himself did not share in it, for
he knew at once that this ambush was Edward's doing. It was too well
coordinated for Henry to have devised; Henry couldn't spring a mouse-trap
without catching his own fingers. No, God curse him, this was Edward's snare.
But would he rely so utterly on surprise? For certes, he must have realized
that, given the least warning, they'd seek safety in London. Or had he found a
way to thwart their escape?
As unsettling as that suspicion was, in consequence, Simon alone felt no
surprise when they reached the bridge; he was already halfbraced for disaster.
A crowd had gathered before the stone gateway: baffled pedestrians, curious
passers-by, and frustrated tradesmen. Seeing an armor-clad knight on
horseback, a man shouted to Simon, "My lord' can you help? Those misbegotten
guards must be drunk, for if s well past dawn and they've yet to lower the
drawbridge!"
Peter de Montfort rode at Simon's side; he clearly heard Peter8 gasp, the
sound a man might make if suddenly hit in the pit of W8 stomach. Urging his
stallion forward, Simon forced his way through *"
381
crowd, under the stone gateway, onto the bridge. The drawbridge gate rose
above the seventh arch, barricaded, beyond reach. Once Adam's gatehouse guards
recognized Simon, they began to call down taunts, but he never heard them. As
his stallion moved restively, Simon sat motionless, staring at the gap in the
bridge, at that expanse of turbulent, grey water. And then he turned the
horse, rode back to his men.
They were close enough to see the church spire of St Mary Overie; the priory
was a quarter-mile to the west, and it was there that Simon led them. When he
drew rein in a snow-sheltered grove, he found himself looking, not at the
encircling ashen faces, but at the glazed December sky, as brittle a blue as
he'd ever seen, a color fired on a potter's wheel. The sun had scattered the
last lingering clouds. Although it had yet to warm the frigid morning air, it
rendered the snow iridescent; the glistening field looked as if it had been
paved with moonstones. So quiet had it become that Simon could hear an
occasional snap, as icicles began to break away from swaying tree branches, to
shatter upon the frozen earth below. So great was his sense of disbelief that
it blocked all fear. Even knowing as he did that there could be but one
outcome to such a one-sided battle, he found it impossible to conclude that
God had been leading him to this moment. How could it be his destiny to die
here, in these snow-clogged Southwark streets? How could the Almighty forsake
him, when the Provisions could not survive him?
"Gather close so all might hear." His breath froze as soon as it reached the
air, interspersing his words with wisps of white smoke. "We cannot hope to
assault the bridge. Nor can we retreat in time. By now Edward's army must be
within a few miles of Southwark, and the King's army cannot be far behind. But
some of you can still save yourselves. With luck, a man alone may elude
pursuit. For those of you who would attempt an escape, go now and godspeed.
For those of you who choose to fight, I will not lie to you; we are greatly
outnumbered. I can say to you only what the Almighty said to Joshua: 'Be not
afraid, neither be thou dismayed, for the Lord thy God is with thee.' "
Mingling with his men were black-clad canons from the priory and frightened
citizens of Southwark. With the realization that they were about to face the
wrath of Edward's army, they panicked and began to stream away in all
directions, intent upon hiding themselves, their loved °nes, and their
possessions. But Simon's soldiers heard him out in a dazed silence. Some,
avoiding the eyes of their fellows, began to back away. Others closed ranks.
None seemed to feel the need for words; lee or fight, it was done in eerie
quiet.
Simon had risen in his stirrups so his voice might carry. Now he
?*Wed back in the saddle, but as he drew air into his lungs, he felt as
lts chill had penetrated to the very marrow of his bones, for his eyes
382
had come to rest upon the white, stunned faces of his sons. Fear congealed his
brain, his blood. Dismounting so hastily that his horse shied sideways, he
grasped Bran by the arm.
"I want you both gone from here. Now, whilst there is still time!"
"No!" Bran was shaking his head vehemently. "No, Papa. Not without you."
"I cannot," Simon said, "I cannot," and his sons nodded slowly, having
expected no other answer.
"Neither can we, Papa."
Simon's protest died aborning. How could he deny them the right to die with
honor? It was a man's choice to make. He looked from one to the other, feeling
such pride in them, such fear for them, that words failed him. He wanted
nothing so much as to embrace them both, to hold them close. But he'd never
been demonstrative; a lifetime of constraint froze him where he was, unable to
take that first step. Harry would have taken it; he alone of Simon's sons was
joyously, almost defiantly, expressive in his affections. But Bran and Guy had
learned too well to reflect their father's reticence; when speaking the
language of emotion, they were mute.
Unable to act upon their need, it was almost with relief that they heard
Simon's name being shouted. A rider had entered the priory grounds, reining in
his mount a safe distance away. "I seek the Earl of Leicester!" As Simon
stepped forward, he declared loudly, "I come at the behest of the Lord Edward,
the King's son. He accuses you of treason, demands that you make an immediate
and outright surrender."
"No."
Edward's messenger waited for Simon to elaborate upon that terse refusal. When
he realized that Simon had said all he meant to say, he colored angrily, as if
Simon's curt dismissal somehow reflected upon him. "I hope you are ready to
die, then, for you'll get no second chance from my lord. None of you will." He
raised his voice. "You fools! You're dead men, all of you!"
Bran had been gripping his sword hilt so tightly that his fingers were numbed.
He noticed now that the courier flaunted the badge of William de Lusignan,
Henry's most hated half-brother, his family's bloodenemy. The realization that
de Lusignan might be in on his father's death sent the blood thudding into
Bran's face. Spinning around, he scooped up a handful of snow. The snowball
made a surprisingly & fective missile; crusted with ice, it slammed into the
man's open mouth. He choked, reeling backward in the saddle, and Bran felt a
hot rush of pleasure to see the sudden spurt of red.
"You whoreson, you knocked out a tooth!" But he had time only for one outraged
sputter, for others were now scrabbling in the sno^'
383
too. Within seconds, the air was thick with flying snowballs. The besieged
rider struggled desperately to control his terrified mount, but the horse had
the bit between its teeth. It bolted across the field, the courier clinging
for dear life, leaving behind his hat, his wineskin, and a trail of garbled
curses.
The sight was ludicrous enough to bring a smile to Simon's face. All around
him, men were gesturing, grinning, as if they'd won a victory of sorts. He
gave them a moment more, then raised his hand for silence. "This is God's
acre, no fit site for a battle. We'd best withdraw, lest we bring bloodshed
into the priory. But ere we do, I would urge all who mean to fight to take the
cross. We know Our Lord Jesus looks with favor upon those who offer up their
lives for the holy city of Jerusalem. To die for England's weal is no less
hallowed a quest."
The Church might have questioned Simon's theology; his men did not. It was as
if he had made them a personal promise of salvation, and they made haste to
follow his example. Bran, too, knelt in the snow, marveling at his father's
sangfroid. None of this seemed real to him. He had a hole in the sole of his
boot, and his toes were growing numb. How could he be fretting over a frozen
foot when his life's breath was ebbing away on the icy December air? He
shivered, and seeing that the others were rising, he rose, too. What if they
did die this Tuesday? What would become of Mama and Ellen? Harry was safe at
KenilworthGuy always said he was the lucky onebut could he fulfill Papa's
legacy? Could any man? No, this was madness! Papa could not lose to Ned. God
would not allow it.
It occurred to Bran that it might be prudent to offer up a prayer to the saint
whose good will mattered most on the llth of December, but he was unable to
remember whose saint's day this was. He looked around for Guy. "Today's
saintwho is it?"
Guy shook his head. "Who cares? Listen, Bran, listen!"
Bran heard it, too, now, the distant pealing of bells. For the echoes to carry
so clearly across the river, every church bell in London must be chiming
wildly. "What does it mean?" he asked, and Guy grinned.
"Salvation, I think! Papa, the bells!"
Never had Simon heard a sweeter sound. His hesitation lasted only 'he length
of an indrawn breath. If he guessed wrong, he'd be sacrificing their last
shards of hope, for if they were trapped in the close confines °f the bridge,
they'd be hacked to death with appalling ease. But if he guessed right. . .
The command was already forming on his lips. "Back to the bridge!"
The street was deserted; it was as if Southwark had suddenly be-
Ome a plague town. But a handful of intrepid youths were clustered
*"* stone gate. Several ran toward Simon, gesturing. "The bridge is
384
under attack! We can hear the screaming, saw one man pushed into the river!"
Simon spurred his stallion onto the bridge. He, too, could now hear the sounds
of strife, too familiar to mistake. The Earl of Derby and Peter de Montfort
had followed. They drew rein, staring up at the drawbridge gate in wonder.
"Fitz Thomas?" Peter ventured, and Simon nodded.
"Or mayhap Puleston. But for the life of me, Peter, I cannot see how they
assembled a force so fast!"
There was another splash, as a second man plunged from the bridge railing. The
shouting had changed, taking on a rhythmic tempo, one that carried echoes of
triumph. Above the cheering a new sound intruded, a metallic clanging. Simon
knew it at once for what it was. In his mind's eye, he could see the axe
smashing into the rope of chains, each blow ringing in his ears with such a
lilting resonance that he gave a sudden, shaken laugh. "When men talk of the
silver-toned harps of Heaven, Peter, I can say in all truth that I've heard
them alreadyon the Southwark side of London's bridge!"
Behind him, Simon heard his men give a jubilant shout. He tilted his head
back, watching as the drawbridge started its slow descent. There was a brief,
frozen pause after it touched down, a second or so of silence. And then, utter
madness. As Londoners spilled out onto the drawbridge, Simon's soldiers
sprinted toward safety, and he was engulfed in a surging mob. His stallion
panicked and for a few hectic moments, he was in peril from his would-be
rescuers. Hurriedly dismounting, he found himself overwhelmed by well-wishers,
surrounded by strangers who welcomed him as joyously as if they were all
bloodkin, and Simon, a man accustomed to keeping others at arm's length, gave
himself up readily to this tumultuous tide of raw emotion, to the simple and
heartfelt happiness of deliverance.
All around him was chaos. Men were embracing, pounding one another on the
back, voices spiraling skyward in a discordant babel of English and French.
Soldiers, Londoners, and Southwark refugees mingled as one in a crowd
interspersed with a surprising number of women and children, eager spectators
to the storming of the bridge. There was a growing contingent of prostitutes,
those young women feeling shrewdly certain that they'd find a hot demand for
their services among men so recently reprieved from death. It was, Simon
thought, like every fair he'd ever attended, every pageant he'd ever
witnessed, as exultant as Christmas Christ-Child plays, as raucous as
Southwark tavern brawls and Smithfield bear baitingsall magnified a
hundredfold.
"I hope someone remembered to raise the drawbridge," Simon saw/ and as those
around him laughed, he saw a familiar figure shoving "" way toward him. Thomas
Fitz Thomas wore a borrowed mantle, no na <
385
and the world's widest grin. But when Simon said, "We owe you our lives," he
shook his head.
"Nay, my lord. I'd claim the credit if I could, but this was not my doing. Oh,
there was a witness with the mother-wit to fetch me, and I at once sent for
Thomas Puleston and the sheriffs, then made haste for the bridge." He grinned
again, gesturing toward the cloak that trailed almost to the ground. "I even
forgot my own mantle! But by the time I got here, it was already happening. As
word spread of your peril, men took to the streets, emptying churches,
ale-houses, city shops. Your foes never bargained for that, my lord. So many
men responded to the hue and cry that those defending the drawbridge were
overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Their leader was taken alive, readily offered up
the names of his patronsmerchants of good repute, I regret to say. At least I
am attracting a better class of enemies these days!"
"And I am attracting a better class of allies," Simon said with a smile.
"Let's get off this accursed bridge. I want to speak to your citizens."
Fitz Thomas nodded approvingly, following Simon toward the Fish Street
entrance. Heading for a nearby wagon, Simon used a wheel spoke as a step,
swinging up onto the seat with an agility that the younger Fitz Thomas envied.
Scrambling up, he said, "Shall I act as your interpreter, my lord?"
"No need, torn," Simon said, pleasing the Mayor by this first use of his
Christian name. "If I had not learned some of your language after thirty years
in England, I'd have to be half-witted, in truth!"
"King Henry speaks no English," Fitz Thomas pointed out, with a malicious
flash of lese majeste that Simon felt fully warranted under the circumstances.
He laughed, then raised his voice in a plea for silence. He was soon heeded;
the crowd had followed him off the bridge, thronging around the wagon, eager
to hear. "You saved my life," Simon declared, "and the lives of my sons, the
lives of my men. But you did more than that this day. You performed a service
for all of England, for you redeemed the Provisions." He paused until the
cheering died down, then began to repeat himself for the English speakers. It
mattered not at all to those listening that he had a pronounced French accent;
they cheered even more loudly.
There was a stir on the fringes of the crowd; heads were turning.
As people recognized Thomas Puleston, the realization spread that the
men being herded forward by the militia were those responsible for
"'ockading the bridge. Puleston's prisoners found themselves jeered and
Jostled, elbowed and shoved, spat upon and cursed. When a jokester
oiced the opinion that they should be hanged from the drawbridge,
8 8allows humor was greeted with morbid relish, sardonic laughter.
386
But some took the sarcasm seriously enough to put the prisoners in sudden
peril. After one hothead produced a rope, Thomas Fitz Thomas took alarm, and
started to jump off the wagon. Simon was even quicker,
"Bring them here!"
John de Gisors and his accomplices were dragged forward. Falling to his knees
before the wagon, he grasped a wheel spoke, pulled himself upright. Although
very frightened, he was determined to hold on to his dignity. He thought he
could detect pity in the Mayor's face, but as he gazed up at Simon, he
realized just how far Edward had led him astray, Simon had been willing to die
for principleor for pride; he wasn't sure which. He did not doubt that Edward,
too, would have faced death with equal fortitude. They were a different breed
than he, capable of a doomed gallantry that he could not hope to understand,
much less emulate. He was not meant to play a paladin's role; why had he not
seen that? The praises of the King suddenly seemed cheap payment, a fool's
lure. But pleading would be a waste of breath. He remembered too well those
stories of Simon's Gascony command; not even Simon's most fervent admirers
ever claimed mercy to be the cornerstone of his character. His eyes were very
grey, very clear, and so penetrating that de Gisors could not suppress an
involuntary shiver.
"So this is the King's cat's-paw. A well-fed cat, in truth, one not likely to
have ever missed a meal." Simon was studying de Gisors, but speaking to the
spectators. As laughter rippled through the crowd, he continued his insulting
appraisal of the portly merchant. "So what do we have? A hero who pays other
men to bleed on his behalf, who wants to reap the benefits without the risk. I
grant you that Sir Stoutheart would make a truly superior corpse. But he'd
make an even better
hostage."
His blending of practicality and poetic justice appealed to the Londoners. So
did Fitz Thomas's subsequent suggestion that de Gisors and the others be
forced to contribute a princely sum toward the city's defenses. No one made
serious objections as the militia led the prisoners away. But neither did
anyone move to disperse. There was a dawning awareness that what had happened
here this day was of historic significance, and people were reluctant to
return to interrupted chores, to resume ordinary activities, to relinquish the
star-dusted satisfaction of
the moment.
Simon, too, was loath to break the spell. Standing on the wagon/ he looked out
over the upturned faces, men whose names he'd neve* know, and he felt certain
that God's Will had prevailed. A sudden svriw of scarlet and silver attracted
his attention. He turned in time to see Bran flourishing the de Montfort
banner aloft.
T
387
"Guy and I are going to fly it from the drawbridge gatehouse," Brsian called
out. "Let this be the first sight Ned sees!"
Taking the wind, the banner unfurled, streaming out behind Bra-ran in a
rippling surge of eye-catching color. As Simon watched, he begagan to laugh.
"I was just wondering," he said to Fitz Thomas, "what Edwaiard thinks of my
'lowborn' London allies now!"
29
Nortnamptonsnire, England
December 1203
O,
\^/N the very day that Edward failed to entras-ap Simon on the banks of the
Thames, French envoys were landing . at Dover, bearing a significant message
from the King of France. Whea.en the October parliament had broken up in
turmoil, Henry and Simoon had sought to end the deadlock by appealing to
Louis, urging hiiidm to arbitrate between them, to reconcile those unresolved
differencarres that threatened to poison the peace of the realm. Louis now
agreed t to mediate, requesting that Henry and Simon meet him at Amiens coon
January 8, and promising that he would render his decision by Whfimitsunday,
five months hence. On December 13, Simon and his supporr"tiers agreed to abide
by the French King's findings. Three days latesr, Henry and Edward did the
same. Both sides then prepared to depa eat for Amiens.
THEY left Kenilworth Castle at dawn the day after Christmas. The roacxis were
hidden under drifts of ice-glazed snow, the sun barricaded behirtmd ^ind-blown
clouds, and their progress was slow. It was a tribute tt to "fflon's
determination that by dusk they had managed to cover almoaost j^enty miles.
His companions were fatigued, hungry, and chilled to thrlie °°ne, eager for
the shelter to be found within the market town of Davw^uy. But when Simon
decided to press ahead, detouring three milcB^es
388
to the Cistercian nunnery at Catesby, no one dared to object, not even Nell.
Throughout the day, Simon's temper had been honed to a razor's edge, but Nell
did not blame him for his wrathful mood; she shared it. The night before their
departure, a courier had arrived with bleak tidings; Edward's Marcher ally,
Roger de Mortimer, had seized three of Nell's new Herefordshire manors. It was
not a propitious happening on the eve of a peace conference, and Simon's sons
wondered why he was persevering in so dubious a quest.
Bran maneuvered his mount until he came abreast of Simon's sorrel stallion.
"If the French King does not plan to make his decision until the summer, does
that mean we'll stay in France till then?"
"That will depend upon Henry. If he remains at the French court, so shall we.
If he returns to England, we will, too. Given the good faith he's so far
shown, the only way I'd trust him out of my sight would be if he were entombed
in the nave of that abbey he's building at Westminster."
Bran grinned, then realized that his father's bitter humor was not humor at
all. "Papa, I do not understand why you ever agreed to arbitration. Do you
truly expect Louis to find against his own brother by marriage?"
"Probably not."
"Why, then, did you consent?" Bran demanded, and Simon turned in the saddle,
gave him a level look.
"Because," he said, "it is our last chance to stave off war."
Bran started to speak, stopped. Would war be such a calamity? Papa could not
help but win; Henry was an even more pitiful soldier than he was a king. Why
was Papa so loath to fight him, when fighting was what Papa knew best? But
those were questions that went unanswered; Bran sensed that his father was in
no mood for philosophical discourse, and easing the reins, he dropped back
beside his mother.
"Is it that Henry is your brother?" he asked quietly. He could not see her
face, hidden by the hood of her mantle, and had to strain to catch her words.
"Only in part. To take up arms against one's king, to resort to rebellion,
even for the most worthy causeJesu! Simon!"
They would later speculate that a small animala rabbit or weaselmust have
darted from the snow-shrouded thickets at the edge of the woods. Whatever the
cause, Simon's horse suddenly swerved from the road. As its rear hooves hit a
patch of ice, it skidded wildly, its legs entangling. As quick as Simon's
reflexes were, he was not quick enough to save himself, had time only for a
startled cry before the stallion dragged him down into the deep snow.
389
The stallion's fall spooked the other horses, and for a few chaotic moments,
they were all in jeopardy. Nell dismounted with such reckless haste that she
stumbled, fell to her knees. By the time she regained her feet, her sons had
reached Simon, were struggling to drag him from beneath his thrashing horse.
It was no easy task, for the animal was panicked and Simon stunned. So
profusely was he bleeding that when Nell first flung herself down beside him,
she feared he might be dead.
"Simon?" Jerking off her veil and wimple, she wiped the blood from his face,
fashioned a makeshift bandage for his most obvious wound, a deep gash that
angled from eyelid to temple. Her hands were shaking so badly that she kept
dropping the bloodied veil into the snow, but she saw his lashes were
flickering, his chest rising and falling, and gradually her fingers steadied.
Her sons had been the first to react. They, more than any of the men present,
were responsible for freeing Simon. In a gesture of foolhardy gallantry, Bran
had even stripped off his own mantle, wadding it under Simon's head. But now
they seemed utterly at a loss, seemed no less stunned than Simon, unable to
believe he could lie bleeding and helpless at their feet. It was left to Nell
to take charge.
"Harry, get to Catesby. Alert the Prioress, bring back a horse litter and
blankets. Bran, you and the other men go into the woods, break off some
branches. Look for fir; we'll need a wood soft enough to make a splint." She
swallowed, her eyes riveted upon the awkward, unnatural angle of Simon's left
leg. "But first fetch our saddle blankets, and for the love of God, Bran, take
back your mantle ere you catch your death!"
Cradling Simon's head in her lap, Nell sought to staunch his bleeding, so
intent upon his injuries that she did not yet feel the snow soaking through
her skirts. His lashes were flickering again; opening his eyes, he said in a
stranger's voice, faint and faraway, "I caught my boot in the stirrup, could
not jump clear . . ."
"I know, beloved, I know." She leaned over, kissed the corner of his mouth,
resolutely refusing to think of all the men who died in falls from horses.
"Simon, I must find out the extent of your injury. I'll try not to hurt you .
. ."He said nothing and she moved her fingers gingerly up his leg; his muscles
were constricted, almost in spasm. But it was not until she touched his thigh
that he gasped, bit his lip until it bled.
One of Simon's squires had been kneeling by the flailing stallion. W»en he
rose, the dagger in his hand dripped blood into the snow. "I am sorry, my
lord," he said. "I know how you fancied the sorrel. But there was naught to be
done; he broke a leg."
Simon's mouth twisted. "So did I."
390
"THERE, my lord." Stepping back from the bed, the doctor essayed a tentative
smile. "Some of my brethren would have unwrapped the leg after just
twenty-five days, but I thought it best to wait another week and the results
bear me out. The bone seems to be healing well, and there are no signs of
inflammation. Now I am ready to replace the bandages. You may have noticed
that this time I've not soaked them in egg whites; instead, I've been steeping
them in hot wine. But first I must pack more crushed comfrey around the
break."
He was talking too much, but could not help himself; he had never tended a
patient as self-willed, as intimidating as Simon. His unease made his fingers
clumsy, and it took him an inordinate amount of time to rewrap Simon's
bandages, then to replace the splints, to make sure that the injured leg was
securely positioned in its cloth cradle.
"I know you find it frustrating to be hobbled like this, my lord," he said
apologetically, fumbling with the ropes that immobilized Simon's leg. "But it
could be worse, believe me. There are physicians who would have bound your leg
to heavy boards, from hip to ankle. But I've found that causes the patient too
much discomfort. This rope works better, believe me."
By now thoroughly unnerved by Simon's continuing silence, he straightened up,
began to back away from the bed. "I must caution you again, my lord. A thigh
injury is not easy to heal, and if you hope to avoid a limp, you must keep the
leg perfectly stillno matter how difficult that may be."
"So you've told me . . . and told me," Simon muttered, unable to endure any
more of the other man's garrulous anxiety. "Ere you depart, Master Arnaud, I'd
have you fetch me that basket, the one holding my correspondence.''
The doctor disapproved, but dared not object. Entering a fe\v moments later,
Nell showed no such diffidence. "Simon, you ought to be resting! And look at
that tray; you've scarce touched your meal."
"I was not hungry. But I do need more candles. And I want you to find my
scribe, send him up to me."
"Indeed, I will not. I'm not going anywhere until you eat some of this
rice-and-lentils dish. It may not be your favorite food, but the doctor says
it will help your bones to knit, will"
"And if I balk, what do you mean to dospoon-feed me? I said 1 wanted none of
it. Now cease your infernal hovering and fetch my scribe."
"No!"
"Nell, you'll do as I say! Take this slop awaynow!" Simon dramatized his
demand with a peremptory gesture, but he miscalculate his reach, and his arm
struck the edge of the table. It rocked, flipp^
392
the tray into the floor rushes. Simon was about to offer a grudging apology
when Nell exploded.
"Very well done, my lord! No ... do not say a word, hear me out! for the past
month, I have been at your beck and call. I have been putting up with your
foul tempers and catering to your whims, sleeping on that wretched trundle bed
so I could tend to your needs myself, no matter the hour of the night. But no
more. You do not want to eat? So be it. You can lie up here until you starve
for all I care!"
The door was a massive, oaken structure, hinged and barred with heavy metal,
but Nell still managed to slam it resoundingly behind her. Simon was the one
who usually stalked out after a quarrel; now he could do nothing but fume.
He had chosen to recuperate in Kenilworth's keep rather than in the great
chamber he shared with Nell, for when the door was open, he could hear Mass
being said in the adjoining chapel. But his convalescence chamber did have
drawbacks; he was isolated from the rest of the household. Until his squires
returned, he would have to make do without his scribe, and he dumped his
letters onto the bed, began impatiently to sort through them.
The first one had an incendiary effect upon an already inflamed temper. He
read it, reread it, and swore savagely, futilely, for it was a ransom demand
from Roger de Mortimer. In his December raid upon Nell's Herefordshire manors,
de Mortimer had seized one of Simon's bailiffs, and he was refusing to release
the man unless he was given the sum of two hundred marks. And he would have to
be paid, for there could be no retribution while the negotiations were
proceeding at Amiens.
The next letter contained more welcome news. Although the aging Earl of
Hereford supported the King, his eldest son did not. Humphrey de Bohun wrote
to reaffirm his support for Simon and the Provisions, and to announce his
upcoming marriage to the Earl of Winchester's niece. Simon put the letter
aside. So Elen's daughter was to wed. Which one? Anne had chosen the nunnery.
Most likely it was Joanna, the second lass. She'd be what. . . eighteen? Could
it truly be ten years since Elen died and six since Rob's death?
Simon lay back against the pillow, staring up at a cobweb glistening
10 a corner of the bed canopy. Rob had been thrown from his horse whilst
taking part in a tournament at Blyth. His injuries had not healed ** ti^y
ought; he'd lingered more than a year, bedridden, yearning for eath. A sorry
end for a decent man. Simon closed his eyes, said a brief prayer for his dead,
and tried to push the fear away, the fear that his miurv might fester, too.
Picking up another letter, he read his son's account of their arrival Anuens.
How hard this was, being dependent upon second-hand
392
reports, upon others to act for him. Christ Jesus, why had he to break a leg,
now of all times? Peter was a good man; he and Harry would do their best to
make the French King understand. But he ought to have been there himself. Why
did the Almighty not want him there?
He shifted, looking in vain for a comfortable position, and knocked most of
the letters onto the floor. God's wrath, now what? No matter how he stretched,
his fingers fell just short of the parchment sheets. A sharp stab of pain
warned him of his danger; he sank back, defeated. But it was several minutes
before he could bring himself to reach fot the bell, to ask for help.
No one came. He waited, rang again, and again, and again. By the time he
finally heard footsteps, he was seething. "Bleeding Hell, where have" He
swallowed the rest of the profanity as the door swung open, for it was not his
tardy squire who entered, it was his eleven-year-old daughter.
Simon drew a calming breath. "I'm sorry, lass. I thought you were Giles."
"He's probably hiding, Papa. Everyone always does after you quarrel with Mama.
We all know, you see, for she comes back to the great hall in a tearing rage,
snaps at anyone who looks at her twice."
"So . . . Giles has gone to earth," Simon said, and Ellen grinned.
"Just like a fox, Papa!"
He watched as she retrieved his letters, then beckoned her to sit beside him
on the bed. Her hair had once been as blonde as Nell's, but it had slowly
begun to darken, was now a burnished red-gold. He reached out, entwined one of
her long, bright braids around his finger. "It sounds as if they all fear to
face me. But not you?"
She had eyes like her brother Amaury, a tawny hazel flecked with green. They
were alight now with laughter, hers the serene self-confidence of a cherished
only daughter in a family of sons. "Afraid of you, Papa? I am terrified," she
said, and giggled when Simon pulled her braid.
"No jokes, lass. I want the truth. Have I been as bad a patient as that?"
She nodded. "You've been just dreadful, Papa," she confided.
Simon was taken aback. "Well, then, I suppose I shall have to mend my ways.
I'd best begin by making peace with your mother, but I shall need your help.
See that coffer in the corner? If you could fetch my sword" He smiled, for she
was already half-way across the room"Leave it in the scabbard, Ellen, and take
care, for it's heavy. I wan' you to bring it to the great hall, present it to
Nell."
"I'll go right now, Papa!" Holding his sword as if it were a divining
I
393
rod, Ellen looked so incongruous and yet so appealing that Simon had to laugh,
for the first time in weeks.
He was surprised when Nell failed to appear within the following quarter-hour,
for as quick as she was to flare up, she was even quicker to laugh. As time
passed, his initial puzzlement gave way to concern; it was not like her to
hold a grudge. He kept listening for her, unable to concentrate upon his
correspondence. Although he was growing sleepy again, he was loath to give in
to it. It alarmed him that he tired so easily since his accident; it was his
secret, unconfessed fear that he might not recover his full strength.
Eventually he dozed, awakening an hour later at the sound of familiar
footsteps.
"You're a hard woman to impress. That was the first time I've ever made an
unconditional surrender, and yet Nell? What is it?"
Nell was ashen, her eyes dark and dazed, so dilated were her pupils. Leaning
back against the door, she said, "Harry and Peter have returned from France."
Simon frowned. "So soon? But they were to remain until Louis rendered his
decision."
"He did, Simon. On Wednesday last, he issued the Mise of Amiens."
"What! In just a fortnight, he reached a decision that was not expected till
June?" Simon sat up too abruptly, winced. "You'd not look so grim were the
news good. Louis has found in Henry's favor, then? How bad is it? Has he given
Henry the sole right to appoint members of his council?"
"Simon ..." Nell came forward, unexpectedly knelt by the bed, and reached for
her husband's hand. "Simon, the French King has annulled the Provisions. He
has declared them to be invalid, and absolved Henry of his past promises to
adhere to them."
"No . . . no! He could not do that. He had not the right!"
"I know. But he did it, nonetheless. Peter says that even Henry seemed shocked
by the extent of his victory. Louis found for Henry on all counts. He held
that all the royal strongholds must be restored to Henry at once, that Henry
alone has the right to appoint the ministers and officers of his realm. He
even denied us the right to expel those of alien birth. He ... Oh, God, Simon,
it has all been for naught!"
"I thought," he said bitterly, "that Louis was a man of honor. How could he
rule upon the validity of the Provisions? We would never have agreed to
arbitration had that been at issue. For five years, I've fought to safeguard
the Provisions, fought for reform. Why would I allow Louis to pass judgment
upon what we've already won?"
"We were betrayed," Nell said, no less bitterly. "When Harry and "eter reached
London, they encountered the Earl of Gloucester. Upon
394
hearing their news, he insisted upon accompanying them on to Kenilworth. So,
too, did Mayor Fitz Thomas. He says the Londoners are sorely distraught,
implores you to see him. What shall I tell them? Shall I bid them wait?"
"No," he said. "I'll see them."
Harry and Peter were disheveled and travel-stained, looked weary in body and
soul. At sight of his father, Harry blurted out, "Christ, Papa, I'm so sorry!"
as if the Mise of Amiens was somehow his fault.
The young Earl of Gloucester was uncomfortable and it showed. His relationship
with Simon had chilled since the summer. This was their first encounter in
several months, and Gloucester seemed ill at ease in the intimacy of Simon's
sickroom. The Mayor of London, too, appeared inhibited by his surroundings. He
made an unobtrusive entrance, hung back as the others approached the bed.
"Do you have it?" Simon asked abruptly, and Peter nodded, silently handing
over a parchment scroll. Simon rapidly unrolled the document. "Quash and annul
the aforesaid Provisions." The words seemed to leap off the page, as if
written in blood. He read swiftly, betraying his emotions with an occasional
indrawn breath. Once he quoted aloud, incredulously, " 'The said King shall be
at liberty to call aliens to his counsel,' " and then, " 'The said King shall
have full power and free rule within his realm' "
Harry could restrain himself no longer. "Henry bribed the bastard," he
interrupted indignantly. "How else explain it?"
"I do not agree," Peter objected mildly. "I think Louis reacted as a king, not
a judge, I think he felt threatened by any limitations upon the powers of
kingship"
"He's Henry's brother by marriage and he's French. If you're looking for
explanations, you need go no further than that," Gloucester said tautly,
forgetting for the moment that Simon, too, was French.
Harry bristled, but Simon was still intent upon the French King's verdict.
"Listen to this. 'We further are unwilling, nor by this present ordinance do
we intend, in any way to derogate from the royal privileges, charters,
liberties, statutes, or praiseworthy customs, of the realm of England.' He
affirms the Runnymede Charter, and then disavows the Oxford Provisions! Sheer
madness; one might as well chop down a tree whilst continuing to water the
roots. The Provisions are the natural corollary of the Charter!"
He crumpled the parchment in his fist, flung it contemptuously'° the floor,
then looked up at the other men. "I cannot accept this. I have sworn to uphold
the Provisions with my honor, with my life. Even « all forsake me, my sons and
I will not abandon the Provisions, or thos6 who put their faith in me."
395
"You will not stand alone, my lord," Fitz Thomas said quietly "My Londoners
will fight for the Provisions if need be "
"So will I " Gloucester startled them all by jerking his sword from its
scabbard "That I swear by the holy relics within this hilt "
It was a dramatic gesture, enthusiastically emulated by Simon's three sons
"Men will flock to your banners, Papa " Bran spread his arms wide, as if to
embrace hordes of unseen supporters "The Earl of Derby and Humphrey de Bohun
and Hugh le Despenser and Baldwin Wake and John Fitz John and"
"And you can count upon Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Papa He'll throw his lot in with
us for certes," Harry exclaimed, as Fitz Thomas chimed in with his own
assurances about the loyalties of the citizenry, the Cinque Ports, towns like
Oxford and Northampton, all of which would follow London's lead
Simon heard them out in silence, and gradually they fell silent, too Becoming
aware of his obvious exhaustion, Simon's sons exchanged uneasy glances These
sudden glimpses of their father's vulnerability unnerved them in a way that
sheer physical danger did not
"We will have time to discuss our plans upon the morrow," Simon said "Now I
would be alone with my wife "
They had forgotten Nell, forgotten that their enemies were her brothers
Casting chagrined looks over their shoulders, they were relieved to withdraw,
for not even Nell's sons knew what to say to her
Dusk was fast falling, the last of the candles had guttered out and only a
hearth fire now held the dark at bay "Shall I send for a cresset lamp'" Nell
asked, and Simon shook his head, held out his hand She came slowly from the
shadows, sat beside him on the bed Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips,
pressed a kiss into her palm After a hme, he said
"Henry may be God's greatest fool, but he is still your brother And Richard he
will likely oppose us, too, Nell "
"I know," she said softly She'd never truly thought it would ever come to
this, never thought the day might dawn when her husband and sons would face
her brothers and nephews across a battlefield She shared Simon's confidence,
but not his darker moods Hers was a world °' sunrises, not sunsets, a world in
which hope flourished and faith was Awarded, and she clung to that comforting
certainty all the more now *at her need was so great
"I trust in you, Simon," she said, "and I trust in God Whatever ^Ppens, it
will be for the best, for us and for England "
^
30
Gloucester, England
March 1264
^r
A RAPPED in Gloucester Castle by his de Montfort cousins, Edward offered to
talk. Emerging unarmed, as a show of good faith, he and Hal were escorted
through St Mary's Gate into the precincts of the Benedictine abbey of St
Peter, on to the Chapter House, where they were awaited by Harry and Bran, the
Bishop of Worcester, and the
Earl of Derby.
The meeting got off to an awkward start when Bran pointedly reminded Hal of
his past promise not to bear arms against Simon, but Edward stepped smoothly
into the breach. "Rumor has it that you got into the town with a variation of
the Trojan Horse trick. Any truth to
that?"
Harry and Bran exchanged grins. "We disguised two knights as wool merchants.
Once they were admitted, they seized the gatehouse
keys."
Edward laughed approvingly. "Right clever, if I say it who should
not!"
"At the risk of sounding overly suspicious, Ned, I've never known
you to be such a gracious loser."
Edward's smile didn't waver. "I'm not here to surrender, Harry. 1
want to arrange a truce."
Bran burst out laughing. "I daresay you do! Tell me, Ned, do you also have a
swaybacked, spavined nag you hope to pass off as a pur6' blooded destrier? Any
marshland to sell? We have you well and truly trapped, my lad. Why should we
agree to uncork the bottle?"
"No reason at all... if you truly want war." Edward rose from w5 chair, began
to pace. "My father does not. Nor does my uncle Richar I was the one who
argued against compromise. But now that it has con1 to this, to facing the two
of you across a battlefield . . . Christ Jesusdo not want that! We've shared
too much . . ."He stopped, shrugg ^ self-consciously. "There must be another
way. Let me find it. « X
397
agree to a week's truce, until the thirteenth, there's a chance I can get my
father to offer more generous terms than those of the French King."
There was a prolonged silence, and then Bran slowly and deliberately began to
clap. "Well said. Who could resist such a heartfelt appeal? j could. No
offense, Cousin, but I'd sooner wager upon the true color Of a chameleon than
upon your honor."
"I fear I must agree," the Bishop of Worcester said coolly. "That was an
eloquent plea for peace, but you spoke no less persuasively to me when you
found yourself besieged by the citizens of Bristol, only to disavow all your
promises once you were safe."
Edward flushed. "That was different!"
"How?" Harry asked, and Edward strode toward him, reached out and grasped his
wrist.
"Because," he said, "I'd be swearing to you. To you, Harry. Do you truly think
I'd give you my sworn word and then break it?"
Harry looked intently into his cousin's face. "No," he said. "No, I do not
believe you'd lie, not to me. All right, Ned, you have your truce."
The Earl of Derby had been listening in silence, amused by the backand-forth
banter. Now he was on his feet, face red with rage. "Have you gone mad?"
Bran was no less shocked. "Harry, you cannot do this! Think you that I want to
see Ned come to grief? Jesii, he's my kinsman, too! But he cannot be trusted,
not anymore."
"I think he can. And the decision, like the command, is mine. If he can make
peace between our fathers, it's well worth the risk." Ignoring their outraged
protests, Harry held out his hand to Edward. "Do not prove me wrong, Ned," he
said, and smiled. "You know how insufferable Bran can be when he gets to say T
told you so'!"
Neither Edward nor Hal spoke as they emerged into the cloister walkway. The
inner garth was still powdered with the unsightly residue of the last storm;
the once-white snow was now a dingy, begrimed grey. Hal reached down and
scooped up a handful. There was awe in the glance he gave Edward, but there
was unease, too, for at the moment he felt no less sullied and defiled than
this fistful of dirty snow. Slowly he opened his fingers, let it trickle away
as if he were scattering ashes to the wind.
"You know them full well," he mumbled. "They each reacted just
* you said they would." He and Edward had even joked about it °*«>rehand,
quips that came back to haunt him now, that left a soured
ste in his mouth. "Ned, I have to say this. I do not like what we did
* there."
*»e tensed, expecting a sharp stab of anger, or worse, a derisive
398
gibe. But for once his cousin offered no mocking rejoinder, no taunts about
his sentimentality, his naivete. Edward stopped abruptly, turned to face him.
"Do you think that I liked it?" he demanded. "Harry is closer to me than my
own brother. But there is too much at stake for scruples "
BY the time Harry and Bran dismounted in front of Kenilworth's great hall,
their sister had reached the bottom of the stairs. "I've missed you so much!"
Ellen cried, flinging herself into Harry's arms. Then it was Bran's turn. He
swung her up off the ground, whirled her around until she squealed with
laughter. "What took you so long? And what did you bring me?"
Her brothers looked at each other in dismay. From Ellen's earliest childhood
years, they'd delighted in indulging her whims; this was the first time within
memory that they'd forgotten to pick up some small trinket for her.
"Well, kitten, if you check Bran's saddlebag, you might just find some green
silk hair ribbons," Harry suggested, earning himself a sunlit smile and
another hug.
Watching as Ellen dashed toward the stables, Bran gave his brother a playful
shove. "Good going, Harry. I promised Cassandra a keepsake. What do I tell her
now?"
"You'll think of something. Now we'd best Amaury! When did you get back from
France?"
"A fortnight ago." Amaury fended off his brother's exuberant welcome as best
he could, being some inches the shorter of the two. Disentangling himself from
Harry's bear hug, he said accusingly, "Where in blazes have you two been?"
Bran cocked a quizzical brow. "You may be studying for the priesthood, lad,
but you're not my confessor!"
"A pity, for you've never been more in need of absolution." They turned at the
sound of this new voice, saw Guy leaning against the door, regarding them with
an odd smile, one that managed to be both sardonic and sympathetic. As their
eyes met, Bran felt a vague, uneasy premonition. Although Guy was always there
if needed, he sometimes suspected that Guy took a perverse satisfaction in
seeing their sins eaten up with them. Harry, less observant, greeted his
brother blithely, move on into the hall. Bran followed, more warily. But there
he forgot W* qualms, so pleased was he at the sight that met their eyes.
"Papa! You're up and about!" Harry hastened toward the fir6' . touring briefly
to give Nell a quick kiss. "This is the best news we cou^ have gotten! Did you
make a sacrificial bonfire to burn your splintSi
399
have good news, too. First of all, we settled your debt with that whoreS0n de
Mortimer. With some help from Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, we laid vvaste to
Mortimer's lordship of Radnor, seized his manors at"
Simon held up a hand for silence. "I would speak with my sons alone," he said,
and the hall rapidly emptied; only Nell remained, standing just behind Simon's
chair. As the door closed after the last of their servants, Simon turned
glittering grey eyes upon his sons. "Now," he said, "tell me what happened at
Gloucester."
"You know about Gloucester?" Harry asked in surprise. "You mean the news beat
us back to Kenilworth? Well ... I suppose I'd best begin at the beginning. The
town gates were barred to us, but two of our knights pretended"
"I was told that you had Edward trapped within the castle. True?"
Harry nodded slowly, and Simon reached for a crutch, maneuvered himself
upright, brushing aside their efforts to help. "With Edward in our hands, the
war would have begun and ended there at Gloucester. And you let him go?"
Bran froze, then gave his brother a look of appalled pity. But Harry did not
yet understand. "We agreed to a truce, Papa," he said calmly. "Ned promised to
do all he could to stave off war, to persuade his father"
"And you believed him?" Simon interrupted incredulously, and Harry nodded
again.
"Yes," he said. "He gave me his sworn word. He"
"He played you both for fools. He kept your truce only as long as your army
was within sight of Gloucester. Then he seized the town, imposed harsh fines
and penalties upon the citizens, and rode straight for the royal encampment at
Oxfordno doubt laughing all the way!"
Bran made an involuntary gesture, his hand brushing his brother's sleeve.
Harry jerked away from the touch. Darkness lurked in the corners of the hall,
beyond the reach of rush-light, and Harry turned instinctively toward the
shadows, plunged into their depths as if seeking sanctuary. But there he
paused. "Bran is not to blame," he said, his voice muffled, all but inaudible.
"He tried to warn me, but I would not listen. I failed y°u, Papa, not Bran."
At Simon's silent query, Bran nodded, before blurting out, "There *** worse
mistakes, Papa, than one made from the heart."
"Bran is right, Simon," Nell said softly, keeping her eyes all the Wle upon
her eldest son. "You taught our sons that a man's life counts °r naught
without honor. Mayhap Harry learned that lesson too well, ut o»y love, he
learned it from you."
Simon's anger syjj burned at white heat, but as he looked upon
solitary figure deep in shadow, he found his fury changing focus,
400
away from Harry and onto the man who'd so cruelly duped him. Shifting his
crutch, he limped toward his son.
"Harry." The younger man turned, reluctantly; Simon thought he caught a
glimmer of tears beneath Harry's lashes. "I'll not lie to you not deny that
you disappointed me. But you did not shame me, Harry' The shame is Edward's,
not yours. Now we'll say no more on this. You made a mistake, lad. Just be
sure you learn from it."
"I will," Harry said tautly. "As God is my witness, I will."
THE prospect of English civil war dismayed the French King, who opposed on
principle all strife between Christians. He hastily dispatched an envoy, who
prevailed upon Henry and Simon to make one final attempt at negotiation. A
truce was declared on March 18, and Simon and his supporters offered to accept
the Mise of Amiens if Henry agreed to banish aliens from his service. Henry
refused.
When war did come, though, the fire was kindled by neither Henry nor Simon,
but by the Londoners. On March 31, they rioted, burning the town houses of the
hated William de Lusignan and a prominent royalist baron, Philip Basset. Then
the mob turned its fury upon the Westminster mansion of Henry's brother
Richard. Not content with that, they marched the seven miles to Isleworth.
There they demolished Richard's cherished fish ponds, destroyed his orchards,
reduced his favorite manor to a charred ruin.
Richard was outraged. Overnight, he was transformed from a man arguing for
moderation to one hellbent upon vengeance. He, too, now echoed Edward's
insistence upon a battlefield resolution, and Henry heeded them. On Thursday,
April 3, the King raised his red dragon standard and the royal host headed for
Northampton, where Simon's army was quartered.
They reached Northampton at dusk the following day. Arriving a few hours
later, William de Lusignan and Roger de Mortimer were escorted to Edward's
command tent, where a strategy session was in progress. Those within offered
by their very presence poignant testimony to the divisive, internecine nature
of this war, for Henry, Richard, and Edward were not the only ones estranged
from their own kinsman. Philip Basset's son-in-law was Hugh le Despenser,
Simon's Justin* The Earl of Hereford's son still held fast for Simon. And Hugh
Bigodthe Earl of Norfolk's brother, had a stepson, Baldwin Wake, awaiting
their assault on the other side of the city walls.
But de Lusignan and de Mortimer were not men to dwell upon v regrets, or
missed chances for peace. The thought of irop60^^,! troubled them not at all.
What did was the sight of Davydd ap Gruffy
402
0 at ease in Edward's circle. It was to be expected that they would harbor
suspicions of the Welsh, for theirs were Marcher lands. But their dislike of
Davydd was as personal as it was political, for exile had not tempered his
bravado. He was no less cynical, no less self-assured at Award's court than he
had been at Llewelyn's, and as he was one of the few men not intimidated by
William de Lusignan's kinship to the King/ he and de Lusignan had crossed
verbal swords more than once, fjow, however, he was too absorbed to pay the
other man any mind; Bunched over the table, he was sketching a plan of
Northampton's streets.
"Our first attack was driven off," Edward informed his uncle. "But that was
just to get the lay of the land. On the morrow the siege begins in earnest."
William de Lusignan appropriated a coffer seat. "Who has their command?"
Philip Basset glanced up from the map. "Leicester's son and Peter de Montfort.
They prudently refused our challenge; only fools would fight a pitched battle
when so greatly outnumbered. No, they mean to hold the town and castle until
Simon de Montfort can come to their rescue."
"But that," Edward said, "shall not be. It's a full three days' ride from
London to Northampton. Even if Simon spurred his horse till it foundered,
there's no way he could reach them in time. I know Northampton well; its
defenses will crumble in a day, two at most."
He sounded so sure, so blessedly free of doubts that Henry felt a pang of
envy. He got slowly to his feet, stiff from a day in the saddle. "I am going
to bed," he said, all too aware that his presence was not needed.
Edward gave him a brief, preoccupied smile. "We fight our first battle at
dawn," he predicted, "and our last. By this time tomorrow, our war will be
won."
"Ifs ready," Davydd announced, laying down his pen. "And not wdly done, if I
do say so. Luckily it's been just a month since I was in Northampton."
Edward came over to look, nodded approval. "We will attack at the
^uth Gate. And whilst we keep them busy there, Philip will lead an
ssault along the northwest priory wall. If the Prior spoke true, we'll be
0 we town ere they even realize what's happening."
The Prior?" William de Lusignan echoed, frowning. "What do you
L'nl't War(^ 8rmnec'- "We're playing the game with loaded dice, Will.
n     e most of the townspeople, the Prior of St Andrew's is loyal to the
^' He sent us word that he'd secretly undermined the priory wall,
402
then put in temporary supports. Tomorrow he knocks them out, and we breach the
wall as easy as this!" With a sudden snap of his fingers
De Lusignan reached for a wine cup, held it aloft. "To your obligine Prior!
How is it that your luck never fails?"
Edward reached over, claimed his uncle's cup. "I have something better than
luck, Will. I have God's favor."
BRAN was exhausted. Although it was not yet mid-morning, he'd been up for
hours. The first attack had come at dawn, and he'd been in the thick of it.
They'd beaten the invaders back, managed to keep them off the town walls, but
their victory was a fleeting one. He knew they'd be back. In the meantime,
though, he meant to take full advantage of this lull in the fighting. Turning
his stallion onto Gold Street, he headed for
the castle.
An eerie quiet prevailed. Saturday was market day in Northampton. But now the
streets lay deserted. The men of the town were up on the walls, most
willingly, some impressed into service. Their women were barricaded behind
shuttered windows, barred doors. God pity Northampton should it fall to Ned's
army. Bran at once disavowed the thought. His father would come in time. They
had only to hold out for a few
days.
Approaching the horse market, Bran spotted a friend. He shouted,
and Baldwin Wake reined in his mount. "Where do you go? To the
castle?"
