Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “You always were a greedy sort, Bran.” Harry was fumbling for a coin. Flipping it up into the air, he said, “Call it.” The jest was a grim one, but it worked; some of the tension was dispersed by laughter.

  “Simon?” Nell was so flushed that Simon took her arm, drew her aside. “Simon,” she said softly, “I am so sorry. The last thing I wanted was to give your enemies a weapon to use against you.”

  He shrugged. “Whilst I was in the Holy Land, I learned a Saracen proverb: The dogs bark, but the caravan passes on. That may be infidel wisdom, but it is wisdom all the same.”

  “Yes, but…” She bit her lip, and Edward, close enough to overhear this brief exchange, stepped toward her. He was very fond of Nell, for unlike his father, he did not blame her for her loyalty to Simon. Since both Church law and common law bound a woman to obey her husband, Edward did not see how Nell could do otherwise than support Simon, and whilst he would not have tolerated Nell’s volatile spirits in his own Spanish bride, he found it easy enough to indulge a favorite aunt. But he could not resist teasing, even as he put an affectionate hand on Nell’s arm.

  “Does this mean, Aunt Nell,” he murmured, “that you no longer care about your dower payments, that you’ll make the renunciation?”

  “No!” The answer was so unpremeditated, so lightning-fast that both Simon and Edward laughed.

  Looking about for a secluded corner, Simon’s eyes lit upon a heavy, carved screen. “Come with me,” he said, and steered Nell toward the privacy of that oaken partition. “Now…tell me. Do you not believe your grievance against Henry is a just one?”

  “You know it is, Simon! Henry has cheated me not only of my dower, but of my share of our mother’s inheritance. To please her, he agreed to relinquish any claims to her lands in Angoulême, which was his right—but then he dared to renounce my claims, too! And what of the vast sums he’s borrowed from us over the years, money never repaid, and—” She stopped, for Simon had put his finger to her lips. After a moment, she managed a smile. “The answer to your question,” she said, “is yes.”

  He nodded. “Then what more need be said? We both know Henry’s sworn oath is worthless. A Christian would keep a vow made upon the True Cross; even a Jew would hold to an oath sworn upon his own holy book. Henry would be false in either faith, and I’d sooner grapple with an eel than try to keep him to his word. But this treaty is a forked stick, enabling us to pin him to the ground. In truth, Nell, we’d be fools not to make use of it.”

  “I know. But Simon, I do not want to see you hurt on my behalf!”

  “Would you have me fear Gloucester? That stoutheart might have been sired by a weather vane, so faithfully does he follow the prevailing winds!” Simon reached out, put his hands on Nell’s shoulders. “Believe me, Nell, when I say I am not loath to uphold your rights. Whatever you can gain for our children gladdens me. Moreover, I do owe you this. For all of our marriage, you have stood by me, and that loyalty cost you a brother’s love, a King’s favor. So it gives me pleasure, my heart, to do this now for you.”

  “Ah, Simon…” His endearments were rare, all the more cherished in consequence. “There are times,” she said, “when I could right cheerfully push you down a flight of stairs. But there are other times, like now…”

  He grinned. “Hold that thought,” he said, “until tonight,” and taking her hand, he led her back into the hall.

  They were joined at once by Edward and their sons, which did not pass unnoticed. Marguerite frowned, touched her husband’s arm. “It seems to me,” she said, “that Edward is too much in Simon’s company these days. Henry would not approve.”

  “No, he would not. It is not surprising, though, that Edward and Simon should seek each other out. Simon could have no more valuable ally than the King’s son. And Edward, for all his youth, has a fine grasp of military tactics. Divide and conquer, no? If he could somehow win Simon away from the other disaffected barons, he’d be doing Henry a great service.”

  “Do you think Edward might succeed?”

  “Should God so will it. But I think it unlikely, my dear. In all the years that I’ve known Simon de Montfort, only two men were able to influence his thinking, the sainted Bishop of Lincoln and the Franciscan Adam Marsh, and both are dead.”

  “Well, then, is there any chance that Simon might sway Edward? He is only twenty, after all.”

