Falls the Shadow (53 page)

There was a sudden silence, and then an exultant shout, a collective cry of triumph. Within moments the air was alive with invective. “Drown the bitch!” The cry rose from a hundred throats; mud and garbage rained down upon the barge. Eleanor’s ladies were screaming. In fending off the barrage, one of the boatmen lost his oar; the barge spun in a circle, caught by the current. Eleanor was knocked to the bottom of the boat. As it smashed against the pilings, she, too, began to scream.

The arch loomed ahead; it would later haunt Eleanor’s dreams, a gateway to Hell. She was sure they were going to drown, gabbled an incoherent plea to the Blessed Virgin. Auda was mute, too terrified for speech, Beatrice sobbing, and the knights appealing to St Mildred, begging her to spare them on her day. Only the boatmen kept their heads. Rowing like fiends, they fought the river, until, sweating and cursing, they broke free from the surging current, began to pull clear of the bridge.

But those on board had no time to rejoice in their reprieve, for some in the crowd now resorted to a more lethal bombardment. No longer were they throwing rotten apples and raw eggs; rocks began to splash into the water around the barge. A knight cried out as one ricocheted off an oarlock and struck his leg. The men grunted, pulling on the oars, but they were still within range, and when a large rock crashed into the stern, an oarsman gasped, “Sweet Jesus, we’ve sprung a leak!”

They were not that far from shore; the wharf at Botolph Lane was less than twenty feet away. But as they rowed toward the bank, the crowd began to surge from the bridge, racing them to the wharf. Knowing they’d never make it to the Southwark shore, the boatmen continued to row for all they were worth. They reached the wharf before the mob, scrambled to safety just as the first of their pursuers rushed onto the pier. The knights fumbled for their swords, but the men had come to an uncertain halt. There were few among them who truly had murder in mind; they resorted, instead, to a more familiar weapon, the only one available to the powerless—ridicule.

Encircled by her knights, clinging to her terrified women, Eleanor heard herself mocked as the “foreign witch,” as harlot and spendthrift, a French-born Circe. Hatred for her ran deep. Men who drank enough of that draught might well have gotten intoxicated on it; the spectre of violence still overhung the wharf. But something was happening in Botolph Lane. People were beginning to shout, pushing and shoving, retreating. Men on horseback had come into view. The city sheriffs were known to many, but Londoners had never been over-awed by authority. What broke up the crowd was a name—Fitz Thomas.

With the realization that their Mayor was in their midst, their ranks parted as if by magic, and he passed through, rode onto the wharf. As he reined in his mount before his Queen, Eleanor knew she was now safe, as safe as if she were still at the Tower. “God’s mercy,” she whispered, and then, “Jesú, my coffers!” Whirling, she stared in horror at her barge, already half-submerged. “My jewels,” she wailed. “My gowns, all at the bottom of the Thames!”

To be rescued by a man she so detested was a great humiliation for Eleanor, but she found it all the more galling that she could fault neither his behavior nor his manners. Although Fitz Thomas refused to make the arrests she demanded, he made his refusal sound perfectly reasonable, explaining that the culprits had long since fled. When she would not allow him to take her back to the Tower, insisting she must have her own mare, her own escort, he dispatched a man to fetch horses and men, and he was able to disperse the crowd with impressive ease, requiring no more than good-natured banter.

It infuriated Eleanor that this man, a mere draper, should wield more influence with Londoners than she, the Queen, did. Moreover, she doubted that he was truly sorry she’d been subjected to such an ordeal. He said he was, offered apologies on behalf of his city, but when one of the sheriffs burst into laughter at sight of her, Fitz Thomas quickly came to the man’s defense.

“You are usually so elegant, Madame,” he said tactfully. “It did but take him by surprise to see you looking so…so bedraggled.” And as Eleanor gazed down at her sodden skirts, her egg-splattered bodice, he added, “And you do have that daub of mud on your nose…” He sounded solicitous, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and she suspected he was fighting back a grin.

“Admit it, this amuses you,” she accused. “Lowborn rabble, the dregs of your city, tried to murder me, their Queen, and you care naught!”

“I regret, Madame, that you were so ill-treated. I do not make excuses for them. But I will not pretend that I was surprised by what happened. If horses are kept on too short a tether, they’re like to run wild when at last set free. So, too, are men.”

“How dare you! You make it sound as if this were somehow my fault!”

