Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  There they found the chamber in turmoil. Men were yelling, swearing. Their brothers Aymer and Guy were offering dismayed, blustering defiance. So was Edward, who saw this action as an intolerable constraint upon the powers of kingship. No one thought to appeal to Henry; he sat, forgotten, as the debate raged on about him.

  William strode to the center of the room, by sheer perseverance managed to shout down the others. “Is it true that you would deny to men of alien birth the right to hold English castles?” He got a resounding roar of assent; fully a dozen voices cried out it was so. He whirled then toward the man he most blamed for their plight, pointing an accusing finger at Simon de Montfort.

  “What of Leicester? He’s no more English than I am, yet he holds the most formidable castles in all of England! Suppose you explain, my lord, why this act does not apply to you. Tell us how you can justify keeping Kenilworth and Odiham!”

  Simon rose without haste. “I have sworn an oath,” he said, “to uphold the Provisions we have agreed upon here at Oxford. I will, therefore, yield Odiham and Kenilworth to the King. I would—” He got no further; the chamber erupted into cheers and laughter, for all—Simon’s enemies as well as his friends—took malicious pleasure in the de Lusignans’ discomfiture.

  William de Lusignan was, for the first time in his life, literally speechless. It was Aymer who came to his assistance, saying scathingly, “My lord of Leicester may, indeed, surrender his castles. For all I care, he may even take a holy oath of poverty, beg his bread by the roadside! But do not expect us to follow in his footsteps. Our manors and lands were given to us by our brother the King, and he and he alone has the right to ask for their return.”

  Henry looked acutely unhappy; his answer was almost inaudible to many in the chamber. “I have agreed to be guided by the advice of my lord barons,” he mumbled, refusing to meet the eyes of either his outraged brothers or his incredulous son. He’d tried to explain his predicament to them. Did they not realize that he faced excommunication if he failed to pay the Pope? Could they not—just this once—put themselves in his place? How sick he was of conflict, bone-weary of this constant wrangling, this endless strife. But that was not something he could ever confess, for he knew they’d never understand—Edward least of all.

  The Earl of Gloucester, no less furious now than the de Lusignans, was glaring first at Aymer, then at William, as if unsure which one more deserved his loathing. “I daresay you never expected a day of reckoning. But it is here and it is now. Fifteen of the King’s castles are in the hands of foreigners, and we say—enough!”

  William had recovered his aplomb. “Say what you will, but we’ll never agree to relinquish our castles, our lands—never! And that, my lord, I do swear to you on the very wounds of Christ!”

  Men muttered angrily, but the de Lusignans held firm, and Simon at last lost all patience. “The choice is yours, my lords,” he interrupted. “Either your castles or your heads.”

  And that brought silence to the chamber, for none who heard Simon could doubt he meant exactly what he said.

  Edward was tense, defensive. “I suppose,” he said, “that you think ill of me now, that I’ve earned your scorn for refusing to abide by the Provisions.”

  To his surprise, and somewhat to his relief, Simon shook his head. “No,” he said, “a man should not offer his word lightly. If you have doubts, better you resolve them first, for an oath, once given, is inviolate.”

  Edward’s eyes flickered. “Are you so sure, Uncle, that I’ll come around to your way of thinking?”

  “Yes,” Simon said, and softened the arrogance of that answer with a smile. And then he was on his feet, turning toward the door, for he’d heard the sound of boots on the stairs, coming too fast for a commonplace errand.

  Harry burst into the room, out of breath, but flushed with excitement. “Papa…they’ve fled! The de Lusignans and de Warenne, they’re gone!”

  Wolvesey Castle, official residence of the Bishops of Winchester, had withstood a savage assault in the twelfth century, but the luxury-loving Aymer had preferred a palace to a fortress, and when the barons followed the fugitive de Lusignans to Winchester, Aymer and his brothers discovered that they had neither the supplies nor the will to endure a prolonged siege. To resist would be to give the barons what they most wanted, an excuse to reduce the castle to rubble, to treat its defenders as rebels. Their sense of self-preservation prevailed over pride, and Aymer reluctantly gave the order to surrender.

