“Nell…” He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, and her eyes opened, sleep-shadowed, the color of a harvest sky at twilight; he’d always regretted that of all their children, only Harry had her eyes.
“I knew,” she said. “I knew you’d win. I never doubted, beloved, never…”
“Liar,” he said tenderly. Her mouth clung to his, tasted of wine. He slid his hand into the bodice of her gown, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed him again, hungrily. And then she pushed suddenly against his chest, struggled to sit up.
“Simon, where in blazes were you? You ruined my surprise, not to mention the meal!”
He argued his case with kisses, and she was soon laughing softly. “I confess,” she said, “that I did not really race all the way from Kenilworth just to have supper with my husband. I was hoping that I might get to sleep with the victor of Lewes.”
“I think,” he said, “it can be arranged.” Her breath was hot against his ear, her hair coming loose about her shoulders. He removed the remaining pins, and she shook it free, a cloud of gold faintly threaded with silver.
“You’re still so fair,” he said wonderingly. “Few men have my luck. For of all the women in Christendom, I have the only one I want, right here in my own bed.”
“Simon, it’s been two full months. I thought I’d go mad, in truth. No more, my love. No more separations; I can bear anything but being apart. No more battles; you’ve fought your share. Promise you’ll keep me close from now on. Promise me…”
Once before she’d sought to bind him with such a vow. But it was different now. He was no longer young, had indeed fought his share of battles. “I will,” he said, his mouth seeking hers, for in the quiet, fragrant dark of their marriage-bed, it was an easy promise to make, even to believe.
34
________
Wallingford, England
November 1264
________
Simon’s promise to his wife was as short-lived as their hopes for peace. By July, the army of Flemish mercenaries hired by Henry’s Queen and John Mansel was preparing to set sail from Damme. Simon issued an urgent call to arms, and the English responded in heartening numbers, flocking from the towns and villages to Barham Downs in Kent. As the sailors of the Cinque Ports patrolled the Channel, Simon forbade the import of Flemish cloth and woolens, and Flanders abruptly lost interest in harboring enemies of England’s new government. Simon’s fledgling revolution benefited, too, from the notorious caprices of the Channel weather; its treacherous tides were made even more dangerous by high winds and heavy swells. Eleanor’s invasion failed to materialize; her fleet never sailed.
Peace remained elusive, though. Roger de Mortimer and his fellow Marchers, nothing daunted by their defeat at Lewes, reverted to defiance as soon as they were safely back in their own border fortresses. They refused to yield either the royal castles in their keeping or the prisoners they’d taken at Northampton, and in late July, Simon and the Earl of Gloucester led a punitive expedition into the Marches. Joining forces with Llewelyn, they captured the castles of Hereford, Hay, and Ludlow, and brought the rebels to submission in less than a month.
When circumstances demanded a swift military strike, Simon had few peers. But he needed, as well, the skills of a master diplomat and the patience of Job. He could defeat his enemies, but he had little success in winning them over, either in England or abroad.
The French King opposed on principle any limitations upon the God-given powers of a king, even so incompetent a King as Henry. But he was not overtly hostile, his disapproval tempered by his innate sense of fairness and a genuine respect for Simon the man, whatever his suspicions of Simon the reformer. Simon’s most dangerous and most implacable foe was to be found, not at the French court, but in the Holy See.
The Pope had never forgiven Henry’s lords for thwarting his grandiose plans for the kingdom of Sicily, and he’d long nurtured a grudge against Simon as the most vocal and persuasive of the English King’s critics. Now that Simon had added rebellion to his sins, the Pope’s enmity was unrelenting. His legate, the Archbishop of Narbonne, ordered the English to renounce the Provisions of Oxford, and when his demand was rejected, he summoned the Bishops of London, Worcester, and Winchester to Boulogne. In their unhappy presence, he excommunicated Simon and his sons, the Earl of Gloucester, Hugh le Despenser, Mayor Fitz Thomas, and many of their supporters, even the Earl of Norfolk, whose only crime was cooperating with Simon’s government.
