The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2)

by Juliet Dymoke

  There was a moment's silence. Then Harry cried out, 'Cousin! After all your promises! How can you?'

  Simon folded his arms across his chest, facing the unhappy young man. 'Edward, you gave me your word. Is it worth so little?'

  Before Edward could answer Guy had his sword half out. 'Traitor! Prince you may be, but you are betraying my father and you will answer for that.'

  'Not willingly,' Edward retorted, 'never willingly. My uncle's hopes are mine still, but other ties are more binding when it comes to life or death.'

  'Traitor!' Guy shouted again. 'Oath-breaker!' and his sword came fully out of the scabbard.

  Edward stepped back involuntarily, feeling for his own hilt.

  The Demoiselle gave a smothered cry, frightened by the angry words and the scraping of steel, and she caught at her mother's arm. Already she adored her cousin Edward and for a moment thought Guy would indeed kill him, but her father's hand had shot out and come down hard on her brother's wrist.

  'No, Guy, I'll not have that. Edward, you are man enough to make your own decisions. If this is what you wish to do then do it. At least you had the courage to come and tell me. But leave my house now – you'll not be molested. Only I will not call you nephew again.'

  Eleanor had been listening in horror to the quick exchange of angry words threatening to turn to worse deeds. Now, disengaging herself with a sharp admonition from her daughter's clutches, she came to stand between Edward and her sons.

  'Stop, I beg of you. Edward, think – oh, think. You have always cared so much for what your uncle thought.'

  'I still do,' he said. Ignoring a snort from Guy he took her hand and put it to his lips. She could see that he was very pale.

  'But I must go to my father. I cannot be shut away from him or from my mother.'

  He went, a disappointed young man forced to sacrifice youthful ideals, activated not so much by expediency, though he never lost sight of his destiny, but by a genuine love that was proving stronger than he knew.

  Spring came, a fresh bright spring reminding Eleanor of the April days in Oxford. She and Simon felt isolated, the barons uneasy. A large force of mercenary soldiers arrived from France and marched into London. A week later they escorted the royal family to Winchester and no one moved to prevent them. In June Henry announced that a papal bull had been issued releasing him from the oath he had sworn to the Provisions at Oxford.

  'I am King again,' he told his astonished court and thought himself the shrewdest of men. He had outmanoeuvered his enemies, he had King Louis and the Pope behind him, and in his self-satisfaction he entirely overlooked the effect his action would have on his lords and people. He saw as a victory what they saw as a temporary setback, and confused their present capitulation with total surrender.

  He was very pleased with himself on this June day and sent a messenger to Scotland bearing a letter inviting his daughter Margaret and her husband King Alexander to pay him a visit. Margaret was his favourite child and he wanted her to share his triumph.

  His Queen was already scheming how to be rid of the de Montforts, aided by William de Valence and her uncles, while Thomas of Savoy had crossed the channel solely in the hope of seeing the Earl of Leicester brought low.

  The barons were utterly taken aback by the Pope's decision, shocked at the total disregard of a binding oath, and disgusted by the King's perfidy, but for the moment there seemed to be nothing to be done and one by one they trickled back to court.

  In black despair at such weakness Simon ordered Eleanor to have their belongings packed. 'Take the boys and our Demoiselle and go back to Kenilworth,' he said, 'before the King takes away that which we have. He will not harm you but it will be better if I am away for a while. My nephew writes that there are affairs needing me at Montfort L'Amaury.'

  'Oh no.' Eleanor caught at his hands. 'Not another parting, my dear lord. You need me, you are not well.'

  'I am not ill,' he said with a slight smile, 'except in spirit. Keep a good heart, watch over my affairs at Kenilworth, and I will come back when the time is right.'

  'And if it is too long, I will come to you. You cannot keep me from you. I would rather lose all than be parted from you.'

  His mouth came down hard on hers, and they held each other as if all their distress was pouring itself into that passionate embrace. She glanced up at him when he released her, at the sad disillusioned expression on his face, longing for any other solution but this. But she knew he was right and set about gathering her household, her sons, and the Demoiselle who cried bitterly at saying farewell to her father.

