Falls the Shadow (64 page)

Simon swung away from the battlefield, turning to stare at the wooded heights of Offham Hill. A suspicion was stirring, one so improbable that only now was it infiltrating his conscious awareness. “Where
is
Edward?” He did not even realize that he’d spoken the question aloud. Supposition was crystallizing into certainty. “The fool!” He whirled his stallion about. “Hugh, do you not see?” he demanded, eyes ablaze with sudden light, with a wild, surging hope. “I can scarce believe it, but Edward has left the field! If he were regrouping his men, he’d have been back by now. He’s still in pursuit of the Londoners!”

They gazed at him in wonderment. But after a moment, Hugh shook off Simon’s spell. “Simon…Simon, what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.” Simon was smiling. “As God is my witness, Hugh, I’m not!”

His household knights and the surviving Londoners had gathered around him, but not too close, giving his stallion plenty of respectful room, for destriers were notorious—in fact, prized—for their fiery temperament. Simon had found this particular mount in France, the buy of a lifetime. His color was an unfashionable black, and he was not as big-boned as others of his breed. But most destriers could not sustain their speed, their natural gait a jarring trot, and Simon’s black stallion could fly like the wind. He was said to be half-Arab, and Simon often thought that one day he must experiment with such cross-breeding. He’d named the destrier Sirocco, after the hot Saracen windstorms, in tribute to the animal’s blazing speed, and now, feeling Sirocco quiver under his thighs, feeling the stallion’s eagerness to run, he thanked the Almighty for giving him the best horse of his life in this, his time of greatest need.

His squire was holding up his great helm. He took it with reluctance; while the eye-sights were wide enough to provide adequate vision, helms were heavy, often weighing twenty-five pounds, and so uncomfortable that no knight ever donned one until the last possible moment. Cradling it in the crook of his arm, Simon looked out over the assembled men. When he spoke, it was to the Londoners. “Your brothers died for us. You could not save them. But you can avenge them. If the shepherd is taken, the sheep will scatter. So…we ride against the King!”

Simon’s surprise attack upon Henry’s left flank was even more successful than he dared hope. He had to hold Sirocco in check, lest he outdistance his own knights, but they were not far behind; his confidence was contagious and the odds suddenly in their favor. Gathering speed as they charged down the hill, they were upon Henry’s men before they even realized their peril.

From the corner of his eye, Simon caught movement. He didn’t recognize the coat of arms on the knight’s shield, but that mattered for naught; what was relevant was the lance leveled at his chest. Simon braced himself, took the thrust dead center upon his shield. The lance shattered, rocking him back against the saddle cantle, but he retained his seat, and when the knight circled, sword drawn, Simon got the better of the exchange.

He had no time to relish his triumph, though, found himself threatened by two of Henry’s borrowed Scotsmen. As one of them grabbed recklessly for Sirocco’s reins, his partner thrust upward with a halberd. It was a bold maneuver, deserving of success. But Simon had faced it before; for nearly forty of his fifty-five years, he’d studied the arts of war. He was not sure that experience was a fair trade-off for the loss of youth, but at least he was beyond surprising. He made use of his spurs, and Sirocco reared up wildly, dragging the Scots soldier off his feet. Simon struck him in the face with his shield, then swung the stallion around to deal with the halberdsman. But the man was gone, letting the tide of battle flow between them.

That tide was changing; Simon could sense it. The vanguard was attacking with renewed zeal, scenting victory, while Henry’s soldiers were demoralized, on the defensive. A man was defeated as soon as he believed it, and Simon could see that belief on the faces of the King’s men. By the time he’d crossed swords with one of Hereford’s knights, the line was unraveling. The knight realized it, too, suddenly spurred out of range; why die for a cause already lost?

When it happened, it was with stunning speed, almost as fast as the collapse of the Londoners’ left wing, for no contagion spread like fear. All around him, Simon now saw men in flight, saw the field swept by his army’s white crusader crosses. But he could no longer find the King’s great dragon banner.

A knight on a chestnut destrier drew up alongside him; even before he saw the emblazoned shield, he recognized the stallion as Hugh’s. “Take some of our knights,” he commanded, “and cut off any retreat into the castle!”

