Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Eurwen seemed to sense his mood, for she came to a sudden halt, then said with unwonted seriousness, “I think your grandfather would be very proud of you this day.”

  Llewelyn nodded. “Yes,” he agreed softly, “I think he would.”

  The abbey was not utterly dark, for the Cistercians believed stained-glass windows to be sinfully ornate. But coming in from sun-dazzling daylight, Llewelyn and Eurwen were momentarily blinded. They did not see the woman standing in the shadows of the choir, and they both jumped when she suddenly spoke.

  “I knew you’d come here sooner or later,” she said.

  As she stepped forward, Eurwen understood why they’d not noticed her, for she wore, like a cloak of invisibility, the stark black of mourning. She wondered who this aging widow was, that she dared to speak to Llewelyn with such familiarity, and then the woman said, “Get rid of your harlot. We need to talk.”

  Eurwen gave a gasp of pure outrage, started indignantly down the nave. But Llewelyn put a restraining hand on her arm. “Your grievance is with me. Mother,” he said coldly, “not with Eurwen. Do not take out your anger on her.”

  Eurwen’s eyes widened. She glanced quickly at Llewelyn, then at Senena. “I’ll await you in the cloisters, my lord.” He nodded and she moved reluctantly up the aisle, casting numerous glances back over her shoulder.

  “I demand that you free your brothers. I want you to give the order for their release now, this very day.”

  “I will release Davydd right gladly—once he’s shown he can be trusted. I cannot free Owain, and you well know it, Mother.”

  Senena’s hand closed upon his arm. “What if I can persuade Owain to agree to your terms?”

  “Even if—allowing for miracles—you did get him to agree, he’d never hold to it. Once free, he’d devote every waking hour to vengeance, and that, too, you know.”

  Llewelyn looked for a long moment into his mother’s face. “Wales is not yet whole,” he said. “All of Gwynedd east of the Conwy still lies in English control. I mean to remedy that, to regain what was stolen from us at Woodstock. But I cannot fight the English and Owain, too, not if I can help it—and I can.”

  But the passion in that answer was lost upon Senena; she heard only the refusal. “Damn you, Owain is your brother! Are you telling me you’d have him pass the rest of his days shut away from the sun?”

  Llewelyn moved away, crossed to his grandfather’s massive tomb. He stared down at the enameled lions, the emblem he’d taken as his own. “If the battle had gone to Owain and I was the one being held at Dolbadarn, would you now be pleading with Owain on my behalf? I doubt it.”

  Senena followed him, again caught his arm. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to beg? Forget Owain, then; do not do it for him. Do it for me, because I am your mother and I ask it of you.”

  She felt the sudden tautness in his arm, felt a quiver of tension contracting the muscles, and thought she’d won. But then he raised his eyes to hers.

  “No,” he said, and Senena stepped backward, struck him across the face. He was much taller than she and could easily have avoided the blow, merely by jerking his head away. But he did not, and somehow that seemed to Senena the ultimate rejection.

  Tears of rage and disappointment filled Senena’s eyes, but she willed them not to fall. Even in the subdued church lighting, she could see that Llewelyn had lost color; the imprint of her slap showed on his cheek like a brand. He made no attempt to stop her, though, as she turned to go. She took a few steps, swung back to face him.

  “You are going to pay a great price,” she said, “for Llewelyn Fawr’s dream.”

  Discretion had taken Eurwen as far as the door, but curiosity had then diverted her toward the shelter of a large, stone pillar. Now she hastily crossed herself, for Senena’s last words sounded to her almost like a curse. She shrank back behind the pillar as Senena passed, not venturing out until the older woman had left the church.

  Llewelyn was still standing by his grandfather’s tomb. He did not move, not even when she said his name. “I could not help overhearing,” she confessed. “Do you want to talk about it, love?” But she felt no surprise at all when he shook his head.

  23

  ________

  Isleworth, England

  September 1256

  ________

  From his father, Hugh de Lusignan had inherited the county of La Marche, and from his mother, the rich lands of Angoulême. He alone of his brothers was not despised by the English people, for he alone had made no claims upon Henry in the name of kinship. Henry was not as fond of Hugh as he was of William, Aymer, Geoffrey, and Guy, for their relationship was not one of need. But he was determined, nonetheless, to make Hugh’s first visit to England a memorable one, never thinking that to indulge in lavish spectacles might not be wise in a year of poor crops, rain-rotted harvests.

