Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The Earl of Derby had been listening in silence, amused by the back-and-forth banter. Now he was on his feet, face red with rage. “Have you gone mad?”

  Bran was no less shocked. “Harry, you cannot do this! Think you that I want to see Ned come to grief? Jesú, he’s my kinsman, too! But he cannot be trusted, not anymore.”

  “I think he can. And the decision, like the command, is mine. If he can make peace between our fathers, it’s well worth the risk.” Ignoring their outraged protests, Harry held out his hand to Edward. “Do not prove me wrong, Ned,” he said, and smiled. “You know how insufferable Bran can be when he gets to say ‘I told you so’!”

  Neither Edward nor Hal spoke as they emerged into the cloister walkway. The inner garth was still powdered with the unsightly residue of the last storm; the once-white snow was now a dingy, begrimed grey. Hal reached down and scooped up a handful. There was awe in the glance he gave Edward, but there was unease, too, for at the moment he felt no less sullied and defiled than this fistful of dirty snow. Slowly he opened his fingers, let it trickle away as if he were scattering ashes to the wind.

  “You know them full well,” he mumbled. “They each reacted just as you said they would.” He and Edward had even joked about it beforehand, quips that came back to haunt him now, that left a soured taste in his mouth. “Ned, I have to say this. I do not like what we did in there.”

  He tensed, expecting a sharp stab of anger, or worse, a derisive gibe. But for once his cousin offered no mocking rejoinder, no taunts about his sentimentality, his naïveté. Edward stopped abruptly, turned to face him.

  “Do you think that I liked it?” he demanded. “Harry is closer to me than my own brother. But there is too much at stake for scruples.”

  By the time Harry and Bran dismounted in front of Kenilworth’s great hall, their sister had reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve missed you so much!” Ellen cried, flinging herself into Harry’s arms. Then it was Bran’s turn. He swung her up off the ground, whirled her around until she squealed with laughter. “What took you so long? And what did you bring me?”

  Her brothers looked at each other in dismay. From Ellen’s earliest childhood years, they’d delighted in indulging her whims; this was the first time within memory that they’d forgotten to pick up some small trinket for her.

  “Well, kitten, if you check Bran’s saddlebag, you might just find some green silk hair ribbons,” Harry suggested, earning himself a sunlit smile and another hug.

  Watching as Ellen dashed toward the stables, Bran gave his brother a playful shove. “Good going, Harry. I promised Cassandra a keepsake. What do I tell her now?”

  “You’ll think of something. Now we’d best—Amaury! When did you get back from France?”

  “A fortnight ago.” Amaury fended off his brother’s exuberant welcome as best he could, being some inches the shorter of the two. Disentangling himself from Harry’s bear hug, he said accusingly, “Where in blazes have you two been?”

  Bran cocked a quizzical brow. “You may be studying for the priesthood, lad, but you’re not my confessor!”

  “A pity, for you’ve never been more in need of absolution.” They turned at the sound of this new voice, saw Guy leaning against the door, regarding them with an odd smile, one that managed to be both sardonic and sympathetic. As their eyes met, Bran felt a vague, uneasy premonition. Although Guy was always there if needed, he sometimes suspected that Guy took a perverse satisfaction in seeing their sins catch up with them. Harry, less observant, greeted his brother blithely, moved on into the hall. Bran followed, more warily. But there he forgot his qualms, so pleased was he at the sight that met their eyes.

  “Papa! You’re up and about!” Harry hastened toward the fire, detouring briefly to give Nell a quick kiss. “This is the best news we could have gotten! Did you make a sacrificial bonfire to burn your splints? We have good news, too. First of all, we settled your debt with that whoreson de Mortimer. With some help from Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, we laid waste to Mortimer’s lordship of Radnor, seized his manors at—”

  Simon held up a hand for silence. “I would speak with my sons alone,” he said, and the hall rapidly emptied; only Nell remained, standing just behind Simon’s chair. As the door closed after the last of their servants, Simon turned glittering grey eyes upon his sons. “Now,” he said, “tell me what happened at Gloucester.”