  They met in the great hall, and when Aymer, acting as spokesman for his brothers, announced that they had reconsidered, would now be willing to honor the Oxford Provisions, he garnered only a burst of derisive laughter.

  That was most magnanimous, the Earl of Norfolk allowed, but too late. They’d had their chance at Oxford. Now…now they were no longer welcome in England, were to be banished from Henry’s domains, never to return.

  Henry’s brothers were stunned, but when they appealed to Henry, they had their answer in his averted eyes, in his wretched, shamed silence.

  The weather continued its perverse disregard for seasons, and famine and plague hovered dangerously close at hand. July saw the departure of the de Lusignans for France, after a disastrous farewell banquet at Aymer’s Winchester manor. A number of the highborn guests were afterward stricken, and several died, including the Abbot of Westminster and the Earl of Gloucester’s brother. Gloucester himself fell ill, and for a time there were fears for his survival. Inevitably, suspicions of poison followed. Although proof was lacking, most men were only too willing to believe the worst of the de Lusignans. Their banishment was welcomed with widespread and heartfelt joy. Henry alone mourned.

  The day had begun with a hint of hazy sun, and Henry had morosely agreed to John Mansel’s suggestion. Mayhap Mansel was right; mayhap a leisurely excursion on the Thames would raise his spirits. But no sooner were they heading downriver than the wind began to rise. The sky darkened so suddenly it was as if night had fallen. As a youngster, Henry had once been trapped out in a thunderstorm of awesome violence; it had so scarred his memory that, even now, a sky streaking with lightning would evoke uneasy echoes of that child’s fear. He ordered his boatmen to make for shore, but the tide was against them, and by the time they tied up at the Bishop of Durham’s dock, Henry was soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably.

  The Bishop came out to welcome his unexpected guest, and after one look at Henry’s pallor, made haste to escort him into the hall, shouting for servants to light a fire for the King’s Grace. Henry followed gratefully, only to come to an abrupt halt in the doorway. In his anxiety to escape the storm, he’d completely forgotten that Simon de Montfort always stayed at Durham House while in London.

  Simon had been sharing a flagon of wine with the Franciscan Adam Marsh and the Bishop of Worcester. Simon’s affinity for clerics had long been a source of embittered wonderment to Henry; it invariably put him in mind of the old adage, the one about the Devil quoting Scriptures. With the possible exception of Peter de Montfort, Marsh and Worcester were the men who stood closest to Simon, companions, confidants. Henry hated them for that. They greeted him with concern, and he hated them for that, too.

  Simon was holding out a wine cup. When Henry didn’t move, he said, “Take it, my liege, and make yourself easy, for the storm is passing.”

  Henry yearned to knock the cup from Simon’s hand. “I am indeed fearful of lightning, I’ll not deny it. But far more than any storm, I do fear your ambitions, de Montfort!”

  He heard an intake of breath, Adam Marsh’s involuntary, shaken protest. But he could read nothing in Simon’s face. Simon turned, set the cup down upon the table. “Your greatest failing, my liege,” he said curtly, “is that you’ve never learned to tell your friends from your enemies.”

  “Do you dare to call yourself my friend?” Henry demanded, incredulous, and Simon slowly shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “But I need not be your enemy.”

  “You ar
e my enemy—admit it! You’ve done all you could to poison men’s minds against me, against my brothers. You harried them mercilessly, and even after you brought about their utter ruin, that was not enough for you. No, you had to send your son after them, had to—”

  “My son?” Simon was frowning. “What in God’s Name are you talking about?”

  “As if you did not know! Your Harry followed my brothers to Boulogne, so stirred up the people against them that they had to take refuge in a local priory, to appeal to the French King for aid!”

  “Harry did that?” Simon’s astonishment was so obviously unfeigned that Henry decided that, in this at least, he may have wronged Simon. But then Simon laughed, and Henry choked anew on his hatred.