Once back in England, however, the Bishops refused to publish the sentence of anatherna. The papal documents were shredded, cast into the sea. Raging at the effrontery of “this pestilent man,” the Archbishop of Narbonne took matters into his own hands, formally laid England under Interdict on October 21. But church bells continued to resound in London, Masses continued to be said throughout the land, and the English clergy continued to support the excommunicate Earl—as if the papal damnation had never been.
From Dover, Edward had been moved to his uncle Richard’s castle at Wallingford, then briefly to Kenilworth. On this foggy Thursday in Martinmas week, he was back at Wallingford. Although his confinement was more rigorous than that of his cousin Hal, who’d been entrusted with a diplomatic mission to the French court in September, Edward was still accorded the courtesies of kingship, one of which was the right to receive visitors. The man escorted that morning into Edward’s chamber had been admitted without challenge, for Ancel de Bassingbourn’s cousin Humphrey was a stout supporter of Simon de Montfort. What only Edward knew was that Ancel’s loyalties lay not with Humphrey but with Humphrey’s father, Warin de Bassingbourn, one of the knights defiantly holding out at Bristol Castle.
Ancel brought welcome news of the world beyond Wallingford. “Leicester is no longer at Dover,” he reported, “is now at Windsor with the King. The Archbishop of Narbonne has been summoned back to Rome by the sudden death of the Pope, and rumor has it he might well be chosen as Urban’s successor. You must,” he urged, “pray to the Almighty that it should come to pass, for Narbonne, unlike his fellow French Bishops, is no friend to de Montfort.
“My lords will be pleased to hear that de Montfort’s troubles are breeding like rabbits. In their zeal to protect the coast, the sailors of the Cinque Ports have been seizing all shipping, and with imports cut off, prices are soaring; a pound of pepper that sold for sixpence now costs three whole shillings, and wine prices have more than doubled. But strange to say, the shortages have not yet soured the common people on de Montfort’s outlaw government. Some of them,” Ancel admitted, “are even wearing garments of white wool instead of cloth brightly dyed in Flanders, flaunting the plain English homespun as proof of their unity, their unshaken adherence to their ‘common enterprise.’ ”
Ancel paused to gulp down some wine before volunteering that Simon’s second son, Bran, had been besieging Pevensey Castle since September, to no avail. “He has managed, though, to mortally offend the Earl of Gloucester, admittedly no great feat! But the bad blood betwixt Gloucester and the young de Montforts has now spilled over to Gloucester’s brother Tom; a one-time friend of my lord, no?” Edward nodded thoughtfully, and gestured for Ancel to continue. This he did with relish, relating several public brawls between Gloucester and one or another of Simon’s sons. “They do,” he concluded gleefully, “but rub salt into a raw wound, for he’s already greensick with jealousy. He never was one for hiding his feelings, and only a blind man could fail to see the rancor he harbors toward de Montfort.”
Edward nodded again. “That was inevitable. Three electors—Gloucester, the Bishop of Chichester, and de Montfort, all equal—in a pig’s eye! Chichester is a saintly soul who thinks Simon can verily walk on water. And Gloucester could no more outwit Simon than he could sprout wings. That so-called trinity of theirs does but mask the truth—that Simon de Montfort rules England at his pleasure.”
“I doubt he gets much pleasure from it these days, my lord. Gloucester’s envy and de Montfort’s
arrogance make for a right queasy mix! You do know of the honors de Montfort has bestowed upon his sons? He entrusted the custody of Dover Castle and the Cinque Ports to Harry, named him warden of Kent, and Bran warden of Sussex and Surrey. And when Gloucester complained, de Montfort brushed his objections aside. In truth, my lord, they make most peculiar bedfellows! Gloucester is one who wants tender handling, yet de Montfort is the least likely man to indulge him. After Gloucester insisted he had the right of ransom over your uncle, the King of the Romans, a claim de Montfort rejected out of hand, he was later heard to say that dealing with Gloucester was verily like stroking a hedgehog!”
Ancel grinned at that; so did Edward. But Hal was indignant. “It was agreed there were to be no ransoms levied. Gloucester always was a grasping bastard. Is it not enough for him that he’s gotten the lands of our de Lusignan uncle and Peter de Savoy? And that in addition to the bulk of the de Warenne estates!”
