The child scowled. “No,” he insisted, “no, I am Bran!”
Simon turned quizzically toward his wife, and Nell stepped forward, put her hand on his arm, as if needing physical reassurance of his return. “Did you not get that letter then? We christened him Simon, as you know. But so dark he was that Rhonwen began to call him Bran, saying his hair was black as a crow’s wing, and it seemed to stick. You do not mind, Simon? It does spare us the confusion of having two Simons under one roof, love!”
Simon looked down at his small son, who stared right back. Bran did not have Harry’s bright blue eyes; his were grey, darker than Simon’s, almost black, narrowed now in sudden suspicion. Simon grinned, said, “Bran you are then,” and when, after a moment, the little boy grinned back, Simon felt—however absurdly—that he had passed some sort of test.
Nell’s household knights were crowding around, eager to welcome Simon home. Nell was content to cling to his arm, to caress his face with her eyes. He looked thin to her, and very tired, in need of a shave. She did not at first pay heed to what he was saying; she did not care when his ship had dropped anchor in the harbor, cared only that he had come back to her.
“Are you hungry, Simon? We have a basket full of food, a cured ham the local people call prosciutto, fruit, Gallipoli wine, and—”
Simon was shaking his head. “We have to return to the castle, Nell. I sailed with the Duke of Burgundy, and he awaits us back in the great hall.”
Nell felt a sharp stab of disappointment; she wanted nothing so much now as to be alone with her husband. But so highborn a guest could not be neglected. She was making a mental list of all that must be done for his comfort when Simon said, “We will be returning to Burgundy with him, and he does not want to tarry in Brindisi. I told him we could be ready to depart in two days’ time; I assume that will present no problems?”
There was a collective catch of breath from the women; to move a household the size of theirs was a massive undertaking, only somewhat less complicated than the transport of troops to the Holy Land. Nell’s maids now eyed her apprehensively, but she managed to choke back her indignant protest. “Ere we return to the castle, Simon, I would have a word with you in private.”
They walked hand in hand to the ocean’s edge. “I’ve never seen any waters as blue, as clear as these southern seas,” Simon said. “I wondered at times if my memory was playing me false, but your eyes truly are as blue as Il Mare Adriatico. I brought you back a sapphire-star necklet; your eyes will put it to shame.”
Even while courting, he had not been lavish with compliments; she’d learned to treasure them all the more for their infrequency. Yet now his words barely registered with her, so intent was she upon what she must ask of him.
“Simon…these past fifteen months have been the most lonely, the most wretched time of my life. I cannot bear to be parted from you. Promise me, beloved, promise me you’ll not leave me again.”
His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Nell, I cannot. Even ere I sailed from Acre, rumors had reached us of the coming war between England and France. Henry is my King, my liege lord. When he calls upon me for help, would you have me refuse him?”
Nell had not truly expected any other answer, but it hurt, nonetheless. She made an enormous effort, mustered up a plaintive smile. “Must you always be so unsparingly honest? Just once, could you not comfort me with a lie?”
“Men who say possession slakes passion do not know whereof they speak. I missed you, Nell; to be honest, far more than I expected. Never doubt that you hold my heart,” he said softly, and then his mouth quirked. “Or any other body parts that you care to claim!”
Nell’s laughter was rueful. “Oh, Simon, how ever are we to wait until tonight?”
A loose strand of hair had blown across her face, veiling her in a sudden mist of sun-burnished gold. He entwined the bright threads around his fingers, slowly brushed them back from her cheek; her skin felt hot to his touch, and very smooth. “We’ll not wait,” he murmured, saw her lips part in a dazzling smile.
“But what of the Duke of Burgundy?”
“Hugh is young. Once he sees you, he’ll understand,” Simon said, and Nell laughed again. He slid his fingers under her chin, along her throat, and she sighed, leaned against his encircling arm.
“Let’s go back,” she said huskily. “Now…” But then he felt her body stiffen, saw those blue eyes wide in dismay. “Jesú, I did forget! Simon, we cannot make love this day; it is forbidden by the Church.”