  “I know what you seek—to make of me a crippled King. I know all about your plotting. I know that you tried to get the London aldermen to take an oath to your precious Oxford Provisions, and when they balked, you and Norfolk summoned the citizens to the Guildhall, where you got them so wrought up that they acclaimed the Provisions as if they were Holy Writ.” Simon’s continuing popularity with Londoners both baffled and infuriated Henry, and it was with real venom that he added, “Go ahead, pander to the rabble if you have so little pride! It will avail you naught!”

  “Simon.” Adam Marsh’s voice was deceptively calm; his eyes gave away his anxiety. But for once Simon seemed to have his temper in check. He glanced at his friend, then back at his King.

  “I took an oath to keep faith with the Provisions. Need I remind you that you, too, swore such an oath?”

  “No,” Henry snapped. “I remember.”

  “For all our sakes,” Simon said softly, bleakly, “I hope you do.”

  25

  ________

  Paris, France

  June 1259

  ________

  Neither the English nor the French yearned for a lasting peace, but their sovereigns did, Henry because he had more than enough enemies at home and Louis because he believed that Christian kings were natural allies. Although it took Henry and his brother-in-law, the French King, fully five years, it was at last agreed that Henry would renounce his claims to Normandy, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, and Poitou, and, as Duke of Aquitaine, do homage to Louis for Gascony, all that remained of the once-vast Angevin empire. Louis, in turn, promised to pay Henry the sum necessary to maintain five hundred knights for a two-year period, the knights to be employed only in the service of God, the Church—or the welfare of England.

  The impending peace was not popular with the English, even less so with the French, but it was not public disapproval that threatened to sabotage the treaty—it was the will of one woman. Henry’s sons, Edward and Edmund, were required, too, to renounce their claims to the lost Angevin domains, and so were King John’s other surviving children, Richard, King of the Romans, and Nell, Countess of Leicester. Much to Henry’s chagrin, Nell balked, refusing to make any renunciation until Henry paid her the considerable sums due her as widow of the Earl of Pembroke. Despite the unrelenting pressure brought to bear upon her, Nell remained adamant—no renunciation without repayment—and if her resolve caused any embarrassment for Simon, who’d been one of the chief English negotiators, none but he knew it. Henry fumed in vain, Simon supported his wife, and Louis seemed likely to need every particle of the patience for which he was so celebrated.

  From the dais, the French Queen had an unobstructed view of the entire hall, and she had no difficulty in locating Simon and Nell de Montfort. They were, as always, encircled by friends and admirers, although this evening they were sharing center stage with their nephew, the Lord Edward. Marguerite lowered her voice, glancing toward her husband. “Well? Had you any luck this afternoon? Were you able to make Nell see reason?”

  Louis shook his head. “Those who dismiss women as the weaker sex,” he said mildly, “have never met the Countess of Leicester.”

  Marguerite frowned. “Has she no thought for her brother? She is making poor Henry look a right proper fool. I even heard people jesting about it this forenoon, saying that if Henry lacks the wherewithal to be a man, his sister for certes does not!”

  “I would that she’d not chosen to hold the treaty hostage, and cannot sanction her methods. But in truth, my dear, her grievances against Henry do have some merit. She was but fifteen when she was widowed, and it was Henry who negotiated on her behalf with her husband’s brother. Their Runnymede Charter provides that an English widow is entitled to fully one-third of her late husband’s lands. But Henry accepted six hundred marks a year for Nell, when by rights she ought to have gotten two thousand. He then permitted the Marshals to delay payments, to fall far into arrears. And once the Pembroke earldom passed to his de Lusignan half-brother, he even took it upon himself to waive some payments altogether. No, for all the affection I bear Henry, I must confess that some of his actions passeth all understanding.”

  “I’ll grant you that Henry has been remiss. Even so, where does Nell get the gall to defy two Kings and the Church? Do not ever tell my sister this, for Eleanor would never forgive me. But at times I find myself admiring Nell’s sheer pluck!”

  Louis smiled. “Yes,” he said, “I like her, too.”

  “Not too much, I trust,” Marguerite murmured archly, for Nell was, even at forty-three, still a very handsome woman. “Since we are making confessions, I might as well admit that I enjoy Simon’s company, too. To hear Henry talk, the man is verily the Prince of Darkness, but in truth, I—” She paused, alerted by her husband’s frown. “Louis?”

