“There, my lord.” Stepping back from the bed, the doctor essayed a tentative smile. “Some of my brethren would have unwrapped the leg after just twenty-five days, but I thought it best to wait another week, and the results bear me out. The bone seems to be healing well, and there are no signs of inflammation. Now I am ready to replace the bandages. You may have noticed that this time I’ve not soaked them in egg whites; instead, I’ve been steeping them in hot wine. But first I must pack more crushed comfrey around the break.”
He was talking too much, but could not help himself; he had never tended a patient as self-willed, as intimidating as Simon. His unease made his fingers clumsy, and it took him an inordinate amount of time to rewrap Simon’s bandages, then to replace the splints, to make sure that the injured leg was securely positioned in its cloth cradle.
“I know you find it frustrating to be hobbled like this, my lord,” he said apologetically, fumbling with the ropes that immobilized Simon’s leg. “But it could be worse, believe me. There are physicians who would have bound your leg to heavy boards, from hip to ankle. But I’ve found that causes the patient too much discomfort. This rope works better, believe me.”
By now thoroughly unnerved by Simon’s continuing silence, he straightened up, began to back away from the bed. “I must caution you again, my lord. A thigh injury is not easy to heal, and if you hope to avoid a limp, you must keep the leg perfectly still—no matter how difficult that may be.”
“So you’ve told me…and told me,” Simon muttered, unable to endure any more of the other man’s garrulous anxiety. “Ere you depart, Master Arnaud, I’d have you fetch me that basket, the one holding my correspondence.”
The doctor disapproved, but dared not object. Entering a few moments later, Nell showed no such diffidence. “Simon, you ought to be resting! And look at that tray; you’ve scarce touched your meal.”
“I was not hungry. But I do need more candles. And I want you to find my scribe, send him up to me.”
“Indeed, I will not. I’m not going anywhere until you eat some of this rice-and-lentils dish. It may not be your favorite food, but the doctor says it will help your bones to knit, will—”
“And if I balk, what do you mean to do—spoon-feed me? I said I wanted none of it. Now cease your infernal hovering and fetch my scribe.”
“No!”
“Nell, you’ll do as I say! Take this slop away—now!” Simon dramatized his demand with a peremptory gesture, but he miscalculated his reach, and his arm struck the edge of the table. It rocked, flipping the tray into the floor rushes. Simon was about to offer a grudging apology when Nell exploded.
“Very well done, my lord! No…do not say a word, hear me out! For the past month, I have been at your beck and call. I have been putting up with your foul tempers and catering to your whims, sleeping on that wretched trundle bed so I could tend to your needs myself, no matter the hour of the night. But no more. You do not want to eat? So be it. You can lie up here until you starve for all I care!”
The door was a massive, oaken structure, hinged and barred with heavy metal, but Nell still managed to slam it resoundingly behind her. Simon was the one who usually stalked out after a quarrel; now he could do nothing but fume.
He had chosen to recuperate in Kenilworth’s keep rather than in the great chamber he shared with Nell, for when the door was open, he could hear Mass being said in the adjoining chapel. But his convalescence chamber did have drawbacks; he was isolated from the rest of the household. Until his squires returned, he would have to make do without his scribe, and he dumped his letters onto the bed, began impatiently to sort through them.
The first one had an incendiary effect upon an already inflamed temper. He read it, reread it, and swore savagely, futilely, for it was a ransom demand from Roger de Mortimer. In his December raid upon Nell’s Herefordshire manors, de Mortimer had seized one of Simon’s bailiffs, and he was refusing to release the man unless he was given the sum of two hundred marks. And he would have to be paid, for there could be no retribution while the negotiations were proceeding at Amiens.
The next letter contained more welcome news. Although the aging Earl of Hereford supported the King, his eldest son did not. Humphrey de Bohun wrote to reaffirm his support for Simon and the Provisions, and to announce his upcoming marriage to the Earl of Winchester’s niece. Simon put the letter aside. So Elen’s daughter was to wed. Which one? Anne had chosen the nunnery. Most likely it was Joanna, the second lass. She’d be what…eighteen? Could it truly be ten years since Elen died and six since Rob’s death?