  Seven miles west of London lay Richard’s favorite residence, his riverside manor at Isleworth. After a bountiful noontime dinner meant to lull Hugh into an agreeable frame of mind, Richard was taking pride in showing his guests the luxuriant gardens and elaborately constructed fish ponds.

  The ground was muddy, for it had been raining almost daily since mid-August. Richard’s wife, Sanchia, lagged behind, complaining of the soggy footing, and Nell felt constrained by courtesy to keep pace with her. She was grateful when Simon lingered, too, for Sanchia was not a companion of her choosing.

  Richard and Hugh had continued on, and now their voices drifted back upon the humid September air, quarrelsome echoes that brought a frown to Sanchia’s face. “Jesú,” she muttered, “if they are not arguing again about that poor child killed by the Jews!”

  “What child?”

  Nell jumped, for she’d not heard her son’s approach. “Where did you come from, lad? I thought you were watching your brothers in the tiltyard.”

  Amaury was not yet eleven, but he was already displaying a singlemindedness many an adult might envy. Refusing to be distracted, he repeated with polite persistence, “What child, Mama?”

  Nell hesitated. She did not believe in sheltering her children, gave honest answers to even the most awkward questions. But she did not look forward to offering an explanation under Sanchia’s hostile eye; in defending the Jews, she found herself torn between her sense of fairness and her faith.

  “It happened in Lincoln,” she said slowly. “A Christian child’s body was discovered in a cistern close by a Jew’s house. The Jew was arrested and confessed that he and other Jews had abducted the child, then crucified him in a vile ritual meant to mock Our Lord Jesus. He implicated a hundred others, and Henry ordered them taken to London for trial, where all but three were found guilty. Eighteen were put to death last Christmas, but twenty-one were freed this past May, at your uncle Richard’s behest.”

  Amaury was not shocked by the crime itself, for he had often heard people gossiping of ritual killings done by Jews. Although such murders were always set in conveniently distant parts of the country, Amaury did not doubt them, for his chaplain had taught him that the Jews were in league with the Devil. But he was very shocked that his own uncle should have condoned such evil, and he gasped, “Why, Mama? Why?”

  “Because Richard believed them to be innocent, lad.”

  “But…but they were Jews!”

  Nell sighed. “I cannot pretend that I understand a people who willfully reject Our Saviour. It may be that the Lord God put them in our midst as a test of our own faith. But we must not assume a man is guilty merely because he is a Jew, Amaury. In this sad case, there were doubts about their guilt and so—”

  “Nonsense,” Sanchia interrupted. “One of the Jews confessed, did he not?”

  “Under torture.” But Simon had no interest in arguing with Sanchia, for he’d long ago dismissed her as vain and frivolous. It was his son’s view that mattered. “Can you tell me, Amaury, who is the greatest sinner—a Jew, an infidel Saracen, or a heretic?”

  That was a question Amaury co
uld answer with ease; so well versed was he in his catechism that his parents were considering for him a career in the Church. “The heretic, of course, Papa, for he knew Christ and then denied Him.”

  Simon nodded. “Just so. But even the heretic has legal rights. As does the Jew. It is true that the Lincoln Jews were found guilty. But doubts remained, for what a man says on the rack is not reliable, lad. Not all believed the verdict was just. Brother Adam Marsh did not, and convinced me that justice had not been done. He felt compelled to speak out on the Jews’ behalf, as did his brother friars, even though they incurred much abuse for it. And so it has been for your uncle. He would have gained from their deaths, for last year the King was so hard-pressed for money that he sold all the English Jews to Richard. Had they been hanged, Richard would then have inherited all their estates. Instead, he secured their release, and Londoners will not soon forgive him for it. That was an act of courage, Amaury.”

