Falls the Shadow (80 page)

As soon as the door closed, Nell sat down abruptly upon the bed, utterly unnerved by the magnitude of the risk she’d just taken. What a fool she’d been, for she’d never have forgiven herself if she’d destroyed her household’s hopes of reprieve. And yet she could not have kept silent, no matter the cost. There was nothing rational about her rage; it was a physical force, no more within her ability to control than any storm of nature, any tempest of God. There were times when it frightened her, this anger that seemed to have burned into the very depths of her brain, this anger that spared so few, not even Simon.

As she’d once counted her rosary beads, now she counted her enemies, all who’d wronged her children. First and foremost, her accursed weakling of a brother. Edward. Gloucester. Roger de Mortimer and his wife, she who so liked battlefield keepsakes. A man whom she’d never heard of ere Evesham, and now would never forget—William de Mautravers. And as she lay awake at night, thinking what the future might hold for Ellen, who was to have been a Princess, for Amaury and Richard, for Guy, mewed up behind Windsor’s walls like a crippled hawk, some of her anger would spill over onto Bran, Edward’s unwitting pawn, and onto Simon, who’d died with honor intact but his family’s future in ruins, and lastly, onto herself, for believing so blindly.

It was awhile before she remembered the Bishop of Worcester’s message. Breaking the seal, she shook out a small object wrapped in cloth and a letter tied with ribbon. She opened the letter first, but without any expectations of solace. The Bishop of Lincoln and Adam Marsh had been as much her friends as Simon’s, but not so Worcester. She suspected that he suffered from a malady all too common to churchmen, a basic distrust of women. She knew for a certainty that he’d often disapproved of her, for once, years ago, he’d made the mistake of lecturing her about her failings as a wife, admonishing her to be more submissive to her lord husband. When she had related that to Simon, he’d roared with laughter, but Nell had not been amused, and her relationship with Worcester had never fully recovered from that rocky beginning.

With admirable restraint, the Bishop made no mention of his own jeopardy, offered his condolences in language as pedantic as it was elegiac. But then he’d written: “I came across something in Scriptures that could well serve as Simon’s epitaph, hope it will comfort you as it did me. ‘I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.’ ”

Nell’s hand jerked; the words blurred. “He’s right,” she said aloud, in a voice suddenly husky. “He’s right, Simon. That was written for you. I know that. So why am I finding it so hard to let you go?”

After a pause, almost as if she’d expected an answer, she resumed reading. “I want to tell you, Madame, of a conversation I had with Simon. It was a night in late July; that day we’d sought again to cross the Severn, had again been driven back. It was probably the bleakest moment of a bleak campaign, for we’d not yet heard from your son, our supplies were running low, and our men were understandably distraught. It was very late, we were alone, and for the first time, we talked about the likelihood of defeat.”

Nell put the letter down, only to pick it up again almost at once, afraid to read further, afraid of what she might discover, and yet afraid not to read it, too. Had Simon’s last days been poisoned by despair? If he’d lost hope, she did not think she could bear to know. Holding the letter up to the light, she read:

“I asked Simon if he’d ever feared that all our struggles, all our suffering might be in vain. Not a priest’s question, and he shamed me by his answer, by the shining certainty of his faith. He said no, my lady, and then he told me of a cave he’d found whilst in the Holy Land. It was said to have magical powers; a man could shout and long after it had died away, it echoed back as if from the very bowels of the earth. Simon had so marveled at it that he’d never forgotten it. And that night in Hereford Castle, he said that whilst it might seem as if we were but shouting into the wind, our echoes, too, would come back in time, echoes to hearten the godly and haunt kings. He laughed then, but he believed it, my lady, and I found I believed, too.”

