Falls the Shadow (56 page)

It occurred to Bran that it might be prudent to offer up a prayer to the saint whose good will mattered most on the 11th of December, but he was unable to remember whose saint’s day this was. He looked around for Guy. “Today’s saint—who is it?”

Guy shook his head. “Who cares? Listen, Bran, listen!”

Bran heard it, too, now, the distant pealing of bells. For the echoes to carry so clearly across the river, every church bell in London must be chiming wildly. “What does it mean?” he asked, and Guy grinned.

“Salvation, I think! Papa, the bells!”

Never had Simon heard a sweeter sound. His hesitation lasted only the length of an indrawn breath. If he guessed wrong, he’d be sacrificing their last shards of hope, for if they were trapped in the close confines of the bridge, they’d be hacked to death with appalling ease. But if he guessed right…The command was already forming on his lips. “Back to the bridge!”

The street was deserted; it was as if Southwark had suddenly become a plague town. But a handful of intrepid youths were clustered at the stone gate. Several ran toward Simon, gesturing. “The bridge is under attack! We can hear the screaming, saw one man pushed into the river!”

Simon spurred his stallion onto the bridge. He, too, could now hear the sounds of strife, too familiar to mistake. The Earl of Derby and Peter de Montfort had followed. They drew rein, staring up at the drawbridge gate in wonder. “Fitz Thomas?” Peter ventured, and Simon nodded.

“Or mayhap Puleston. But for the life of me, Peter, I cannot see how they assembled a force so fast!”

There was another splash, as a second man plunged from the bridge railing. The shouting had changed, taking on a rhythmic tempo, one that carried echoes of triumph. Above the cheering a new sound intruded, a metallic clanging. Simon knew it at once for what it was. In his mind’s eye, he could see the axe smashing into the rope of chains, each blow ringing in his ears with such a lilting resonance that he gave a sudden, shaken laugh. “When men talk of the silver-toned harps of Heaven, Peter, I can say in all truth that I’ve heard them already—on the Southwark side of London’s bridge!”

Behind him, Simon heard his men give a jubilant shout. He tilted his head back, watching as the drawbridge started its slow descent. There was a brief, frozen pause after it touched down, a second or so of silence. And then, utter madness. As Londoners spilled out onto the drawbridge, Simon’s soldiers sprinted toward safety, and he was engulfed in a surging mob. His stallion panicked and for a few hectic moments, he was in peril from his would-be rescuers. Hurriedly dismounting, he found himself overwhelmed by well-wishers, surrounded by strangers who welcomed him as joyously as if they were all bloodkin, and Simon, a man accustomed to keeping others at arm’s length, gave himself up readily to this tumultuous tide of raw emotion, to the simple and heartfelt happiness of deliverance.

All around him was chaos. Men were embracing, pounding one another on the back, voices spiraling skyward in a discordant babel of English and French. Soldiers, Londoners, and Southwark refugees mingled as one in a crowd interspersed with a surprising number of women and children, eager spectators to the storming of the bridge. There was a growing contingent of prostitutes, those young women feeling shrewdly certain that they’d find a hot demand for their services among men so recently reprieved from death. It was, Simon thought, like every fair he’d ever attended, every pageant he’d ever witnessed, as exultant as Christmas Christ-Child plays, as raucous as Southwark tavern brawls and Smithfield bear baitings—all magnified a hundredfold.

“I hope someone remembered to raise the drawbridge,” Simon said, and as those around him laughed, he saw a familiar figure shoving his way toward him. Thomas Fitz Thomas wore a borrowed mantle, no hat, and the world’s widest grin. But when Simon said, “We owe you our lives,” he shook his head.

“Nay, my lord. I’d claim the credit if I could, but this was not my doing. Oh, there was a witness with the mother-wit to fetch me, and I at once sent for Thomas Puleston and the sheriffs, then made haste for the bridge.” He grinned again, gesturing toward the cloak that trailed almost to the ground. “I even forgot my own mantle! But by the time I got here, it was already happening. As word spread of your peril, men took to the streets, emptying churches, ale-houses, city shops. Your foes never bargained for that, my lord. So many men responded to the hue and cry that those defending the drawbridge were overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Their leader was taken alive, readily offered up the names of his patrons—merchants of good repute, I regret to say. At least I am attracting a better class of enemies these days!”

