“Simon, do not do this,” she pleaded. “Do not let him goad you into going back.”
“What would you have me do, Nell, just walk away? What of the debts I owe? You well know what it cost me to garrison those castles, to hire men-at-arms. Would you have me beggar myself on Henry’s account?” Adding ominously, “And I do have some scores to settle in Gascony.”
Nell knew it was futile to argue further, but she would have persisted, nonetheless. Just then, however, their son Harry appeared in the doorway.
“Papa…” He came forward hesitantly, keeping his eyes imploringly on Simon. “Papa, take me. Take me with you when you go back to Gascony.”
Simon looked at the boy, and then nodded. “All right,” he said, and Harry let out a jubilant yell, which echoed eerily in the vast, empty chamber.
Nell bit back a cry of her own, one of protest. In just five months, Harry would be fourteen; it was time he began his schooling as a squire. Nor could he have a better teacher than his father. But it would be hard to let him go. It would be hard to let them both go, for she and Simon had decided that if he returned to Gascony, she would wait out her pregnancy at Sutton, her manor in Kent. Now, faced with the prospect of losing both her husband and son, thinking of the lonely nights she faced, thinking of the uncertainty, the fears for Simon’s safety, she could not blink back the tears, hot, angry tears that streaked her face and startled her husband and son, for she was not a woman who easily wept.
Simon’s “Nell?” and Harry’s “Mama?” echoing in her ears, she shook her head impatiently, backed away from them. “Damn Henry!” she cried. “Damn him to everlasting Hell!”
Harry was delighted when Simon summoned him to La Réole. Harry had fretted all summer long, watching his father’s war from the safety of Bordeaux. But La Réole’s castle had been repeatedly besieged by the rebels, and Harry was hopeful that it might come under attack again. Since his arrival, he’d passed many happy hours prowling the battlements of the round towers, peering down at the River Garonne and envisioning himself the hero of an enemy assault. But on this rainy afternoon in early September, the weather confined him to the keep, and once his chores were done, he wandered about restlessly, until he found Peter de Montfort in his father’s bedchamber.
Harry could not remember a time when Peter had not been a part of his father’s life, for their friendship stretched back more than twenty years, to the time of Simon’s arrival in England, a young knight of twenty-two, ambitious and impoverished. Harry liked Peter well enough, but he’d wondered sometimes why his father should have befriended a man who seemed to be his utter opposite in all particulars: cautious, self-contained, easily overlooked. Or so Harry had thought—until that May morning in the refectory at Westminster, when Peter dared defy the King. After that, Harry had decided there must be truth to the old adage, the one about still waters running deep.
“We heard many stories in Bordeaux of Papa’s campaign, but you were there, Uncle Peter. Tell me what it was like. Tell me about the ambush gone wrong and the siege of Montauban.”
Peter was sharpening his sword on a whet-stone, slowly and deliberately, as he did all things. “Fetch me that rag, lad. Well…the ambush. Now, that was a day. Your father had set a trap for the Gascon rebels, but they got wind of it, and attacked the men lying in ambush. Several of Simon’s men were captured, including Baldwin de Grey, the knight in command. I’m sure you know him; he’s been long in Simon’s service. One of the men managed to escape, reached Simon with word of the ambush. Simon was less than two miles away, and he at once set out in pursuit. We were hard put to keep pace with him, in truth! He struck the Gascon rebels like a lightning bolt, lad, scattering them in all directions, and slashing the ropes of his captured men, he set them free.”
Peter glanced up, smiled into the boy’s star-filled eyes. “It was a sight to see, Harry. But then the Gascons rallied, and cut Simon off from the rest of his men. They’d recognized him, you see, knew that his capture or death would win their war, and Simon found himself overwhelmed by numbers. He kept them at bay for a time, but then they killed his stallion. He was in grave danger, lad. But Baldwin and the men he’d freed flung themselves into the fray, held the Gascons off until Simon could mount another horse.”
“And then?”