Bran nodded. "I thought to have some of the garrison relieve the men at the
South Gate. And then raid the kitchens; I had a mouthful of bread this morn,
and nothing since. Damnation, Baldwin, but I hate this! I'd much rather be on
the attack"
"My lord, look!" His squire was pointing. A lone rider was galloping toward
them. Recognizing Peter de Montfort's youngest son, Bran and Baldwin spurred
their mounts to meet him.
Robert de Montfort yanked on the reins so abruptly that his la*er*~ stallion
went back on its haunches. "Bran, thank God! They've breached the walls at St
Andrew's Priory! We cannot hope to hold them'
"Baldwin, get reinforcements from the castle! Rob, your father is a the South
Gate; warn him!" Bran's last words were carried back by wind. He was already
passing the Dominican friary, his stallion le11?^ ening stride, needing no
urging, flying. .   K.
At the Marehold, he encountered a small band of Oxford studen^ when Henry
ordered the university shut down, some of the you ^} chosen to fight for the
Provisions at Northampton. They had r**^. welcome addition to the rebel army,
proving themselves surpn
403
adept with crossbows and slings, and they responded readily to Bfan/s shouted
appeal, streaming after him into the priory grounds.
There all was chaos. Monks mingled with disheartened defenjer ready to run.
Livestock milled about, untended, bleating goats and (,3^' ing dogs adding
immeasurably to the confusion. Women and chil^^ who'd seen the priory as a
safe refuge now fled in panic, leaving behind them a trail of discarded and
dropped belongings. They scatter^ ag Bran galloped through the gateway, too
terrified to distinguish ftier^ from foe.
There was a large gaping hole in the priory's garden wall; men ^^ already
scrambling through. Within moments, though, they were djvj^ for safety as
Bran's stallion plunged toward them.
Bran gave his horse its head, and the roan soared over the rubb|e Landing as
gracefully as any cat, it easily overtook the retreating sol<jje. Bran's sword
was soon bloody to the hilt. He fended off an upt^ { halberd, swung the
stallion about, and slashed a path to the sc^i^, ladders propped against the
wall.
Climbing a siege ladder was always a perilous undertaking/ ^ never more so
than now. With each thrust of his sword, Bran she^^^j it in flesh, while his
stallion raked its teeth into exposed backs and je trampled those unfortunates
who rumbled underfoot.
"My lord, come back!" Only his squire had dared to follow g^ beyond the wall.
To his vast relief, Bran heeded him, raced the JQ^ back into the priory. His
reckless charge had dazzled the students, f^, eagerly did his bidding, made
ready to repel the next rush.
The enemy regrouped with surprising speed, and this time ^ , succeeded in
making another break in the wall. Bran's courage, ^eVe(, in doubt, now verged
upon the suicidal. Again he sent his stallio^ j^ the breach, managed by sheer
audacity to slow their momentu^ ^ check their onslaught.
But as more and more soldiers rallied to the attack, Bran presSe(^ his luck
once too often. The third time that he ventured beyontj ^ Priory walls, he
found himself surrounded. His stallion reared, sq-eam/ j^g defiance, and Bran
lashed out with his sword. His blade slice^ ^ *e nearest shoulder, and as the
man fell, he spurred his horse forvafd/ e stallion slammed into the encircling
men, broke free, and b0ije^ ^°ss the field. Bran jerked on the reins, but the
animal had t^e ^ ea h n 'tS teeth' He heard his squire's voice, shrieking his
name, w^ ^ stride was being carried deeper into enemy territory. Despetat^y
j^f^Sht to turn the runaway roan, and as its breakneck speed sl(iw^(j/
But b 3n t0 hope that he mi8nt vet mana8e to make rt back to the Prioryy then
they were upon the ditch. Was too late to swerve. The stallion made a gallant
arter^,, ^
402
then put in temporary supports. Tomorrow he knocks them out, and we breach the
wall as easy as this!" With a sudden snap of his fingers
De Lusignan reached for a wine cup, held it aloft. "To your oblige Prior! How
is it that your luck never fails?"
Edward reached over, claimed his uncle's cup. "I have something better than
luck, Will. I have God's favor."
BRAN was exhausted. Although it was not yet mid-morning, he'd been up for
hours. The first attack had come at dawn, and he'd been in the thick of it.
They'd beaten the invaders back, managed to keep them off the town walls, but
their victory was a fleeting one. He knew they'd be back. In the meantime,
though, he meant to take full advantage of this lull in the fighting. Turning
his stallion onto Gold Street, he headed for
the castle.
An eerie quiet prevailed. Saturday was market day in Northampton. But now the
streets lay deserted. The men of the town were up on the walls, most
willingly, some impressed into service. Their women were barricaded behind
shuttered windows, barred doors. God pity Northampton should it fall to Ned's
army. Bran at once disavowed the thought. His father would come in time. They
had only to hold out for a few
days.
Approaching the horse market, Bran spotted a friend. He shouted,
and Baldwin Wake reined in his mount. "Where do you go? To the
castle?"
Bran nodded. "I thought to have some of the garrison relieve the men at the
South Gate. And then raid the kitchens; 1 had a mouthful of bread this morn,
and nothing since. Damnation, Baldwin, but I hate this! I'd much rather be on
the attack"
"My lord, look!" His squire was pointing. A lone rider was galloping toward
them. Recognizing Peter de Montfort's youngest son, Bran and Baldwin spurred
their mounts to meet him.
Robert de Montfort yanked on the reins so abruptly that hisla*e1^ stallion
went back on its haunches. "Bran, thank God! They've breached the walls at St
Andrew's Priory! We cannot hope to hold them
"Baldwin, get reinforcements from the castle! Rob, your father is a the South
Gate; warn him!" Bran's last words were carried back by *e wind. He was
already passing the Dominican friary, his stallion leng"1 ening stride,
needing no urging, flying.
At the Marehold, he encountered a small band of Oxford s*11^"^ when Henry
ordered the university shut down, some of the youtn ^ chosen to fight for the
Provisions at Northampton. They had "^ ^ welcome addition to the rebel army,
proving themselves surpn
T
403
adept with crossbows and slings, and they responded readily to Bran's shouted
appeal, streaming after him into the priory grounds.
There all was chaos. Monks mingled with disheartened defenders, ready to run.
Livestock milled about, untended, bleating goats and barking dogs adding
immeasurably to the confusion. Women and children who'd seen the priory as a
safe refuge now fled in panic, leaving behind them a trail of discarded and
dropped belongings. They scattered as Bran galloped through the gateway, too
terrified to distinguish friend from foe.
There was a large gaping hole in the priory's garden wall; men were already
scrambling through. Within moments, though, they were diving for safety as
Bran's stallion plunged toward them.
Bran gave his horse its head, and the roan soared over the rubble. Landing as
gracefully as any cat, it easily overtook the retreating soldiers. Bran's
sword was soon bloody to the hilt. He fended off an upthrust halberd, swung
the stallion about, and slashed a path to the scaling ladders propped against
the wall.
Climbing a siege ladder was always a perilous undertaking, but never more so
than now. With each thrust of his sword, Bran sheathed it in flesh, while his
stallion raked its teeth into exposed backs and legs, trampled those
unfortunates who tumbled underfoot.
"My lord, come back!" Only his squire had dared to follow Bran beyond the
wall. To his vast relief, Bran heeded him, raced the roan back into the
priory. His reckless charge had dazzled the students. They eagerly did his
bidding, made ready to repel the next rush.
The enemy regrouped with surprising speed, and this time they succeeded in
making another break in the wall. Bran's courage, never m doubt, now verged
upon the suicidal. Again he sent his stallion into the breach, managed by
sheer audacity to slow their momentum, to check their onslaught.
But as more and more soldiers rallied to the attack, Bran pressed
his luck once too often. The third time that he ventured beyond the
priory walls, he found himself surrounded. His stallion reared, scream-
mg defiance, and Bran lashed out with his sword. His blade sliced into
we nearest shoulder, and as the man fell, he spurred his horse forward.
116 stallion slammed into the encircling men, broke free, and bolted
^oss the field. Bran jerked on the reins, but the animal had the bit
ween its teeth. He heard his squire's voice, shrieking his name, with
ct> stride was being carried deeper into enemy territory. Desperately
h ^^to turn the runaway roan, and as its breakneck speed slowed,
But K 3n t0 k°Pe tnat ne miSnt Yet manage to make it back to the priory.
°X then they were upon the ditch. Was too late to swerve. The stallion made a
gallant attempt to
404
hurdle the trench. But its hind legs struck the embankment. As it turn bled
backward into the ditch, Bran was fortunate enough to be thrown clear. He
landed hard, though, striking his head against the side of his helm, and all
went dark. When he came to, he was bruised, breathless half-blinded by his own
blood, and there was a sword leveled at his throat.
He'd lost his own sword in the fall. Now they claimed his dagget dragged him
roughly up the side of the ditch. But when one of the soldiers pulled off his
helm, the atmosphere changed dramatically. At sight of that thatch of raven
hair, those narrow grey eyes, the man gave an elated shout. "Jesus wept,
you're Leicester's son!"
Astounded by their good fortune, they crowded around, all talking at once.
Bran found himself suddenly surrounded by smiles. One of the men, a burly
youth with scarred face and black eye patch, even stripped a dirty bandage
from his own arm. "Here," he said. "We cannot have you bleeding to death, not
when your blood is as good as gold!"
Bran took the bandage; although his head wound seemed superficial, it was
still bleeding copiously. "Was my stallion hurt?"
"By rights the both of you ought to have broken your necks after a tumble like
that! Damned if I can explain it, for he's not even limping."
Glancing back to make sure the soldier wasn't lying, Bran was shocked to see
how far his horse had taken him; they were more than a quarter mile from the
priory. "You've breached the walls," he said dully.
"Your capture took the heart out of their defense. But it Hellfire!"
Bran swung about, at once saw the cause of the soldier's outburst. As several
armor-clad riders swerved in their direction, Bran's captors clustered
protectively around him, fearful of losing their prize.
"Did I not tell you, Will? It's de Montforf s whelp!"
Bran's breath caught in his throat. Staring up at Roger de Mortimer and
William de Lusignan, he felt a sudden rush of fear, far greater than any
battlefield dread.
Roger de Mortimer ignored the soldiers, fixed Bran with a malevolent stare,
and between them rose the spectre of his smoldering R^- norshire manors. But
it was William de Lusignan who held Bran's eyes. whose smile sent a chill
along his spine. ,
"You're the one they call Bran. Tell us ... how fares your father ^ We hear he
lies crippled in London, unable to play a man's part. It r° be true if he's
sending his striplings to fight for him."
"What would you know of playing a man's part?" , ^
From the corner of his eye, Bran saw his captors grinning; dislike of de
Lusignan was heartening. He watched warily as the man dismounted, still
smiling.
"How old are you, lad?"
405
"Twenty and three, why? You want to know my birthdate, too? j^y favorite
wine?"
"You're de Montfort's son for certes. You have his black Saracen coloring, his
brazen insolence. But there is one great difference between
you."
"And just what is that?"
"Your father has been blessed with a long life," de Lusignan said and then
laughed, for he was close enough to hear Bran's ragged intake of breath. "Of
course it need not be. It's true you're de Montfort's spawn, but you're also
my sister's son. I'd not want it said that I lacked all family feeling. I'm
willing to spare your lifeif you beg for it."
Bran's fist clenched around his bloodied bandage. "Rot in Hell!" De Lusignan
had at last lost his smile; his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.
Stepping back, he said, "Seize him."
The soldiers did, unwilling but not daring to disobey the King's brother.
There was a suspenseful pause as de Lusignan studied his struggling nephew,
and then he said, "Kill him."
Part of it may have been their loathing for de Lusignan. Or their involuntary
admiration for Bran's doomed gesture of defiance. Much of it most certainly
was the loss of a large ransom. But at that, the soldiers rebelled. "He's our
prisoner, my lord," the one-eyed soldier shouted, and the others chimed in
angrily.
De Lusignan ignored their protests. He raised his hand and three of his men
dismounted, drawing their swords. The soldiers released Bran, grudgingly gave
ground. Only the one-eyed youth seemed on the verge of mutiny, fingering his
dagger as if he wanted to throw it to Bran.
Bran began to back away as the men closed in, fanning out with purposeful
intent. There was an unreality about the entire scene, as if he were watching
someone else trapped between the ditch and the advancing soldiers. Even the
shouting now seemed to be coming from a great distance. The men were almost
upon him when an armed knight galloped into their midst.
He was young and vaguely familiar to Bran, with the greenest eyes |ie d ever
seen, eyes astonishingly, incongruously agleam with laughter. *** not let me
spoil the fun," he said. "Four heads for the price of one I   8a rare
bargain."
This is none of your concern, Welshman!"
I 1 i avy^ smiled over his shoulder at the King's outraged brother. I Bought
it only fair, my lord Earl, that your men should know what I :o ^ to exPect
for this service they do you. What will you give them
1 lotS|/^n8 de Montforta half shilling apiece? No offense, but you're I Known
for your generosity, are you? Now the Lord Edward on the
406
other hand will likely offer them a decent burial, mayhap even a Requieiri
Mass."
"Damn you, what are you babbling about?"
"You did not know?" Davydd queried, in mock surprise. "The Lord Edward gave
express orders that his de Montfort cousin was not to be harmed. So 1 suspect
he might well take it amiss that you had the lad murdered."
"And how do I know you're not lying?"
"You do not, of course," Davydd agreed cheerfully. "Mayhap I am But what if
I'm not? Are you willing to risk it?"
Much to his chagrin, de Lusignan realized he was not, for he was gradually
coming to comprehend the vast and dangerous differences between Henry and his
firstborn son. "Sheathe your swords. We'll take him into custody, deliver him
to the King."
At that, Bran found his voice. "Like bloody Hell you will!"
Davydd grinned. "I think young de Montfort suspects he might suffer an
unfortunate mishap on the waytrying to escape."
None of them had noticed Philip Bassef s approach. "What in Christ's Passion
is happening here? Have you all forgotten that there is a battle going on in
the town?" His eyes flicked toward Bran, widened in recognition. "I see. You
soldiers there, escort the King's nephew to Lord Edward's command tent. The
rest of you men get back onto the field." Adding pointedly, "My lords? You are
coming, too, I trust?"
The command was his; he had his way. Within moments, Bran found himself alone
with his original captors. "Christ's pity," he said softly, then heard Davydd
laugh.
He had reined in his stallion a few feet away. "Well put. Right about now you
must feel like a bone thrown to a pack of hungry dogs!"
Bran nodded slowly. "I'll not argue that." And then, "Now I know who you are.
You're Llewelyn's brother!"
"Always," Davydd said dryly. Shifting his gaze to the downcast soldiers, he
said, "Cheer up, lads. It was inevitable that he'd be claimed by the King. But
all is not lost. Edward is likely to reward you for keeping him safe." He
started to follow after the others, then swung about, reaching for a wine
flask at his belt.
"Here, Cousin," he said, flipping the flask at Bran's feet. "I daresay you
need this more than I do!"
THE next twenty-four hours were the most wretched of Bran's lite, guards were
friendly, influenced, perhaps, by accounts of his con^e tation with William de
Lusignan, and they kept him informed ot
407
sjege progress. The town fell that same afternoon, and Peter de Montfort and
his men took refuge within the castle. But Bran knew the lamentable state of
its defenses; its west wall was near collapse. Peter could not hope to hold
out until his father's arrival. Heartsick, helpless, Bran feared that his
father's dream was dying in the narrow, muddy streets of Northampton.
It was not until Compline the next evening that he was summoned to Edward's
tent. "Sit down," Edward invited, waving away the guards. Busying himselt with
several flagons of wine, he announced, quite matter-of-factly, "It's over.
Peter de Montfort and the castle garrison surrendered just after Vespers."
"If you expect me to drink to your victory, you can damned well choke!"
Unfazed, Edward continued to pour. "Since when do you turn down good wine?
This batch comes from Bordeaux; you'll not even have to spit out the
sediment!"
Sloshing a cup into Bran's hand, he said, "You're the talk of the camp,
Cousin. Your exploits at the priory were"
Bran jumped to his feet. "Go ahead, Ned, gloat, but I swear"
Edward looked surprised. "Bran, I'm serious! Those devil-be-damned charges of
yours were the stuff of which legends are made. Then there was the way you
defied our de Lusignan uncle. Death before dishonor," Edward joked, but his
eyes were shining. Taking a seat across from Bran, he said, "You did yourself
proud, lad. Although I should be the last man to be lauding you like this.
After all, I'm the one who took the town, only to have you end up as the hero
of the hour!"
His praise was balm to Bran's mangled pride. He took a deep swallow of
Edward's wine, deciding that if ever there was a night to get thoroughly
drunk, now was the time. "I've a favor to ask, Ned. If you can find out what
became of my stallion, I'd like Davydd ap Gruffydd to have him. I daresay he
was more interested in vexing de Lusignan than in saving me. But never had I
been in greater need of a guardian angel; I just did not expect my angel to be
Welsh!"
Edward laughed. "A man could go mad trying to unravel Davydd's motives. He's
about as trustworthy as a wolf on the prowl, but having ni at our court is
like having a lance aimed at Llewelyn's heart. So it's well worth indulging
his fancies, overlooking his flaws. And he can be "8<it likablewhen he wants
to be. But whatever his reasons, I confess m glad he chose to meddle when he
did."
,     Ifran set his wine cup down, gave Edward a level, searching look. "ty did
you do it, Ned? Why order my life spared?"
Edward shrugged. "It should be obvious. You must owe me at least
408
a hundred pounds, mayhap more. And I've never yet known a man who paid back a
debt from the grave. Besides, I expect you'd have done
the same for me."
"No," Bran said, "I would not," and Edward, rising for more wine
spun around to stare at him.
"I might have," Bran said, "a month ago," and Edward relaxed.
"I see," he said. "You bear a grudge for Gloucester Castle."
"No," Bran said. "For Harry."
"That was a shabby trick, I know," Edward conceded. "I expect it'll take some
time ere he can forgive me."
"Not in this lifetime," Bran warned, saw that his cousin didn't believe him.
Edward was crossing the tent, where he spoke briefly with a servant before
sauntering back with another flagon of wine.
"They'll be bringing in our supper. I thought I owed you one good meal ere you
depart for Windsor Castle; you leave at dawn."
Bran had known there'd be no question of ransom. "You think it's over? You're
wrong, Ned, dead wrong. You may have outwitted Harry and outfought me, but
you've not yet faced my father."
Vengeful in defeat, Edward could be magnanimous in victory. Forbearing to take
offense, he poured a generous amount into Bran's cup. "What shall we drink
tobetter days?"
It occurred to Bran that, whatever happened now, their lives would never be
the same. "No," he said, reaching for his wine cup. "To yesterdays."
WHILE a lone rider might cover forty or more miles a day, an army was lucky to
make half that distance. Although Simon left London at dawn, it was full dark
before they came within sight of the walls of St Albans Abbey. Two more days
lay ahead of them, two more days trapped within a swaying horse litter, two
more days of suspense, envisioning a town under siege, begrudging every mile,
every minute that stretched between Northampton and deliverance.
Roger de Norton, the Abbot of St Albans, was awaiting them inside the north
gateway, an honor more properly accorded a king than a rebel earl; Simon was
surprised and heartened by the warmth of his
welcome.
The guest house had been made ready for him. A hearth fire took
the chill off the April air, and a table was laden with uncommonly n*
i      Yet
Lenten fare: a roast pike in aspic, gingered carp, sugared pancakes. >_ the
Abbot's demeanor was not that of a bountiful host. Envelope" Benedictine
black, he paced at Simon's side like a somber, disquiete
T
409
shadow, intent upon private griefs, secret sorrows. Simon's fatigue had Bulled
his perception; he did not even notice the Abbot's distraction. fjor did his
companions. Humphrey de Bohun and Guy were regarding the food with relish,
while Harry trailed behind, so quiet, so remote he jnight have been a stranger
to them all. Harry, the abiding optimist, Ixjrn to sunlight and daydreams and
cheer, now found his every breath poisoned, his peace haunted, so great was
his fear for his brother.
"My lord ..." The Abbot stopped suddenly, in the center of the room. "I'd
meant to wait till you had eaten, rested. But that seems dishonest, somehow,
even with the best intent. Less than an hour ago a man arrived at the abbey,
seeking you. He was at Northampton, my lord, and he says ... he says the town
has fallen to the King's army."
"No!" Harry darted forward, grabbed the Abbot's arm. "That's a lie!"
Simon reached out, released his son's grip. "Bring him to me."
He still held fast to hope; a mistake, a lie. But then the door opened.
Nicholas Segrave had served under his command in Gascony. Simon stood quite
still, watching the other man walk toward him. He moved very slowly, his steps
leaden, as uneven as Simon's own. There was dried blood on his hauberk, his
hair, even his boots, and as he looked at Simon, the dirt on his face streaked
with tears.
Simon swallowed. "My son?"
"Alive, my lord. God was that merciful. But all is lost."
"Tell me," Simon said.
"They took the town Saturday, we think by treachery. Your son was captured
trying to stave off their attack on the priory. Twice he ventured alone beyond
the walls, then his horse bolted and threw him. And once they were in the
town, we could not hope to hold out. Yesterday Peter de Montfort yielded the
castle, and Edward then turned , the town over to his soldiers for their
sport. They took more than eighty barons and knights prisoner, gutted your
army ..."
There was a strained quiet, and then a slamming door, as Harry fled the
chamber. The others didn't move, watched Simon. The Abbot was taken aback by
his utter stillness. He knew of Simon's temper, had expected him to rave and
swear, to rage like a lion deprived of its whelp. As frightening as his
violence would have been, Simon's frozen silence Was no less unnerving. He
waited for Guy or Humphrey to speak, to act. When neither did, he said, "My
lord, what can I do for you? Mayhap " you were to go to the church ..."
Simon turned. Yes, the church. Alone in the dark, alone with God.
*ank you," he said. "But not yet. First I have need of pen and
Pediment." How cold he was of a sudden, how tired. He could feel
410
^tt-ssztzzz^^
WBP
fViat
411
"MY lord of Leicester, I thank you for sparing me these moments. The other
innkeepers have chosen me to speak for them. I hope you'll not think me
presumptuous for coming to you like this, but we did not know what else to do.
Your eldest son . . . he's been frequenting the ale-houses in the town, where
he's been drinking himself sodden He ... he seems very distraught, my lord,
and his temper is raw. Last night he got into a nasty brawl, and witnesses say
he provoked it. My lord, it is not for us to chastise an Earl's son; if you
could but talk to
him . . ."
Running out of words, he waited anxiously to see if he'd offended. His relief
was vast, indeed, when Simon said tersely, "I'll see to it."
As the door closed behind the grateful innkeeper, Simon glanced toward the
young man slouched in the shadows of the window-seat. "Why did I have to hear
about this from strangers?"
Guy sat up abruptly. "How could I be the one to tell you, Papa? Harry would
never forgive me!"
"No, I suppose not," Simon conceded. "I know the demon that torments himguilt.
He blames himself for Bran's capture, for our loss
at Northampton."
Guy shrugged. "Well, it is hard to argue with that. If he'd not let
Ned go"
" 'What if and 'if only' are games for fools, Guy. What if the French King had
not betrayed our trust? If Henry's honor were not such a tattered flag? If
only his brother Richard had been the firstborn . ..
Where do you stop?"
"Papa . . . how much longer do you mean to tarry here at the abbey?
I'm not good at waiting."
"You think I am?" Simon asked dryly. "But we've no choice. Until our scouts
get back to St Albans, we've no way of knowing where Edward intends to strike
next. It could be London, the Cinque Ports. Or he might choose to head north.
The Midlands hold fast for me; he'd find tempting targets in Leicester,
Nottingham, mayhap even Kenilworth. Guy gasped, but after a moment, common
sense mercifully reasserted itself. Kenilworth was the most impregnable
stronghold in 'n<- realm; his father had seen to that. It could never be taken
by force, cow only be starved into submission. But thinking of his mother in
the nud of a siege brought home to him, as Bran's plight had not, just no
precarious was his family's future. ,
Getting to his feet, Simon walked over to the table. Guy had no«
that he favored his bad leg more obviously as the evening advanced. "How does
the leg, Papatruly? Is there much pain?"
"Some," Simon admitted. "It seems worse when it rains, or if I've been on it
too long. I care naught about the pain, but it's likely to be weeks ere I can
ride. Of all the times to take a fall!"
"If onlya game for fools, Papa," Guy murmured, and Simon gave him an intent
look, and then a crooked smile.
There was a soft knock; the Abbot and the hosteller entered, followed by a
young man in a sweat-stained, muddied mantle. "My lord, Brother Raymond and I
were coming to invite you to dine with us on the morrow. But instead, I again
find myself the bearer of bad tidings."
Simon looked past the Abbot. "I've seen you," he said, "in the Fitz Thomas
household," and the youth nodded.
"Indeed, my lord. I am the Mayor's clerk. He bade me come to you, entreat you
to return to London with all haste."
"Edward?" Simon said sharply, and the man shook his head.
"Nay, my lord, it is our own fear that threatens us. When word reached us
yesterday of Northampton's surrender, the people panicked. All know what evils
can befall a captured town; at Northampton, not even the churches were spared.
Rumors took fire, and soon the entire city was ablaze with suspicion and
dread. Men swapped fears in the streets, the ale-houses, and no tale was too
outlandish to be believed. There was talk of treachery in Northampton, and
people remembered how John de Gisors had plotted with the Lord Edward to trap
you in Southwark. By day's end, rumors were rife of a conspiracy to betray the
city to the King."
"Was there truth to these rumors?"
"In all honesty, my lord, we do not know. But this morning, the townsmen
sought to root out the Judas in our midst. First they burned some of the
houses of those known to be King's men. And then word spread that the Jews
were in league with Lord Edward, that they'd made duplicate keys to the city
gates, that they were hoarding Greek fire. A large crowd gathered in
Cheapside, and from there they surged into the Jewry. The Mayor did what he
could to stop the killing, but in truth, my lord, our city is out of control.
Scores are dead, and as I rode out of Aldersgate, the sky was black with smoke
from the Jewry."
"Does the Mayor give credence to these rumors about the Jews?"
"Nay, my lord, he does not. But he can find few to heed him. He °*lieves that
only your presence can quell the panic."
Guy, go find your brother. You, come with me." Simon was halfay to the door
before he remembered the Abbot. "I thank you for your °spitality, Abbot Roger,
but there's much to be done and little time. e Depart at dawn for London."
412
The Abbot made the sign of the cross. "Go with God," he said, and then, "My
lord, is there anything that we can do for you?"
Simon paused, his hand on the door latch. "Yes," he said at last, "there is.
You can pray for my son, for my men taken at Northampton."
As the door closed behind him, a sudden gust of wind rattled the shutters,
tore one free. Brother Raymond hastened over to refasten it, while the Abbot
stood where he was, staring after Simon.
"He is the one in need of our prayers," he said. "He lost more than his son at
Northampton. He may well have lost his war, too."
THAT Wednesday, April 9, in God's year 1264, was a day of bloodshed and
horror, would be a blight upon the memory of a great city. Fear found a
natural mate in bigotry; the resulting union brought death and misery to the
most defenseless and vulnerable members of the cornmunity. As mobs roamed the
Jewry, looting and burning, forcing Jews to convert at knife-point, Mayor Fitz
Thomas and the Justiciar, Hugh le Despenser, sought to end the slaughter. By
offering refuge within the Tower of London, they were able to save some lives.
But hundreds died in the madness that convulsed the city on that Wednesday in
Holy Week, just ten days before the most sacred of Christian celebrations, the
advent of Easter.
31
London, Engflana
May 1264
JtROM Northampton, Henry's army took Leicester and Nottingham, while Edward
raided the lands of the Earl of Derby. Having reassured himself that London
was in no immediate danger, Simon and the Earl of Gloucester launched an
attack on Rochester Castle, which controlled the London-Dover road. The town
fell that same day, and they laid siege to the castle. But upon getting word
that Edward was approaching London, Simon hastened back to defend it again.
Tr>e
413
royal army was not yet ready to assault the capital, though. Instead, Henry
and Edward circled around London, and raised Simon's siege at Rochester. So
bitter had the war become that those of Simon's men unlucky enough to be
captured were cruelly mutilated, their hands and feet chopped off. Henry and
Edward then marched to the coast, hoping to secure ships for a naval assault
upon London. But Dover Castle still held fast for Simon, and the sailors of
the Cinque Ports put out to sea rather than obey the King's command. Thwarted,
Edward captured the Earl of Gloucester's castle at Tonbridge. Simon still
controlled London, but the circle was closing.
May was always a favorite month for the English, the most festive season of
the year. Now it was a time of fear and uncertainty, and a chronicler wrote:
"There was no peace in the realm. Everything was destroyed by slaughter, fire,
rapine, and plunder. Everywhere there was damor and trembling and woe."
ON this first Sunday in May, it was a rare sight to see a Jew on the streets
of London. As soon as they left the illusory shelter of the Jewry, Jacob ben
Judah and his son found themselves to be the cynosure of all eyes. The
hostility they encountered was predictable, but muted. Like drunkards
awakening after a lost weekend, Londoners were reluctant to remember, to face
the consequences of their orgy of blood-hate. The infirm, aged rabbi and his
newly scarred son reminded them of what had been done in the Lord's Name, and
many were ashamed of their city, while wishing that Jacob and Benedict would
discreetly disappear back into the Jewry where they belonged.
Jacob ben Judah sometimes envisioned his life as an hour-glass, one in which
the grains of sand had dwindled down to the merest handful, for he was
approaching his biblical three-score years and ten. Three English Kings had
reigned within his memory span, and under each, his people had suffered. It
had not always been so. In the time of the present King's grandfather, the
Jews had thrived. But the coronation of the crusader-King, Lion-Heart, had
been an anointing in Jewish blood. Survival was easier under Richard's brother
John; he claimed their gold, not their lives. But life was hardest of all
under the pious Henry, for in these years, the Church felt itself under siege,
threatened by heretics, ty internal schisms, above all, by the Jews who dwelt
so precariously and conspicuously in their midst.
Approaching the Cheapside Cross, they recognized a man Jacob knew well, an
apothecary who had often sold him herbs and ointments. Rabbis received no
salary from their congregations, and Jacob eked out a living as a physician, a
profession not as profitable as men supposed,
414
T
415
for the Jewish community was a small one and his few Christian patient came to
him surreptitiously, risking the damnation of their souls for the sake of
their bodies. In the past, the apothecary had always greeted Jacob as a
colleague, according him the respectful title of "Master." N0w face flushed,
eyes averted, he passed Jacob and Benedict by in silence' as if twenty years
of good will had never been.
Jacob said nothing, sorrowing over the frailty of decent men, the many who
were so easily intimidated by the few. But Benedict's mouth twisted down. "The
coward," he muttered, and Jacob's heart was flooded
with pain.
It had been just twenty-five days since Benedict had been cornered in an alley
near their Milk Street home, and his wounds had yet to heal The blood-color
crimson of his sling drew all eyes; upon it, he had defiantly pinned his
badge, the dangerous, degrading symbol forced upon all Jews by order of the
King. But if the people they encountered looked first at his badge, it was the
ugly, inflamed welt above Benedict's eye that drew their stares. So raw and
reddened was it that it elicited an involuntary wince from all but the most
callous passer-by, and each time that Jacob looked upon it, as a father, not a
physician, he was sickened. He knew full well that had he not chosen to visit
kindred in Oxford, he would likely have died in the ruins of his ransacked
house, for it was Benedict's youth that had saved him, enabling him to wrest a
club from one of his tormentors, to fight his way free. Yet Jacob found
himself wishing fervently that Benedict, not he, had been in Oxford on
that April eve.
He could not keep his eyes from his son's wound, and when Benedict at last
caught him at it, he sighed, said, "I fear, lad, that you'll
have a nasty scar."
The young man's eyes blazed. "I hope to God I do," he said. "I'll
bear it proudly to the end of my days!"
Jacob had nothing to say to that, no comfort to offer. He could not even
assure Benedict that the horror of his memories would fade with time, for he
knew better. He at least could recall days of comparative peace, days when
their world had not seemed so dark, so fraught with peril. Benedict had no
such consolation; the brief years of his life had been passed in a vortex.
Born in the year that the Pope ordered the burning of their Talmud, coming to
manhood amidst Christian accusations of ritual murder and coin clipping and
usury, Benedict had neve known a time in which Jews were not treated as
heretics, looked upo as the enemies of Christ. ( ,
Benedict stopped so abruptly that Jacob stumbled against him. ^° ' What is" By
then his eyes had tracked the path of Benedict's g*ze' ^ young woman stood
framed at an open window, brush in hand/
as the sun struck her free-flowing hair, it enveloped her ir, fire, bright
enough to blind. Jacob drew a constricted breatj-,   ^       ° of hair had
been that same shade of red copper. Miriam chilrf "^Ciriai«'s quick-tongued,
freckled, an angelic imp on the verge of w °f light'
Jacob had been awaiting the day when he'd send the matc-l?*anhood; her father,
seek her for his son. Now as he gazed up at r?Cnaker to woman in the
window-seat, tears filled his eyes. He still did y°ung
how Miriam had died. Benedict had said only "T saw hpr ^n<:>t kno^v more than
that. *' S3W her t»ocjy." No
"My son," he said softly, but at his touch, Benedict puD~* "Do not, Papa." His
tone was fierce, his eyes imploring     -  *W8y' speak of her,    he said, and
they walked on in silence Ahead nOt
destination; the towering spire of St Paul's Cathedral stabbed' i7 *heir
pierced a passing cloud. It was a daunting sight, for they were* ~£e Sky/
entry by both their own laws and those of the Christian faith <^>ldden
suddenly spun around, barring the way. " ^^nedict
"Papa, there is still time to abandon this mad quest Not foolhardy; it is
futile. What makes you think Leicester will liste* OrUy is ft It's well known
that he has no liking for Jews." Addine scathir^ ,tO you? is a devout
Christian, is he not?" g scatmrigly, "He
"I'll not deny he's shown little sympathy for our plight Y    t- men say of him
is true, he is not like the others of his class   ^       What believe that
justice is but a privilege of the highborn He mav not
me; at least I shall try. If I do not, this man Fitz John will haw 1*?°* heed
with impunity." "^u^dered
" This man Fitz John,' " Benedict echoed grimly "Better it is, Papa-this lord.
Even if he were not, what matter? Whl^ * as was ever punished for killing a
Jew? But if you must reach for tH GntUe why not also seek the sun? Why not
beseech Leicester to takP rvf m°°n' against the Earl of Gloucester, too? Is
his guilt any less than Fi/T T *SUres «ter the London massacre, he let his men
loos on ?he ?! * hn'S? Jws; is he never to answer for it?" ^"terbury
"Gloucester may be too great a lord to do earthly penance     R      L "B
answer to God," Jacob said solemnly. "Neverdoubt thaMfen    £ He
His son was not so sure; he'd not been blessed with Jacob's 5*ict-" }* The
gateway loomed before them; as thev Zed^81*1^ Jchurchyard, Benedict hunched
his shoulders! bSforTh/ int°
S: cTo^ f" r^^ CrCated 3 Stil; ^'= ^S*
<s^xsr^*iwf^M«^
Vd°l7r?anf .TiL^ °ay by y°Ur Presen«here," he said ctx^, ?JJ like it not if
Christians were to invade your temple-"    ^^ But you do." Benedict's smile
was bitter. "Your Dominicar, ^
>-«Mn rriars
tars
416
often force their way into our synagogue, compel us to interrupt our prayers
whilst they preach."
The man's mouth dropped open. It may have been sheer shock at being rebuffed
by a Jew. It may have been instinct. But there was something about this dark,
intense youth that alarmed him. The ugly slash on Benedict's forehead seemed
to sear like a brand; the man found himself mesmerized by it, unable to tear
his gaze away. The tension of the moment slowly ebbed. Turning abruptly on his
heel, he strode off
Jacob expelled an uneven breath. As he looked at his son, all he could see was
a coiled bow, a hempen bowstring drawn back to the breaking point. He ought
never to have allowed the lad to come, never. And yet how could he have
prevented it?
"We'd best wait on the south side of the churchyard, Papa. Leicester will
enter at the west door." Benedict had often surprised his father by the stray
bits of miscellaneous information he managed to garner, and it seemed natural
to Jacob that his son should somehow know the chief entrance of the cathedral.
He followed, praying that his hunch was right, that amidst the preparations
for war, Simon de Montfort would still find time to attend a Requiem Mass for
the dead of Northampton.
The ensuing wait was a stressful one, and when Simon finally did arrive, they
almost missed him, for they had been watching for his horse litter. It was the
talk of London, so unusual was its design, a box-like structure suspended on
long poles, custom-made to cushion a healing leg. They did not notice the men
on horseback, therefore did not recognize Simon until the crowd surged
forward.
Simon was known on sight to both Jacob and his son; over the years, they'd
often watched him ride through London's streets. Jacob was startled now to see
how suddenly Simon seemed to have aged. The darkly circled eyes, the tautly
set mouth, the lack of spring in his step: to Jacob, they spoke of sleepless
nights, troubled days. How fearful he must be for his family, Jacob thought,
so familiar an emotion that he could not repress an instant of identification
with the highborn Earl, even a flicker of unwelcome pity. For time was running
out, the shadows cast by Northampton lengthening. And Jacob's faith began to
waver; how could he expect a fair hearing from a man with his back to the
wall.
Benedict, too, was staring at Simon. But for him it was simpler. He saw an
English lord, a crusader knight, an enemy.
As soon as he dismounted, Simon found himself surrounded. Pe°" pie pressed in
on all sides, hands outstretched. But they sought neither alms nor banter,
just the reassurance of his presence in their midst. strange hush had fallen
over the churchyard. In recent days Simon ha only to venture out onto the
street for these subdued, anxious crow to gather. It had chilled him to the
bone once he understood. Their
417
was the courage of despair. They knew what horrors had befallen the citizens
of Northampton, of Leicester, Nottingham, knew what vengeance Edward would
exact from them. And yet they held fast, attempted no deals, no eleventh-hour
surrenders, trusting in Simon to conjure up a miracle, to save their city. It
was a terrible burden, their trust.
Simon frowned at sight of the Jews, that they should stand so boldly in the
very shadow of God's House. But he made no effort to learn the reason for
their unseemly presence here; he had greater cares. He was both surprised and
annoyed when Jacob stepped into his path.
"My lord, it is most urgent that I speak with you. If you could but give me a
few moments after the Mass ..."
All day long, men asked favors of him, sought to lay small claims to dwindling
hours. This at least was an easy request to refuse. Simon shook his head, said
brusquely, "I have no time to spare." But as he moved past the rabbi, Jacob's
next words halted him in his tracks.
"The Bishop of Lincoln would have found the time, my lord," he said, and Simon
swung around to stare at him.
"The Bishop of Lincoln was very dear to me. I would not have his name bandied
about by disbelievers."
Jacob was of a sudden assailed by dreadful doubts; could he have been wrong
about this man? "I knew His Grace," he said, adding automatically the blessing
his brethren accorded their dead, "May peace be upon him."
"Where did you know him?" Simon demanded, so suspiciously that Jacob was
thankful he could give an honest answer, that he had truth on his side.
"In Oxford. I was born there, made it my home for many years. During the lord
Bishop's tenure as Chancellor of the university, he desired to learn Hebrew,
sent into the Jewry for a tutor. I was the one summoned."
"He did mention such a tutor," Simon conceded, still wary. "That was you?"
Jacob nodded. "I do not think, my lord, that he would have been offended to
hear his name in my mouth."
Simon was still frowning. "In less than two days, I lead an army °ut of
London. If this matter of yours was so pressing, why did you not seek me out
ere this?"
"I did, my lord. But your servants always turned me away."
The church bells had begun to toll. Simon glanced toward the cathedral, back
toward Jacob. "Come to the Tower after Compline. I will ty to find time for
you then."
,    Benedict had never expected that Simon might actually agree to see ^
Bather, and he was appalled at the thought of returning to the Tower,
418
so recently his own refuge. "Papa, you must not do this," he cried pulling his
father aside. "This man is not to be trusted. You'd imperil yourself for
naught!"
"I know well the risk," Jacob admitted. "But if we do not speak (or our dead,
who will?"
IT had been a very long day for Simon. After knighting several of his young
supporters, he met with the Earls of Gloucester and Oxford, the Bishops of
Chichester, London, and Worcester, and the city's Mayor. It was a council of
war that resolved upon one last plea for peace. On the morrow the Bishops were
to depart for Sussex, to put before Henry an offer to negotiate, even to pay
reparations.
But none of the men gathered in the Tower that evening truly expected that the
Bishops would prevail, Simon least of all. He suspected that even if he were
to renounce the Provisions, it would not be enough. Edward wanted blood. So,
too, did Richard, still aggrieved over the sacking of his Isleworth manor. And
theirs were voices Henry would heed, if indeed he needed prodding. Simon was
well aware just how much his brother-in-law now hated him.
Reaching for a wine cup at his elbow, he found himself wondering if it was all
foreordained. He could not compromise. Henry could not keep faith. Mayhap this
was meant to be, even as far back as his first days at the English court. But
if a battlefield confrontation was inevitable, he was by no means ready to
concede that it was lost, no matter the odds, and he said abruptly:
"We must hope for the best, whilst making ready for the worst. We have to
assume that Henry will spurn our offer. If so, we shall be facing the King's
army within the week."
The Earl of Gloucester shifted in his seat. His belief in the Provisions had
not faltered, but sometimes he could not understand how it had ever come to
this, that he should be a ringleader in rebellion against his King, while
still four months shy of his twenty-first birthday. Nor did he share the
others' almost mystical faith in Simon's battle lore. "1 am not sure that we'd
be wise to force a confrontation," he confessed. "Out scouts say the King's
army numbers nigh on ten thousand, twice the size of ours. Why seek the King
out when we'll be at such a decided disadvantage?"
"What would we gain by delay? We lost the heart of our army at Northampton,
can expect no reinforcements. But that is not true f°r *"*
King. His Queen has hired enough Flemish mercenaries to overrun
half
the country. Would you have us await their arrival on English shore Do you
want to find yourself trapped in London? In my life, I've ^
419
both the besieged and the besieger, and I know damned well which I prefer!"
At that moment, Simon happened to catch the Bishop of Worcester's admonitory
eye, and he made a half-hearted attempt to curb his impatience. "We cannot
allow Henry to regain control of the coastal ports, jf j were he, I'd be
laying siege to Dover even as we speak. Instead, he seems to be heading for
the Earl of Surrey's castle at Lewes, for reasons that totally escape me. The
men of the Weald hold fast for usand if Christendom boasts better bowmen,
they're to be found only in Wales. No, Henry has blundered into hostile
territory, and we'd be fools not to take full advantage of it."
"What of the Londoners, Simon?" The query came from Hugh le Despenser, but it
was in every man's mind. War, as they knew it, made no provisions for
volunteers. Men rode to battle because they were bound by oaths of fealty, or
because they were paid to fight. But the Londoners were neither knights nor
mercenaries. Townsmen unskilled in the ways of war, they were drilling daily
in Cheapside, determined to prove themselves, undaunted by Edward's oft-quoted
jeer that not a one of them would know a halberd from a hayrick in the dark.
Observers could not help but be impressed by their resolve. If few of the
battlewise knights believed that zeal could offset experience, those were
doubts they kept to themselves. For as green and raw as these London recruits
were, they were needed, each and every one.
"I've decided to put the Londoners under Nicholas Segrave's cornmand," Simon
said, earning widespread mutterings of approval, for Segrave was a seasoned
soldier, respected by all. Nor was there cornpetition for that command; too
many feared the Londoners might break under their first taste of battle.
Humphrey de Bohun smothered a yawn; sleep was a stranger to them all these
days. "Has there been any word from the Earl of Derby?"
Simon shook his head. "Not since Edward seized his castle at Tutbury. But if
he meant to fight with us, he'd be here."
Derby's defection was a bitter disappointment, if not altogether unexpected;
the young Earl was one for looking to his own interests. °ut Gloucester could
not keep from suggesting sourly, "Mayhap he'd still be with us if Harry de
Montfort had not antagonized him so need'«ssly at Gloucester. Derby is known
to have been outraged when de Montfort let Edward go, and who can blame him?"
Harry flushed, half rose from his seat. But Guy was quicker. "What w°uld you
know of it? Whilst my brothers were fighting de Mortimer n« his Marcher
allies, you were holed up in Tonbridge. The only action "°u saw all spring was
when you attacked the Canterbury Jews." Adding
*ith
a sneer, "I daresay they resisted fiercely!"
420
Gloucester was on his feet, face mottled with rage. "The Canterbury Jewry was
rife with treachery; you ought to be thankful I rooted it out in time. As for
being 'holed up' in Tonbridge, 1 was keeping watch upon the coast! I then
moved on Rochester, took the town, and"
"The Devil you did!" Harry cut in hotly. "1 was there, remember? It was my
father who captured Rochester, by sending that burning barge
against the bridge pilings"
"Enough!" Simon could outshout anyone when he chose. "I cannot believe that
you'd be fools enough to fight on a cliff's edge. Are the odds facing us not
daunting enough without shedding our own blood?"
His sons at once subsided. So, too, did Gloucester, mollified that
Simon's anger had been so indiscriminately aimed. It was the Mayor
who tactfully dispelled the tension by changing the subject. Simon was
coming to rely more and more upon the finesse of his London ally, a
draper with all the instincts of a born diplomat. Gloucester rose, headed
for the privy chamber tucked away into the north wall, and with his
departure, the atmosphere lightened still further. A break was in order.
As men relaxed, Simon rose stiffly, moved toward the hearth. His leg
had begun to throb, a sure sign of fatigue; it was with a dull sense of
surprise that he realized it was nigh on seventeen hours since he'd last
seen a bed.
He was pleased when he was joined by Thomas Fitz Thomas; as unlike as the two
men were, a genuine bond was developing between them. It occurred to Simon now
that Fitz Thomas might be loath to relinquish command of his Londoners to
Nicholas Segrave. But with his first words, the Mayor began to laugh.
"I nurse no delusions of grandeur, my lord, am no soldier. Just tell
me what you would have me do."
After dealing with unpredictable, thin-skinned personalities like Gloucester
and Derby, Simon found Fitz Thomas to be a veritable godsend, and he gave the
younger man a grateful grin. "Bless your good nature, torn! But it is no easy
task I ask of you. I want you to remain in London, to hold the city for us. If
any man can keep the people from panicking again, you're the one."
"I hope to God you're right, my lord." Fitz Thomas was no longer smiling, for
he knew the fear that seethed just beneath the surface or his city. If Simon
lost . . . But there were fates too dire to contemplate. He was secretly
relieved by Simon's request. London was the lodestar o his life; come what
may, he wanted to be with his city. "My Cecilia na kin in St Albans," he
confided quietly, "but she refuses to leave London, insists that her place is
with me." ,
Simon's smile was wry. "Passing strange," he said, "that you sno say that.
After Northampton fell, I wrote to my wife, told her I thoug
422
it best that she travel to Dover, take ship for France and there wait Out the
war, as Henry's Queen is doing. I gave Nell no choice in the matter . . . and
where is she now? Paris? Montfort 1'Amaury? No . . . Kenihvorth."
Fitz Thomas laughed. He would have imagined that Simon de Montfort, of all
men, was master of his own householdhad he not once met Simon's headstrong
lady. They were, he thought, like twin comets, blazing across the heavens in
flaming harmony, and some of his unease began to ebb. If ever a man was born
to win, to triumph over all adversity, it was this man. How could he lose to
the inept, feckless Henry? "My lord . . . have you had any word about your
son?"
Simon shook his head. "All we know is that Bran is being held at Windsor
Castle. But beyond that, we"
"Beg pardon, my lord Leicester." The guard had not ventured far from the door,
instead, raised his voice, and in consequence, turned all heads his way.
"There's an old Jew at the land-gate, seeking entry. We'd have chased him off,
but he insisted that you're expecting him."
"Damnation!" Simon had forgotten entirely about his morning encounter at St
Paul's. But when the Constable of the Tower impatiently ordered the guard to
"send the Jew away," Simon reluctantly countermanded him. "No ... I did agree
to see the man. Send him up."
Under different circumstances, Benedict would have welcomed this opportunity
to inspect the uppermost chamber of the White Tower, for London legend held
that twenty years past, a highborn Welsh prisoner had plunged to his death
from one of these windows. Now, however, it took an enormous effort of will
just to cross the threshold, so overt was the hostility within.
"I feel like Daniel entering the lion's den," he whispered, "or one of those
Christian martyrs in a Roman amphitheater." That was too flippant for his
father's taste, though. Jacob gave him a burning glance, a silent warning to
guard his tongue as if his life depended upon it, for well it might.
Chastenedthe last thing he'd wanted was to add to Jacob's anxietyBenedict
followed his father into the chamber.
Benedict truly did feel as if he'd run straight into a stone wall, so
°Ppressive was the atmosphere in the room. His father had once made a Srim
jest, that a Jew in England was caught between the twin perils of Scylla and
Charybdis. But to Benedict, the Church was always a Beater enemy than the
King, for it was the Church that taught its sons ?nd daughters to hate Jews as
an act of faith, it was the Church that Banded them as Antichrists and
heretics. It frightened him to recognize
^vhite tunic and black cloak of a Dominican Prior, for if the Templars ere the
knights of Christ, the friars were His foot-soldiers, and of all e °i"ders,
the Black Friars were the most zealous. Glancing nervously
422
about the chamber, his eyes were drawn to a large, carved crucifix high on the
wall above their heads. Idolaters. Gods of silver or gods of gold, ye shall
not make unto you. He shivered suddenly. What had ever possessed
Papa to come here?
