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As royal steward, Rod was trying to maintain order amid mayhem. They had brought back so many horses that once the castle and cathedral grounds were filled, he had no choice but to direct them into the graveyard. The dog-tired men could sleep on the gravestones, and there was plenty of grass for their horses to crop. When he saw the beautiful female in emerald green, with her golden hair tumbling about her shoulders, mounted on the huge black stallion, he was momentarily thunderstruck. "Rosamond? Rosamond!"
She heard her name over the pandemonium, and saw him immediately. He was off his horse in a flash, lifting her down in protective arms. "What the devil are you doing among these rough soldiers? Is it the baby?"
"No, no, he's fine. Oh, Rodger, thank God you are not dead . . . thank God you are not wounded!" She always forgot how compelling his physical presence was. The impact of it was stunning. She clung to him, seeking the strength he exuded. "Rodger, please forgive me for doubting you?" she beseeched. "My darling, I want you to know, you have all my trust, all my love!"
His powerful hand stroked her wildly disheveled hair, and he offered up a silent prayer of thanks that she loved him enough to forgive him. His arms enfolded her possessively. "Sweetheart, were you not terrified of this brute of a stallion?"
She shook her head impatiently. "I had to get here to warn you. Simon de Montfort and the baronial army are crossing the Avon at Per-shore!"
"My love, that's impossible. First he has to cross the Severn."
"Rodger, I swear it on my life! I saw them with my own eyes!"
He held her at arm's length and looked down into those lovely violet eyes that were imploring him to believe her. Then he glanced up at the black stallion she had ridden, and his doubt vanished. Rosamond had not only risked her life, she had done more, she had overcome one of her deepest fears to bring him this message. Moreover, it proved that she had finally taken sides in the conflict that tore England apart, and the side she had chosen was his! He swept her up in powerful arms, mounted Stygian, and grabbed the reins of the horse she had ridden. "Come on, my brave beauty, we had better find Edward."
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Twenty-eight
Worcester's Great Hall was packed shoulder to shoulder with men who were eating for the first time in almost three days. The trestle tables had been stacked against the walls to make more room for the hungry horde. Even Lord Edward and his lieutenants up on the dais, still clad in their leathers and hauberks, ate where they stood.
Edward, in a jubilant mood from his resounding victory, hailed Rod and his beautiful wife. One huge hand held a whole haunch of venison, and the other, a quart jug of ale. "I am ravenous! Forgive my manners, Rosamond, though I know you believe princes have none!" He grinned at Rod. "You lucky devil, how I wish my Eleanora were close enough to welcome me home from battle!"
"My lord, she has ridden hell-for-leather to warn us that Simon de Montfort's army is crossing the Avon at Pershore."
Edward waved the half-devoured hindquarter. "That's impossible, he hasn't yet crossed the Severn. Gilbert would have detected such a large movement of troops."
Rosamond was aghast. "Gilbert is a boy of sixteen!"
"When your husband here was sixteen, he was a full-grown man capable of command, make no mistake."
Rod frowned. "With four thousand Gloucester men-at-arms under his banner, Gilbert should have prevented the barons from crossing the River Severn into England."
"Bones of Christ! Owen, find me Gilbert de Clare on the double; if that miserable redheaded miscreant has been sleeping while we've been defeating the bloody barons, I'll have his balls!" Edward continued his tirade. "I've been gone only three days. Three fucking days to march to Kenilworth, defeat the barons, and march back to Worcester with their
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horses and banners! He has four thousand men at his command, yet it takes one female to bring me the news I need!"
Edward dispatched scouts immediately and ordered his lieutenants to the map room for a council of war. "Warn your soldiers to be ready to march again," he told them.
Rodger de Leyburn beckoned his squire, then turned to Rosamond. "Griffin will see you safely back to Pershore. I would sell my soul for an hour alone with you, chérie; I love you more than life!" Tenderly he brushed back the tangled tresses from her brow and touched his lips to hers. Then his mouth sought her ear and he whispered, "I kiss your heart, Rosamond."
