“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 lodge here at Everswell, and they treat each other with perfect courtesy…”
“Indeed. But that courtesy is like the ice that glazes over a winter pond. It obscures what is truly happening beneath the surface, and a man ventures out upon it at his own risk.”
Llewelyn gave her a searching, sideways glance. “You are fond of Simon.”
“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
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Westminster, England
January 1251
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Epiphany was by tradition a day of great festivity at the English court. But this year’s celebration seemed sadly lacking in splendor to Eleanor. So hard-pressed was Henry for money that he’d even refrained from giving the members of his household their customary gifts of Christmas clothing, a humiliating economy for so luxury-loving a King. To Eleanor, who was no less extravagant than her spendthrift husband, his new-found frugality was particularly galling during the holiday season.
“Henry has so generous a nature; I know it vexes him to deny us the comforts we deserve. But his priorities are skewed. He still manages 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 had a perfectly adequate church, Sanchia. There was truly no need for Henry to assume such an awesome undertaking. His masons have been laboring 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 curbed 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 least 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?”
“Six, I think.” Eleanor paused, counting on her fingers. “Harry and Bran and Guy and Amaury, that’s four. Then she had a fifth son, Richard, two springs ago, after she’d accompanied Simon to Gascony. And her lass, Joanna, was born last June. I have to agree, Sanchia; she’s luckier than she deserves. But her children are a likable lot, nonetheless. The older boys have been my Edward’s companions since their cradle days, and—Speaking of babes, I almost forgot to tell you! Henry’s niece, Elen de Quincy, has been brought to bed of her third, another lass, sad to say.”
“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 been 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 Bishop—that 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 journey—horses 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 reached the dais, and she found a sweet smile for Henry, a spurious one for his brothers, Aymer and William de Lusignan. She did not have long to endure their company, however, for within moments Richard was moving toward them.
“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 well-lathered 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 come before him like this, u
nshaven, 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 Béarn, in alliance with the lords of Fronsac and Albret and Bordeaux’s powerful del Soler family.
Henry’s dismay found expression in angry reproach. “Jesú, 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 Béarn 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 Béarn 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, more treacherous than Judas? Henry, how could you be so trusting? Gaston de Béarn is my kinsman, too, for he wed the daughter of my brother’s widow. But had he been my very brother, I’d not have winked at his crimes. I’d have hanged him higher than Haman, and had you done that, this rebellion would never have happened.”
“Whether I erred or not in pardoning Gaston, it is done and beyond recall. 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 deny—upon 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 town—ask 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 is 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 power, waited in vain.
Henry was frowning. Once, years ago, Henry had summoned a Jewish rabbi to his court, demanded of the man why so few Jews came to the conversion houses he had set up throughout the country. Henry had wanted to know why the Jews were so loath to convert to the True Faith, why they shunned salvation, and he had listened intently, if uncomprehendingly, as the rabbi spoke of Yahweh, the God of Israel. Neither Simon nor Henry had been able to understand why people should cling so obstinately to a false faith, but it seemed to Simon now that the look upon Henry’s face was the same as upon the day he’d confronted the aged rabbi, his the baffled expression of one encountering an alien philosophy, a creed both mysterious and menacing.
“I am King by God’s Will,” Henry said slowly, “not by the approval 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 mêlée 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, not next to Simon, the last man in Christendom he wanted to look up to. “I am not defending the del Solers, Simon,” he said, in a more conciliatory tone. “I seek only to find out all the facts. From what I’ve heard, that rioting in Bordeaux was bloody, indeed; I know some of your own household knights died in the fray. But the del Solers claim that you did favor the Coloms from the very first. Is that true?”
Simon nodded. “Yes, I did. Shall I tell you why? Because the Coloms are wine merchants, dependent upon trade with England. They have a vested interest, therefore, in maintaining close ties with the Crown. Whereas the del Solers are no longer engaged in trade, and they have allied themselves with the local lords, with outlaw barons like Raimond, Viscount of Fronsac. Can you find fault with my reasoning?” he demanded, and when Henry reluctantly shook his head, he followed Henry to the hearth.
“I did not seek the office of Seneschal. This was a burden you thrust upon me, Henry. I had taken the cross, was about to depart for the Holy 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 Béarn, 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 betra
yed 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 corner. 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 the rebellion.”
That was not the answer Simon had wanted. “So be it, then,” he agreed, sounding so weary that Henry finally noticed just how utterly exhausted he looked.
“Good Lord, Simon, did you sleep at all on your way from Dover? You truly should get some rest. But first, stay and sup with us. We’re having a special mummery, a pageant about St George slaying the dragon.”
Simon mustered up a smile. “Thank you, but no. Right now I seek only a bath and then a bed, for I depart at dawn for Kenilworth, where I hope to raise additional moneys by selling some of my forests. And then, of course, I want to visit His Grace, the Bishop of Lincoln; Nell 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.
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