  And as the cavalcade left Durham House, their lord ready to take the opposite direction, Eleanor knew she hated Henry for his silliness, his petty scheming, his greed. It was Simon who had the larger vision, Simon who had more in his head than the shape of a flying buttress or the design of a silver cup.

  For a last moment their horses stood side by side, their tails swishing at the flies, and Eleanor said impetuously, 'Don't grieve, my heart. They're not worth it, not any of them.'

  Unexpectedly he answered, 'I was thinking of Arnold of Ashaw. When we were last at Kenilworth he brought in his dues and more as a gift to me, his lord. He and his like are worth the struggle – and it's not over yet.'

  No, she thought, as she took the road north, every movement of her horse's hooves bearing her further from him, not over yet, but where would it all end? Would he wear his life away in this hard struggle?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Queen Eleanora did not feel well, had not been in good health for some time. She was subject to a burning sensation in the chest, to occasional fever that prostrated her on her bed in acute discomfort, and her physician seemed unable to ease it. But the attacks passed and her impetuous spirit was unimpaired.

  One morning when just such an attack had eased she left herbed, had her maids dress her and went down the spiral stair in one corner of the White Tower, past the beautiful chapel where she and Henry heard Mass when they were in residence, to the hall below.

  Henry was standing in one of the deep window embrasures, his hands clasped nervously together, his expression hovering between fear and anger.

  'What is it?' she asked. 'What has that devil done now?'

  'It is not Leicester,' he answered, 'though I don't doubt he's incited them, but the mob has gone wild. Look at the flames! Half London is burning. Dear God, is all the world gone mad?'

  Bishop Boniface said, 'Those clowns out there need a sharp lesson. If I had a few more men at my back I'd show them that a man of God can mete out justice.'

  'And I would hang the cowards who have deserted us,' Eleanora flashed. 'I thought at least John Mansel could be trusted.'

  'I told him to go,' the King said. 'He has done too much for me to be safe here. None of my friends will be safe, not even you, my lord Boniface. I charge you to leave at once.'

  The Queen's uncle made a graceful gesture. 'If it is your wish, sire. In France I can work on your behalf.' He bowed and would have put his niece's hand to his lips but for once she snatched it away. 'Yes, go, go!' she said. 'I'll not desert my lord.'

  He bowed. 'I but carry out the King's will. God keep you, sire.'

  He withdrew, only too glad of the excuse to be away from the mob of whose hatred he was well aware. When he had first been appointed Archbishop he had ridden roughshod over his monks and people at Canterbury and no one had forgotten this. Within ten minutes, in the plain robe of a lay brother, he had slipped out of a postern gate.

  Eleanora looked after him with contempt. 'If I were but half the man he is I'd not act so. I never thought to call my uncle coward.'

  Henry reached out his hand for hers. 'But I want you to leave too. One of Sir William's men has just come in and he says the mob has slain all the foreigners they could find in the city, and the Jews too for lending us money, poor wretches. It is Jewry you can see burning. A yellow robe will not be safe in the streets this day.'

  She gave a shudder. 'They are m
ad, mad! And it is all Leicester's fault. If he had not come back from France –’

  'Do you think I would not have prevented that if I could? My fickle scheming barons sent for him and I suspect young Gloucester of being at the root of it. Truly I think Almighty God did me a great disservice when he took the Earl his father from this world. Richard de Clare held by me last year, but Gilbert has had his head turned by Simon, as have half the young fools who owe allegiance to me. Even Richard's boy, young Almaine, has gone to serve under him and put their cursed cross on the shoulder of his surcoat. De Warenne too, and Edward's friend Roger Leyburn. And John de Vescy. I remember how his father opposed mine at Running Meade – like father like son. Oh!' He shook with frustration. 'Why – why should they not live at peace with their King? Why should I be forced to yield my power to them? Am I not God's anointed ruler?' He paused for breath. ‘I will not, I say will not! But I fear for your safety, my dearest, and that is why tonight want you to take our barge and go up the river to Windsor. You will be secure there.'