Nell did not realize she was crying until tears splashed onto the parchment, bled into the ink. “It was then that Simon said, ‘My fears are not for England. My fear is that because I could not fail my God, I might well fail my wife.’ ”

Nell’s throat closed up. “Simon, you knew…” The letter fluttered from her fingers, and she wept as she’d not wept since that first night of her widowhood. She lay prone upon the bed, clutching a pillow as if it alone could keep her afloat, for she truly did feel as if she were drowning, strangling on her own sobs. And yet this hot, surging tide was somehow easier to bear than the ice-encrusted desolation that had so blighted her heart, her soul. When the spasms finally eased, she was panting, trembling, drenched in sweat. Sitting up, she wiped her face with the sheet, then groped in the floor rushes for the letter.

“I would that I could remember all we said that night, my lady. Alas, I cannot. I do recall that Simon talked about your children, in particular, your little lass; I think he saw her as more vulnerable than your lads. And then he truly surprised me. He’d moved to the window, for as you know, he was never one for sitting still. I always thought it a minor miracle that you ever kept him immobile long enough for that broken leg to heal. It was quiet; neither of us had spoken for a time, when he said softly, ‘All men fear for their families; in that I am no different from any soldier asleep out in the hall. But I am luckier than most, for I have a wife able to cope with Armageddon itself. As I entrusted Nell with the defense of Dover Castle, so, too, could I entrust her with our children’s future, should it ever come to that.’

“I must confess, my lady, that I’d never taken your true measure, and I could not keep from voicing my doubts, for that seemed too onerous a burden for the frail shoulders of a wife. I feared I might have offended him, but Simon was amused, instead. He said, with that sudden smile of his, ‘If there is but one woman in Christendom capable of matching wits with Edward, that woman is mine.’ ”

Nell could read no more; she began to fumble with the cloth, jerking until a ring tumbled out into her lap. She recognized it at once, a sapphire cut into the shape of a cross, set in heavy gold. It was Simon’s favorite ring, given him by the Patriarch of Jerusalem and never off his finger since his long-ago return from the Holy Land. Nell touched her lips to the cerulean gemstone. “Relics from the saint of Evesham fetch a pretty price, my love. If worst comes to worst, we can always pawn it.”

She was astonished by her own words; for the first time, the bitterness had been diluted with a hint of humor. Unfastening her crucifix chain, she looped it through Simon’s sapphire ring, dropped it down between her breasts; it felt warm against her skin, a tangible talisman to ward off the dark, to ward off demons, mayhap even hers.

“You did not fail me, beloved. And I will not fail you. I swear to you, Simon—and to God—that no matter what lies ahead, I shall not lose faith.”

On October 26, Henry invested his younger son, Edmund, with the earldom of Leicester. Two days later, Nell and her daughter sailed for France.

England in the fiftieth year of Henry’s reign was an unquiet, troubled land. There was no peace, for Henry’s terms had been too harsh; there were too many men with nothing left to lose. Banding together, they joined John d’Eyvill on the Isle of Axholme, in the marshes of the River Trent. There Baldwin Wake came, upon escaping confinement. And there, too, Bran had come, bringing with him some of the Kenilworth garrison.

But in December, it was Edward who led troops to Axholme, and it was Edward who had the victory. A Christmas surrender took place on Bycarrs Dyke. Bran and his companions were compelled to place themselves “at the King’s award and ordinance, saving life and limb and prison,” and Bran accompanied Edward under safe-conduct to Henry’s Christmas court at Northampton. There Richard pleaded eloquently on his behalf. Edward, too, argued for clemency, and for a time Henry vacillated, pitying his nephew in spite of himself. But in the end, it was Roger de Mortimer and the Earl of Gloucester whom he heeded. Bran’s claims to the Leicester lands and titles were declared forfeit. Henry agreed to grant him five hundred pounds a year; in return, he was to abjure the realm, never to return to England.

But before he sailed, there was one final service he must do for the Crown. It was bitterly cold. Snow had been falling since dawn and by the time they reached Kenilworth, they were half-frozen. Ice glazed the surface of the lake, thick enough to still the water’s surge but not to bear a man’s weight, and the castle’s formidable walls were almost obscured by the swirling snow. Bran drew rein, glanced back at Edward. “You want me to ask for entry?”