"Master Jacob, is it not?" As the speaker came out of the shadows Benedict
felt a jolt of recognition. His was an embittered conviction, that there was
not a Gentile alive whom a Jew dared trustwith the possible exception of this
man. He owed Thomas Fitz Thomas his life, for it was the Mayor's men who had
gotten him to safety in the Tower. Fitz Thomas had gone into the Jewry
himself, seeking to end the slaughter, and now the sight of him took
Benedict's breath, conjuring up a memory of disturbing vividnessFitz Thomas's
fair hair in disarray, his face the color of chalk under the harsh glare of
torch-light, mouth contorted with rage, with an emotion Benedict had not
expected a Christian to feelhorror. Simon was looking at the Mayor in
surprise. "You know this man,
torn?"
"Yes, my lord, I do. I've dealt with him in the past, when problems
arose in the Jewry," Fitz Thomas said, and smiled at Jacob and his son, as if
offering courtesy to a Jew was too commonplace to warrant cornment. It was,
Benedict thought, a brave thing to do under the eyes of three Bishops. But he
seemed to detect a faint thawing in the chill, eloquent testimony to Fitz
Thomas's standing with his highborn allies. Simon moved forward, and after
glancing at Jacob's cane, gestured for
a servant to bring forth a stool.
It was at that moment that the Earl of Gloucester emerged from the privy
chamber. "God's wrath! Why are these Jews here?"
Benedict was no less shocked than Gloucester. His greatest fear had been that
Fitz John, the man his father meant to accuse, might be present at this
meeting. He'd never given a thought to Gloucester. Now, confronted with the
young Earl, he felt blood surging into his face, roaring in his ears, and as
Gloucester strode toward them, he stepped protectively in front of his father.
"How dare you come amongst us like this, after what you've done?'
Gloucester demanded, and Benedict began to tremble with a killing rage-
"What we've done?" he echoed. "The massacre was of your doing,
not ours!"
"Whatever happened, you brought it upon yourselves. Had you no
been plotting to betray the city to the King"
"That is not so! We knew nothing of a plot! Why would we conspir* with the
King? Why would we risk our lives for a man who bleeds i»
white?"
"Why do you Jews do anythingfor money, of course! You d
423
nothing better than to stir up dissension between Christians, for no evil jg
beneath you. You befoul our very air with your infidel breaths, you poison
England with your vile, foreign ways, you blaspheme and"
"We are not infidels! We believe in one God as you do, the God of Israel. And
we are not foreigners." From a great distance, Benedict could hear a voice
strangely like his own, slurred with fury, impossible to silence. "We came to
England at the behest of William the Bastard just as your people did. We have
lived here for nigh on two hundred years. We speak Norman-French as you do. My
family does not call me by my Hebrew name, Berechiah, they call me Benedict.
England is our home, too!"
"Your home, by rights, should be in Hell! But we are not deceived by your
guile. You are servants of Satan, dwelling in our very midst. Yet the day is
coming when we shall no longer tolerate your presence amongst us, for you mock
Christ's Passion, you profane the Eucharist, you crucify Christian children in
your accursed rituals"
"Lies and more lies!" Benedict was vaguely aware of someone pulling at his
sleeve. But he could not stop himself. A red haze swam before his eyes. Blood
of the innocentsthe shade of Gloucester's hair. Miriam's hair. "Those are
tales told to frighten the simple, the gullible. No men of sense give them
credence," he said scornfully, "only fools!"
Gloucester gave an audible gasp. As if in slow motion, Benedict saw his fist
clench, his arm swing back. But the blow never connected. Simon was suddenly
between them, catching Gloucester's wrist in mid-air.
"Would you shame me by striking a guest at my hearth?"
Gloucester wrenched free, with such force that he stumbled backward. So easy
was it to transfer his fury from Benedict to Simon that the two men blurred in
his mind, the French-born Earl and the foreign lew he sought to protect. Why?
What true Christian would take a Jew's part? And as he stared at Simon,
Gloucester felt a rush of fearwhat "f Leicester were in league with the Jews?
God's truth, but the Earl was as glib as any Jew, preached the Provisions like
Holy Writ. Had he been too quick to heed Leicester's beguilements? What if
he'd allowed his passion for the Provisions to imperil his soul?
There was such a wild look on his face that Simon's anger gave way to alarm.
"Gilbert? Are you ill?"
Gloucester blinked, and his panic receded. Leicester was French, e was
foreign, he was not to be trusted. But he was no heretic. "You
0 shame yourself, my lord," he said unsteadily, "by consorting with J *;Se
alien disbelievers, these . . . these agents of evil. God seesand
8es. You'd best bear that in mind. As for me, I'll not stay in the
424
company of Jews. I value too highly my immortal soul." He did not wait for
Simon's response. Convinced that the last word had been his, he stalked from
the chamber.
Jacob slowly unclenched his fingers from his son's arm. "Thank you, my lord,"
he said huskily, convinced that Simon's intervention might well have saved
Benedict's life. Simon turned toward him, and he saw how little his gratitude
meant to the other man; Simon was furious.
"If Edward and Henry had but one wish," he snapped, "I daresay it would be for
thisa falling-out with Gloucester on the eve of battle!" His eyes fastened
coldly on Benedict. "If you'd come here with evil intent, you could not have
done more damage to our cause."
The mere suggestion was enough to chill Jacob, for he knew that even if Simon
himself did not suspect their motives, there were men in the room who would.
So accustomed was he to dealing with religious bias that he'd rarely given
much thought to the political dimensions of their danger. Now he was suddenly
seeing his people from Simon de Montfort's perspectiveas the King's
accomplicesand the implications were darkly disturbing.
"I can understand why you would view us with suspicion, my lord. We are a
significant source of revenue for the King. I'll not deny that the tallages
levied upon England's Jews help him to make war upon you. But my lord of
Leicester, the fault does not lie with us. We are not partners in crime, we
are the King's chattels. I believe the exact legal concept is called 'servi
camerae,' but that does not matter. What does is that my people are totally
dependent upon the King's will, the King's whims. If we keep his coffers
filled, it is not by choice. In all the wars and rebellions that have torn
England asunderKing Stephen versus the Empress Maud, King John and his barons,
King Henry and you, my lordnever have the Jews interfered. We have no vested
interest in the King's victory. We do but obeyto save our lives."
Simon's mouth twitched. "If I did not know that Jews were barred from
universities, I could believe you were a lawyer."
Jacob's relief was considerable. Simon's response had been sardonic but not
hostile, and he dared hope that he had planted a seed. His belief that the
Earl of Leicester was an honorable man, one amenable to reason, once more
seemed plausible, worth pursuing. But it was then that hi son's bitterness
burst forth again.
"Papa, do not waste your breath. How can you expect this man W heed your
appeal? One of his first acts as Earl of Leicester was to bantf all the Jews
from his domains!"
Jacob was appalled, but as he turned back toward Simon, he
»
425
no anger in the other man's face, only surprise. "Indeed, I did expel the Jews
from Leicester," he said, so matter-of-factly that Jacob suddenly understood
why Simon had taken no offense; he did not see his action as one that needed
defending. "But it was not done to punish the Jews. jvfy intent was to protect
my Christian brethren, to keep them from being sucked dry by Jewish
money-lenders. Holy Church imposes responsibilities upon those who wield
power, and one of them is to combat the evils of usury."
The other men had been listening in silence, with varying degrees of interest
or amusement or resentment. At that, though, murmurs of approval rose from
numerous throats. The Bishop of Worcester was quick to confirm Simon's concept
of Christian lordship, in clipped, dispassionate tones that could not disguise
a visceral antipathy, nuances of distaste not lost upon Jacob or his son. But
Humphrey de Bohun's antagonism was not cloaked in even the thinnest veneer of
civility; he was known to be deeply in debt to Hereford money-lenders.
"You speak right eloquently of the poor, persecuted Jews. But what have you to
say of their money-lending? Are you one of that accursed breed? Do you prey
upon a man's need, lead him on till he's hopelessly entangled in your web?"
Fitz Thomas's voice came calmly from the shadows. "Master Jacob is a
physician, I believe."
"I have been charged interest rates as high as sixty percent of the debt!" But
Humphrey's indignation was no longer dangerously directed at Jacob; Fitz
Thomas's interruption had been adroitly timed for maximum effect.
Jacob prudently kept silent; money-lending was about as risky a topic as there
could be between Jew and Gentile. It was his son who rushed heedlessly ahead,
his son who had always spoken of moneylenders with disdain. "They charge such
high interest rates," Benedict said, "because they have so little chance of
ever collecting the debt. The King can cancel it at any time, and often does,
a magnanimous gesture that costs him nothing and earns the debtor's gratitude.
A most successful business transaction, for only the Jew suffers. Nor is that
his °n]y risk. The King levies tallages whenever he is short of funds, and "a
Jew cannot scrape up the money demanded, he'll find himself rotting
111 gaol whilst his family and friends beggar themselves on his behalf." "How
truly heart-rending!" The speaker was obviously a de Mont-
fort
son; Benedict just wasn't sure which one. As he leaned forward,
e Indies reflected glints in eyes as dark and opaque as wood-smoke,
v    °finedict decided this must be Guy. They were very close in age,
v alike in coloring, and yet. they could have been born in different
426
1
centuries, so alien were their worlds. Guy was smiling, without amusement.
"Those do sound like occupational hazards to me," he said challengingly,
"hardly grounds for condolences."
Jacob did not like the intensity of his gaze. It alarmed him that one of these
young lords should single his son out for special notice, and he sought
hastily to draw attention back to himself. "You would be right, Sir Guyif
money-lending was an occupation of choice. But that is not so. For most of my
brethren, it is the only livelihood open to them. We are barred from the craft
and trade guilds. We are not permitted to sell our goods in your market
places. Your Church forbids us to work for Christians, or even to employ them.
Because we cannot take your oaths of homage, we cannot hold land. Your
universities are closed to us. So, too, are your courts, since we cannot swear
upon your holy
relics. So how are we to live?"
He paused for breath, trying to gauge the impact of his words.
While none had yet to interrupt, only a few seemed to be truly listening;
he was heartened, though, that Simon was one of them. He hesitated,
and then concluded quietly, "Your society barricades all roads but one.
Is it fair, then, to scorn us for taking the only path possible?"
His question found no favor with his listeners, save only Benedict, who felt a
surge of pride. But of all those affronted by Jacob's presence there, none
were as irate as the Prior of London's Dominican friary. "What do you expect
from usthat we pity your plight? It is God's Will that you suffer for your
sins. Your punishment for the crucifixion of Our Lord Christ was the
destruction of your temple. From that day, you were condemned to wander the
world, outcasts and Ishmaels, bearing
the curse of Cain."
The exhaustion came upon Jacob without warning, sapping his strength, and he
looked yearningly at a nearby footstool. But in the confusion following
Gloucester's return, Simon had forgotten to give him permission to sit. He
leaned heavily upon his cane, not realizing how much his fatigue had dulled
his caution until he heard his own voice, saying with rash candor, "Your
Scriptures may speak of our suffering, but they also decree, 'Slay them not.'
Your Book of Psalms, I
believe?"
"How would you have such knowledge of our Holy Writ?"
The question seemed innocuous; Jacob knew better. No answer ne
gave would satisfy the Prior, and equivocation would only inflame
suspicions all the more, for the Dominicans were quick to detect
scent of sulphur. He temporized, and then deliverance came from
entirely unexpected quarter.
"In all honesty, I see nothing sinister in his familiarity with ~~\, tures,"
Simon interrupted, with obvious impatience. "He tutore
427
lord Bishop of Lincoln in Hebrew for years. I'd wager some of that time vvas
spent in theological debate." A faint smile touched the corner of jys mouth.
"The Bishop," he said, "was a fisherman. But what he angled for was souls."
Jacob nodded gravely. "The Bishop of Lincoln was a renowned scholar," he said.
"I came to have great respect for him."
"So did I." Simon's eyes fell upon the stool and he gestured, freeing Jacob to
sit. Leaning back against the table, for he'd become adept at inconspicuously
favoring his weakened leg, he said, "Now . . . tell me what you want from me."
Jacob sank down gratefully on the stool. "I want justice, my lord. You were
not there to see the horror with your own eyes, and I do not think you realize
the full extent of the bloodshed. Men were slain at evening prayers, bled to
death in their own homes. Our women were not spared, not even our children . .
. Our synagogue was burned, our houses were looted, our cemetery in Wood
Street desecrated. My lord, it was a slaughter of innocents. We"
Fitz Thomas could bear to hear no more. "It was an abomination unto the Lord,
and it shames me that it should have happened in my city. If only I"
"Nay, you've no cause to reproach yourself. You did your best to stop the
carnage." Jacob glanced toward Hugh le Despenser. "As did the Justiciar. But
there is a madness that comes over men at such times, a... a lust for blood."
Simon nodded. "And for gold," he said grimly. "Indeed, my lord. Not all of
them had killing in mind. Some must have seen the rioting as a rare chance for
ill-gotten gains. Men kill for many reasons, they steal for but onegreed."
Jacob drew a bracing breath. "There were your men amongst that mob, my lord."
Simon didn't deny it. "Yes," he said, "it's likely there were. You would think
that if a man embraced a noble cause, he would not be capable of such base
crimes, and yet that is not so. I confess I've long wen baffled by the
contradictions in man's nature. How is it that Edward can have so much courage
and so little honor? Men say King John was cruel vengeful, and faithless. How
is it, then, that he cared more for *e weal of his subjects than Henry does?"
Moving away from the table, Simon stood for a moment before
c°b, eyes searching the aged rabbi's face. "On the eighteenth of April,
( aPtured the town of Rochester, laid siege to the castle. Whenever I
h6 * 'OWn' I &ve orders that my men are not to commit sacrilege, that
, ^ ** s to be no raping or looting. I've hanged men for disobeying those
jj    ar>ds. Moreover, this was Good Friday, one of the most sacred
°f the year. And yet some of the soldiers still plundered the priory
428
of St Andrew, stole holy relics, and stabled their horses in the cloisters
even in the nave of the church."
Jacob's fatigue was miraculously gone, alleviated by this sudden infusion of
hope. He felt certain that this was the first genuine conversation Simon de
Montfort had ever had with a Jew, for a man of his rank would not deal himself
with money-lenders, would leave that for his steward to do. This tenuous
accord, however tentative, however unlikely, was, God willing, a beginning.
"I agree with you, my lord. I would that I could understand man's cruelty to
man, for we are all brothers in Adam. It must be that they lose their identity
in a crowd, become nameless, faceless, and free to sin ... I do know how
difficult it is to punish them, even to identify them." He saw that Simon was
listening intently, and he got to his feet, no longer choosing his words with
care, letting them spill out spontaneously, from the heart.
"But there is one man, my lord, who cannot deny his guilt. There are
witnesses, for his arrogance was such that he cared not at all who saw him.
When that maddened mob surged into the Jewry, he was in the forefront of the
attack. He did his share of looting and burning, and then he led men to the
house of Isaac, son of Aaron, a wealthy moneylender. They emptied Isaac's
coffers, stripped the embroidered hangings from his walls, stole his
candle-sticks and plate, took all that could be carried out. And then they
torched the house. But ere they did, this man ran Isaac through with his
sword. My lord of Leicester, he must be punished for this despicable crime.
You alone have the power, I entreat you to use it. Call him to account for his
sins." Simon was frowning. "Who is this man?" "His name, my lord, is John Fitz
John."
There was a second or so of silence, and then pandemonium. "Who?" If Simon
sounded incredulous, the other voices were hotly indignant. "Do you not know
who he is? Fitz John is Gloucester's cousin!' "And my friend!" Harry jumped to
his feet so hastily that he jarred the table, tipping over several wine cups,
which, in turn, set off a wave of startled oaths. Harry paid them no heed, so
single-minded was he in defense of Fitz John, a favorite carousing companion.
"I'll not nav
his name slandered!"
Hugh le Despenser was on his feet, too. "John and I are kinsmen, our wives are
sisters. I did what I could to stop the killing in the Jewry> and I would see
the offenders punished. But you cannot treat a man John's rank as if he were a
common churl!" ^
"Your timing is deplorable, old man!" Guy alone of the spe did not sound in
the least offended. Making no attempt to hid6
429
alnusement, he said, "My lord father knighted F^itz John this very noon!"
Jacob had not been disheartened by the IL -proar; he'd expected no [ess. But
at that, he took a quick step toward Sfcmon, unable to hide his dismay. "My
lord, is that true?"
Simon nodded. "Do you have any idea wt-iat you ask   of me?"
"Yes, my lord, I do. I know this man is of good birth, but that did not keep
you from serving justice in Gascony. Y-^m protected the Gascon people,
townsmen and farmers who were bein^5 cheated arid robbed by the lords of their
province. You called them bat-»dits and cast them into prison. Why can you not
do the same for Fitz ^~ohn?"
"I was right," Simon said. "You do not urn_<ierstand ir» the least. It is not
Fitz John's blood that concerns me, it is trr»e life blood, of England. Have
you paid so little heed to our plight? In a rmatter of d.ays, we'll be facing
the King across a battlefield, and the od^ds are not in our favor. Not only is
my army badly outnumbered, a gc^>od portioriL of my men are green London lads
who've never drawn blcr^od. But I cannot spare even one of them. And you'd
have me lose one o» i my best commanders? Not to mention the knights and
men-at-arms wh*.o owe allegiance to Fitz John! I have risked all for the
Provisions; not ev=^en my fan-Lily has been spared. You must be mad if you
think I would s^^acrifice our only chance of victory for your vengeance!"
Benedict was not surprised, and therefore, not disap^p»ointed. He
found he actually preferred such a pragmatic refusal, fo:r he'd been expecting
an exoneration based upon birth. But it was different for Jacob. For him,
Simon's refusal was shattering.
"How can you be so indifferent to our suffeirring? Do yc^i-i care nothing for
the fact that the blood of my people is o^n your han_<ds?"
"How dare you make such an accusation? t~he killing in the Jewry was none of
my doing, and well you know it!"
"Oh, I know you took no part in the killL^ng. And I believe you
disapproved of it, mayhap even deplored it. Bi Jt my lord,, that is not
enough. Where is your outrage?"
"What in blazes are you talking about?"
"This man felt it!" Pointing toward Fitz Thorrrnas. "He v<67-;as appalled
°y the slaughter. Why were you not equally app.salled, my lord? I know
what is said of you, that you feel bound to pro tect the w^ak and the
P°°r- It must be true, else these Londoners wou_aJd not be so willing to
,e     you- Again and again you've shown a si_^jprising sv^nrnpathy for
' downtrodden, the defenseless, and it does      you great    credit. But
, at people are more oppressed than mine? Wh^y do you t-».arden your
art against us? Why have you no pity to spar^^ for the Jews?"
'Because you deny Our Lord Christ!"
430
There was such passion in his voice that Jacob took an instinctive step
backward, dropping his cane. But with Simon's next words, he realized that
Simon's emotion was not anger.
"I was taught that over every Jew, God holds His breath, waiting to see if he
will decide for Christ. How can you give Our Lord such grief? How can you
reject salvation?" Simon reached out, grasped Jacob's arm. "It took courage
for you to come here. Yours is a soul worth saving! Why will you not admit
that Christ is the Messiah? Do you not fear damnation?"
It was utterly still. Benedict had moved to his father's side, and he now
waited wordlessly for Jacob's answer. The rabbi met Simon's eyes without
flinching. "I think I can best answer you, my lord, by posing a question. I
know you took the cross in your youth, passed some months in the Holy Land.
Many of your fellow crusaders were taken prisoner by the Saracens. If that had
happened to you, and you were given a choice between abjuring your Christian
faith and death, which would you have chosen?"
"Death," Simon said simply, with no bravado, and Jacob nodded.
"Just so, my lord," he said softly.
As the implications of his answer sank in, Simon's disappointment was as sharp
as any sword. So intense had his desire been to bring Jacob from darkness to
light that he'd convinced himself he would prevail, that this time God would
not hold His breath in vain. He stepped back, released Jacob's arm. "I'll not
deny," he said bleakly, "that your people are willing to die for your beliefs.
But that proves nothing. Not even martyrdom can sanctify a false faith."
Jacob bent down, slowly retrieved his cane. "I've had my say. We'll take up no
more of your time, my lord."
Benedict took his arm, expecting at any moment to hear a summons to stop, not
yet convinced th,ey could escape this particular lion's den unscathed. But
Simon watched them in silence, and after an endless trek, they reached safety,
the enveloping dark of the stairwell.
A PALL had settled over the room. Most of the men felt uncomfortable, without
knowing exactly why. Nerves were on edge, tempers frayed, and when Guy made a
dubious joke about John Fitz John and the money he suddenly had to spend,
Harry almost hit him. Simon silenced them with a look, which stung more than
words could have done. He now knew where Fitz John had gotten the funds he'd
so generously put a' their disposal. But he did not regret his refusal to
punish the man. That was an easy decision to make, a soldier's decision, the
only decision. What disturbed him was his failure with Jacob.
432
"It was like watching a candle," he said suddenly. "It flickered, seemed about
to catch fire, and then guttered out."
The Bishop of Worcester slid a wine cup along the length of the table. "You
ought not to have seen those Jews, Simon. You've cares enough at the moment,
need not take on any more."
"I'm sorry I did," Simon admitted. Picking up the cup, he then set it down
untasted. "But after what happened in the Jewry, I suppose I owed them that
much."
"Nay, my lord, do you not see the danger in such thinking?" The Dominican
Prior startled them all, so loudly did he speak, for all the world as if he
were preaching a fire-and-brimstone sermon at Paul's Cross. "You see now how
insidiously they insinuate themselves, how beguiling they can be. They would
take shameless advantage of our pity, if we let them."
While the Bishop of Worcester agreed with the sentiments, he disapproved of
the extravagant delivery; in his experience, the friars always indulged in
unnecessary theatrics, and it irked him that they had such success in swaying
the people. "It is sadly true," he said, "what Seneca so long ago concluded,
that no enemy is more capable of inflicting injury than a familiar one. I
regret the killings, of course. Jews bear witness on our behalf that we have
not forged the prophecies about Our Lord Christ. They are not to be harmed;
they must be converted to the True Faith, to save their souls and to hasten
the Second Coming. But until then, they must be strictly segregated, lest
their heresies infect unwary Christians."
To Simon, that sounded like an oblique rebuke. Had he indeed let his guard
down too much? "I well know we must be wary of them," he said, but still his
disquiet lingered, and he moved restlessly to the window.
Fitz Thomas, sensing his mood, followed with a cup of wine. So did a contrite
Harry, and Simon allowed his son to prop cushions under his leg, too tired to
deny his discomfort. He leaned back in the windowseat, watching them both, and
after a long silence, said, "When I was just a lad, about eight or so, my lady
mother summoned before her all the Jews in the French city of Toulouse. She
demanded that they renounce Judaism, accept the Christian faith. When they
refused, she had them imprisoned, and gave their children to local families,
to be raised as Christians. But even then, most of them still held fast. Only
fortyseven would agree." A look of surprise crossed his face. "Strange, that I
should remember the exact number, after so many years ..."
This was a story Harry had not heard before. Simon had told his sons how he'd
been trapped in a siege at the age of seven, and he'd telated how, when his
father once needed reinforcements, his mother
TP
432
had led them herself. But this he'd never shared. "What happened to
the Jews, Papa?"
"When my father returned to Toulouse, he did not approve. Oh he hated Jews,
hated all heretics. Indeed, when he suppressed the French Cathars at the
Pope's behest, he showed so little mercy that the Cathars learned to fear him
more than Satan himself. Thirty years later, when I came to govern Gascony for
the King, there were men who hated ine for my name alone, because I was his
son, so long and so bitter were
their memories."
Fitz Thomas silently held out the wine cup. Simon took it, drank slowly. "But
if he would slay a heretic without qualms, he did not believe in knife-point
conversions. So he set the Jews free, saying that was a poor way to bring a
man to God."
It was with a start that Simon realized they were all listening, not just
Harry and Fitz Thomas. Setting the wine cup down, he got to his feet, making a
conscious effort not to limp.
"What of the children, my lord? The ones taken from the Jews? Do
you remember their fate?"
"Yes, torn, I remember. The Cardinal Legate refused to return them to their
parents, saying the salvation of their souls mattered more than
kinship of blood."
"My lord Leicester?" Slouching by the door, the guard straightened
up hastily at Simon's approach.
Simon glanced back at the Bishops of Worcester and London, knowing neither
they nor the Dominican friar would approve of what he was about to do. As an
Earl, a knight, a soldier, he was indifferent to the approval of his peers,
following his own instincts, his own concept of honor. But as a Christian, he
was obliged to heed other voices, to be guided by tiie ethics of his Church.
He paused, then beckoned to the guard. "Those Jews that were here," he said.
"See that they get safely back to the Jewry."
IT was a long walk from the Tower to the Jewry, and much of it had been passed
in silence. Jacob was oblivious to his son's clumsy attempts at consolation.
Benedict's assurances that he'd done his best mattered little against the
reality of Simon de Montfort's refusal. After a time, Benedict, too, lapsed
into silence, for by then he was aware of the men trailing them. They were not
conspicuous, stayed a consistent twenty feet behind, but Benedict's every
instinct was alerting him to
danger.
Curfew had rung, and the streets were all but deserted. As they
433
moved up Fenchurch, they encountered few passers-by. They had not |0st their
shadowy pursuers. Benedict's mouth was dry. Although Jews had been forbidden
by the Assize of 1181 to bear arms, Benedict had a contraband dagger concealed
in his sling, for he'd vowed never to be defenseless again. He fingered it
surreptitiously, while studying Jacob's cane; if need be, it could serve as a
weapon. If only he'd been alone! He knew the narrow, twisting streets of the
city well enough to outdistance any pursuit. But his father was too frail to
run, too infirm to
fight.
From time to time, he risked a glance back over his shoulder. The men had
gained ground, for Jacob's pace was flagging. They were close enough now for
Benedict to notice the moonlit badges that adorned their sleeves. The badge
was familiara crimson cinquefoil. Benedict had seen it that very night, worn
by retainers of the Earl of Leicester. His thoughts whirling, he sought
desperately to make sense of it. If they'd incensed Leicester as much as that,
why had he not ordered their arrest there in the Tower? But what reason could
his men have for following them, save evil intent?
They'd almost reached the end of Lombard Street; ahead lay Cheapside. "Papa, I
do not want to alarm you, but" Benedict's warning went no further, for at that
moment they were hailed by the City Watch.
"You do know that curfew has rung?" The voice was polite, for both Benedict
and Jacob were respectably dressed. But as soon as the man's lantern light
struck their white badges, all deference vanished. "Why are you out on the
streets at such an hour?" The tone suspicious, verging upon belligerence.
"We're on our way home," Benedict said swiftly. "We know it's late, but my
father was meeting tonight with the Earl of Leicester, and curfew rang whilst
we were still at the Tower."
"The Earl of Leicester?" The man nudged his companion. "Was that before or
after you supped with the Pope?"
Benedict waited until his voice betrayed no anger; he'd pushed his luck enough
for one night. "We were with the Earl. I am not lying."
"I say you are! Why would the Earl waste time on Jews?"
"You'd best ask the Earl that." The speaker, a lean youth with the sharp eyes
of a huntsman and a voice brimming with lazy good humor, sauntered toward
them, saying cheerfully, "Unlikely it might be, but frue it is, too. Not only
did our lord meet with them, he dispatched us to escort them back to the
Jewry."
The men of the Watch looked skeptical, but those cinquefoil badges Were
impeccable credentials. Saving face with a gruff admonition to be
434
"off with you, then," the Watch departed. Benedict was half-relieved
half-sorry to see them go, for it was not easy to put his trust in me who were
strangers, Gentiles, and loyal to Simon de Montfort. "I thank you," he said
awkwardly, "but we're safe now. There's no need to accompany us any further."
"I can see you've had few dealings with the Earl," the young soldier said with
a grin. "If our lord tells a man to perform a task, he'd damned well better do
it! He entrusted your safety to us, and that means we'd trail you to the back
of beyond if need be."
They made an improbable quartet: the silent rabbi, his wary son and the
high-spirited, young de Montfort retainers. But as they approached Old Jewry
Street, the soldiers proved as good as their word, disappearing into the
darkness with a jaunty farewell wave. Benedict felt no shame at having so
misread Leicester's intent; suspicion was a survival skill. "Do you want to
rest awhile, Papa?" he asked, and Jacob shook his head. They were almost upon
the alley that offered a shortcut to their Milk Street house, but Jacob passed
it by, and after one curious look, Benedict fell into step beside him. He had
a good idea as to his father's destination.
Their synagogue occupied the northwest corner of Old Jewry and Catte streets.
It had been badly damaged in the rioting, partially burned, and although the
surviving Jews had made what repairs they could, it still bore visible scars
of the April attack. Like me, Benedict thought, raising his hand to his
forehead. The moonlight cast ghostly shadows, here revealing a broken window,
there a cinder-smudged stain. The smell of smoke seemed to linger on the air,
and he wondered if his senses were playing him false. By night, the synagogue
looked more like an abandoned temple than a living House of God, like the
ancient ruins of a bygone people, a long-dead past. That was a frightening
thought, and he tugged on his father's sleeve with sudden urgency. "Papa . . .
let's go home."
"Home?" Jacob turned at his touch, but there was in his voice a tone Benedict
had never heard before, an echo of utter despair. "Home," he repeated. "And
where is that, lad? Where is our home?"
4
32
Lewes, Engflana
May 1264
T.
A HE sun was at its zenith when they reached the hamlet of Offham. Jordan de
Sackville, a Sussexman who'd thrown in his lot with Simon, gestured to their
left. "That is the road to Lewes, my lord."
"And risk being caught between the hills and the river? I think not," Simon
said dryly, marveling that he should have to point out so obvious a pitfall.
"What I am looking for is a way up Offham Hill, bringing us out onto the
Downs."
De Sackville grinned. "Scriptures say that he who seeketh, findeth. Follow me,
my lords." And he led them west toward a hollow known to locals as the Coombe,
where they ascended a winding trackway, emerging at last onto a broad,
treeless upland. Simon saw before him an emerald carpet of new spring grass,
strewn with the sunlit saffron of gorse and primrose, and below, the town of
Lewes, ensconced within a bend of the River Ouse. Leaving their horses in
order to elude any of Henry's sentries, they continued on foot. The plateau
was four hundred feet high, ideal for reconnaissance. The castle of Henry's de
Warenne cousin, the town's narrow main street, the walled priory of St Pancras
^ lay open to Simon's appraising eye.
At first sight, Lewes put Simon in mind of Shrewsbury, for both had formidable
natural moats. The River Ouse snaked its way along the east flank of the town,
then swung in a circle, toward the priory. According to de Sackville, the
river was tidal, rendering impassable any approach from the south. With the
castle rising to the north, the town's "tefenses were impressive, indeed. But
as Simon studied the river's width, wose muddy marshlands to the south, a
shadowy smile hovered around
the
corner of his mouth. There was one fatal flaw in Lewes's defensive
/Ueldit was open to attack from the west. Should an army descend "ft these
heights, sweep from the Downs into the valley, the town's
436
defenders would have no way to retreat. Under a surprise assault, Levves might
well become a death trap.
"We can go," he said. "I've seen enough."
BY the time they returned to Fletching, the small village where Simon had
encamped his army, the sun was low in the western sky and random clouds were
reflecting the blood-red of a Sussex sunset. The day before, the Bishop of
Chichester had attempted-in vain-to persuade Henry to negotiate. Although he
had no expectations of success Simon had that morning dispatched the Bishops
of Worcester and London with one final appeal, but they had yet to return.
Night fires were already burning; his battle captains had gathered before his
tent, where a harried cook was stirring salted beef in a huge, iron cauldron.
The meal forgotten, they crowded around Simon as soon as he dismounted. He
sensed even in these battle-seasoned soldiers, some of the same unease that
had infected the Londoners; they, too, seemed to take an obscure comfort in
his physical presence. But he did not fault them for their fear; only a fool
would face such daunting odds with equanimity.
"My news is good," he said, as his squire brought forth a stool; although
Simon's injury was much improved he knew better than to sprawl cross-legged in
the grass as his sons, and younger men like Hugh and Gloucester and Fitz John,
were doing. "Jordan de Sackvilles spe say thatlastnightevery tavern in the
town was overflowing withHenrys
soldiers. So confident is he of victory that he allows his men to celebrate in
advance of the event. He's quartered in the priory rather than m the castle
with Edward, ever a one for his own comfort, and even there men caroused till
dawn, drunken knights sleeping off their excesses in he church itself."
Simon's mouth was tightly drawn. As a moralist, he found such antics
distasteful; as a battle commander, sheer madness^
Shaking his head, he said, "As amazing as it sounds they have taken no
measures to discover our whereabouts, have sent out no scouts^ We saw but one
outpost all day, on the Downs overlooking Lewes and the men were dicing and
arguing amongst themselves, never noted^our passing. Whilst they know, of
course, that we are in the Weald, they have no idea that we are but nine miles
from Lewes.
One of his squires was holding out a bowl and spoon^ Simon ac cepted without
enthusiasm; all his life, he'd eaten and drunk sparing^ and even though this
might well be his last meal, he could summon up no appetite for the heavily
spiced stew. "We are in agreement,   he» "that Nicholas Segrave and the
Londoners will form our left battle, decision too obvious to merit discussion,
for the left wing was the p sition of least importance. Simon paused, his eyes
searching out Thorn
437
puleston and the other Londoners within hearing range. "In saying this,
1 do not mean to impugn the courage of the Londoners. Some of these jnen
fought with me at the siege of Rochester last month and acquitted themselves
well. But most are green lads, poorly armed. It would be no disgrace should
they break ranks before a charge of mounted knights. There may be a way,
however, that we can lessen this risk. If the Londoners could outflank the
castle, they'd have a better chance in the streets than out on open ground."
The circle was suddenly lit with smiles, for Simon's strategy offered a
welcome spark of hope. There were murmurs of relief, and Nicholas Segrave rose
with characteristic dispatch, went off in search of his raw recruits.
Gloucester took his place, having gone back for a second helping of stew.
Squatting there in the grass, he looked very young, his nose peeling, for the
sun was no friend to redheads, a grease smear on his chin, carrot-colored hair
wildly askew. But the blue eyes were coolly fastened upon Simon's dark face,
eyes that challenged even as he asked, with affected nonchalance, "And who is
to command the vanguard you, my lord?"
"No . . . the command is to go to my sons, Harry and Guy," Simon said,
triggering an exultant yell from Harry and an indignant, disbelieving sputter
from Gloucester. Before the young Earl could launch into a diatribe of
protest, Simon added, with poorly concealed impatience, "Sometimes, Gilbert,
you jump ere you're stung. I want you to have the center command."
Deflated, Gloucester sat back in the grass. Guy was openly laughing at him,
and for a moment he wavered between resentment and delight, but the latter
won, for Simon had indeed conferred upon him a signal honor. Glancing about to
see if it was one the other men begrudged, he saw on their faces perplexity.
And only then did the full impact of Simon's words penetrate. "But what of
you, my lord?" he blurted out. "If I take the center and your sons the right
wing, what command have you?"
"I mean to keep a force in reserve, the knights of my household and some of
the Londoners. They shall be under my personal cornmand," Simon said, a
statement that produced no enlightenment, only puzzlement. Even war-wise
veterans like Fitz John and Humphrey de Bohun looked baffled.
Hugh le Despenser had enough self-confidence to admit ignorance. "I confess
this is a tactic I've never heard of, Simon. We are already outnumbered by two
to one. Do you truly think it wise to reduce our forces even more?"
"That we are outnumbered makes our need for a reserve all the greater." Simon
saw that he'd not convinced them, but their doubts did
438
not trouble him, for he trusted his battle instincts implicitly, did not need
the confirmation of others. "Unless the Bishops of Worcester and London have
wrought a miracle in Lewes, we fight on the morrow," he said, and more than
one man released a breath soft as a sigh. So soon! "Ere the battle," Simon
continued, his gaze coming to rest upon Gloucester and the equally young Earl
of Oxford, "1 shall knight you both."
"Indeed?" For the moment, his defenses down, Gloucester exchanged grins with
Oxford. "What of torn?" he prodded, and as Simon nodded, he jumped to his
feet, calling out his brother's name. He was often a trial to them all, but
now their smiles were indulgent, each man able to identify with his
excitement, remembering his own initiation into knighthood. Harry alone did
not want to remember, for it was on an October day three years past that he
and Bran had been knighted by their cousin, the man he would face tomorrow
across a battlefield.
Humphrey de Bohun set his supper bowl down in the grass, where it was promptly
snatched up by one of their canine camp-followers. Unperturbed by the ensuing
laughter, he got unhurriedly to his feet. "Sunrise comes about four or so. If
we expect to get much sleep tonight, we'd best get busy now."
"Sleep," Simon commented, "will be in short supply. I have no intention of
waiting for sunrise. Come dawn, I want us within striking distance of the
Downs."
He saw that once again he'd startled them. A night march was no less an
innovation than a reserve force, and warfare as they knew it was essentially a
conservative science, mistrustful of change. But as before, no one challenged
him. "Humphrey, you'll fight with my lads. Hugh, I'd like you with me. You,
too, torn," he said, and an enormously flattered Thomas Puleston quickly
nodded assent. Simon looked thoughtfully at the others. Fitz John he assigned
to Gloucester's cornmand, the experienced John Giffard to their weakest link,
the Londoners under Segrave. "I know," he said, "that some of you are dubious
of a night march. I grant you it is an uncommon tactic. But tomorrow we need
all the gains we can get. In failing to keep us under surveillance, Henry has
been criminally careless, and I mean to take full advantage of it. Surprise
is" He got no further; the sudden stirring throughout the camp heralded the
return of their peace envoys.
The grim faces of the Bishops of Worcester and London conveyed their message
with no need of words. Their last hope had failed them/ their one chance of
avoiding war with their sovereign, and the men watched in sobered silence as
the Bishops dismounted, delivered two parchment scrolls. "The King spurned
your appeal, Simon, saying there
439
could be no peace as long as you insisted that he uphold the Oxford
provisions."
"You told him we would be willing to pay thirty thousand pounds, as
reparations for damages done by our supporters?"
The Bishop of Worcester nodded tiredly. "It counted for naught. Henry's
brother, King of the Romans"never had Richard's title been given such sardonic
stress"insisted that all of the thirty thousand pounds be paid to him alone,
to indemnify him for the loss of his Isleworth and Westminster manors."
There was an astonished silence, and then, a burst of derisive laughter.
Richard had never been popular with his brother's subjects, for his were
virtuesintelligence, pragmatism, business acumen, a lack of rancorthat found
little favor with a populace that judged a great lord by reckless courage and
open-handed generosity and prowess on the field. Now, none were surprised,
only scornful, that Richard should put property above principle.
Simon broke the seal on Henry's letter, moved closer to the fire, and read it
aloud. Formally phrased, the gist of Henry's message came in the last
sentence: "We ... do defy you." Without comment, he reached for the second
letter, rapidly scanned the contents, and looked up with a twisted smile. "I
need read no further than the salutation: 'Richard, by the Grace of God, King
of the Romans, ever august, and Edward, of the illustrious King of England the
firstborn, to Simon de Montfort, Gilbert de Clare, and all the accomplices of
their perfidy.' "
The Bishop of London, known as a mild-mannered man of placid temper, now
startled them with an outburst of unwonted bitterness. "They crave blood! Lord
Edward's exact words to me were 'They shall have no peace, unless they put
halters around their necks and surrender themselves for us to hang them up or
drag them down, as we please.' "
Such provocative words acted like flint to tinder; men began to mutter
angrily, defiantly. Simon took the letters, deliberately fed them into the
fire. "So be it," he said tonelessly, and unsheathed his sword, holding it
aloft so that the shining blade reflected red flickers of flame. "I, Simon de
Montfort, Earl of Leicester, do hereby renounce all allegiance to Henry
Plantagenet, no longer acknowledge him as my King and liege lord."
It was a solemn moment, and it showed on their faces. Men stared at Simon's
naked sword, and more than a few wondered how it had ever come to this, for
Scriptures said that rebellion was as the sin of witchcraft. Then the Earl of
Gloucester stepped forward. Whatever his failings of judgment, he had never
lacked for courage, and drawing his own sword, he said in a loud, carrying
voice, "I, Gilbert de Clare, Earl °f Gloucester, do also renounce ..."
440
As Simon watched, one by one they followed his example, disavowed their oaths
of homage. He looked at the tense, firelit faces: Humphrey, who'd be facing
his own father; Hugh, who'd once seemed too light of heart, too fickle of
purpose; John Giffard, to whose safekeeping he'd entrusted Nell and
Kenilworth; John Fitz John, whose courage was unquestioned, but whose honor
was tarnished, stained with Jewish blood; Nicholas Segrave, comrade of the
Welsh wars, his Gascony cornmand; Thomas Puleston, a Shropshireman by birth, a
Londoner by choice; Gloucester and Oxford, rebels with the most to lose; the
sons Nell and God had given him, whose blood was precious to him beyond
measure. And he found himself thinking of the men who weren't here. Peter, for
thirty years his friend, his mainstay, caged at Windsor. Bran, his secondborn.
Thomas Fitz Thomas, who had pledged his life and his city in the cause of
reforming the realm. The prisoners and dead of Northampton. Those he'd loved,
those he'd trusted. Will of Salisbury, who'd found a martyr's crown at
Mansourah. Rob de Quincy, whose death had been a mercy. The Bishop of Lincoln
and Adam Marsh, long dead, but not forgotten, never forgotten. Would they have
understood?
The Bishop of Worcester was standing just a few feet away, and Simon moved
toward him, touched the sleeve of his cassock. "Will you hear my confession?"
he asked quietly.
THE dark was fading at they came within sight of Offham Hill. There they left
their baggage train, along with three disaffected LondonersAugustine de
Hadestok, Richard Picard, and Stephen de Chelmsford, Edward's collaborators in
the abortive Southwark ambush; only John de Gisors, elderly and ailing, had
been judged safe enough to leave behind in London. After chaining the hostages
within Simon's custom-made horse litter, the army took Jordan de Sackville's
roundabout route, began their slow, cautious climb up onto the Downs. The
grass was wet, the air cool, for it was only the 14th of May, all around them
the first stirrings of a springtime dawn. They heard linnets trilling from the
shelter of gorse bushes, the warning chatter of jay and jackdaw, alerting the
Downs inhabitants that man had invaded their domain, the sudden, piercing
shriek of the swiftaptly named the Devil birda sound eerie enough to cause
some of the town-bred Londoners to grope for crucifix or rosary. But for every
magpie to break cover in a flash of iridescent blue, there were hedge sparrows
that remained unseen, birds that stilled their song as men passed by,
ebony-eyed foxes that monitored their approach, sentries invisible and
ever-vigilant.
The furred and feathered denizens of the Downs were better sentinels than
their human counterparts. Reaching the top of the hill/ Si-
If
443
mon's scouts discovered a solitary sentry, sound asleep under a gorse bush. He
had a rude awakening, and when Simon began to put questions to him, he needed
no prompting, eager to buy his life with what information he had to offer.
"The King is to command the center battle, his brother the left wing, and Lord
Edward the vanguard. They mustered about ten thousand men, including a fair
number of Scots, sent by the King's son-in-law, the Scots King. What else can
I tell you? In the castle with Lord Edward are his de Lusignan uncles and his
cousins, the Lord Hal of Almayne and John de Warenne. Also Hugh Bigod and a
renegade Welsh Prince, Davydd ap . . . something."
"Why were you keeping watch by yourself?"
"No one came up to relieve us, my lord. The others decided to return to Lewes
for food and drink. We drew lots and I lost . . ." He trailed off,
disconsolately. "Bad luck twice-over for me. But we could see no harm in it,
for you were said to be miles away, and not likely to force a battle, what
with having lost half your army at Northampton. Also, the King thinks you are
still crippled from your fall, not yet able to sit a horse. By God, he's going
to get a right nasty shock!"
"That," Simon said, "is what we are counting upon." He gave the soldier a
final glance, one of dismissal. "In truth, you are luckier than you deserve.
Had you been one of my sentries and I found you asleep on duty, I'd have
hanged you." He never heard the sentry's stammered thanks, was already turning
away, for he'd spied a familiar face amidst the London contingent. Beckoning
to the young man who'd sought him out at St Albans with news of the London
rioting, he said, "Does Mayor Fitz Thomas know that his clerk has gone off to
war?"
"Yes, my lord." Prompted by his comrades, the youth stepped forward shyly. "I
am Martin of Aldgate, my lord, am honored that you remember me."
"I always remember a bearer of bad tidings," Simon said wryly, pleased to see
that Martin at least was properly outfitted with hauberk and sword, the
Mayor's doing, no doubt. Too many of the Londoners had only the meagre
protection of leather gambesons, had only slings and makeshift weapons. It
took courage to ride to war so ill-armed. "Good luck to you, lad," he said,
thus making of Martin an instant celebrity, able to secure an enviable
position in the front ranks as Simon began to address his army.
"We are about to fight a man anointed by the Almighty as England's Kmg. I took
an oath to him. But I also took an oath to reform the state °f the realm. I
fought in the Holy Land for the faith of Christ, would gladly have given my
life for the glory of God Eternal. This day we fight for justice, for Christ's
poor, for the weal of England, for the promises
442
broken and the trust betrayed. Our cause is just, our quarrel good. Let us now
pray to the King of all that if He be pleased with our undertaking He may
grant us victory. To Him Whose we are, let us commend ourselves, body and
soul."
Swinging from the saddle, he knelt, and then lay prone in the grass. His men
did the same, stretching out their arms, raising their voices to Heaven. They
had sewn white crosses upon their surcoats, breast and back, to identify and
inspire. To the Bishop of Worcester, there was a painful poignancy about the
sight, row after row of white crosses catching the sun, burial markers for
graves not yet dug. But as the men rose, he saw upon their faces the fervent
faith of crusaders.
Simon had remounted his stallion, reining in a few feet away. "Will you be
safe here?" he asked, and the Bishop nodded.
"You've given them a great gift," he said, "the belief that even if they die,
it will be in a holy quest." A faint smile flitted across his lips. "I think
it fortunate, Simon, that you use your talents for good, not evil, for I could
not help thinking that these men would follow you even unto Hell."
Simon did not return the smile. "They are following me to Hell. They just do
not know it yet," he said, and the Bishop saw that his eyes were fixed upon
the Londoners.
"My lord!" The shout came from the crest of the hill. Simon urged his stallion
forward, at once saw the cause of the alarm. Grooms had ventured out onto the
meadows north of the castle, seeking forage for their equine charges, only to
run into the advance guard of Simon's scouts. After a brief skirmish, the
surviving grooms were in flight back toward the town, where they'd soon be
raising a panicked hue and cry. Dawn's light seemed to be chasing them across
the valley; the horizon was aglow. From the Downs, Simon's men could see the
shadows in retreat, could make out bodies crumpled in the grass, bright
splotches of color amidst a sea of green. "First blood," Simon said, with grim
satisfaction. The battle of Lewes had begun.
THE Londoners had hoped to reach the town before the royalist army could
react; there was sure to be utter chaos as men scrambled to dress, to array
themselves for battle. But Edward had been more prudent than his father, had
stationed lookouts in the north tower of the castle. As dawn broke over the
Downs, a horrified sentry was stumbling into the tower stairwell, shouting for
the King's son. While Henry was just rolling out of bed, bleary-eyed and
bewildered, Edward was already arming himself, alerting his battle captains.
He had the advantage, as well, of geography, for the castle was a half-mile
closer to the Downs than the
443
low-lying priory. In consequence, the Londoners had only reached the bottom of
Offham Hill when Edward's cavalry sallied forth to intercept them.
Nicholas Segrave and his knights spurred forward to meet the charge, the
Londoners struggling to keep pace. They came together with shattering impact,
with a splintering of lances and a clash of swords. Martin had never seen
anything like it; he slowed, stared open-mouthed as horses were flung back on
their haunches, as men traded blows and curses, as Segrave's knights were
overwhelmed by sheer numbers. It happened so suddenly that there was no time
for fear. One moment there was a writhing, thrashing line, there was dust
rising and stallions screaming and blood spurting. And then the line was
giving way, there were riderless horses shearing off from the fighting, there
were men down in the grass, and Edward's knights were upon them.
Martin brought his sword up, braced his feet, and swung as a horseman came
within range. His sword glanced off the knighf s shield, and he staggered
backward, a numbing pain shooting down his arm. Shocked, he dropped the sword;
he'd not even seen the blow coming. The Mayor's hauberk had saved his life,
though, for the metal links had not broken under the thrusting blade. But the
men around him were not so fortunate. Swords were slashing through their
leather gambesons, rending flesh, smashing bones. Another knight was bearing
down upon him, and Martin snatched up his sword. At the last moment, the
knight swerved toward closer prey. The man stumbled, and, as Martin watched in
horror, fell beneath the destrier's flailing hooves.
