Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Nothing,” Simon said flatly, “nothing whatsoever. The Gascons have failed to capture La Rochelle. The Count of Toulouse has yet to join our ranks. And most unforgivably of all, Henry has made no attempt to take Taillebourg.”

  “Has he not been negotiating with the Lord of Taillebourg?” Adam ventured. “Baldwin and I heard that Geoffrey de Rancogne had given the King reason to think he’d refuse the French entry into Taillebourg.”

  “And that,” Simon said bitterly, “is the greatest lunacy of all. Rancogne does despise Hugh de Lusignan, so much so that he even swore an oath that he’d not shave or cut his hair till he’d revenged himself upon Hugh. Do you truly think such a man will join forces with Henry and Hugh? He is playing Henry for a fool, whilst giving the French time to reach Taillebourg. But do you think I could get Henry to see that?”

  “You did try, Simon.” Rob considered himself to be too old, at forty-five, to be squandering a summer in this meaningless fashion; he cared only that he should return safely to his wife and daughter. But he knew that Simon could not be so stoical, for war was what Simon knew best, and this badly botched campaign had outraged his sensibilities, affronted his soldier’s pride.

  “For naught, Rob.” Simon gestured toward his right, toward the river. “Had we crossed at Tonnay, we could have taken Taillebourg with ease. At the very least, we ought to have burnt the bridge. But no, Henry would wait at Saintes, and now if our scouts have told us true, it may well be too late.”

  “My lord father once told me that King John was the unluckiest of battle commanders,” Will remarked, signaling to his squire to pass him a wineskin. “But Henry, God bless him, is surely the most inept.”

  None could dispute him. They rode in silence for a time. Although they were not wearing the heavy, cumbersome helms that had begun to replace the old conical helmet with nose-guard and the brimmed kettle hat, they’d thought it prudent to put on their chain-mail armor, and their surcoats only partially shielded their hauberks from the sun’s glare. The day grew hotter, the road dustier, their tempers more strained.

  “Simon!” Peter de Montfort had ridden ahead. He was now heading back in their direction, coming at a hard gallop. “The French,” he gasped. “That whoreson Rancogne has opened the town gates to the French army. The fleur-de-lys is flying from the castle keep. Taillebourg is theirs—and so is the bridge!”

  Like a small city sprung up overnight, the tents of the French army spread out along the north bank of the Charente, as far as the eye could see. Henry abruptly drew rein, staring across at the enemy encampment. He looked stunned, as if doubting the evidence of his own senses. “We…we just have to hold them here,” he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the narrow stone bridge.

  Will stared at him in disbelief, then glanced about in search of Henry’s brother. Unlike Henry, who was subject to occasional fits of martial fervor, Richard had never shown much zest for battle, and Will could not quite understand why, for Richard was no coward. But although Richard might never distinguish himself as a battle commander, at least, Will thought, the man does know how to count!

  His confidence was not misplaced. Richard needed but one glance to see that the English were dangerously outnumbered. “Mayhap we ought to consider retreating,” he began cautiously, for he knew better than any man there how important it was to let Henry save face.

  But no de Lusignan had ever been acclaimed for tact. Hugh had been gazing gloomily across at the French army, thinking of all he’d done to give offense to the French King, provocations that were suddenly taking on new and alarming proportions. “Hold them here?” he echoed incredulously. “How? Do you English expect God to favor you with a miracle or two? I suppose He could always smite Louis with a thunderbolt, but—”

  “Do not blaspheme,” Henry said coldly, for nothing roused his ire quicker than ridicule. “Need I remind you that ‘we English’ would not be here at all if not for you? Had you not balked at paying homage to Louis’s brother, had you not besought my help, swore you’d provide the men if I provided the money—”

  To Henry’s astonishment, and the indignation of every Englishman within earshot, Hugh de Lusignan snapped, “Indeed I did not!”

  “Dare you deny it?” The lie was so brazen that Henry was at a loss. “What of your letters, your pleas—”

  “If you’re laying blame about, much of it must go to your mother. Isabelle wanted this war fully as much as I did, even more. It was to please her—”

  The rest of Hugh’s denial was lost; all heads were turning toward the south, all eyes focusing upon Simon de Montfort. Simon reined in before Henry. “I rode upstream a few miles, and it was just as I suspected. The French are building a second bridge, and it’s nigh on done. They are about ready to cross, my liege, and when they do, they’ll cut off our line of retreat, cut us off from Saintes.”

