Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  From time to time, he risked a glance back over his shoulder. The men had gained ground, for Jacob’s pace was flagging. They were close enough now for Benedict to notice the moonlit badges that adorned their sleeves. The badge was familiar—a crimson cinquefoil. Benedict had seen it that very night, worn by retainers of the Earl of Leicester. His thoughts whirling, he sought desperately to make sense of it. If they’d incensed Leicester as much as that, why had he not ordered their arrest there in the Tower? But what reason could his men have for following them, save evil intent?

  They’d almost reached the end of Lombard Street; ahead lay Cheapside. “Papa, I do not want to alarm you, but—” Benedict’s warning went no further, for at that moment they were hailed by the City Watch.

  “You do know that curfew has rung?” The voice was polite, for both Benedict and Jacob were respectably dressed. But as soon as the man’s lantern light struck their white badges, all deference vanished. “Why are you out on the streets at such an hour?” The tone suspicious, verging upon belligerence.

  “We’re on our way home,” Benedict said swiftly. “We know it’s late, but my father was meeting tonight with the Earl of Leicester, and curfew rang whilst we were still at the Tower.”

  “The Earl of Leicester?” The man nudged his companion. “Was that before or after you supped with the Pope?”

  Benedict waited until his voice betrayed no anger; he’d pushed his luck enough for one night. “We were with the Earl. I am not lying.”

  “I say you are! Why would the Earl waste time on Jews?”

  “You’d best ask the Earl that.” The speaker, a lean youth with the sharp eyes of a huntsman and a voice brimming with lazy good humor, sauntered toward them, saying cheerfully, “Unlikely it might be, but true it is, too. Not only did our lord meet with them, he dispatched us to escort them back to the Jewry.”

  The men of the Watch looked skeptical, but those cinquefoil badges were impeccable credentials. Saving face with a gruff admonition to be “off with you, then,” the Watch departed. Benedict was half-relieved, half-sorry to see them go, for it was not easy to put his trust in men who were strangers, Gentiles, and loyal to Simon de Montfort. “I thank you,” he said awkwardly, “but we’re safe now. There’s no need to accompany us any further.”

  “I can see you’ve had few dealings with the Earl,” the young soldier said with a grin. “If our lord tells a man to perform a task, he’d damned well better do it! He entrusted your safety to us, and that means we’d trail you to the back of beyond if need be.”

  They made an improbable quartet: the silent rabbi, his wary son, and the high-spirited, young de Montfort retainers. But as they approached Old Jewry Street, the soldiers proved as good as their word, disappearing into the darkness with a jaunty farewell wave. Benedict felt no shame at having so misread Leicester’s intent; suspicion was a survival skill. “Do you want to rest awhile, Papa?” he asked, and Jacob shook his head. They were almost upon the alley that offered a shortcut to their Milk Street house, but Jacob passed it by, and after one curious look, Benedict fell into step beside him. He had a good idea as to his father’s destination.

  Their synagogue occupied the northwest corner of Old Jewry and Catte streets. It had been badly damaged in the rioting, partially burned, and although the surviving Jews had made what repairs they could, it still bore visible scars of the April attack. Like me, Benedict thought, raising his hand to his forehead. The moonlight cast ghostly shadows, here revealing a broken window, there a cinder-smudged stain. The smell of smoke seemed to linger on the air, and he wondered if his senses were playing him false. By night, the synagogue looked more like an abandoned temple than a living House of God, like the ancient ruins of a bygone people, a long-dead past. That was a frightening thought, and he tugged on his father’s sleeve with sudden urgency. “Papa…let’s go home.”

  “Home?” Jacob turned at his touch, but there was in his voice a tone Benedict had never heard before, an echo of utter despair. “Home,” he repeated. “And where is that, lad? Where is our home?”

  32

  ________

  Lewes, England

  May 1264

  ________

  The sun was at its zenith when they reached the hamlet of Offham. Jordan de Sackville, a Sussexman who’d thrown in his lot with Simon, gestured to their left. “That is the road to Lewes, my lord.”