Edward shrugged; he had more important matters on his mind than Gloucester’s greed. “What of the Londoners, Ancel? Did they reelect that misbegotten Mayor of theirs?”
Ancel nodded, bracing for a bitter outburst, for he knew how much Edward detested Fitz Thomas. When it didn’t come, he could not hide his surprise. “You seem so…so composed, my lord. I must confess that I’d expected to find you pacing and raging like a caged lion!”
Edward’s smile was thin, mirthless. “For once I can afford to be patient, Ancel. For all the courtesy and deference shown my father, he remains a captive King, Simon’s puppet monarch, and that is not a sight to give men comfort. Gloucester will not long be alone in suspecting Simon’s intent, for he is exercising a king’s authority, without a king’s right. He cannot legitimize his power—but he dare not relinquish it, either. And each day that passes only deepens his dilemma. Time is my ally, his enemy.”
This was the moment Ancel had been awaiting. “More than you know, my lord.”
Hal didn’t comprehend, but Edward did. He leaned forward, suddenly tense, expectant. “When?”
Ancel smiled. “On the morrow,” he said, “at dawn.”
Edward was beginning to regret having confided in his uncle. He wanted to savor the excitement of their impending rescue, but Richard was too inherently cautious, too conservative to relish risk-taking. For the past quarter-hour, he had been conscientiously pointing out all the ways such an escape attempt could go wrong.
Aware that he was losing his audience—Hal had wandered to the window and Edward’s eyes were glazing over—Richard drew a sharp, aggrieved breath. “I think you ought to pay heed to what I say. Who knows Wallingford’s defenses better than I? It will not be easy to take. And if the assault fails, have you considered the consequences? Ours is a right comfortable confinement, Edward, for which we can thank my sister. There are those of Simon’s supporters who would see us more closely held, but Nell has argued against it, and Simon has so far heeded her. Not a week goes by that she does not send us sweetmeats, fresh venison, wine. How many men have so gentle a gaoler, lad? My sister loves us well, but if you force her to choose between us and de Montfort, we’ll be the ones to regret it. She’s still besotted with the man, even after twenty-odd years, and worse, he’s managed to infect her with his political heresies…”
Edward was no longer even making a pretense of listening. He rose, swallowing a yawn, as Hal swung away from the window in sudden panic. “Je—Jesus God,” he stuttered, “we’ve been betrayed! Guy de Montfort just rode into the inner bailey!”
Edward’s nerves were steadier; after a daunting second or so, he shook his head. “How could Guy know? It’s mere chance that brought him here, and glad I am of it!”
“Glad?” Hal looked so dumbfounded that Edward began to laugh.
“Yes, by God, glad! Use your head, Hal. If Guy is killed in the assault, small loss. But if he survives, he’ll make a right valuable hostage.”
Hal was easy to reassure; wanting to believe was always enough for him. Richard remained skeptical, but Edward had ample confidence for them all, and he awaited the coming of day with edgy anticipation.
Ancel’s cousin, Warin de Bassingbourn, had undertaken, at the Queen’s urging, to rescue her son. Making a daring dash from Bristol Castle to Wallingford, he began his assault just before dawn on the second Friday in November, and before the surprised garrison could rally to the defense, he and his men managed to breach the outer curtain wall, to take possession of the outer bailey.
As the first sounds of combat reached the castle keep, Edward unshuttered the window of the chamber he shared with Hal, tied a strip of scarlet cloth to the latch. The sun had not yet burned away the autumn haze drifting off the Thames, and men running across the bailey disappeared into sudden patches of billowing, ghostly mist. Wallingford’s mangonels were now being manned, sending huge rocks over the walls, blind assaults followed sometimes by silence, sometimes by muffled screams. Edward could see the defenders crouched on the wall walkway, loosing arrows and curses at random into the fog. When a de Montfort knight took an incoming arrow in the throat, toppled backward into the inner moat, he felt a surge of savage elation; a pity it wasn’t Guy!
