Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Your capture took the heart out of their defense. But it—Hellfire!”

  Bran swung about, at once saw the cause of the soldier’s outburst. As several armor-clad riders swerved in their direction, Bran’s captors clustered protectively around him, fearful of losing their prize.

  “Did I not tell you, Will? It’s de Montfort’s whelp!”

  Bran’s breath caught in his throat. Staring up at Roger de Mortimer and William de Lusignan, he felt a sudden rush of fear, far greater than any battlefield dread.

  Roger de Mortimer ignored the soldiers, fixed Bran with a malevolent stare, and between them rose the spectre of his smoldering Radnorshire manors. But it was William de Lusignan who held Bran’s eyes, whose smile sent a chill along his spine.

  “You’re the one they call Bran. Tell us…how fares your father? We hear he lies crippled in London, unable to play a man’s part. It must be true if he’s sending his striplings to fight for him.”

  “What would you know of playing a man’s part?”

  From the corner of his eye, Bran saw his captors grinning; their dislike of de Lusignan was heartening. He watched warily as the older man dismounted, still smiling.

  “How old are you, lad?”

  “Twenty and three, why? You want to know my birthdate, too? My favorite wine?”

  “You’re de Montfort’s son for certes. You have his black Saracen coloring, his brazen insolence. But there is one great difference between you.”

  “And just what is that?”

  “Your father has been blessed with a long life,” de Lusignan said and then laughed, for he was close enough to hear Bran’s ragged intake of breath. “Of course it need not be. It’s true you’re de Montfort’s spawn, but you’re also my sister’s son. I’d not want it said that I lacked all family feeling. I’m willing to spare your life—if you beg for it.”

  Bran’s fist clenched around his bloodied bandage. “Rot in Hell!”

  De Lusignan had at last lost his smile; his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Stepping back, he said, “Seize him.”

  The soldiers did, unwilling but not daring to disobey the King’s brother. There was a suspenseful pause as de Lusignan studied his struggling nephew, and then he said, “Kill him.”

  Part of it may have been their loathing for de Lusignan. Or their involuntary admiration for Bran’s doomed gesture of defiance. Much of it most certainly was the loss of a large ransom. But at that, the soldiers rebelled. “He’s our prisoner, my lord,” the one-eyed soldier shouted, and the others chimed in angrily.

  De Lusignan ignored their protests. He raised his hand and three of his men dismounted, drawing their swords. The soldiers released Bran, grudgingly gave ground. Only the one-eyed youth seemed on the verge of mutiny, fingering his dagger as if he wanted to throw it to Bran.

  Bran began to back away as the men closed in, fanning out with purposeful intent. There was an unreality about the entire scene, as if he were watching someone else trapped between the ditch and the advancing soldiers. Even the shouting now seemed to be coming from a great distance. The men were almost upon him when an armed knight galloped into their midst.

  He was young and vaguely familiar to Bran, with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, eyes astonishingly, incongruously agleam with laughter. “Do not let me spoil the fun,” he said. “Four heads for the price of one is a rare bargain.”

  “This is none of your concern, Welshman!”

  Davydd smiled over his shoulder at the King’s outraged brother. “I thought it only fair, my lord Earl, that your men should know what reward to expect for this service they do you. What will you give them for slaying de Montfort—a half shilling apiece? No offense, but you’re not known for your generosity, are you? Now the Lord Edward on the other hand will likely offer them a decent burial, mayhap even a Requiem Mass.”

  “Damn you, what are you babbling about?”

  “You did not know?” Davydd queried, in mock surprise. “The Lord Edward gave express orders that his de Montfort cousin was not to be harmed. So I suspect he might well take it amiss that you had the lad murdered.”

  “And how do I know you’re not lying?”

  “You do not, of course,” Davydd agreed cheerfully. “Mayhap I am. But what if I’m not? Are you willing to risk it?”

  Much to his chagrin, de Lusignan realized he was not, for he was gradually coming to comprehend the vast and dangerous differences between Henry and his firstborn son. “Sheathe your swords. We’ll take him into custody, deliver him to the King.”

  At that, Bran found his voice. “Like bloody Hell you will!”

  Davydd grinned. “I think young de Montfort suspects he might suffer an unfortunate mishap on the way—trying to escape.”