Simon was no less dismayed. But according to the teachings of their Church, a menstruating woman was unclean, and no man could lay with his wife at the time of her purgation; if he did, he must then fast forty days in penance. “How many days must we wait?”
“Days? Oh, no, love, I do not have my flux. But it is Sunday, and even worse, it is Candlemas!”
Simon was silent for a moment, considering. Under Church doctrine, a man could not have carnal knowledge of his wife on any holy day, on Fridays, Sundays, or Wednesdays, during Advent or Lent or on Rogation Days. But Simon suspected that this particular Church stricture was flouted more than any other. It was, he thought, for certes the most difficult discipline the Church did demand of her sons and daughters.
“Simon?” There was such longing in the look Nell now gave him that he made up his mind. It had been so long, so many nights when he’d lain awake, stifling, hot nights in which memory perfumed the air with Nell’s favorite fragrance and Brindisi had seemed a world away.
He reached out, drew her back into his arms. “I think,” he said, quite seriously, “that God will understand, too.”
14
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Pons, English Gascony Duchy of Aquitaine
June 1242
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Henry’s war was not popular with his English barons. They balked at financing yet another attempt to regain the lost Angevin empire. Most saw no justification for breaking the truce with France, and they were to a man highly suspicious of the motives of Henry’s chief allies, his mother, Isabelle, and her husband, Hugh de Lusignan, Count of La Marche; Hugh and Isabelle had a deplorable history of betrayals and double-dealing, had too often sought to play Henry off against Louis, the young French King. But Henry overrode all objections. After extorting money from the Jews and draining the Irish Exchequer, he sailed on May 9 from Portsmouth, taking with him his pregnant Queen, his brother Richard, six Earls, three hundred knights, and thirty casks of silver pennies.
Simon and Nell had been forced to detour far to the south, for all Poitou north of the River Charente was now in the hands of the French King. It was not until early June, therefore, that they reached Pons.
As they rode into the castle bailey, they were effusively welcomed by its seigneur, Reginald de Pons, one of Henry’s inconstant Poitevin allies. The next face they saw, though, was one dear to them both.
Rob de Quincy did not even wait for greetings to be exchanged. “A girl,” he exclaimed, “born on Shrove Tuesday!” Accepting their congratulations, he prepared to talk at length of his baby daughter. “I think she’ll have Elen’s brown eyes, though Elen says it is too early to tell—”
Simon made haste to interrupt. “We are indeed happy for you, Rob. Tell me, what news of the French? The last I heard, they were laying siege to Frontenay Castle.”
“It fell six days ago. Even worse, Hugh de Lusignan’s cousin Geoffrey has yielded Vouvant Castle to Louis without a struggle.”
Simon shook his head in disgust. “Now why,” he said, “does that not surprise me? I know local legend claims the de Lusignans trace their descent from the fairy Queen Melusine, but I’d wager you could find Judas somewhere in their family tree, too.”
That brought laughter, directly behind them. Turning, they saw William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, striding toward them. Will was Nell’s first cousin, for his father had been an illegitimate half-brother to King John. He had become quite friendly with Simon during their months in the Holy L
and, and Simon was very pleased to see him here, for he was beginning to suspect that they were in need of all the seasoned soldiers they could find.
Will was grinning widely. “Loath as ever to speak your mind, eh, Simon? If nothing else, this should be a right lively campaign!”
“Do not go far, Will; I want to talk to you about the campaign. But now my wife and I must seek out the King…and her lady mother.” Simon glanced at Nell as he spoke, read such reluctance in her face that he at once made an excuse to take her aside.
“Nell? What is amiss?”
Nell bit her lip. “You’ll think me foolish, Simon, but I find myself uneasy at the thought of facing her. I’ve not seen her for twenty-four years. What do I say to her?”
“She is the one who should feel discomfort, not you, Nell, for it was she who made the choice to leave her children, to return to Angoulême.”