“You have courage, Madame. I would that you also had…” He left the thought unfinished, but before she could pursue it further, he was turning away. She recognized the man approaching, the one Fitz Thomas had sent to the Tower, and she frowned. What ailed the lackwit? Why had he not brought back horses, knights of her household? She watched impatiently as he conferred briefly with Fitz Thomas, saw the latter shoot her a startled look, and moving forward, caught his sleeve.

“What is it? Why did this idiot return alone? What is wrong?”

“Madame…” It was the first time she’d seen the imperturbable Fitz Thomas at a loss. “It seems a crowd has gathered at the Tower, word having spread of your…mishap. My man says the mood is ugly, and the King…well, he is loath to open the gates as long as they remain without. He sent word that I should escort you, instead, to the Bishop of London’s palace.”

He saw the color crimson her cheeks, and found himself feeling an emotion he’d have sworn the Queen did not deserve—pity. “I daresay, Madame, that he had your safety in mind, not wanting to expose you to their insults and abuse,” he said, knowing that might well be true, but knowing, too, that a woman as proud as Eleanor would be shamed, nonetheless, for prudent though Henry’s action might be, heroic it was not. He could hear his men laughing, knew the jests they would soon be swapping, all at Henry’s expense, and he said quietly, “I fear, Madame, that you must accept my offer of assistance, after all.”

“I’d sooner walk barefoot through hot coals!” she spat, but she did not need the timid reproaches of her women to know she did not have the luxury of refusal; what other choice had she? “Help me mount your horse,” she commanded, and as Fitz Thomas obeyed, she said, “This I swear to you upon all I hold sacred, that I shall never forget this day…never!”

Fitz Thomas’s eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of his Queen’s muddied, disheveled appearance—the gown soaked with river water, smeared with dirt and egg stains, the wimple tilted askew, the hair tumbling untidily down her back. “Indeed, Madame,” he said, “this is a day I shall never forget, either,” and this time he did not trouble to hide his grin.

Approaching from Dover, the barons would normally have entered the city through Aldgate, but the Mayor had requested that they come in from the north. They knew, therefore, that some sort of welcome was planned. None of them, however, were prepared for what awaited them as they rode through Cripplegate.

What struck them first was the noise. Bells were so much a part of their world that most men had long ago developed selective hearing, blocking out the constant chiming—for Matins, Prime, None, Vespers, Compline, Lent, for festivals, births, marriages, funerals, for city elections, pageants, processions, coronations, military victories—bells proclaimed virtually every aspect of daily life. But they had heard nothing like this wild cacophony; the very air seemed to vibrate with the pealing of so many church chimes.

Simon had never seen London look so festive. Banners were hung from the windows of upper stories, stretched across the narrow street above their heads. In place of the customary bundle of leaves signaling the presence of an ale-house, the ale-stakes were draped with flowers, and doors were festooned with hawthorn and green birch. Some householders even had bonfires burning, as if it were the vigil of St John the Baptist. Most amazing of all, the streets were reasonably clean; the rakyers must have been working since first light, for much of the debris was gone. Even the usual stray pigs and dogs were not roaming at will; only a large grey goose was in sight, hissing and flapping its wings when foolhardy children ventured too near.

“Papa!” Harry spurred his mount forward, until they rode side by side. “Listen to them,” he marveled, gesturing toward the people thronging both sides of the street. “I would that I had a shilling for every cheer you’re getting!”

“Mayhap you could pass around an alms-cup,” Simon said dryly, but his nonchalance was feigned. He was both taken aback and touched by the response of the London crowds. They had turned out in large numbers to witness the barons’ triumphant entry into the city, and clapped loudly as the men rode by, surging out into the road to offer food and flowers, sharing wineskins with the delighted soldiers. But for Simon they reserved their most fervent cheers, for Simon they saved their heartfelt acclaim.

Joyful shouts of “Leicester!” echoed on the summer air, competing with the pealing bells, heralding his progress down Wood Street. Simon had never experienced such an outpouring of emotion. It was disconcerting at first, but exhilarating, too. Gazing upon this sea of friendly faces, he felt a shock of recognition. These people—bakers and carpenters and skinners, men of humble trades—they were his true allies. They understood his commitment to the Provisions, shared it as men of his own rank did not.