Simon lay back against the pillow, staring up at a cobweb glistening in a corner of the bed canopy. Rob had been thrown from his horse whilst taking part in a tournament at Blyth. His injuries had not healed as they ought; he’d lingered more than a year, bedridden, yearning for death. A sorry end for a decent man. Simon closed his eyes, said a brief prayer for his dead, and tried to push the fear away, the fear that his injury might fester, too.
Picking up another letter, he read his son’s account of their arrival at Amiens. How hard this was, being dependent upon second-hand reports, upon others to act for him. Christ Jesus, why had he to break a leg, now of all times? Peter was a good man; he and Harry would do their best to make the French King understand. But he ought to have been there himself. Why did the Almighty not want him there?
He shifted, looking in vain for a comfortable position, and knocked most of the letters onto the floor. God’s wrath, now what? No matter how he stretched, his fingers fell just short of the parchment sheets. A sharp stab of pain warned him of his danger; he sank back, defeated. But it was several minutes before he could bring himself to reach for the bell, to ask for help.
No one came. He waited, rang again, and again, and again. By the time he finally heard footsteps, he was seething. “Bleeding Hell, where have—” He swallowed the rest of the profanity as the door swung open, for it was not his tardy squire who entered, it was his eleven-year-old daughter.
Simon drew a calming breath. “I’m sorry, lass. I thought you were Giles.”
“He’s probably hiding, Papa. Everyone always does after you quarrel with Mama. We all know, you see, for she comes back to the great hall in a tearing rage, snaps at anyone who looks at her twice.”
“So…Giles has gone to earth,” Simon said, and Ellen grinned.
“Just like a fox, Papa!”
He watched as she retrieved his letters, then beckoned her to sit beside him on the bed. Her hair had once been as blonde as Nell’s, but it had slowly begun to darken, was now a burnished red-gold. He reached out, entwined one of her long, bright braids around his finger. “It sounds as if they all fear to face me. But not you?”
She had eyes like her brother Amaury, a tawny hazel flecked with green. They were alight now with laughter, hers the serene self-confidence of a cherished only daughter in a family of sons. “Afraid of you, Papa? I am terrified,” she said, and giggled when Simon pulled her braid.
“No jokes, lass. I want the truth. Have I been as bad a patient as that?”
She nodded. “You’ve been just dreadful, Papa,” she confided.
Simon was taken aback. “Well, then, I suppose I shall have to mend my ways. I’d best begin by making peace with your mother, but I shall need your help. See that coffer in the corner? If you could fetch my sword—” He smiled, for she was already half-way across the room. “Leave it in the scabbard, Ellen, and take care, for it’s heavy. I want you to bring it to the great hall, present it to Nell.”
“I’ll go right now, Papa!” Holding his sword as if it were a divining rod, Ellen looked so incongruous and yet so appealing that Simon had to laugh, for the first time in weeks.
He was surprised when Nell failed to appear within the following quarter-hour, for as quick as she was to flare up, she was even quicker to laugh. As time passed, his initial puzzlement gave way to concern; it was not like her to hold a grudge. He kept listening for her, unable to concentrate u
pon his correspondence. Although he was growing sleepy again, he was loath to give in to it. It alarmed him that he tired so easily since his accident; it was his secret, unconfessed fear that he might not recover his full strength. Eventually he dozed, awakening an hour later at the sound of familiar footsteps.
“You’re a hard woman to impress. That was the first time I’ve ever made an unconditional surrender, and yet—Nell? What is it?”
Nell was ashen, her eyes dark and dazed, so dilated were her pupils. Leaning back against the door, she said, “Harry and Peter have returned from France.”
Simon frowned. “So soon? But they were to remain until Louis rendered his decision.”
“He did, Simon. On Wednesday last, he issued the Mise of Amiens.”
“What! In just a fortnight, he reached a decision that was not expected till June?” Simon sat up too abruptly, winced. “You’d not look so grim were the news good. Louis has found in Henry’s favor, then? How bad is it? Has he given Henry the sole right to appoint members of his council?”