“She is a stranger to me, Simon, and—and I do not think I shall like her. The stories I hear—her tempers, her arrogance, her treachery. And yet she was not like this whilst she was wed to my father. What changed her so? I know she found it hard to be merely a Countess when for sixteen years she had been a Queen. And then, too, she and Hugh have so many children; mayhap it is concern for their prospects that has made her so grasping…”
Simon was touched by the echoes of bewilderment in his wife’s voice; at that moment she looked very young to him, and open to hurt. “Who can say what causes a spirit to sour? But I think we need look no further than her marriage bed. During all the years of her marriage to John, she never meddled in English politics, never interfered in the governance of the realm. Yet no sooner did she wed de Lusignan than she began to intrigue, to lure Henry into foolhardy schemes against the French, to aid and abet de Lusignan in all his knavery. So it would seem that there is truth in the adage ‘Qui cum canibus concumbunt cum pulicibus surgent.’ ”
Nell looked blank, for her education had not been as extensive as his, and he smiled at her. “ ‘He who lies with dogs will rise with fleas.’ ” Adding under his breath, “I do hope to God that will not hold true for Henry, too.”
Now it was Nell’s turn to offer assurance; she knew how pessimistic he was about this campaign. She squeezed his hand, then lifted her chin. “Come,” she said. “Let us find my mother.”
There had been a period in Nell’s life when she’d become intensely curious about the mother who’d left her so long ago, and she’d pressed all who’d known Isabelle to plumb their memories on her behalf. To Joanna, Isabelle had been “the loveliest sight that ever filled my eyes.” Henry had spoken wistfully of a woman “fair as any angel, who always smelled of roses.” But it had been Llewelyn’s response that had lodged in Nell’s memory. “Isabelle,” he had laughed, “did always put me in mind of a very sleek and very contented, cream-fed cat.”
Within ten minutes of meeting her mother, Nell found herself silently saluting Llewelyn’s insight. Isabelle did indeed seem like a cat. But John’s pampered and cosseted pet was now a high-strung, wary creature, inscrutable, elegant, haughty, claws never fully sheathed. Although in her mid-fifties, Isabelle was still a handsome woman. Her veil and wimple were softly draped, disguising the inexorable inroads that aging had made upon a once-breathtaking beauty of face and figure. The body was still slim, testified to the iron discipline of a woman who’d learned to measure every mouthful, and the face was artfully made up. But there was no contentment in the sapphire-star eyes, no peace, and that, far more than the passing years, had been Isabelle d’Angoulême’s most implacable enemy.
“I’ve been looking forward to your arrival,” Isabelle said to Simon, revealing a still seductive smile. “I’ve heard some intriguing tales of your exploits in the Holy Land. Although I suspect you stir up turmoil wheresoever you go!” The blue eyes flicked back to her daughter. “I’ve been eager, of course, to meet you, too, Nell. I’ve been told that, of all John’s children, you are the one most like me.”
“I have your coloring,” Nell said politely.
Isabelle’s laughter was faintly sardonic. “Yes…that, too,” she murmured. “Well, I suppose you must be curious about your half-brothers. I’ll present them to you at dinner, now will just point them out to you. There is Hugh, my firstborn; he did turn twenty-one but a few weeks ago. And that is Guy, over by the hearth. I do not see Geoffrey at the moment, but he looks like his brothers, tall, fair-haired. Whatever else my enemies say of me, I do have very handsome children!”
Even as she spoke, a strikingly lovely young girl was approaching them; she so resembled Nell that Simon knew at once she must be another of Isabelle’s brood. “You are just in time, dearest. May I present my daughter Isabella?”
Nell’s social graces now stood her in good stead, allowed her to acknowledge the introduction with aplomb, to show none of her inner agitation. It was not that uncommon for Norman-French lords to bestow the same Christian name upon legitimate and illegitimate offspring, as King John had done with Richard Plantagenet and Richard Fitz-Roy. But this was not such a case. Nell looked at the girl, at the wide-set blue eyes, the skin like rose petals, the somewhat sulky red mouth, and she could think only of the dead sister who’d been cheated of so much—even her own name. How had Isabella felt when she’d learned of her mother’s choice? Had it seemed like a repudiation to her? It did to Nell.