“And I am attracting a better class of allies,” Simon said with a smile. “Let’s get off this accursed bridge. I want to speak to your citizens.”

Fitz Thomas nodded approvingly, following Simon toward the Fish Street entrance. Heading for a nearby wagon, Simon used a wheel spoke as a step, swinging up onto the seat with an agility that the younger Fitz Thomas envied. Scrambling up, he said, “Shall I act as your interpreter, my lord?”

“No need, Tom,” Simon said, pleasing the Mayor by this first use of his Christian name. “If I had not learned some of your language after thirty years in England, I’d have to be half-witted, in truth!”

“King Henry speaks no English,” Fitz Thomas pointed out, with a malicious flash of lèse majesté that Simon felt fully warranted under the circumstances. He laughed, then raised his voice in a plea for silence. He was soon heeded; the crowd had followed him off the bridge, thronging around the wagon, eager to hear. “You saved my life,” Simon declared, “and the lives of my sons, the lives of my men. But you did more than that this day. You performed a service for all of England, for you redeemed the Provisions.” He paused until the cheering died down, then began to repeat himself for the English speakers. It mattered not at all to those listening that he had a pronounced French accent; they cheered even more loudly.

There was a stir on the fringes of the crowd; heads were turning. As people recognized Thomas Puleston, the realization spread that the men being herded forward by the militia were those responsible for blockading the bridge. Puleston’s prisoners found themselves jeered and jostled, elbowed and shoved, spat upon and cursed. When a jokester voiced the opinion that they should be hanged from the drawbridge, his gallows humor was greeted with morbid relish, sardonic laughter. But some took the sarcasm seriously enough to put the prisoners in sudden peril. After one hothead produced a rope, Thomas Fitz Thomas took alarm, and started to jump off the wagon. Simon was even quicker. “Bring them here!”

John de Gisors and his accomplices were dragged forward. Falling to his knees before the wagon, he grasped a wheel spoke, pulled himself upright. Although very frightened, he was determined to hold on to his dignity. He thought he could detect pity in the Mayor’s face, but as he gazed up at Simon, he realized just how far Edward had led him astray. Simon had been willing to die for principle—or for pride; he wasn’t sure which. He did not doubt that Edward, too, would have faced death with equal fortitude. They were a different breed than he, capable of a doomed gallantry that he could not hope to understand, much less emulate. He was not meant to play a paladin’s role; why had he not seen that? The praises of the King suddenly seemed cheap payment, a fool’s lure. But pleading would be a waste of breath. He remembered too well those stories of Simon’s Gascony command; not even Simon’s most fervent admirers ever claimed mercy to be the cornerstone of his character. His eyes were very grey, very clear, and so penetrating that de Gisors could not suppress an involuntary shiver.

“So this is the King’s cat’s-paw. A well-fed cat, in truth, one not likely to have ever missed a meal.” Simon was studying de Gisors, but speaking to the spectators. As laughter rippled through the crowd, he continued his insulting appraisal of the portly merchant. “So what do we have? A hero who pays other men to bleed on his behalf, who wants to reap the benefits without the risk. I grant you that Sir Stoutheart would make a truly superior corpse. But he’d make an even better hostage.”

His blending of practicality and poetic justice appealed to the Londoners. So did Fitz Thomas’s subsequent suggestion that de Gisors and the others be forced to contribute a princely sum toward the city’s defenses. No one made serious objections as the militia led the prisoners away. But neither did anyone move to disperse. There was a dawning awareness that what had happened here this day was of historic significance, and people were reluctant to return to interrupted chores, to resume ordinary activities, to relinquish the star-dusted satisfaction of the moment.

Simon, too, was loath to break the spell. Standing on the wagon, he looked out over the upturned faces, men whose names he’d never know, and he felt certain that God’s Will had prevailed. A sudden swirl of scarlet and silver attracted his attention. He turned in time to see Bran flourishing the de Montfort banner aloft.