  “You know about Gloucester?” Harry asked in surprise. “You mean the news beat us back to Kenilworth? Well…I suppose I’d best begin at the beginning. The town gates were barred to us, but two of our knights pretended—”

  “I was told that you had Edward trapped within the castle. True?”

  Harry nodded slowly, and Simon reached for a crutch, maneuvered himself upright, brushing aside their efforts to help. “With Edward in our hands, the war would have begun and ended there at Gloucester. And you let him go?”

  Bran froze, then gave his brother a look of appalled pity. But Harry did not yet understand. “We agreed to a truce, Papa,” he said calmly. “Ned promised to do all he could to stave off war, to persuade his father—”

  “And you believed him?” Simon interrupted incredulously, and Harry nodded again.

  “Yes,” he said. “He gave me his sworn word. He—”

  “He played you both for fools. He kept your truce only as long as your army was within sight of Gloucester. Then he seized the town, imposed harsh fines and penalties upon the citizens, and rode straight for the royal encampment at Oxford—no doubt laughing all the way!”

  Bran made an involuntary gesture, his hand brushing his brother’s sleeve. Harry jerked away from the touch. Darkness lurked in the corners of the hall, beyond the reach of rush-light, and Harry turned instinctively toward the shadows, plunged into their depths as if seeking sanctuary. But there he paused. “Bran is not to blame,” he said, his voice muffled, all but inaudible. “He tried to warn me, but I would not listen. I failed you, Papa, not Bran.”

  At Simon’s silent query, Bran nodded, before blurting out, “There are worse mistakes, Papa, than one made from the heart.”

  “Bran is right, Simon,” Nell said softly, keeping her eyes all the while upon her eldest son. “You taught our sons that a man’s life counts for naught without honor. Mayhap Harry learned that lesson too well, but my love, he learned it from you.”

  Simon’s anger still burned at white heat, but as he looked upon that solitary figure deep in shadow, he found his fury changing focus, away from Harry and onto the man who’d so cruelly duped him. Shifting his crutch, he limped toward his son.

  “Harry.” The younger man turned, reluctantly; Simon thought he caught a glimmer of tears beneath Harry’s lashes. “I’ll not lie to you, not deny that you disappointed me. But you did not shame me, Harry. The shame is Edward’s, not yours. Now we’ll say no more on this. You made a mistake, lad. Just be sure you learn from it.”

  “I will,” Harry said tautly. “As God is my witness, I will.”

  The prospect of English civil war dismayed the French King, who opposed on principle all strife between Christians. He hastily dispatched an envoy, who prevailed upon Henry and Simon to make one final attempt at negotiation. A truce was declared on March 18, and Simon and his supporters offered to accept the Mise of Amiens if Henry agreed to banish aliens from his service. Henry refused.

  When war did come, though, the fire was kindled by neither Henry nor Simon, but by the Londoners. On March 31, they rioted, burning the town houses of the hated William de Lusignan and a prominent royalist baron, Philip Basset. Then the mob turned its fury upon the Westminster mansion of Henry’s brother Richard. Not content with that, they marched the seven miles to Isleworth. There they demolished Richard’s cherished fish ponds, destroyed his orchards, reduced his favorite manor to a charred ruin.

  Richard was outraged. Overnight, he was transformed from a man arguing for moderation to one hellbent upon vengeance. He, too, now echoed Edward’s insistence upon a battlefiel
d resolution, and Henry heeded them. On Thursday, April 3, the King raised his red dragon standard and the royal host headed for Northampton, where Simon’s army was quartered.

  They reached Northampton at dusk the following day. Arriving a few hours later, William de Lusignan and Roger de Mortimer were escorted to Edward’s command tent, where a strategy session was in progress. Those within offered by their very presence poignant testimony to the divisive, internecine nature of this war, for Henry, Richard, and Edward were not the only ones estranged from their own kinsmen. Philip Basset’s son-in-law was Hugh le Despenser, Simon’s Justiciar. The Earl of Hereford’s son still held fast for Simon. And Hugh Bigod, the Earl of Norfolk’s brother, had a stepson, Baldwin Wake, awaiting their assault on the other side of the city walls.

