After seeing that Henry was comfortably—and securely—lodged at the Bishop of London’s palace, Simon continued on to the Tower, where Richard was installed in Henry’s lavish Blundeville chamber. Only then did Simon finally have time for private conversation with the man who’d proved such a steadfast ally. They were sitting around a table in the upper chamber of the keep, Simon and Thomas Fitz Thomas and Harry and Peter de Montfort, newly freed from Windsor Castle. Peter seemed little marked by his captivity, answering Fitz Thomas’s queries with composure, saying that, Yes, he’d been well treated, and No, he’d never doubted that Simon would prevail, and Yes, young Bran had been released with him, but the lad had headed first for Kenilworth, wanting to check upon his mother and little sister.
“We expect him to join us here within the next day or so,” Simon interjected. “And so will my wife, once the roads seem safe again.”
Fitz Thomas needed no elaboration upon that last remark, for Londoners had grim, first-hand knowledge of the dangers of the road. Henry had, at Simon’s behest, ordered all his castle garrisons to lay down their arms. But the garrison in Gloucester’s captured castle at Tonbridge had refused to obey, and at Croydon had ambushed a group of Londoners returning home from the battle.
Simon’s thoughts mirrored Fitz Thomas’s own. “Those responsible for the Croydon killings have fled to Bristol, barricaded themselves within Edward’s castle there. But I’ll do my best to see them brought to justice.”
“It seemed particularly cruel to me,” Fitz Thomas confessed, “that men should have survived the battle, only to be struck down so close to home. That ambush stirred up much fear in the city. As if we did not have suspicions enough after the fire!”
“Were you able to catch the man who set the blaze?”
“Yes…a draper, I’m sorry to say! A man named Richard de Ware, an accomplice of the hostages slain at Lewes. Fortunately, we were able to contain the fire, but not before many houses in Milk and Bread streets burned to the ground.” Fitz Thomas frowned, remembering. “It was a bad time for us, my lord, not knowing yet that you’d won the battle…especially bad for the poor Jews. Whenever men are fearful, they seek scapegoats, and there was another outbreak of violence and looting in the Jewry. This time we were able to establish order right quickly, but coming so soon after the slaughter in April…And then, by sheer evil luck, many of the Jews’ houses were burned in the fire. Well, it is little wonder that the Jews panicked. They took refuge here in the Tower, refuse to leave, and in truth, who can blame them?”
Simon, too, was frowning. “Do you remember, Tom, that elderly Jew who sought me out just ere I left London? Jacob ben Judah, I believe he was called. Is he here, too? Good, for I wish to speak with him. Can you send a man to fetch him?”
Fitz Thomas hid his surprise. “I will see to it at once, my lord.” As he moved toward the door, Simon cast a speculative look in his son’s direction. Harry had joined them two days ago at Rochester, having delivered Edward and Hal safely to Dover Castle. He’d been unusually subdued since his return, was obviously troubled, for Harry’s face was never meant for subterfuge, betrayed in equal measure his joy and his pain.
“You’ve said very little about your journey to Dover. No problems with Edward?”
“No…although I think Ned expected softer treatment than he got. I kept him on a tight rein, treated him as a prisoner, not a Prince, and he liked it not.” Harry was staring down at a wax spill on the table; Simon could see only the sweep of surprisingly long lashes. “I thought…I thought that if I could make him pay for his treachery, I’d feel better. But the worse I treated him, the worse I felt…”
Simon had suspected as much. “You have every reason to be angry with Edward. But if you need to make your peace with him, there’s no shame in it. In all honesty, I doubt that I could forgive such a betrayal, but if you can, then do so. The bond between you began in the cradle, not an easy one to sunder. But bear this ever in mind, Harry. Edward might deserve your friendship. He does not deserve your trust.”
“You need not worry, Papa. What is it that Scriptures say, the serpent is more subtle than any beast of the field? Well, when it comes to guile, Ned could put that serpent to shame in the blink of an eye. Like a spider, he can spin a web even in his sleep.”