“Simon…” Nell came forward, unexpectedly knelt by the bed, and reached for her husband’s hand. “Simon, the French King has annulled the Provisions. He has declared them to be invalid, and absolved Henry of his past promises to adhere to them.”
“No…no! He could not do that. He had not the right!”
“I know. But he did it, nonetheless. Peter says that even Henry seemed shocked by the extent of his victory. Louis found for Henry on all counts. He held that all the royal strongholds must be restored to Henry at once, that Henry alone has the right to appoint the ministers and officers of his realm. He even denied us the right to expel those of alien birth. He…Oh, God, Simon, it has all been for naught!”
“I thought,” he said bitterly, “that Louis was a man of honor. How could he rule upon the validity of the Provisions? We would never have agreed to arbitration had that been at issue. For five years, I’ve fought to safeguard the Provisions, fought for reform. Why would I allow Louis to pass judgment upon what we’ve already won?”
“We were betrayed,” Nell said, no less bitterly. “When Harry and Peter reached London, they encountered the Earl of Gloucester. Upon hearing their news, he insisted upon accompanying them on to Kenilworth. So, too, did Mayor Fitz Thomas. He says the Londoners are sorely distraught, implores you to see him. What shall I tell them? Shall I bid them wait?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll see them.”
Harry and Peter were disheveled and travel-stained, looked weary in body and soul. At sight of his father, Harry blurted out, “Christ, Papa, I’m so sorry!” as if the Mise of Amiens was somehow his fault.
The young Earl of Gloucester was uncomfortable and it showed. His relationship with Simon had chilled since the summer. This was their first encounter in several months, and Gloucester seemed ill at ease in the intimacy of Simon’s sickroom. The Mayor of London, too, appeared inhibited by his surroundings. He made an unobtrusive entrance, hung back as the others approached the bed.
“Do you have it?” Simon asked abruptly, and Peter nodded, silently handing over a parchment scroll. Simon rapidly unrolled the document. “Quash and annul the aforesaid Provisions.” The words seemed to leap off the page, as if written in blood. He read swiftly, betraying his emotions with an occasional indrawn breath. Once he quoted aloud, incredulously, “ ‘The said King shall be at liberty to call aliens to his counsel,’ ” and then, “ ‘The said King shall have full power and free rule within his realm—’ ”
Harry could restrain himself no longer. “Henry bribed the bastard,” he interrupted indignantly. “How else explain it?”
“I do not agree,” Peter objected mildly. “I think Louis reacted as a king, not a judge, I think he felt threatened by any limitations upon the powers of kingship—”
“He’s Henry’s brother by marriage and he’s French. If you’re looking for explanations, you need go no further than that,” Gloucester said tautly, forgetting for the moment that Simon, too, was French.
Harry bristled, but Simon was still intent upon the French King’s verdict. “Listen to this. ‘We further are unwilling, nor by this present ordinance do we intend, in any way to derogate from the royal privileges, charters, liberties, statutes, or praiseworthy customs, of the realm of England.’ He affirms the Runnymede Charter, and then disavows the Oxford Provisions! Sheer madness; one might as well chop down a tree whilst continuing to water the roots. The Provisions are the natural corollary of the Charter!”
He crumpled the parchment in his fist, flung it contemptuously to the floor, then looked up at the other men. “I cannot accept this. I have sworn to uphold the Provisions with my honor, with my life. Even if all forsake me, my sons and I will not abandon the Provisions, or those who put their faith in me.”
“You will not stand alone, my lord,” Fitz Thomas said quietly. “My Londoners will fight for the Provisions if need be.”
“So will I.” Gloucester startled them all by jerking his sword from its scabbard. “That I swear by the holy relics within this hilt.”
It was a dramatic gesture, enthusiastically emulated by Simon’s three sons. “Men will flock to your banners, Papa.” Bran spread his arms wide, as if to embrace hordes of unseen supporters. “The Earl of Derby and Humphrey de Bohun and Hugh le Despenser and Baldwin Wake and John Fitz John and—”
“And you can count upon Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Papa. He’ll throw his lot in with us for certes,” Harry exclaimed, as Fitz Thomas chimed in with his own assurances about the loyalties of the citizenry, the Cinque Ports, towns like Oxford and Northampton, all of which would follow London’s lead.