"Martin, look out!" Wat, journeyman to a currier in the Shambles, shouted his
warning just in time. Martin dived sideways as a chained mace sliced the air
above his head, only to trip over a body sprawled at his feet. Rising to his
knees, clutching his sword in a death-grip, he, glanced down and his stomach
lurched, for the dead man had a bloody, gaping gash where his face should have
been.
He made no conscious decision to run. It was made for him. All around him, men
were in flight, and he was swept along with them, a twig helplessly adrift on
a surging flood-tide of fear, a torrent that engulfed the field, carrying all
before it. Some of the Londoners followed Segrave's retreating knights toward
the river. Most, Martin among them, fled back up the hillside.
But Edward's cavalry did not slacken pursuit. The north slope of Offham Hill
was well wooded, yet even after the Londoners reached 'he sheltering trees,
the slaughter continued unabated. Their headlong flight began to resemble a
grisly roundup; the knights harried them like Wolves stalking a flock of
sheep, putting stragglers to the sword, herding them toward clearings where
there was more space for killing.
444
Martin's breath was coming in ragged gasps; his injured arm was throbbing; he
was scratched and sore from falls into the brambles and hawthorn, and through
his dazed mind kept running one bewildered refrain: Why do they not stop? His
battle lore might be second-hand, but he'd read enough tales of knights-errant
to know that soldiers did not pursue defeated men like thismore than two miles
from the field.
He had no idea what had become of Wat, or Ralph, the weaver's son, or Andrew,
the goldsmith's apprentice. His friends were gone, either dead on the field or
running for their lives. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a knight strike
down a man he knew well, William Gratefig. "Blessed Lady, Holy Mother ..." He
had not breath enough for prayer. If Gratefigan important man, a former city
sheriffcould be run through like a pig on a spit, what chance had he?
Risking another backward glance, he stumbled over an exposed tree root. It was
a bruising fall; the metal rim of his kettle helmet slammed into his temple.
His vision blurring, his head spinning, he lay still until the dizziness
passed. A huge oak towered above him, dwarfing the other trees in the
clearing. Sunlight filtered through a cloud of leaves, casting soft shadows,
warming his face. The sounds of the hunt were fading. Almost, he could believe
he was alone in a woodland world of enchanted calm, centuries removed from the
horrors of Offham Hill. And then he noticed the corpse. The body was of a
young man, lacking even a leather gambeson. His tunic was soaked with dark,
clotted blood; so was the grass, for he'd taken a sword thrust in the abdomen.
His face was contorted, and to Martin, mercifully unfamiliar. He struggled
upright, made the sign of the cross.
"I tell you, Davydd, I saw some of them go this way."
Martin froze. "So? Has Your Grace not slain enough Londoners for one day?
Jesu, from the way you've gone at it, I'd think someone must be paying a
bounty on them!" This second speaker spoke accented French; he sounded oddly
detached, as if this carnage had naught to do with him.
Martin peered through an opening in the thickets. A handful of riders had
reined in not twenty feet from where he lay, but he saw only the knight upon a
huge, white destrier. His hauberk caught the sun's rays, shone like silver;
the sword resting upon the pommel of his saddle was three feet long, the blade
well smeared with blood. Martin's mouth went dry. He knew he was looking upon
the Lord Edward, knew now why their pursuit had been so relentless, so
implacable. He and his comrades were paying for a July day at London Bridge,
paying for every rotten egg that landed in Queen Eleanor's barge, for every
shout of "Drown the bitch," for every promise sworn to Simon de Montfort. He
sank lower in the grass, staring at the King's son, astride that lathered,
445
restive stallion. And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat
On him was Death. They were coming this way, coming straight toward him. He
slumped down on the ground next to the corpse, daubed some of the dead man's
blood on his face, and made himself go limp. His cheek pressed into the grass,
his heartbeat drowning out every other sound, he held his breath.
FROM the heights of the Downs, the men of Simon's army had watched in stunned
disbelief. That the Londoners should break and run was no great surprise. But
no one had envisioned a catastrophe of this magnitude. Not even the most
experienced soldiers had ever seen a rout occur with such shocking speed. In
what seemed to be the blink of an eye, it was over, their battle lost before
it truly began.
Simon had ridden his stallion to the very edge of the bluff, staring down at
the battlefield below. It was strewn with bodies, abandoned weapons, the
wounded and the dying. The high grass was trampled and torn, bloodied. Loose
horses galloped aimlessly, the scene one of utter desolation.
"Simon?" Hugh le Despenser and a sheet-white Thomas Puleston reined in beside
him. "What do we do?" The question was rhetorical, for to Hugh, there could be
but one answer. Use the reservethank God for Simon's foresightto fill in the
gap on their left flank, then await Henry's army from the defensive heights of
the Downs . . . and pray as they'd never prayed before. "Shall I order the
reserve to align themselves along the left battle?"
Simon glanced toward him, revealing a face as ashen as Puleston's. "No. Hold
the reserve. Sound the advance."
"You would take the offensive? Christ's pity, man, why? How high can a bird
fly if its wing be broken? Edward just crippled us, Simon. You saw it!"
"They saw it, too. Give them time to think about it and they'll lose all
stomach for battle. We attack and we attack now, ere Edward returns to the
field and whilst Henry's men are still in total confusion." Simon gestured
toward the distant army of the King. They were hastening to array for battle,
but the best proof possible of the disorder and turmoil in the enemy camp was
that Henry's great dragon banner was to be found leading the left battle, not
the center.
Hugh said something about too great a risk, but Simon was no longer listening.
With his left wing destroyed, he could not afford the luxury of caution. He'd
always been willing to take chances other men spurned; now, that willingness
was all he had. He raised his arm, let it 'all sharply. Their trumpets blared.
The banners of Gloucester and de
446
Montfort caught the wind, and the center and vanguard began their descent from
the Downs.
"What would you have us do, my lord?" Puleston had been badly shaken by the
slaughter of his fellow Londoners, but his voice was levelhe had himself in
hand.
"When Edward comes back to the field, he'll cut open Gloucester's flank.
Unless we can stop him."
Theirs was a small band for so great a task. Hugh and Puleston exchanged bleak
looks, then turned their eyes toward the field below. Both the center and
vanguard were now engaged, and the fighting looked savage, the fierce
hand-to-hand combat of men with little to lose Simon, too, was watching
intently. They were still outnumbered, but as long as Edward stayed off the
field, the disparity was not as lethal. Moreover, his sons and Gloucester
seemed to be acquitting themselves well, pressing the attack with enough verve
to have gained a slight edge. Neither Henry nor Richard had ever shown a flair
for command. But where in bloody Hell was Edward?
Simon swung away from the battlefield, turning to stare at the wooded heights
of Offham Hill. A suspicion was stirring, one so improbable that only now was
it infiltrating his conscious awareness, "Where is Edward?" He did not even
realize that he'd spoken the question aloud. Supposition was crystallizing
into certainty. "The fool!" He whirled his stallion about. "Hugh, do you not
see?" he demanded, eyes ablaze with sudden light, with a wild, surging hope.
"I can scarce believe it, but Edward has left the field! If he were regrouping
his men, he'd have been back by now. He's still in pursuit of the Londoners!"
They gazed at him in wonderment. But after a moment, Hugh shook off Simon's
spell. "Simon . . . Simon, what if you're wrong?"
"I'm not." Simon was smiling. "As God is my witness, Hugh, I'm
not!"
His household knights and the surviving Londoners had gathered around him, but
not too close, giving his stallion plenty of respectful room, for destriers
were notoriousin fact, prizedfor their fiery temperament. Simon had found this
particular mount in France, the buy of a lifetime. His color was an
unfashionable black, and he was not as bigboned as others of his breed. But
most destriers could not sustain their speed, their natural gait a jarring
trot, and Simon's black stallion could fly like the wind. He was said to be
half-Arab, and Simon often thought that one day he must experiment with such
cross-breeding. He'd named the destrier Sirocco, after the hot Saracen
windstorms, in tribute to the animal's blazing speed, and now, feeling Sirocco
quiver under his thighs, feeling the stallion's eagerness to run, he thanked
the Almighty for giving him the best horse of his life in this, his time of
greatest need.
1
447
His squire was holding up his great helm. He took it with reluctance; while
the eye-sights were wide enough to provide adequate vision, helms were heavy,
often weighing twenty-five pounds, and so uncomfortable that no knight ever
donned one until the last possible moment. Cradling it in the crook of his
arm, Simon looked out over the assembled men. When he spoke, it was to the
Londoners. "Your brothers died for us. You could not save them. But you can
avenge them. If the shepherd is taken, the sheep will scatter. So ... we ride
against the King!"
SIMON'S surprise attack upon Henry's left flank was even more successful than
he dared hope. He had to hold Sirocco in check, lest he outdistance his own
knights, but they were not far behind; his confidence was contagious and the
odds suddenly in their favor. Gathering speed as they charged down the hill,
they were upon Henry's men before they even realized their peril.
From the corner of his eye, Simon caught movement. He didn't recognize the
coat of arms on the knight's shield, but that mattered for naught; what was
relevant was the lance leveled at his chest. Simon braced himself, took the
thrust dead center upon his shield. The lance shattered, rocking him back
against the saddle cantle, but he retained his seat, and when the knight
circled, sword drawn, Simon got the better of the exchange.
He had no time to relish his triumph, though, found himself threatened by two
of Henry's borrowed Scotsmen. As one of them grabbed recklessly for Sirocco's
reins, his partner thrust upward with a halberd. It was a bold maneuver,
deserving of success. But Simon had faced it before; for nearly forty of his
fifty-five years, he'd studied the arts of war. He was not sure that
experience was a fair trade-off for the loss of youth, but at least he was
beyond surprising. He made use of his spurs, and Sirocco reared up wildly,
dragging the Scots soldier off his feet. Simon struck him in the face with his
shield, then swung the stallion around to deal with the halberdsman. But the
man was gone, letting the tide of battle flow between them.
That tide was changing; Simon could sense it. The vanguard was attacking with
renewed zeal, scenting victory, while Henry's soldiers were demoralized, on
the defensive. A man was defeated as soon as he believed it, and Simon could
see that belief on the faces of the King's men. By the time he'd crossed
swords with one of Hereford's knights, the line was unraveling. The knight
realized it, too, suddenly spurred out of range; why die for a cause already
lost?
When it happened, it was with stunning speed, almost as fast as 'he collapse
of the Londoners' left wing, for no contagion spread like
448
w
t
fear. All around him, Simon now saw men in flight, saw the field swept by his
army's white crusader crosses. But he could no longer find the King's great
dragon banner.
A knight on a chestnut destrier drew up alongside him; even before he saw the
emblazoned shield, he recognized the stallion as Hugh's. "Take some of our
knights," he commanded, "and cut off any retreat into the castle!"
THE prelude to the battle had begun in nightmarish chaos for Henry. He and his
men had from the first been at a distinct disadvantage, thrust from sleep into
the shock of mortal combat. Henry was never at his best in the mornings, and
he found himself fretting unduly that he'd ended up commanding the left wing,
the position of least honor. He was coming to realize, too, just how
ill-advised had been his choice of the priory for his command headquarters,
for the town was on higher ground and thus blocked his view of the castle and
Downs; he went into battle not yet knowing that his son had taken the field
against the
Londoners.
But worse was to come. Henry, for all his martial pretensions, was not that
familiar with hand-to-hand combat, for he'd fought in very few pitched
battles. Castle sieges, the debacle at Saintes, an occasional foray against
Gascon rebels, several disastrous campaigns against the Welsh that was the
extent of his actual battlefield experience. Now, in his fiftyseventh year, he
found himself fighting not only for his crown, but for
his life.
Henry did not lack for physical courage; his was a moral cowardice. But his
survival skills were rusty. Within the first half hour of fighting, he
suffered numerous small cuts and bruises, a sprained wrist, and a wrenched
knee. He was truly shocked that his own subjects should be trying to kill him.
He could accept the hostility of Welshmen and Gascons, but how could good
Englishmen fight against their King? The wind shifted and he caught his first
glimpse of the enemy bannerthe crimson and silver of de Montfort. It could not
be Simon; even he could not lead a charge from his horse litter. It must be
Harry and Guy, then. He was facing his blood-kin, fighting his own nephews!
God curse het, this was his sister's fault. If she'd not been hot to have
Simon in her bed, he'd have been spared all this grief! Well, he would indulge
her no more. When the battle was done and de Montfort dead, she could plead in
vain. Why should he pity Simon de Montfort's widow?
He was slow to realize the extent of his danger, so sure was he that the
Almighty would favor a consecrated King. Another commander would have known
they were giving ground; Henry needed to be told/
449
and there were none at hand to tell him. He was vastly relieved when One of
his couriers found him; at least now he'd learn what was happening on the rest
of the field. His bodyguards and knights of his household formed a protective
circle, and he could not help wishing he might shelter there indefinitely. But
a king's lot was a hard one. "How does my brother?" he demanded, was stunned
by the reply.
"Poorly, Your Grace. He's being hard-pressed by Gloucester, barely holding his
own. But it's Lord Edward you ought to be worrying about. Sire, he has gone
off after those Londoners, has left the field altogether!"
"I do not understand. What are you saying?"
The courier never got a chance to answer. Something was happening; something
was very wrong. Henry turned a bewildered face toward the source of this new
turmoil. Men were looking toward the west, pointing and shouting. And then
they were running.
Henry spurred his horse forward, crying, "Do not run! Hold fast!" His attempt
to rally his men came to naught; no one seemed to be paying him any mind. As
he glanced again toward the west, he thought he saw a second de Montfort
banner. But he had no time to puzzle it out. His stallion shied suddenly,
shuddered violently, and went down. Henry kicked his feet from the stirrups,
scrambled free. It was only then that he saw the blood gushing from the
animal's belly, saw the soldier with sword poised to strike again. Cornered,
he surprised even himself. Straddling his dying horse, he fought off his
assailant with a gritty resolve he'd never shown before, and would never find
again. After what seemed to be an endless exchange of blows, the other man
backed away, and he let his sword arm go limp. The man had not even possessed
a hauberk, doubtless one of de Montfort's lowborn Londoners. That a common
churl had almost killed a King! Where were his bodyguards?
"Sire!" A knight was galloping toward him. His shield was split and his
surcoat so blood-stained that his coat of arms was impossible to decipher.
"Here, take my horse," he insisted, sliding from the saddle and holding out
the reins.
By now, Henry had recognized the voice of Philip Basset. A gallant gesture, he
thought approvingly, reaching gratefully for the reins. "What has hap"
"There's no time to talk! Make haste and mount, ride for the castle. i 11 do
what I can to hold our men here till you can"
"Run away? No!"
"My liege, the battle is lost! De Montfort has launched an attack upon our
flank, and our men are fleeing for their lives. Look for yourself, ^e day is
his!"
"No! No, that cannot be! I am England's King, how could I lose?
450
1
451
Where is Edward?" Henry shook his head, repeating plaintively, "Where is my
son?"
EDWARD had pursued the fleeing Londoners for a full four miles. By the time he
felt his mother had been properly avenged, the sun was high overhead But even
after he realized how long he'd been gone from the battlefield, he was not
unduly perturbed. Like his father, Edward could not conceive of defeat.
Collecting as many of his men as he could find, he started back toward Lewes.
They were approaching Offham Hill when they ran into one of William de
Lusignan's knights, and he had news to gladden Edward's heart. On the lower
slope of the Downs less than a half mile to the west, lay the enemy baggage
tram. With his own eves he'd seen Simon de Montfort's standard, seen his
personal horse litter. Edward needed to hear no more. With a gleeful shout,
the cry of a hunter closing in on his quarry, he spurred his stallion into
action.
MARTIN was still very frightened. He'd seen sights this day he could
never forget, his dreams would be haunted for years to come, and his
nightmare visions would be real. He felt no shame for running. Under
the circumstances, that was common sense, not cowardice. His true test
of manhood came later, when he determined to return to the battle. It
was the last thing he wanted to do. Never had life seemed so sweet,
dizzy with the dazzling joy of reprieve, he could easdy have: gotten
drunk on the sounds and scents of spring alone^But he owed it ° the
two men whose approval meant all, Mayor Fitz Thomas and Earl.Swm.
Clutching his resolve to his treast like a life-saving shield, h*> began a
slow retracing of his earlier panicked path. As he reached *e hamle of
Offham, he came upon a weeping girl, whose torn bodice and blooded
skirt told a familiar story. Soldier's prey, she stirred quick pity, but: a
sight of him, she screamed, fled into the woods. Offham s few^ cottage
had been plundered, stripped of what little they had Marhn looked a
the broken crockery strewn about, the bedding f?>n\y destroyed,
dog's body in an open doorway, and he wondered how he could
have thought there was glory in war. un,mester
Near Offham Church, he encountered a fellow fugitive, a young* of seventeen or
so. The boy was pathetically grateful for the company, and quite voluble.
Within moments, Martin learned that his name Godwin, that he had worked as a
stable boy in a Southwarkinn, his employer had forbidden him to go off with
the army, and he K     ^ that he'd lost his job. He babbled on about London
ale-houses an
girl named Aldith, even the Smithfield horse fair, about everything but the
battle. Martin glanced at Godwin's runic, at the telltale rip where his white
cross had been torn away, and the boy, following his eyes, blushed. "Nay, lad,
you mistake me," Martin said hastily. "I meant no reproach. But I must tell
you, Godwin, that I am on my way back to the battle."
Godwin stared down at the ground, scuffed his shoe in the grass, his fingers
plucking nervously at those loose tunic threads. "I'll come with you," he
mumbled.
"Good lad! Here is my idea. Earl Simon left a brave knight, Sir William le
Blound, to guard the hostages and the baggage train. We'll seek him out, ask
him what to do."
Godwin brightened considerably, for it seemed as likely as not that le Blound
would tell them to stay with the baggage, and he fell in step beside Martin as
they trudged toward Coombe's Hollow. Martin was only now discovering how very
tired he was, and he let himself be lulled by the boy's compulsive, inane
chatter. He did not hear the sounds of battle, therefore, until it was almost
too late. "And Aldith, she told me"
"Be still!" Godwin subsided, hurt, but when Martin took shelter in the bushes
beside the path, he made haste to follow. They crept forward, by now close
enough to see Simon's standard, unfurled to full length against the bright,
cloudless sky. William le Blound and his men were offering a valiant defense,
but they were outnumbered, and as Martin and Godwin watched, they began to
die.
"Do they think Earl Simon is in the horse litter?" Godwin whispered, eyes wide
and wondering.
"I do not know." Martin gasped, quickly crossed himself as William le Blound
slumped over his horse's neck, slid slowly to the ground. His death took the
heart out of his men. Those who could, fled, and Edward's knights turned their
efforts upon the horse litter. The door was chained shut, but a few blows with
a battle axe freed the hostages. Augustine de Hadestok and his co-conspirators
were dragged out, babbling avowals of loyalty that no one heeded. Their
panicked protests gave way to screams. Swords flashed; within moments, the
hapless merchants were hacked to death.
Martin looked away, sickened. In a day of horrors, somehow this seemed the
most obscene horror of all, that Augustine de Hadestok, Stephen de Chelmsford,
and Richard Picard should have been slain by their own allies. Godwin was
tugging at his sleeve, urging him to flee, aild indeed now was the time, while
Edward's soldiers were ransacking the baggage. But they'd only covered a few
yards before they encountered an armed knight.
452
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 oldfashioned 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
453
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 vvere 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 bSte 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 °f 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 '°ng 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 ni- "I do
not believe you! God would never favor him over us!"
454
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 agreementfor probably the
first and last timewith 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
455
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 jnake 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.
JUTER 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 Daggering Simon by his impetuous rush.
"You did it, Papa! For years to come, men will be talking of this "%, of your
victory! Not Charlemagne, not Richard Lion-Heart, not even Caesar"
"You're too sparing with your praise, lad," Simon said gravely, and 'hen the
laughter in his eyes spilled over, and he returned the hug. He "ad always
found it easier to show affection to this son, not because he
456
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 pawnmy 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 bloodsoaked 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 wideeyed, 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, squir6 to John
Giffard."
457
Simon glanced toward Richard's frozen profile. A squire! No wonder gichard
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!
He looked toward Gloucester; it was only fair to give credit where due. "You
fought well this day, Gilbert, showed a talent for command."
"Yes, I did," Gloucester agreed, unwilling to admit how much the compliment
pleased him. But he was happy enough to share the glory, and added generously,
"We all did ourselves proud. All but the Londoners, that is."
"They did the best they could." Simon's voice was suddenly cool.
"I do not doubt it." Gloucester could not resist the sarcasm, but there was no
venom in it; in his present frame of mind, he was willing to overlook much. "I
think," he began, and then stopped, turning as "tey all did, toward the
direction of the town.
"My lords!" The rider was coming at a dead run, his mount kicking
J"P great clods of grass and dirt. "My lord Fitz John sent me to find you,
|°tell you Lord Edward came back onto the field!" He reined in, panting.
But when they realized the battle was lost, the other lords balked. They
eaded for the bridge near the Franciscan friary. There was fighting,
' some drowned when they rushed the bridge. But the de Lusignans
458
and de Warenne got across. I'm sorry, my lord. We all know you wanted
them taken."
"What of Edward? Did he flee, too?"
"No, my lord, he did not. With less than a score of men, he fought his way
into the priory, joined his father the King."
JOHN Fitz John's first attack upon the priory had been repulsed by the
desperate men sheltering within. He was about to launch a second assault when
Simon galloped up. Thick, black smoke overhung the priory; orange flames,
fanned by the wind, flared from the windows of the frater, licked at the roof
of the church. Soon after Simon stopped the onslaught, a flag of truce was
waved from the great gate, and then a gaunt, smoke-smudged figure was emerging
onto the dusty, bloodstained street.
"I am William de Neville, Prior of St Pancras," he began, but to his dismay,
John Fitz John interrupted curtly, demanding to know if he was not formerly
the Prior of St Andrew's in Northampton. Fitz John did not remind those
listening that it was a monk of St Andrew's who had betrayed the town to
Edward; he did not have to. But the Prior did not have the luxury of denial.
"Yes, I was," he acknowledged reluctantly. His eyes swept the circle of men,
hastily sought out Simon. "My lord Leicester, I beg you to halt your assault
whilst my monks fight the fire. Your arrows have set our church aflame!"
"A grievous mistake." Simon slanted a flinty look toward Fitz John. "I would
not deliberately burn a House of God."
"Thank you, my lord." The Prior sighed. "You'll allow us, then, to
put out the flames?"
"I think it time, Prior William, to put out all the flames. Go back and fight
your fire. And deliver a message to the King. Tell him I am offering a truce,
from this hour until sunset tomorrow. Choose from amongst your monks two to
speak for the King. I will send into the priory two of the Franciscan friars
to act on my behalfour behalf," he amended, remembering Gloucester just in
time. "We are all reasonable men," he said, with enough irony to amuse his
soldiers. "I am sure that
we can come to terms."
Fitz John watched, frowning, as William de Neville hastened back into the
priory. "Why a truce? Give me just two hours and I'll give J° the King." ,
"He is not a fox you've run to earth, Sir John. He is the King ° England, and
we can spare his dignity." Simon's smile was suddemj grim. "What else does he
have?"
33
Lewes, Engflana
May 1264
J.HEY met in the priory Chapter House. Neitheefli-ither Henry nor Edward
appeared to have slept, theirs the dazed, hoUowvrofloweyed look of men
suffering the greatest of all possible bereavementsata-nts, the loss of God's
favor. At sight of Simon, Henry began to tremble -*vithKiv*vith impotent rage,
with a visceral fear that was immune to common seinse^111186/ impervious to
Edward's repeated reassurances. "I yield my swor<l toi tad to you, my lord of
Gloucester," he cried, "and only to you!"
Simon stepped back, watching without comment as Gloucester ac-36 ~ ac" cepted
Henry's sword. But Henry's next act could not be as easily shruggecitfSJged
off. Glaring at Simon, he said in a loud, belligerent voice, "Need I
reminttininind you that I have another son, safe in France with my Queen?
Should .anyC16 anY evil befall me or Edward, Edmund would be the rightful
heir!"
Edward winced; he thought he'd managed to allay that partic«_ilartfli*ilar
fear. Simon and Gloucester looked equally outraged. Gloucester drop jjedJ^qped
Henry's sword into the rushes, with the grimace of a man coming upon flocpon
something unclean. No one was touchier about his honor than Glouces-
-89esterwith the possible exception of Simon, who said icily, "You, my Y"1 my
tage, are England's King. No one challenges that." Adding, with a svad-
-bidden glint of steel, "From now on, however, you will be governing a.s a
6a»s a tag ought."
Henry gasped, but Richard forestalled him, falling back, out of habit,
,lidbit/
mt° his role of peacemaker, a role he was regretting more and more 9ic*°re
ever having abandoned. The loss of every manor in Christendom would bltiud
not justify yesterday's battle; why had he not seen that sooner? "Did    biOid
y°u know that Philip Basset was sorely hurt?" he asked hastily, ajid    bn.nd
enry shook his head, made mute by a remorseful memoryriding off ^° °"
0 safety on Philip Basset's horse. Moving toward the table, Richard    bierd
*d up the document awaiting their seals. He read rapidly, and wh.«n    r»jen
Wised his eyes to Simon's face, they held a gleam of reluctant respe<:t.
t:>"cti
°u never fail to surprise me, Simon. You've just won one of Chris-   -2i""is~
460
tendom's great victories, and yet your terms are exactly the same as they were
ere the battle began!"
Simon's pride still bled. "Sometimes," he said coldly, "I suspect the lot of
you must be deaf. For as far back as I can remember, I tall; and you listen
not. I fought for the Provisions, no more, no less. How often do you have to
hear it to believe it?"
"I think you're beginning to get our attention." But Edward's sarcasm was
lame. As his eyes locked with Simon's, defensive color flooded his face. "Go
on, say it! I know what you're thinkingthat I played the fool yesterday, lost
the battle for my father."
They'd rarely seen his nerves so raw, but he elicited little sympathy from
either Simon or Gloucester. The latter's smile was a dazzle of deadly mockery.
"You're too modest, Ned, in tallying up your sins. You lost the battle on the
field, but then, by scorning flight, you lost the war as well!"
Edward glanced toward his father. "I did what I had to do," he said roughly,
surprised when Simon nodded agreement.
"It may have been a foolhardy gesture," he said, "but it was also a gallant
one." Some of Edward's high color began to ebb. For just a moment, he looked
young and vulnerable, flustered. Unlike his father, he was capable of learning
from his mistakes; Simon had seen evidence of that. But what lesson, he
wondered, would Edward draw from the battle of Lewes?
Edward stepped forward, formally handed Simon his sword. "Hal and I shall
surrender ourselves on the morrow, as agreed upon. What happens then?"
"You shall be placed in the custody of my son Harry, taken to Dover Castle."
Edward's mouth twitched. "And to think, Uncle, that your enemies accuse you of
lacking a sense of humor!" For the first time, he looked directly at Harry,
standing in the shadows near the door, and then he grinned. "Dover would not
have been my choice of residence, but at least I'll have no complaints about
the companyCousin."
The olive branch fell short. Harry gave him the cool, appraising look of a
stranger. "I'd not wager upon that if I were youCousin, he said, and not even
waiting for Edward's response, turned and walked out.
Edward watched him go, then summoned up an exaggerated shrug/ a display of
amused indifference that none found convincing. Sensing their skepticism, he
abruptly began to query Simon about the batti casualties. Two thousand, seven
hundred known dead, Simon said son* berly, and more who drowned in the river
and marshes, whose booi might never be found.
461
Those were sobering figures; death had claimed nearly one out of every five
men. If theirs was a society that glorified battlefield prowess while
deploring battlefield deaths, it was because none could honestly reconcile
their Church's "Thou shalt not kill" with the seductive allure of a chivalric
brotherhood based upon the sword. Even the comforting concept of a "just war"
was not applicable when Christian fought Christian, and a respectful silence
fell, the not entirely hypocritical honor the living accorded the dead.
Henry alone felt no compunction that so many had died. The numbers did not
even register with him. Like one staring too long at the sun, he was blinded
to all but his helpless hatred for Simon. It acted upon him like a sickness,
set his heart to pounding, his pulse to racing, leaving him weak and
debilitated, dizzy with the sheer intensity of the emotion, one frightening in
its unfamiliarity, for his was not a violent nature. Now, however, he felt
himself unforgivably wronged. "Why do we waste so much time?" he demanded
suddenly. "We are here to affix our seals to that accursed Mise. Let's do it,
then, so we can end this . . . this wretched farce!"
There was an awkward silence. All eyes turned instinctively to Simon for
guidance. And only then did Henry fully comprehend the consequences of the
battle of Lewes. The crown was still his, the command Simon's.
UNDER the Mise of Lewes the Oxford Provisions were recognized as the law of
the land. An arbitration commission was to be set up to deal with specific
disputes, but under no circumstances would Henry be allowed to appoint
foreigners to his council. He would also be required to curb his extravagant
spending, to live modestly until his debts could be satisfied. A full amnesty
was proclaimed for Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Gloucester, and all their
followers. There were to be no ransom demands for men captured at Lewes; they
were to be freed, as were the prisoners taken at Northampton. And Edward and
Hal surrendered themselves as hostages, as pledges for their fathers' good
faith.
F*OM Lewes, Henry and Simon moved on to Battle, and then to Canterbury, so
that Simon could check coast defenses. In consequence, a fortnight passed
before they had their entry into London. Once again "e Londoners turned out in
large numbers to welcome Simon into their at"/< but it had beenfor thema
bitter-sweet victory, and the procesSl°n was muted. London resembled a
brilliant, vividly colored paintS^bordered in black. Simon found himself
cheered by women whose
462
1
faces were wet with tears, by men who'd staked their very lives up0n his
triumph, by those fresh from ale-houses and others coming fr0ln funerals, by
the reprieved and the newly widowed, the joyful and the bereaved. It was a
celebration stained with blood.
After seeing that Henry was comfortablyand securelylodged at the Bishop of
London's palace, Simon continued on to the Tower where Richard was installed
in Henry's lavish Blundeville chamber. Only then did Simon finally have time
for private conversation with the rnan who'd proved such a steadfast ally.
They were sitting around a table in the upper chamber of the keep, Simon and
Thomas Fitz Thomas and Harry and Peter de Montfort, newly freed from Windsor
Castle. Peter seemed little marked by his captivity, answering Fitz Thomas's
queries with composure, saying that, Yes, he'd been well treated, and No, he'd
never doubted that Simon would prevail, and Yes, young Bran had been released
with him, but the lad had headed first for Kenilworth, wanting to check upon
his mother and little sister.
"We expect him to join us here within the next day or so," Simon interjected.
"And so will my wife, once the roads seem safe again."
Fitz Thomas needed no elaboration upon that last remark, for Londoners had
grim, first-hand knowledge of the dangers of the road. Henry had, at Simon's
behest, ordered all his castle garrisons to lay down their arms. But the
garrison in Gloucester's captured castle at Tonbridge had refused to obey, and
at Croydon had ambushed a group of Londoners returning home from the battle.
Simon's thoughts mirrored Fitz Thomas's own. "Those responsible for the
Croydon killings have fled to Bristol, barricaded themselves within Edward's
castle there. But I'll do my best to see them brought to justice." "It seemed
particularly cruel to me," Fitz Thomas confessed, "that men should have
survived the battle, only to be struck down so close to home. That ambush
stirred up much fear in the city. As if we did not have suspicions enough
after the fire!"
"Were you able to catch the man who set the blaze?" "Yes ... a draper, I'm
sorry to say! A man named Richard de Ware, an accomplice of the hostages slain
at Lewes. Fortunately, we were able to contain the fire, but not before many
houses in Milk and Bread streets burned to the ground." Fitz Thomas frowned,
remembering. "It was a bad time for us, my lord, not knowing yet that you'd
won the battle ... especially bad for the poor Jews. Whenever men are fearful,
they seek scapegoats, and there was another outbreak of violence and looting
in the Jewry. This time we were able to establish order right quickly' but
coming so soon after the slaughter in April . . . And then, by sheer evil
luck, many of the Jews' houses were burned in the fire. Well, it1S
463
little wonder that the Jews panicked. They took refuge here in the Tower,
refuse to leave, and in truth, who can blame them?"
Simon, too, was frowning. "Do you remember, torn, that elderly jew who sought
me out just ere I left London? Jacob ben Judah, I believe lie was called. Is
he here, too? Good, for I wish to speak with him. Can you send a man to fetch
him?"
Fitz Thomas hid his surprise. "I will see to it at once, my lord." As he moved
toward the door, Simon cast a speculative look in his son's direction. Harry
had joined them two days ago at Rochester, having delivered Edward and Hal
safely to Dover Castle. He'd been unusually subdued since his return, was
obviously troubled, for Harry's face was never meant for subterfuge, betrayed
in equal measure his joy and his pain.
"You've said very little about your journey to Dover. No problems with
Edward?"
"No . . . although I think Ned expected softer treatment than he got. I kept
him on a tight rein, treated him as a prisoner, not a Prince, and he liked it
not." Harry was staring down at a wax spill on the table; Simon could see only
the sweep of surprisingly long lashes. "I thought ... I thought that if I
could make him pay for his treachery, I'd feel better. But the worse I treated
him, the worse I felt ..."
Simon had suspected as much. "You have every reason to be angry with Edward.
But if you need to make your peace with him, there's no shame in it. In all
honesty, I doubt that I could forgive such a betrayal, but if you can, then do
so. The bond between you began in the cradle, not an easy one to sunder. But
bear this ever in mind, Harry. Edward might deserve your friendship. He does
not deserve your trust."
"You need not worry, Papa. What is it that Scriptures say, the serpent is more
subtle than any beast of the field? Well, when it comes to guile, Ned could
put that serpent to shame in the blink of an eye. Like a spider, he can spin a
web even in his sleep."
As an assessment of Edward, Simon found it right on target. The door opened,
and Fitz Thomas entered, just in time to hear Peter say pensively, "Think you
that there's any truth to that? Do spiders spin in their sleep?" Harry
insisted it was so, that he'd read it in a bestiary, and he and Peter were
soon swapping stories of arcane animal lore. Did Harry believe crocodiles wept
over their prey? Did Peter believe that the hyena could change its sex at
will? What of the griffin, said to have the head of an eagle, the body of a
lion? Had Harry ever met a man who'd actually seen one?
Fitz Thomas listened, amused, until he noticed that Simon was not listening at
all. He was gazing into the closest candle flame, as intently
464
II
465
as if it were a soothsayer's lamp, looking up with a startled smile at th
sound of Fitz Thomas's voice. "What did you say, torn?"
"I was but wondering, my lord, if what I heard was true, that y0u are asking
two French Bishops to assist in the arbitration. Might I ask
why?"
"To help Henry save face. I think he might find our medicine easier to swallow
if the French King wields the spoon."
That made sense to Fitz Thomas. He knew that there were some Londoners who
felt Simon's triumph had been bought with their blood Londoners who wanted
vengeance with their victory. Simon's peace terms had been too moderate for
their liking; Fitz Thomas had even heard a bitter quip making the rounds of
ale-house and tavern, that Simon fought a sight better than he bargained. But
as a politician, he'd long ago learned the necessity of governing by
consensus, and was in full agreement with Simon's cautious approach. "Will the
French King
consent?"
"How can he not . . . now? We submitted to trial by combat, would not have won
if our cause were not just. I do not see how the French King or the Pope can
continue to oppose the Provisions, not if they be men of any honor."
"What happens next?"
"We're calling a parliament for next month, shall put before them our plans
for reformthree electors, who will then nominate a council of nine to advise
the King in the governance of the realm."
"Will you summon knights to the parliament, as you sought to do three years
ago?" To Fitz Thomas, that had been a remarkable innovation. He hoped that
Simon would not recant now that he was in a position to put his political
theories into actual practice.
"Yes, we will. I know what my enemies say, that I take my allies where I can
find them. And there's some truth in that, for most of my support does come
from the knights and shire gentry. But if the King holds power by a covenant
with his people," Simon said matter-of-factly, although that was a hypothesis
most would reject out-of-hand as alarmingly radical, "it only makes sense that
their voices should be heard. The knights speak for an important element of
the community, ought to have some say in how it is governed." He paused, his
eyes coming to rest thoughtfully upon the Mayor's face. "And if the knights
should be included, then logic demands that so should the towns. When paf"
liament meets again in January, I hope to be able to summon citizens from
London, mayhap even from some of the other cities."
He smiled suddenly. "If I so surprise you of all men, I can well imagine what
others will say, none of it likely to gladden my wife, who takes criticism of
me very much to heart!"
But Fitz Thomas was too astounded and too excited to joke in kind. "Do you
truly think you can do this?"
"I do not know," Simon admitted. "In all honesty, I have no surety at all as
to what the future holdssave that danger lurks behind every bend in the road.
Henry is no willing partner in this strange union of ours, and he does not
lack for allies. His Queen and John Mansel are said to be raising an army in
Flanders. The de Lusignans, de Warenne and Hugh Bigod have gotten safely to
France. The Pope is hostile to us, the French King suspicious, the Scots King
Henry's son-by-marriage. The Marcher lords are not to be trusted." Simon
smiled again, this time without humor. "If enemies are riches, torn, I am
richer than Croesus far richer than I care to be!"
"And yet you won before against all oddsat Lewes."
Simon nodded slowly. "Yes, I did. But winning that detestable battle was easy,
compared to what lies ahead."
JACOB ben Judah and his fiercely protective shadow followed a servant across
the inner bailey, up into the Tower keep. Once they'd reached the stairwell,
Jacob's hand closed upon his son's sleeve. "Why do you think he has summoned
us?" he asked softly.
"I have no idea, Papa," Benedict lied. So alarming were his suspicions that he
wanted to spare his father, if he could, until the final moment of revelation.
One of Simon de Montfort's first acts as Earl of Leicester had been to banish
all Jews from his domains. Now that he was King in fact, if not in name, why
should he not seek to banish the Jews from the very realm of England?
They hesitated before the chamber door, neither one wann'ng to cross that
threshold again. But at least tonight they faced only an audience of four:
Simon and his firstborn and the Mayor and a grey-haired man neither
recognized. After an exchange of wary greetings, Simon gestured for them to
sit. "I want you to persuade the other Jews to leave the Tower," he began. To
his surprise, all color drained from Jacob's face.
"My lord, this is our last refuge! If you turn us out of the Tower, we will be
defenseless, utterly at the mercy of our enemies!"
"You mistake my intent. The Tower is always available as a shelter in times of
travail. I am not denying you refuge. I want your people to return to their
homes, to resume their daily lives."
Jacob and Benedict exchanged astonished glances. "My lord, I, too, ^ant that,"
the older man said cautiously. "More than anything. But I do not think it
possible after what has happened. My brethren are SOre afraidand with good
cause."
466
T
467
"Would it ease then fears ii * it public -_ = proclamations were made, f0t.
bidding all subjects ofthe King S,g to haras^ss or threa^ hem?
i_<
Jacob did not answer at o o   once.
"MJv"*fy lord, I do not mean to
Jacob did not answer at oo once. "M3Jv*iy 'ora, i ao nledn to ^ offense. But
in the past, kings ha*r-«ve taken ^ the Jews under theu: protection, Ltasyour
popes have from timrr^me to time a*e ordered that we not be har^ These decrees
did notsaveus i:i '. in times & of trouble. Words do not deflect swords. Why
should tnose wh.rt *o hate Je^Tews pay any heed to these proc.
lama'taB°encSau'se/' Simonsaid, 'W 'when the **e King offers you his
protection, men will know he speaks for T.r me. The^ney know, too, that my
word B eood, and that I warn but onc»D*ce."
8 Jacob was studM Simon rr-n intently^; * was not easy to trust after so
bloody a spring. "What you SB say is torture," he said at las Even your
enemfes adm/you're a in o of your ^ -ord It might well be that your protection
would count for mo«Kore than *-i*he King's. I can promise nothing, my lord,
but 1 will speak to na my peopl-Jole, will urge them to heed what
y°U "Good. Tell them we will 111 send lett-irters patent to all the towns
where there have been recentoutbreasaeaks of vio_o*lence. In each place,
twenty-four respected citizens ^ be cho.o.osen to ac=*ct ^s guarantors for the
safety of
thered;?ct^
^£.£±^ Sn^^^
^iTt:;^^ :u^^^^ ££&"
311(1 «'s^ers are 9-e not absolute. The Lord God gves^ sacred trust, and in
return fo:o=or the obe.^cHence and loyalty-at his subject, he must provide
protection a.    and justice-even unto the tartofftj^ I am to exercise rights
of king-.S gship on HfcHenry s behalf, the'**P° too, must be mine. It
becorrmmes a deb*ot of honor owed to all of Henry
SUTob was speechless. H He well W knew that the chival*££ more fable than faa,
as horoonored irx * the breach as in the °^ght Moreover, it was an ethics 0
system & for he aristocracy Thus MOJ^ could rape a peasant girl oocor cheat a
- serf, and feel no shame> ^ were not covered by the teru^nets of chii^valry.
But Simon de Monti
. oWn version of their code. If his could include the weak and needy, ^uld
'* not "*n t'rrl^ come to include the Jews, too? Jacob tried to hold .g hopes
in   check^ before they ran away with him altogether. At least, l_js was a
beginning, a blessed beginning.
"I thank you, my lord," he said. "Your protection will enable my -^ople to
picJc up the broken threads of their lives, to put some of the ^jor behind
them."
Simon frowned^ but Jacob knew why; no Christian crusader could be truly
comfortable , cast as a defender of infidels. "We are in agreement, th^ri,"
Simon said tersely. "If you"
The door opened with enough force to startle them all. Jacob and Benedict
tensed at sight of Guy de Montfort. There were some men who ha«d only to w-alk
into a room to cause others to scent danger; Guy had impressed bo»h Jacob and
Benedict as such a one. Now, however, he barely glanced their way. "I've been
scouring the city for you, Papa. There is a rep>-entant sinner here, in need
of absolution!" He laughed, ancd shoving tt~ie dooir back, with a nice flair
for the dramatic, he revealed his brother.
Bran grinned self-consciously, but whatever he might have said was lost in the
turmoil. Harry whooped, vaulted across the table to embrace their lost sheejp.
Simon, too, was hastening forward, with Peter only a step" behind.
A son's homecoming was a private moment, not to be shared with stra ngers.
Jacob and Benedict offered polite excuses, eliciting from Simon only the
vague>st of responses in return; he was smiling at his secondborn, all else
forgottexi.
"Come, I'lL see you out," Fitz Thomas said; he, too, felt out of place in a
family cirde so tightly drawn. The laughter of the de Montforts followed them
as they entered the stairwell, cut off suddenly by the dosxjig door. So dark
was it that Fitz Thomas was only a sensed presence, a cheerful voice?. "When
you speak to the other Jews," he said, "I'll go withi you." He t»rushe<i aside
Jacob's thanks as if his gesture were of no moment; he sounded as if he was
smiling. "You'll not regret it, Master Jacofcp. If there is one man in
Christendom who can be trusted with no reser-vations, Ea_rl Simon is that
man."
Jacob, still caught up in his visionary dreams of a new England, fturrxmred
agreement. Benedict said nothing, but his silence challenged, *jd Etz Thomas
readied out unerringly in the dark, touched his arm. '°u. can trust Him, lad,"
he said. "You'll see."
f* was an eerie conversation, disembodied voices in a black void. necict would
later remember and marvel, both at the oddness and e unguarded Honesty of his
answer. "I cannot trust him," he con-
466
"Would it ease their fears if public proclamations were made, for. bidding all
subjects of the King to harass or threaten them?"
Jacob did not answer at once. "My lord, I do not mean to giye offense. But in
the past, kings have taken the Jews under their protection just as your popes
have from time to time ordered that we not be harmed These decrees did not
save us in times of trouble. Words do not deflect swords. Why should those who
hate Jews pay any heed to these proclamations?"
"Because," Simon said, "when the King offers you his protection men will know
he speaks for me. They know, too, that my word is good, and that I warn but
once."
Jacob was studying Simon intently; it was not easy to trust after so bloody a
spring. "What you say is true," he said at last. "Even your enemies admit
you're a man of your word. It might well be that your protection would count
for more than the King's. I can promise nothing, my lord, but I will speak to
my people, will urge them to heed what you say."
"Good. Tell them we will send letters patent to all the towns where there have
been recent outbreaks of violence. In each place, twenty-four respected
citizens will be chosen to act as guarantors for the safety of the Jews in
their community. I will also"
Benedict could keep silent no longer. "Why?" he blurted out, too amazed for
discretion. "Why are you doing this?"
"You Jews contribute to the royal coffers, do you not? As your father himself
pointed out in this very chamber, Jewish revenues are important to the
Exchequer. Now that the economy of the realm is my concern, naturally I want
to restore order as quickly as possible."
It was a blunt, pragmatic answer, no less straightforward than Benedict's
question, one he could accept. But it was a half-truth. Simon suddenly pushed
away from the table, got to his feet. Startled, Jacob and Benedict did, too.
"The King's powers are not absolute. The Lord God gives him a sacred trust,
and in return for the obedience and loyalty of his subjects, he must provide
protection and justiceeven unto the least of them." I am to exercise rights of
kingship on Henry's behalf, the responsibilities, too, must be mine. It
becomes a debt of honor owed to all of Henry subjects." s
Jacob was speechless. He well knew that the chivalric code more fable than
fact, as honored in the breach as in the observan ^ Moreover, it was an ethics
system for the aristocracy. Thus a *** y could rape a peasant girl or cheat a
serf, and feel no shame, K>*    jj were not covered by the tenets of chivalry.
But Simon de Mon«°
467
his own version of their code. If his could include the weak and needy, could
it not in time come to include the Jews, too? Jacob tried to hold his hopes in
check, before they ran away with him altogether. At least, this was a
beginning, a blessed beginning.
"I thank you, my lord," he said. "Your protection will enable my people to
pick up the broken threads of their lives, to put some of the horror behind
them."
Simon frowned, but Jacob knew why; no Christian crusader could be truly
comfortable, cast as a defender of infidels. "We are in agreement, then,"
Simon said tersely. "If you"
The door opened with enough force to startle them all. Jacob and Benedict
tensed at sight of Guy de Montfort. There were some men who had only to walk
into a room to cause others to scent danger; Guy had impressed both Jacob and
Benedict as such a one. Now, however, he barely glanced their way. "I've been
scouring the city for you, Papa. There is a repentant sinner here, in need of
absolution!" He laughed, and shoving the door back, with a nice flair for the
dramatic, he revealed his brother.
Bran grinned self-consciously, but whatever he might have said was lost in the
turmoil. Harry whooped, vaulted across the table to embrace their lost sheep.
Simon, too, was hastening forward, with Peter only a step behind.
A son's homecoming was a private moment, not to be shared with strangers.
Jacob and Benedict offered polite excuses, eliciting from Simon only the
vaguest of responses in return; he was smiling at his secondborn, all else
forgotten.
"Come, I'll see you out," Fitz Thomas said; he, too, felt out of place in a
family circle so tightly drawn. The laughter of the de Montforts followed them
as they entered the stairwell, cut off suddenly by the dosing door. So dark
was it that Fitz Thomas was only a sensed presence, a cheerful voice. "When
you speak to the other Jews," he said, "I'll go with you." He brushed aside
Jacob's thanks as if his gesture were of no foment; he sounded as if he was
smiling. "You'll not regret it, Master Jacob. If there is one man in
Christendom who can be trusted with no 'nervations, Earl Simon is that man."
Jacob, still caught up in his visionary dreams of a new England, urmured
agreement. Benedict said nothing, but his silence challenged,
Fitz Thomas reached out unerringly in the dark, touched his arm. °" can trust
him, lad," he said. "You'll see."
^      Was an eerie conversation, disembodied voices in a black void.
tl^       f would later remember and marvel, both at the oddness and
nguarded honesty of his answer. "I cannot trust him," he con-
468
T
469
fessed, "however much I might want to. Butbut I think I do trust y0u And if
you have such faith in him, well . . . mayhap that is enough "
AS word spread that Simon was at the Tower, he found himself besiege(j by
petitioners: aldermen eager to curry favor; relatives frantic for word of
missing loved ones; friends of John de Gisors, seeking pardon for the elderly
merchant. Simon's sons soon found excuses to disappear; even Peter defected,
only Fitz Thomas holding fast till the end. It was very late by the time Simon
finally left the Tower, and almost midnight when he reached Durham House.
Dismissing his escort, he entered the great hall. It was dark, silent, the
household asleep. To Simon's surprise, though, Bran was waiting up for him.
"Where have you been, Papa? We expected you back hours ago!" "I had trouble
making my escape, But I'd have thought you'd be out celebrating with your
brothers." Simon paused, gave his son a quizzical smile. "Why," he asked, "are
we whispering like this?"
Bran quickly gestured for silence. "So we do not wake Mama." "Since Kenilworth
is nigh on ninety Here? Where? My bedchamber?"
Bran grinned, beckoned Simon toward the hearth. Simon stood for a moment by
the settle, gazing down at his sleeping wife. When he glanced up at his son,
Bran shrugged.