  “And risk being caught between the hills and the river? I think not,” Simon said dryly, marveling that he should have to point out so obvious a pitfall. “What I am looking for is a way up Offham Hill, bringing us out onto the Downs.”

  De Sackville grinned. “Scriptures say that he who seeketh, findeth. Follow me, my lords.” And he led them west toward a hollow known to locals as the Coombe, where they ascended a winding trackway, emerging at last onto a broad, treeless upland. Simon saw before him an emerald carpet of new spring grass, strewn with the sunlit saffron of gorse and primrose, and below, the town of Lewes, ensconced within a bend of the River Ouse. Leaving their horses in order to elude any of Henry’s sentries, they continued on foot. The plateau was four hundred feet high, ideal for reconnaissance. The castle of Henry’s de Warenne cousin, the town’s narrow main street, the walled priory of St Pancras—all lay open to Simon’s appraising eye.

  At first sight, Lewes put Simon in mind of Shrewsbury, for both had formidable natural moats. The River Ouse snaked its way along the east flank of the town, then swung in a circle, toward the priory. According to de Sackville, the river was tidal, rendering impassable any approach from the south. With the castle rising to the north, the town’s defenses were impressive, indeed. But as Simon studied the river’s width, those muddy marshlands to the south, a shadowy smile hovered around the corner of his mouth. There was one fatal flaw in Lewes’s defensive shield—it was open to attack from the west. Should an army descend from these heights, sweep from the Downs into the valley, the town’s defenders would have no way to retreat. Under a surprise assault, Lewes might well become a death trap.

  “We can go,” he said. “I’ve seen enough.”

  By the time they returned to Fletching, the small village where Simon had encamped his army, the sun was low in the western sky and random clouds were reflecting the blood-red of a Sussex sunset. The day before, the Bishop of Chichester had attempted—in vain—to persuade Henry to negotiate. Although he had no expectations of success, Simon had that morning dispatched the Bishops of Worcester and London with one final appeal, but they had yet to return. Night fires were already burning; his battle captains had gathered before his tent, where a harried cook was stirring salted beef in a huge, iron cauldron. The meal forgotten, they crowded around Simon as soon as he dismounted. He sensed, even in these battle-seasoned soldiers, some of the same unease that had infected the Londoners; they, too, seemed to take an obscure comfort in his physical presence. But he did not fault them for their fear; only a fool would face such daunting odds with equanimity.

  “My news is good,” he said, as his squire brought forth a stool; although Simon’s injury was much improved, he knew better than to sprawl cross-legged in the grass as his sons, and younger men like Hugh and Gloucester and Fitz John, were doing. “Jordan de Sackville’s spies say that last night every tavern in the town was overflowing with Henry’s soldiers. So confident is he of victory that he allows his men to celebrate in advance of the event. He’s quartered in the priory rather than in the castle with Edward, ever a one for his own comfort, and even there men caroused till dawn, drunken knights sleeping off their excesses in the church itself.” Simon’s mouth was tightly drawn. As a moralist, he found such antics distasteful; as a battle commander, sheer madness.

  Shaking his head, he said, “As amazing as it sounds, they have taken no measures to discover our whereabouts, have sent out no scouts. We saw but one outpost all day, on the Downs overlooking Lewes, and the men were dicing and arguing amongst themselves, never noted our passing. Whilst they know, of course, that we
are in the Weald, they have no idea that we are but nine miles from Lewes.”

  One of his squires was holding out a bowl and spoon. Simon accepted without enthusiasm; all his life, he’d eaten and drunk sparingly, and even though this might well be his last meal, he could summon up no appetite for the heavily spiced stew. “We are in agreement,” he said, “that Nicholas Segrave and the Londoners will form our left battle,” a decision too obvious to merit discussion, for the left wing was the position of least importance. Simon paused, his eyes searching out Thomas Puleston and the other Londoners within hearing range. “In saying this, I do not mean to impugn the courage of the Londoners. Some of these men fought with me at the siege of Rochester last month and acquitted themselves well. But most are green lads, poorly armed. It would be no disgrace should they break ranks before a charge of mounted knights. There may be a way, however, that we can lessen this risk. If the Londoners could outflank the castle, they’d have a better chance in the streets than out on open ground.”

