“How can I have any useful thoughts on that subject?” he asked, opening his eyes to demonstrate his surprise at the question. “It was my idea that Lord Mortimer should leave Wigmore to make this place less suspect as your first haven, but that is where my contribution ended. I am totally ignorant of the country and the people here. It would have done me no good to ask Lord Mortimer’s purpose in choosing Ludlow because I would have been none the wiser when I heard it.”
“My lord,” Lady Matilda put in, “my lord explained to me why he chose Ludlow. I was concerned because it is my cousin’s property and her husband, Geoffrey de Genevill, has gone to Ireland. There is no mystery in the choice, only that Ludlow is close, large, and strong enough so that the addition of my lord’s troops to the garrison would not be too obvious, and with Genevill gone there would be nothing surprising or notable if my cousin should shut the keep against all comers, including Leicester or his sheriff.”
“You and your cousin are both de Braose, are you not?” Edward asked.
“We are indeed, my lord.” She smiled. “We are both named Matilda de Braose.”
Edward smiled too. “And both courageous women as befits your heritage.”
The gallant remark, a little spark of the old Edward, raised Alphonse’s hopes that reason would conquer the prince’s irrational suspicions. His decision to go to Ludlow, made that morning, improved those hopes, as did his seemingly warm and grateful greeting to Mortimer when they arrived at Ludlow later in the day.
From what Alphonse could judge, Edward’s spirits rose and lightened as soon as he began to make active plans. Over the next few days, the prince was able to discuss with Mortimer, at least with outward calm, the all-important problems of inducing men to rally to his banner and the form their campaign must take. Now, Alphonse thought, if Edward could handle Gloucester with tact, there might be a good chance of success.
So far all signs were favorable. Thomas had been sent, not with an order but with a courteously worded invitation to his brother to join them at Ludlow.
To Alphonse’s intense relief, Edward was every inch the prince when he greeted Gloucester but with it courteous and attentive, his manner admitting Gloucester’s importance without diminishing his own. Some delicate subjects could be barely touched on and set aside—such as the fact that both had made sworn agreements with Leicester and violated them—with a glancing reference to Leicester’s almost overpowering attractiveness and growing tyranny. Both were equally guilty which gave them a kind of bond of sympathy.
As the goodwill each brought to the meeting became apparent, tensions eased. Nonetheless, there were some bad moments, particularly when Gloucester demanded of Edward a promise to uphold the good laws of Magna Carta and to exclude all foreigners from king and council.
“You put me in a hard position,” Edward said with gentle reasonableness. “My uncle, William de Valence, is even now in Pembroke fighting Leicester. Am I to exile him as thanks for his service?”
“I did not ask that his lands be reft from him or that he be forbidden residence here,” Gloucester replied. “He may hold what is his in peace, as long as he obeys English law. What I asked is that we who know the ways of this land be the counselors who advise the king and that no foreign law take precedence over English people.”
“I have no quarrel with that,” Edward said. “But how will you take your assurance? Must I swear oaths and sign letters—”
“No!” Gloucester exclaimed, his color rising as he remembered how many oaths and useless proclamations had been wrung from Edward. “You are my lord, and if I cannot trust you, I cannot serve you. Give me your word, with your hand in mine that you will observe the good old laws and ban from the king’s council those who scoff at them, and I will be content.”
Edward’s hand came out without the smallest hesitation and Gloucester laid his own in it. “I swear,” the prince said.
Later in the day, as Edward, Gilbert, and Mortimer settled down to discuss the military objectives that must be attained and their priority, a genuine feeling of respect and cooperation began to emerge. Edward’s drooping eyelid lifted, Gloucester’s normally ruddy complexion lost the pallor of discomfort and concentration and the lines of bitter hopelessness on Mortimer’s face smoothed as his mouth relaxed and his eyes lit.