“Why, Simon won the battle, of course,” Peter said. “A bloody battle it was, too, lasting half a day, but the victory was ours, and amongst the prisoners taken, one was a del Soler.”
“What of Montauban? Is it true that Papa was nearly captured?”
“Indeed. Montauban is a formidable castle, but when we reached it, we discovered that it was poorly garrisoned, its larders nearly empty. The rebels, learning of Simon’s presence, laid siege to the castle, and it did look grim for a time. We had to yield some of the prisoners we’d taken earlier, much to Simon’s dismay. But the devotion of his soldiers saved him, saved us all. Men are right willing to fight for Simon, lad, will follow him even unto the far reaches of the netherworld, and they—”
“Good God, Peter, what sort of nonsense are you filling the lad’s head with?”
“Uncle Peter was telling me about your triumph at Montauban, Papa, about—”
“Triumph? We did escape with our skins, by the grace of the Almighty. Heaven spare me too many more triumphs like that,” Simon said dryly, but when Peter laughed, not taken in by Simon’s protestations, Simon laughed, too.
“The rain has let up, Harry. Come out to the bailey, and I’ll give you another lesson in swordplay,” Simon suggested, and laughed again, for Harry had jumped to his feet so eagerly that he almost fell over Peter’s whet-stone. But as they emerged from the stairwell, the King’s messengers were being escorted up into the keep.
Simon knew the first one, Rocelin de Fos, Master of the Templars. The other man identified himself as Nicholas de Meuilles. They both showed the edginess of men bearing unwelcome news, but Simon expected nothing else from Henry, and he was not surprised to be told that Henry was insisting he honor the truce with the Gascon rebels. He heard them out, then shook his head.
“Quite impossible. Were the Gascons honoring the truce when they besieged me at Montauban? I just succeeded in raising the enemy siege here at La Réole, and the rebels are still in the field. Not even Henry can expect me to lay down my arms in the midst of a war.”
The men exchanged troubled glances. “The King thought you might say that, my lord. He therefore instructed us, should you refuse, to inform you that you are relieved of your command.”
Harry gave a stifled cry, jammed his knuckles against his mouth. Simon’s men gathered around him, closing ranks against the enemy. Simon alone seemed unperturbed. “Under the terms of our agreement,” he said coolly, “the King does not have the authority to dismiss me. I’d never have accepted this command if I had to serve at the King’s pleasure.”
Nicholas de Meuilles sighed, reached into his tunic and drew out a parchment scroll. “You say he cannot dismiss you, my lord, but he says he can, and he has. Here, see for yourself. These are letters patent, bearing the King’s own seal.”
Simon reached for the scroll, scanned it rapidly. “This changes nothing. The King cannot dismiss me, and I do not choose to resign.” Crossing to the hearth, he thrust the letter into the flames, then turned back to face the astounded messengers. “Tell the King,” he said, “that if he wants my resignation, he’d best make it worth my while.”
Much to Harry’s excitement, Simon agreed to take the boy along when he laid siege to Guilhem Seguin’s castle at Rions. Their assault only confirmed Harry’s conviction that war was great fun, for the Gascons had put up feeble resistance, and Simon was soon master of Seguin’s stronghold.
When the messenger galloped into Simon’s encampment, Harry followed him into the castle keep, for his mother’s time was nigh, and any day now they might get word from England. He found Simon by the hearth, an open letter in his hand, and his step quickened.
“Papa? Is the lette
r from Mama? Has the babe been born?”
“No, lad, the letter is from your uncle Richard. He writes to tell me that when parliament assembled, the King sought in vain to rouse the lords against me. Richard reports that Henry now realizes he has no choice but to buy back my command. He offers seven thousand marks, and agrees to pay the debts I incurred in his service.”
Seven thousand marks sounded like a lot of money to Harry. “Will you accept, Papa?”
“Yes,” Simon said. “Right gladly.”
He did not look glad to Harry, though. “Papa, what will you do then?”