As an assessment of Edward, Simon found it right on target. The door opened, and Fitz Thomas entered, just in time to hear Peter say pensively, “Think you that there’s any truth to that? Do spiders spin in their sleep?” Harry insisted it was so, that he’d read it in a bestiary, and he and Peter were soon swapping stories of arcane animal lore. Did Harry believe crocodiles wept over their prey? Did Peter believe that the hyena could change its sex at will? What of the griffin, said to have the head of an eagle, the body of a lion? Had Harry ever met a man who’d actually seen one?
Fitz Thomas listened, amused, until he noticed that Simon was not listening at all. He was gazing into the closest candle flame, as intently as if it were a soothsayer’s lamp, looking up with a startled smile at the sound of Fitz Thomas’s voice. “What did you say, Tom?”
“I was but wondering, my lord, if what I heard was true, that you are asking two French Bishops to assist in the arbitration. Might I ask why?”
“To help Henry save face. I think he might find our medicine easier to swallow if the French King wields the spoon.”
That made sense to Fitz Thomas. He knew that there were some Londoners who felt Simon’s triumph had been bought with their blood, Londoners who wanted vengeance with their victory. Simon’s peace terms had been too moderate for their liking; Fitz Thomas had even heard a bitter quip making the rounds of ale-house and tavern, that Simon fought a sight better than he bargained. But as a politician, he’d long ago learned the necessity of governing by consensus, and was in full agreement with Simon’s cautious approach. “Will the French King consent?”
“How can he not…now? We submitted to trial by combat, would not have won if our cause were not just. I do not see how the French King or the Pope can continue to oppose the Provisions, not if they be men of any honor.”
“What happens next?”
“We’re calling a parliament for next month, shall put before them our plans for reform—three electors, who will then nominate a council of nine to advise the King in the governance of the realm.”
“Will you summon knights to the parliament, as you sought to do three years ago?” To Fitz. Thomas, that had been a remarkable innovation. He hoped that Simon would not recant now that he was in a position to put his political theories into actual practice.
“Yes, we will. I know what my enemies say, that I take my allies where I can find them. And there’s some truth in that, for most of my support does come from the knights and shire gentry. But if the King holds power by a covenant with his people,” Simon said matter-of-factly, although that was a hypothesis most would reject out-of-hand as alarmingly radical, “it only makes sense that their voices should be heard. The knights speak for an important element of the community, ought to have some say in how it is governed.” He paused, his eyes coming to rest thoughtfully upon the Mayor’s face. “And if the knights should be included, then logic demands that so should the towns. When parliament meets again in January, I hope to be able to summon citizens from London, mayhap even from some of the other cities.”
He smiled suddenly. “If I so surprise you of all men, I can well imagine what others will say, none of it likely to gladden my wife, who takes criticism of me very much to heart!”
But Fitz Thomas was too astounded and too excited to joke in kind. “Do you truly think you can do this?”
“I do not know,” Simon admitted. “In all honesty, I have no surety at all as to what the future holds—save that danger lurks behind every bend in the road. Henry is no willing partner in this strange union of ours, and he does not lack for allies. His Queen and John Mansel are said to be raising an army in Flanders. The de Lusignans, de Warenne, and Hugh Bigod have gotten s
afely to France. The Pope is hostile to us, the French King suspicious, the Scots King Henry’s son-by-marriage. The Marcher lords are not to be trusted.” Simon smiled again, this time without humor. “If enemies are riches, Tom, I am richer than Croesus, far richer than I care to be!”
“And yet you won before against all odds—at Lewes.”
Simon nodded slowly. “Yes, I did. But winning that detestable battle was easy, compared to what lies ahead.”
Jacob ben Judah and his fiercely protective shadow followed a servant across the inner bailey, up into the Tower keep. Once they’d reached the stairwell, Jacob’s hand closed upon his son’s sleeve. “Why do you think he has summoned us?” he asked softly.
“I have no idea, Papa,” Benedict lied. So alarming were his suspicions that he wanted to spare his father, if he could, until the final moment of revelation. One of Simon de Montfort’s first acts as Earl of Leicester had been to banish all Jews from his domains. Now that he was King in fact, if not in name, why should he not seek to banish the Jews from the very realm of England?