  Henry whitened. “What do you suggest, Simon?”

  “Your safety must be our first concern. If we fight this day, I do not see how we can keep you from falling into the hands of the French. Let me go to the French King, try to get us a truce.”

  “You’d do that for me?” Henry asked, and Simon nodded.

  Richard guided his mount forward. “Simon is right. We must somehow gain time enough for you to retreat. But you are French-born, Simon, and there may be those who feel you’re fighting on the wrong side. Better that I be the one to go. When I was in the Holy Land, I was able to secure the release of a number of French crusaders, and that might well stand me in good stead.”

  Henry glanced from Simon to his brother. “You are both brave men,” he said quietly. “I am indeed well served.”

  Carrying only a pilgrim’s staff, Richard crossed the stone bridge, walked alone into the French encampment. No sooner had he gone than Henry began to fret, to regret allowing him to take such a risk. His regrets were multiplying by the moment. Nothing was happening as it ought. Louis would not harm Richard. Henry told himself that repeatedly, told himself that Louis was an honorable man. He knew that to be true. So why, then, was he making war upon Louis? Trapped there on the banks of the Charente, having to trust to an enemy’s honor, Henry found that was a question he could no longer answer.

  Simon reached for a pen, only to have the quill point split. He tossed it aside impatiently, accepting another from his squire.

  Done at the priory of St Eutrope at Saintes,

  on this the 22nd day of July, feast day of

  St Mary Magdalene.

  To my dear wife, greetings.

  Henry was almost captured yesterday at Taillebourg, but God was with us and Richard was able to gain a brief truce from the French King, making it possible for us to retreat to Saintes. I do not know what will happen next. I think Henry is beginning to realize the folly of having heeded so faithless a man as de Lusignan, but he is stubborn and proud, never more so than when he is in the wrong. And yes, I know that those failings are mine, too! I will write again when I can. God keep you well.

  He signed with a flourish, handed the parchment to Miles. “Use my signet to seal it. Tell the courier he is to deliver it to the Countess of Leicester, at the Dominican friary in Bordeaux. Then he is to—”

  Simon paused, frowning. The shouting drew louder, and he followed Miles to the window. Black-robed Cluniac monks had halted on the cloister paths, looking puzzled, as knights began to spill out of the guest hall, struggling with hauberks, shouting for their squires, for their horses. Simon jerked the shutter back, saw the Earl of Salisbury running across the grassy inner garth. “Will! What has happened?”

  “That lunatic de Lusignan!” Will slowed but did not stop. “He has attacked a foraging party sent out by the French. The Count of Boulogne came to their aid, and a battle is now taking place even as we speak, in the vineyards north of the town!”

  Pilgrims on their way to the holy shrine of St James at Compostella were accustomed to seek lodgings in Saintes, and a small band of these penitents had been unfortunate enough to b
lunder onto the battle. They scattered in panic, but in fleeing the fighting, three of them just missed being trampled by the knights of Simon’s household. The men were skilled riders, though, and managed to turn their horses aside in time, cursing, kicking up clouds of thick red dust. The pilgrims—two women and a youth no more than thirteen—huddled together in terror, too shaken to run.

  Simon had swerved off the narrow road. He was astride his favorite war-horse, a high-strung, blooded roan stallion, and it took him some moments to get the destrier back under control. The women were sobbing, pleading for mercy, and he said hastily, “You’ve no cause for fear.” And then he smiled, for he did not want his young squires to accompany him into battle. Although squires were by tradition banned from the actual fighting, their presence upon the field would still put them in some peril. Simon had always found his squires to be a distraction at best, a danger at worst; on more than a few occasions he’d found himself at risk, seeking to make sure of their safety—and Miles and Luke were younger, more untried than most.

  He beckoned to them now. “These women are in need of our protection. I want you to escort them back to the town, let no harm befall them.”

  Both boys looked keenly disappointed; this would have been their first battle. But they knew better than to object, dismounted, and stood watching glumly as the men disappeared around a bend in the road.