“We shall withdraw into France, you and I. And once your mother has the babe, she and your brothers will join us there.”
Harry had never lived in France; England was the only home he’d ever known. “Papa…will we be going back to England?”
“No, Harry,” Simon said. “We will not be going back.”
21
________
Paris, France
October 1253
________
“Simon, think what you do! Do you not realize what a great honor has been bestowed upon you? Accept the French offer, be their Seneschal. It would mean that, until the French King’s return from crusade, you’d be the virtual Regent of France!”
“I know that, Nell.” Simon’s patience was fraying fast. “But I cannot accept. I’ve pledged my allegiance to the English King. How, then, could I serve the King of France? It would not be honorable.”
Nell slammed her hairbrush down upon the table. “This is strange talk, indeed, from a man who swore he’d never again set foot in England!”
“That was said in anger. Like it or not, Nell, our future lies in England, lies with our lands.”
“I am not saying we should abandon our estates. You know me better than that! But I do not understand why the Earl of Leicester cannot also be Seneschal of France. I do not understand why you must sacrifice so much for your pride, why—”
“Enough! It was my decision to make, not yours, and it is done. Now let that be an end to it!”
“I know I cannot expect to change your mind, for your stubbornness would put a mule to shame. But at the very least, you can hear me out!”
“When do I not hear you out? If there’s a way to silence you, short of stuffing a gag in your mouth, I’ve yet to discover it. But this argument is senseless, for you ought to welcome my decision. Henry is your brother, not mine!”
“Damn you, my loyalties are yours and yours alone!”
Simon’s anger vanished, as if by alchemist’s magic. “That is the most hostile declaration of love I’ve ever gotten,” he said, with a grin, and as he studied his indignant wife, honey-colored hair cascading about her shoulders, blue eyes aglitter, cheeks flushed, he was suddenly conscious of how desirable she looked. His eyes followed the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, moved up to her face, and saw that she was well aware of the erotic turn his thoughts had taken.
“No,” she warned, “not this time. This is one quarrel that’s not going to end in bed!”
“Were you not so fair,” he pointed out, “I’d not be so easily distracted. A pity you were not plain as a hedge-sparrow, for I daresay we’d then have far more satisfying fights!”
The deliberate lunacy of that logic almost earned him a smile—almost. Although Nell was amused, she was not yet mollified. When she started to say so, Simon silenced her with a lingering kiss, one that did not end until she’d entwined her arms around his neck. But as he drew her toward him, she suddenly pushed against his chest, shoving him backward onto the bed. Yet even off-balance, his were the reflexes of a soldier, and as he fell, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her down on top of him.
“Simon!” Nell scowled at her husband. “Jesú, you’re as quick as a fox,” she complained, “and just as sly.” But she made no attempt to free herself, and the corners of her mouth were curving upward.
Simon kissed that suggestion of a smile, slid his leg between her thighs. “It appears, Madame, that you’re my prisoner. Shall we discuss terms?”
Nell ran her fingers caressingly along his throat, then pricked his skin with her nails. “No surrender, my lord. I might, however, consider a brief respite, rather like a Christmas truce, with the understanding that hostilities shall resume after—”
“Lord Simon, an urgent—A thousand pardons!” Footsteps echoed a hasty retreat, a door slammed.
Simon reluctantly swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I dare not bid a servant to enter,” he said, “for you look far too wanton to be a wife.”
Nell assumed an even more provocative pose, while favoring him with a mockingly seductive smile. “Fortunately for you,” she said, “I am both a wanton and a wife,” and Simon laughed, moved toward the door.
Nell took advantage of his brief absence to strip off her gown, chemise, and stockings, and when Simon returned, he found her waiting in their bed, reclining in an artful tangle of sheets and silken blonde hair. But the effort was wasted; he did not even notice. “Of all the men to be sending me urgent messages,” he said, “for certes Henry ought to be the last one in Christendom!”