  “My first inclination would be to say no; we both know how headstrong Edward is, and how willful. But Simon ought never to be misprized, not a man who could win himself an earldom with his tongue! Nor has he changed much over the years; he still burns with all the zeal and ardent conviction of his youth. It is a contagious infection, Simon’s passion, and a dangerous one, for he can imbue the most ordinary task with all the color and allure of a holy quest. As to whether Edward will be immune, only time can tell.”

  “I pray to God he is,” Marguerite said, “lest he break Henry’s heart.”

  Louis nodded somberly. “Whatever happens,” he said, “I very much fear that naught but strife and discord lie ahead for the English.”

  Even after twenty-five years of marriage. Marguerite could find herself surprised by her husband’s lack of rancor. “Given the bad blood between our two countries, most French kings would welcome English dissension. Is there no man, Louis, whom you count your enemy?”

  He considered the question gravely, as if it had been seriously posed; humor was no less a foreign tongue to him than English. “The Jew, the heretic, the infidel, all who deny the Lord Christ,” he said, “they are my enemies.”

  “But not the King of England.”

  “No, not Henry.” And then he smiled. “And not Simon de Montfort, either.”

  At the insistence of the French King, fifteen thousand of the marks to be paid to Henry were set aside, to be held while Nell’s claims were submitted to arbitration. Nell then agreed to make the necessary renunciation, and the treaty was finally ratified in Paris on December 4, in the presence of both monarchs.

  The Oxford Provisions stipulated that there were to be three parliaments a year, and in late January 1260, Simon and Nell sailed from Normandy. But Simon’s haste was for naught. The Candlemas parliament could not meet, for Henry was still in France. There were urgent matters to discuss—Llewelyn of Wales was besieging Edward’s castle at Buellt, and there were reforms still to be implemented—but nothing could be done in the King’s absence. As long as Henry remained in France, he effectively paralyzed the opposition.

  “I would be heard,” Simon said, striding toward the center of the chamber. “I have listened as you berated the King, accused him of bad faith, and bewailed our plight. But we are not as powerless as some of you seem to think. There is an obvious solution, so simple I marvel that none of you have thought of it. We no longer wait for the King; we hold the parliament now.”

  There was a shocked silence; more than one lord looked at Simon as if he’d suddenly lost his senses. Hugh Bigod, the Justiciar, was shaking his head in disblief. “You cannot be serious!”

  “Indeed, I am. What could be more logical? Are we to permit the King to cripple all our reforms merely by fleeing to the French court? If so, my lords, the Oxford Provisions will be meaningless, will—”

  “But to summon parliament in the King’s absence?” Bigod was not the only one to seem stunned; even some of Simon’s supporters looked uneasy. “My lord of Leicester, think what you are suggesting. The King would no longer be the ship’s captain, would be no more than a figurehead, carved upon the ship’s prow!”

  “Nonsense,” Simon said impatiently. “To put it in your terms, we are only asking for a say in plotting the ship’s course. If we have no right to meet except at the King’s pleasure, we are utterly at his mercy. Is that what you want, my lords?”

  Glancing about the chamber, Simon saw that the younger lords were beginning to nod agreement. The Earl of Surrey had made a complete turnabout since the expulsion of his de Lusignan brothers-in-law, was now one of Si
mon’s more fervent disciples, and he and the young Earl of Derby were caught up in the sudden excitement, echoing Simon’s arguments to their neighbors. But Simon knew they were too youthful, too callow, to influence the others. “What say you, my lord Bishop?” he asked.

  Walter de Cantilupe, Bishop of Worcester, was a friend, but a man of such integrity that his opinion would not be suspect. Getting slowly to his feet, he said, “My lord of Leicester is proposing a radical reform, one not to be undertaken lightly. And yet…and yet, how else can we redeem the Provisions?”

  Looking about him, Hugh Bigod saw, to his dismay, that Simon might well prevail. Most of the men present lacked Simon’s imagination, his audacity, but they did share his frustration, and as Simon now explained it, his proposal began to seem more and more reasonable. Men repeated the Bishop’s query: what else, indeed, could they do?