  The circle was suddenly lit with smiles, for Simon’s strategy offered a welcome spark of hope. There were murmurs of relief, and Nicholas Segrave rose with characteristic dispatch, went off in search of his raw recruits. Gloucester took his place, having gone back for a second helping of stew. Squatting there in the grass, he looked very young, his nose peeling, for the sun was no friend to redheads, a grease smear on his chin, carrot-colored hair wildly askew. But the blue eyes were coolly fastened upon Simon’s dark face, eyes that challenged even as he asked, with affected nonchalance, “And who is to command the vanguard—you, my lord?”

  “No…the command is to go to my sons, Harry and Guy,” Simon said, triggering an exultant yell from Harry and an indignant, disbelieving sputter from Gloucester. Before the young Earl could launch into a diatribe of protest, Simon added, with poorly concealed impatience, “Sometimes, Gilbert, you jump ere you’re stung. I want you to have the center command.”

  Deflated, Gloucester sat back in the grass. Guy was openly laughing at him, and for a moment he wavered between resentment and delight, but the latter won, for Simon had indeed conferred upon him a signal honor. Glancing about to see if it was one the other men begrudged, he saw on their faces perplexity. And only then did the full impact of Simon’s words penetrate. “But what of you, my lord?” he blurted out. “If I take the center and your sons the right wing, what command have you?”

  “I mean to keep a force in reserve, the knights of my household and some of the Londoners. They shall be under my personal command,” Simon said, a statement that produced no enlightenment, only puzzlement. Even war-wise veterans like Fitz John and Humphrey de Bohun looked baffled.

  Hugh le Despenser had enough self-confidence to admit ignorance. “I confess this is a tactic I’ve never heard of, Simon. We are already outnumbered by two to one. Do you truly think it wise to reduce our forces even more?”

  “That we are outnumbered makes our need for a reserve all the greater.” Simon saw that he’d not convinced them, but their doubts did not trouble him, for he trusted his battle instincts implicitly, did not need the confirmation of others. “Unless the Bishops of Worcester and London have wrought a miracle in Lewes, we fight on the morrow,” he said, and more than one man released a breath soft as a sigh. So soon! “Ere the battle,” Simon continued, his gaze coming to rest upon Gloucester and the equally young Earl of Oxford, “I shall knight you both.”

  “Indeed?” For the moment, his defenses down, Gloucester exchanged grins with Oxford. “What of Tom?” he prodded, and as Simon nodded, he jumped to his feet, calling out his brother’s name. He was often a trial to them all, but now their smiles were indulgent, each man able to identify with his excitement, remembering his own initiation into knighthood. Harry alone did not want to remember, for it was on an October day three years past that he and Bran had been knighted by their cousin, the man he would face tomorrow across a battlefield.

  Humphrey de Bohun set his supper bowl down in the grass, where it was promptly snatched up by one of their canine camp-followers. Unperturbed by the ensuing laughter, he got unhurriedly to his feet. “Sunrise comes about four or so. If we expect to get much sleep tonight, we’d best get busy now.”

  “Sleep,” Simon commented, “will be in short supply. I have no intention of waiting for sunrise. Come dawn, I want us within striking distance of the Downs.”

  He saw that once again he’d startled them. A night march was no less an innovation than a reserve force, and warfare as they knew it was essentially a conservative science, mistrustful of change. But as before, no one challenged him. “Humphrey, you’ll fight with my lads. Hugh, I’d like you with me. You, too, Tom,” he said, and an enormously flattered Thomas Puleston quickly nodded assent. Simon looked thoughtfully at the others. Fitz John he assigned to Gloucester’s command, the experienced John Giffard to their weakest link, the Londoners under Segrave. “I know,” he said, “that some of you are dubious of a night march. I grant you it is an uncommon tactic. But tomorrow we need all the gains we can get. In failing to keep us under surveillance, Henry has been criminally careless, and I mean to take full advantage of it. Surprise is—” He got no further; the sudden stirring throughout the camp heralded the return of their peace envoys.