  Coming onto the fighting, Simon swore in dismay, for all was chaos. Under a blinding noonday sun, men were grappling with one another, stumbling and sliding down the rock-strewn slopes, crying out to St Denis or St George, crashing through the barrier hedges of thorn and bramble, into the fields of ripening grape vines. To Simon, it looked more like a brawl than a battle, a wild mêlée lacking any order or discipline. And as more and more soldiers hastened upon the scene, unable to tell which side was theirs, the confusion spread; men began to die by mistake.

  Glimpsing the banner of the Count of Artois, Simon gestured to his men. “There, toward the fleur-de-lys!” He had only ridden a few yards, however, before he veered off, for he’d caught sight of a man much in need of assistance. If given a choice, knights scorned foot soldiers as unworthy opponents, preferred to cross swords with other knights. But the lure of ransom made lords and well-armed knights tempting targets. This particular knight was braced against a large tree, seeking to hold off three circling assailants, lashing out so wildly that it took only a moment for Simon to comprehend the true nature of his plight. Every knight’s dread—the man’s helm had been knocked awry, his eye-sights wrenched askew, effectively blinding him.

  Simon spurred his horse forward, leveling his lance. He was upon them before they realized their danger. As the first man whirled, the lance caught him in the throat. Simon swung his stallion around, but a man afoot was no match for a mounted knight; the other two attackers were already in flight.

  The knight had taken advantage of the respite to yank off his helm. His eyes flicked from the dying man at his feet to the fork-tailed lion emblazoned across Simon’s shield. “My lord of Leicester, I am in your debt.”

  Simon dipped the lance in acknowledgment, then let it clatter to the ground; it would be useless in close-quarters fighting. Passing his left arm through the loops of his shield, he drew his sword, for a knight was bearing down upon him from the right. The man’s helm hid his face, and he had neither shield nor surcoat, making it impossible for Simon to know whether he fought for England or France. He had no choice, though, moved to meet the charge. But at the last moment, the knight sheered aside, pointed at Simon’s arms, and raised his hand in a jaunty gesture of apology.

  Simon gave his stallion its head, galloped toward the thick of the fighting. Just ahead of him, he saw Adam unhorse a knight, and felt a throb of pride. Not far away, Will was exchanging blows with two French men-at-arms; he was more than holding his own, though, so Simon didn’t stop. An arrow pierced an English soldier in the eye; he screamed, toppled backward, right into the path of Simon’s stallion. The horse gathered itself, cleared the body in one smooth leap, and Simon gave it an approving pat. He’d sighted the enemy, a man whose white surcoat flaunted the blood-red cross of the Knights Templar, the “soldiers of Christ,” the most militant of all the orders of knighthood.

  Simon shouted, and his stallion lengthened stride. The Templar was turning to meet him; they came together with a jarring clash of swords. A second time they circled. The Templar’s sword bounced off Simon’s shield; Simon’s counter-thrust sliced through the other man’s reins. The third rush was more deliberate, for by now each had taken the other’s measure, knew he was well matched. As the Templar swung, Simon twisted sideways in the saddle. Again they circled. But this time Simon’s roan stallion swerved into the other horse, teeth bared, raking a bloody ridge along its neck. The second stallion screamed in rage, reared up wildly, and Simon’s sword slammed into the Templar’s chest. The chain-mail deflected the blade, but the force of the blow rocked the man backward. Caught off balance, he had no chance of saving himself, hit the ground hard.

  Simon reined in his stallion, but his foe lay stunned, helpless. Simon grinned, then patted the roan again. Were they not so hard-pressed, he’d have claimed the man as a prisoner. Not only was he forfeiting a ransom, but a good destrier, too. A pity. He gave the Templar one last regretful look, then sent the stallion charging into a phalanx of cross-bowmen. Prudent men all, they scattered.