Alphonse felt a surge of enthusiasm himself and a prick of hopeful superstition. For once, forces totally outside of their control seemed to be working for them. Leicester himself had inadvertently done Edward a good turn. Conveniently, on May 30, two days before Gloucester arrived in Ludlow, Leicester had announced the prince’s escape by proclamation and summoned the whole feudal army of England to assemble at Worcester to fight the invaders in Pembroke, where he assumed Edward had fled.
Once the proclamation was spread abroad, no one could doubt that Edward was free and intended to fight. On the next day, Mortimer’s men had carried letters under Edward’s seal all up through Cheshire and Shropshire. The letters repudiated as forced the prince’s agreement to yield his lands to Leicester and summoned his vassals, not to join the invaders but to free the king from Leicester’s tyranny under his son’s banner. By June 2, when Gloucester arrived in Ludlow, a small army was assembling north of the village on the east bank of the Teme.
Counting on the news of the prince’s release to restore their enthusiasm, Mortimer had also sent out summonses to his vassals and invitations to his fellow lords Marcher to join the prince. Most, like Mortimer himself, were so stained with rebellion that they had little to lose, but Edward’s recognition gave a new legitimacy and a new hope to the war they were waging. They responded swiftly and were assembled near Wigmore by June 2.
To show his trust in Edward and to display his own goodwill, Gloucester had left at Leominster that portion of his army which he had brought with him. They were only four leagues from Ludlow, however, and as ready to move as the other forces on June 2. In addition, Gloucester had other troops encamped or holding keeps and manors in various positions southward all the way to the river Usk. Messengers came frequently up the chain of armed camps and brought during the night of June 2 an essential piece of news. Although he had summoned his army to Worcester, Leicester had not yet left the town of Gloucester, perhaps because he hoped that Edward would be retaken on his way south to join his uncles in Pembroke.
There were other possible reasons for Leicester’s inaction, but no one wasted time speculating on why he did not move. It was enough that his behavior gave them a chance to achieve what Mortimer had failed to do in his last rebellion, close off the crossings of the river Severn. Unless the whole country rose at Leicester’s summons, in which case the Royalists’ cause was hopeless anyway, most of the forces loyal to Leicester would come from London and the southeast. These men must be kept from reaching Leicester, a general objective too clear to all to raise a single contrary opinion. What pleased Alphonse, who quite properly had taken no part at all in the discussion, was that the method of achieving that objective had also been agreed on with refreshing unanimity.
On June 3 the leaders left Ludlow, separating to join the men who had come at their orders. They had agreed to meet at Worcester to take the town and destroy the bridges over the river Severn. If the crossing of the Severn was blocked, no army could reach Leicester, and he would be isolated with a relatively small force and no strong base west of the river.
Alphonse rode at Edward’s side, thanking God that he had had the foresight to ask for a formal release from his promise to serve Gilbert when he had been sent with Thomas to join the prince. To ask for his freedom during the making of the pact between the prince and the earl might have added another bone of contention, small perhaps, but even a trifle was too much when a mixed force such as the prince now headed was in the field.
The contest for Worcester was brief, so brief Alphonse almost felt cheated. Leicester’s supporters closed the city gates and cried defiance to Gloucester’s army, which arrived first, but when the prince’s ba
nner was unfurled on June 5, the chief men of the city came out to make submission. Of course, the bridges had already been torn down—Edward had driven away the defenders and ordered demolished those north of the town, and Gloucester had burned the wooden portions of the bridges at the western gate—so there was not much purpose to resistance.
The prince could have ordered the sacking of the town for spite, but he did not. There was no need this early in the campaign, Alphonse thought cynically. The men were not yet starving for loot. There was also goodwill to be gained by accepting the town’s submission graciously and demanding nothing beyond the right to replace the garrison of the keep, which was readily granted. No major victory could be claimed, but the event made clear the benefit of being an army under a royal banner instead of lawless rebels against Leicester. Everyone’s spirits rose.