  But de Lusignan and de Mortimer were not men to dwell upon vain regrets, or missed chances for peace. The thought of impending war troubled them not at all. What did was the sight of Davydd ap Gruffydd so at ease in Edward’s circle. It was to be expected that they would harbor suspicions of the Welsh, for theirs were Marcher lands. But their dislike of Davydd was as personal as it was political, for exile had not tempered his bravado. He was no less cynical, no less self-assured at Edward’s court than he had been at Llewelyn’s, and as he was one of the few men not intimidated by William de Lusignan’s kinship to the King, he and de Lusignan had crossed verbal swords more than once. Now, however, he was too absorbed to pay the other man any mind; hunched over the table, he was sketching a plan of Northampton’s streets.

  “Our first attack was driven off,” Edward informed his uncle. “But that was just to get the lay of the land. On the morrow the siege begins in earnest.”

  William de Lusignan appropriated a coffer seat. “Who has their command?”

  Philip Basset glanced up from the map. “Leicester’s son and Peter de Montfort. They prudently refused our challenge; only fools would fight a pitched battle when so greatly outnumbered. No, they mean to hold the town and castle until Simon de Montfort can come to their rescue.”

  “But that,” Edward said, “shall not be. It’s a full three days’ ride from London to Northampton. Even if Simon spurred his horse till it foundered, there’s no way he could reach them in time. I know Northampton well; its defenses will crumble in a day, two at most.”

  He sounded so sure, so blessedly free of doubts that Henry felt a pang of envy. He got slowly to his feet, stiff from a day in the saddle. “I am going to bed,” he said, all too aware that his presence was not needed.

  Edward gave him a brief, preoccupied smile. “We fight our first battle at dawn,” he predicted, “and our last. By this time tomorrow, our war will be won.”

  “It’s ready,” Davydd announced, laying down his pen. “And not badly done, if I do say so. Luckily it’s been just a month since I was in Northampton.”

  Edward came over to look, nodded approval. “We will attack at the South Gate. And whilst we keep them busy there, Philip will lead an assault along the northwest priory wall. If the Prior spoke true, we’ll be into the town ere they even realize what’s happening.”

  “The Prior?” William de Lusignan echoed, frowning. “What do you mean?”

  Edward grinned. “We’re playing the game with loaded dice, Will. Unlike most of the townspeople, the Prior of St Andrew’s is loyal to the Crown. He sent us word that he’d secretly undermined the priory wall, then put in temporary supports. Tomorrow he knocks them out, and we breach the wall as easy as this!” With a sudden snap of his fingers.

  De Lusignan reached for a wine cup, held it aloft. “To your obliging Prior! How is it that your luck never fails?”

  Edward reached over, claimed his uncle’s cup. “I have something better than luck, Will. I have God’s favor.”

  Bran was exhausted. Although it was not yet mid-morning, he’d been up for hours. The first attack had come at dawn, and he’d been in the thick of it. They’d beaten the invaders back, managed to keep them off the town walls, but their victory was a fleeting one. He knew they’d be back. In the meantime, though, he meant to take full advantage of this lull in the fighting. Turning his stallion onto Gold Street, he headed for the castle.

  An eerie quiet prevailed. Saturday was market day in Northampton. But now the streets lay deserted. The men of the town were up on the walls, most willingly, some impressed into service. Their women were barricaded behind shuttered windows, barred doors. God pity Northampton should it fall to Ned’s army. Bran at once disavowed the thought. His father would come in time. They had only to hold out for a few days.

  Approaching the horse market, Bran spotted a friend. He shouted, and Baldwin Wake reined in his mount. “Where do you go? To the castle?”

  Bran nodded. “I thought to have some of the garrison relieve the men at the South Gate. And then raid the kitchens; I had a mouthful of bread this morn, and nothing since. Damnation, Baldwin, but I hate this! I’d much rather be on the attack—”

  “My lord, look!” His squire was pointing. A lone rider was galloping toward them. Recognizing Peter de Montfort’s youngest son, Bran and Baldwin spurred their mounts to meet him.