  “I do not know what alchemy you work here,” Bigod said softly to Simon. “But I’ll not let you infect us with your madness.” Raising his voice, he said, “The Lord Edward sent me word that he would be attending this session. He ought to be here within the hour. Which of you wants to tell the King’s son that you mean to hold parliament in his lord father’s absence, against his lord father’s express wishes?”

  Edward’s fiery temper was already becoming a byword, and Bigod saw disquiet flicker from face to face. As he’d hoped, Simon’s spell began to waver before the reality of Edward’s outrage, and Bigod turned triumphantly to face Simon, sure that he’d won—until he saw Simon’s smile.

  “I think you will be most interested in what the Lord Edward has to say,” Simon said, raising his hand for silence. “You see, he and I are in agreement. He, too, thinks that parliament ought to meet.”

  Thoroughly alarmed by the reports coming across the Channel, Henry took the French King’s advice and hastily returned to England. Accompanied by armed mercenaries, he arrived in London on Friday, April 23.

  William Fitz Richard, the city’s Mayor, and both city sheriffs were summoned to the Bishop of London’s manor, where they were confronted by a very angry, very distraught King, who ordered them to bar the city gates to the Earl of Leicester and the Lord Edward, his son and heir.

  Henry’s brother was a silent, disapproving witness to this harangue. Richard was accustomed to Henry’s histrionics, but even he had been shocked by this latest tangent of his brother’s, and as soon as they were alone, he said incredulously, “Henry, you cannot mean this! How could you possibly believe that Edward has been plotting to depose you?”

  “You think I want to believe that? Blood of Christ, Richard, we’re talking of Edward, my flesh-and-blood, my firstborn! But what else can I think? Has he not allied himself with that treacherous, swaggering hellspawn? He does de Montfort’s bidding, Richard—my own son! He backed de Montfort’s treason, agreed to have parliament meet in my absence, and when de Montfort and his lackeys dared to dismiss my wife’s uncle, Peter of Savoy, from the royal council—my own council—Edward even agreed to that, too! He is evil, Richard, evil, and damned to everlasting Hell for his double-dealing, that I swear to you upon the very bones of St Edmund!”

  “Who?” Richard said coldly, “Edward or de Montfort?” and Henry gave him a startled, reproachful look.

  “De Montfort, of course. Jesú, Richard, what ails you?”

  “Henry, do you ever listen to yourself—truly listen? The man is infuriating, arrogant, and Lucifer-proud, but the Antichrist he is not, Brother. And in all honesty, you’ve done your share to poison that well, too.”

  “That’s a damnable lie! I’ve been more than fair to that whoreson.”

  “By selecting Gloucester as one of the men to arbitrate Nell’s dower claims? I’d say you have a right quaint concept of fairness.” Richard shook his head wearily. “So far you’ve called de Montfort a whoreson, a traitor, a liar, a hellspawn. Have you forgotten that he is also our sister’s husband?”

  “And have you forgotten that he brought hired mercenaries with him from France? Or that he holds Kenilworth and Odiham, two of the most formidable castles in England—castles he swore to surrender to the Crown! The man is a menace, Richard, a danger to us all; how can you not see that?”

  “He did yield the castles,” Richard pointed out. “The barons then returned them to his custody.” But his heart was not in his defense; he was furious with Simon, too. “Henry, this serves for naught; we can argue about de Montfort from now till Judgment Day. But what of Edward? How can you doubt his loyalty? Do you not realize how much Gloucester hates him? Since Gloucester’s return to England, he and Edward have quarreled each time they’ve met, twice almost coming to blows! Whatever he has told you is suspect, Henry, is—”

  “There was a time when you were right fond of Gloucester!”

  “Do you truly think I need you to remind me that the man is my stepson? Yes, I was once wed to his mother, and yes, I was fond of him. He was a likable lad—then. But now I’d sooner trust a Gascon, and I’d believe a converted Jew ere I would Gloucester. Lest you forget, he was one of the lords responsible for the Oxford Provisions. Yet this is the man who now seeks to curry favor with you, the man who would poison your mind against your own son!”

  “Edward’s actions speak for themselves,” Henry muttered, and turned away to pour himself wine.

  Richard followed, unrelenting. “Tell me again,” he demanded. “Tell me you mean to hold to this madness, refusing to see your son.”