"I could not tell you, Papa. She swore me to silence, for she was bound and
determined to surprise you. I tried to convince her she ought to wait, but she
wanted to come to London straightaway, and you know Mama once she makes up her
mind! You'd best be forewarned, though. She's right vexed with you, for she
had a special supper planned."
He raised his candle, revealing to Simon the elaborate table setting: silver
candlesticks and polished plate and scarlet roses on a linen tablecloth as
immaculate as new snow. Looking back at Nell, Simon saw that she had taken
equal pains with her appearance. Sometime during her long, frustrating vigil,
she'd discarded her veil and wimple, but her gown was a vivid shade of
turquoise silk, and she wore at her throat the pearls he had bought for her in
Paris. Leaning over, he caught a seductive hint of jasmine. She sighed and her
lashes fluttered as he lifted her in his arms, but she didn't wake, pillowing
her head on his shoulder as if she were asleep in her own bed.
Nell had not neglected their bedchamber. Strategically placed candles gave off
muted, flickering light, and the air was perfumed with her favorite sandalwood
incense; she'd put out wine and wafers, even scattered rose petals over the
turned-back sheets. She murmured wordlessly as he laid her down upon the bed,
but her breathing stayed slow, even.
j^er hair caught the candle sheen, stray wisps curling softly at her temples,
against her cheek. Simon sat beside her on the bed, content for a time just to
watch her. He was a fitful sleeper, easily roused, often vvakefui, utterly
unlike Nell, wnose sleep was usually peaceful, deep and dream-filled. Now she
looked serene, slightly disheveled, and to Simon, irresistible. He found it
impossible to believe more than twenrysix years stretched between this night
and that October eve at Odiham Castle, when he'd bedded her for the first
time. Bending over, he touched his mouth to hers. She sighed again, her lips
parting, responding with drowsy desire, not yet fully awake.
"Nell . . ."He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, and her eyes
opened, sleep-shadowed, the color of a harvest sky at twilight; he'd always
regretted that of all their children, only Harry had her eyes
"I knew," she said. "I knew you'd win. I never doubted, beloved never ..."
"Liar," he said tenderly. Her mouth clung to his, tasted of wme He slid his
hand into the bodice of her gown, and she wrapped her arms around his neck,
kissed him again, hungrily. And then she pushed suddenly against his chest,
struggled to sit up.
"Simon, where in blazes were you? You ruined my surprise, not to mention the
meal!"
He argued his case with kisses, and she was soon laughing softly "I confess,"
she said, "that I did not really race all the way from Kenilworth just to have
supper with my husband. I was hoping that I might get to sleep with the victor
of Lewes."
"I think," he said, "it can be arranged." Her breath was hot against his ear,
her hair coming loose about her shoulders. He removed the remaining pins, and
she shook it free, a cloud of gold faintly threaded with silver.
"You're still so fair," he said wonderingly. "Few men have rny luck For of all
the women in Christendom, i have the only one I want, ngnt here in my own
bed."
"Simon, it's been two full months. I thought I'd go mad, in truth No more, my
love. No more separations; I can bear anything but being apart. No more
battles; you've fought your share. Promise you'll keen me close from now on.
Promise me ..."
Once before she'd sought to bind him with such a vow. But it was different
now. He was no longer young, had indeed fought his share °f battles. "I will,"
he said, his mouth seeking hers, for in the quiet, fragrant dark of their
marriage-bed, it was an easy promise to make, ^en to believe.
34
Wallingford, England
November 1264
SIMON'S promise to his wife was as short-lived as their hopes for peace. By
July, the army of Flemish mercenaries hired by Henry's Queen and John Mansel
was preparing to set sail from Damme. Simon issued an urgent call to arms, and
the English responded in heartening numbers, flocking from the towns and
villages to Barham Downs in Kent. As the sailors of the Cinque Ports patrolled
the Channel, Simon forbade the import of Flemish cloth and woolens, and
Flanders abruptly lost interest in harboring enemies of England's new
government. Simon's fledgling revolution benefited, too, from the notorious
caprices of the Channel weather; its treacherous tides were made even more
dangerous by high winds and heavy swells. Eleanor's invasion failed to
materialize; her fleet never sailed.
Peace remained elusive, though. Roger de Mortimer and his fellow Marchers,
nothing daunted by their defeat at Lewes, reverted to defiance as soon as they
were safely back in their own border fortresses. They refused to yield either
the royal castles in their keeping or the prisoners they'd taken at
Northampton, and in late July, Simon and the Earl of Gloucester led a punitive
expedition into the Marches. Joining forces with Llewelyn, they captured the
castles of Hereford, Hay, and Ludlow, and brought the rebels to submission in
less than a month.
When circumstances demanded a swift military strike, Simon had few peers. But
he needed, as well, the skills of a master diplomat and the patience of Job.
He could defeat his enemies, but he had little success in winning them over,
either in England or abroad.
The French King opposed on principle any limitations upon t"e God-given powers
of a king, even so incompetent a King as Henry »v he was not overtly hostile,
his disapproval tempered by his innate sen of fairness and a genuine respect
for Simon the man, whatever suspicions of Simon the reformer. Simon's most
dangerous and DJ implacable foe was to be found, not at the French court, but
in the HO See.
471
The Pope had never forgiven Henry's lords for thwarting his gran diose plans
for the kingdom of Sicily, and he'd long nurtured a grudg^ against Simon as
the most vocal and persuasive of the English King'^ critics. Now that Simon
had added rebellion to his sins, the Pope'^ enmity was unrelenting. His
legate, the Archbishop of Narbonne, or~~ dered the English to renounce the
Provisions of Oxford, and when hi^ demand was rejected, he summoned the
Bishops of London, Worcester^ and Winchester to Boulogne. In their unhappy
presence, he excom-^ municated Simon and his sons, the Earl of Gloucester,
Hugh le Des^ penser, Mayor Fitz Thomas, and many of their supporters, even
theEarl of Norfolk, whose only crime was cooperating with Simon's government.
Once back in England, however, the Bishops refused to publish the sentence of
anathema. The papal documents were shredded, cast into the sea. Raging at the
effrontery of "this pestilent man," the Archbishop of Narbonne took matters
into his own hands, formally laid England under Interdict on October 21. But
church bells continued to resound in London, Masses continued to be said
throughout the land, and the English clergy continued to support the
excommunicate Earlas if the papal damnation had never been.
FROM Dover, Edward had been moved to his uncle Richard's castle at
Wallingford, then briefly to Kenilworth. On this foggy Thursday in Martinmas
week, he was back at Wallingford. Although his confinement was more rigorous
than that of his cousin Hal, who'd been entrusted with a diplomatic mission to
the French court in September, Edward was still accorded the courtesies of
kingship, one of which was the right to receive visitors. The man escorted
that morning into Edward's chamber had been admitted without challenge, for
Ancel de Bassingbourn's cousin Humphrey was a stout supporter of Simon de
Montfort. What only Edward knew was that Ancel's loyalties lay not with
Humphrey but with Humphrey's father, Warin de Bassingbourn, one of the knights
defiantly holding out at Bristol Castle.
Ancel brought welcome news of the world beyond Wallingford. "Leicester is no
longer at Dover," he reported, "is now at Windsor with the King. The
Archbishop of Narbonne has been summoned back to Rome by the sudden death of
the Pope, and rumor has it he might well be chosen as Urban's successor. You
must," he urged, "pray to the Almighty that it should come to pass, for
Narbonne, unlike his fellow French Bishops, is no friend to de Montfort.
"My lords will be pleased to hear that de Montfort's troubles are breeding
like rabbits. In their zeal to protect the coast, the sailors of the
472
Cinque Ports have been seizing all shipping, and with imports cut off prices
are soaring; a pound of pepper that sold for sixpence now costs three whole
shillings, and wine prices have more than doubled. But strange to say, the
shortages have not yet soured the common people on de Montfort's outlaw
government. Some of them," Ancel admitted, "are even wearing garments of white
wool instead of cloth brightly dyed in Flanders, flaunting the plain English
homespun as proof of their unity, their unshaken adherence to their 'common
enterprise.' "
Ancel paused to gulp down some wine before volunteering that Simon's second
son, Bran, had been besieging Pevensey Castle since September, to no avail.
"He has managed, though, to mortally offend the Earl of Gloucester, admittedly
no great feat! But the bad blood betwixt Gloucester and the young de Montforts
has now spilled over to Gloucester's brother torn; a one-time friend of my
lord, no?" Edward nodded thoughtfully, and gestured for Ancel to continue.
This he did with relish, relating several public brawls between Gloucester and
one or another of Simon's sons. "They do," he concluded gleefully, "but rub
salt into a raw wound, for he's already greensick with jealousy. He never was
one for hiding his feelings, and only a blind man could fail to see the rancor
he harbors toward de Montfort."
Edward nodded again. "That was inevitable. Three electors Gloucester, the
Bishop of Chichester, and de Montfort, all equalin a pig's eye! Chichester is
a saintly soul who thinks Simon can verily walk on water. And Gloucester could
no more outwit Simon than he could sprout wings. That so-called trinity of
theirs does but mask the truth that Simon de Montfort rules England at his
pleasure."
"I doubt he gets much pleasure from it these days, my lord. Gloucester's envy
and de Montfort's arrogance make for a right queasy mix! You do know of the
honors de Montfort has bestowed upon his sons? He entrusted the custody of
Dover Castle and the Cinque Ports to Harry, named him warden of Kent, and Bran
warden of Sussex and Surrey. And when Gloucester complained, de Montfort
brushed his objections aside. In truth, my lord, they make most peculiar
bedfellows! Gloucester is one who wants tender handling, yet de Montfort is
the least likely man to indulge him. After Gloucester insisted he had the
right of ransom over your uncle, the King of the Romans, a claim de Montfort
rejected out of hand, he was later heard to say that dealing with Gloucester
was verily like stroking a hedgehog!"
Ancel grinned at that; so did Edward. But Hal was indignant. "It was agreed
there were to be no ransoms levied. Gloucester always was a grasping bastard.
Is it not enough for him that he's gotten the lands of our de Lusignan uncle
and Peter de Savoy? And that in addition to the bulk of the de Warenne
estates!"
473
Edward shrugged; he had more important matters on his mind than Gloucester's
greed. "What of the Londoners, Ancel? Did they reelect that misbegotten Mayor
of theirs?"
Ancel nodded, bracing for a bitter outburst, for he knew how much Edward
detested Fitz Thomas. When it didn't come, he could not hide his surprise.
"You seem so ... so composed, my lord. I must confess that I'd expected to
find you pacing and raging like a caged lion!"
Edward's smile was thin, mirthless. "For once I can afford to be patient,
Ancel. For all the courtesy and deference shown my father, he remains a
captive King, Simon's puppet monarch, and that is not a sight to give men
comfort. Gloucester will not long be alone in suspecting Simon's intent, for
he is exercising a king's authority, without a king's right. He cannot
legitimize his powerbut he dare not relinquish it, either. And each day that
passes only deepens his dilemma. Time is my ally, his enemy."
This was the moment Ancel had been awaiting. "More than you know, my lord."
Hal didn't comprehend, but Edward did. He leaned forward, suddenly tense,
expectant. "When?"
Ancel smiled. "On the morrow," he said, "at dawn."
EDWARD was beginning to regret having confided in his uncle. He wanted to
savor the excitement of their impending rescue, but Richard was too inherently
cautious, too conservative to relish risk-taking. For the past quarter-hour,
he had been conscientiously pointing out all the ways such an escape attempt
could go wrong.
Aware that he was losing his audienceHal had wandered to the window and
Edward's eyes were glazing overRichard drew a sharp, aggrieved breath. "I
think you ought to pay heed to what I say. Who knows Wallingford's defenses
better than I? It will not be easy to take. And if the assault fails, have you
considered the consequences? Ours is a right comfortable confinement, Edward,
for which we can thank my sister. There are those of Simon's supporters who
would see us more closely held, but Nell has argued against it, and Simon has
so far heeded her. Not a week goes by that she does not send us sweetmeats,
fresh venison, wine. How many men have so gentle a gaoler, lad? My sister
loves us well, but if you force her to choose between us and de Montfort,
We'll be the ones to regret it. She's still besotted with the man, even after
twenty-odd years, and worse, he's managed to infect her with his Political
heresies ..."
Edward was no longer even making a pretense of listening. He rose, ^allowing a
yawn, as Hal swung away from the window in sudden
474
*
panic. "JeJesus God," he stuttered, "we've been betrayed! Guy (je Montfort
just rode into the inner bailey!"
Edward's nerves were steadier; after a daunting second or so, he shook his
head. "How could Guy know? It's mere chance that brought him here, and glad I
am of it!"
"Glad?" Hal looked so dumbfounded that Edward began to laugh
"Yes, by God, glad! Use your head, Hal. If Guy is killed in the assault, small
loss. But if he survives, he'll make a right valuable hostage."
Hal was easy to reassure; wanting to believe was always enough for him.
Richard remained skeptical, but Edward had ample confidence for them all, and
he awaited the coming of day with edgy anticipation.
ANCEL'S cousin, Warin de Bassingbourn, had undertaken, at the Queen's urging,
to rescue her son. Making a daring dash from Bristol Castle to Wallingford, he
began his assault just before dawn on the second Friday in November, and
before the surprised garrison could rally to the defense, he and his men
managed to breach the outer curtain wall, to take possession of the outer
bailey.
As the first sounds of combat reached the castle keep, Edward unshuttered the
window of the chamber he shared with Hal, tied a strip of scarlet cloth to the
latch. The sun had not yet burned away the autumn haze drifting off the
Thames, and men running across the bailey disappeared into sudden patches of
billowing, ghostly mist. Wallingford's mangonels were now being manned,
sending huge rocks over the walls, blind assaults followed sometimes by
silence, sometimes by muffled screams. Edward could see the defenders crouched
on the wall walkway, loosing arrows and curses at random into the fog. When a
de Montfort knight took an incoming arrow in the throat, toppled backward into
the inner moat, he felt a surge of savage elation; a pity it wasn't Guy!
Soon after the attack began, harried, grim-faced guards flung open the door of
their chamber, ushered in Richard and his younger son, Edmund. They joined
Edward and Hal at the window, riveted by the chaotic activity below in the
bailey. Each time one of the castle defenders fell, Edward and his cousins
cheered lustily. Even Richard, knowing as he did that a deep, double moat and
curtain wall still stood between them and their rescuers, found himself,
nonetheless, getting caught up in the excitement.
There was a sudden lull, and then a man's voice echoed over the wall. "I have
a message for your castellan! Tell him that Sir Warin de Bassingbourn demands
that he send out to us the Lord Edward and his
475
royal kinsmen. Should you be foolish enough to refuse, we'll show no mercy
when we take the castle, will put all within to the sword."
Edward and Hal pounded each other on the back, traded playful punches,
intoxicated by the ease of their victory. Edward was vowing to find a barony
for de Bassingbourn when the door was once more thrust open. "Not the others,
my lord, just you," the captain said brusquely, and Edward paused in the
doorway, looking back with a rakish grin. "Whilst I'm gone," he quipped,
"start packing," and moved jauntily into the stairwell, to the accompaniment
of his cousins' laughter.
He was not surprised to be taken up to the roof battlements; what better post
for overseeing the castle defenses? Simon had entrusted Wallingford to Richard
de Havering, a phlegmatic, colorless individual who had, nonetheless, managed
to antagonize Edward, so unwavering was his loyalty to Simon and the
Provisions. He and Guy were leaning over the embrasure, gesturing down into
the bailey. They turned at Edward's approach, and de Havering said stolidly,
"We want you to tell de Bassingbourn to call off the attack."
Edward's laughter was not feigned for effect; his amusement was genuine. "And
I want a long life and God's blessings. What of it?"
De Havering remained impassive, but Guy betrayed impatience. "Show him," he
said tersely to the castellan.
"Show me what?" Following de Havering to the embrasure, Edward watched,
uncomprehending and not a little suspicious, as the castellan signaled to the
men below. They at once set about winching the mangonel beam back, loading a
large boulder. That done, they released the skein, and the beam snapped
upright, thudding into the crossbar with awesome force, catapulting the
boulder in a wide arc across the bailey. Edward's eyes locked onto its flight,
but as soon as it soared over the wall, he shrugged. "So? I've seen more
mangonels than I can count. Why should one more matter to me?"
"Ah, but this is no ordinary siege weapon." Guy's smile was sudden,
unsettling. "Unless you agree to call off the attack, we will indeed do as
your friends demand and send you out to themby way of that mangonel."
Edward prided himself upon his aplomb, but for once, words failed him; he
could only stare at Guy in disbelief. Rallyingtoo latehe mustered up a fairly
convincing burst of scorn. "You're bluffing. You'd never dare do that!"
Guy stepped closer. "You tell me, Ned," he said coolly. "Am I bluffing?"
For a long moment, Edward searched the depths of his cousin's eyes, a
chilling, fathomless sea-grey. "Damn you ..." Little more than a whisper,
throbbing with intense, impotent fury, a hatred beyond as-
476
suaging. Swinging around, he strode toward the embrasure, shouted for de
Bassingbourn. "Pull your men back if you value my life!"
THAT November trouble flared up again in the Marches. Roger de Mortimer and
Roger Clifford suddenly seized the royal castles of Gloucester and Bridgnorth.
When Simon hastily mustered a force and headed west, the Marcher lords burned
the bridges over the River Severn. But they had overlooked Simon's Welsh ally.
Llewelyn ap Gruffydd attacked from the rear, kept them hard-pressed until
Simon reached the border. Once again he triumphed; the recalcitrant barons
surrendered to him at Worcester on December 12. But after two Marcher
rebellions in three months, Simon was not disposed to be lenient. De Mortimer
and Clifford and their confederates were ordered to abjure the realm, exiled
to Ireland for a year and a day. Simon then compelled Edward to yield to him
the earldom of Chester, in exchange for twelve de Montfort manors of
cornparable value in Leicestershire. After nearly thirty years, Gwynedd and
Cheshire were once again allies, as in the days of Llewelyn Fawr.
Writs were then issued to the January parliament. Only five Earls and eighteen
barons were summoned, evidence of Simon's lack of support among the nobility.
But eleven Bishops, sixty-five Abbots, thirtysix Priors, and five Deans were
expected to attend. So, too, were two knights from each shire, andfor the
first timetwo citizens from each city and borough of the realm.
CHRISTMAS five festivities at Kenilworth were lavish enough to stir up
suspicions among Simon's detractors, ever on the alert for symptoms of regal
aspirations. But Simon was, as always, disdainfully indifferent to appearance,
and the huge, lakeside castle was soon echoing to the music of narp and
gittern and pipe, ablaze with torches and cresset lights, thronged with
Bedazzled guests, royal hostages, knights, menat-arms, and servants. The great
hall was abundantly adorned with evergreen; holly and laurel and mistletoe
"kissing bushes" dangled above doorways and window-seat alcoves, festooned
over-hanging candelabras. A mammoth yule log had been ceremoniously lit, to
burn until Epiphany. The popular Shepherds' play had been performed after a
multi-course supper, and pages now circulated with traditional Christmas
drinkselderberry and pear wine; hot possets of milk, ale, egg/ and nutmeg;
even gariofiliac, a brew of gillyflower petals and claret, which Henry was
known to favor.
Simon's minstrels were providing entertainment: haunting ballads, lively
carols, bawdy kys. But many in the hall were finding the inter-
p
477
action between the guests to be equally diverting. Henry could not conceal his
antipathy; from his seat on the dais, his eyes tracked Simon with baleful
intent. The Earl of Gloucester was also in a foul temper; he'd already
quarreled publicly with his wife, clashed briefly with Guy, and his eyes, too,
kept seeking out Simon. To some, it seemed as if a morality play was being
enacted in their midst: the sullen, captive King, the overbearing Earl, and
his discontented, unpredictable ally, all sharing a stage meant for one, with
Henry's dangerous son and the volatile young de Montforts waiting impatiently
in the wings.
Had he been aware of these sentiments, Edward might have concurred, for he did
feel like an actor, one giving a difficult performance. He was determined,
though, that none should suspect the depths of his rage; that same day, he'd
been compelled to order his Cheshire tenants to serve Simon as they'd once
served him, and he feared that Simon's ploy might well hinder further
rebellion in the Marches. His mood was not improved any as he looked about the
hall, for he soon spied a surprising face. It infuriated him that London's
Mayor and his wife should be present at these Christmas Eve revelries, but he
hid his indignation; no stranger to guile, he was learning discipline, too.
Spotting Bran by the open hearth, Edward moved to join him, motivated by sheer
mischief. Bran didn't notice his approach, so absorbed was he in his female
companion. Edward had never seen Bran so smitten, but he was not at all
surprised, for the Lady Isabella de Fortibus was an undeniable matrimonial
prize, dowager Countess of Aumale, Countess of Devon in her own right.
Moreover, this wealthy young widow had attractions quite separate and apart
from fertile lands and filled cofferssmoky dark eyes, a languidly seductive
smile, a voluptuous body.
But as tempted as he was to intrude upon his cousin's courtship, Edward
detoured sharply at sight of another familiar face. "I've been looking for
you, torn," he said, and Thomas de Clare spun around, flushing darkly. This
was the first time he'd seen Edward since family loyalties had driven him to
desert his King, his Prince, and he waited wretchedly for Edward's stinging
rebuke.
To his astonishment, Edward was smiling. "I have asked my uncle of Leicester
if I might have some companionship during my stay here at Kenilworth. We
decided upon my cousin Harry and you. Is that agreeable to you?"
"I would be honored, my lord!" Thomas was not such an innocent as to take
Edward's forgiveness at face value, but he was too relieved to worry overmuch
about ulterior motives. Beckoning to a passing servant, he was reaching for
two wine cups when a sudden clamor erupted behind them. Thomas whirled in
dismay, for he'd recognized one of
478
the angry voices as his brother's. With Edward cheerfully keeping pace, he
hastened to the rescue.
Gloucester's face was reddening rapidly. "Talking to either of you is but a
waste of breath," he charged, glaring first at Harry and then Guy. "Your
father could blaspheme against Our Lord Christ Himself and you'd still defend
him. You find fault with nothing he does, not when he usurps authority or
ignores the opinions of men of good faith, not even when he protected the Jews
and their satanic practices!"
Harry and Guy exchanged glances. They were puzzled themselves by Simon's
changed attitude toward the English Jews, for they found it hard to reconcile
with their Church's exhortations against infidels and heretics. Nothing on
God's earth could have induced either of them to admit that to Gloucester,
though, and they responded with one voice, shot through with mockery, intended
to enrage.
"It seems to me," Harry drawled, "that poor Gilbert is becoming unnaturally
obsessed with the Jews. That is all he talks about these days, Guy, rather
pitiful . . ."
"Indeed," Guy agreed, heaving a theatrical sigh of regret. "I can see the day
coming when he'll begin to blame them for failing crops, bad weather, mayhap
even wretched marriages."
Guy had enough finesse not to underscore the insult by looking toward
Gloucester's wife as he spoke, content to let Gloucester's suspicions take
root on their own. They did; Gloucester took a threatening step forward, his
right hand groping instinctively for a sword that wasn't there.
Simon was on the far side of the hall, deep in conversation with the Bishops
of Worcester and London, had not yet heard the raised voices. Nell was closer,
however, and started hastily in their direction. So did Peter de Montfort.
Thomas and Edward were converging upon them, too, albeit with differing aims.
But it was to be a child who defused the danger of confrontation.
"There you are, Guy. You promised to dance with me, remember?" Ellen suddenly
materialized between her brothers, and, as if oblivious to the tensions,
slipped her arm through Guy's. This was her first adult f£te; she smiled
demurely at her audience, then tugged impatiently on Guy's sleeve. Not in the
least taken in by her wide-eyed innocence, Guy grinned, allowed her to lead
him out to join in the carol.
Gloucester seethed, yet he could hardly have permitted his anger to spill over
onto a twelve-year-old girl. But if one target of his rage had escaped him,
that still left Harry, and he was about to renew the quarrel when Thomas and
Edward reached them.
Thomas put a placating hand on his brother's arm, while trying to invent a
plausible excuse for luring Gilbert away. It was Edward who
II
479
quite inadvertently solved his dilemma. Smiling benevolently upon them,
ignoring the strained silence, Edward blandly observed that it was a most
impressive Christmas revelry, was it not? "My uncle Simon has outdone himself,
offering us a fete worthy of a king."
But that was too heavy-handed, even for Gloucester. He gave Edward an irate
look, snapped that if Edward yearned to be a puppeteer, he'd best learn to
pull the strings with greater skill, and then stalked off, with Thomas in
concerned pursuit.
"You're losing your touch, Ned," Harry gibed, and Edward nodded ruefully. But
as his cousin started to turn away, he reached out, caught Harry's sleeve.
"Harry, wait. I have something to say. You know me, know how apologies stick
in my throat. But if I owe one to any man, it is surely due to you. I wronged
you, Harry, and I am indeed sorry."
Harry's eyes flicked to his face, then away. "But you'd do it again."
Edward hesitated. "Yes," he admitted, "probably I would."
"Leave it to you," Harry said at last, "to be honest about your hypocrisy,"
but despite the flippancy, he made no move to depart, and after some moments,
unexpectedly asked if Edward missed his wife and babe.
Eleanora had sailed for France soon after the battle of Lewes, taking with her
Edward's infant daughter, his first child. She and the baby were now residing
with Queen Eleanor at the French court. Edward nodded, and after another
silence, Harry blurted out, "She can return at any time, Ned. My father would
issue a safe-conduct tomorrow if that be your wish."
Edward's mouth softened. But then he shook his head. "Better she should stay
in France until the . . . the dust settles."
"You mean until you can figure out a way to outwit my father," Harry said, but
without rancor. "A pity, lad, that you always have to learn things the hard
way."
Edward experienced a sudden rush of emotion, regret and rage at the fates that
put him so at odds with this cousin, of all men. "If only" he began, and then
caught himself. "Tell me, Harry . . . the truth now. Would Guy really have
launched me from that accursed mangonel?"
"Only Guy can answer that. But you were probably wise not to have wagered your
life on my brother's good will. He likes you not," Harry said dryly, and
Edward grinned.
"I assure you there's no love lost on my part, either. But enough °'Guy. What
say you we seek out Bran, bedevil him and his lady love?"
Laughing, they bore down upon Bran and his Countess. But their Prey was wary;
grasping Isabella's hand, Bran ducked into the privacy ot a window alcove, one
that was conveniently bedecked with mistletoe.
480
Having evaded his rambunctious kinsmen, Bran took the lady in his arms, took
full advantage of the overhanging kissing bush. But he was not as unobserved
as he thought; his retreat had caught his mother's attention.
The light was subdued where Nell stood, but it seemed to Richard that sudden
shadows hovered like moths about her mouth, under her eyes, never quite
alighting. "The prospect does not please you?" he queried, surprised. "Most
women would take joy in such a daughterin-law, both landed and lovely. I
thought, too, that Isabella was your friend."
"She is," Nell acknowledged. "She is worldly and witty, and indeed I enjoy her
company. But I suspect, Richard, that Isabella is a friend for the good times,
not the bad. Not that my qualms will matter much if she'll have Bran. That lad
of mine is not one to seek a mother's permission to go a-wooing."
Linking her arm in Richard's, Nell drew him farther into the shadows. "It may
seem presumptuous that I should dare to ask a favor of you, but"
"Nay, you have every right, Sister. I in no way blame you for my predicament.
What would you ask of me?"
"That you talk to Edward. Henry is beyond hope, but Edward is no fool. Surely
he can be made to see that Simon cares only for England's weal. The Oxford
Provisions are neither radical nor extreme, are merely the natural corollary
of the Runnymede Charter."
Richard's smile was wry. "Lass, you forget that the Runnymede Charter was
forced upon our father. Henry and Edward would gladly disavow it if they
could, so that argument will find little favor with our nephew."
"But he must be won over, Richard! Not even Simon can spur a hobbled stallion
forward, and that is the state of the government as long as Henry and Edward
remain obdurate."
"Nell, I honestly would help if I could. I agree that the Provisions in and of
themselves are not so objectionable. In the same way, I can see Simon's logic
in permitting the towns to participate in parliament. More than most lords, I
appreciate the importance of commerce in the scheme of things; much of my
income derives from trade, after all. But were I King of England, I daresay
I'd have a different outlook. No king would willingly acquiesce in the
lessening of his authority."
"Mayhap not, but a king ought to be far-sighted enough to realize that if
reforms are inevitable, better he be the one to carry them out.
Neither Nell nor Richard had heard Simon's footsteps. He smiled at Nell, then
finished the thought. "You'd be doing us all, including Edward, a service if
you could convince him of that, Richard. I suspect
481
he's laboring under a dangerous delusion, that if only I were to be stricken
down by the Almighty or mayhap the Marcher lords, all would be well. Tell him
for me it's not so. The seeds have already been sown, and I need not be the
one to harvest the crop. Tell him that, Richard."
"He's not likely to heed me."
"A pity," Simon said laconically, then held out his hand to his wife. "It's
nigh on midnight, but we've time for one more dance ere the Mass begins."
Nell entwined her fingers in his, followed him out onto the floor. In vain,
the Church fulminated against the carol as sinful; it remained the most
popular of dances, as much a pleasure for spectators as for the participants.
The dancers swung to the left, chanting the chorus: "Pride is out, and pride
is in, and pride is the root of every sin." Colors swirled like bright banners
as they circled, a kaleidoscope of vivid, ever-shifting images illuminated by
the swaying, overhead candelabras. Richard watched as Simon and Nell passed
from light to shadow, back to light again, and it came to him that the
spinning circle of the carol bore an uncanny resemblance to Fortune's Wheel.
It was, for Richard, an usually fanciful thought; he shrugged it off, and then
noticed that, across the hall, Edward, too, was watching the dancers, watching
Simon all the while.
35
Oainam, Engflana
March 1265
OIMON'S parliament was in session from January until mid-March. Its major
accomplishment was the formal recognition of peace terms, but the moment men
would most remember was the bitter, public clash between Simon and the Earl of
Gloucester.
Gloucester's grievances were numerous. He was outraged that Simon had
forbidden an upcoming tournament at Dunstable, for he had been fiager to face
Simon's sons across the length of a lance. He was resentful °f Simon's
unilateral decision to appoint his son Amaury as treasurer
482
of York, that post having become vacant by the January death of John Mansel.
He was still vexed that Simon had spurned his demand for ransoms, and he was
alarmed by the arrest of the Earl of Derby. Derby had been plundering his
neighbors, taking advantage of the country's civil strife to indulge in
outright extortion and robbery, and few pitied his plight. Yet when Simon cast
him into the Tower of London, Derby's fellow barons were genuinely shocked.
While a lord might expect to pay for political transgressions, it was unheard
of to punish one for criminal offenses, and by imprisoning Derby, Simon seemed
to be setting a dangerous precedent. But above all, Gloucester begrudged Simon
his supremacy, castigating the French-born Earl as "an alien interloper who
deprives Englishmen of their due rights and keeps England's King in
servitude."
Simon's response was predictable: withering sarcasm that evoked laughter
throughout Westminster's great hall. He had a grievance, too, for Gloucester
was harboring the Marcher lords, in defiance of his own government's expulsion
edict. Gloucester struck back with the hyperbolic rage of one in an untenable
legal position; unable to offer a valid defense for sheltering men ordered to
abjure the realm, he chose, instead, to withdraw to his estates in the
Marches.
Parliament then took up the question of Edward's continuing captivity, and it
was agreed that he should be freed in return for his solemn oath to adhere to
the peace terms. No one, least of all Edward, expected this freedom to be more
than an illusion. But although still under Simon's surveillance, he did gain a
small measure of autonomy, and Edward was not about to scorn any advantage,
however slight. Like many in England in that spring of 1265, the King's son
was playing a waiting game.
NELL was exhausted, for the normal routine of Odiham had been thrown into
turmoil. Just two days ago, Harry, Edward, and Hal had arrived, accompanied by
a sizable escort, and that very afternoon Simon had ridden in with an even
larger retinue. As delighted as Nell was to see her husband, she knew Odiham's
larders would be hard-pressed to accommodate these new arrivals. The stables
now held three hundred thirty-four horses, instead of the usual forty-four.
And the men would be no less hungry than their mounts. Nell's cooks normally
baked one hundred thirty loaves of bread a day; by dark this Thursday eve,
more than eight hundred loaves had been devoured, and consumption of wine
soared from ten to seventy-four gallons. Simon had missed dinner, and supper
was, in consequence, an elaborate affair, as Nell's cooks
T
483
bo&d to produce a tempting Lenten menu: seventeen hundred herjpgs alone, so
much pike and mackerel that Odiham's fish ponds would ^n be emptied. On the
morrow she'd have to send some of her ser.flts to fish the stews at
neighboring manors.
Supper may have been a culinary triumph, but it had not been a festive
occasion, even though all the de Montforts were gathered under one roof; Bran
alone was missing, off besieging Pevensey Castle again. family reunion
notwithstanding, the tension at the table had been thick enough to slice and
serve up on trenchers. Harry and Guy were sulking; the/d been as hot as
Gloucester to hold that Dunstable tournament, and they resented their father's
interference, agreeing among themselves tnat he too often treated them like
green striplings with no sense. Edward was also in a surly temper; his leash
was proving to have less slack than he'd hoped. Thomas de Clare was obviously
ill at ease, caught off balance by his brother's latest tantrum. Even the
younger de MontfortsAmaury, Richard, and Ellenwere unusually subdued, ever a
barometer for their father's moods. Simon had been withdrawn and silent
throughout the meal, distracted by thoughts that seemed none too pleasant;
moreover, he looked so tired that Nell's heart ached for him.
Nell's ladies, Christiana and Hawisa, had assisted her in undressing, then
discreetly disappeared, leaving her alone to wait for her husband. But Simon
had lingered in the hall, giving Hal additional instructions; their nephew was
to be dispatched again as an emissary to the French court, in consequence of
which he alone had been in cheerful spirits that night. Nell was drifting
drowsily toward sleep when she finally heard Simon's footsteps on the stairs,
a low murmur of voices. Reaching for the bed hangings, she was surprised to
find that Simon was accompanied not by a squire, but by Colin, their farrier.
Simon crossed to the table, searched for pen and parchment as the blacksmith
watched anxiously, twisting his cap in huge, hammer-scarred hands. "There you
are, Colin," Simon said. "I've written: 'Let it be known, lest sinister
suspicions arise hereafter, that the right ear of Colin the farrier of Odiham,
son of Elias the farrier, was torn off in an alehouse brawl.' Keep it in a
pouch around your neck, and show it the next time someone thinks you might be
a runaway serf or a maimed felon." He waited until Colin backed out,
stammering his thanks, then sank down in the nearest chair.
Nell grabbed for her bedrobe. "Could that not have waited till the Borrow?"
she chided. "And where are your squires? You look halfJsleep on your feet."
"I sent the lads off to bed. No, stay there, Nell; you'll catch cold."
Nell ignored him, swung her legs over the side of the bed. "It could
484
not be any more chilled up here than it was down in the hall tonight I've
rarely seen Edward so sullen. Is he still brooding about the cancellation of
the Dunstable tournament?"
"I daresay our idiot sons are," Simon said, so acidly that Nell's eyes opened
wide. "But I expect Edward has weightier matters on his mind' last week he had
to surrender six royal castles. They were too strategic to leave in
untrustworthy hands: Dover for certes, Nottingham, Corfe amongst others. We
had Henry turn them over to Edward, and he then yielded them to our control
for a period of five years. It was all I could think to do, Nell, that would
safeguard the government whilst still preserving Edward's titles and rights to
them. But I cannot blame Edward for being disgruntled about it."
Nell leaned over his chair, began to massage his neck and shoulders. "I want
to ask you about an unlikely story Harry told me, that when Mayor Fitz Thomas
swore fealty to Henry, he dared to lecture Henry about a king's duties! Did
that truly happen, or was I taken in by another of Harry's infernal jests?"
Simon's sudden grin belied his fatigue. "No, by God, Fitz Thomas did indeed do
that. After pledging his fealty to Henry, he added, 'My liege, so long as unto
us you will be a good lord and King, we will be faithful unto you.' The way
Henry choked, I thought he was going to swallow his tongue!"
"Where does Fitz Thomas find his courage?" Nell marveled. "So meek and mild he
looksuntil he opens his mouth!" Leaning over still farther, she kissed his
cheek. "Simon, I've seen drawn bowstrings less taut than you are. For pity's
sake, love, come to bed."
He nodded, got stiffly to his feet, and began to extinguish the candles; it
was the first time in many months that she'd seen him limp. She shed her robe,
climbed, shivering, into bed, and rolled over to make room for him. "I hate
sleeping alone," she confessed. "The bed feels so empty when ..." She paused,
frowning, for as her fingers slid along his chest, they'd encountered a patch
of chafed skin. "Simon, why did you not tell me you had a rash? I've some
orris root salve in my coffer"
"You need not bother," he said, and when she would have risen, he reached up,
caught her arm. "Nell, let it lie."
He expected her to argue. Instead, she grasped the sheet, jerked it back. He
might have quenched all the candles, but the hearth fire stw burned. Her eyes
moved slowly, searchingly, over his body. His en hair was soft and springy,
easy to entwine around her fingers, tain y shadowed with silver as it slanted
down toward his groin. Her ""8* hovered, from habit, above his ribs, where an
old scar traced a sw jagged passing. But she saw only the telltale red
blotches.
v\
^ in-
485
"I'd wondered why you suddenly wanted to undress in the dar\ she said. "You
did not want me to know you were wearing a hair shin He confirmed her
suspicion with silence, anci she bent down, imj\\\ sively put her lips to the
abraded, scraped skin. "But Simon, wny? V \ have God's favor, need not offer
proof of your faith. Wearing a M shirt is a gesture of truly admirable piety,
but it is also a penance, ^ beloved, you have nothing to atone for!" 0
"I am not so sure of that, Nell, not any more. I no longer kn i| what the
Almighty wants of me, fear that I am failing Him. In tru! \ much of the time I
feel like a man clinging to a rope that's dangling o\l a sheer cliff. I can
neither go up nor down, can only hope to hold out
"I've never heard you sound so disheartened. Is it Gloucester? Sut\ \\ you do
not think his envy would spur him to out-and-out rebellions
"No," he said, without hesitation. "He truly does believe in ^\ Provisions, in
the need for reform. No matter how much he hates r\ how could he betray his
own conscience? He'll not abandon the P visions, but it will not be easy to
coax him back into the fold. I sometin think he's more trouble as an ally than
he -would be as an avow   ! enemy!"
He slid his arm around Nell's waist, dre-*v her into an embr, comforting in
its very familiarity. Pillowing her head in the crook of | arm, she was silent
for a time. "Simon . . . why are you still so an; with our lads? I grant you
that their idea of a tournament was shi' lunacy. Ere it was over, blood would
have been flowing in earnest. 1\ I'm sure they did not think"
"Ah, Nell, it is not just the tournament. They never seem to consi^ the
consequences of what they do. They bait Gloucester at every chan > race
blindly ahead, churning up great clouds of dust and giving nar, thought for
what lies around the next bend in the road. Did you kni that men now call
Harry 'the wool merchant'? When I entrusted h, with enforcing the prohibition
against exporting wool, he took the chai too much to heart, auctioned off the
wool he seized and kept the pi1 ceeds. He meant well, used the money to pay
his men-at-arms, but ( ought to have seen the folly of it. And Bran has been
even more reckle; As soon as I appointed him as Constable of Portchester, he
set his saih ( to patrolling the coast, where they were soon preying upon
Cham shipping I had to intervene personally on behalf of a Bayonne mercha^
Order Bran to release his ship!" \ i
"The young make mistakes, Simon. You're right, of course; th, '' *ase after
danger the way they do whores, and at times they can 1( foolhardy beyond
belief. But they are good lads at heart, and they lol you well, as few fathers
are ever loved." \\,
'I know," he said "I know, too, that much of the blame is mir\ |J
\
486
If I had reined them in as I ought, if I'd not turned such a blind eye to
their hell-raising, mayhap they'd not now be balking at the first prick of the
spurs."
"You're overly tired," she said. "Thaf s why you're so dispirited. But this,
too, shall pass, my love. You'll be able to smooth Gloucester's ruffled
feathers, and"
"And then what?" he asked, and there was something chilling in the very
quietness of the question. "I patch up an uneasy peace with Gloucester,
succeed in exiling the Marcher lords, and mayhap even manage to bring our sons
to their senses. Yet nothing will have truly changed. How long can I hold
Henry hostage? How long ere Edward breaks loose? We'd best face it, Nell. I'm
fighting a war that cannot be won."
"That's not so, Simon! Once Edward can be made to see the need for the
Provisions"
"That would take nothing less than a miracle."
Nell was not put off by his sarcasm. "I've been told that God is good at
miracles," she shot back, and coaxed from her husband a reluctant smile. She
was not surprised that he'd failed to mention the most obvious option open to
him. If he'd truly despaired of winning, why not withdraw to France? Other men
would; she knew that. But she knew) too, that he could not, knew he'd see
flight as a betrayal of those who'd come to believe in him, who'd made his
cause their own.
"Simon, there is a question I must ask of you. Have you lost faith in the
Provisions, in"
"Jesu, no!"
"One more question, then. If you had it to do over again, would you still have
sailed from France last spring?"
"I've thought on thatlong and hardand each time the conclusion is the same.
I'd do it no differently. If it be God's Will that the Provisions prevailand I
do believe thathow could I refuse to fight for them?"
"Then, my love, you've no reason to despair. You've done what you had to do,
have no cause for regrets. Our Lord may test you, but this I do knowHe would
never forsake you, never!"
"Nor would you, my heart," he said, and although his face was in shadow, she
knew he was smiling. "Of all the manifold mercies that the Almighty has seen
fit to bestow upon me, I am most grateful for you. You've done me a great
service tonight, for you've made me see that I was in danger of doubting the
Lord's intent. The answer is so simple, Nell; Thy Will be done."
Nell's relief was beyond expressing, so thankful was she that she had found
balm for her husband's troubled spirit. "Thy Will be done/
T
487
sjie echoed gratefully, and would have sworn that she meant every word Of that
softly breathed prayer. But such was her faith in Simon that it plated her
faith in God; unable to conceive of defeat, she never doubted (j,at the Lord,
too, willed Simon to win, and falling asleep in Simon's
30ns, she did not dread the morrow, so secure was she in the strength of her
yesterdays.
SIMON parted from Nell on April 2; in the company of his sons, Henry, and
Edward, he reached Gloucester at the end of April, soon moved on to Hereford,
where he learned that William de Lusignan and John de VVarenne had landed in
South Wales. But he was able to "patch up a peace" with the Earl of
Gloucester. On May 12, the young Earl came to Hereford, renewed his homage to
Henry, and on the 20th, a proclamation was issued, declaring that the Earls of
Leicester and Gloucester were now "of one mind and harmonious in everything."
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, Changing 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 Verted the meadow, the scene was as
raucous and rowdy as any fair ' ^arket-day gathering.
Thomas drew rein, watching as Harry's lathered roan nosed out a ^8y gelding
Edward had coaxed from Rob de Ros's squire. Harry was
488
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 bro\v 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, torn," 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 cornprehend 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, then pursuers were only a few
lengths behind. But there they hung, unaWe to close the gap.
"Do not be a fool, Ned! You cannot hope to escape!"
489
Edward looked over his shoulder "What'll you wager, Harry7 That heaving,
staggering nag you're riding7"
Thomas risked a backward glance, saw that the roan stallion was jndeed
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 wasfor onceas good as his word As they raced through the
hamlet of Tillmgton, 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, no1 You're not wearing mail'"
"We did it, Ned1" Turning to share his wonder, Thomas was hornfied 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 bnstled, 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 know7" he asked, very low, and Peter nodded
"His rage must have been terrible," Rob de Ros ventured, almost "taudibly 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 ni that I've never seen
before Not only did he not seem outraged, I k> not even think he was
surprised'"
Harry flinched "I have to see him," he said, and Rob gave him a '°ok of awed
admiration, for Simon de Montfort was the last man on Cod'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 Boulders, then reached for the latch
Twilight had descended upon the vale of the Wye, blurring and
490
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 onlyto
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 patiencealways perversecame 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. May* hap 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
f
491
ashed arm, he said quietly, "Do not torment yourself so, lad. I defeated
cj^rard once before, did I not? God willing, I expect to win this next t*ttle,
too."
too.
36
Pipton, Wales
June 1265
"T
X'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 tetter
springs."
"I have had one setback after another," Simon admitted. "After Edward escaped,
I summoned our levies to assemble at Worcester. But friward cut them off, took
the town a fortnight ago. They've burned all 'hebridges across the Severn,
destroyed the fords. I'd dispatched Robert
* Ros to hold Gloucester Castle, but Edward has had it under siege
* six days now, and if the castle falls, we'll be stranded on the wrong "de of
the Severn, unable to get back into England, to join forces with ^ son Bran."
. Llewelyn had his share of spies and superior scouts; most of what ""on had
said was already known to him. He was very impressed,
^Oll§h, by Simon's candor. His past experience had taught him that 'n
invariably sought to put a high gloss upon the nakedness of their
;. Favors were usually solicited in the oblique language of dis"ktion, appeals
made by indirection, rarely broached so boldly.
492
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 j^ 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 crosslegged 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 Welshmenfive 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 g°v' ernment."
493
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, 'hat 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 'isk 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 tongue-
494
tied Henry; he never had a chance!" Setting down his wine cup suggested,
"Shall we join the others in the hall? My Welsh allies' be chafing at the
bit." ^
Simon had not really expected to prevail. "There is sornethin want to say
first. I, too, think of you as a friend, Llewelyn. Yours the attributes I
would have looked for in a soncourage tempered h* common sense. We are already
kinsmen of sorts, for your grandfath 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 m daughter."
"No wonder you've fared so well on the battlefield. You're devil ishly 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
youthshe'll not be thirteen till OctoberNell 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 dosing 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 ® the small herb plot or splash in the fish stews.
She had four of them with her on this afternoon in early JW' Blanchette and
Sable, her mother's sleek greyhounds; Roland, her broth3 Harry's favorite
alaunt; Avalon, her own cherished briard, a New Year gift from her father. The
briard was said to be descended from an anden breed of sheep dog favored by
Charlemagne, and Ellen loved it dean;' despite her brothers' claims that it
looked like a bush with feet- '
495
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 Avalonshe was inordinately proud of the fact that Harry had
taught her to whistle like a boy, with two fingersEllen 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 nund, the Emperor Frederick's neglected
consort, dying in lonely isolation in a distant, alien land.
496
"Ellen, do you not want to know your husband's name? You shall have a crown,
for we have betrothed you to Llewelyn ap Gruffydj 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, Mamamy 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, yesfor 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 twentyninth. 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 ougW to be able to link up with Simon
within the next fortnight, mayhap sooner. Once he does, the danger is over."
Ellen nodded somberly. She liked her cousin Ned, was sorry tha
497
he'd been led astray by evil advice. She did not doubt that when the
Inevitable battlefield confrontation came, her father would prevail. But jpen
would die, die for naught. "It's so sad, Mama," she said, "so
sad
JJIGHT had fallen over Newport, but the darkness was flame-lit. Out in the
harbor, the last of Simon's Bristol ships were burning down toward the
water-line, and wind-driven cinders swirled high above the castle, blown from
the smoldering bridge that had spanned the River Usk.
Simon stood on the castle walkway, watching as the harbor fires were quenched,
one by one, by the black icy waters of the Severn estuary. So much had
happened so fast that he'd lost all sense of time; it seemed like days instead
of hours since the Bristol transport ships had appeared on the horizon, their
long-delayed deliverance. But as they approached the harbor, disaster struck.
They were intercepted by three fast-moving galleys, lurking in ambush for the
clumsy flatboats, from their mastheads flaunting the banners of the King's
son. As Simon and his men watched in horror from the shore, Edward's galleys
swooped down upon the Bristol ships like hawks upon pigeons. The fight was
brief, savage, and one-sided. By the time it was over, eleven of the Bristol
ships were afire, and as they floundered, began to sink, they dragged down
with them Simon's last hope for crossing the Severn.
And worse was to follow. While Simon's men were mesmerized by the catastrophe
taking place out in the harbor, a large enemy force was landing upriver. They
were almost upon the town before Simon's sentries sounded the alarm. Soon two
battles were being fought, one on the heaving decks of the Bristol ships,
another on the muddied banks of the Severn. Edward's men had the advantage of
surprise and numerical superiority; Simon's soldiers had to give ground. As
they retreated back into the town, for a time Newport's fate hung in the
balance. Simon finally managed to stave off utter defeat by setting fire to
the wooden bridge that arched over Newport's second river. He would later see
the irony in that: one river his nemesis, the other his salvation.
Unable to cross the Usk, the attacking force withdrew, and darkness ^n
concealed the ugly evidence of the day's carnage. Bodies were Mercifully
shrouded in shadows, bloodied ground camouflaged until toe morrow. Only the
fires still burned.
The wind was hot upon their skin; Simon's face stung from exposure to %ing
embers and ashes. He'd ventured himself onto the bridge, and ®& hair was
singed, so blackened by smoke and soot that he seemed to :*ve miraculously
shed decades, regained the raven hair of lost youth. ^e Was flanked by two
equally dark heads, Harry and Guy, gazing out
498
across the harbor in stunned silence. Peter and Hugh le Despenser, to were
mute. What was there to say?