  None of them had noticed Philip Basset’s approach. “What in Christ’s Passion is happening here? Have you all forgotten that there is a battle going on in the town?” His eyes flicked toward Bran, widened in recognition. “I see. You soldiers there, escort the King’s nephew to Lord Edward’s command tent. The rest of you men get back onto the field.” Adding pointedly, “My lords? You are coming, too, I trust?”

  The command was his; he had his way. Within moments, Bran found himself alone with his original captors. “Christ’s pity,” he said softly, then heard Davydd laugh.

  He had reined in his stallion a few feet away. “Well put. Right about now you must feel like a bone thrown to a pack of hungry dogs!”

  Bran nodded slowly. “I’ll not argue that.” And then, “Now I know who you are. You’re Llewelyn’s brother!”

  “Always,” Davydd said dryly. Shifting his gaze to the downcast soldiers, he said, “Cheer up, lads. It was inevitable that he’d be claimed by the King. But all is not lost. Edward is likely to reward you for keeping him safe.” He started to follow after the others, then swung about, reaching for a wine flask at his belt.

  “Here, Cousin,” he said, flipping the flask at Bran’s feet. “I daresay you need this more than I do!”

  The next twenty-four hours were the most wretched of Bran’s life. His guards were friendly, influenced, perhaps, by accounts of his confrontation with William de Lusignan, and they kept him informed of the siege progress. The town fell that same afternoon, and Peter de Montfort and his men took refuge within the castle. But Bran knew the lamentable state of its defenses; its west wall was near collapse. Peter could not hope to hold out until his father’s arrival. Heartsick, helpless, Bran feared that his father’s dream was dying in the narrow, muddy streets of Northampton.

  It was not until Compline the next evening that he was summoned to Edward’s tent. “Sit down,” Edward invited, waving away the guards. Busying himself with several flagons of wine, he announced, quite matter-of-factly, “It’s over. Peter de Montfort and the castle garrison surrendered just after Vespers.”

  “If you expect me to drink to your victory, you can damned well choke!”

  Unfazed, Edward continued to pour. “Since when do you turn down good wine? This batch comes from Bordeaux; you’ll not even have to spit out the sediment!”

  Sloshing a cup into Bran’s hand, he said, “You’re the talk of the camp, Cousin. Your exploits at the priory were—”

  Bran jumped to his feet. “Go ahead, Ned, gloat, but I swear—”

  Edward looked surprised. “Bran, I’m serious! Those devil-be-damned charges of yours were the stuff of which legends are made. Then there was the way you defied our de Lusignan uncle. Death before dishonor,” Edward joked, but his eyes were shining. Taking a seat across from Bran, he said, “You did yourself proud, lad. Although I should be the last man to be lauding you like this. After all, I’m the one who took the town, only to have you end up as the hero of the hour!”

  His praise was balm to Bran’s mangled pride. He took a deep swallow of Edward’s wine, deciding that if ever there was a night to get thoroughly drunk, now was the time. “I’ve a favor to ask, Ned. If you can find out what became of my stallion, I’d like Davydd ap
Gruffydd to have him. I daresay he was more interested in vexing de Lusignan than in saving me. But never had I been in greater need of a guardian angel; I just did not expect my angel to be Welsh!”

  Edward laughed. “A man could go mad trying to unravel Davydd’s motives. He’s about as trustworthy as a wolf on the prowl, but having him at our court is like having a lance aimed at Llewelyn’s heart. So it’s well worth indulging his fancies, overlooking his flaws. And he can be right likable—when he wants to be. But whatever his reasons, I confess I’m glad he chose to meddle when he did.”

  Bran set his wine cup down, gave Edward a level, searching look. “Why did you do it, Ned? Why order my life spared?”

  Edward shrugged. “It should be obvious. You must owe me at least a hundred pounds, mayhap more. And I’ve never yet known a man who paid back a debt from the grave. Besides, I expect you’d have done the same for me.”

  “No,” Bran said, “I would not,” and Edward, rising for more wine, spun around to stare at him.

  “I might have,” Bran said, “a month ago,” and Edward relaxed.

  “I see,” he said. “You bear a grudge for Gloucester Castle.”

  “No,” Bran said. “For Harry.”