  She raised her head proudly. 'I will not run away from the scum of London. They are the clowns you call them and I've dealt with them before.'

  'And that is the very reason why you are in danger,' he said. 'I must command this of you.' His eyes filled suddenly and he cried out, 'All ever wanted was you and our children and beauty all about us, and these hard men have robbed us of it.'

  'We have been happy together,' she said, 'and no one can take that from us.'

  An hour later under cover of darkness, the royal barge slipped out bearing the Queen and her ladies. She was wrapped in a dark cloak; a hood over her head, and the royal standard was not in its usual place. Nevertheless as they approached the bridge with its thirteen solid piers, a sharp-sighted pedlar recognized both boat and occupant, too familiar to Londoners to be mistaken, and yelled to his fellows that the foreign bitch was escaping.

  The citizens were drunk this night on stolen wine, inebriated by the sight of foreign blood flowing in the gutters, the hated Jews lying dead in mounds, their houses looted and burned. None of them had forgotten the matter of the Queen-geld, nor Eleanora's behaviour to the Mayor and leading citizens. A wild struggling mob streamed to the gaps between the crowded houses on the bridge and screeched their fury at her.

  'Stone her! Drown the bitch!'

  'Sink the boat and send the witch to hell!'

  The abuse went on and there was a dash for rotten eggs, mud, stones, cabbages and any filth they could lay their hands on. The barge was pelted, an egg broke on the Queen's cloak causing her to recoil from the stench, while other missiles hit her ladies. They were all crying with fright and one screamed as a stone struck an oarsman and he fell in the water to be sucked under where the river rushed between two piers.

  'Turn the boat,' the Queen ordered fiercely. 'Oh, Blessed Lady, protect us! Turn the boat, I say, we cannot go on.'

  Never, she thought, had any Queen been so treated, and bitter hatred rose in her for those vulgar, yelling, unwashed faces above her. The terrified oarsmen had a hard struggle to bring the barge round against the pull of the waters, but they did it and brought her back safely to the Tower.

  There in a state of collapse she was carried to her bed, while her husband, sick with fear, sent a messenger to his brother-in-law asking for terms.

  Simon was at Oxford when the King's knight reached him and he acted with the swiftness that always bewildered Henry. He had returned from France at the insistence of his friends, Gilbert the Red now Earl in his father's place, the Earls of Norfolk, Oxford and Hereford, and a number of others adding their voices. Henry, after his assumption of power, had returned to his old ways, ignoring the law, doing exactly what he wanted to do, and Simon found the country seething, earls, batons, knights, yeomen and merchants, all ready to prepare for war. He too was certain that combat was now the only way to bring Henry to his senses.

  He did not even pause to go to Kenilworth, only sending his greeting to Eleanor and summoning his two eldest sons to attend him. He was surrounded now by young men, and he knew himself to be the pivot of their ideals. To have Richard of Cornwall's son among them was a triumph indeed. He kept these young men about him, entrusting much to the hot-tempered Gilbert the Red who was eager for personal triumph but with the sense to realize who was the best, the only leader for the campaign.

  A good army to command, Simon thought, with some older heads to keep the young in check, but it had not yet come to a fight.

  In a panic Henry announced his wish to talk and met his brother-in-law at Windsor, in the meadow below the castle walls. The encounter was brief, for neither had any intention of conceding cherished ideals to the other. At last Henry rounded on Eleanor who had accompanied her husband.

  'I do not understand you,' he said petulantly. 'I gave you so much and yet you look at me as if I were your enemy. Are you not still my sister?'

  'I am my lord Simon's wife,' she retorted and they stared at each other, a great gulf between them. There seemed nothing more to be said.

  Both sides retired to endeavour to find some terms for a truce, but before anything was done an unexpected blow was struck for the King. The Lord Edward, now wholly committed to his father's cause and far from sharing his fears, raided the new Temple where his mother's money and jewels were kept. He forced doors and locks and seized the entire treasure. With this he paid the force of Welsh mercenaries that he commanded and lured both his cousin de Warenne and Roger Leyburn back to the case. He also worked on Henry of Almaine, until that honest young man went to Simon and said that as his father was with the King he did not feel able to take up arms against him. But neither, he added ingenuously, would he draw his sword against his uncle of Leicester.