  The grim faces of the Bishops of Worcester and London conveyed their message with no need of words. Their last hope had failed them, their one chance of avoiding war with their sovereign, and the men watched in sobered silence as the Bishops dismounted, delivered two parchment scrolls. “The King spurned your appeal, Simon, saying there could be no peace as long as you insisted that he uphold the Oxford Provisions.”

  “You told him we would be willing to pay thirty thousand pounds, as reparations for damages done by our supporters?”

  The Bishop of Worcester nodded tiredly. “It counted for naught. Henry’s brother, King of the Romans”—never had Richard’s title been given such sardonic stress—“insisted that all of the thirty thousand pounds be paid to him alone, to indemnify him for the loss of his Isleworth and Westminster manors.”

  There was an astonished silence, and then, a burst of derisive laughter. Richard had never been popular with his brother’s subjects, for his were virtues—intelligence, pragmatism, business acumen, a lack of rancor—that found little favor with a populace that judged a great lord by reckless courage and open-handed generosity and prowess on the field. Now, none were surprised, only scornful, that Richard should put property above principle.

  Simon broke the seal on Henry’s letter, moved closer to the fire, and read it aloud. Formally phrased, the gist of Henry’s message came in the last sentence: “We…do defy you.” Without comment, he reached for the second letter, rapidly scanned the contents, and looked up with a twisted smile. “I need read no further than the salutation: ‘Richard, by the Grace of God, King of the Romans, ever august, and Edward, of the illustrious King of England the firstborn, to Simon de Montfort, Gilbert de Clare, and all the accomplices of their perfidy.’ ”

  The Bishop of London, known as a mild-mannered man of placid temper, now startled them with an outburst of unwonted bitterness. “They crave blood! Lord Edward’s exact words to me were ‘They shall have no peace, unless they put halters around their necks and surrender themselves for us to hang them up or drag them down, as we please.’ ”

  Such provocative words acted like flint to tinder; men began to mutter angrily, defiantly. Simon took the letters, deliberately fed them into the fire. “So be it,” he said tonelessly, and unsheathed his sword, holding it aloft so that the shining blade reflected red flickers of flame. “I, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, do hereby renounce all allegiance to Henry Plantagenet, no longer acknowledge him as my King and liege lord.”

  It was a solemn moment, and it showed on their faces. Men stared at Simon’s naked sword, and more than a few wondered how it had ever come to this, for Scriptures said that rebellion was as the sin of witchcraft. Then the Earl of Gloucester stepped forward
. Whatever his failings of judgment, he had never lacked for courage, and drawing his own sword, he said in a loud, carrying voice, “I, Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, do also renounce…”

  As Simon watched, one by one they followed his example, disavowed their oaths of homage. He looked at the tense, firelit faces: Humphrey, who’d be facing his own father; Hugh, who’d once seemed too light of heart, too fickle of purpose; John Giffard, to whose safekeeping he’d entrusted Nell and Kenilworth; John Fitz John, whose courage was unquestioned, but whose honor was tarnished, stained with Jewish blood; Nicholas Segrave, comrade of the Welsh wars, his Gascony command; Thomas Puleston, a Shropshireman by birth, a Londoner by choice; Gloucester and Oxford, rebels with the most to lose; the sons Nell and God had given him, whose blood was precious to him beyond measure. And he found himself thinking of the men who weren’t here. Peter, for thirty years his friend, his mainstay, caged at Windsor. Bran, his second-born. Thomas Fitz Thomas, who had pledged his life and his city in the cause of reforming the realm. The prisoners and dead of Northampton. Those he’d loved, those he’d trusted. Will of Salisbury, who’d found a martyr’s crown at Mansourah. Rob de Quincy, whose death had been a mercy. The Bishop of Lincoln and Adam Marsh, long dead, but not forgotten, never forgotten. Would they have understood?

  The Bishop of Worcester was standing just a few feet away, and Simon moved toward him, touched the sleeve of his cassock. “Will you hear my confession?” he asked quietly.