  “That was a shabby trick, I know,” Edward conceded. “I expect it’ll take some time ere he can forgive me.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Bran warned, saw that his cousin didn’t believe him. Edward was crossing the tent, where he spoke briefly with a servant before sauntering back with another flagon of wine.

  “They’ll be bringing in our supper. I thought I owed you one good meal ere you depart for Windsor Castle; you leave at dawn.”

  Bran had known there’d be no question of ransom. “You think it’s over? You’re wrong, Ned, dead wrong. You may have outwitted Harry and outfought me, but you’ve not yet faced my father.”

  Vengeful in defeat, Edward could be magnanimous in victory. Forbearing to take offense, he poured a generous amount into Bran’s cup. “What shall we drink to—better days?”

  It occurred to Bran that, whatever happened now, their lives would never be the same. “No,” he said, reaching for his wine cup. “To yesterdays.”

  While a lone rider might cover forty or more miles a day, an army was lucky to make half that distance. Although Simon left London at dawn, it was full dark before they came within sight of the walls of St Albans Abbey. Two more days lay ahead of them, two more days trapped within a swaying horse litter, two more days of suspense, envisioning a town under siege, begrudging every mile, every minute that stretched between Northampton and deliverance.

  Roger de Norton, the Abbot of St Albans, was awaiting them inside the north gateway, an honor more properly accorded a king than a rebel earl; Simon was surprised and heartened by the warmth of his welcome.

  The guest house had been made ready for him. A hearth fire took the chill off the April air, and a table was laden with uncommonly rich Lenten fare: a roast pike in aspic, gingered carp, sugared pancakes. Yet the Abbot’s demeanor was not that of a bountiful host. Enveloped in Benedictine black, he paced at Simon’s side like a somber, disquieted shadow, intent upon private griefs, secret sorrows. Simon’s fatigue had dulled his perception; he did not even notice the Abbot’s distraction. Nor did his companions. Humphrey de Bohun and Guy were regarding the food with relish, while Harry trailed behind, so quiet, so remote he might have been a stranger to them all. Harry, the abiding optimist, born to sunlight and daydreams and cheer, now found his every breath poisoned, his peace haunted, so great was his fear for his brother.

  “My lord…” The Abbot stopped suddenly, in the center of the room. “I’d meant to wait till you had eaten, rested. But that seems dishonest, somehow, even with the best intent. Less than an hour ago a man arrived at the abbey, seeking you. He was at Northampton, my lord, and he says…he says the town has fallen to the King’s army.”

  “No!” Harry darted forward, grabbed the Abbot’s arm. “That’s a lie!”

  Simon reached out, released his son’s grip. “Bring him to me.”

  He still held fast to hope; a mistake, a lie. But then the door opened. Nicholas Segrave had served under his command in Gascony. Simon stood quite still, watching the other man walk toward him. He moved very slowly, his steps leaden, as uneven as Simon’s own. There was dried blood on his hauberk, his hair, even his boots, and as he looked at Simon, the dirt on his face streaked with tears.

  Simon swallowed. “My son?”

  “Alive, my lord. God was that merciful. But all is lost.”

  “Tell me,” Simon said.

  “They took the town Saturday, we think by treachery. Your son was captured trying to stave off their attack on the priory. Twice he ventured alone beyond the walls, then his horse bolted and threw him. And once they were in the town, we could not hope to hold out. Yesterday Peter de Montfort yielded the castle, and Edward then turned the town over to his soldiers for their sport. They took more than eighty barons and knights prisoner, gutted your army…”

  There was a strained quiet, and then a slamming door, as Harry fled the chamber. The others didn’t move, watched Simon. The Abbot was taken aback by his utter stillness. He knew of Simon’s temper, had expected him to rave and swear, to rage like a lion deprived of its whelp. As frightening as his violence would have been, Simon’s frozen silence was no less unnerving. He waited for Guy or Humphrey to speak, to act. When neither did, he said, “My lord, what can I do for you? Mayhap if you were to go to the church…”

  Simon turned. Yes, the church. Alone in the dark, alone with God. “I thank you,” he said. “But not yet. First I have need of pen and parchment.” How cold he was of a sudden, how tired. He could feel tremors shooting up his bad leg, an ache that burned into the bone. “I would be alone,” he said, “so I may write to my wife.”