  “The Earl of Gloucester just entered the hall,” he said, and she gave a comprehending nod.

  “You fear trouble with Edward? Why are they so at odds?”

  “Conflicting claims to Bristol Castle, I believe. Moreover, they like each other not. But Simon, too, bears Gloucester a grudge.”

  Louis signaled for wine, waited until his cup-bearer withdrew from earshot. “Gloucester and Simon were allies by expediency, not choice, and they were not long in falling out. I’ve been told they quarreled bitterly during the February parliament over their Oxford Provisions. Gloucester wanted the reforms to apply only to the King, whilst Simon insisted that they should apply as well to the barons themselves. Gloucester is a great landholder, and he was not eager to have the reforms extended to his own tenants. It probably could have been settled amicably, but Simon lost his temper, as usual, and he and Gloucester had a blazing row. The Earls of Norfolk and Hereford prevailed upon Gloucester to make peace with Simon. But it was a false peace, in truth, and in this past month they’ve spent as much time wrangling with each other as they have negotiating the treaty.”

  Marguerite found the prospect of a public quarrel exciting, but for decorum’s sake, she sought to sound disapproving as she said, “Do you truly think they’d argue here and now, before all the court?”

  Even as she spoke, voices were rising, heads turning. “Yes, my dear,” Louis said dryly, “I do,” and came hastily to his feet. Marguerite rose, too, eager to see. “How ill-bred the English are,” she marveled, remembering, too late, that Simon was French.

  Simon was regarding the Earl of Gloucester with undisguised contempt. “You are mistaken, my lord,” he said, managing to imply that Gloucester’s “mistake” could only be the result of moral obtuseness or evil intent. “The Oxford Provisions are neither extreme nor radical. We seek only to counsel the King, to restore harmony to the realm, and to see that no man be denied justice. Any problems that have since arisen may be traced to the unwillingness of some to put aside their self-seeking and think of the common good.”

  “Self-seeking?” Gloucester sputtered. “By God, you’ve a droll wit, de Montfort! That you, of all men, would dare to accuse another of self-seeking! What of the treaty?” Swinging about, he pointed an accusing finger at Nell. “For months we have labored to reach an accommodation with the French, only to have this woman—your woman—set our efforts at naught! Were she my wife, you may be sure she’d do as she was bidden, and rig
ht quickly. But you, my lord of Leicester? Not only do you indulge her willfulness, you argue in her behalf! Which means either that you cannot control your own wife, or that she acts in this as your puppet, and neither explanation does you credit! If she does not—”

  “My lord.” Simon’s voice was suddenly soft, and those who knew him best tensed. “Think carefully ere you complete that sentence. Do you mean to threaten my wife? Because if you do, my lord of Gloucester, I trust you are willing to accept the consequences.”

  Gloucester hesitated; although he was not intimidated, Simon’s reputation did warrant a certain degree of caution. “Of course I am not threatening the Countess of Leicester,” he said impatiently. “I was but—”

  “—being offensive,” Edward interrupted, more than willing to put his oar into these turbulent waters. “I think you owe His Grace of Leicester an apology. You do, for certes, owe one to my aunt!”

  “What I owe you,” Gloucester began heatedly, but at that moment, Louis reached them.

  “My lords,” he said, “this is not seemly.” And it took no more than that, for Louis had long ago mastered that art which still eluded Henry, the ability to command respect, both as a man and monarch. Moreover, Gloucester and Simon now became aware of their amused audience, for the French court was highly entertained by this diverting display of English bad manners. Summoning up what grace they could, both offered apologies to Louis. Neither one apologized to the other, but Louis was too much of a realist to expect that. Instead, he engaged Gloucester in conversation, deftly piloting him away from Simon and Edward.

  Simon said nothing; he was too angry, did not yet trust himself to speak. Edward claimed the nearest man’s wine cup, drank deeply. It was left to Bran to articulate their shared outrage. “That man,” he said bitterly, “has a poisoned tongue. It would give me great pleasure to cut it out by the roots.”