She wanted to cling to him and beg him to take care of himself. Neither he nor his men had had any sleep in days, yet the battle of a lifetime awaited him. Rosamond knew she must be strong, knew she must convince her husband that she believed in his invincibility, though dread for him coiled inside her belly. She did not dare to say goodbye, for fear she would never see him again. Instead, she gave him a radiant smile and told him something she knew would bring him happiness. "I've decided our son's name will be Rodger!"
He looked jubilant. "You honor me, my love."
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Lord Edward conferred with Mortimer, whose Welsh scouts had just given him the unwelcome news that the baronial army had crossed the River Severn at Kempsey, only four miles south of Worcester. It was obvious that Simon's spies had informed him the moment Edward had taken his troops north. The prince strode to the map table and fixed Gilbert with a piercing stare.
"Three days ago, when I marched my men to Kenilworth, Mortimer's Welsh spies informed me that Simon de Montfort's army was winding its weary way toward Hereford. I withdrew my entire army, believing your force of four thousand was an adequate deterrent to the barons. Today I have irrefutable information that not only has de Mont-fort crossed the River Severn, but the Avon as well. Explain yourself, Gilbert!"
As Rodger de Leyburn listened to the cutting words, he recognized the deadly dangerous tone of Edward's voice. Young Gilbert might have
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a fiery temper, but Rod knew the sparks de Clare could generate would soon be smothered by the conflagration of the infamous Plantagenet fury, should the prince unleash it.
Gilbert, his face flushed as bright as his hair, complained, "Since I do not speak Welsh, Mortimer's informants would not deal with me! They showed nothing but contempt for my youth."
"They are paid to spy, not kiss the arse of our arrogant English earls. But do not despair, Gilbert, I will give you every chance to make amends for your shortcomings, and for your youth!"
John de Warenne and Rodger de Leyburn were studying the map on the table before them. "By crossing at Pershore, Simon de Montfort has revealed where the barons will make their stand," de Warenne said decisively.
"It is Evesham, my lord, nothing could be more certain," de Ley-burn confirmed. As Edward bent his head over the map, Rod drew his finger in a straight line across the Severn and Avon rivers to Evesham.
Edward raised his eyes to Mortimer. "What numbers?"
"Four thousand, tired, hungry, and badly equipped. No more than two hundred mounted barons and knights; the rest are foot soldiers, except a few hundred Welsh archers Llewelyn grudgingly supplied."
"Counting the men of Gloucester, we have more than twice their number; five hundred mounted knights, and enough horses to mount another three or four hundred armed men," Rodger confirmed.
"With such an overwhelming advantage, our men will be able to snatch a few hours' sleep," Bassingbourne concluded with relief.
Edward's fist smote the map table. "They can sleep when they're dead! Battles are won with fury and speed! If we delay until morning, it could give young Simon de Montfort time to gather the forces we scattered, and ride to his sire's aid."
Rodger de Leyburn looked down at his hands and wondered if his act of mercy in sparing young Simon would come back to haunt him.
"Sound the trumpets," Edward ordered. "Close your ears to their bitching and complaining. If you've trained them well, your men will fall into line. Before dusk falls, I want them on the road leading to the Vale of Evesham. I will now listen to your suggestions f
or strategy."
Most of his lieutenants voiced their ideas for achieving the maximum
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military impact, while Gilbert de Clare maintained a wise silence. When they were done, Edward grinned for the first time since entering the war room. "I said I'd listen; I didn't say I would use your suggestions." His jest broke the tension that had been steadily building to an unbearable pitch. "I want two flying wings to prevent our enemy's escape. Mortimer, you will take two thousand Marcher barons to the east and plant yourself astride the road to London. Gilbert the Red, you will take your wing of two thousand Gloucester men-at-arms to the west and make sure the enemy does not retreat back across the River Avon. I will lead the rest of my lieutenants, with their force of five thousand, and drive head-on into the baronial army."