  The roan had overshot its mark, splashed into a chain of the shallow fish stews that the luckless vineyard owner had dug for drainage. Simon slackened the reins, allowed the destrier to drink from one of the ponds. He was very thirsty himself, but while his helm was liberally punctured with air holes, it made no provisions for drinking. Or for wiping sweat away. He could feel it trickling down his forehead, stinging his eyes; grimacing, he tasted salt on his tongue. His pulse was still racing. But he knew how vulnerable an armor-clad knight was to the heat of the sun, and he forced himself to take deep, deliberate breaths, to give his stallion—and himself—this brief pause. Where was Henry? This was not a battle they could hope to win. Much too many French.

  The stallion snorted; its head came up sharply, scenting the air. Cursing himself for his lack of care, Simon turned in the saddle, already knowing what he’d see. The three men were rapidly closing in. The soldier on the left looked to be the weak link in the chain, and Simon aimed the stallion toward him. The man gave ground; Simon would have broken through had the middle man not thrust his halberd toward the destrier’s face. Screaming defiance, the stallion reared up. Simon suddenly realized their intent, threw his weight forward to bring the roan down, but not in time. The first man darted under the flailing hooves, drove his sword into the animal’s unprotected belly. The horse screamed again, lurched to its knees, and Simon flung himself out of the saddle.

  He hit the ground rolling, a trick taught him in his youth by his brother Amaury, one that served him well now, carrying him out of sword-range, giving him the precious seconds he needed to regain his feet.

  They advanced warily. Simon kept his eyes on the man with the halberd; he was the most dangerous, his weapon having the longest reach. “You cannot take all of us,” he said in a thick Flemish accent. “You’re a lord, can afford to buy your freedom. Use your head, yield whilst you can.”

  “No.” There were no trees at hand. The best Simon could do was to try to keep the pond at his back. A risky gambit, for if they ended up in the water, the weight of his armor would drag him down. He watched them come on, without haste; they knew what they were about, mercenaries, most likely. This was a fight to be won fast, or not at all. He waited, letting them get closer, within striking distance, closer still. He feinted suddenly toward the halberdsman, then whirled upon the man moving in on his right. His sword—three feet long, honed sharp enough to split a thread in midair—came down upon bone, with all the force of Simon’s body behind the blow. There was a shriek; the man reeled backward, his hand severed at the wrist.

  Simo
n spun around, his sword dripping blood. But the halberdsman was shaking his head; he’d begun to back away. The injured man clutched his stump, rocked back and forth, staring dumbly at his mangled hand. It had fallen into the mud; the fingers still twitched. He seemed in shock, as if not yet comprehending what had befallen him. The third man looked no less horror-struck.

  “Fulke! Christ! You bastard, you maimed my brother!” he screamed, and lunged at Simon. It was a wild blow, ill aimed, yet as luck would have it, it connected. The sword slashed at Simon’s upper arm, and the point caught upon several of the metal links of his hauberk. As the blade twisted, the rings gave way; pain seared up Simon’s arm.

  The man called Fulke had dropped to his knees, retching. The halberdsman was gone, in search of easier prey. Simon circled slowly around the last of his assailants. “I’ll kill you if I must.” He was panting, could feel blood trickling down his arm. “Take your brother and go.”

  In answer, the man swung again. Simon easily parried the blow. But as he stepped back, he stumbled on the wet grass. The other man flung himself forward, and they both crashed heavily to the ground. For several frenzied moments, they thrashed about by the pond’s edge, neither able to gain an advantage. But then Simon managed to roll over on top, and the added weight of his hauberk and helm enabled him to pin the man long enough to unsheathe his dagger. The man gave a frantic heave, carrying them both into the shallows, and Simon thrust the knife up under his ribs. He gasped, his body jerked, and Simon broke free. The water was fast turning red. He gasped again, began to choke. Simon grasped his belt, dragged him back onto the grass. A bubble of blood had formed in the corner of his mouth. As his eyes clouded over, Simon made the sign of the cross, then rose slowly to his feet.

  The man he’d maimed continued to moan, oblivious of all but his own pain. Simon ignored him, crossed to where his dying stallion lay. He knelt, rested his hand on the horse’s head. The destrier’s eyes rolled; its legs kicked weakly, and it made a valiant, futile effort to regain its feet. “Easy,” Simon said, “easy, Smoke.” His throat tightened; he stroked the muddied forelock, and after a moment or so, he brought up his dagger, drew it swiftly across the animal’s throat.