  “My lord of Leicester, I thank you for sparing me these moments. The other innkeepers have chosen me to speak for them. I hope you’ll not think me presumptuous for coming to you like this, but we did not know what else to do. Your eldest son…he’s been frequenting the ale-houses in the town, where he’s been drinking himself sodden. He…he seems very distraught, my lord, and his temper is raw. Last night he got into a nasty brawl, and witnesses say he provoked it. My lord, it is not for us to chastise an Earl’s son; if you could but talk to him…”

  Running out of words, he waited anxiously to see if he’d offended. His relief was vast, indeed, when Simon said tersely, “I’ll see to it.”

  As the door closed behind the grateful innkeeper, Simon glanced toward the young man slouched in the shadows of the window-seat. “Why did I have to hear about this from strangers?”

  Guy sat up abruptly. “How could I be the one to tell you, Papa? Harry would never forgive me!”

  “No, I suppose not,” Simon conceded. “I know the demon that torments him—guilt. He blames himself for Bran’s capture, for our loss at Northampton.”

  Guy shrugged. “Well, it is hard to argue with that. If he’d not let Ned go—”

  “ ‘What if’ and ‘if only’ are games for fools, Guy. What if the French King had not betrayed our trust? If Henry’s honor were not such a tattered flag? If only his brother Richard had been the firstborn…Where do you stop?”

  “Papa…how much longer do you mean to tarry here at the abbey? I’m not good at waiting.”

  “You think I am?” Simon asked dryly. “But we’ve no choice. Until our scouts get back to St Albans, we’ve no way of knowing where Edward intends to strike next. It could be London, the Cinque Ports. Or he might choose to head north. The Midlands hold fast for me; he’d find tempting targets in Leicester, Nottingham, mayhap even Kenilworth.”

  Guy gasped, but after a moment, common sense mercifully reasserted itself. Kenilworth was the most impregnable stronghold in the realm; his father had seen to that. It could never be taken by force, could only be starved into submission. But thinking of his mother in the midst of a siege brought home to him, as B
ran’s plight had not, just how precarious was his family’s future.

  Getting to his feet, Simon walked over to the table. Guy had noticed that he favored his bad leg more obviously as the evening advanced. “How does the leg, Papa—truly? Is there much pain?”

  “Some,” Simon admitted. “It seems worse when it rains, or if I’ve been on it too long. I care naught about the pain, but it’s likely to be weeks ere I can ride. Of all the times to take a fall!”

  “If only—a game for fools, Papa,” Guy murmured, and Simon gave him an intent look, and then a crooked smile.

  There was a soft knock; the Abbot and the hosteller entered, followed by a young man in a sweat-stained, muddied mantle. “My lord, Brother Raymond and I were coming to invite you to dine with us on the morrow. But instead, I again find myself the bearer of bad tidings.”

  Simon looked past the Abbot. “I’ve seen you,” he said, “in the Fitz Thomas household,” and the youth nodded.

  “Indeed, my lord. I am the Mayor’s clerk. He bade me come to you, entreat you to return to London with all haste.”

  “Edward?” Simon said sharply, and the man shook his head.

  “Nay, my lord, it is our own fear that threatens us. When word reached us yesterday of Northampton’s surrender, the people panicked. All know what evils can befall a captured town; at Northampton, not even the churches were spared. Rumors took fire, and soon the entire city was ablaze with suspicion and dread. Men swapped fears in the streets, the ale-houses, and no tale was too outlandish to be believed. There was talk of treachery in Northampton, and people remembered how John de Gisors had plotted with the Lord Edward to trap you in Southwark. By day’s end, rumors were rife of a conspiracy to betray the city to the King.”

  “Was there truth to these rumors?”

  “In all honesty, my lord, we do not know. But this morning, the townsmen sought to root out the Judas in our midst. First they burned some of the houses of those known to be King’s men. And then word spread that the Jews were in league with Lord Edward, that they’d made duplicate keys to the city gates, that they were hoarding Greek fire. A large crowd gathered in Cheapside, and from there they surged into the Jewry. The Mayor did what he could to stop the killing, but in truth, my lord, our city is out of control. Scores are dead, and as I rode out of Aldersgate, the sky was black with smoke from the Jewry.”