Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “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 was 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 men—in 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 treated 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 entreated, and Simon leaned back in his chair, glancing toward de Castillon with a sardonic smile.

  “Indeed, Philip. God forbid that I should bleed all over my lord de Castillon’s bedchamber.” He nodded, and his men dragged their outraged prisoner into the stairwell. Suddenly realizing that he could not remember when he’d last slept, Simon made a gesture of dismissal. “I’d 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 Ombrière occupied the east bank of the River Garonne, site of a stronghold since the days of the Roman Empire. The ancient rectangular keep called the Arbalesteyre dated from the eleventh century, had little of the comfort and none of the luxury to which Nell was accustomed. But Ombrière was safe, and that was what mattered to Simon. As he rode through the gatehouse, a cry went up and people 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 knew 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.

  Ombrière’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 the Archbishop mightily.”

  Seeing that she had shocked her husband, too, Nell said defensively, “I know the Church forbids Christians to seek out Jews for healing, but in truth, I did not care! I would even have turned to an infidel Saracen doctor, had I thought he could save Joanna. But she died…died ere we could find him.”

  Her hand had clenched upon the edge of the coffin, whitened to 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…’ ” Nell had begun to tremble, but she had no more tears to shed. “I could do 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 ch
apel, for they had never seen their father weep before.

  20

  ________

  Bordeaux, Gascony

  April 1252

  ________

  Nell was dictating a letter to her scribe when Simon returned to Ombrière. 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 far?”

  “About the latest troubles with Henry. I told him that when we returned to England at Christmas, you offered again to resign your command, asking only that Henry reimburse you for your expenses, but Henry refused to pay, in clear violation of your agreement!” Three months later, echoes of indignation still colored Nell’s voice. “I told Bishop Robert that even Henry’s Queen was disquieted by his duplicity. 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 Rocelin 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…lie 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 of 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 the 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, now that her love affair with Llewelyn of Wales has become common knowledge.”

  “What?” Simon relaxed again, lay back in her lap. “You caught me out,” he confessed. “I was not listening. But I was thinking of you…and this babe. Do you remember, Nell, what I vowed on our wedding night? That I would keep you close, that I would keep you content, and that 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 you—most 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? Jesú, 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 Lion, 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 you faithfully; no man dares say otherwise. So why, then, does my word count for less with you?”

  Henry’s head came up. “If your innocence is so evident, my lord, why fear an inquiry? Indeed, your fame should shine all the brighter for it.”

  And after that, there was nothing more to say.

  “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 my 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. My 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 Ombrière 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?”