  Robert de Montfort yanked on the reins so abruptly that his lathered stallion went back on its haunches. “Bran, thank God! They’ve breached the walls at St Andrew’s Priory! We cannot hope to hold them—”

  “Baldwin, get reinforcements from the castle! Rob, your father is at the South Gate; warn him!” Bran’s last words were carried back by the wind. He was already passing the Dominican friary, his stallion lengthening stride, needing no urging, flying.

  At the Marehold, he encountered a small band of Oxford students; when Henry ordered the university shut down, some of the youths had chosen to fight for the Provisions at Northampton. They had been a welcome addition to the rebel army, proving themselves surprisingly adept with crossbows and slings, and they responded readily to Bran’s shouted appeal, streaming after him into the priory grounds.

  There all was chaos. Monks mingled with disheartened defenders, ready to run. Livestock milled about, untended, bleating goats and barking dogs adding immeasurably to the confusion. Women and children who’d seen the priory as a safe refuge now fled in panic, leaving behind them a trail of discarded and dropped belongings. They scattered as Bran galloped through the gateway, too terrified to distinguish friend from foe.

  There was a large gaping hole in the priory’s garden wall; men were already scrambling through. Within moments, though, they were diving for safety as Bran’s stallion plunged toward them.

  Bran gave his horse its head, and the roan soared over the rubble. Landing as gracefully as any cat, it easily overtook the retreating soldiers. Bran’s sword was soon bloody to the hilt. He fended off an upthrust halberd, swung the stallion about, and slashed a path to the scaling ladders propped against the wall.

  Climbing a siege ladder was always a perilous undertaking, but never more so than now. With each thrust of his sword, Bran sheathed it in flesh, while his stallion raked its teeth into exposed backs and legs, trampled those unfortunates who tumbled underfoot.

  “My lord, come back!” Only his squire had dared to follow Bran beyond the wall. To his vast relief, Bran heeded him, raced the roan back into the priory. His reckless charge had dazzled the students. They eagerly did his bidding, made ready to repel the next rush.

  The enemy regrouped with surprising speed, and this time they succeeded in making another break in the wall. Bran’s courage, never in doubt, now verged upon the suicidal. Again he sent his stallion into the breach, managed by sheer audacity to slow their momentum, to check their onslaught.

  But as more and more soldiers rallied to the attack, Bran pressed his luck once too often. The third time that he ventured beyond the priory walls, he found himself surrounded. His stallion reared, screaming defiance, and Bran lashed out with his sword. His blade sliced into the nearest shoulder, and as the man fell, he spurred his horse forward. The stallion slammed into the encircling men, broke
free, and bolted across the field. Bran jerked on the reins, but the animal had the bit between its teeth. He heard his squire’s voice, shrieking his name, with each stride was being carried deeper into enemy territory. Desperately he sought to turn the runaway roan, and as its breakneck speed slowed, he began to hope that he might yet manage to make it back to the priory. But by then they were upon the ditch.

  It was too late to swerve. The stallion made a gallant attempt to hurdle the trench. But its hind legs struck the embankment. As it tumbled backward into the ditch, Bran was fortunate enough to be thrown clear. He landed hard, though, striking his head against the side of his helm, and all went dark. When he came to, he was bruised, breathless, half-blinded by his own blood, and there was a sword leveled at his throat.

  He’d lost his own sword in the fall. Now they claimed his dagger, dragged him roughly up the side of the ditch. But when one of the soldiers pulled off his helm, the atmosphere changed dramatically. At sight of that thatch of raven hair, those narrow grey eyes, the man gave an elated shout. “Jesus wept, you’re Leicester’s son!”

  Astounded by their good fortune, they crowded around, all talking at once. Bran found himself suddenly surrounded by smiles. One of the men, a burly youth with scarred face and black eye patch, even stripped a dirty bandage from his own arm. “Here,” he said. “We cannot have you bleeding to death, not when your blood is as good as gold!”

  Bran took the bandage; although his head wound seemed superficial, it was still bleeding copiously. “Was my stallion hurt?”

  “By rights the both of you ought to have broken your necks after a tumble like that! Damned if I can explain it, for he’s not even limping.”

  Glancing back to make sure the soldier wasn’t lying, Bran was shocked to see how far his horse had taken him; they were more than a quarter mile from the priory. “You’ve breached the walls,” he said dully.