Soon after the attack began, harried, grim-faced guards flung open the door of their chamber, ushered in Richard and his younger son, Edmund. They joined Edward and Hal at the window, riveted by the chaotic activity below in the bailey. Each time one of the castle defenders fell, Edward and his cousins cheered lustily. Even Richard, knowing as he did that a deep, double moat and curtain wall still stood between them and their rescuers, found himself, nonetheless, getting caught up in the excitement.
There was a sudden lull, and then a man’s voice echoed over the wall. “I have a message for your castellan! Tell him that Sir Warin de Bassingbourn demands that he send out to us the Lord Edward and his royal kinsmen. Should you be foolish enough to refuse, we’ll show no mercy when we take the castle, will put all within to the sword.”
Edward and Hal pounded each other on the back, traded playful punches, intoxicated by the ease of their victory. Edward was vowing to find a barony for de Bassingbourn when the door was once more thrust open. “Not the others, my lord, just you,” the captain said brusquely, and Edward paused in the doorway, looking back with a rakish grin. “Whilst I’m gone,” he quipped, “start packing,” and moved jauntily into the stairwell, to the accompaniment of his cousins’ laughter.
He was not surprised to be taken up to the roof battlements; what better post for overseeing the castle defenses? Simon had entrusted Wallingford to Richard de Havering, a phlegmatic, colorless individual who had, nonetheless, managed to antagonize Edward, so unwavering was his loyalty to Simon and the Provisions. He and Guy were leaning over the embrasure, gesturing down into the bailey. They turned at Edward’s approach, and de Havering said stolidly, “We want you to tell de Bassingbourn to call off the attack.”
Edward’s laughter was not feigned for effect; his amusement was genuine. “And I want a long life and God’s blessings. What of it?”
De Havering remained impassive, but Guy betrayed impatience. “Show him,” he said tersely to the castellan.
“Show me what?” Following de Havering to the embrasure, Edward watched, uncomprehending and not a little suspicious, as the castellan signaled to the men below. They at once set about winching the mangonel beam back, loading a large boulder. That done, they released the skein, and the beam snapped upright, thudding into the crossbar with awesome force, catapulting the boulder in a wide arc across the bailey. Edward’s eyes locked onto its flight, but as soon as it soared over the wall, he shrugged. “So? I’ve seen more mangonels than I can count. Why should one more matter to me?”
“Ah, but this is no ordinary siege weapon.” Guy’s smile was sudden, unsettling. “Unless you agree to call off the attack, we will indeed do as your friends demand and send you out to them—by way of that mangonel.”
Edward prided himself upon his aplomb, but for once, words failed him; he could only stare
at Guy in disbelief. Rallying—too late—he mustered up a fairly convincing burst of scorn. “You’re bluffing. You’d never dare do that!”
Guy stepped closer. “You tell me, Ned,” he said coolly. “Am I bluffing?”
For a long moment, Edward searched the depths of his cousin’s eyes, a chilling, fathomless sea-grey. “Damn you…” Little more than a whisper, throbbing with intense, impotent fury, a hatred beyond assuaging. Swinging around, he strode toward the embrasure, shouted for de Bassingbourn. “Pull your men back if you value my life!”
That November trouble flared up again in the Marches. Roger de Mortimer and Roger Clifford suddenly seized the royal castles of Gloucester and Bridgnorth. When Simon hastily mustered a force and headed west, the Marcher lords burned the bridges over the River Severn. But they had overlooked Simon’s Welsh ally. Llewelyn ap Gruffydd attacked from the rear, kept them hard-pressed until Simon reached the border. Once again he triumphed; the recalcitrant barons surrendered to him at Worcester on December 12. But after two Marcher rebellions in three months, Simon was not disposed to be lenient. De Mortimer and Clifford and their confederates were ordered to abjure the realm, exiled to Ireland for a year and a day. Simon then compelled Edward to yield to him the earldom of Chester, in exchange for twelve de Montfort manors of comparable value in Leicestershire. After nearly thirty years, Gwynedd and Cheshire were once again allies, as in the days of Llewelyn Fawr.
Falls the Shadow Page 66