  “That was an act of lunacy,” Sanchia snapped. “Till the end of his days, men will look at him askance, and all for what? If Henry would only have heeded Eleanor, expelled the Jews from the kingdom as he ought, none of this would—”

  She stopped in mid-complaint, for Richard and Hugh de Lusignan were coming back. Richard looked so disgruntled that it was obvious he’d been defending himself to Hugh with little success. Nell saw all their carefully laid plans going up in smoke, and she hastily suggested they move on to the tiltyard.

  There Nell and Simon’s sons, Harry and Bran, had been taking turns at the quintain with their cousins, Edward and Hal, Richard’s eldest son, while Guy de Montfort and Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester’s son, watched enviously. Now that they had a more distinguished audience than two eager thirteen-year-olds, the youths launched into mock warfare. In the first run, Bran unhorsed Hal, much to Simon and Nell’s delight, for Bran was but sixteen to Hal’s twenty-one. In the next run, all were surprised when Harry’s lance hit Edward’s shield with enough force to send Edward sprawling into the sawdust.

  “So much for Henry’s bragging.” Hugh laughed. “To hear him talk, that lad of his was born to the saddle, and handles a sword with the skill of Charlemagne.”

  “Henry was not exaggerating Edward’s prowess,” Richard said, rather coolly. “Edward is a fine swordsman, and he won high honors at his first tournament in June. You’re not seeing him at his best. He quarreled bitterly with Henry yesterday and I expect it is still much on his mind.”

  “You mean Henry actually took the lad to task for some misdeed? I thought he’d see that as sacrilege!” Hugh laughed again. “In truth, I’ve never seen such a doting father. It is understandable with Edward, for he’s a likely lad. But Henry coddles all his brood, even that little lass of his, and her deaf as a post and mute as a swan! Yet he shows nary a qualm about keeping her at court.”

  He shook his head in bemusement, oblivious to the frozen silence. As lord of La Marche and Angoulême, he’d never needed to develop a sensitivity to atmosphere.

  Nell bit her lip, reminding herself that they wanted this man’s good will. “I would advise you not to speak ill of Katherine in Henry’s hearing,” she said flatly. “He cherishes her no less for being a deaf-mute, mayhap more. He once overheard one of his chaplains bewailing her birth, saying it was not fair that God should punish the King and Queen with a dumb child. Never have I seen Henry so wroth. He cursed the priest roundly, said God had given them Katherine not as punishment, but because she would need more love than other children.”

  Hugh was in his mid-thirties, the eldest of Isabelle’s de Lusignan offspring, and the handsomest; he had his mother’s sapphire eyes, hair like sun-silvered flax, and now his smile was dazzling. “Henry is moonstruck, in truth. I suppose if he had an idiot child, he’d find cause for pride in that, too!”

  Nell’s head swung toward her husband. With the utter certainty born of eighteen years of wedlock, she knew precisely what Simon was about to say—that Hugh might well be right, for Henry did seem to take pride in his idiot half-brothers. She could already hear the sardonic inflection, the scorn Simon could wield like a whip. She caught her breath, and then discovered that mental telepathy worked both ways. As her eyes met Simon’s, she saw his mouth twist down. “I think Edward is in need of cheering,” he said, in a voice husky with rage, and turning abruptly, he strode away.

  Edward was wiping mud from his face, ignoring Harry’s gleeful gibes. Theirs was a rivalry that stretched as far back as the cradle, a bond of more than blood. Edward was not a gracious loser; he’d had too little practice. But he was not too proud to learn from his mistakes, and despite his evident chagrin, he listened intently as Simon pointed out where he’d gone wrong.

  At seventeen, Edward was already taller than Henry, taller than most men. He’d inherited from his father a drooping left eyelid and, as a child, Henry’s fair coloring. But his hair had begun to darken as he approached manhood, and in temperament, he could not be more unlike his insecure, erratic father.

  As they watched him conferring with Simon, the same thought was in all their minds. It was Hugh who put it into words, saying dryly, “That boy might well make me believe in changelings. Whatever did he do to incur Henry’s disfavor—rape a nun?”

  Sanchia thought that a jest in very poor taste, and she, too, turned away, upon the pretense of watching Bran cross lances with Harry. Richard and Nell did not have that option. They exchanged glances, concluded the time was now.