"Simon!" Humphrey de Bohun was hastening along the wall wall "I did as you
ordered," he reported, in a voice hoarse with fati^ "We've posted sentries at
every approach to the town." Seized by sudden coughing fit, he spat over the
wall, leaning upon the merlo for support. "My throat feels like I've been
swilling sawdust; does any one have a wineskin? That whoreson Edward is
getting too good at this game! You think he'll move in on the morrow?"
"Yes . . . which is why we pull back tonight. What defenses does Newport
offer? No town walls, just an earthen bank and outer ditch how long ere they
breach that? We've no choice but to withdraw into the Welsh uplands. Llewelyn
controls the upper Usk valley. At least there we will be safe from pursuit."
They could take meagre comfort in that; there'd be considerable hardship in a
retreat into Wales. During this past month, they'd soon sickened on the
unfamiliar Welsh fare, yearning for bread and ale, neither of which was a
staple of the Welsh diet. But no one objected. How could they? They were
doomed if they stayed where they were, and all knew it.
Out in the harbor, the last flaming wreck disappeared beneath the waters of
the Severn. Simon turned away from the wall. "We'd best make haste," he said.
"We're running out of time." For a moment, his eyes lingered on their
smoke-smudged, haggard faces. "Jesu, the lot of you look like men on the way
to the gallows! The prospect of eating Welsh food cannot be that
disheartening, can it? I'll not deny that this day was a disaster. But
there'll be other days. By now Bran will have gotten my last summons, alerting
him to the urgency of our plight, to the need for speed. All we can do is
retreat beyond the Usk, then wait for him to reach us."
Simon paused, rubbing his hand wearily over his eyes; they were bloodshot,
smoke-sensitive, swollen from lack of sleep. "The rest," he said, "is up to
Bran."
1
37
Kenilwortn Castle, England
July 1265
OIK John d'Eyvill and his Yorkshiremen reached Kenilworth in mid-morning on
the last day of July. As they rode down High Street, past the priory of St
Mary the Virgin, toward the red sandstone walls of the de Montfort fortress,
John experienced first surprise, followed by awe, and then dismay.
He was surprised to learn that Bran had arrived at Kenilworth only yesterday,
for that meant he'd covered no more than nine miles a day, a slow pace even
for an army. He was awed by his first sight of Kenilworth. The castle was
situated at the junction of two streams, which Simon had dammed to flood the
valley. Surrounded by a vast man-made lake, said to extend more than a mile,
Kenilworth could be entered only by a fortified drawbridge at the end of a
long, walled causeway. John had never seen such formidable defenses; there was
even a sluice-gate to control the flow of water. He was impressed, too, by the
size of Bran's army; it numbered well into the thousands. John's initial
elation soon gave way to dismay, though, for this vast multitude of men was
encamped out in the open, dogging the streets of the village, spilling out of
the priory, sprawling in the sun by the lake's grassy shore.
He found Bran's command tent in a shady grove of oaks, within a stone's throw
of the lake. It was a stifling, humid day, the sky bleached white, the air
heavy and still, and his soldiers looked yearningly at that beguiling expanse
of bright blue water, churned up by hundreds of splashing, cavorting men. As
John dismounted, he heard his name called, and turned as Baldwin Wake emerged,
dripping, from the shallows. "You look half-broiled, Johnny. Why not wash off
all that trail dust?"
"First things first. Bran's summons to me was dated at Winchester on the
seventeenth, fully a fortnight ago. What took you so long to reach
Kenilworth?"
"You're a hard man to please, Johnny. If we gave you a blooded stallion, I
daresay you'd be too busy counting its teeth to say Thank you.' So we tarried
on the way; is the result not worth it?" Baldwin
500
waved an expansive arm about the crowded encampment. "With your arrival, we
have twenty banneret knights in our ranks!"
Taking a towel from his squire, he rubbed himself vigorously before tucking it
about his waist. "The response has been right heartening Johnny. In tact,
that's what slowed us down. After Winchester, Bran sought men in Oxford and
Northampton. He s been casting his nets as wide as oossible, rallying support
wherever he can find itamongst de Montfort retainers, knights of neighboring
shires, the towns, even some of Gloucester's tenants. Believe me, we've not
been idle. Bran is bound and determined that this time he'll not fail his
father; he means to bring Earl Simon an army too vast to count!"
John joined Baldwin on the grass. " 'This time'?" he echoed.
"Did you not know? Bran is in Simon's bad graces these days. Simon thought
he'd been over-zealous in seizing Channel shipping. Then there was that
trouble over the tournament; Simon was sorely vexed with Bran about that. Nor
was he pleased by Bran's lack of progress at Pevensey. He seems to think Bran
might have had greater success had he spent more time laying siege to the
castle and less time laying siege to Isabella de Fortibus!"
John grinned; Bran's friends took merciless delight in teasing him about the
coquettish yet elusive Countess of Devon. "I know Pevensey Castle is still
holding out. What about the lady?"
"Oh, she might take Bran eventuallybut not until she's sure Simon will
prevail. !n the meantime she keeps our lad on the hook, with )ust enough slack
on the line, but readv to reel him inif and when.''
This jaded prediction came from the Earl of Oxford; he'd waded ashore in time
to catch the end of their conversation. Choosing to let the sun dry him off,
he stretched out beside them ji the grass wnJe his squires retrieved his
clothes. "If we be Dallying up Bran's sins, vou'd best add Winchester to the
list. He says his father will be in a tearing rage when he hears, although"
"What happened at Winchester?"
"It's one of the few towns holding fast for the King, and we'd probably have
done better to pass it by. But we did not, and they denied us entrv."
"They did more than that," Baldwin chimed in indignantly, "They took our
messenger up onto the city walls, murdered him betcre our very eyes!"
"Jesii!" John sat bolt upright in the grass. "I trust you made them pav for
that insolence."
"Of course we did! We assaulted the town, took it with some ftelp from the
monks of St Swithun's, who let us into the priory. It was the best sort of
retribution, both swift and profitable!"
501
"And Bran thinks Simon will be angry about that? Why?" "Well . . . some of our
men plundered and burned the Jewry, too.'' To John, that was an anti-climactic
answer. "So?" "It does not make sense to me either, Johnny," Oxford confessed.
"But Bran swears that Simon will be wroth with us, what with the Jews having
been taken under the protection of the Crown. As sore beset as we've been this
summer, I'm not about to fret over some slain Jews. But Simon does put great
store by his word, and if Bran wants to make amends by bringing him twice the
men he expected, well, mayhap that's for the best. I've no more desire to face
down Simon in a fury than Bran has!"
"Few men have, Rob," John said dryly. "I'm sure Simon will be pleased by your
diligence. But in all honesty, he might well fault you for your speed. It has
been a month, has it not, since he sent Bran that summons?"
"Why should another week or two matter? You do not truly think he's in such
dangerEarl Simon?" Oxford and Baldwin laughed in unison at so preposterous a
notion. "The Earl is the best battle cornmander in Christendom; did he not
prove that at Lewes?"
John was touched by their faith in Simon; he was also chilled by it. They were
not novices to battle, but they seemed remarkably innocent to him in their
readiness to confer divinity upon Simon. He deferred to none in his admiration
for de Montfort's martial skills, but any man born of woman was vulnerable to
mischance, to errors of judgment, to the vagaries of fate. He would have told
them that, had he thought they'd heed him. He was only thirty, three years
older than Baldwin, five years senior to Bran and Oxford, not a great gap in
age. Yet he found himself marveling at their raw youth, and it occurred to him
that such eager disciples would only have reinforced Bran's deep-rooted belief
in his father's invincibility. Well, he was here now; mayhap he could instill
a sense of urgency into their enterprise.
"Whether or not there was a need for haste," he said bluntly, "there can be no
excuse for the laxness here at Kenilworth. Whatever was Bran thinking of, to
let his army encamp outside the castle walls? Look about you: men sleeping in
the sun like overfed cats, taking baths in the lake, ^ring, chaffering with
harlots. I expect to find some whores with an army, but outnumbering the
soldiers? What did you do, empty the Southwark stews? This camp is a disgrace.
All you lack is a company
°' players, complete with jesters, monkeys, and mayhap a dwarf or
two!"
"They're due in tonight," Baldwin said, straight-faced, to the ^usement of
those within earshot. "If I did not know better, I'd swear "°u were a fugitive
from a Franciscan friary! It's hot as Hades; we'd fry
502
in the castle. After eating dust for days, Bran thought our men were entitled
to a little ease, some time to scrub off the grime of the road. As for the
womenGod help the commander who'd begrudge his men a chance to spill their
seed ere the battle begins!"
"If I were planning a drunken revelry, I'd for certes invite the lot of you,"
John said coldly. "But I doubt if that is what Edward has in mind."
Oxford decided this was an opportune time to intervene. "Truce! Johnny, what
you're saying makes sense. But Baldwin is right, too; there's not room enough
for us all in the castle. And Edward is more than thirty miles away, at
Worcester. He is not about to launch an attack upon a castle like Kenilworth;
whatever his other failings, he is not crazed!"
"I can see one small flaw in that argument; you're not sheltered behind
Kenilworth's walls!"
"But how would he know that? Second sight?" Baldwin pointed out triumphantly,
and John conceded defeat. Mayhap he'd have better luck with Bran.
"Is he in his tent?" he queried, and they nodded, watching expectantly as he
stalked purposefully across the grass. Lifting the canvas flap, he ducked
inside, but a moment later, backed out hastily, redfaced. "Why did you
bastards not tell me he was with a whore?"
They were laughing too hard to answer. John was turning away in disgust when a
tousled dark head poked through the tent flap. "Johnny? I thought that was
you! We need to talk. Can you come back in a quarter hour?" The flap opened
wider, giving the men a glimpse of a flyaway mane of tawny hair, a glimpse of
skin much paler than Bran's. Quite unfazed by her nudity, the woman raised up
on tiptoe, whispered in Bran's ear. He grinned. "Make that a half hour,
Johnny," he said, and dropped the tent flap.
THEY were awaiting Edward in the Chapter House of the Benedictine priory at
Worcester. But even that vast stone cavern could not stave off the oppressive
heat, and the men were soon sweating, snapping at one another.
Thomas de Clare truly believed in the lightness of Ned's cause, but it
occurred to him that he had no liking for most of his confederates in this
quest of theirs. His eyes swept the chamber, narrowing in critical appraisal.
Few could abide William de Lusignan, save mayhap his wifeHe had no quarrel
with de Warenne, but he found the Marcher lords to be a thoroughly bad lot.
Roger de Mortimer, in particular, roused all his suspicions. De Mortimer was
half-Welsh, for his mother, the Lady
503
Gwladys, had been a daughter of Llewelyn Fawr, and Thomas wondered now if that
tainted blood could explain his savage temper, his puffedup pride. Nor did he
hold John Giffard and William de Mautravers in any great esteem. Like him,
they had fought for Simon de Montfort at Lewes, like him, had then switched
sides. Thomas saw his own defection as a return to his true loyalties; if not
for his brother, he'd never have forsworn Ned. But Giffard and de Mautravers
had been swayed by greed, by fear of losing ill-gotten gains, having fallen
out with de Montfort over a refused ransom and lands they'd unlawfully seized
after Lewes. They'd so far shown great fervor in their newfound loyalty to
Ned, but Thomas was not impressed; a converted Jew, he thought, is the first
to eat bacon, to flaunt his crucifix.
Voices rose sharply, a brief, ill-natured exchange between the Marcher de
Mortimer and the Earl of Gloucester. Thomas watched his brother warily;
Gilbert was already complaining to him about de Mortimer, with the rancor he'd
previously reserved for Simon de Montfort and his sons. It takes little to set
tempers ablaze in weather like this; if Ned does not come soon, we'll all be
at each other's throats.
Only one man present seemed at ease. Stretched out on a monk's bench, Davydd
ap Llewelyn appeared to be dozing, equally impervious to the heat and the
squabbling. God rot him, Thomas thought resentfully, why does he not sweat
like the rest of us? What a motley crew we make: a renegade Welsh Prince; a
pack of Marcher cut-throats; that French whoreson, de Lusignan; a couple of
self-serving turncoats; Gilbert, who collects grudges like a beggar collects
alms; and me, dragged alongwill I, nill Iin his wake. God help him, Ned
deserves better.
At that moment, Edward entered the chamber, trailed by a disheveled youth in a
travel-stained tunic. Edward strode toward the central pillar, came right to
the point. "I have just learned that my cousin Bran arrived at Kenilworth
Castle yesterday eve. We cannot permit him to join forces with his father. If
we leave Worcester by late afternoon, we can reach Kenilworth by dawn on the
morrow, can fall upon Bran's men whilst they still sleep."
There were murmurings at that, but no outpourings of enthusiasm. Edward knew
why; despite his impressive successes in the Severn valley, he'd yet to live
down that rash charge at Lewes. It seemed, he thought sourly, that one
headstrong act, one heedless mistake, could haunt a man till the end of his
days. The looks he was getting now were distinctly skeptical. Roger de
Mortimer, never one to tread lightly, blurted out boldly, "I see no logic in
that. Why strike at the whelp instead of the sire?"
"When you're facing two foes," Edward said coolly, "it makes more sense to
deal first with the lesser threat."
504
"But I thought the son's army is far larger than Simon's!"
"Think you that numbers alone assure victory? Did you learn nothing from
Lewes? I know my cousin well; the Brans of this world are born to be
battlefield heroes, not battle commanders. Simon is penned up in Hereford, his
supplies running low, his horses and men wasted and bone-weary after a month
in Wales, but even so, he is the dangerous one."
"It still sounds daft to me," de Mortimer protested, undaunted. "Kenilworth is
thirty-four miles from here. How could we possibly get there by dawn? That's a
seventeen- or eighteen-hour march!"
"We'll make it in less than fifteen," Edward said, and they all looked at him
as if he'd taken leave of his senses. Davydd stirred and stretched, before
favoring the English King's son with a lazily mocking smile.
"So whilst we lay siege to Kenilworth, Simon de Montfort awaits our coming at
Hereford, and dies of old age ... is that the plan?" he drawled, evoking
laughter even from avowed enemies like de Mortimer and de Lusignan. Edward
alone was not amused.
"Do you truly think me so foolish as that?" he asked, in a dangerously soft
voice, and the laughter stilled. "I agree that Kenilworth Castle could likely
hold out for years. But it so happens that we need not besiege it. You see, my
cousin Bran has obligingly encamped his men in the town." He saw their
disbelief and beckoned to the youth in the shadows. "My lords, I should like
to present my best spy."
Thus summoned, his agent stepped forward into the light. He was a thin
youngster, slightly built, too nondescript to attract notice, ideal camouflage
for one plying such a hazardous trade. He did not seem intimidated by his
highborn audience, saying composedly, "Lord Edward speaks true. I saw his
cousin's folly with my own eyes. They pitched their tents by the shore of the
lake, sent out no scouts, and posted but few guards. When I rode out of
Kenilworth, they were drinking and carousing and bathing in the lake. Never
have I seen a better opportunity for ambush."
They were at last listening intently. Davydd won his way back into Edward's
good graces by asking an eminently sensible question, one that showed how
seriously he was now taking this venture. "We know Bran means to join forces
with Simon. How do we know he'll still be at Kenilworth on the morrow? Mayhap
he'll be well along the road toward Hereford."
The young spy shook his head, revealing an unexpectedly impish smile. "God has
indeed favored us, my lords. Earl Simon's son is expecting a supply train
tomorrow. How likely is it that he'd set out ere its arrival?"
Edward's audience still looked dubious; a forced night march was
T
505
too novel a tactic for their liking. As it was done since the memory of man
runneth not to the contrary, so must it always be done. The words, sardonic,
impatient, familiar, echoed suddenly in Edward's ears, so vividly that he
almost spun around to look for Simon. "Now you know my intent," he said
abruptly. "So why, then, are we tarrying here with so much still to do? Need I
remind you that we cannot afford to squander even a single hour?"
They rose, filed out. But as Thomas passed Edward, the latter signaled for him
to stay. Soon they stood alone in the circular, vaulted splendor of the
Chapter House, Edward and Thomas and the mudsplattered would-be instrument of
Bran's downfall. "Seek out my steward," Edward said with a smile. "He'll see
that you are well rewarded." The youth knelt, turned to go. But as he reached
the door, he paused to adjust his cap, and Thomas's jaw dropped. Unable to
credit what he'd just seentwo neatly pinned-up brown braidshe gasped:
"God in Heaven, a lass!"
Edward and his accomplice exchanged amused grins. "I'd as soon you kept that
to yourself, torn. They had enough trouble trusting in the word of a green
stripling. Jesu forfend that they ever learn my spy was a wench!"
The girl departed, with the same insouciance that had enabled her to penetrate
an enemy encampment. Thomas chuckled, but as he turned back, he saw that she'd
taken Edward's good humor with her. He looked suddenly tense, somber. "So much
can go wrong, torn," he said, "so much ..."
Thomas was amazed; he'd never heard Edward admit to doubts before. "I think
your plan is inspired, Ned," he said earnestly. "I truly do."
"Inspired?" Edward smiled then, a smile so bleak, so bitter, that Thomas
caught his breath. "I am but taking a page from my godfather's book, torn. A
night march and a surprise attack worked very well for Simon at Lewes, did it
not? God willing, it will work as well for me at Kenil worth."
Thomas was silent, not knowing what to say. He'd forgotten that, just as Harry
de Montfort was King Henry's godson, so Edward was Simon's.
BRAN awoke with a start, unable to breathe. Opening his eyes, he discovered
why; he'd inhaled some of his bedmate's tangled swirl of hair. He spat it out,
sat up on the pallet. Reaching for his braies, he pulled lie drawers up over
his hips, tightening the drawstring. He didn't bother ^ith his chausses or
tunic, started to hunt for his shoes. In the midst
506
of the search, a pair of arms entwined themselves around his neck, a pair of
breasts pressed against his back. "My lord . . . ?" Yawning. "You want me
now?"
"No, it's too hot, lass." It was, too; where their skin touched, it clung,
sticky with sweat. Standing up, he fumbled for a wineskin, drank and passed it
to the girl. She was so dazzled by his good manners that she actually found
herself regretting that he did not want to couple with her again, and when he
reached for the tent flap, she could not keep from crying out:
"Where do you go, my lord?"
"I'm just going out to take a piss. It's sweltering in here; mayhap I'll take
another dip in the lake."
"Again?" She was accustomed to humoring the quirks of her customers, but never
had she encountered one so bizarre. In truth, the man was besotted with
bathing, even insisting that she take a bath herself ere he'd bed her! Were
all lords so daft about soap and water?
She looked so dumbfounded that Bran grinned. "Go back to sleep," he said, not
unkindly. Guy always swore that a man could not go wrong by treating a slut
like a lady and a lady like a slut. For certes, it seemed to work with
harlots; they were pitifully grateful for any scrap of courtesy. Mayhap he
ought to have tried it on Isabella, a thought so outrageous that he burst out
laughing.
The lake shimmered invitingly, silvered by the last glimmerings of starlight.
A welcome breeze wafted off the water, dried the sweat tackling down his
chest. Not yet dawn and already ungodly hot. Poor Johnny; the castle must be
like a veritable oven. Several of the blanket-clad forms stirred sleepily as
he passed. A few early risers were relieving themselves by the edge of the
lake. A dog's howling floated over the castle walls, cut off by a spate of
cursing, inventive enough to make Bran grin. But the cursing soon faded and
quiet once more reigned throughout their camp, lulling the dozing men back
into a deeper sleep.
Bran loved the stillness of summer, loved this tranquil, turquoise hour just
before the dawn. He quickened his pace until he reached the lake, stripped off
his braies, kicked off his shoes, and plunged in. He was a strong swimmer, a
relatively rare accomplishment, and he swam well out into the lake, sending up
diamond droplets of crystalline water in his wake. Wading back to shore, he
discovered that he'd forgotten a towel, but a freckle-faced youngster gladly
offered his. Others drifted over, their accents telling Bran that he'd
wandered into the midst of his London volunteers. He was quite willing to
linger; he liked these cheeky, cheerful, sharp-witted townsmen, so quick to
rally round in his father's time of need.
They were arguing the merits of Southwark ale-houses when the
507
dogs began to bark. A man shouted from the castle battlements; another took it
up. The Londoners would have ignored the noise had Bran not interrupted
himself in mid-sentence. "It must be your supply wagons, niy lord," the
freckled youth ventured. "Right on time, too"
"No ..." Bran sounded so strange that he drew all eyes. As they watched,
uncomprehending, one of their wineskins slipped from his fingers, spilled into
the grass. "Christ Jesus . . ." Almost a whisper, as intense as any prayer.
"God help us, we're under attack!"
They gaped at him, disbelieving. But then the screams started. Bran shouldered
them roughly aside, running for his tent. He didn't make it. An armed knight,
seeming to appear from nowhere, bore down upon him. The Londoners shouted a
futile warning, as Bran dodged a deathdealing blow from a spiked mace. But as
the stallion galloped past, it brushed him with its heaving hindquarters. He
was flung sideways, into the smoldering embers of a dying campfire. The
Londoners reached him just as he rolled clear. His face was bloodied, his eyes
dazed. "My sword ..."
"You'll never make it, my lord!" They gestured, and he saw that the camp was
already overrun with mounted knights, ripping open the sides of tents, chasing
after fleeing, naked men, trampling the slow and the clumsy underfoot. Women
were shrieking, men shouting, fire arrows spearing the sky above their heads.
Bran could no longer find the de Montfort banner; they were surrounded by the
streaming gold and scarlet lions of his cousin Ned.
"My lord, what should we do?"
The question acted as a catalyst, enabling Bran to focus his thoughts. His
head was gashed, his forearm burned, but he didn't feel the pain, not yet.
"We've got to get into the castle. There's a boat tied up in the rushes ..."
His eyes sought their only salvationa fortified sanctuary, an island citadel,
his father's castle of Kenilworth, an awesome silhouette against the
brightening sky, its massive sandstone walls blood-red in the first light of
dawn. Why had he not heeded Johnny's warning? Christ forgive him, why had he
not listened?
In less than an hour, it was over. Edward's victory was total. Some of Bran's
men managed to escape into the castle. Others fled, naked, across the fields
to safety. More died in their beds, bled to death in the debris of their own
tents. The Earl of Oxford and fifteen banneret knights were taken prisoner.
Bran's supply train was seized on the outskirts of town, and so many horses
were captured that Edward could now provide an unheard-of luxury, a mount for
every man in his army.
"We'll rest here today," Edward announced, "and return to Worcester on the
morrow."
Gloucester frowned. Their triumph had been tarnished for him upon
508
discovering that Bran had escaped. "I think we ought to lay siege to the
castle/' he said, his yearning for vengeance momentarily overcoming his common
sense. His suggestion reaped only ridicule, and for a few tense moments, it
looked as if the two greatest Marcher lords, Gloucester and Roger de Mortimer,
were about to cross swords.
Edward made haste to intervene, dispatching de Mortimer to take charge of
their highborn captives. "I understand your disappointment, Gilbert. I want to
take Kenilworth as much as you do, for not only is Bran sheltered within those
walls, so is my uncle Richard. But we could besiege the castle from now till
Judgment Day and it would avail us naught. Simon has made it well nigh
invincible. That is why we must make sure he never reaches it."
Glancing around, he beckoned to a nearby knight. "Philip, fetch me the de
Montfort banner. Get Oxford's, too, and as many others as you can find."
Gloucester grinned. "I never knew you were one for collecting trophies!"
Edward's smile was indulgent. "Not trophies," he said. "Bait."
EDWARD'S triumph at Kenilworth was such a resounding success that he dared to
hope he had at last vanquished memories of his blunder at Lewes. He had, after
all, done precisely what he'd set out to do; he'd even managed to reach
Kenilworth in an amazing fourteen hours. As they returned to Worcesterat a
more moderate paceEdward felt complacently confident that his August 1 exploit
was likely to pass into legend.
They reached Worcester very late on Sunday, the 2nd, in remarkably high
spirits for men whose war was not yet won. The shock was all the greater,
therefore. As they'd made their way back along the hilly Worcestershire roads,
Simon had seized his opportunity, and that same day ferried his army across
the Severn at Kempsey, just four miles south of Worcester.
Edward exploded in a rage spectacular even when measured against the
formidable furies of his Plantagenet forebears. Why had they not sent him word
at once? Did they think de Montfort's movements were of such little interest
to him? Did they not realize what could happen now that Simon had broken free?
London lay open to him. So did Kenilworth. Short-sighted, simple-minded fools!
No one was so rash as to dispute him; they prudently let his anger burn itself
out. When he finally stormed off in the direction of the priory cathedral, his
lords took hasty counsel among themselves, much alarmed' They could not
possibly attack de Montfort on the morrow, as Edward
Ti
509
was vowing to do. Christ on the Cross, their men had covered a staggering
sixty-eight miles in little more than two days, and fought a battle between
marches!
Listening to them hold forth upon the folly of Edward's intent, it occurred to
Thomas de Clare that not one of them was willing to confront Nednot his
brother Gilbert, not de Warenne, not the swaggering de Lusignan, not even the
fiery, reckless Roger de Mortimer. Secretly amused by their sudden
skittishness, he wondered if Ned knew that they were learning to fear him.
Caught up in this intriguing line of thought, he was taken aback, therefore,
when Gloucester said:
"So we agree, then? My brother torn is to be the one to talk to him, to make
him see reason. torn? What are you waiting for? Go after him!"
Thomas found Edward in the nave of the cathedral, standing before the marble
tomb of his grandfather. Turning at the sound of footsteps, Edward said in a
conversational tone of voice, one that held no echoes of his earlier rage,
"King John of evil fame; how often have I heard him called that! Think you,
torn, that he was as black-hearted as men say?"
"I ... I do not know," Thomas stammered, caught off balance by this sudden
shift in mood, and Edward shot him a searching look. Light from a recessed
wall torch spilled over onto the tomb, onto the brilliantly colored effigy of
a long-dead King. Edward's eyes caught the light, too; they held an amused
blue gleam.
"How did you get to be the lucky one, torn? Did they draw lots? Well, you need
not fret. You can go back and tell them that you've bedazzled me with your
nimble wit, your irrefutable logic."
"Then you'll not march on Kempsey tomorrow?" Thomas asked, much relieved when
Edward shook his head.
"How can I expect our men to fight another battle without even pausing for
breath? I knew they could not, even as I swore upon all the saints that we
would." Moving away from his grandfather's tomb, he gave Thomas a wry smile.
"I lost my head, so desperate am I to bring Simon to bay. I was afraid, torn,
afraid that he'd fade away on the morrow, slip right through our net. But to
force a fight ere we're ready would be madness. Once before, impatience was my
undoing. I'll not travel down that road again."
"So what will you do, then?"
"I've already done itput myself in Simon's place. By all accounts, they had a
rough time of it in Wales. His men sickened on the Welsh food; how many
Englishmen could long abide a diet of milk and mutton? They're bound to be
disheartened, too, for I've thwarted Simon's every move for nigh on two
months. Now he has taken advantage of my absence, succeeded in crossing the
Severn. But he well knows his danger. By now he knows, too, that Bran has
finally reached Kenilworth.
510
What he does not know is that his reinforcements are never coming. ^s urgent
as is his need to put distance between his army and mine, he' been crippled,
knows that neither his men nor his horses are capable of making a mad dash for
Kenilworth. So what does he do? What can he do but seek to make the best of a
bad bargain? He sends scouts to keep vigil on Worcester, to warn him should I
venture toward Kempsey Tomorrow he gives his army a much needed day of rest.
And at dusk he pulls out, thus escaping both the heat of the day and prying
enemy
eyes."
Edward paused. "I grant you that he could strike out for London. But I am
gambling on Kenilworth. There are two roads he can take~ and I mean to cover
them both, to cut him off ere he can reach Kenilworth and safety. torn? Why do
you look at me like that? You do not agree with my reasoning?"
"I think," Thomas said slowly, "that you have read Simon de Montfort's mind,
and it scares me somehow easily you did it. Have you any idea, Ned, just how
much this past year has changed you?"
Edward considered that in silence for several moments. "Mayhap you're right.
If so, I do owe a debt to my uncle Simon. As you know, I do not always repay
my debts. This one, though, I will repaybut in the coin of my choosing."
38
^
Evesnam, England
August 1265
WITH the coming of August, Simon's luck at
last changed for the better. Bran sent word of his long-awaited arrival at
Kenilworth, and Simon's scouts discovered an unguarded ford across the Severn.
His army crossed the river on Sunday, August 2, passed the night and the
following day at the Bishop of Worcester's manor at Kempsey. Once sunset had
flamed over the rolling Worcestershire hills, they were on the move again,
heading east under cover of night. By
511
dawn on Tuesday, they were within sight of the sweeping curve of the giver
Avon, could see the distant limestone walls of Evesham Abbey.
To Henry, Evesham rose up out of the gloom like a vision of salvation.
Spotting his nephew not far ahead, he cried out, "Harry! I need you!"
Harry's companions grimaced, for Henry had long since exhausted their reserves
of patience, and only Simon's formidable will kept his men from treating their
King with the contempt they felt he so richly deserved.
It had begun with Edward's escape. What should have heartened Henry seemed
instead to have plunged him into a bottomless pit of selfpity and despair. He
no longer made any pretense of enduring with fortitude. His complaints were
constant, vociferous, quarrelsome, and often petty: unseasoned cold food, hard
beds, blisters, saddle sores, cramps, stomach colics. Henry's forced sojourn
in Wales was an undeniably unpleasant experience for one accustomed to the
luxuries of Westminster and Windsor. But theirs was a world in which men were
expected to shrug off suffering, to make light of battle wounds and broken
bones. Henry's peevish harangues won him scant sympathy from Simon's
swaggering young knights. Their concept of kingship was, consciously or not,
cast in Simon's image, and they felt betrayed by these disillusioning glimpses
of a too-mortal monarch, one who bewailed the lack of a soft pillow and whined
about belly aches in the midst of a life-and-death struggle for England's
soul.
Harry alone seemed willing to humor his unhappy uncle, and when the others now
muttered of wet-nurses, he came good-naturedly to Henry's defense. "You're a
hard-hearted bunch of bastards, in truth. He's an old man, deserves some
pity."
"Let Papa hear you say that and you'll be the one in need of pity," Guy
warned. "Lest you forget, he's but a year younger than Henry!"
"And are you comparing the two of them? That would be like matching a
wolfhound against a lady's lap spaniel," Harry said with a grin, and checked
his stallion in answer to Henry's summons.
"Is that Evesham? We are going to stop at the abbey, are we not?" Henry asked
eagerly, and his distress was acute when Harry shook his head.
"I doubt it, Uncle. Whilst you look at Evesham and see the abbey, nvy father
will see only a potential trap. Look how the river curves around the townlike
a horseshoeand with but one bridge. Should an army come down upon Evesham from
the north, it'd be like corking a bottle." Good intentions aside, Harry was
unable to resist a small jab. "Just as it was at Lewes."
512
Henry scowled, then suddenly kicked his mount forward, taking his escort by
surprise. Alarmed, they spurred after him, but Henry Was already reining in
his stallion, having caught up with Simon.
"Harry says we'll not be stopping at the abbey. I'm telling you here and now
that I'm not going another foot beyond it. I've been in the saddle all night,
am bone-weary and half-starved."
"Alcester is but another ten miles or so. We can dine there," Simon said
dispassionately. Since taking Henry hostage, he'd invariably treated him with
icily correct courtesysubject to sovereignfalling back upon all the prescribed
formalities to distance himself from the distasteful reality of their mutual
plight: that he was in fact holding his King against his will.
"That's three more hours, mayhap even four!"
"It cannot be helped, my liege. Evesham is in too perilous a"
"Harry spouted the same nonsense, babbling about a battle cornmander not
wanting to fight with a river at his back. But I know better, Simon, for I
know you expect to meet Bran today on the Kenilworth road. So the danger is
past, for you'll then have an army twice the size of my son's. If you refuse,
it can only be because you take pleasure in taunting me, in mocking my
impotence!"
"That is not so. It was never my intent to humble your pride, and I have truly
tried to make your predicament as tolerable as I could."
"How? By dragging me into that accursed Welsh wasteland, by forcing me to make
that odious treaty with Llewelyn ap Gruffydd? You know how wretched I was in
Wales, how I sickened, but did you care? And now when all I ask is a decent
meal and a chance to hear Mass, you'd begrudge me even that meagre
consolation! How can you claim to be my liegeman when you would deny me God's
Word?"
The Bishop of Worcester was an intent witness to this tense exchange, to their
continuing war of wills. He'd finally concluded that Henry was avenging
himself the only way he could, by seeking to crack Simon's shield, to goad him
into a rage that would give the lie to his show of deference. Worcester very
much doubted that Henry would succeed, no matter the provocation, for Simon
was equally determined to accord Henry the trappings of kingship.
The Bishop had an astute eye for the foibles of his fellow men, and he'd soon
realized why Simon was so loath to surrender this particular fiction. It
validated the central core of his claim: that his was not an insurrection
against his King, but only against the King's unscrupulous advisers. To
abandon that premise would be to brand himself as a rebel, and the Bishop knew
Simon could never accept that. His position was ambiguous enough as it was: a
man whose natural instincts were for command arguing for a government of
compromise and consensus, a
513
prideful, highborn lord drawing much of his support from the commons, a
Frenchman leading a movement hostile to aliens. Worcester had eventually
decided that the enigma of Simon de Montfort could be explained only in terms
of Simon's very personal vision of chivalry, in a code of ethics that somehow
managed to mingle the partisan passion of the zealot with the poetic gallantry
of the knight-errant. He felt no surprise, therefore, when Simonhis fabled
temper notwithstandingyielded to Henry's extortion.
"Oliver!" He beckoned to a young knight. "Send word ahead to St Mary's. Tell
them we shall be stopping there so the King may hear Mass," Simon said, so
grimly obliging that his forbearance was in itself an insult, a peace offering
to a wayward child.
THE Benedictine monks of St Mary's welcomed Simon's army with heartfelt
enthusiasm, and as word spread of their arrival, the townspeople began to
trickle into the abbey precincts, bringing freshly baked bread, wineskins,
sacks of apples and wild plums. Simon had found familiar solace in the
shadowed, incense-scented church, in the sonorous Latin liturgy of the Blessed
Eucharist. Now, watching his young soldiers flirt with pretty village lasses,
he no longer regretted having given in to Henry's tantrum.
The monks had set a bountiful breakfast for Henry, but as he followed them
into the abbey frater, he looked more like a man unjustly deprived of a
grievance than one savoring a victory. While the King dined, Simon made ready
to depart. These preparations were interrupted, however, by the arrival of one
of his scouts, bearing triumphant tidingsthe approach of an army from the
north, flying Simon's forktailed lion and the Earl of Oxford's silver star.
Simon had earlier sent a sharp-eyed lookout up into the church's * central
tower, and when he now yelled down a confirmation of the scout's report, a
common sigh of relief swept the ranks of Simon's army. For weeks they had
dwelt too intimately with danger, outnumbered and outmaneuvered by an enemy
who seemed to foreshadow their every move. For weeks they'd subsisted on
half-rations and hope, balked by Edward and a muddy river, baffled by Bran's
laggard response to his father's need. Only their faith in Simon had kept them
from despairing, and now, with that faith justified, with deliverance at hand,
they laughed and joked with the exuberant intensity peculiar to the newly
reprieved. Their hardships suddenly took on the sheen of high adventure, and
the abbey garth was soon a scene of cheerful bedlam. Wineskins went soaring up
into the leaden sky, cheers rattled windows and spooked horses, competing with
the distant echoes of summer thunder.
524
Simon was willing, for once, to indulge their tomfoolery. They were good lads,
were entitled to kick over the tracesfor the moment. He was tightening
Sirocco's girth when he sensed a presence, turned to find a young monk
hovering nearby. The youngster colored, then shyly thrust toward Simon a
large, red apple.
"For your horse, my lord," he blurted out, and glowed with pleasure as Simon
fed his offering to the stallion. A lover of horses, he'd never been this
close to one of such high caliber, and his eyes lingered on Sirocco's sleek
lines, caressed that glossy ebony coat. Only belatedly did he remember his
manners. "I am Brother Damian, my lord. We are right honored to have you at
our abbey. We in Evesham believe in the reforms, believe in you. We give no
credence to the lies put about by your enemies, know you do not seek to rule
as a king" He broke off in dismay, fearing his tongue had once again run away
with him.
"Is that what my enemies saythat I would be a dictator?" The boy nodded,
appalled to think he might have offended. "Do you know what I think, Brother
Damian? That St Luke was right: 'Woe unto you when all men should speak well
of you.' " Simon had spoken so seriously that it was a full moment before
Damian caught the amused glint in the depths of those unsettling grey eyes.
"Can you not stay longer at the abbey, my lord? There is a storm coming for
certes," he pointed out hopefully. But Simon was shaking his head.
"No, lad, as soon as my son"
"My lord Earl!" A horseman came racing through the gateway, scattering men in
all directions. He paid no heed to their startled curses, spurred his stallion
across the garth and reined in before Simon. The animal came to a heaving
halt, frothing at the mouth, caked with lather. The riderone of Simon's best
scoutswas in no better shape, soaked with sweat, bleeding, an arrow shaft
protruding from beneath his rib cage. "A trick, "he pan ted, "a foul trick . .
. They fly your son's banners, but the army is Edward's!"
THE wind was rising. It tore leaves from shuddering trees, flattened the marsh
grass, and hurled dark clouds toward the fleeing sun. By the time Simon
reached the north window in the church tower, the storm was nigh. He could see
it sweeping across the vale, bearing down upon them from the north, shadowing
the army of the King's son. Edward had taken up position on the crest of Green
Hill, closing off the loop of the River Avon with a line of steel. A mile lay
between their thousands and Evesham, no more. Simon needed but one glance to
know that he and his men were doomed.
525
He sucked in his breath, jolted by a surge of purely physical fear, the body's
instinctive reaction to peril. But he'd faced death too often, had long ago
learned how to make fear serve him; self-preservation was a powerful
motivating force in and of itself. The fright bred into bone and muscle was a
familiar foe, one he knew he could vanquish. But what followed it was far more
terrifying, a fear born of the brain, one that offered him a haunting glimpse
of the future, a lightning-lit landscape of desolation and lost faith. Was
their dream to die with them, too? Had it all been for naught?
No. No, it could not be. They would not be abandoned in their time of need,
for their cause was just and would prevail. He would not fail his trial of
faith, would not disavow a single yesterday. Death came to all men, but defeat
only to those who doubted. Fear not, I am thy shield, trust in me and be not
afraid. He unclenched his fist, eased his desperate grip upon the shutter
latch, and then turned to face those who'd followed him up into the tower,
followed wherever he led, his sons, his friends.
"We must commend our souls to God," he said, "for our bodies are theirs."
They looked at him, stunned, still caught up in the struggle he'd just won,
groping for faith in the face of calamity. Harry swallowed, found his voice.
"Is Bran dead?"
Simon hesitated only briefly; they had time for naught but truth. "Yes, most
likely he is," he said, conjuring up without warning a phantorn grief in the
guise of memory: a ghost with ink-black hair and cocky grin, passionate and
recklessand bloodied. He blinked and the apparition vanished, leaving only
Harry and Guy, not yet understanding, clinging to hope. Sweet Christ, how
young they were! How could it be God's Will that they, too, should die this
day? "Edward would be upon us ere we could all retreat across the bridge. But
there is still time foryou to save yourselves." He tore his eyes from his
sons. "You, too, Peter . . . Hugh. I'd not see you sacrifice your lives like
this. For the love of God," he said huskily, "go and go now, with my
blessing!"
They would not. Even as he made the plea, Simon realized it was in vain;
they'd never agree. His sons would stand by him till the last. So would Peter,
no friend more faithful. And Hugh, who had a son, too, a child of three, never
now to know his father. Humphrey, who'd seen his own family torn asunder by
his belief in the Provisions. The young men below in the abbey garth, who'd
fought with him at Lewes, only to die with him at Evesham. He could save none
of them.
"Papa, you must listen to me!" Harry reached out, grasped Simon by the arm.
"Do not throw away your life for naught, take what men you can and cross the
bridge. I'll hold Ned here, give you the time you need to retreat. Let me do
this for you, Papa, I beg you!"
526
Simon's eyes misted. "You know I cannot, lad," he said softly, and suddenly
there was nothing more to be said. They looked at one another, recognizing the
moment for what it wasone of farewell. Harry made it easy for them. Stepping
forward, he embraced his father, thus freeing the other men to do the same.
"Papa ..." Guy seemed to have shed years in a matter of minutes; Simon had
rarely seen him look so vulnerable. "What will happen to Mama and Ellen?"
That was the question Simon had been most dreading. "Edward will not make war
on women, not his own blood-kin. He and Richard will speak for your mother and
sister, Guy, will not see them suffer for sins not theirs."
Harry's eyesso like Nell'swere riveted upon his face. "You truly do believe
that, Papa?" Simon nodded; he had to believe that.
"Come," he said. "We must give our men a chance to flee if they so choose.
Some of them can still escape over the bridge if"
"Mother of God!" Simon's lookout spun around, pointing. "It is too late," he
gasped. "We're all dead men!" The tower offered cornmanding views of the abbey
and town. They could see quite clearly now the blue-and-white banners of Roger
de Mortimer, flapping wildly in the wind as his men moved in from the east,
blocking the bridge, cutting off all escape from Evesham.
THEY crowded into the churchyard just east of the bell tower, pressing in so
they might hear Simon speak. A hush slowly fell as he reined in his stallion
before them, looked out upon their upturned, ashen faces.
"Scriptures say that man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble.
That you know right well. You know, too, that death comes to us all, to the
king in his palace and the crofter in his hut. All a man can do is hope to
face it with courage and a measure of grace. Most of us shall die this day,
for we meet a foe twice our numbers, and there will be no quarter given. But
we do not die in vain, that I can promise you."
Simon paused, drawing a steadying breath as lightning seared the sky above
their heads. "You've every right to ask why it must be. I would that I had an
answer for you. But the ways of the Almighty are not for mortal man to fathom.
The Holy Land is soaked with the blood of true believers, those who died for
Christ before the walls of Jerusalem. Because they died, does that mean their
Faith was false? So, too, is our cause just, and it will triumph. The men of
England will cherish their liberties all the more, knowing that we died for
them." Again thunder sounded, drowning out his next words. He waited for the
echoes to abate, and then concluded quietly:
51?
"I am proud to fight with, meH such as you Go into battle with good heart,
knowing we have nght on our side, and knowing, too, that whosoever believeth
in Our Lord C{,nst shall not abide in darkness, but shall have life
everlasting "
There was no sound now but that of the coming storm Simon turned his horse
toward the bgse Of the bell tower, where his captains awaited him But before
he coujd dismount, Henry rushed forward, into the stallion's path Sirocco
reai-ed uf>, as Simon swore and Humphrey de Bohun snatched Henry from harm's
way He seemed oblivious to his peril, intent upon Simon ancj Oj\ly Simon "This
is madness," he cned, "sheer madness' Surrender whilst you still can, Simon
You cannot hope to win, so why ride out t0 certmn death?"
Simon said nothing, thmking of all the good men who'd died because this inept,
faithless fool had be£n born a King's son "I pity a man who has nothing in his
life worth dying for," he said, so scathingly that Henry recoiled Swinging
from the saddle, he beckoned his captains closer, with the point of his sw0rd
<jrew Edward's battle formation in the dirt at their feet The men moved in,
Henry forgotten
"As every hunter knows, bnnging his quarry to bay is but half the hunt He
stall has to make the kill j he can There is a chance, a tattered rag of a
chance, that we might be able to break free of this snare Edward has posted
his men between the branches of the river, but that is a fair piece of ground
to cover, about a mile/ so he's bound to have stretched the line thin in
places If we hit t(,em between their vanguard and their center " He
demonstrated w^ hlS sword, drew a slash in the dirt
"I am going to propose a n0vel battle plan Envision a battering ram with our
knights as the iron nmmed head, the men-at-arms as the oaken beam and the
Welsh at the tail, for I think them likely to run I watched their faces whilst
I W9s eakmg to the men, and I do not think," Simon said dryly, "that they #re
enthralled at the prospect of dying for English liberties In truth I cannot
blame them, for this is not their war and I am not their Prince "
He'd just offered them a preci0us gift, a glimmer of hope, however slight, and
when he gave the cornmand to array their men, they obeyed wuh alacrity Henry
had been hstemng in dawning horror, slowly corning to comprehend what Simon's
\>3ttie plan would mean for him, and he reached out, plucked franhcallv at the
sleeve of Simon's surcoat "You cannot take me with you1"
"We have no choice We have to have you with us if we break through"
"But you will not' You're all go       to die, and if you take me out onto^the
field with you, I'm likely t^, too' What would that prove?"
"That the Almighty has a sense Of humor," Guy snapped, piercing
518
Henry with a look of such venom that his mouth went dry. He was surrounded by
hatred, could see it on all their faces. They blamed him for their plight,
would see him dragged down to Hell with them. "You cannot do this, Simon," he
pleaded. "It ... it is not just!"
Simon had been reaching for Sirocco's reins. He paused, his eyes glittering,
his contempt at last breaking free. "We are all in God's Hands," he said
tautly, "even you."
Sirocco was skittish, unnerved by the storm, eager to run. Simon reined the
stallion in with difficulty, stopping within a few feet of the Bishop of
Worcester. They regarded each other in a silence that expressed more than
words could have done. "I shall pray for you, Simon," the Bishop said at last,
and Simon found a flickering smile.
"I know of no man whose prayers are more likely to be heeded than yours. But
there is something else you can do for me." Stripping off a gauntlet, he
pulled a sapphire ring from his finger, dropped it into the Bishop's palm. "I
would ask that you give this to my wife," he said, and the Bishop nodded,
throat suddenly too tight for speech.
The monks and townspeople had clustered by the gateway, and as Simon led his
army out of the abbey grounds, more than a few watched with tears trickling
down their faces. Feeling a wetness on his own skin, the Bishop thought dully,
So the rain has begun. But when he raised a hand to his cheek, he found that
he, too, wept.
THE ground slanted up sharply toward the north. As Simon's army reached the
crest of the ridge, they could see the enemy spread out above them, row after
row of armed knights. Less than six hundred yards separated the two armies.
Only then did Edward give the signal to advance. Slowly, at first, they began
to move down the hill.
"They come on well," Simon said to Peter. "But then, they learned that from
me. I'd wondered, Peter, just what lesson Edward would draw from Lewes. Now I
know."
Peter did not reply. He was flanked by his sons, just as Simon's two sons
hovered at his stirrups. Their faces were shielded by their helms, although it
was not difficult to guess their thoughts. Simon raised his arm. "Advance
banners! For Almighty God and England!"
His knights spurred forward, collided head-on with Gloucester's line. The
sounds of battle began to rival the rumblings of thunder. Simon's men had
nothing to lose, and they pressed onward with such reckless abandon, such
crazed courage, that Gloucester's troops began to give way. Simon's men pushed
them back as far as the Worcester road, and some dared to hope that they would
break free, after all.
But it was not to be. Edward had positioned cavalry on his and
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Gloucester's flanks, and they now wheeled inward, entered the fray. They hit
Simon's men on both sides. His Welsh had faded away even before the battle
began, and the sheer superiority of numbers soon told in Edward's favor.
Simon's army was beaten back from the road, outflanked, and then surrounded.
Henry was never to forget the horror that followed. Once it became clear that
there'd be no escape, his guards lost all interest in him, were soon fighting
for their lives. Henry found himself forsaken in the midst of mayhem. He
feared the thunder and lightning as much as he did his son's men; never had he
seen a storm like this, one to herald the end of the world. He jerked
half-heartedly at his helm, before deciding that protection mattered more than
recognition. Whenever anyone came too close, he shrieked, "Do not harm me! I
am your King!" And it seemed to work; more than one attacker sheered off at
the last moment. But then he took an arrow in the shoulder. It was a fluke,
for crossbowmen were to play no great part in the battle, and it did no real
damage, embedding itself in a link of his hauberk, only scratching the skin.
For Henry, though, it was one affliction too many. He gave way to panic, was
in a state bordering on hysteria when the Marcher lord Roger de Leyburn
finally found him.
De Leyburn reined in his mount alongside Henry's without fear, for Henry had
never even drawn his sword. "My liege?"
"Yes," Henry sobbed, "yes!" And then, no longer forgotten, he was surrounded
by men who would protect him with their lives if need be. De Leyburn reached
out, took his reins. As they led him to safety, Henry glanced back only once
at the carnage continuing on the field. Simon's banner still flew, but he
could no longer find Simon's raging, black stallion, and in the butchery the
battle had become, he could no longer find Simon.
When Sirocco went down, Edward's men closed in for the kill. But Simon was
able to fight his way free. The field was strewn with the bodies of men and
horses, with discarded weapons, and it was becoming dangerously slippery, so
much blood was there. Most of Simon's men were dead. Peter lay sprawled almost
at his feet. For a time, Simon and Harry had fought back to back, but then the
tide of battle had torn them apart. Now he stood at bay by the edge of a muddy
spring, as men pressed in on all sides, jostling one another in their
eagerness to strike at the Lord Edward's great enemy. So far Simon was holding
them off, but for every two blows he deflected, a third got through his
defenses. He was bleeding from half a dozen wounds, rocked by blows he never
felt. There was neither pain nor fear, no thoughts at all. Just the lightning
blazing overhead and the clash of swords, the lunge and cut and parry learned
a lifetime ago, as a boy at his father's French castle of Montfort 1'Amaury.