  Henry spun around. “Do you not think I want to see the lad? But I dare not, Richard, I dare not. For if I were to see him, I could not keep from embracing him, from forgiving him any sin, even treason…”

  There were tears in Henry’s eyes, and Richard’s irritation ebbed away. It was fifteen months since he had returned from Germany, and while he did not repent of his decision to stand by Henry in his time of need, his resentment had begun to fester, for Henry had taken his homecoming for granted. But he had not consolidated his hold on Germany; the King of Castile was a rival claimant for the German crown; and the Pope was no longer offering his unqualified support. Richard thought it the ultimate irony that, in seeking to secure Henry’s throne, he might well have sacrificed his own. Looking at his brother now, though, he felt a sharp throb of pity.

  “I’m going to Edward,” he said. “If he can satisfactorily explain his behavior—and I’d wager the surety of my soul that he can—I am then bringing him back here, so he may make his peace with you. Do you agree?”

  Henry swallowed. “Yes,” he whispered. “Please…”

  “How could he believe that of me?” Edward sounded stunned. “That I meant to depose him and rule in his stead—Christ, that is madness!”

  “Kings are prone to madness of that sort,” Richard said grimly. “But in his heart, lad, he knows you’d not betray him, wants only to be reassured of that.”

  “This is that whoreson Gloucester’s doing!”

  Richard nodded. “Gloucester baited this hook with care, and Henry could no more resist it than he could fly, for the mere mention of Simon’s name can throw him into a frenzy. In truth, lad, where Simon is concerned, he is like one possessed, so consumed with suspicion that it has clouded his wits, allowing him to think the unthinkable.”

  “No matter how much he hates Simon, how could he ever suspect me? What I’ve done, I’ve done for him!”

  Edward had begun to pace. “My uncle Simon would never plot to depose the King; in that, my father wrongs him. But he is besotted with those damnable Provisions, so much so that I think he’s gotten them confused with the Commandments. When he began to feud with that Judas, Gloucester, I sought to turn their discord to our advantage. And I did, Uncle! Simon trusts me now, confides in me. He—Why do you look at me like that? Do you not believe me?”

  “Yes, lad, I believe you. I do not doubt that was your intent. But you are no longer traveling that road, Edward, have been led astray, into—”

  “What are you saying, Uncle? That I’ve become Simon’s p
uppet? Think you that I am so weak-willed, so simple?”

  “No, Edward, merely young. You are not the first one to misjudge de Montfort’s ability to bedazzle. I’ve watched him for nigh on thirty years, and even I do not fully understand how he so easily inflames the imagination. But again and again I’ve seen him—”

  “With all due respect, Uncle, that is nonsense!”

  “Is it? Tell me this, then. Why did you support Simon’s demand to hold parliament in your father’s absence?”

  “Because,” Edward said angrily, “Papa had miscalculated, and badly. I do not understand how he can be so short-sighted. Better to deny a right altogether than to grant it and then seek to disavow it. By agreeing to hold regular parliaments, and then reneging, Papa did needlessly stir up rancor and resentment. It is dangerous to make men feel cheated; that is not the way to handle them. Give them nothing and they have nothing, then, to lose. Rather, give them a little, lest they ask for a lot, just enough to content them, not enough to whet their appetites for more. Jesú, Uncle, it is so simple! Why can my father not see that?”

  “So you were seeking only to repair the damage done by Henry’s foolishness? Fair enough. But answer for me one question. How did holding that parliament serve your interests as the next King of England? What happens once you’re on the throne and your lords want to follow Simon’s example?”

  “You said one question, Uncle, not two.” But Edward’s sarcasm was defensive, and color was rising in his face. “The answer is easy. Once I am King, I would forbid it, of course. Men will not defy me as they do my father.”

  “But did you not just argue—very convincingly—that it was a great mistake for a king to confer a privilege and then revoke it? Simon’s parliament would set a dangerous precedent, one to haunt future kings, to haunt you, Edward. He took from you a measure of your authority, even made of you an accomplice in his usurpation. And yet you’d have me believe that you’d not been infected by Simon’s zeal, that you were totally immune to his blandishments!”