The prelude to the battle had begun in nightmarish chaos for Henry. He and his men had from the first been at a distinct disadvantage, thrust from sleep into the shock of mortal combat. Henry was never at his best in the mornings, and he found himself fretting unduly that he’d ended up commanding the left wing, the position of least honor. He was coming to realize, too, just how ill-advised had been his choice of the priory for his command headquarters, for the town was on higher ground and thus blocked his view of the castle and Downs; he went into battle not yet knowing that his son had taken the field against the Londoners.

But worse was to come. Henry, for all his martial pretensions, was not that familiar with hand-to-hand combat, for he’d fought in very few pitched battles. Castle sieges, the debacle at Saintes, an occasional foray against Gascon rebels, several disastrous campaigns against the Welsh—that was the extent of his actual battlefield experience. Now, in his fifty-seventh year, he found himself fighting not only for his crown, but for his life.

Henry did not lack for physical courage; his was a moral cowardice. But his survival skills were rusty. Within the first half hour of fighting, he suffered numerous small cuts and bruises, a sprained wrist, and a wrenched knee. He was truly shocked that his own subjects should be trying to kill him. He could accept the hostility of Welshmen and Gascons, but how could good Englishmen fight against their King? The wind shifted and he caught his first glimpse of the enemy banner—the crimson and silver of de Montfort. It could not be Simon; even he could not lead a charge from his horse litter. It must be Harry and Guy, then. He was facing his blood-kin, fighting his own nephews! God curse her, this was his sister’s fault. If she’d not been hot to have Simon in her bed, he’d have been spared all this grief! Well, he would indulge her no more. When the battle was done and de Montfort dead, she could plead in vain. Why should he pity Simon de Montfort’s widow?

He was slow to realize the extent of his danger, so sure was he that the Almighty would favor a consecrated King. Another commander would have known they were giving ground; Henry needed to be told, and there were none at hand to tell him. He was vastly relieved when one of his couriers found him; at least now he’d learn what was happening on the rest of the field. His bodyguards and knights of his household formed a protective circle, and he could not help wishing he might shelter there indefinitely. But a king’s lot was a hard one. “How does my brother?” he demanded, was stunned by the reply.

“Poorly, Your Grace. He’s being hard-pressed by Gloucester, barely holding his own. But it’s Lord Edward you ought to be worrying about. Sire, he has gone off after those Londoners, has left the field altogether!”

“I do not understand. What are you saying?”

The courier never got a chance to answer. Something was happening; something was very wrong. Henry turned a bewildered face toward the source of this new turmoil. Men were looking toward the west, pointing and shouting. And then they were running.

Henry spurred his horse forward, crying, “Do not run! Hold fast!” His attempt to rally his men came to naught; no one seemed to be paying him any mind. As he glanced again toward the west, he thought he saw a second de Montfort banner. But he had no time to puzzle it out. His stallion shied suddenly, shuddered violently, and went down. Henry kicked his feet from the stirrups, scrambled free. It was only then that he saw the blood gushing from the animal’s belly, saw the soldier with sword poised to strike again. Cornered, he surprised even himself. Straddling his dying horse, he fought off his assailant with a gritty resolve he’d never shown before, and would never find again. After what seemed to be an endless exchange of blows, the other man backed away, and he let his sword arm go limp. The man had not even possessed a hauberk, doubtless one of de Montfort’s lowborn Londoners. That a common churl had almost killed a King! Where were his bodyguards?

“Sire!” A knight was galloping toward him. His shield was split and his surcoat so blood-stained that his coat of arms was impossible to decipher. “Here, take my horse,” he insisted, sliding from the saddle and holding out the reins.

By now, Henry had recognized the voice of Philip Basset. A gallant gesture, he thought approvingly, reaching gratefully for the reins. “What has hap—”

“There’s no time to talk! Make haste and mount, ride for the castle. I’ll do what I can to hold our men here till you can—”

“Run away? No!”

“My liege, the battle is lost! De Montfort has launched an attack upon our flank, and our men are fleeing for their lives. Look for yourself. The day is his!”

“No! No, that cannot be! I am England’s King, how could I lose? Where is Edward?” Henry shook his head, repeating plaintively, “Where is my son?”