  Simon gave him a sardonic smile. 'Do you think I fear your untried sword, pup? It is your inconstancy that will make men distrust you.'

  Almaine departed, crestfallen and red in the face, and Simon, bitterly disappointed at the defections, agreed to the King's suggestion that the whole affair of the Provisions and the oaths taken should be laid before the King of France who was willing to listen to both points of view. It was a last throw for peace.

  The Earl and Countess spent Christmas at Kenilworth with all the seasonal festivities but Simon knew himself to be morose and unable to share in his sons' enjoyment of the feasting.

  Before Twelfth Night he had further cause for depression. A bedraggled brewer arrived from the Welsh marches and poured out a miserable story. It seemed that the King, who had a genius for doing the wrong thing at the wrong moment, had given three of Simon's manors to Roger Mortimer to keep that young man to heel. Mortimer, instead of investing them sensibly, seized what he could, burned the houses, and was now holding the Earl's bailiff to ransom. Simon was, with reason, furiously angry. He dismissed Henry's excuse that these manors had been merely a holding for the crown, and told Eleanor this was yet another item to lay before King Louis. It would show him how little any subject in England could depend on their sovereign's word. He would have thundered straight to London if he did not now that Henry was probably well on his way to France.

  The next morning Simon set out to ride to the coast. It was a bitter day with ice on the ponds and puddles, the ground like iron, frost crackling on the trees. He rode in silence, brooding on the turn of events and the best way to present his case to King Louis. He had faith in his ability to make that saintly monarch see his point of view, understand that a King who constantly broke his word and who ran to the Pope for absolution from any vow that displeased him, was not a man who could be trusted. Englishmen needed some sort of restraint put upon their royal griffin, he thought, remembering Henry's silly remark about himself during the building of the abbey. He kept up a good pace, Sir Roger Foliot bearing his banner over his head, his knights streaming behind him, his squires wearing his livery of the fork-tailed lion, his elder sons beside him.

  'We'll reach Northampton by nightfall,' Harry said. 'A hot meal and a warm bed won't be
amiss after this ride. Jesu, but it's cold.'

  'Who cares a fig for the weather?' Guy's tone was sharp. 'I'd rather we were warming ourselves by turning our steel on our cousin Edward than words on the King of France. Why we did not deal with Edward before we left I do not know.'

  'He'll not break the truce while we're gone,' the younger Simon told him. 'We all liked Longshanks. Do you want to see him dead?' ·

  'Yes!' Guy flashed, 'and all enemies of our father.'

  The Earl turned on him. 'Do you think I want the King's heir slain? Do you think that would enhance my standing in the world? No, by God.' He swung round again, and in that moment his horse put an unwary hoof into an iced pot-hole and came down, throwing his rider over his head on to the hard ground.

  For a moment Simon lay stunned, sick with pain, vivid colours flashing before his eyes. He seemed to hear someone cry out and became aware of confusion, men dismounting, Harry holding his head, Simon bending over him. There seemed to be blood trickling down his forehead. On one knee beside him Guy said urgently, 'Are you badly hurt, my lord? Can you get up?' He had some cloth and was wiping away the blood. 'This cut's not deep.'

  A frightened squire had brought a costrel of wine and Guy seized it, holding it to his father's lips. Simon drank a little, his head clearing. His horse seemed unhurt, on its feet again, but as he struggled to rise a sharp pain made him catch his breath. 'My leg,' he said and was surprised to hear his voice so calm. 'I think it is broken.'

  Harry called for a litter to be made at once, two men cutting saplings for poles and stretching a mantle over them, while Guy found a firm stick and bound it to his father's leg. The pain was excruciating but Simon bore it without comment, nor did he speak while he was lifted on to the hastily made litter though he could not repress one groan.

  They were no more than twenty miles from Kenilworth and he ordered Simon and several knights to bear him back. It was too late to reach the castle tonight, but they could take him to Dunchurch and home on the morrow. Harry he commanded to proceed to join others of their party in London.