Nell was not as surprised. “Henry,” she said caustically, “has ever had a rotten sense of timing. No, Simon, do not read it…not yet. Whatever he has to say, it will but sour your mood. Put it aside till later.”
Simon could not deny the common sense of that, but still he hesitated. “I hear,” he said, “that since his arrival in Gascony, Henry has been sore beset on all sides, has had naught but troubles.”
“As well he should! Unchristian it may be, but I can find no pity for his misfortunes; he has earned each and every one. When that wretch Gaston de Béarn rebelled again and allied himself with the King of Castile, it did seem like divine retribution to me! Now do let that letter be, Simon. Henry can wait. I cannot.” She pressed her point home with some strategic slippage of the covers and succeeded in luring Simon back to bed.
But curiosity could exert a potent pull of its own, and when Nell noticed that Simon had brought the letter with him, she gave up the struggle. “You might as well open it. I absolutely refuse to have you making love to me and thinking of Henry!”
“I daresay you’d hold my attention,” Simon said, managing to be both wry and gallant, but he was already breaking Henry’s seal. Nell watched his face change as he read, astonishment and satisfaction and amusement and suspicion blurring, one into the other. Looking up, he said, “It is a plea for help. Henry wants me to come to his camp at Bénauges, to aid him in his war against Gaston de Béarn.”
“Simon, be serious! What does Henry truly want?”
“Nell, I am not jesting. Listen for yourself: ‘We command and request you to come to Gascony and discuss matters with us; if you think that it befits neither our honor nor yours to remain with us, you can withdraw when you please, without incurring our indignation.’ Need I read further?”
“God and all His angels! May I see?”
Simon passed her the letter. “I will never understand the workings of Henry’s brain. Were our positions reversed, I’d have willingly endured the rack ere I asked him for help!”
“Henry is either an idiot or an utter innocent. I can never make up my mind which—” Nell stopped abruptly, staring at her husband. “Mother of Christ…you’re going to agree! You’re going to come to his rescue!”
It was one of the few times that Nell had seen Simon look selfconscious. “His need must be grave, indeed, for him to ask me for help, Nell. But you may be sure that we’ll not lose by this. My services will not come cheaply.”
“That is well and good,” Nell conceded, “but…” She frowned, not knowing how to articulate her unease, her instinctive sense that it would be better for Simon to distance himself from her brother the King. “Do you not see?” she cried. “Henry does not deserve your help!”
“I’d not dispute that, Nell. But I do not do it for Henry. I do it for myself, because it is what I ought to do.”
He pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand, another into the hollow of her throat. “I have a suggestion or two,” he murmured, and Nell forgot she was playing a wanton, began to giggle like a little girl. “You are wicked, my lord,” she chided softly, and ducked modestly beneath the sheets. Simon followed, and when they surfaced for air, amusement had given way to urgency. Throwing off the covers, they rolled over into the center of the bed, where she assisted him in removing his clothing, tearing his tunic in her haste, a rip he would later delight in teasing her about. Henry’s letter was crushed beneath their naked bodies, at last fluttered to the floor, where it lay forgotten amidst the rushes of basil and mint, not to be retrieved till the morning.
Upon getting word of the Bishop of Lincoln’s illness, Nell hastily took ship at Boulogne. But she was not in time. Bishop Robert died at Buckden Palace on the 9th of October.
The de Quincy manor of Stevington was only a day’s ride from Buckden, and there, at least, Nell’s arrival could not have been better timed, for she found Elen abed and in need of comfort, having almost miscarried on St Edward’s Eve.
Elen’s chamber was bright with sun, and Nell resisted, with difficulty, the urge to slam the shutters upon the light and air so fatal to a sickroom. But if ever Elen’s eccentricities should be indulged, now was the time, for Nell thought it unlikely that Elen would be able to carry this baby to full term.
That fear was Elen’s, too. “This is the second time I’ve bled, Nell. All my pregnancies have been difficult, but in less than a fortnight, I’ll be forty-six. If I lose this babe…”
Falls the Shadow Page 39