“No…you might find so warm a welcome within that you’d decide to stay,” Edward said dryly, and Bran shrugged. He was doing what they demanded of him, seeking Kenilworth’s surrender, but Edward knew he did not care whether he succeeded or not. No more than he’d cared whether he came to terms with his uncle the King. Or that he was now moving within arrow range of the Kenilworth garrison. Edward had never before realized what a redoubtable shield indifference could be. He watched intently as Bran rode toward the Brayes Tower, called out for Henry de Hastings.

Edward and Thomas de Clare exchanged startled looks. Henry de Hastings was one of the few survivors of Evesham, and had contrived to escape custody once his wound had healed. But until now Edward had not known his whereabouts. Bran was continuing to advance, utterly undaunted by the sight of crossbows protruding from the tower embrasures. “I am Simon de Montfort,” he shouted. “Tell Henry de Hastings I would talk with him.”

The words, no more than what Bran could have been expected to say, nonetheless gave Edward a peculiar jolt. After a moment, he realized why. This was the first time that he could remember Bran ever using his given name. The wait seemed endless; it had begun to sleet. After an interminable time, a horseman emerged from the gatehouse, started down the causeway. Another ice-encased delay, and then a voice echoed mockingly from the battlements of the Brayes Tower.

“Is that truly you, Bran? I cannot say much for the company you’re keeping these days!”

Bran disregarded the sarcasm. “I bear a message from the King. He promises that if you yield the castle now to the Lord Edward, he will seek no reprisals against you.”

Again, the words were right; could he be faulted if they sounded as if he were parroting foreign phrases, quoting from an alien tongue? Edward felt an unwelcome stab of pity. Kicking his stallion, he moved closer, heedless of his men’s cautionary cries.

They had their answer almost at once; obviously it had been well rehearsed. “Tell the King,” Henry de Hastings shouted down, “that we will surrender Kenilworth at the command of but one person—our lord’s lady. We’ll yield the castle to the Countess of Leicester and no other!”

Behind him, Edward heard exclamations of anger and dismay. For himself, he was not surprised. “Bran?” He nudged his stallion forward, ignoring the prickling at his neck as he ventured into the sights of a dozen bowmen. “Bran?”

Sitting his horse before his father’s castle, blinded by blowing snow and sleet, Bran was laughing. Peal after breathless peal, laughter choked and jagged and defiant, a sound that scraped along Edward’s spine like the point of a knife.

After failing to effect the surrender of Kenilworth, Bran was taken back to London, where he was kept under such close surveillance that he began to suspect treachery. On February 10, he succeeded in eluding his warders and fled to Winchelsea, where the men of the Cinque Ports were still in rebellion. Edward followed, won yet another decisive victory, and then shrewdly offered the defeated men a full pardon. But Bran managed to evade capture and escaped to France.

Upon her arrival at Montargis, Nell had been warmly received by the nuns, who’d gladly rented her one of their guest houses on the priory grounds. Their new home was far less luxurious than the accommodations to which they were accustomed, containing only a hall, a kitchen, and a small bedchamber for Nell and her daughter; moreover, the ship carrying Nell’s household goods had been captured by Channel pirates. But Nell’s regrets were not for castles, her sorrowing not for manors or jewels.

It was now spring, a verdant, lush May. During her six months at Montargis, Nell’s life had regained a measure of stability. She had won for herself powerful partisans in the French King and his Queen. To Henry and Eleanor’s dismay, Louis and Marguerite not only made Nell and her sons welcome at the French court, they urged Henry repeatedly to make peace with his sister, to restore her dower rights in the Pembroke estates. Henry so far remained obdurate, but it was a comfort to Nell to know that she was not friendless, that in France and in England there were still those willing to speak out on her family’s behalf.

Nell had never been a worrier—until Evesham. Now she spent long, sleepless nights, brooding over what the future held for her children. Her two younger sons seemed to be adjusting to their loss. She’d sent Richard to the court of Simon’s kinsman, the Count of Bigorre, and the reports she’d been getting were encouraging; with the resiliency of youth, Richard was applying himself to the lessons of knighthood. Amaury, too, appeared to be adapting himself to their changed fortunes. He was living in Paris, and planned to enter the University of Padua once Nell was able to arrange for his expenses.