Edward had pursued the fleeing Londoners for a full four miles. By the time he felt his mother had been properly avenged, the sun was high overhead. But even after he realized how long he’d been gone from the battlefield, he was not unduly perturbed. Like his father, Edward could not conceive of defeat. Collecting as many of his men as he could find, he started back toward Lewes. They were approaching Offham Hill when they ran into one of William de Lusignan’s knights, and he had news to gladden Edward’s heart. On the lower slope of the Downs, less than a half mile to the west, lay the enemy baggage train. With his own eyes, he’d seen Simon de Montfort’s standard, seen his personal horse litter. Edward needed to hear no more. With a gleeful shout, the cry of a hunter closing in on his quarry, he spurred his stallion into action.

Martin was still very frightened. He’d seen sights this day he could never forget, his dreams would be haunted for years to come, and his nightmare visions would be real. He felt no shame for running. Under the circumstances, that was common sense, not cowardice. His true test of manhood came later, when he determined to return to the battle. It was the last thing he wanted to do. Never had life seemed so sweet; dizzy with the dazzling joy of reprieve, he could easily have gotten drunk on the sounds and scents of spring alone. But he owed it to the two men whose approval meant all, Mayor Fitz Thomas and Earl Simon. Clutching his resolve to his breast like a life-saving shield, he began a slow retracing of his earlier panicked path. As he reached the hamlet of Offham, he came upon a weeping girl, whose torn bodice and bloodied skirt told a familiar story. Soldier’s prey, she stirred quick pity, but at sight of him, she screamed, fled into the woods. Offham’s few cottages had been plundered, stripped of what little they had. Martin looked at the broken crockery strewn about, the bedding wantonly destroyed, a dog’s body in an open doorway, and he wondered how he could ever have thought there was glory in war.

Near Offham Church, he encountered a fellow fugitive, a youngster of seventeen or so. The boy was pathetically grateful for the company, and quite voluble. Within moments, Martin learned that his name was Godwin, that he had worked as a stable boy in a Southwark inn, that his employer had forbidden him to go off with the army, and he fretted that he’d lost his job. He babbled on about London ale-houses and a girl named Aldith, even the Smithfield horse fair, about everything but the battle. Martin glanced at Godwin’s tunic, at the telltale rip where his white cross had been torn away, and the boy, following his eyes, blushed. “Nay, lad, you mistake me,” Martin said hastily. “I meant no reproach. But I must tell you, Godwin, that I am on my way back to the battle.”

Godwin stared down at the ground, scuffed his shoe in the grass, his fingers plucking nervously at those loose tunic threads. “I’ll come with you,” he mumbled.

“Good lad! Here is my idea. Earl Simon left a brave knight, Sir William le Blound, to guard the hostages and the baggage train. We’ll seek him out, ask him what to do.”

Godwin brightened considerably, for it seemed as likely as not that le Blound would tell them to stay with the baggage, and he fell in step beside Martin as they trudged toward Coombe’s Hollow. Martin was only now discovering how very tired he was, and he let himself be lulled by the boy’s compulsive, inane chatter. He did not hear the sounds of battle, therefore, until it was almost too late.

“And Aldith, she told me—”

“Be still!” Godwin subsided, hurt, but when Martin took shelter in the bushes beside the path, he made haste to follow. They crept forward, by now close enough to see Simon’s standard, unfurled to full length against the bright, cloudless sky. William le Blound and his men were offering a valiant defense, but they were outnumbered, and as Martin and Godwin watched, they began to die.

“Do they think Earl Simon is in the horse litter?” Godwin whispered, eyes wide and wondering.

“I do not know.” Martin gasped, quickly crossed himself as William le Blound slumped over his horse’s neck, slid slowly to the ground. His death took the heart out of his men. Those who could, fled, and Edward’s knights turned their efforts upon the horse litter. The door was chained shut, but a few blows with a battle axe freed the hostages. Augustine de Hadestok and his co-conspirators were dragged out, babbling avowals of loyalty that no one heeded. Their panicked protests gave way to screams. Swords flashed; within moments, the hapless merchants were hacked to death.

Martin looked away, sickened. In a day of horrors, somehow this seemed the most obscene horror of all, that Augustine de Hadestok, Stephen de Chelmsford, and Richard Picard should have been slain by their own allies. Godwin was tugging at his sleeve, urging him to flee, and indeed now was the time, while Edward’s soldiers were ransacking the baggage. But they’d only covered a few yards before they encountered an armed knight.