  “Edward has been running wild for some months,” Richard said reluctantly, for he was fond of Edward, did not relish laying bare his weaknesses before Hugh de Lusignan. But there was no help for it; Edward was becoming part of the problem.

  “At first it was more mischief than malice. Edward and the youths in his household would race through village streets at midnight, sending panicked sleepers flying to their windows. Or they’d take a man’s wagon, later leave it in a cemetery. But their behavior soon grew more unruly, more offensive. They began to molest women, to harass monks, to stop travelers on the road and seize their horses and goods. Earlier this summer, Edward came to my castle at Wallingford, in the Thames valley. As it happened, I was absent, and he and his companions then invaded the nearby priory, where they despoiled the buttery and wine cellar, beating those monks who dared to object. I urged Henry to chastise him, but Henry insisted it was merely youthful high spirits.”

  “There was some truth in that,” Nell conceded. “I daresay my own sons have sins on their souls that I’d rather not know about. But what Edward did upon his return from Wales last month can in no way be dismissed as mere high spirits. He became irked with a man he encountered on the road; mayhap the man did not readily yield the right of way. But whatever the man may have done, he did not deserve the punishment inflicted upon him. Edward ordered his servants to seize the poor wretch, and at his insistence, they cut off an ear, gouged out an eye.”

  Hugh had listened impassively. “The man was lowborn, was he not?” And when Richard nodded, he shrugged. “Well, then,” he said, letting the sentence trail off significantly.

  “That made it all the more outrageous, that the man was so defenseless,” Nell said sharply, and Hugh grinned, winked at Richard.

  “I’d wager,” he said, “that I’m now about to get a sermon on the ethics of power, as decreed by Simon de Montfort.”

  Richard saw the pupils of Nell’s eyes contract, and he reached for her arm. But she shook off his hand. “My husband does indeed believe that power is entrusted to man by the Almighty, and the protection of Christ’s poor is an inherent obligation of that power. But I am quite capable of speaking for myself. You may fail to see it, but the implications of Edward’s behavior bode ill for him, for Henry, and for England. The common people have begun to fear what sort of king he shall be. They wonder if he would abide by his coronation oath, which promises peace and justice to all Christians, even the lowly born. They suspect he would not honor the Runnymede Charter, that he would rule by whim, not law.
And they blame Henry for yet another failing.”

  Richard gave his sister an approving look, pleased that she had not allowed her anger to divert her from the purpose at hand. “Nell is right,” he said. “Edward has given men another stone to fling at Henry’s door. They quote from Scriptures, that a man who spareth his rod loveth not his son. And they say it is no surprise that Henry should be found wanting as a father, just as he has been found wanting as a king.”

  Hugh prided himself upon the fact that little surprised him. But this did; he’d not expected such unsparing candor. “I see,” he said. “So we’re telling the truth. Very well, that’s a game I can play, too. Either we assume the Lord is not always infallible, after all, or Brother Henry is a private celestial joke. But what of it? What do Henry’s shortcomings have to do with me?”

  “Not Henry’s shortcomings, his troubles. I doubt that you realize just how precarious his position has become. Ever since he came of age, Henry has been at odds with his barons, but never like this. First his duplicity over the Castilian invasion, then the Sicilian madness. As a result, he has utterly lost the trust of his lords, and trust—”

  “I know about the ‘Sicilian madness,’ as who in Christendom does not? Ever since the Emperor Frederick’s death, his empire has been unraveling faster than the eye can follow. I understand the Pope tried repeatedly to coax you into accepting the crown of Sicily, an offer you declined, quite sensibly, since Frederick’s bastard son, Manfred, is firmly in possession of Naples. But when the Pope then made the same offer to Henry on behalf of his younger son, Edmund, Brother Henry snapped at the bait like a starving trout. He would,” Hugh said and laughed derisively before adding, “I do not give a farthing for Sicily. I would like to know, though, if the rumors be true about the rest of Frederick’s domains. Is it true that you are seeking the German crown for yourself? ‘King of the Romans,’ a fine, high-sounding title! What of it, Richard? I’ve laid a wager with Aymer that you are, indeed, angling for a kingship. Is my money safe, my wager won?”