Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  A knight afoot was not likely to survive for long. He’d have to find a loose horse, and fast. He turned back toward the battlefield, stopped abruptly at the sight of the men. They stopped no less suddenly, taking in the graphic scene before them: the two men sprawled in the grass, the dead horse, the blood still wet on Simon’s sword. “Do not mind us,” the first one said. “We’re but passing by!” Giving Simon a very wide berth, they headed for the body of his horse, where they crouched, sought to pry the ivory cantle from the saddle.

  Simon watched them wearily, too tired to object. Sheathing his 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 was as good as his word, returned shortly thereafter leading a blood-streaked bay.

  Simon and Will could catch no glimpse of the royal arms of England. But they did see a banner flying the silver-crowned lion of Richard of Cornwall, and beneath it they found not only Richard, but John Mansel. Mansel had just murmured a prayer over a dying soldier, all the while clutching a morning-star mace, the favorite weapon of warrior-priests seeking to evade the Church’s stricture against “smiting with the edge of the sword.” Under his kettle hat, his face was grey with fatigue, but the 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, heavy-lidded, 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 shoulder 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 it 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 he bade them fetch verjuice, pour it over the injury. Blood was oozing out again, and they would have torn a perfectly good pillow cover into bandages had Simon not tossed them his bloodied shirt, suggested they make do with that. Now that he was stripped to the waist, they could see the ugly bruises spreading across his ribs, discoloring rapidly, and they began to argue as to which salve could best ease their lord’s discomfort. Simon slumped back in his chair, closed his eyes. After a time, a wine cup was pressed into his hand; he glanced up, saw Peter de Montfort smiling down at him.

  “Men are talking of your exploits, Simon. You gained glory for yourself this day.”

  “But alas, not so much as a farthing of ransom money,” Simon said 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 defend Saintes had been an impulsive one, the response of raw pride. The reaction of his barons was so adverse, though, so resistant that he’d begun to have second thoughts. To a man—his cousin Will, his brother Richard, the Earls of Winchester and Norfolk, the young Earl of Gloucester, Hugh de Lusignan, even John Mansel—they insisted that the town was indefensible, so vehemently that Henry f
ound himself wondering if they might be right. But he’d staked out a position for himself, did not 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, “You 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.”

  The ensuing silence was an uncomfortable one for Henry. However much he sought to feign indifference, he could not be impervious to their disapproval. Their criticism rankled, and their doubts were contagious. He moved toward the table, gestured for Mansel to pour from the flagon. His was the right of command. So why must he have to argue for the obedience that was his due? But what if he was wrong, if Saintes could not be held?

  When the door opened suddenly, Henry felt a flicker of relief at sight of Simon. He’d put it to Simon, let Simon persuade him—reluctantly—that they should retreat. None could fault him for paying heed to Simon’s advice, for even Mansel admitted that Simon was a brilliant battle commander. He smiled at his brother-in-law, said, “It is my belief that we ought to make our stand here, at Saintes. But I value your opinion, Simon. Tell us what you think.”

  “Why not show you?” Simon said, so curtly that Henry’s smile faded. There was a chessboard on the table. Simon strode toward it, picked up one of the ivory chess pieces. “We have here the King of England,” he said, and Will sat up straight in his chair, for Simon had selected the pawn. Henry noticed that, too, and color began to rise in his face. Simon reached next for the wine flagon. Flipping up the lid, he poured red wine onto the hearth. By now the silence was absolute, all eyes riveted upon him. “The city of Saintes.” He dropped the pawn into the flagon. “The English King has taken up position. The French King then acts—thusly.” 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 down the hearth stones. “How dare you speak to me like that! I find this little game of yours highly insulting. Disagree with me if you will, but by God, you’ll show me the respect due me, as your King!”

  “Even the Almighty has been known to anoint a fool. The French were once cursed with a King so foolish he was known as Charles the Simple. He finally had to be confined for his own good.” Simon heard Henry gasp, but he continued on, relentlessly. “Your chambers at Windsor Castle have barred windows to ward off assassins, but I expect they could be put to other use if need be.”

  Henry found it almost impossible to believe that anyone would dare to speak so contemptuously to him. “I…I never heard such wild talk! Are you threatening me?”

  “You did ask for my opinion,” Simon said harshly. “Now you have it.” He felt no remorse, but his anger had peaked, leaving him suddenly drained, sapped of all emotion, his an exhaustion both of body and soul. He was turning away when Henry grabbed his arm.

  “Damn you, de Montfort, get back here! You’ll go nowhere till I give you leave!”

  Simon swung around, wrenching free of Henry’s hold. But Henry had already recoiled; he was staring down at his hand. Will had risen in alarm. He, too, now saw the darkening splotch along the sleeve of Simon’s tunic.

  Henry’s eyes at last shifted from his bloodied palm, up to Simon’s face. “Men died for you this day,” Simon said, and when Henry did not speak, he turned, walked from the chamber.

  No one else moved. After an interminable time, Henry crossed to the table, moving like a man in a daze. There he splashed wine onto a napkin, scrubbed until his hand was clean.

  “Get out,” he said. “All of you, get out!”

  One by one, they did.

  The 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 plight. 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 Adam?” Rob asked softly, and Simon nodded.

  Rob had heard that the French King had sought a brief truce so both sides could recover their dead and wounded. “What are his chances, Simon?”

  “The doctor says that he is in God’s hands.” Simon’s eyes were deeply circled, shadowed with weariness, 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. It was just past sunrise, and the grass still glistened with night dew. The sky was a softly shaded blue, fleeced with wisps of cotton-white clouds.

  Rob had joined them; they stood for several moments breathing in the familiar scents of a summer dawn. “At least he did change his mind, Simon. At least he did listen.”

  Simon’s mouth twisted. He said nothing. Church bells were sounding; Morrow Mass was about to begin.

  At Pons, Hugh de Lusignan slipped away; two days later, he and Isabelle humbly submitted to the French King. So did most of Henry’s Poitevin allies.

  Henry moved on to Barbezieux, where a French crusader ransomed by Richard in the Holy Land sent a warning that the French meant to 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 fled 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 Périgord.” 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 forgive 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, but gossip has it that the Queen was responsible for Henry’s change of heart. Is there truth to that?”

  Nell nodded. “For once the gossips do speak true. Eleanor did not want to see Gascony go to Richard, felt it should be part of her son’s patrimony.”