Most of Simon’s supporters were young, and they were thoroughly enjoying their sudden celebrity status. Harry in particular won the crowd’s favor, for he was quick to bandy quips, to accept proffered wineskins, to flirt with pretty girls. A woman had run out into the street, draped a garland of honeysuckle around his stallion’s neck, and he was amusing the spectators by flinging flowers to lasses who’d caught his eye, even leaning recklessly from the saddle to claim a kiss from a buxom redhead. This delighted those watching, save only the young Earl of Gloucester, who yearned to see Harry lose his balance, fall flat on his face. But Harry had been blessed with an athlete’s grace; he straightened up, his cheek smeared with the girl’s lip rouge, and acknowledged the crowd’s cheers with a jaunty wave.

“If there was any justice, he’d have broken his neck,” Gloucester muttered, earning a speculative glance from his brother. Thomas had not been sharing in the general rejoicing. Once it had come to war, he’d had no choice but to support his elder brother; he was not altogether happy about it, though, for in being loyal to Gilbert, he was forced to be disloyal to Edward, his friend and future King. He’d noticed Gilbert’s displeasure, wondered what had soured his brother’s mood, for this should have been a day of triumph for him; Thomas knew that Gilbert genuinely believed in the Provisions, in the need for reforms. Now as he studied his brother’s scowling profile, a glimmer of comprehension came to him.

“Does it vex you so much, Gilbert, that the cheers are for ‘Leicester,’ not for ‘Gloucester’?” he asked, saw his brother’s fair skin stain with color.

“No, of course not,” Gloucester snapped. “Why should I stoop to court the commons? I leave that to Leicester. But the fact is, Tom, that I was the one who captured the Bishop of Hereford, not Leicester. We’re equal partners in this enterprise, and it ill behooves him to claim all the credit.”

“I doubt that is his intent,” Thomas said mildly. “But whether he wills it or not, the Earl of Leicester is a magnet for all eyes. That, too, is a fact, Gilbert, one you’d best learn to live with, for any man who is linked with Leicester is bound to find himself standing in the Earl’s shadow.”

“Must I learn to live with his whelp, too?” Gloucester said, gesturing toward Harry. “Look at that fool!”

At first glance, the timber-framed house opposite St Peter’s Church looked no different from its neighbors. But no soldier passed it without craning his neck, staring up at the woman framed in a window of the overhanging upper story. Theirs was a society in which fairness was idealized, and she had been graced with a remarkable shade of silver-blonde hair; it hung loose down her back, shimmered as the sun struck it, a gossamer cascade of light. Harry stopped his stallion so abruptly that the animal reared, pawing the air. Harry’s hat was off in a gallant sweep; snatching the honeysuckle garland from his horse’s neck, he held it aloft, and then sent it spiraling up through the window, into her outstretched hands.

The spectators applauded; the woman leaned out, crying, “Wait, my lord!” A moment later, she tossed an object from the window, something wrapped in homespun. Harry caught it deftly, grinned, and—to the disappointment of the crowd—tucked it away in his tunic before anyone could see the contents.

Bran at once spurred to his side; Gloucester and Thomas, no less curious, followed. Under their badgering, Harry laughed, gave them a glimpse of a large metal key. “Lord God,” he said, casting his eyes skyward, “if I remember naught else in this life, let it be the location of that house!”

Bran and Thomas laughed, too; Gilbert de Clare did not. “This is a day of consequence,” he said, “a day to herald the triumph of the Provisions, our victory over the King. It is bad enough that you demean it by chasing after whores without blaspheming, too.”

Harry was enjoying himself enormously, too much so to take offense. He contented himself with a mock grimace. “Gilbert, how sour the grapes!”

Bran was shaking his head sorrowfully. “He is right, Harry. Your whoring is shameful.” He glanced back at Gloucester, smiling. “But you must bear in mind, Gilbert, that not every man has been blessed with a wife like yours.”

Most people would have taken Bran’s comment as a pleasantry, indeed, as a compliment. To those in the know, it was a knife thrust under the ribs. Gloucester had been wed at the age of ten to one of Henry’s de Lusignan nieces, and their mutual animosity was so pronounced, so notorious, that when the court learned of Alice de Clare’s pregnancy, it was greeted with disbelief, hilarity, and a predictable spate of ribald jokes. Now Gloucester lost color so fast that his freckles seemed to take fire. Thomas kneed his mount, moving between his brother and Bran, not drawing an easy breath until Simon’s sons passed on, quickening pace to catch up with their father.