520
Lightning seared the air, struck a tree on the crest of the hill, and for a
moment, the bloody landscape was bathed in an eerie, unearthly light. They
were moving in upon Simon again; again he fought them off. But this time they
managed to get between him and the spring He could no longer protect his back,
and as he crossed swords with one of de Leyburn's knights, another man darted
forward, plunged a dagger into the base of his spine. The force of the blow
knocked Simon to his knees, and he found he could not rise, the last of his
strength bleeding away into the trampled grass, into the reddening waters of
the spring.
"God's grace . . . ," Simon gasped, stretching out his hand, but his sword was
beyond reach. With his last conscious act, he fumbled weakly for his dagger,
waiting for them to fall upon him. But they did not. It was the night that
closed inhours ere its time, swirling, blinding, shieldingand Simon stopped
struggling, gave himself up willingly to the dark.
The men would never be able to explain what had halted them, why they found
themselves unable to act, to draw their weapons upon the dying man. It may
have been the awesome fury of the storm; they would later agree, with
superstitious dread, that the tempest seemed to intensify just as de Montfort
fell. It may even have been Simon himself, for so long a legendary figure even
to his enemies. Whatever the reason, they hesitated, crowding in closer to
see, but not yet ready to kill.
It was then that William de Mautravers found them. Shoving his way into the
circle, he glared about him in disgusted disbelief. "What are you
faint-hearted milksops waiting for? Since when are we so tender with
traitors?" Striding forward, he raised his sword, snarling, "Beg, you
bastard!" But he was too late. Simon's eyes were already glazing over; he
never saw the sword start on its downward swing, was dead by the time it
plunged into his chest. De Mautravers jerked the blade free, and, as if to
wreak vengeance upon the body for the escape of the soul, he struck again and
again. Some of the more squeamish soldiers backed away, those who did not
believe in mutilating the dead. De Mautravers was soon splattered with Simon's
blood, and the little spring turned crimson. The rain was coming down in
torrents now; the storm had broken at last.
THEY had never seen a storm of such ferocity. Much against Bran's will/ for he
was half-crazed by his desire for speed, they had to shelter for a time in
Alcester. Bran fumed in vain; there was nothing to be done but wait out the
squall. As soon as the rain slackened, though, he propelled them out into it,
for nothing mattered more than reaching his father with the remnants of his
Kenilworth army.
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As soon as Edward had withdrawn, they'd set about retrieving their broken
fortunes. Some of Bran's men had gotten away, and they came back once the
enemy retreated, gamely volunteering for another try at Edward. But horses
were even scarcer now than soldiers, and it had taken Bran and John d'Eyvill
all Monday to scrounge up mounts for their pitifully reduced force. A
messenger from Simon had arrived in the midst of their horse-hunt. Upon
learning that his father had crossed the Severn, Bran became frantic, would
have moved Heaven and earth itself to keep his rendezvous with Simon on the
Kenilworth road. He managed a minor miracle, and they marched out of
Kenilworth Castle shortly after dawn on this rain-darkened Tuesday.
John d'Eyvill was impressed by Bran's sudden, frenzied industry, but he could
not help wondering why it had taken such a disastrous defeat to rouse Bran to
the responsibilities of manhood. Well, better late than never, he supposed. He
was in cheerful spirits himself; he was always invigorated by action. "Poor
Baldwin," he said. "Captured first at Northampton, now at Kenilworth. Not only
did he miss Lewes, he's like to miss the next battle, too. Bad luck, indeedor
good, depending upon the way you look at it!"
Bran merely grunted, never taking his eyes from the muddy road ahead. He'd
shared nothing of his inner turmoil these three days past, and John could only
speculate, but he suspected there was more to Bran's urgency than mere
remorse. It was as if his own misfortune had stripped blinders from Bran's
eyes, and he suddenly saw other men even his fatherin a new and vulnerable
light. Had he belatedly realized the dangers his father had faced in Wales?
John thought that was indeed the case. Why else would he be in such a tearing
hurry to reach Simon, knowing that Simon would not likely forgive his criminal
carelessness at Kenilworth?
"Johnny!" Bran's sudden shout tore John from this reverie, but he did not at
once see what had occasioned Bran's alarm. Bran had the keener eye; when he
pointed, John, too, saw the rider emerging from the mists of wind-driven rain.
He was gesturing frantically, close enough now for them to recognize himthe
scout they'd sent in search of Simon. John got a sudden sick feeling in the
pit of his stomach. Bran was already galloping toward the man.
"Go back, my lords! We're too late! Dead, they're all dead!"
"You're lying!"
"God's truth, my lord, I am not! There was a battle fought at Evesham! Your
father is dead, he's"
Bran's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, and for a moment, it fruly
looked as if he meant to draw it upon the scout. But then he spurred his
stallion, went off down the road in a wild shower of mud. His two
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squires cried out in alarm, started after him. The scout had half-turned his
mount, almost as if he, too, meant to follow. But by then, John had reached
him.
"Tell me now, and quickly, what you know. You say there was a battle?"
"Not a battle, my lorda slaughter. I saw the bodies . . . saw . . / The man
shuddered, crossed himself.
"Why are you so sure that Earl Simon is dead?" John saw the scout hesitate,
and said roughly, "What are you not telling me? What are you so loath to say?"
The man looked John full in the face for the first time. "I saw de Mortimer's
men and they had . . . they had Earl Simon's head on a pike."
"Bleeding Christ! And you let Bran go"
"How could I stop him?" the scout protested, but John was no longer listening.
He swung back toward their men, saw on their faces his own horror. "Quentin,
hold them here! If you are threatened or I do not return, lead them back to
Kenilworth!" With that, he gave his stallion its head, set off in pursuit of
Simon's son.
John d'Eyvill was not in the least sentimental, as tough and indomitable as
the Yorkshire moors that bred him. But as he rode, he found himself praying
that Bran would somehow miss de Mortimer's men, that he'd not see their grisly
trophy. Misbegotten Marcher savages, they could put the Welsh to shame! Damn
them all, and damn Edward, too, for allowing it! The lad had enough griefs to
bear, enough guilt for a lifetime and more. At least he could be spared this.
But when he finally did overtake them, he saw at once that he was too late.
They were halted on the crest of the hill; below them lay the vale of Evesham.
One of Bran's squires had stumbled into the bushes, was vomiting weakly into
the muddied grass. The other boy seemed bereft of all powers of speech; he
looked dumbly up at John, tears cascading down his face. A few yards away,
Bran sat his horse in the middle of the road. He neither moved nor spoke as
John drew up alongside him, did not turn even when John reached over, grasped
his arm.
"Bran? Bran, look at me!"
He might have been speaking to one stone-deaf; there was no response, not even
the flicker of an eyelash. Bran continued to gaze blindly into some private
vista of his own. John felt tears prick his eyes; he knew all too well what
the younger man was seeing, what he'd be seeing for the rest of his days.
"Come on back, lad," he said quietly. "We can do nothing for him now. It's
over."
c*s
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BY 10:00 A.M., the battle of Evesham had ended, but the killing was to
continue throughout the day. With victory assured, the Marcher lords began to
hunt down the fugitive Welsh. They showed no mercy; to the horror of the
monks, some of the Welsh were slain within the church itself. A dazed,
disheveled Henry was reunited with his son, but for all the talk of restoring
the King, it was soon apparent to the monks that England's true King was
uncrowned. It was Edward who gave the orders, issued commands, took charge of
town and abbey, and it was Edward who gave the monks permission to bury the
dead.
THE church was darkened, still. When a candle sputtered into life, it revealed
a heart-rending sight to the elderly monk: row upon row of bodies. All
afternoon his brothers had been retrieving them from the field, laying them
out in the church until they'd run out of room. Brother Abel was an old man,
but never had he seen death on such a dreadful scale. He limped among them,
sickened.
He paused before a particularly pitiful victim: no more than sixteen, just a
squire. He bowed his head, began a prayer for the boy's soul as the north
transept door swung open. Brother Abel held up his candle. "Who goes there?
Ah, it's you, Damian. Have you another body, then?"
They paid him no heed, moving with measured steps toward the High Altar. For
all that the burden they carried rested upon a rickety ladder, draped with a
muddied cloak, they bore it with somber dignity. Brother Abel followed,
puzzled, watching as they carefully set the ladder down upon the tiles.
Brother Damian stood for a moment staring at the torn, dirt-smeared cloak, and
then spun around, strode to the altar. Before they realized what he meant to
do, he'd snatched up the altar cloth. Kneeling, he gently tucked it about the
body, smoothing out the wrinkles with painstaking care. "There," he said, "
'tis more fitting," and at last Brother Abel understood.
"Earl Simon?" he said softly, and Brother Damian gave a jerky nod.
"What is left of him. Those whoresons threw him to the dogs!"
Brother Abel winced, not for the Earl, who was beyond pain, but for his
stricken young colleague, for all those who'd loved or believed in Simon de
Montfort. Slowly, stiffly, he knelt by the body. "Blessed are they which are
persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven. May"
He got no further. A door opened; there was a sudden flare of light.
They'd learned caution this day. Brother Damian leaned over, breathed upon the
candle, for he was not at all sure if Edward's permission to bury the dead
would be a grace extended to Simon. They could hear footsteps now in the nave,
a murmur of voices. "Shall I accompany you,
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my lord?" "No." A one-word reply, but it was enough to send a chill along
Brother Damian's spine. Recognizing the voice as Edward's, he hastily drew the
others back with him into the shadows.
They crouched in the corner, following the progress of that flickering light.
So far Edward had not looked their way. He was walking among the bodies,
moving up one row and down another until he found the one he sought. The
lantern spilled light in a wavering circle; Edward's hand seemed suddenly
unsteady. He set it upon the floor, made the sign of the cross. "I swear to
Christ, Harry, that I'd have saved you if I could," he said, and the monks
exchanged wondering looks as the victor of Evesham knelt by the body of an
enemy and wept.
THEY reached Kenilworth at dusk, after a nightmare retreat that none would
ever forget. Many of them had lost family or friends at Evesham, and all
feared the future, feared the King's vengeance now that Simon was dead, their
dream destroyed. Kenilworth, the most impregnable stronghold of the realm,
suddenly seemed a frail refuge against a world gone mad.
John d'Eyvill sighed with relief at sight of those formidable castle walls.
"We made it," he said, not surprised when Bran gave no response, for he'd not
spoken for hours, had said less than half a dozen words since they began their
desperate dash back to Kenilworth Castle. John knew that people handled grief
in many different ways, but Bran's way alarmed him. He was riding at John's
stirrup, almost close enough to touch, but John could not help thinking that
he was not really there at all.
As they rode across the causeway, they could see troubled faces peering
through the embrasures of the outer curtain wall. By the time they were
admitted into the inner bailey, the entire garrison was awaiting them, eager
to learn the explanation for their unexpected returnand yet dreading it, too.
"My lord, why are you back? Why did you not join forces with Earl Simon?"
The question was directed at Bran, but John knew it would be for him to
answer; command had fallen to him by default. He hesitated, searching for the
right words, knowing there were none, and one of his men, grieving for a
brother and cousin, forestalled him.
"The Earl is dead. They're all dead, every one of them. They slaughtered our
men like sheep, sparing none, and then they hacked Lord Simon to pieces,
struck his head on a pike for their ungodly pleasure."
Somehow, his revelation was even more appalling for the flat, toneless way in
which it was delivered. John heard gasps, muffled cries of
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525
disbelief and horror and pain. He swung about, just in time to see Bran's face
twitch, as if he'd taken a blow.
They were looking to John for confirmation, and he nodded bleakly. "Raymond
speaks true. The Earl of Leicester and his men died this morn at Evesham."
Kenilworth had been Simon's pride and joy, and he'd chosen its castle garrison
with the utmost care. These men were his unto death, fiercely loyal, sublimely
sure that he could not fail. As they grieved now for Simon, for their kinsmen
and neighbors, they grieved, too, for their loss of faith, the annihilation of
hope. It was no safe place for the King's brother, but that never occurred to
Richard. His initial surge of joy had been swiftly tempered at sight of his
nephew's bloodless face. As glad as he was for Henry, for himself, he could
still mourn for Nell's sake, could even spare pity for her sons, and, with his
own son, fifteen-yearold Edmund, in tow, he started down the steps of the
great hall, ready to offer Bran what small solace he could.
It was an act as ill-advised as it was well-intentioned. To men struggling to
accept the unthinkable, he was the enemy, the only one within reach. The
castle blacksmith's son had died at Evesham, and as the stricken father's eyes
lit upon Richard, his pain spilled out of control. "By God, you'll not be
gloating over my poor lad's body!" he shouted, and flung himself at Richard's
throat. His startled victim staggered under the onslaught, lost his balance,
and fell down the steps.
Before Richard could regain his footing, the blacksmith was upon him again,
and now others joined in the attack, for these anguished, angry men wanted
nothing so much as a target for their rage, a target suddenly provided in
person of the King's blood-kin. They could strike at Richardpompous, prudent,
little likedas they could not at Henry, could punish him for Edward's sins,
for their suffering, and as Richard struggled to rise, he was kicked and
cursed, beaten back onto the ground.
Dazed, bleeding, Richard sought to protect himself as best he could, bringing
his arms up over his head, his knees up to his chest. From what seemed like a
great distance, he could hear his son screaming, the sound muffled by the
blood thudding in his ears. It came to him, more with a sense of astonishment
than fear, that he was going to die here in the dirt of Kenilworth's inner
bailey, that these grief-crazed men were going to beat him to death.
But then the shouting changed, no longer the collective cry of a mob bent
mindlessly on murder; the lethal circle seemed to be breaking apart. Through a
swollen eye, Richard caught a glimpse of a stallion's thrashing forelegs,
pawing the air above his head. His assailants were scattering, retreating
before the horse's flailing hooves. Richard rolled over to find his nephew
standing astride him, sword drawn.
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Bran's face was contorted, streaked with tears. "Get back! I'll not let you
whoresons dishonor my father like this!"
His fury was frightening, for it was not that far from madness, and the men
sensed it. It was suddenly very quiet. John d'Eyvill pushed his way through to
Bran's side. "He is right," he said loudly. "We will avenge Lord Simon, that I
swear to you. But not like this. Is there a one of you who can say the Earl
would have wanted this?"
No one could. The men began to back away, some shame-faced, others numbed. The
killing fever had broken, would not flare up again. Realizing that the danger
was past, Richard tried to sit up, and John reached down, helped him to his
feet. Bran flung his sword into the dirt, turned and stalked away
"Papa!" Edmund threw himself into his father's arms, sobbing, and Richard
wobbled anew, clutching at John's arm to steady himself.
"I'm all right, lad," he said, and discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that
he was. His bruises would fade, his cuts would heal; only the memory would
linger.
"Bran!" His cry went unheeded. Bran was already half-way across the bailey.
Richard limped after him, calling out his name until Bran at last stopped,
turned slowly to face him.
"You saved my life. I'll not forget, that I promise you. I'll do whatever I
can for Nell, for you, too, lad."
Bran said nothing, but at mention of his mother's name, he seemed to flinch.
Richard found himself unable to continue, so great was his pity for his
sister's son. He reached out, put a hand on Bran's arm, halfexpecting him to
pull away. He did not, seemed to be focusing upon Richard for the first time.
But Richard was never to know what his response might have been, for just then
Edmund joined them.
Edmund was still trembling. It had all happened too fast; now shock had set in
and he felt suddenly queasy. "Thank you for saving my father," he said, giving
Bran a look of shy sympathy. Although he'd prayed earnestly for his cousin Ned
to triumph, he'd long harbored a secret admiration for his dashing de Montfort
cousins. Harry, in particular, had sought to lighten his confinement, and
remembering now Harry's casual kindness, his gallantry, and his good-humored
pranks, Edmund could not keep from voicing his concern. "Harry ... he is not
dead, too?"
He saw at once that he'd made a grievous mistake, would have called the
question back if only he could. Bran wrenched free of Richard's grip, whirled,
and plunged through the doorway of the keep forebuiwing. They could hear the
clatter of his spurs upon the stairs, and then, a slamming door, a bolt being
thrown back. It was too much for Edmund/ to his dismay, he burst into tears
again. "Papa, I did not mean .
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Richard gathered him into a comforting embrace; Edmund, at least, he could
console. "I know, lad, I know."
Edmund wiped his face with his sleeve. "If Cousin Bran had not come to your
aid . . ."He could not repress a shiver. "What can we do for him, Papa?"
"We can pray for him, Edmund, pray for God to heal his hurt."
Neither was aware of John d'Eyvill's approach, not realizing he was within
earshot until they heard him say, "I doubt that even God could help Bran now."
That was a statement cynical enough to distress Edmund and to anger Richard,
who said coldly, "Take care, Sir John, lest you commit blasphemy."
John merely shrugged. "Blasphemy? Nay, that is but the Gospel according to
Evesham. Bran's father and brothers died for his mistake. He arrived at the
battle not in time to save them, but in time to see Earl Simon's head on a
Marcher pike. You tell me, my lord King of the Romans, just what prayers can
exorcise a memory like that."
FROM the chronicle of the thirteenth-century monk Robert of Gloucester:
"Such was the murder of Evesham, For battle it was none."
39
Dover Castle, England
August 1265
lYloNDAY, August 10, was typical of Nell's overburdened afternoons; her
responsibilities seemed to multiply in direct Proportion to the day's
diminishing hours. For some moments now, she'd been laboring to reassure one
of her ladies in waiting; Hawisa's 'other was with Simon's army, and the
waiting was shredding her nerves raw. While Nell sought to dispel Hawisa's
qualms, her steward,
52S
Richard Gobion, hovered close at hand, as did her patient scribe, pen poised
to do his lady's bidding.
Having convinced Hawisa that she need not read sinister significance into the
silence echoing from the west, Nell beckoned to her steward. "Richard, did you
arrange to send those barrels of herring to St Mary's Hospital? Very good. I
looked over your inventory, agree that we'll need additional supplies of
firewood. More corn, too, enough to get us through until harvest-time. You'd
best send some men to Wickham on the morrow. As for the wine, let's buy it
again from Master Augustine, the vintner at Sandwich."
Gobion was the epitome of efficiency, would carry out her orders with
dispatch, and Nell at last felt free to turn her attention back to her scribe.
"Mauger, are you ready? Write as follows: 'To my dear husband, the Earl of
Leicester, greetings. We are all well, although I will admit to some unease of
mind, for I have not heard from you for almost a fortnight. I assume that by
now you have been able to reach Kenilworth, so I have instructed Picard to go
there first. Now for my news. I have sent our youngest lad to Winchelsea to
engage men-at-arms. I'm sure you remember the raw pride of sixteen, Simon; so
set was he upon playing a man's part that I had to let him' God's wrath!"
Mauger and Hawisa were equally startled. When the screaming came again, Nell
paled, for this time she recognized the voice. "Jesu, my daughter!" Mauger
darted for the door, jerked it open just as Richard Gobion stumbled back into
the bedchamber. "Madame," he cried, "hurry!"
Nell found herself assailed by noise, by a rising babble of distraught voices
that broke and swirled about her in a surging current of tumultuous sound. The
great chamber was in utter chaos; the scent of fear was in the air. All eyes
were turning toward Nell, hands plucking at her sleeve as she moved
unflinchingly into the very midst of this maelstrom. But she was intent only
upon reaching her weeping daughter. "Ellen? My God, child, what's wrong?"
"Oh, Mama!" Ellen sobbed, flung herself into Nell's arms. "He ... he said . .
." She could not get the words out, choked on her tears. Nell could make out
only "Papa" and "dead."
Grasping Ellen by the shoulders, Nell shook her until the child's hair whipped
wildly about her face. "Ellen, get hold of yourself! Your father is not dead.
Who told you that he was?"
"Wat . . . Wat did," Ellen gasped, pointing an accusing finger toward a
red-faced youngster who suddenly found himself alone in a crowd, naked to
Nell's wrath. He was a huge, hulking youth, a goodnatured, slow-witted lad who
could, nevertheless, work wonders with horses. He towered over Nell, but he'd
begun to tremble even before she drew her arm back, slapped him across the
mouth.
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"How dare you terrify my daughter and disrupt my household with your vile
gossip? Look at you, stinking with ale! Instead of the stables, you were in
the town, at the Mermaid's Tail, I'd wager! Dare you deny it? No, I thought
not. Get your belongings together; I want you gone from here within the hour."
Ignoring the young groom's horrified sputter of protest, Nell swung around to
face the others. "You'd best take this fool's fate to heart, all of you, for I
will dismiss any man who brings ale-house babble into my householdno matter
how long he's been in my service. Is that understood?"
"My lady!" Wat fell to his knees. "It was not ale-house gossip, I swear by my
very soul! There was a man coming up the hill to the castle, and I stopped,
for his horse had gone lame ... He told me, my lady, he told me! If I ought
not to have believed him, I'm most heartily sorry! If you'll but give me
another chance" The rest of his plea was drowned out by a sudden resurgence of
sound; people were turning toward the door. Not daring to abandon his
supplicant's pose, he glanced over his shoulder, then gave a stutter of
excitement. "Ththaf s him! The stranger I met on the road!"
But he was no stranger to Nell, this haggard, begrimed man limping toward her,
bearing her husband's badge upon his arm and grief beyond measure upon his
face. Nell tried to swallow and failed. She stood very still as he passed
through the suddenly silent crowd, treading upon the floor rushes as if his
boots were lined with lead, so heavy was his step. It took him a long time to
reach her, this man who had loved Simon well, who'd served him for twenty
faithful years. Nell swayed slightly, dug her nails into the palm of her hand,
watching wordlessly as he slowly sank to his knees before her.
"I'd rather cut out my tongue than bring you news like this, my lady," he
said, his voice thickening as his eyes met hers. Reaching into his tunic, he
drew forth a wax-sealed parchment.
Nell did not take it, looked upon her brother Richard's signet without
recognition. 'Tell me," she said, very low, and his eyes filled with tears.
"There was a battle, my lady. On Tuesday last, near the abbey of Evesham. The
day ... it went against your lord husband. He and your sons died on the field.
They are dead, my lady, they are all dead."
NELL'S memory was no longer functioning as it should; her recollections were
fragmented, marred by strange gaps and sudden blanks. There were moments she
could recall with merciless clarity, hours she could not remember at all.
She remembered standing in the great chamber, her ears echoing
530
with the words "They are dead." She remembered struggling to quell the ensuing
panic. And she remembered trying to allay her daughter's hysterics. Ellen's
grieving was so frenzied, so intense, that she'd finally resorted to a
sleeping draught of henbane and black poppy. Nell remembered every one of
Ellen's screams. But once she'd been able to withdraw into her own bedchamber,
she remembered nothing beyond the sound of the bolt sliding into place against
the door.
She'd lost hours, more than a few, for the chamber was dark, unlit by candles
or cresset lamps. The only illumination came from two unshuttered windows. She
reached for the edge of the bed, pulled herself to a sitting position in the
floor rushes. Her movement disturbed the dog huddled at her feet. It whined,
licked her hand, and Nell leaned over, rested her cheek against the
greyhound's silky head, its fur silvered by faint shimmerings of moonlight.
Her eyes stung, swollen to slits, and her skin felt hot to the touch. Could
the soul be stricken by fevers, too? She was forty-nine and her health was
good. Yet now she got to her feet with difficulty, and as she moved toward the
door, it was with the faltering, slow step of a very old woman.
Men had spread their bedding out along the walls of the great chamber, as if
this were a night like any other. And some were, indeed, sleeping. But more
were slumped in the shadows, seeking comfort from wineskins, staring dully
into space. Nell's second greyhound had been keeping lonely vigil by her door;
it greeted her now with joyful wriggles and blissful tail wagging. Nell patted
it unthinkingly. Then she saw the other dog, the black alaunt, for so many
years Harry's devoted shadow.
The pain was savage enough to restore portions of her blocked memory. So had
it been during those anguished hours alone upon the floor of her bedchamber.
The grieving had come in wavesSimon, Harry, Guy, then Simon againwith no time
to catch her breath. No sooner would she fight her way free of one memory when
another would engulf her. A birthday, a night of lovemaking, a glimpse of
cherished ghosts, haunting the lost country of childhood, sturdy, boisterous
boys of her flesh, Simon's blood. Pranks and playful bedlam. Simon's return
from the Holy Land, on the beach at Brindisi. Harry's laugh and Guy's swagger.
The familiar look upon Simon's face when he had a problem to solve, so
stubbornly single-minded, so intenseand then the sudden flash of a quicksilver
smile. Nell had no defenses against memories like that, memories that would
drag her down to drowning depthsif she did not blot them out, save her sanity
with denial.
There was a chair a few feet away. Nell stumbled toward it, caught the wooden
back for support. When a solicitous voice offered assistance, she shook her
head. "Let me be." Only a whisper, but so fiercely uttered
531
| that her Samaritan prudently withdrew. When she at last pushed away
from the chair, her greyhounds and Harry's alaunt loyally trailed her
[.across the chamber, into the great hall that filled the entire east side of
I the keep. Only when she entered the narrow, shadowed passage that
I led to the sacristy and chapel did the dogs hesitate, abandon their escort.
I       The sacristy was dark; so was the nave. Not until Nell reached the
'chancel did she find a flicker of light, two tall candles on either side of
the altar. Kneeling in the circle cast by their feeble glow, she made the
sign of the cross. "I beseech Thee, Lord God Almighty, all powerful
and everlasting Father ..." But she got no further, the words lodging
in her throat. She could not complete the prayer. She could not seek
solace from a God Who allowed such evil, a God Who had turned His
face away whilst her husband and sons died in His Name.
It came as a shock, the recognition of this dangerous, unholy rage. But the
flame was too hot to be disavowed. She could not deny that her grieving was
inextricably entwined with a bitter sense of betrayal. How could the Almighty
have abandoned Simon in his hour of need? No, she would not pray to such a
God. She would find it easier to follow the example of the wife cited in
Scriptures, the one who had counseled her suffering husband to "curse God and
die."
But she could not even do that, dare not crave blessed oblivion, an end to her
pain, lest this one perverse prayer be answered. If she died, what would
befall her children? If Richard's letter was to be believed, Bran was
half-crazed with grief and guilt. Amaury was just nineteen, trained in naught
but the theology of the Church. The younger children were even more
vulnerable, dazed and defenseless amidst the wreckage of the only world they'd
ever known. They had no one nowno one but a mother who lacked even the will to
live.
"I am not strong enough. I cannot do what must be done, Simon. You must not
forsake me now. Give me a sign that you're still with me, that I'm not alone
..."
Her words trailed off into a despairing silence. She sat on the floor by the
altar for a long time, not sure if she was indeed waiting for a response. If
so, it did not come. Never had she felt so alone as she did then, there in the
dark of a deserted chapel, crying out to a dead man.
I
DOVER'S keep was a masterwork of defense, thick enough to accommodate a number
of mural chambers within the width of its walls. Standing before the door of
her daughter's chamber, Nell at last forced herself to reach for the latch.
Ellen's nurse slept on a pallet by the foot of the bed. So did Nell's °wn
damsels, Christiana and Hawisa. Amaury was the surprise, slouched
532
in a chair by the window, keeping vigil at his sister's bedside just as Nell's
greyhound had kept one for her. He did not look as if he'd slept any. At sight
of his mother, he jumped to his feet. Nell put her finger to her lips. "Did
the sleeping draught work?" she whispered.
He nodded. "Yes, but she wept in her sleep."
Nell reached for his hand, led him back to the bed. Ellen stirred as they bent
over her, whimpered softly. Nell sat down beside her daughter, gathered the
sleeping child into her arms. Ellen whimpered again, opened eyes dark and
drugged. "Mama?" Her lashes flickered; she was fighting her return to reality.
"I'm here, Ellen," Nell said softly. "I'm here."
THE monk from Evesham Abbey arrived in mid-afternoon. It was a Sunday, the
16th of August, the day after the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed
Virgin Mary. But to Nell, it was simply Day Twelve, for the familiar calendar
was forgotten, and she now calculated all time as of the day of her husband's
death.
The monk had been uncertain of his reception; as young as he was, he knew how
easily missions of mercy could go astray. But he need not have worried. The
word "Evesham" was an instant passport into the presence of Simon's Countess
and her children, and within moments, he'd been escorted from the great hall
into the privacy of Nell's bedchamber.
Nell was flanked by two young men, whom she introduced as her sons, Amaury and
Richard. "And this is my daughter, Ellen," she said, slipping a protective arm
around the waist of a pale, pretty child with great, tragic eyes. "You are
Brother . . . ?"
"Damian, my lady." He'd rehearsed this speech so often, but he found himself
suddenly tongue-tied, at a loss for words. "We've not had an abbot for two
years now. My brothers and I ... we decided on our own that one of us should
come to you, tell you of the battle, of the Earl's last hours . . ."
"We want to hear," Nell said, "to hear it all. But you can do even more for
us, Brother Damian. You can end our suspenseone way or the other. You see, two
days past I heard fromWell, the name does not matter. Suffice to say he was
one who believed in my husband. He sent us word that my son Guy did not die on
the battlefield. We've been afraid to believe him. But you were there, you
tended the wounded, you buried the dead. If any man knows the truth, you must.
Brother Damian, does my son still live?"
Damian hesitated. "Yes, he does, but . . . but Madame, I would not give you
false hope. Sir Guy was one of the few found alive after
533
the battle. We treated him in our infirmary, and he was later taken despite
our protestsby horse litter to Windsor Castle. His wounds are most grievous,
my lady, and in all honesty, he may not survive."
Nell's arms tightened around her daughter. After a long pause, she said,
"False hope, Brother Damian, is better than none."
Damian saw that he need not have fretted about misleading the Countess; this
woman would never again err on the side of optimism. But her sons still clung
to the innocent faith that was their birthright, looked much more relieved
than he knew his news warranted. He wondered whether he ought to try again to
stress the gravity of Guy's injuries, but decided that would be a needless
cruelty to the Countess and to her daughter, for he sensed that for Ellen,
too, hope had died at Evesham with Simon and Harry de Montfort.
"You said there were others found alive, too?"
"Yes, my lady, but pitifully few, most of them close to death . . . like Sir
Humphrey de Bohun. It is a miracle that he survived this long, but a cruel
one; those who love him can only pray that God soon frees him from his pain."
He saw Nell's mouth tighten, remembered, too late, that Humphrey was a friend.
"But my news is not all dismal, Madame. Peter de Montfort's sons survived the
battle, and I think their wounds will heal in time. So, too, will Sir Henry de
Hastings, Sir Nicholas Segrave, and Sir John Fitz John recover."
"And that is all?" Amaury sounded bewildered. "Why so few?"
"Evesham was not like other battles. Even after your father's men fell, their
enemies kept hacking at them. Sir Guy Baliol, your lord father's standard
bearer, was so mangled that we could not even strip off his armor, had to bury
him in his bloodied, broken chain-mail."
Damian fumbled within the scrip at his belt, drawing out a crumpled scrap of
parchment. "We kept count of the bodies, my lady. With your lord husband died
one hundred eighty knights, two hundred twenty young squires, and two thousand
men-at-arms. And then there were the Welsh. They fled the field at the onset
of the battle, but that did not save them. Large numbers drowned trying to
cross the Avon; local folk have begun to call one ford 'Dead Man's Ait,' so
many bodies were found there. And those who got across the river still had to
escape Roger de Mortimer's men, for he hunted them down without mercy. We
cannot ever be sure how many died, but we think several thousand Welsh
perished ere that bloody day was done, mayhap even more."
Ellen broke her silence at that, with a soft sound, almost like a whimper,
quickly stifled. Damian wondered why the Welsh deaths should so distress her;
his heart went out to this troubled child, and he was Peking his brain for
some comfort to offer when Nell said, "Tell us of *e battle."
534
He did, haltingly at first. Simon's arrival at the abbey. The coming storm.
The false banners. Reliving it in the retelling, he tore open an unhealed
wound, and when he at last concluded, tears were running freely down his face.
"Men will not forget how Earl Simon died. They will not forget his courage,
and they will not forget his faith."
"Faith," Nell said slowly. "Do you think that my husband's faith faltered once
he realized he was doomed?"
"Oh, no, my lady! I know it did not, for I heard him speak to his men ere the
battle began. Their cause was just, he said, and would prevail. Indeed, never
did his faith burn so brightly as in the last hour of his life!"
Nell turned away abruptly, moved to the window. "He was lucky, then," she
said, and if there was irony in that, there was also envy. Ah, Simon, how did
you do it? How could you hold fast in the face of certain defeat? You should
have taught me how, my love, should . . . She was perilously close to tears,
but she would not give in to them. What good would tears do now? "My husband
and son . . . where are they buried, Brother Damian? At the abbey?"
She heard him gasp, a sound so full of pain that she spun around, caught upon
his face a look of sheer horror. "My lady, I ... I thought you knew!"
"Knew what? Tell me!"
"I ... I cannot," he stammered, "not before the little lass . . ."
Ellen's eyes darkened, pupils dilating in sudden fright. But she said
resolutely, "If it concerns my father, I have a right to know!"
"What are you keeping from us?" Amaury reached Damian first, with Richard just
a step behind, and the young monk gave way before the intensity of the
onslaught.
"I will tell you," he agreed wretchedly, knowing no other way, for obedience
was as essential to his calling as it was inbred in his soul. "Lord Simon's
body was shamefully abused after his death. A man called Mautravers chopped
off his head, impaled it upon a pike, and then"
Ellen's cry would long echo in his ears. Clasping a hand to her mouth, she
whirled, fled the chamber. Nell followed at once, and Damian sank down weakly
upon a nearby stool, fervently thanking God for his reprieve; his was not a
tale for female ears. Amaury and Richard looked as if they, too, yearned to
flee the chamber, but pride was a powerful snare. They would not fail their
father, would not shirk a man's burden, and they waited mutely for Damian to
tell them what they dreaded to know.
He tried, clumsily, to soften the impact, but without much success. He was
only half-way through his grisly narrative when Richard blanched,
535
choked, and bolted for the privy tucked away in the south chamber wall.
Amaury, looking scarcely less sickened himself, hastened after his brother,
leaving a guilt-stricken Damian in sole possession of the chamber.
He could hear sounds of retching, Amaury's murmurings of cornfort. Never had
his throat felt so parched, and he looked wistfully at a wine flagon on Nell's
bedside table, but he was not about to drink unbiddenthe Countess of
Leicester's wine. He was earnestly wishing himself a thousand miles away from
Dover Castle, from the havoc he'd so innocently wrought, when the door opened,
and Nell reentered the chamber. He saw her eyebrows shoot upward, and said
miserably, "Your younger lad ... he took sick."
Nell glanced toward the privy, back at Damian. As the implications of his
words sank in, she lost color as rapidly as Richard had. "You told them,
then," she said. "Now you may tell me."
"My lady . . . you do not want to know," he entreated, to no avail. She
regarded him steadily, and he found that he was no more capable of defying her
than he would have been of gainsaying Simon.
"After they beheaded him, my lady, they hacked off his arms, his legs, his ...
his private male parts." Damian swallowed with difficulty. No matter what,
he'd not tell her of the vile acts committed upon the Earl's body; nor would
he tell her about the dogs. "I was told that the Marcher lords sent the Earl's
severed limbs to various towns in the realm. I do know for a fact that Roger
de Mortimer sent Lord Simon's head to Wigmore Castle, as a ... a gift to his
wife!"
He wasn't sure what reaction he'd been expecting, mayhap that she would weep
or faint, what he imagined to be woman's natural response to man's cruelty. He
found her utter silence far more unnerving than screams or tears. Only once
did she make any sound at all, a hissed intake of breath when he told her of
Maude de Mortimer's ghastly trophy. Her eyes had narrowed upon his face, too
hot to hold tears, a blue-white blaze of such fury that he shrank back,
remembering all the stories he'd heard of Plantagenet rages, tales that
carried the scent of sulphur and smoke. His life had been a sheltered one;
until now he'd never known that a woman, too, could burn with a killing fever.
Nell was trembling. She brushed past Damian as if he were not there, crossed
to her bedside table. The flagon was fashioned of fine Venetian glass; hers
had been a life of luxury and privilege, for was she not the King's sister?
Beside the flagon lay a psalter, bound in Spanish leather, engraved with a
Latin cross. She reached first for the psalter. As Damian watched,
uncomprehending, she flung it from her, into the ashes of the hearth. Damian
gave a scandalized cry, was bending to retrieve the prayer book when Nell sent
the flagon crashing into the hearthstones above his head. It shattered in a
spray of glass; flying
536
splinters shivered the air. Damian cried out as one cut into his neck. He
scrambled to safety just as Amaury and Richard came rushing out of the privy.
Nell seemed as oblivious of her sons as she was of Damian. She was staring
blindly at the wine staining the white-washed wall of her bedchamber. Her
cheek was bleeding, but she was no longer trembling. The psalter lay,
half-opened, in the ashes, and Amaury snatched it up. Nell continued to watch
the wine drip down the hearthstones. "I suppose," she said, "that I should
count myself lucky. After all, they could have sent his head to me!"
Damian flinched, surreptitiously crossed himself. Nell saw and laughed, a
laugh to haunt his dreams no less than her daughter's tears. Richard looked at
the frightened monk, at his brother, kneeling by the hearth, clutching the
psalter to his chest, and then at this white-faced stranger who was his
mother. "Mama?" he said, and the fear in his voice reached her. Nell turned,
caught him to her in an embrace both fierce and tender, not letting him go
until they both were breathless and the blood from her cheek smeared his, too.
"Madame . . ." Damian hovered by the door, afraid to stay, unwilling to go.
"God forgive me, for in seeking to comfort, I brought only pain. At least I
can offer this small measure of solace. We claimed your husband's body,
mangled and maimed as it was. We dared not give him the funeral he deserved,
but we buried him before the High Altar in our church, sent his soul on to
Paradise on the wings of our prayers." Even so simple an interment had not
satisfied Simon's enemies. Damian had heard talk of exhuming his body, had
heard the Marcher lords arguing that a man dying excommunicate was not
entitled to lie in consecrated ground. But nothing could have compelled him to
share this new threat with Simon's widow.
"What of my son?"
"He received an honorable burial, my lady ... at the behest of the Lord
Edward."
At mention of Edward's name, Simon's sons froze. Richard's hand closed
convulsively about the hilt of his dagger, and Amaury spat out a most
unpriestly oath. Only Nell did not react. Exhaustion was now claiming her. She
felt suddenly weak in the knees, sat down on the edge of the bed, and Damian
was overcome by remorse. She looked ravaged, and he'd done his part, wittingly
or not.
"My lady, if only I could have brought you something of your husband's! But
those scavengers stripped him of his armor, stole his crucifix, his rings. We
did retrieve a few scraps of his clothing, and part of his hair shirt, but
then they disappeared." Stumbling across the chamber, he dropped to his knees
before Nell. "I've done naught but fail
537
you, my lady. I should have realized how much men would crave such relics, but
I was not thinking clearly. Had I only hid them away as I ought"
"What are you talking about? What relics?"
"Lord Simon's bloodied hair shirt, my lady! I only hope the thief was moved by
piety, not greed, for in truth, he could easily sell bits of it to those
coming to pray at Lord Simon's grave"
" Tray at Lord Simon's grave?' " Nell echoed, and Damian nodded eagerly. She
did not know! His mission was not in vain, after all; he was to be the one to
tell her.
"People began coming to the church within a day or two of the battle, my lady.
It took no longer than that for word to spread that we'd buried him there.
Afterwards, they'd slip away to the battlefield. Your lord husband died beside
a small spring, and people have been coming to it every day since the battle.
They pray, and then they take away a vial of the water. When the Lord Edward
learned of this, he was enraged, posted a guard. So now they come at night.
Not just from Evesham, either, but from neighboring villages, some even as far
away as Gloucester."
"But why?"
The monk looked at her solemnly. "He died for them, my lady, just like St
Thomas a Becket. Already I have heard of miraculous cures. There was a village
lass burning with fever, sure to die, until her mother bathed her in water
from the Earl's spring. And then there wasmy lady? You look at me so
strangely. Have I offended you in some way?"
"No, you have not offended me," Nell said wearily, not knowing whether she
wanted to laugh or cry. "My husband was an honorable man, mayhap even a great
one. But he was a man, Brother Damian, not a saint. He was very much a man."
The young face upturned to hers reflected disappointment, but not doubt, and
Nell realized that Brother Damian, too, was a believer. Well, Jesus had His
disciples; why not Simon? The thought was so blasphemous that she shivered,
appalled by her own irreverence. But in a world gone mad, why should she be
the only one still of sound mind?
A FIRE had been lit in the hearth, and the shards of broken glass swept up.
But the wall had not been "scrubbed clean; Nell had said to let it be. They
gathered together now by firelight, a circle broken beyond repair. The thought
was Nell's, one she did not share with her children. Reaching out, she brushed
the hair back from Ellen's face. "We need to talk °f the future," she said.
"Amaury, I am making arrangements to send you and your brother to France as
soon as"
538
Both youths broke into heated protests, Amaury insisting that he'd not leave
her and Ellen, and Richard vowing that he would go only to Kenilworth Castle
to fight with Bran.
"Fight? We've nothing left to fight for!" Nell caught herself, said more
calmly, "We can do naught for the dead. It is the living who must concern me.
We are not entirely without resources, hold the two most formidable castles in
England, Kenilworth and Dover. I mean to make use of them, to strike the best
bargain I can. But first I must see to your safety. My life is not in danger;
nor is Ellen's. For you, though"
"Mama, all know I study to be a priest, and Richard is but sixteen," Amaury
interrupted, giving his brother an apologetic look. "Why should we be in
danger?"
"And would you trust your lives to men who would so dishonor the dead?"
That silenced them both. They looked away, unable to meet their mother's eyes.
Nell had been warned that Henry had ordered ships to patrol the Channel, with
the specific intent of stopping her from sailing for France. Now she leaned
forward, began to explain her plan for smuggling them out of England. But
within moments, they were interrupted by Richard Gobion.
His message was one she'd been expecting for some days: a knight was seeking
admittanceon 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."
40
DolwycUelan, North Wales
August 1265
J.T 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 'here 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
540
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?"
541
"I'm sure the Lady Nell will explain it to her/' Goronwy saitf.      ...
still not completely convinced that Llewelyn was going to heed h;         ,
*      . i . s corfi
mon sense and not his conscience.
Einion chose that moment to add his voice to Goronwy's. '-y , e too hard on
yourself, Llewelyn. The girl is not your responsibilj^ JJ.^ is an indulgence
you cannot afford, not when it comes to making , riage of state. You might as
well be crazed enough to marry f0r, a,,/
That was so preposterous a proposition that both Llewely      ' i Goronwy had
to smile. "I know I cannot marry the lass now," ^ admitted, "for that would
indeed be madness. But there is a bo,, j 7, tween us, and I cannot utterly
forsake her in her time of trouble, i h it write to Nell that my alliance with
Simon holds good for his sor,8    a I shall offer them refuge in Wales if any
of them so wish. And I Sl(' °°'
that I'll find my peace haunted in days to come by a child I've    ^ec . 3
never"
even met.
Llewelyn turned away from the window; the last of the lig^, gone. "I keep
thinking of a verse from Scriptures, something ah darkness over the land. That
is indeed true for England after Evesu although I think Edward will discover
that Simon de Montfort c, .   ' long shadow. In my life, I have been
privileged to know two ^ dinary men, one of whom was my grandfather, the other
my aljv   , far back as I can remember, I've been striving to prove worthy
Oj'., S welyn Fawr's legacy. I cannot help wondering what Simon's legacy    ...
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 deepi they grieve,
time and God's Grace will heal some of their pain. T they are far from
friendless. Remember, for all that he seems desf to become an English saint,
Simon de Montfort was French-born j^. bloodlines amongst France's finest. I do
not doubt that his kinsmen   -,1 rally to his wife and children. Moreover, I
speak from experience M, I say that Nell de Montfort is a woman of
considerable charman,j f, n French King has a soft heart for grieving widows."
Llewelyn s^-i faintly. "I'll wager that Nell finds at the French court enough
syn^,, to send Brother Henry into spasms!" ^
Servants were moving about the chamber, lighting candles one u one. Llewelyn
watched the flames flare into life, then said somberly "f have great sympathy
for Simon's family. But it is the Londoners I {^, Pity. God help them, for no
one else will." ^
THE first Friday in October was cool and overcast; at midday, it j^,
have been dusk, so leaden was the sky. London's streets were straJ!T
seiy
n
542
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 Jewryimpressive 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 camethe 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 t>e
543
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 Johnof 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 friendas 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 menno 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. "torn?" 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
*.,
544
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, torn, 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, torn. 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
545
Henry's reign there began to appear the words "OffenseaLoncJcv fi& dor, f The
Londoners were not the only ones to suffer from royal rep^1"1*"* j,, .]S
Henry had fifteen months of humiliation to exorcise. Summoning ^^ ^ ? ^
liament, he pushed through a controversial edict for the seizure of^^jo * of
t^ lands of any man deemed an "accomplice" of Simon de Montfort v L^- \ - rt
TJ* term itself was not defined, no advance finding of guilt was req^
^f'm^^^nuire^ and as the forfeited estates were to be granted to Crown
partisans f,°9 itj^n* th>
jinv* "j «i^ njiivntu cataicj wcic LU i_>c gidiiicu lu v.iuwn partisans
2i)c=sans tl1'1
potential for abuse was enormous. Richard argued vehemently ag, -- ej,
agairisl such sweeping, dubious confiscations. Edward, too, counseled th'18'1
rrik /dm''' eration, for he was clear-sighted enough to see the danger in ctai
Qcr'[6Sk ^palitiS
.--u~,,.ui,,..,:ii u~i u_i ii..- ;r-_ .    . Hnn«--*    «    <"ed"'
eration, for he was clear-sighted enough to see the danger in deai()c^cr" i
!-,!,,,ol-,l,,,.,;4l, ,«u,,l,, ],! .,..u: .:<: .. ,        .     'in nfc-*
too harshly with rebels or rebel sympathizers; if a man was to be strir, t"
at\ 4 ' <jd of all he owned, what incentive, then, had he to lay down his
^*')<^f^" "^ «' But Henry was too bitter to heed any voice but the one crying
oi^5 erjjj ^ou^tt" revenge, and he found support for his wavering will in the
rele °^ i}n _ tl gs vengefulness of the Marcher lords. If, like the Romans, he
must tt SS8^ «, firf a desert and call it peace, so be it. \al^n ts "* ma*
At Richard's urging, a half-hearted attempt had been made to ^ ffi ^t
to terms with Bran, but it was doomed to failure; Simon's enemies ^6^^A ^^ h A
no sympathy to spare for his son. As September yielded to OctoK '*^ «J *' v. 2
defiant de Montfort banner continued to fly from the battlement' * "" i ^"^
'/ii Kenilworth Castle, and to that formidable refuge flocked those J^0 *«; ^°
Sh^ would not forsake Simon's "common enterprise." Others rallied to ] k'°
^^^t \ i hf d'Eyvill, hid themselves in the Fenlands, in the dark forests of
Sherw0 n n &'** A and Rutland, and here might well be found the genesis of the
R^ ^^o^R^^r1 Hood legends, those firelit tales of outlaw exploits, for they
were redd ^ "^ fcK~- Id * ( and sometimes gallant, these men known as "the
Disinherited," as "RS 8^j4" ^C -/fu^ Faithful." V ^ ^ s th
Nell had succeeded in getting her two youngest sons to safety - yk= etv '?
France, along with eleven thousand marks. Dover Castle still held,)111 ^ okJd
r though, for Nell's letters to her brother and to parliament had ^' ^^Oa eon^
unanswered, and she was determined to cling to the only leverage.?' 9^Lw-r h^
had left. But in mid-October, her highborn prisoners bribed two of tif 9, f(l§
th * guards, overpowered the others, and seized control of Dover's J* ^^ m ^-t
keep; Nell herself narrowly missed being taken, too. Her men laid s^ *^ 4 sT^
to the keep, but this was a God-given opportunity for Edward, and? "*\ ^t-^Ah^
made the most of it, leading a lightning assault upon the beleaguej ^ 15 ~ ,4
9rfl"^s"th^
^^ ^=rety i^1 fjjo^d out' ^^103 g0n^ ^yi^^esh^
j^S ^.^
keep; Nell herself narrowly missed being taken, too. Her men laid s^ ^^
ff6^
to the keep, but this was a God-given opportunity for Edward, and? "*\ ^t-^Ah^
made the most of it, leading a lightning assault upon the beleaguej ^ 15 ~
 ,4
stronghold. Caught between Edward's besieging army and the rebel],.1' ^n&^eVh
&,
Prisoners within the great tower, Dover's garrison could not hopJ ^ g-_ m~^
Prevail. On October 18, Nell agreed to surrender the castle to her neph% v»Xew
EDWARD was taken aback at sight of his aunt. Nell was not a tall woij,
Or|ly of average height, but her bearing was such that few ever realk,
"til
^fifffeman, ^siSJlized
544
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, torn, 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, torn. 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
545
Henry's reign there began to appear the words "Offensea Londoner " The
Londoners were not the only ones to suffer from royal repnsals 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 gmlt 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 stopped 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 m 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 yieided to October a defiant de Montfort banner
continued to fly from the battlements 'of Kemlworth 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 m 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 m 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
546
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 vanquishedlike the luckless Thomas
Fitz ThomasEdward 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
547
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 survivefor 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 youand 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
548
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
549
burning just beneath the surface. He was quiet for some moments, ann 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 wom<j understand, too."