But Nell could take no consolation in the plight of her other sons. For them she could do little, for she could not provide what they most needed: freedom for Guy, absolution for Bran. Nor had she been successful in easing her daughter’s pain. Ellen was a stranger to her now. Gone was the blithe, carefree chatterbox, the affectionate imp who’d been her father’s pet, her family’s spoiled, cherished darling. The Ellen after Evesham was a silent, shadowy wraith, looking out upon the world with huge, haunted eyes, as if awaiting yet more grief. Nell feared for Ellen’s future most of all. Without a proper marriage portion, what sort of husband could she hope to find? No man of rank would take a wife without lands, a wife who might bring down upon him the enmity of the English Crown. They were not penniless, would be able to provide a marriage portion to tempt a knight. But to Nell, a King’s daughter, that was an unthinkable comedown for her child. How could she expect Ellen to be content with a mere knight, when she ought to have had a Prince?

It was in hopes of cheering her daughter’s spirits that Nell had sent her to Paris for a fortnight’s stay with Amaury. Ellen had returned that afternoon, but it was obvious the visit had not been a success. She’d been very subdued, shrugging off Nell’s attempts to draw her out. Nell had no better luck later in a circumspect interrogation of Juliana, the young Frenchwoman she’d engaged to act as Ellen’s maid. The two girls had taken an instant liking to each other, had become quite close in these months at Montargis. But Juliana could tell Nell little, other than what she already knew, that Ellen had not enjoyed herself at the French court.

Vespers were sounding when Nell heard the music echoing from their bedchamber. The harp had been a betrothal gift from Llewelyn, and Ellen had practiced so diligently that she was now quite proficient. The door was ajar and Nell paused before it, listening to the melody. But then Ellen began to sing softly: “ ‘May thy prayers from Heaven aid us, Thou whose bitter death hath laid us, now defenseless and forlorn.’ ”

Nell stiffened, for the words were familiar to her; it was one of the many songs written about the battle of Evesham. She waited until the music died, and then pushed the door all the way open. Ellen was sitting on the bed, with her ever-present briard stretched out beside her. She looked up as Nell entered, hastily ordered the dog onto the floor. “Whilst I was at the French court, I learned a new song about Papa, called ‘Lament for Earl Simon.’ Do you want to hear it, Mama?”

Nell shook her head, but Ellen was already reaching for the harp. “ ‘But by his death, Earl Simon hath in sooth the victory won. Like Canterbury’s martyr, he there to the death was done—’ ”

“Ellen, enough!” Nell drew a deep breath. “I did not mean to speak so sharply, lass, but in truth, I care not for such songs. Move over so I may sit beside you. I am indeed sorry that you found so little pleasure in your visit. Were you not well received at court? Louis and Marguerite have—”

“No, it was not that. The French King and Queen were very kind. People were friendly, but…but they stared at me so, Mama!”

“You must get used to that, darling. Pretty girls always attract stares. But they also stare at you because you are Simon de Montfort’s daughter. And that, too, you must learn to accept.”

Ellen was silent, twisting a loose strand of hair around her finger, a new nervous habit Nell had been laboring in vain to break. “Mama…Amaury told me that the Countess of Devon is now insisting that she was always loyal to the King. And she even claims that she never welcomed Bran’s advances, that he forced them upon her! How can she lie like that?”

“Very easily, it seems,” Nell said acidly. “Is that what upset you so?”

“I was angered by her lies. But no, Mama, it was not the Countess of Devon. It was Amaury. He says…he says he is going to Italy!”

“I know. He wants to study religion and medicine at the University of Padua. Ellen, do not look so forlorn! Italy is not Cathay; he’ll be back.”