Simon heard them out in silence, and gradually they fell silent, too. Becoming aware of his obvious exhaustion, Simon’s sons exchanged uneasy glances. These sudden glimpses of their father’s vulnerability unnerved them in a way that sheer physical danger did not.
“We will have time to discuss our plans upon the morrow,” Simon said. “Now I would be alone with my wife.”
They had forgotten Nell, forgotten that their enemies were her brothers. Casting chagrined looks over their shoulders, they were relieved to withdraw, for not even Nell’s sons knew what to say to her.
Dusk was fast falling; the last of the candles had guttered out and only a hearth fire now held the dark at bay. “Shall I send for a cresset lamp?” Nell asked, and Simon shook his head, held out his hand. She came slowly from the shadows, sat beside him on the bed. Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss into her palm. After a time, he said:
“Henry may be God’s greatest fool, but he is still your brother. And Richard…he will likely oppose us, too, Nell.”
“I know,” she said softly. She’d never truly thought it would ever come to this, never thought the day might dawn when her husband and sons would face her brothers and nephews across a battlefield. She shared Simon’s confidence, but not his darker moods. Hers was a world of sunrises, not sunsets, a world in which hope flourished and faith was rewarded, and she clung to that comforting certainty all the more now that her need was so great.
“I trust in you, Simon,” she said, “and I trust in God. Whatever happens, it will be for the best, for us and for England.”
30
________
Gloucester, England
March 1264
________
Trapped in Gloucester Castle by his de Montfort cousins, Edward offered to talk. Emerging unarmed, as a show of good faith, he and Hal were escorted through St Mary’s Gate into the precincts of the Benedictine abbey of St Peter, on to the Chapter House, where they were awaited by Harry and Bran, the Bishop of Worcester, and the Earl of Derby.
The meeting got off to an awkward start when Bran pointedly reminded Hal of his past promise not to bear arms against Simon, but Edward stepped smoothly into the breach. “Rumor has it that you got into the town with a variation of the Trojan Horse trick. Any truth to that?”
Harry and Bran exchanged grin
s. “We disguised two knights as wool merchants. Once they were admitted, they seized the gatehouse keys.”
Edward laughed approvingly. “Right clever, if I say it who should not!”
“At the risk of sounding overly suspicious, Ned, I’ve never known you to be such a gracious loser.”
Edward’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m not here to surrender, Harry. I want to arrange a truce.”
Bran burst out laughing. “I daresay you do! Tell me, Ned, do you also have a swaybacked, spavined nag you hope to pass off as a pure-blooded destrier? Any marshland to sell? We have you well and truly trapped, my lad. Why should we agree to uncork the bottle?”
“No reason at all…if you truly want war.” Edward rose from his chair, began to pace. “My father does not. Nor does my uncle Richard. I was the one who argued against compromise. But now that it has come to this, to facing the two of you across a battlefield…Christ Jesus, I do not want that! We’ve shared too much…” He stopped, shrugged self-consciously. “There must be another way. Let me find it. If you agree to a week’s truce, until the thirteenth, there’s a chance I can get my father to offer more generous terms than those of the French King.”
There was a prolonged silence, and then Bran slowly and deliberately began to clap. “Well said. Who could resist such a heartfelt appeal? I could. No offense, Cousin, but I’d sooner wager upon the true color of a chameleon than upon your honor.”
“I fear I must agree,” the Bishop of Worcester said coolly. “That was an eloquent plea for peace, but you spoke no less persuasively to me when you found yourself besieged by the citizens of Bristol, only to disavow all your promises once you were safe.”
Edward flushed. “That was different!”
“How?” Harry asked, and Edward strode toward him, reached out and grasped his wrist.
“Because,” he said, “I’d be swearing to you. To you, Harry. Do you truly think I’d give you my sworn word and then break it?”
Harry looked intently into his cousin’s face. “No,” he said. “No, I do not believe you’d lie, not to me. All right, Ned, you have your truce.”
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