“Guy and I are going to fly it from the drawbridge gatehouse,” Bran called out. “Let this be the first sight Ned sees!”

Taking the wind, the banner unfurled, streaming out behind Bran in a rippling surge of eye-catching color. As Simon watched, he began to laugh. “I was just wondering,” he said to Fitz Thomas, “what Edward thinks of my ‘lowborn’ London allies now!”

On the very day that Edward failed to entrap Simon on the banks of the Thames, French envoys were landing at Dover, bearing a significant message from the King of France. When the October parliament had broken up in turmoil, Henry and Simon had sought to end the deadlock by appealing to Louis, urging him to arbitrate between them, to reconcile those unresolved differences that threatened to poison the peace of the realm. Louis now agreed to mediate, requesting that Henry and Simon meet him at Amiens on January 8, and promising that he would render his decision by Whit-sunday, five months hence. On December 13, Simon and his supporters agreed to abide by the French King’s findings. Three days later, Henry and Edward did the same. Both sides then prepared to depart for Amiens.

They left Kenilworth Castle at dawn the day after Christmas. The roads were hidden under drifts of ice-glazed snow, the sun barricaded behind wind-blown clouds, and their progress was slow. It was a tribute to Simon’s determination that by dusk they had managed to cover almost twenty miles. His companions were fatigued, hungry, and chilled to the bone, eager for the shelter to be found within the market town of Daventry. But when Simon decided to press ahead, detouring three miles to the Cistercian nunnery at Catesby, no one dared to object, not even Nell.

Throughout the day, Simon’s temper had been honed to a razor’s edge, but Nell did not blame him for his wrathful mood; she shared it. The night before their departure, a courier had arrived with bleak tidings; Edward’s Marcher ally, Roger de Mortimer, had seized three of Nell’s new Herefordshire manors. It was not a propitious happening on the eve of a peace conference, and Simon’s sons wondered why he was persevering in so dubious a quest.

Bran maneuvered his mount until he came abreast of Simon’s sorrel stallion. “If the French King does not plan to make his decision until the summer, does that mean we’ll stay in France till then?”

“That will depend upon Henry. If he remains at the French court, so shall we. If he returns to England, we will, too. Given the good faith he’s so far shown, the only way I’d trust him out of my sight would be if he were entombed in the nave of that abbey he’s building at Westminster.”

Bran grinned, then realized that his father’s bitter humor was not humor at all. “Papa, I do not understand why you ever agreed to arbitration. Do you truly expect Louis to find against his own brother by marriage?”

“Probably not.”

“Why, then, did you consent?” Bran demanded, and Simon turned in the saddle, gave him a level look.

“Because,” he said, “it is our last chance to stave off war.”

Bran started to speak, stopped. Would war be such a calamity? Papa could not help but win; Henry was an even more pitiful soldier than he was a king. Why was Papa so loath to fight him, when fighting was what Papa knew best? But those were questions that went unanswered; Bran sensed that his father was in no mood for philosophical discourse, and easing the reins, he dropped back beside his mother.

“Is it that Henry is your brother?” he asked quietly. He could not see her face, hidden by the hood of her mantle, and had to strain to catch her words.

“Only in part. To take up arms against one’s king, to resort to rebellion, even for the most worthy cause—Jesú! Simon!”

They would later speculate that a small animal—a rabbit or weasel—must have darted from the snow-shrouded thickets at the edge of the woods. Whatever the cause, Simon’s horse suddenly swerved from the road. As its rear hooves hit a patch of ice, it skidded wildly, its legs entangling. As quick as Simon’s reflexes were, he was not quick enough to save himself, had time only for a startled cry before the stallion dragged him down into the deep snow.

The stallion’s fall spooked the other horses, and for a few chaotic moments, they were all in jeopardy. Nell dismounted with such reckless haste that she stumbled, fell to her knees. By the time she regained her feet, her sons had reached Simon, were struggling to drag him from beneath his thrashing horse. It was no easy task, for the animal was panicked and Simon stunned. So profusely was he bleeding that when Nell first flung herself down beside him, she feared he might be dead.