"Simon de Montfort must know our numbers. He will be feeling downcast and desperate at the moment," Lincoln de Warenne surmised.
"Never think it for a moment," Edward said. "He is a veteran warlord who has emerged victorious from every battle he ever fought. He knew we withdrew, and no doubt guessed it was to fight his son's army. He is moving with such expediency because he hopes to reach the other baronial force and unite them. He has no idea we vanquished them and returned so quickly; Simon de Montfort would never march into the jaws of a victorious enemy."
"I wholly agree with Edward," Rodger de Leyburn said. "Simon de Montfort is an inspired and daring general with a valiant heart; he is also shrewd, devious, and ruthless. He believes in his cause, and above all he believes in himself! He is never downcast or despairing before a battle; make no mistake, this will be the fight of our lives."
It took a monumental effort by Lord Edward and all of his lieutenants to organize the massive undertaking, but by the time dusk fell, the entire royal army was on its way to Evesham. In the middle of the night, they arrived at the juncture where the two winged divisions must separate from the main body of the army. Edward called a last, brief council of war, gathering his lieutenants about him to give them their final orders, then he turned to Rodger. "Did you bring the thirteen baronial banners we captured at Kenilworth?"
Rodger de Leyburn had known all night that the question would come; Edward was far too shrewd to forget about the banners.- He
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would allow nothing to stand in his way. He was prepared to do anything or sacrifice anyone to achieve his goal. Rod set aside any repulsion he felt. "Aye, my lord, I brought the banners."
"Give them to the flag bearers to hoist before us in the vanguard. This allows us to add the element of surprise; our enemy will think we are the baronial army come to aid them."
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The day dawned darkly as black clouds obliterated the sunrise. Thunder rumbled overhead, awakening the baronial men-at-arms, who had barely had time to drop to the ground for a much-needed sleep. When Edward's army came over Green Hill on the northern side of the town, Simon de Montfort's scouts mistook it for the baronial army and gave the news to their leader that his son had at long last arrived. Hope and joy, however, turned to alarm and desperation as the deception was discovered.
As the barons scrambled to throw on their chain mail and accoutre themselves with weapons, a scout brought de Montfort the news that Mortimer's forces blocked any retreat to the east. Simon summoned his lieutenants, along with two of his sons, Henry and Guy. "It is possible that Edward has positioned himself between our two armies to keep us separated," he told the men. "Our best chance is to form a wedge and drive up the hill into their center, break through the enemy's line, and hope we find our allies awaiting us on the other side."
"Why don't we retreat back across the River Avon?" Henry cried with alarm, seeing the royalist army spread across an area fifteen hundred yards wide, with double their baronial fighting force.
"Just as he has deployed forces to the east, Edward will of a certainty be blocking the west. His strategy will be flawless; he learned it from me." Simon de Montfort mounted the destrier his squire brought forward, unsheathed his broadsword, and led his men into battle.
The very first attack drove into Edward's forces hard, in the center of the line of troops. The impact of the flying wedge shocked but did not break through the line. Instead, the line of Edward's troops bent and closed in on each side of the barons, surrounding them, trapping them.
Above the soldiers, lightning flashed and thunder roared, melding 307
with the horrific sounds of battle, drowning out the cries of mortally wounded men and the screams of terrified, maddened horses. The most furious fighting was centered among the mounted knights of both armies. There was no time for any man to do aught but protect his body with his shield and, at the same time, slaughter his enemy with his weapon. The blow of battle-ax, the jab of pike, the swing of mace, the stab of spear, and the thrust of sword took their terrible toll on flesh, and muscle, and sinew.
Blood was everywhere, the crimson sight of it, the sticky feel of it, the metallic smell of it, and the salty taste of it. Blood splattered, sprayed, spilled, bubbled, oozed, gushed, and flowed. The ground, littered with fallen weapons, horses, and men, became drenched and soaked with blood, vomit, piss, and entrails, all churned into foul, slimy, dark-red mud by the frenzied, trampling hooves of the warhorses.