“But Mama, Italy is so far away. I feel as if we’re being blown about by the wind, that we’ll never be together again. Guy is in England, Richard in Bigorre, and Bran…”

She stopped, and Nell finished for her. “And Bran is in Normandy, seeking to raise troops to relieve Kenilworth Castle. You know that, lass, read his letter—”

“I know what he wrote, Mama, but I still do not understand why he has not come to see us, not once!”

“Ellen, I’ve told you that your brother blames himself for what happened at Evesham. He is not yet ready to face us—”

“But we’ve forgiven him and he knows that!”

“Yes, we’ve forgiven him. But he has not been able to forgive himself, and until he does…” She paused, for Ellen was no longer listening. Rolling over, she buried her face in a pillow. Nell sighed, softly stroked her hair. She suspected that every family had its own alliances, its shifting coalitions dictated by age or need or affinity. In their family, it had always been Harry and Bran, Bran and Harry. Brothers in blood, twins in spirit, so closely attuned that they could finish each other’s sentences, so habitually together that to see Bran was to look about for Harry. It had been an exclusive intimacy, though, by its very nature excluding their brothers. Only Ellen had been admitted into that charmed circle, an indulged if unequal member of a very select society, one more casualty of Evesham.

“It is not fair, Mama, not fair…” Ellen’s voice was muffled by the pillow, and Nell had to shove the briard back, for the big dog was determined to jump upon the bed and comfort its young mistress. “Was it not enough that I lost Papa and Harry? Must I lose Bran, too?”

Nell reached over, slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “You’ve not lost Bran, but you must be patient with him, Ellen. Sit up now, and I shall brush your hair and share some news with you. Whilst you were gone, I had a letter from your cousin Joanna.” Ellen looked blank, and Nell added, “Joanna de Quincy, lass, Elen’s daughter, remember?”

Ellen nodded, with no real interest. “Humphrey de Bohun’s widow,” she said, and Nell frowned; must the child identify everything in terms of death?

“Yes,” she said briskly, “Humphrey’s widow. You must never think, Ellen, that all people are as faithless as Isabella de Fortibus. The Londoners could give the lady Countess of Devon a sharp lesson in loyalty. Joanna wrote that there was a riot in London on the sixth of May, that men burst into the guildhall, crying their continuing support for Thomas Fitz Thomas, demanding that he be released from prison. It availed them naught, of course; they were dispersed by force. But I am sure it comforts Fitz Thomas to know that the Londoners would risk so much on his behalf. Just as it comforts us that men still hold your father in such esteem.”

Nell hesitated then, for while her next bit of news was sure to hearten Ellen, there was a risk in imparting it. As always, she chose to gamble. “Joanna also had most welcome news from Wales. Llewelyn has won a great victory over the most detestable of the Marcher lords. On Whitsun Eve, he defeated the army of Roger de Mortimer at Brycheiniog. Whilst de Mortimer lamentably escaped with his life, he was one of the few who did, fled the field with his ambitions and his honor—such as it is—in tatters.”

The mere mention of Llewelyn’s name had been enough to dry Ellen’s tears. “Oh, Mama, what wonderful news! I knew Llewelyn would avenge his dead, I knew it! Will he write and tell us of his triumph?”

“Yes, Ellen, I am sure he will,” Nell said slowly, all the while thinking that it might be better for her daughter if Llewelyn did not.

Compline had ended; the church was hushed and dark, lit only by a single torch in the choir. This was Nell’s favorite hour, the only time she had to be alone with her God and her husband. Carrying a horn lantern, a wine flagon, and an embroidered prayer cushion, she moved from the nave into the choir, then on into the Lady Chapel. Kneeling before the altar, she sought to empty her mind of rancor, to open her soul to God’s healing. For a long time, her prayers had been forced, recited by rote, devoid of comfort. But as winter thawed, so, too, had her faith. If her prayers were not as heartfelt, as ingenuous as they’d been before Evesham, that was a secret she shared with no one, not even God. She had not lost belief, and it seemed to her that the Almighty could ask no more than that, for if she now paid her debt of devotion with a devalued coin, the debt itself was no longer free from doubt—not after Evesham.