“Simon?” Jerking off her veil and wimple, she wiped the blood from his face, fashioned a makeshift bandage for his most obvious wound, a deep gash that angled from eyelid to temple. Her hands were shaking so badly that she kept dropping the bloodied veil into the snow, but she saw his lashes were flickering, his chest rising and falling, and gradually her fingers steadied.

Her sons had been the first to react. They, more than any of the men present, were responsible for freeing Simon. In a gesture of foolhardy gallantry, Bran had even stripped off his own mantle, wadding it under Simon’s head. But now they seemed utterly at a loss, seemed no less stunned than Simon, unable to believe he could lie bleeding and helpless at their feet. It was left to Nell to take charge.

“Harry, get to Catesby. Alert the Prioress, bring back a horse litter and blankets. Bran, you and the other men go into the woods, break off some branches. Look for fir; we’ll need a wood soft enough to make a splint.” She swallowed, her eyes riveted upon the awkward, unnatural angle of Simon’s left leg. “But first fetch our saddle blankets, and for the love of God, Bran, take back your mantle ere you catch your death!”

Cradling Simon’s head in her lap, Nell sought to staunch his bleeding, so intent upon his injuries that she did not yet feel the snow soaking through her skirts. His lashes were flickering again; opening his eyes, he said in a stranger’s voice, faint and faraway, “I caught my boot in the stirrup, could not jump clear…”

“I know, beloved, I know.” She leaned over, kissed the corner of his mouth, resolutely refusing to think of all the men who died in falls from horses. “Simon, I must find out the extent of your injury. I’ll try not to hurt you…” He said nothing and she moved her fingers gingerly up his leg; his muscles were constricted, almost in spasm. But it was not until she touched his thigh that he gasped, bit his lip until it bled.

One of Simon’s squires had been kneeling by the flailing stallion. When he rose, the dagger in his hand dripped blood into the snow. “I am sorry, my lord,” he said. “I know how you fancied the sorrel. But there was naught to be done; he broke a leg.”

Simon’s mouth twisted. “So did I.”

“There, my lord.” Stepping back from the bed, the doctor essayed a tentative smile. “Some of my brethren would have unwrapped the leg after just twenty-five days, but I thought it best to wait another week, and the results bear me out. The bone seems to be healing well, and there are no signs of inflammation. Now I am ready to replace the bandages. You may have noticed that this time I’ve not soaked them in egg whites; instead, I’ve been steeping them in hot wine. But first I must pack more crushed comfrey around the break.”

He was talking too much, but could not help himself; he had never tended a patient as self-willed, as intimidating as Simon. His unease made his fingers clumsy, and it took him an inordinate amount of time to rewrap Simon’s bandages, then to replace the splints, to make sure that the injured leg was securely positioned in its cloth cradle.

“I know you find it frustrating to be hobbled like this, my lord,” he said apologetically, fumbling with the ropes that immobilized Simon’s leg. “But it could be worse, believe me. There are physicians who would have bound your leg to heavy boards, from hip to ankle. But I’ve found that causes the patient too much discomfort. This rope works better, believe me.”

By now thoroughly unnerved by Simon’s continuing silence, he straightened up, began to back away from the bed. “I must caution you again, my lord. A thigh injury is not easy to heal, and if you hope to avoid a limp, you must keep the leg perfectly still—no matter how difficult that may be.”

“So you’ve told me…and told me,” Simon muttered, unable to endure any more of the other man’s garrulous anxiety. “Ere you depart, Master Arnaud, I’d have you fetch me that basket, the one holding my correspondence.”

The doctor disapproved, but dared not object. Entering a few moments later, Nell showed no such diffidence. “Simon, you ought to be resting! And look at that tray; you’ve scarce touched your meal.”

“I was not hungry. But I do need more candles. And I want you to find my scribe, send him up to me.”

“Indeed, I will not. I’m not going anywhere until you eat some of this rice-and-lentils dish. It may not be your favorite food, but the doctor says it will help your bones to knit, will—”

“And if I balk, what do you mean to do—spoon-feed me? I said I wanted none of it. Now cease your infernal hovering and fetch my scribe.”

