Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Simon paused for breath, pleased by how attentive his audience had become; even Will looked impressed. Having just coolly laid out a plan for the annihilation of Wales, he now confessed, “But to be honest, I hope it never comes to that, for I would rather befriend the Welsh than destroy them.”

  Humphrey gasped, his outrage at such heresy so obvious that Simon laughed. “I know,” he conceded. “I might feel differently had I lands in Wales; I admit as much. But the fact is that neither Nell nor I have holdings in the Marches, just a manor or two in Worcestershire, and so I can afford to be objective. I have no grievances with the Welsh. I 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 was a way to curb his influence in England!”

  Will burst out laughing, but Humphrey and Peter were not amused. Peter winced visibly. “Jesú, 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 mind 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 wine, 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 estuary—on 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 speech. “Tell the King and Earl Richard,” he instructed de Grey, then glanced back at Will. “I have not even unpacked yet,” he said wearily.

  Hastening down to the estuary, Simon and Will saw that de Grey and Buscell had not exaggerated the ship’s plight. The Welsh had been keeping Deganwy under constant surveillance, and they were not slow to take 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 approach the ship from the landward side. Some had already succeeded in boarding the crippled vessel, were scuffling with the ship’s crew. The English 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 superiority 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 that it was deceptive, that all around them were wary, watching eyes. The autumn trees of oak and birch, the thickets of aspen and hedges of hawthorn provided an impenetrable shield for the denizens of these deeply shadowed, dangerous woods: stoats, weasels, foxes, deer, rabbits brought over by the Normans for their sport, deadly and unpredictable wild boar, wolves that no longer roamed English hills—and waiting Welsh bowmen?

  Their great helms might deflect a lance, but they limited vision, too. Simon was acutely aware that he could be leading his men into a lethal trap. He estimated that they’d covered about two leagues in this mad plunge of theirs, which put them two leagues too far into the enemy’s 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, “and it is telling me that we’re doing just what the Welsh want us to do. I think we’d best get back to the ship.”

  Will needed no convincing. “Right gladly. A soothsayer once promised 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 cooperate closely with the Welsh Princes. Men began to mutter about gold, to swap stories of abbots who lived like fine lords. Soon they were ransacking the Abbot’s house, the guest hall, the monks’ dorters, wherever they thought they might find coins, silver plate, jeweled rings. The monks had so far offered no resistance, but then a few soldiers drunker or bolder than their fellows forced the church doors, sought to steal from God. An outraged monk tried to stop them; his body was later found crumpled in the shadow o
f the marble tomb of Llewelyn Fawr. No one seemed to know who set the first fire. But by the time Simon and Will came upon the scene, most of the abbey buildings were in flames, and the garth was filled with smoke, with gleeful looters no longer 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 to 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 cinders. One eye was blackened, swollen shut, but the other blazed with feverish fury. Looking past Simon to a soldier brandishing one of the abbey’s cherished chalices, he cried, “God smite you English for this! May He curse you one and all, shrivel your crops in the field, dry up your wells, strike down your firstborn sons just as He destroyed the sons of Egypt! May He—”

  Simon crossed himself, backed away. He was too stubborn to concede defeat, though. Long after another man would have given up, he still sought to turn the tide, swearing and shouting at soldiers too drunk to listen, even striking about him with the flat of his sword. What at last brought him to his senses was not Will’s plea to “let it lie,” but the sudden heat upon his face.

  “The wind has shifted, Will!” He gestured toward the burning bakehouse, at the sparks and cinders swirling up into the darkening sky. “Unless we have men sober enough to fight the fire, it’ll spread to the church. We’ve got to get back to the camp.”

  When they reached the river, they saw that the Irish supply ship was now safely in English hands. But the beach was littered with bodies. Simon recognized the coat of arms on a surcoat still 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 all its occupants into the river, Simon exclaimed,

  “We’ve got to go back for them!” When Will protested, voicing the opinion of them all that the whoresons deserved to drown, Simon gestured toward one of the floundering men. “That is Humphrey de Bohun,” he said, and ordered his reluctant oarsmen to row toward the sinking flatboat.

  Humphrey had kept enough wit to abandon his great helm, but he was still weighed down by thirty pounds of chain-mail, and he clung desperately to the side of the boat, measuring his life in minutes until he heard Simon’s shout. He managed to tread water just long enough to grasp an outstretched oar, was hauled, gasping and choking, into their boat. They plucked a few fortunate others from the river, too, before their own craft began to lurch dangerously. Abandoning the others to their fate, they rowed rapidly for the far shore.

  The cries of dying men followed them, carried clearly across the water. 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 motivation—outrage—for 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 in 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 thudded into the stern of their boat. Behind them, the sun sank into the sea, and darkness descended upon the vale of Conwy.

  From Deganwy’s battlements, Henry had an unobstructed view of the river estuary—and the abbey. In the soft light of dawn, the devastation was even more dreadful than Henry had anticipated. Some of the buildings still smoldered and the church was smoke-blackened; down on the beach, he could see bodies, stiffened in the ungainly sprawl of death. He had never seen a sight so sad. He leaned over the parapet, not moving until Simon joined him on the walkway. They stood in silence for a time, gazing across at the abbey ruins. The sun was rising over 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 mournful
ly, “to 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 before dawn. No soldier with any sense ever looked forward to service in Wales, a land without towns or villages, a poor place to plunder, to find women, but an easy place to die. Yet rarely had a campaign been so wretched as this one, and as the days grew shorter, as snow began to appear on the heights of Eryri, scarcely a soul in Henry’s encampment—save Henry himself—believed that this was a war he could win.