With one accord the army turned south, destroying bridges and leaving guards at most good fords to prevent the enemy from crossing the Severn. On June 7 new orders from Leicester made clear that news of the barring of the passages of the Severn had been carried to him by those faithful to his party. The feudal host was commanded to gather at the city of Gloucester rather than at Worcester. That Leicester had partisans was no surprise and little disappointment. None of the Royalist leaders deluded himself that the whole country was ready to abandon the new government.
Control of the Severn was also established with varying ease at different places. Delegations came eagerly from some towns with bridges or fords to greet Edward. The folk of other places, perhaps remembering a bad master protected by the king or the prince, resisted loyally in Leicester’s name. There was enough danger and fighting to keep Alphonse interested, and with each success Edward became a more genial companion. So, for two weeks, until they reached the town of Gloucester and settled down to besiege it, Alphonse very nearly forgot he was married. When the first sorties against the walls failed and the dull preparations for a full attack began, Alphonse did now and then wonder where Barbe was.
The thought occurred to him only when he was very bored. He knew that not enough time had passed for her messengers to reach Norfolk, for his troop to cross the country and recross it with her to take her to her father, and then for her messengers to come all the way back to him. Thus, bored or not, it was too soon for him to think of asking leave of Edward. He did not even have the excuse that he was anxious about her. All the news coming from England implied Barbe’s journey was sure to be peaceful and safe. No armies were gathering and marching.
Information had come in day by day as the messengers Edward had sent all across England returned. The bits and pieces could be added up many ways to make a sum good or bad as one chose to see it. The news was bad in the sense that few men from the country at large were rushing to join Edward, but it was good in the sense that no feudal host had responded to Leicester’s summons. Most men were simply too confused or too cautious to support either side. Were the orders of the king, though he was clearly only a puppet in Leicester’s power, of more legality than those of the prince, who was free? Moreover, was it safe to obey any orders since there was no clear sign that either party would achieve a final victory?
On balance, Alphonse considered the news better for Edward than for Leicester. Most of Edward’s power was here in the west, and many of the men who had been his vassals had responded to his call, bringing their subtenants who were resentful of Leicester’s high-handed “seizure” of the prince’s land. Clearly Leicester recognized the prince’s advantage. He had not stayed to fight at Gloucester but had moved north to Hereford. If the feudal army had come at his summons, Edward would have been caught between the two forces, but no feudal army had formed. Whatever forces Leicester could command in the east were still far away, but Leicester did not wait passively in Hereford. He had taken the poor tired old king with him and was now advancing on Monmouth.
Mortimer had enough relatives, friends, and allies among the Welsh to have good and accurate information about Leicester’s activities. It was soon clear that the earl was trying to bring the Welsh prince Llywelyn into the war. Leicester had offered Llywelyn a very favorable treaty for his support.
Edward cocked his head when Mortimer made the report. His face was brown, his eyes bright, although the day had brought no advance in their siege of Gloucester city. “Should I send an emissary to Llywelyn to warn him against alliance with Leicester?” Edward asked.
“No indeed!” Mortimer exclaimed. “The treaty, signed or unsigned, will do you no harm, and you should not imply my cousin’s act could affect you. You will need to be completely free when you deal with him in the future.” His dark eyes gleamed at the thought of the renewal of the long contest between himself and Llywelyn on new terms—terms that might now be slightly favorable to him. “Whatever you do,” he went on, “Llywelyn will accept Leicester’s treaty.” He laughed. “Why should he not? He will make sure there are clauses in it that will permit him to violate it if he needs to do so. And to prove goodwill, he need only send Leicester a few archers. I assure you, my lord, he will do nothing more.”
Gloucester, who knew the Welsh almost as well as Mortimer did, told Alphonse the advice was good. The question of whether Edward could resist trying to influence Llywelyn became moot, however, when Grimbald Pancefot of Gloucester offered to open the city to him. The town was overrun, but by agreement not sacked. For a few days Alphonse’s boredom was alleviated as attacks were launched against the citadel, but the entertainment did not last long. The castle had been shorn of most of its defenders when the townsmen fled, and surrender was inevitable. On June 29, Robert de Ros, who held Gloucester castle for Leicester, yielded.