Edward swung his broadsword with the unflagging strength of a colossus. His reach was longer, his energy greater, his will to win stronger than any other warrior at the Battle of Evesham. Rodger de Leyburn, fighting at Edward's side, saw the prince's destrier sink to its knees and roll on its side. Edward was out of the saddle in a flash, and so was Rodger. He handed Edward Stygian's reins, but did not wait for him to mount. Instead, he turned and took Griffin's horse. That horse lasted an hour, then went down beneath him, mortally wounded. Again he turned, but this time his squire was nowhere in sight and Rodger was forced to fight on foot. The arm that held his shield became so numbed, he could no longer feel the blows it took. The ache in his sword arm spread up through his shoulder and down his back. He began to stagger on legs that now trembled with muscle fatigue.
A huge destrier caught Rodger's attention. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and saw Simon de Montfort mounted on its back. The great warlord at the height of his powers was such an impressive sight that for one moment Rodger doubted that Edward would be able to prevail against such a formidable foe. Rod banished the thought immediately and gave all his attention to dispatching any of the enemy foolish enough to come directly into his path.
The battle went on for hours, but slowly, gradually, inevitably, the larger royal army gained on the smaller baronial force. Then, when
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Mortimer and Gloucester realized there was no chance for the enemy to flee, they brought in their forces to fight. Edward's mounted knights and foot soldiers decimated Simon's army, then they ravaged, and finally vanquished their enemy. As the dark clouds rolled away and the sun came out, Edward's men raised their heads and saw there were no combatants left to fight. The entire baronial forces were either dead, wounded, or begging for mercy and surrendering their weapons.
Edward, still astride Stygian, picked his way through the carnage and slowly realized the only men left standing were his own. He saw Rodger de Leyburn, who had been fighting on foot, and urged the horse toward him. Edward had a stunned look on his face as he slowly dismounted and looked dazedly at his friend.
"Do you know what this means?" Rodger cried.
"I won," Edward croaked.
Rodger raised his sword on high and roared, "Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory!"
"Splendor of God, I won!" Edward cried, throwing his arms about Rodger and lifting him into the air. All about them the cheering and the tumult were deafening as victorious men-at-arms suddenly realized the battle was over and they had won the day!
The battle fever soon subsided in the two men and was replaced by compassion for their foes whom they had so thoroughly defeated. They called for fresh horses and, with their squ
ires, traversed the battlefield, searching for their own wounded men while at the same time doing a cursory tally of the losses from both sides. When they came across young Guy de Montfort, who was badly wounded, Edward ordered that he be carried from the field and his injuries tended without delay. When they discovered the body of Henry de Montfort, tears came to Edward's eyes for his boyhood companion.
John de Warenne's joy in victory soon turned to sorrow when he found that his brother Lincoln had been slain. They met him as he carried his brother's body from the field. "Blood of God, Lincoln has two young children—if one of us had to die, why wasn't it me?"
Rodger de Leyburn said the only thing he could. "You must be their father now, John."
There was a crowd of Mortimer's men gathered about the spot
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where the body of Simon de Montfort had fallen. Their bloodlust was still high for the earl whom they had long hated, and they were in the process of dismembering his corpse when Edward and Rodger came upon the vengeful, senseless savagery. Both men recoiled with horror when they saw Simon's severed head. "Hold!" Edward commanded. "Stand back on penalty of death!"
Mortimer realized he had aroused the wrath of the Plantagenet who would now rule England. "My lord, they thirst for vengeance," he explained.
"I will never condone barbarity! Rodger, see that the great warlord's body is collected and prepared for burial. We will take him ourselves to Evesham Abbey and see that his bones are decently laid to rest."
Bassingbourne rode up to Edward to make his report. "My lord, of the one hundred and sixty barons and knights who stood with Simon de Montfort, only twelve are alive."
Edward crossed himself. "May God's grace have mercy on their souls. There will be no more blood spilled over what happened today at Evesham; no prisoner will be executed—let it be known that I stand for moderation and leniency."
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