“What are your plans for the campaign, Nell? Shall you return with me to Angoulême, there await the outcome of the war?”
“Thank you, no,” Nell said hastily. “Simon thinks it would be safer for me to accompany Henry’s Queen to Bordeaux.” Isabella had drawn Simon aside, was flirting with him so blatantly that Nell’s temper flared. Simon seemed more ironically amused than bedazzled, but Nell felt a jealous pang, nonetheless. Her mother was watching her watch Simon and Isabella; annoyed that Isabelle had noticed her distraction, Nell forced a tight smile. “My sons are in Bordeaux already, awaiting my arrival. I have two boys, named after Henry and Simon.”
“And a third one on the way, no?”
Nell was taken aback. “I was so sure I did not show yet!”
“Dearest, if there is any subject with which I am all too familiar, it is childbirth! In addition to the four here at Pons, I have five more back in Angoulême, the youngest just eight.”
Nell did some swift calculations, concluded that her mother had continued to give birth until well into her forties, and she wondered suddenly if some of Isabelle’s discontent might not be attributable to all those pregnancies, year after year, unwieldy, uncomfortable, and life-threatening.
There was a sudden stir in the hall; Henry was entering with Eleanor, then in her seventh month of pregnancy. Henry was beaming, but Eleanor looked rather tired and tense to Nell; as loyal as she was to Henry, she could not have welcomed this war, for her elder sister, Marguerite, was wed to the French King. In the confusion, Nell drew back. She was as uneasy about this meeting with her brother as she had been about her reunion with Isabelle, for she and Henry had last seen each other three years ago, on that dreadful August day at Westminster Palace. Henry gravitated at once into Isabelle’s orbit, and Nell found herself wincing on his behalf, so naked was his need.
It was some moments before Henry noticed Nell. They stared at each other across the most perilous of terrains, a pitfall made of memories. Nell took the first step; it was easier than she’d expected.
“My liege.” But when she would have curtsied, Henry held up his hand.
“Nay,” he said, “greet me not as your King, but rather as the brother who loves you well,” and she came toward him, into his outstretched arms.
Once they were together in a sunlit window-seat, however, their silence was heavy with all that lay unspoken between them. “Ought we not to talk about it, Henry?” Nell asked at last.
But Henry’s way was denial, not confrontation. “I missed you, Nell. My court was a sadder place for your going. I want you and Simon to come back to England; I want you to come home.”
&
nbsp; “Of course we will come home, Henry.” Nell smiled at her brother, but she felt no relief, only a sorrowful sense of loss. When a shadow fell across them, she knew even before she looked up that it would be Simon’s.
“Your mother asked me to fetch you, Henry.” Simon’s smile was wry. “And when she asks, men tend to obey.”
Henry laughed. “That they do!” He was already on his feet. Across the hall, Isabelle beckoned with a smile.
Simon watched in bemusement. He’d not deny the woman spun a subtle web, but this was the third time that Henry had blundered into it. “How old was he when she left England, Nell?”
“Ten,” Nell said softly. “He was ten…”
The River Charente shimmered in sunlight; deep and fast flowing, it was the only barrier between the French and English armies. Henry had fortified the crossing at Tonnay, but to Simon’s frustration, he had done nothing to secure the bridge at Taillebourg, a few miles north of Saintes, where the English were encamped.
They were discussing Henry’s failing now as they rode north along the river bank, Simon and Will of Salisbury and Rob de Quincy and the knights of Simon’s household. Two of the latter, Baldwin and Adam, were in particularly high spirits; Simon’s former squires, they had been knighted by Simon less than a fortnight ago, and the euphoria had yet to fade. And Simon’s new squires, Miles and Luke, eager youths of fifteen, were delighted to be included in this adult scouting expedition. But the men did not share their excitement. Grimly, wrathfully, they were reviewing the events of the past six weeks, tracing the trail of errors that had so far marred their King’s campaign.
“What I cannot understand,” Will complained, “is why Henry did allow the French to seize the offensive. We landed at Royan on May thirteenth; it is now the twenty-first of July, and what have we accomplished?”
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