That Leicester knew the castle could not long resist once the town opened its gates was clear from the reports about his actions. A messenger from Thomas, who much to his disgust was in Wales making sure no large army formed there, reported that Leicester had sent messengers to his son Simon. The young de Montfort was ordered to abandon his attack on Pevensey and bring the whole army he had collected to his father’s support at once. One messenger had been taken, Thomas wrote, but others were sure to have crossed out of Wales safely.
A few days later another messenger came. This time Thomas’s letter did not begin with complaints of being overprotected and pleas to join the prince. Instead it gave news that Leicester had been repulsed by several of Gloucester’s keeps in the valley of the Usk. Having tested the defenses and found that conquest would require more time and more men than he had, Leicester had moved south toward Newport. Thomas thought the earl had hoped to take that town, cross the channel to Bristol, and so pass behind Edward’s army. If so, his messenger reported with grim satisfaction, the move had been checked.
During the third week in July news came that Leicester had turned north again and was making for Hereford. Edward, however, had traveled north ahead of his enemy. A week earlier an outraged deputation had come from Winchester to report that young Simon, because they would not give him without payment everything he desired, had sacked the city. The prince promptly secured Gloucester, garrisoned it with troops that had long been faithful, and put the rest of the army on alert. When, a few days later, word came that Simon had passed Oxford and was marching due north, the prince was ready to move too. Edward assumed, since Simon had not turned toward the city of Gloucester to attack him, that he had new orders from his father about joining forces. Because the Severn was unfordable in the south and all the bridges were gone, Edward expected an attempt to cross near or north of Worcester, where fording the river was possible. He returned there to guard against the passage of either father or son across the Severn.
Early on July 29 a report came from one of Mortimer’s friends in Hereford that Leicester had arrived in the town on the twenty-seventh. By then, Edward was certain an attempt to cross the river would have been made, but a close watch had been kept on the east bank of the Severn north of Worcester and no sign of young Simon’s army—not even of small units to test fo
r fords—had appeared.
In the tower chamber of Worcester Castle he had claimed for private use, Edward had been wondering aloud to Alphonse, who because he had no other responsibilities like provisioning and commanding his own men had become a constant companion, whether Simon could have doubled back and somehow crossed farther south. Listlessly, Alphonse remarked that he did not think Leicester’s son likely to expend so much thought or effort. Spoiled and selfish as he was, Simon probably had decided to stop to rest or amuse himself.
“Not if he knew his father to be in need,” the prince argued. “Leicester’s indulgence has bought him his sons’ love, and—” He stopped abruptly, expecting a half teasing, half serious reminder that his own father was scarcely a model of severity, but Alphonse said nothing. Edward stared. Several weeks’ worth of visual and aural cues had finally pierced his self-absorption to add up to a clear picture of Alphonse as a very unhappy man.
“What is wrong?” he asked. And then with a touch of reserve, for the prince had learned to be wary of generosity, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I seem to have lost my wife,” Alphonse replied. His voice was even, his face was without expression, but sudden tears glittered in his dark eyes.
“Lost your wife!” Edward’s voice shook with horror for he loved his own gentle princess deeply. “Man—” he came and put a hand on Alphonse’s shoulder. “I have been busy, but not so busy I could not mourn with you.”
“I do not mean that she is dead, my lord. No, not that.” Alphonse found a smile and went on to explain how he had arranged for her to go to Evesham where her father was to send for her and that she was to send a message back to let him know when she had arrived safely and where he should meet her. The smile disappeared and his voice shook when he said, “But no message ever came.”
“Norfolk is across the whole width of England,” Edward said comfortingly. “And a messenger can get lost, injured, or even killed.”
A Silver Mirror Page 51