“No!”

“Nell, you’ll do as I say! Take this slop away—now!” Simon dramatized his demand with a peremptory gesture, but he miscalculated his reach, and his arm struck the edge of the table. It rocked, flipping the tray into the floor rushes. Simon was about to offer a grudging apology when Nell exploded.

“Very well done, my lord! No…do not say a word, hear me out! For the past month, I have been at your beck and call. I have been putting up with your foul tempers and catering to your whims, sleeping on that wretched trundle bed so I could tend to your needs myself, no matter the hour of the night. But no more. You do not want to eat? So be it. You can lie up here until you starve for all I care!”

The door was a massive, oaken structure, hinged and barred with heavy metal, but Nell still managed to slam it resoundingly behind her. Simon was the one who usually stalked out after a quarrel; now he could do nothing but fume.

He had chosen to recuperate in Kenilworth’s keep rather than in the great chamber he shared with Nell, for when the door was open, he could hear Mass being said in the adjoining chapel. But his convalescence chamber did have drawbacks; he was isolated from the rest of the household. Until his squires returned, he would have to make do without his scribe, and he dumped his letters onto the bed, began impatiently to sort through them.

The first one had an incendiary effect upon an already inflamed temper. He read it, reread it, and swore savagely, futilely, for it was a ransom demand from Roger de Mortimer. In his December raid upon Nell’s Herefordshire manors, de Mortimer had seized one of Simon’s bailiffs, and he was refusing to release the man unless he was given the sum of two hundred marks. And he would have to be paid, for there could be no retribution while the negotiations were proceeding at Amiens.

The next letter contained more welcome news. Although the aging Earl of Hereford supported the King, his eldest son did not. Humphrey de Bohun wrote to reaffirm his support for Simon and the Provisions, and to announce his upcoming marriage to the Earl of Winchester’s niece. Simon put the letter aside. So Elen’s daughter was to wed. Which one? Anne had chosen the nunnery. Most likely it was Joanna, the second lass. She’d be what…eighteen? Could it truly be ten years since Elen died and six since Rob’s death?

Simon lay back against the pillow, staring up at a cobweb glistening in a corner of the bed canopy. Rob had been thrown from his horse whilst taking part in a tournament at Blyth. His injuries had not healed as they ought; he’d lingered more than a year, bedridden, yearning for death. A sorry end for a decent man. Simon closed his eyes, said a brief prayer for his dead, and tried to push the fear away, the fear that his injury might fester, too.

Picking up another letter, he read his son’s account of their arrival at Amiens. How hard this was, being dependent upon second-hand reports, upon others to act for him. Christ Jesus, why had he to break a leg, now of all times? Peter was a good man; he and Harry would do their best to make the French King understand. But he ought to have been there himself. Why did the Almighty not want him there?

He shifted, looking in vain for a comfortable position, and knocked most of the letters onto the floor. God’s wrath, now what? No matter how he stretched, his fingers fell just short of the parchment sheets. A sharp stab of pain warned him of his danger; he sank back, defeated. But it was several minutes before he could bring himself to reach for the bell, to ask for help.

No one came. He waited, rang again, and again, and again. By the time he finally heard footsteps, he was seething. “Bleeding Hell, where have—” He swallowed the rest of the profanity as the door swung open, for it was not his tardy squire who entered, it was his eleven-year-old daughter.

Simon drew a calming breath. “I’m sorry, lass. I thought you were Giles.”

“He’s probably hiding, Papa. Everyone always does after you quarrel with Mama. We all know, you see, for she comes back to the great hall in a tearing rage, snaps at anyone who looks at her twice.”

“So…Giles has gone to earth,” Simon said, and Ellen grinned.

“Just like a fox, Papa!”

He watched as she retrieved his letters, then beckoned her to sit beside him on the bed. Her hair had once been as blonde as Nell’s, but it had slowly begun to darken, was now a burnished red-gold. He reached out, entwined one of her long, bright braids around his finger. “It sounds as if they all fear to face me. But not you?”