It may have been the way he claimed Harryher son, her first, bornas 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 fejj 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
itwas dug up and reburied in unhallowed ground, all done, of course, without
your knowledge or consent! Go ahead, make that claimif 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
550
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.
As soon as the door closed, Nell sat down abruptly upon the bed, utterly
unnerved by the magnitude of the risk she'd just taken. What a fool she'd
been, for she'd never have forgiven herself if she'd destroyed her household's
hopes of reprieve. And yet she could not have kept silent, no matter the cost.
There was nothing rational about her rage; it was a physical force, no more
within her ability to control than any storm of nature, any tempest of God.
There were times when it frightened her, this anger that seemed to have burned
into the very depths of her brain, this anger that spared so few, not even
Simon.
As she'd once counted her rosary beads, now she counted her enemies, all who'd
wronged her children. First and foremost, her accursed weakling of a brother.
Edward. Gloucester. Roger de Mortimer and his wife, she who so liked
battlefield keepsakes. A man whom she'd never heard of ere Evesham, and now
would never forgetWilliam de Mautravers. And as she lay awake at night,
thinking what the future might hold for Ellen, who was to have been a
Princess, for Amaury and Richard, for Guy, mewed up behind Windsor's walls
like a crippled hawk, some of her anger would spill over onto Bran, Edward's
unwitting
552
pawn, and onto Simon, who'd died with honor intact but his fam'l ' future in
ruins, and lastly, onto herself, for believing so blindly "
It was awhile before she remembered the Bishop of Worcester'* message.
Breaking the seal, she shook out a small object wrappedI in cloth and a letter
tied with ribbon. She opened the letter first but w th    tj     any
expectations of solace. The Bishop of Lincoln and Adam Marsh had been as much
her friends as Simon's, but not so Worcester Sh pected that he suffered from a
malady all too common to church^n" a basic distrust of women. She knew for a
certainty that he'd oft   ' disapproved of her, for once, years ago, he'd made
the mistake of leT hiring her about her failings as a wife, admonishing her to
be more submissive to her lord husband. When she had related that to S' he'd
roared with laughter, but Nell had not been amused   andT' relationship with
Worcester had never fully recovered from that rnrlT beginning. CKV
With admirable restraint, the Bishop made no mention of his ow jeopardy,
offered his condolences in language as pedantic as it wls elegiac. But then
he'd written: "I came across something in Scriptures that could well serve as
Simon's epitaph, hope it will comfort you as it did me. 'I have fought a good
fight, I have finished my course, I have
Nell's hand jerked; the words blurred. "He's right " she said al d in a voice
suddenly husky. "He's right, Simon. That was Written f ' you. I know that. So
why am I finding it so hard to let you go?"
After a pause, almost as if she'd expected an answer, she resumed reading. "I
want to tell you, Madame, of a conversation I had with Simon. It was a night
in late July; that day we'd sought again to cross the Severn, had again been
driven back. It was probably the bleakest moment of a bleak campaign, for we'd
not yet heard from your son our supplies were running low, and our men were
understandably dis' traught. It was very late, we were alone, and for the
first time WP tall^ri about the likelihood of defeat." ' ked
Nell put the letter down, only to pick it up again almost at once afraid to
read further, afraid of what she might discover and vet afra'd not to read it,
too. Had Simon's last days been poisoned by despair? If he'd lost hope, she
did not think she could bear to know Holdi th letter up to the light, she
read: ' g    e
"I asked Simon if he'd ever feared that all our struggles all o suffering
might be in vain. Not a priest's question, and he shamed me ty his answer, by
the shining certainty of his faith. He said no my iadv and then he told me of
a cave he'd found whilst in the Holy Land It ^as said to have magical powers;
a man could shout and long after it
552
had died away, it echoed back as if from the very bowels of the earth. Simon
had so marveled at it that he'd never forgotten it. And that night in Hereford
Castle, he said that whilst it might seem as if we were but shouting into the
wind, our echoes, too, would come back in time, echoes to hearten the godly
and haunt kings. He laughed then, but he believed it, my lady, and I found I
believed, too."
Nell did not realize she was crying until tears splashed onto the parchment,
bled into the ink. "It was then that Simon said, 'My fears are not for
England. My fear is that because I could not fail my God, I might well fail my
wife.' "
Nell's throat closed up. "Simon, you knew . . ." The letter fluttered from her
fingers, and she wept as she'd not wept since that first night of her
widowhood. She lay prone upon the bed, clutching a pillow as if it alone could
keep her afloat, for she truly did feel as if she were drowning, strangling on
her own sobs. And yet this hot, surging tide was somehow easier to bear than
the ice-encrusted desolation that had so blighted her heart, her soul. When
the spasms finally eased, she was panting, trembling, drenched in sweat.
Sitting up, she wiped her face with the sheet, then groped in the floor rushes
for the letter.
"I would that I could remember all we said that night, my lady. Alas, I
cannot. I do recall that Simon talked about your children, in particular, your
little lass; I think he saw her as more vulnerable than your lads. And then he
truly surprised me. He'd moved to the window, for as you know, he was never
one for sitting still. I always thought it a minor miracle that you ever kept
him immobile long enough for that broken leg to heal. It was quiet; neither of
us had spoken for a time, when he said softly, 'All men fear for their
families; in that I am no different from any soldier asleep out in the hall.
But I am luckier than most, for I have a wife able to cope with Armageddon
itself. As I entrusted Nell with the defense of Dover Castle, so, too, could I
entrust her with our children's future, should it ever come to that.'
"I must confess, my lady, that I'd never taken your true measure, and I could
not keep from voicing my doubts, for that seemed too onerous a burden for the
frail shoulders of a wife. I feared I might have offended him, but Simon was
amused, instead. He said, with that sudden smile of his, 'If there is but one
woman in Christendom capable of matching wits with Edward, that woman is
mine.' "
Nell could read no more; she began to fumble with the cloth, jerking until a
ring tumbled out into her lap. She recognized it at once, a sapphire cut into
the shape of a cross, set in heavy gold. It was Simon's favorite ring, given
him by the Patriarch of Jerusalem and never off his finger since his long-ago
return from the Holy Land. Nell touched her lips to
553
the cerulean gemstone. "Relics from the saint of Evesham fetch a pretty price,
my love. If worst comes to worst, we can always pawn it "
She was astonished by her own words; for the first time the bit terness had
been diluted with a hint of humor. Unfastening her crucifix chain, she looped
it through Simon's sapphire ring, dropped it down between her breasts; it felt
warm against her skin, a tangle talisman to ward off the dark, to ward off
demons, mayhap even hers
"You did not fail me, beloved. And I will not fail you I swear to you,
Simonand to Godthat no matter what lies ahead I shall not lose faith."
ON October 26, Henry invested his younger son, Edmund, with the earldom of
Leicester. Two days later, Nell and her daughter sailed for France.
41
Kenilwortk Castle, England
January 1266
ENGLAND in the fiftieth year of Henry's reign was an unquiet, troubled land.
There was no peace, for Henry's terms had been too harsh; there were too many
men with nothing left to lose Banding together, they joined John d'Eyvill on
the Isle of Axholme in the marshes of the River Trent. There Baldwin Wake came
upon'escaping confinement. And there, too, Bran had come, bringing with him
some of the Kenilworth garrison.
But in December, it was Edward who led troops to Axholme, and it was Edward
who had the victory. A Christmas surrender took place on Bycarrs Dyke. Bran
and his companions were compelled to place themselves "at the King's award and
ordinance, saving life and limb and prison," and Bran accompanied Edward under
safe-conduct to Henry's Christmas court at Northampton. There Richard pleaded
elo-
554
quently on his behalf. Edward, too, argued for clemency, and for a time Henry
vacillated, pitying his nephew in spite of himself. But in the end, it was
Roger de Mortimer and the Earl of Gloucester whom he heeded. Bran's claims to
the Leicester lands and titles were declared forfeit. Henry agreed to grant
him five hundred pounds a year; in return, he was to abjure the realm, never
to return to England.
But before he sailed, there was one final service he must do for the Crown. It
was bitterly cold. Snow had been falling since dawn and by the time they
reached Kenilworth, they were half-frozen. Ice glazed the surface of the lake,
thick enough to still the water's surge but not to bear a man's weight, and
the castle's formidable walls were almost obscured by the swirling snow. Bran
drew rein, glanced back at Edward. "You want me to ask for entry?"
"No . . . you might find so warm a welcome within that you'd decide to stay,"
Edward said dryly, and Bran shrugged. He was doing what they demanded of him,
seeking Kenilworth's surrender, but Edward knew he did not care whether he
succeeded or not. No more than he'd cared whether he came to terms with his
uncle the King. Or that he was now moving within arrow range of the Kenilworth
garrison. Edward had never before realized what a redoubtable shield
indifference could be. He watched intently as Bran rode toward the Brayes
Tower, called out for Henry de Hastings.
Edward and Thomas de Clare exchanged startled looks. Henry de Hastings was one
of the few survivors of Evesham, and had contrived to escape custody once his
wound had healed. But until now Edward had not known his whereabouts. Bran was
continuing to advance, utterly undaunted by the sight of crossbows protruding
from the tower embrasures. "I am Simon de Montfort," he shouted. "Tell Henry
de Hastings I would talk with him."
The words, no more than what Bran could have been expected to say, nonetheless
gave Edward a peculiar jolt. After a moment, he realized why. This was the
first time that he could remember Bran ever using his given name. The wait
seemed endless; it had begun to sleet. After an interminable time, a horseman
emerged from the gatehouse, started down the causeway. Another ice-encased
delay, and then a voice echoed mockingly from the battlements of the Brayes
Tower.
"Is that truly you, Bran? I cannot say much for the company you're keeping
these days!"
Bran disregarded the sarcasm. "I bear a message from the King. He promises
that if you yield the castle now to the Lord Edward, he will seek no reprisals
against you."
Again, the words were right; could he be faulted if they sounded as if he were
parroting foreign phrases, quoting from an alien tongue-
p
555
Edward felt an unwelcome stab of pity. Kicking his stallion, he moved closer,
heedless of his men's cautionary cries.
They had their answer almost at once; obviously it had been well rehearsed.
"Tell the King," Henry de Hastings shouted down, "that we will surrender
Kenilworth at the command of but one personour lord's lady. We'll yield the
castle to the Countess of Leicester and no other!"
Behind him, Edward heard exclamations of anger and dismay. For himself, he was
not surprised. "Bran?" He nudged his stallion forward, ignoring the prickling
at his neck as he ventured into the sights of a dozen bowmen. "Bran?"
Sitting his horse before his father's castle, blinded by blowing snow and
sleet, Bran was laughing. Peal after breathless peal, laughter choked and
jagged and defiant, a sound that scraped along Edward's spine like the point
of a knife.
AFTER failing to effect the surrender of Kenilworth, Bran was taken back to
London, where he was kept under such close surveillance that he began to
suspect treachery. On February 10, he succeeded in eluding his warders and
fled to Winchelsea, where the men of the Cinque Ports were still in rebellion.
Edward followed, won yet another decisive victory, and then shrewdly offered
the defeated men a full pardon. But Bran managed to evade capture and escaped
to France.
UPON her arrival at Montargis, Nell had been warmly received by the nuns,
who'd gladly rented her one of their guest houses on the priory grounds. Their
new home was far less luxurious than the accommodations to which they were
accustomed, containing only a hall, a kitchen, and a small bedchamber for Nell
and her daughter; moreover, the snip carrying Nell's household goods had been
captured by Channel pirates. But Nell's regrets were not for castles, her
sorrowing not for manors or jewels.
It was now spring, a verdant, lush May. During her six months at Montargis,
Nell's life had regained a measure of stability. She had won for herself
powerful partisans in the French King and his Queen. To Henry and Eleanor's
dismay, Louis and Marguerite not only made Nell and her sons welcome at the
French court, they urged Henry repeatedly to make peace with his sister, to
restore her dower rights in the Pembroke estates. Henry so far remained
obdurate, but it was a comfort to Nell to know that she was not friendless,
that in France and in England there were still those willing to speak out on
her family's behalf.
Nell had never been a worrieruntil Evesham. Now she spent long,
iI
556
sleepless nights, brooding over what the future held for her children. Her two
younger sons seemed to be adjusting to their loss. She'd sent Richard to the
court of Simon's kinsman, the Count of Bigorre, and the reports she'd been
getting were encouraging; with the resiliency of youth, Richard was applying
himself to the lessons of knighthood. Amaury, too, appeared to be adapting
himself to their changed fortunes. He was living in Paris, and planned to
enter the University of Padua once Nell was able to arrange for his expenses.
But Nell could take no consolation in the plight of her other sons. For them
she could do little, for she could not provide what they most needed: freedom
for Guy, absolution for Bran. Nor had she been successful in easing her
daughter's pain. Ellen was a stranger to her now. Gone was the blithe,
carefree chatterbox, the affectionate imp who'd been her father's pet, her
family's spoiled, cherished darling. The Ellen after Evesham was a silent,
shadowy wraith, looking out upon the world with huge, haunted eyes, as if
awaiting yet more grief. Nell feared for Ellen's future most of all. Without a
proper marriage portion, what sort of husband could she hope to find? No man
of rank would take a wife without lands, a wife who might bring down upon him
the enmity of the English Crown. They were not penniless, would be able to
provide a marriage portion to tempt a knight. But to Nell, a King's daughter,
that was an unthinkable comedown for her child. How could she expect Ellen to
be content with a mere knight, when she ought to have had a Prince?
It was in hopes of cheering her daughter's spirits that Nell had sent her to
Paris for a fortnight's stay with Amaury. Ellen had returned that afternoon,
but it was obvious the visit had not been a success. She'd been very subdued,
shrugging off Nell's attempts to draw her out. Nell had no better luck later
in a circumspect interrogation of Juliana, the young Frenchwoman she'd engaged
to act as Ellen's maid. The two girls had taken an instant liking to each
other, had become quite close in these months at Montargis. But Juliana could
tell Nell little, other than what she already knew, that Ellen had not enjoyed
herself at the French court.
Vespers were sounding when Nell heard the music echoing from their bedchamber.
The harp had been a betrothal gift from Llewelyn, and Ellen had practiced so
diligently that she was now quite proficient. The door was ajar and Nell
paused before it, listening to the melody. But then Ellen began to sing
softly: " 'May thy prayers from Heaven aid us, Thou whose bitter death hath
laid us, now defenseless and forlorn.' "
Nell stiffened, for the words were familiar to her; it was one of the many
songs written about the battle of Evesham. She waited until the music died,
and then pushed the door all the way open. Ellen was sitting
557
on the bed, with her ever-present briard stretchpH ,t h« -^    u     ^,
frji-sssKsr r~f*£
'Lament for Earl Simon/ Do you want to hearTMa±"     ^
Nell shook her head, but Ellen was already'rearhw t     *u   u " 'But by his
death, Earl Simon hath in sSS\lT     f      *" ^ Canterbury's martyr, he there
to the death w* doL-^ ^ "*
"Ellen, enough!" Nell drew a deep breath "I diH t so sharply, lass, but in
truth, I care not for such SOneS M ^      ^ may sit beside you. I am indeed
sorry that you S So ^ 7* " in yo^visit. Were you not well received at Ln^^M^
"No, it was not that. The French King and OuPPn w People were friendly, but...
but they stared at me s    M" ^    ^
"You must get used to that, darling" P££,££££±       t But they also stare at
you because you are SimondMoS H       ?**' And that, too, you must learn to
accept." °rt S daughter-
Ellen was silent, twisting a loose strand of hair am,,n^ i,     ca new
nervous habit Nell had been laborin *&*'
'^^^^^S^r^ ^^^^~^=^£
^^"Very easily, it seems," Nell said acidly. "is that what upset you
"I was angered by her lies. But no, Mama, it was not thp r       , of Devon. It
was Amaury. He says        he sav, h Countess
"I know. He wants Z study r^on^^e^ n ^" of Padua. Ellen, do not look so
forlorrd Italy is no,S^ SfjTT^
"But Mama, Italy is so far away. I feeha if ^S    hi        I by the wind, that
we'll never be together all p8       ^ Richard in Bigorre, and Bran . . ." 8
' °Uy 1S ln En8Iand'
She stopped, and Nell finished for her. "And Bran is in Nnrm     A
Sdktahfs',"r-'roops lo reBeve Ke""worth Ca*' ££XZ%
he j r^ttn"1' siuu°«d< »v
"Ellen, I've told you that your brother blamps hi* u c happened at Evesham. He
is not yet ready to fiS^T"* ^ What "But we've forgiven him and he knows that!"
"Yes, we've forgiven him. But he has not been ahlp tn (        u self, and
until he does . . ." She paused, for EneT^^l^' *g. Rolling over, she buried
he? face in a pto^jgg^
558
stroked her hair. She suspected that every family had its own alliances, its
shifting coalitions dictated by age or need or affinity. In their family, it
had always been Harry and Bran, Bran and Harry. Brothers in blood, twins in
spirit, so closely attuned that they could finish each other's sentences, so
habitually together that to see Bran was to look about for Harry. It had been
an exclusive intimacy, though, by its very nature excluding their brothers.
Only Ellen had been admitted into that charmed circle, an indulged if unequal
member of a very select society, one more casualty of Evesham.
"It is not fair, Mama, not fair . . ." Ellen's voice was muffled by the
pillow, and Nell had to shove the briard back, for the big dog was determined
to jump upon the bed and comfort its young mistress. "Was it not enough that I
lost Papa and Harry? Must I lose Bran, too?"
Nell reached over, slipped an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "You've not
lost Bran, but you must be patient with him, Ellen. Sit up now, and I shall
brush your hair and share some news with you. Whilst you were gone, I had a
letter from your cousin Joanna." Ellen looked blank, and Nell added, "Joanna
de Quincy, lass, Elen's daughter, remember?"
Ellen nodded, with no real interest. "Humphrey de Bohun's widow," she said,
and Nell frowned; must the child identify everything in terms of death?
"Yes," she said briskly, "Humphrey's widow. You must never think, Ellen, that
all people are as faithless as Isabella de Fortibus. The Londoners could give
the lady Countess of Devon a sharp lesson in loyalty. Joanna wrote that there
was a riot in London on the sixth of May, that men burst into the guildhall,
crying their continuing support for Thomas Fitz Thomas, demanding that he be
released from prison. It availed them naught, of course; they were dispersed
by force. But I am sure it comforts Fitz Thomas to know that the Londoners
would risk so much on his behalf. Just as it comforts us that men still hold
your father in such esteem."
Nell hesitated then, for while her next bit of news was sure to hearten Ellen,
there was a risk in imparting it. As always, she chose to gamble. "Joanna also
had most welcome news from Wales. Llewelyn has won a great victory over the
most detestable of the Marcher lords. On Whitsun Eve, he defeated the army of
Roger de Mortimer at Brycheiniog. Whilst de Mortimer lamentably escaped with
his life, he was one of the few who did, fled the field with his ambitions and
his honor such as it isin tatters."
The mere mention of Llewelyn's name had been enough to dry Ellen's tears. "Oh,
Mama, what wonderful news! I knew Llewelyn would
1.T'
avenge his dead, I knew it! Will he write and tell us of his triumph!
559
"Yes, Ellen, I am sure he will," Nell said slowly, all the whji thinking that
it might be better for her daughter if Llewelyn did not
COMPLINE had ended; the church was hushed and dark, lit only by a single torch
in the choir. This was Nell's favorite hour, the only tirne she had to be
alone with her God and her husband. Carrying a horn lantern, a wine flagon,
and an embroidered prayer cushion, she moved from the nave into the choir,
then on into the Lady Chapel. Kneeling before the altar, she sought to empty
her mind of rancor, to open her soul to God's healing. For a long time, her
prayers had been forced recited by rote, devoid of comfort. But as winter
thawed, so, too, had her faith. If her prayers were not as heartfelt, as
ingenuous as they'd been before Evesham, that was a secret she shared with no
one, not even God. She had not lost belief, and it seemed to her that the
Almighty could ask no more than that, for if she now paid her debt of devotion
with a devalued coin, the debt itself was no longer free from doubtnot after
Evesham.
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
560
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 cornforted. 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 sleepinguntil he began to use Joanna's
pillow. So I found one of your old mantlesthe dark green wooland I spread it
across my bed at night. It sounds mad, I know, but Llewelyn was a clever one,
beloved, for it does helpa 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 Andre? 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?"
561
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 DoverDover! 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 twentysecond, 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 likethat
confrontation with my
right beloved brother. And I entertained myself by arguing the reasons
pro and confor 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?"
I
562
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! IBran!"
"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
563
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."
42
Montgomery, Wales
September 1267
I JLHE 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 mespenger, sallying forth for
daring attacks upon the enemy camp, even eaving the gatehouse open during
daylight hours, so sure were they hat the lake was an obstacle no army could
overcome. When the papal ftgate, Ottobuono Fieschi, solemnly excommunicated
them all, the unepentant rebels paraded the castle surgeon upon the walls,
dressed in mock bishop's cope, where he proceeded to "excommunicate" the nking
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
564
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 foehunger. 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
clemencyfor all but the de Montfortsand 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 grin1
565
amusement in this turn of events, that the man most respon -u for Simon de
Montfort's downfall should now be helping him to H nee Simon's aims. Nor were
these alliances of expediency unknow ^the Crown. Gloucester's disgruntled wife
had seen to that, war ° her uncle the King that her husband planned to move
on London ^ fortunately for Henry, it was a warning he'd not taken seriously,
dj ° 'ne it as a woman's spite. By the time he reconsidered, it was t 1Sf te
Gloucester and John d'Eyvill held London.
A tense stalemate developed, which was to last for fully two hs But no one
truly wanted another bloody Evesham. Henry's h ° her Richard offered to
mediate; so did the papal legate, trapped vvj*u-° *he Tower. Gloucester agreed
to yield the city, provided that amne^^as extended to all his followers, and
in turn, Henry promised to au^ by the Dictum, to consider restoring some of
the Londoners' ri|>i,t C nd liberties. Edward was not easily reconciled to
Gloucester, but R- if rd and his son Hal eventually prevailed, and on June 18,
Henry ° ed his capital in triumph. e
That left only Llewelyn ap Gruffydd in rebellion against ft v- e He was braced
for the worst, a full-scale military campaign, no ter given. What he got,
instead, was a peace offer. He sent his uncle ^"pn ap Caradog, to negotiate
with the papal legate at Shrewsbury,'a "^,n
September 25, they came to terms, terms Llewelyn could not have u to better.
op
,*d
Llewelyn had gained some impressive concessions from Sjm Ae Montfort at
Pipton; he now gained concessions of equal magnitun I* m the English Crown.
Henry agreed to recognize Llewelyn as PH T°of Wales, as liege lord to the
other Welsh Princes; not even Llewely pC-vr had soared so high. His conquests
were recognized; no Welsh * ce ever wielded the power he now did, from the
upper waters of th p-^r Taff to the northern shores of the isle of Mon.
If Llewelyn was the winner, the great losers were Edward ann R ^r de Mortimer.
Edward agreed to relinquish all claims to those ft°f"-gputed Welsh cantrefs
known as the Perfeddwlad. Roger de Morti l/s losses were even more sweeping:
Gwerthrynion and his claims t rL*/- cheiniog, Ceri, Cydewain, and possibly
Maelienydd, for while the *, ^v permitted him to build a castle there, it also
stipulated that if Lle f « could establish his claim to it, the cantref would
be his.
Roger de Mortimer had complained loudly and bitterly-. H -« vain. What
interested Llewelyn, though, was why Edward had» <d to this treaty. He knew
England was war-weary, yearning for peace^l^-r so much bloodshed. And the
siege of Kenilworth had been an exo^* t drain upon the royal treasury; Henry
was in dire need of the m & ^ Llewelyn was willing to pledge for peace on his
terms. The papal 1 ^ &
566
and Richard had argued persuasively for conciliation; Henry, as usual,
wavered. But it was Edward who'd tipped the scaleswhy?
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 agejust shy of sixtybut 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 naivete 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 impotentso 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
567
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 Leicesterfor 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."
Grace, 1 your Ion
568
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 ownminus the amusementfor 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?"
Llewelyn almost laughed aloud. Ah, Simon, he thought gleefully, you're proving
to be a right lively ghost. May you haunt Edward till his dying day. It
occurred to him now that this might be an opportunity to do Nell a good turn.
"Whilst we are speaking of the de Montforts, Your Grace, I have a query
regarding the Countess. She'd informed me that your lord father yielded this
spring to the urgings of the French King,
569
and agreed to restore her dower rights in the Pembroke estates, five hundred
pounds a year. And it was my understanding that Bran was to be allowed to
claim his father's lands, with the provision that he must sell them to you or
the King should you so demand. But that was four months ago. May I ask why the
terms have not been fulfilled?"
Edward shrugged. "If de Montfort's friends have not forgotten him, neither
have his enemies," he said, his eyes focusing for a moment upon the Earl of
Gloucester, still holding Edmund captive with an impassioned monologue. "And
the Exchequer is a dry well these days. Then, too, Bran seems loath to trust
my father's word. But it is my hope that we will be able to resume payments to
my aunt ere too much time goes by."
If not in this lifetime, the next, Llewelyn thought skeptically. "The Lady
Nell has met with greater success at the French court. Within the past
fortnight, the French parlement found in her favor, ordered her half-brother,
Hugh de Lusignan, Count of La Marche, to pay her four thousand livres a year,
as her rightful share of her lady mother's Angouleme inheritance."
He had at last startled Edward with news he'd not yet heard. He blinked, and
then grinned. "Did they, by God? Good for Nell!"
Llewelyn was taken aback by Edward's enthusiasm, so obviously unfeigned. It
showed briefly on his face, and Edward's smile turned quizzical. "Why look so
surprised? I never wanted to see my aunt beggared, am right glad that she has
bested my de Lusignan uncle, although it'll be no small feat to squeeze so
much as a sou from that one's clenched fist." He paused, studying Llewelyn
over the rim of his cup. "I am very fond of my aunt," he said, slowly and
deliberately, "and of my cousin Ellen. Their well-being matters to me."
So he'd finally come to it, and it was not the sons at all; it was Ellen.
"Ellen is a sweet lass. Whilst I was being held at Kenilworth, she often wrote
to me, seeking to raise my spirits. I regret that she had to suffer for her
father's sins, and now that she is of an age for marriage she turns fifteen
next monthI've been thinking of the need to find a proper husband for her."
"Have you, indeed?" Llewelyn said coolly. "I rather doubt that the de
Montforts would welcome your interest."
"The fact remains that Ellen's marriage is bound to be of concern to the
Crown. Her position is an awkward one, as I'm sure you'll agree. Her value
upon the English marriage market has been tainted by her father's treason. I
would not want to see her make a match of desperation, to demean herself by
wedding beneath her rank. But neither would I have wanted to see her as
Princess of Wales. I am glad, my lord Llewelyn, that you were prudent enough
to realize how unwise such a marriage would have been."
570
Llewelyn's rage rendered him speechlessfortunatelyfor it was his father's
blood surging in his veins, it was Gruffydd's white-hot hatred that seared to
the very bone, heedless of consequence. By what right did this Englishman dare
to tell a Welsh Prince whom he could or could not many? But his heritage was
not only Gruffydd's passion; it was Llewelyn Fawr's common sense, too, and he
fought back his fury, the urge to fling his wine cup in Edward's face.
Edward was watching him intently. Llewelyn forced himself to meet the younger
man's gaze, to finish his wine, waiting until he was sure that his anger had
iced over, that his voice would reveal nothing of his inner turmoil.
"I am glad we had this chance to talk, for I've a question to put to you. I
was hoping that you could clarify for me a peculiar disparity in your English
justiceor so it seems to Welsh eyes. On the one hand, you have the Earl of
Gloucester, who fought against the Crown at Lewes, and subsequently dared to
defy the Kingand you, my lordby seizing London. His punishment was a full
pardon. Then there are men like John d'Eyvill and Baldwin Wake, who fought for
Simon de Montfort, and after surrendering to you at Bycarrs Dyke four months
after Evesham, they renounced their allegiance again as soon as they were
free. Nicholas Segrave was another who fought at Evesham, survived, and
rebelled once his wounds healed. Yet all these men have been pardoned, given
full seisin of their lands, no?"
Edward nodded. "Sometimes clemency is not only an act of Christian piety," he
said dryly, "but also one of policy."
"But it is an exclusive privilege, your English clemency . . . no? How else
explain that these men have been restored to favor whilst the Mayor of London,
who neither went back on his word nor took up arms against you, still
languishes in a Windsor dungeon?"
Llewelyn saw at once that his thrust had hit home. Edward's jaw muscles
tensed, his fair skin darkening; his eyes of a sudden reflected the wintry,
bleached blue of a December sky. Llewelyn had seen other men look at him as
Edward did now, battlefield foes who'd just crossed swords, taken his measure
as an opponent, returning to the fight with a greater wariness.
"You are more like de Montfort than I realized," Edward said, with a tight
smile. They were both on their feet now, and Edward turned as if to go, then
struck back, still with a smile. "Whilst you are pondering the mysteries of
our laws, my lord Llewelyn, you might think on this. It was English justice
that restored your brother Davydd to his rightful place."
C*S
571
DUSK was smudging the contours of the distant mountains, but Llewelyn could
still see the walls of Montgomery, spreading out to the south of the castle.
It was not a sight to give him pleasure, for Montgomery was an English town on
Welsh soil, chartered by Henry forty years earlier.
After returning to his chamber to prepare for the evening's entertainment,
Llewelyn had given Einion and Goronwy ab Ednyved an account of his midday
conversation with Edward, sparking in his uncle and Seneschal an outrage to
equal his own. Having finally exhausted all the abusive possibilities he could
conjure up to describe Edward, Goronwy rose, but at the door he paused to
deliver a final, cautionary verdict upon the English King's son. "Do not let
your guard down with him, Llewelyn. It sounds to me as if his comments were
intended as more than a condescending pat on the head. I think they were also
meant as a warning."
"I do not doubt it," Llewelyn agreed. "You need not worry, Goronwy. Edward
Plantagenet is no man to hold cheaply. Far better to take him at his own
inflated estimation!"
Goronwy exited, laughing, and Einion rose to pour mead for Llewelyn and
himself. "Edward will not be easy to outwit, ladnot like Henry."
"I'm not worried about outwitting Edward, but about outfighting him. Any man
who could outmaneuver Simon de Montfort"
When the knock sounded, they both assumed that Goronwy had returned. "I wonder
what he forgot," Einion said, starting for the door. As he reached for the
latch, Llewelyn had a sudden premonition, and he swung away from the window
just in time to see his brother framed in the doorway.
Davydd sauntered into the chamber with his usual aplomb. He was, they now saw,
trailed by a castle page, a youngster bearing a tray piled with fragrant
wafers. "Set it down there, lad," he said, and flipped the boy an English coin
before turning toward Einion with a cajoling smile. "I'd gladly ask you to
join us, Uncle, but there are three things best done in privacy: laying with a
wench, confessing to a priest, and bloodletting between brothers."
The corner of Einion's mouth quirked in spite of himself. But it was to
Llewelyn that he looked for confirmation, not withdrawing until the latter
nodded.
"Thank God, you've got mead! They drink naught but noxious ales and sugared
wines in England, as backward a country as I've ever encountered."
Appropriating Einion's cup, Davydd slid the platter across the table. "Help
yourself. The castle cook is Welsh, and he gave me the angel's-bread baked for
Henry. You do not want any?" Strad-
572
dling a chair, he tilted it at a precarious angle to study his silent brother.
"I missed you, Llewelyn. Did you not miss menot even a little? No, I see not.
So much for my fabled charm! And yet you must admit that I can be good
company, for I have a cheerful nature, an inexhaustible supply of bawdy
stories, and more sources for gossip than I can begin to count. I do not mean
stale gossip, either. For example, I'm sure you know that Gloucester is
pressing a lawsuit against his own mother. But do you also know that his
estranged wife is sharing her bed with Edward?"
Davydd paused for breath, took several deep swallows of mead, watching
Llewelyn all the while. "I cannot keep this up forever. For Christ's pity,
Llewelyn, say somethinganything!"
"Is Edward truly coupling with Gloucester's wife?" Llewelyn asked, and Davydd
laughed in relief.
"God's truth! Oh, he's being discreet about it. He always is, for he seems
fond of his wife, does not flaunt his concubines at court. But he has even
more reason for caution this time. Although it would take an act of God to get
Gloucester into Alice's bed again, I'd wager that he expects her to live as
chastely as a nun till the end of her days, and if he ever found out. . .
well, that's something to think about, is it not?"
Reaching for a wafer, Davydd tilted the chair back even farther. "Ere I forget
to ask, how is my daughter doing?"
Llewelyn slowly shook his head. Even after three years, the memory retained
the vivid clarity of utter astonishment. The arrival of Davydd's messenger was
in itself not so great a surprise. Davydd's fortunes had plummeted after
Lewes, and although Llewelyn didn't expect it, it was not inconceivable that
Davydd might swallow his pride, seek a reconciliation. But when the messenger
was ushered into Aber's great hall, it was not an olive branch he bore, but a
green-eyed baby girl.
"Only you," he said, "would have had the gall to send your bastard offspring
to the brother you'd betrayed."
Davydd shrugged. "What else could I do? Maryher motherhad died in childbirth,
and Mary's kin took her in ... as long as I made it worth their while. But
after Lewes, I could not be so free-spending, and they would no longer keep
her. What could I do with a babe? I was on the run, remember! I was not going
to abandon her, for she's of my bloodour blood. Would you have had me deposit
her at de Montfort's door? You were the only one I could think of, Llewelyn."
He leaned forward. "Tell me . . . how fares she? Did you find a family to take
her? Or did you keep her at court?"
"I kept her at court," Llewelyn admitted, and Davydd laughed again.
"I knew you would!"
Davydd's laughter had always been contagious. It came as a shock to Llewelyn,
though, to hear himself laughing, too, as if there were no
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shadows between them. He stopped abruptly, reached across the table, and
grasped Davydd's wrist. "Do you truly think I'd ever be able to trust you
again?"
The question was more than challenging; it was insultingdeliberately so. But
Davydd seemed quite unfazed. "No," he conceded, almost cheerfully, "probably
not. Hellfire, Llewelyn, I doubt if I'd trust me, either!"
By now, Llewelyn was well aware that his brother's smile was a weapon in and
of itself, dangerously disarming. But even so, he was not as immune to its
effects as he would have wished. Releasing the younger man's arm, he said with
sudden bitterness, "I would to God I knew when you were being seriousif you
ever are."
Davydd no longer looked amused. "For what it's worth," he said, "it was not
personal. I never wished you harm, Llewelyn. I wanted only to free Owain and
claim my fair share of Gwynedd."
"Understandable aims; some might even say laudable ones. But you were not very
squeamish about how you achieved them, were you?"
"Because I turned to the English for help?" Davydd set his chair back upon the
floor, with a thud. "Jesu, Llewelyn, if the ends do not justify the means,
what on God's earth does?"
"Honesty at last!"
"I wish you did not sound so surprised. The truth is not an utterly alien
tongue to me, even if I do not get much practice with it." Davydd splashed
more mead into his cup, did the same for Llewelyn. "I must say that you're
taking the return of the Prodigal Brother rather well . . . why?"
"It is not as if you were sprung upon me at the eleventh hour. I expected
Edward to make use of you. Few men are as skilled as he at sowing seeds of
dissension, and with you, Little Brother, he has a readymade Trojan Horse,
does he not?"
"He thinks he does," Davydd said. "So . . . what happens now?"
Llewelyn did not respond at once. "If I had a month to prepare myself for your
return, I had four years to think about your departure, about what you didand
why. Would it surprise you if I said that I could understand?"
"Yesexceedingly."
"Well, I can. There is some justice in your claims,, Davydd . . . and they are
well grounded in Welsh law. I am the one who is in violation of it, not you.
Under the old ways, you and Owain and Rhodri have an equal right to the
governance of Gwynedd."
"Somehow I doubt that you're about to recant, to offer to divide your crown
into four equal portions."
Llewelyn's smile was grim. "You're right; a crown cannot be divided
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without destroying it. And that is true, as well, for a country. Wales must be
kept whole, or England will swallow it all. If that means transgressing the
old laws, so be it. I value Welsh sovereignty higher than Welsh tradition."
"A nicely turned phrase, but where are we going with this conversation? I'm
gratified that you can see my side of things, but it does not sound as if
you're offering anything more tangible than sympathy. So what you're saying,
then, is that we go back to the way it was ere I rebelled, except, of course,
that I'll now be kept on a much tighter leash."
"No, I'm not saying that. If it did not work four years ago, why should it
work now? Our grandfather faced this very same dilemma; he could not resolve
it, either, could find no way to reconcile the claims of his two sons. Our
father died because of that failure. There has to be another way. I do not
want to kill you, Davydd, or to see you shut away from the sun and skylike
Owain. But neither do I want to spend my days wondering how long you'll be
loyal this time."
Davydd was watching him warily. "And have you a solution? If so, you've gone
Merlin one better!"
"Not a solutionnot yet. A possibility. Very simply put, I need an heir. Owain
could no more govern Gwynedd than he could walk on water. But you, Davydd, you
could. God knows, you're clever enough; too clever by half. No one has ever
questioned your courage. All you seem to lack is scruples . . . and that never
excluded any claimants for the English crown. Prove to me that you can be
trusted, and I'll consider naming you as my heir."
"I thought you might dangle a carrot in front of my nose to keep me in
harness. But I never expected such a gilded one. I need a moment to think on
this. Why should you not wed and beget a son? You're only thirty-nine; time is
still your ally."
This next was not easy to admit, but it had to be said, for it alone could
give legitimacy to his offer. "I ought to have had sons by now," Llewelyn said
reluctantly. "In these past twenty years, I've taken my share of women into my
bed, but not a one has ever gotten with child. It may happen yet; I've known
men who fathered children after giving up hope. But if it does not, I would be
willing to give you serious consideration."
"But no promises?"
"None whatsoever. If it be God's Will that I have a son, I shall. But it is
not God's Will that shall determine your future; it is mine."
"That's honest enough, and more than I expected, I admit. We have a pact,
Llewelyn, and you, my lord Prince and brother, have a newly loyal liege man. I
shall seek earnestly to mend my ways, not the first to be seduced by the
golden glimmer of a crown." But beneath the
575
surface sarcasm, there were unmistakable undertones of excitement. Davydd was
raising his cup in a mock salute. "To trust, an admirable virtue I shall be
taking very much to heart. Now . . . what say you that we give Edward a scare
by entering the hall arm in arm, the very image of brotherly devotion?"
Llewelyn burst out laughing. "Damn you, Davydd, but I did miss you." And
Davydd's startled smile would long linger in his memory, for it was utterly
free of mockery, a smile of unguarded and genuine delight.
THE chapel was small, but starkly elegant, its white-washed walls and marble
altar silvered by moonlight, splashed by rose tints filtering through windows
of stained scarlet glass. Llewelyn paused before a stoup of holy water to
bless himself, then raised his lantern and moved into the chancel, with Davydd
following a few steps behind.
Kneeling before the altar, Llewelyn offered up a winged prayer for the soul of
the man he'd most loved, the man who'd entrusted him with a vision, one that
had never burned so brightly as it did in this twilit border church. Rising,
he used his lantern to light a candle for Llewelyn Fawr.
"Who is the candle foryour grandfather?"
Llewelyn nodded. "Our grandfather. I wish you'd known him, Davydd. Llewelyn
Fawrhe well deserved such praise, deserved the title, too. He was in truth the
first Prince of Wales."
Davydd was surprised by the emotion that now surfaced, one closely akin to
envy. For a moment, he wondered what different roads he might have taken if
helike Llewelynhad been following the map bequeathed by Llewelyn Fawr. And
then he shrugged, said flippantly, "If you mean to abdicate, Llewelyn, I'd as
soon you did it in my favor, not a dead man's."
Llewelyn laughed, not taking his eyes from the candle's shimmering, luminous
light. "Ambition alone is dangerous, Davydd, if not coupled with a vision."
"I'd say it is dreams that are dangerous," Davydd objected, only half in jest.
"It was a dream that led to Evesham, was it not?"
Llewelyn turned, dark eyes capturing the candle's glow. "Yes," he said. "But
it was also a dream that led here, to the Treaty of Montgomery." Picking up
his grandfather's taper, he sought to kindle a second candle. The wick
sputtered, but then caught fire, shot upward in a clear white flame.
"In Nomine Dei Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti," Llewelyn said softly. "May
you rest in peace, Simon."
Afte
rwort
w.
WALTER de Cantilupe, Bishop of Worcester, died on February 4, 1266. The other
prelates who had supported Simon de Montfortthe Bishops of London, Lincoln,
Winchester, and Chichesterwere suspended by the Pope, and three of the four
endured years of exile, one dying in Italy, two not returning to England until
King Henry was dead.
The recalcitrant rebels, John d'Eyvill, Nicholas Segrave, and Baldwin Wake,
received royal pardons. Baldwin Wake wed Ha wise de Quincy, Elen and Rob de
Quincy's youngest daughter, before February 1268; their great-granddaughter,
Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent, wed Edward Plantagenet, the Black Prince, and her
son ascended the English throne as Richard II.
Thomas Fitz Thomas, London's memorable Mayor, was kept in prison until April
1269, when he was finally able to gain his freedom upon payment of five
hundred pounds. But his properties had been confiscated, and his sons were
burdened with debt. Fitz Thomas's health suffered during his long
imprisonment; he was dead by 1276. His widow, Cecilia, later married John de
Stepney, a prosperous London fishmonger. Fitz Thomas's colleague, Thomas
Puleston, was not released from prison until 1275; he died within two years.
The subsequent histories of Eleanor (Nell) de Montfort, her children, Edward
Plantagenet, and Llewelyn and Davydd ap Gruffydd will be related in my next
novel.
POPULAR veneration of Simon de Montfort continued into the early years of the
fourteenth century. So strong was public sentiment in Simon's favor, so many
miracles were alleged to have occurred, that it is conceivable he might
eventually have been canonized by the Roman Catholic Church had it not been
for the unrelenting hostility of the English Crown. Simon's son Amaury
succeeded in winning the Pope's support/
577
and Simon's body was reinterred before the High Altar in the abbey of Evesham.
The abbey was demolished in the sixteenth century by Henry
VIII, but in 1965the seven hundredth anniversary of Simon's death
a memorial was erected upon the site of his grave, dedicated by the Speaker of
the House of Commons and the Archbishop of Canterbury. The stone, brought from
Simon's birthplace, Montfort 1'Amaury, was engraved with the words: "Here were
buried the remains of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, pioneer of
representative government . . ."
Author's Note
±~ALLS THE SHADOW was originally intended to
be the shared story of two men, Simon de Montfort and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd.
But I soon discovered that I'd set myself an impossible task, for the scope
and breadth of their lives could not be compressed into
| one volume. My solution was to yield Shadow to Simon, and to devote
I my next book, The Reckoning, to Llewelyn.
1       The very least that can be said of Simon de Montfort's life is that it
* was eventful, often improbable, so much so that I feel I should attest to a
few of the more unlikely occurrences. Simon truly did remind Henry that an
addled French King had been confined for his own good, an insult Henry never
forgave, for twenty years later he could recount Simon's words almost
verbatim. Some of their heated exchanges in the course of Simon's Gascony
trial come straight from the pages of medieval chroniclers; Simon did indeed
dare to warn Henry that, were he not a King, it would have been "an evil hour"
for him. Henry actually did accuse Simon of seducing Nell, a charge made
before Henry's entire court. Simon's contemporaries reported that he wore a
hair shirt, a gesture of piety as natural to the medieval mind as it is alien
to ours. The wild thunderstorm that broke over Evesham field during the battle
was not a novelist's dramatic indulgence. So violent a storm was it that men
invested it with a superstitious significance out of all proportion to an act
of nature; one chronicler even compared it to the tempest that
578
raged over Calvary as Jesus Christ was crucified. And Simon's son Bran did
arrive at the battlefield in time to see his father's head upon a pike.
Although Shadow is my third book, I still find myself torn between two faiths.
The novelist's need for an untrammeled, free-flowing imagination is always at
war with the historian's pure passion for verity. I do try to keep
fact-tampering to a minimum, but it occasionally is necessary in order to
advance the story line. The Welsh Princes met at Ystrad Fflur Abbey in October
of 1238; I changed the date by several weeks to accommodate the birth of Simon
and Nell's son Harry. For the sake of convenience, I referred to Henry's
"Painted Chamber," although that term did not come into use until some years
later. And I chose to call Henry's half-brother, the Earl of Pembroke, by his
family name, William de Lusignan, rather than by the name by which he is
generally known to historyde Valencethat of his birthplace. As in my novel
Here Be Dragons, I used Welsh spellings and place-names wherever possible,
although I chose the slightly Anglicized "Llewelyn" over the pure Welsh of
"Llywelyn," and I used the medieval v for phonetic reasons, as in Davydd and
Ednyved.
It is not easy to resurrect a time so far removed from ours. Wales, in
particular, remains uncharted terrain, for medieval sources were often
incomplete, ambiguous, occasionally in conflict. In dramatizing Davydd ap
Llewelyn's capture of his half-brother, Gruffydd, I have followed the
chronology of the English monk Matthew Paris, rather than that of the Welsh
chroniclers, for the reasons so persuasively set forth by Gwyn A. Williams in
"The Succession to Gwynedd, 1238-47."
History has not been kind to Henry. The consensus is that he was one of
England's most incompetent kings. He did leave a legacy, though, that many a
more capable monarch might well envyWestminster Abbey. And however wretched a
sovereign, he was a loving father. His devotion to his deaf-mute daughter,
Katherine, was atypical for his age, utterly at odds with the bias personified
by Matthew Paris, who dismissed Katherine as "pretty but useless."
This was the first of my books in which I had to deal with the ugly underside
of medieval societythe anti-Semitism that was so pervasive, so poisonous a
part of daily life. I sought to explain how and why people were infected,
making no excuses, but attempting to root this evil in the context of the
thirteenth century.
Lastly, I would like to say a few words about Simon de Montfort. A French-born
English hero, lordly champion of the commons, an honorable adventurer, he
continues to be as controversial and enigmatic and paradoxical a figure in our
time as he was in his own. Men have
573
been arguing about the man, his motivations, and his legacy for the past seven
hundred years. To an admiring Winston Churchill, "de Montfort had lighted a
fire never to be quenched in English history." But the historian Sir F. M.
Powicke, while grudgingly according Simon a certain "murky greatness," also
saw him as a "dark force." Victorian historians in particular tended to
overestimate Simon's contribution to constitutional government, lauding him as
"the father of the English parliament," ascribing to him sentiments and
aspirations no medieval man could have harbored. Simon's admirers and his
critics do find some common meeting ground, all agreeing that Simon was able,
arrogant, courageous, hot-tempered, and charismatic. Opinions then begin to
diverge widely. A saint he most surely was not. For myself, I saw in him
glimmerings of a Shakespearean tragic hero, one doomed by his own flaws.
History's judgment upon Simon de Montfort has been fluid, fluctuating over the
centuries in accordance with prevailing political winds, for each age
interprets the past in the light of its own biases. But the verdict that
lingers in the imagination is that of Simon's contemporaries, the medieval
villagers who flocked to his grave, the steadfast Londoners, the poor and the
powerless who believed in him, who did not forget him.
S.K.P. November 1987
Acknowledgments
A WOULD like to thank the following people, without whose support Shadow might
still be that, a shadowy idea, a mighthave-been book. First and foremost, my
parents, William and Terry Penman. My American editor, Marian Wood of Henry
Holt and cornpany. My American agent, Molly Friedrich of the Aaron M. Priest
Literary Agency. My British editor, Susan Watt of Michael Joseph Ltd. My
580
British agent, MicCheetham of Anthony Shell Associates, Ltd. Valerie LaMont
and JoarStora, who were brave enough to read a manuscript piecemeal. Cris
Keay, my own "fail-safe system" for verifying historical facts, no matter h*
obscure. Geoffrey Arnott, Britain's best battlefield guide. Dr. Edwin
McKnight, who generously acted as my "medical consultant" for Llewelyn Fawr's
cerebrovascular accident. Linda Miller, for all the artistic inspiration. Dave
O'Shea, whose evocative photographs of North Vales have gotten me through more
bouts of writer's block than I care to count. And lastly, I would like to
thank the staffs of the National Library of Wales, the British Library, the
University College of North Wales Library, the research libraries of Evesham,
Shrewsbury, and Bordeaux, the University of Pennsylvania Library, and a
special expression of appreciation to the staff of the Caernarfon Archives for
helping me to pinpoint the site of the battle fought near Bwlch Mawr in 1255.