They hesitated before the chamber door, neither one wanting to cross that threshold again. But at least tonight they faced only an audience of four: Simon and his firstborn and the Mayor and a grey-haired man neither recognized. After an exchange of wary greetings, Simon gestured for them to sit. “I want you to persuade the other Jews to leave the Tower,” he began. To his surprise, all color drained from Jacob’s face.
“My lord, this is our last refuge! If you turn us out of the Tower, we will be defenseless, utterly at the mercy of our enemies!”
“You mistake my intent. The Tower is always available as a shelter in times of travail. I am not denying you refuge. I want your people to return to their homes, to resume their daily lives.”
Jacob and Benedict exchanged astonished glances. “My lord, I, too, want that,” the older man said cautiously. “More than anything. But I do not think it possible after what has happened. My brethren are sore afraid—and with good cause.”
“Would it ease their fears if public proclamations were made, forbidding all subjects of the King to harass or threaten them?”
Jacob did not answer at once. “My lord, I do not mean to give offense. But in the past, kings have taken the Jews under their protection, just as your popes have from time to time ordered that we not be harmed. These decrees did not save us in times of trouble. Words do not deflect swords. Why should those who hate Jews pay any heed to these proclamations?”
“Because,” Simon said, “when the King offers you his protection, men will know he speaks for me. They know, too, that my word is good, and that I warn but once.”
Jacob was studying Simon intently; it was not easy to trust after so bloody a spring. “What you say is true,” he said at last. “Even your enemies admit you’re a man of your word. It might well be that your protection would count for more than the King’s. I can promise nothing, my lord, but I will speak to my people, will urge them to heed what you say.”
“Good. Tell them we will send letters patent to all the towns where there have been recent outbreaks of violence. In each place, twenty-four respected citizens will be chosen to act as guarantors for the safety of the Jews in their community. I will also—”
Benedict could keep silent no longer. “Why?” he blurted out, too amazed for discretion. “Why are you doing this?”
“You Jews contribute to the royal coffers, do you not? As your father himself pointed out in this very chamber, Jewish revenues are important to the Exchequer. Now that the economy of the realm is my concern, naturally I want to restore order as quickly as possible.”
It was a blunt, pragmatic answer, no less straightforward than Benedict’s question, one he could accept. But it was a half-truth. Simon suddenly pushed away from the table, got to his feet. Startled, Jacob and Benedict did, too.
“The King’s powers are not absolute. The Lord God gives him a sacred trust, and in return for the obedience and loyalty of his subjects, he must provide protection and justice—even unto the least of them. If I am to exercise rights of kingship on Henry’s behalf, the responsibilities, too, must be mine. It becomes a debt of honor owed to all of Henry’s subjects.”
Jacob was speechless. He well knew that the chivalric code was more fable than fact, as honored in the breach as in the observance. Moreover, it was an ethics system for the aristocracy. Thus a knight could rape a peasant girl or cheat a serf, and feel no shame, for they were not covered by the tenets of chivalry. But Simon de Montfort had his own version of their code. If his could include the weak and needy, could it not in time come to include the Jews, too? Jacob tried to hold his hopes in check, before they ran away with him altogether. At least, this was a beginning, a blessed beginning.
“I thank you, my lord,” he said. “Your protection will enable my people to pick up the broken threads of their lives, to put some of the horror behind them.”
Simon frowned, but Jacob knew why; no Christian crusader could be truly comfortable, cast as a defender of infidels. “We are in agreement, then,” Simon said tersely. “If you—”
The door opened with enough force to startle them all. Jacob and Benedict tensed at sight of Guy de Montfort. There were some men who had only to walk into a room to cause others to scent danger; Guy had impressed both Jacob and Benedict as such a one. Now, however, he barely glanced their way. “I’ve been scouring the city for you, Papa. There is a repentant sinner here, in need of absolution!” He laughed, and shoving the door back, with a nice flair for the dramatic, he revealed his brother.
Bran grinned self-consciously, but whatever he might have said was lost in the turmoil. Harry whooped, vaulted across the table to embrace their lost sheep. Simon, too, was hastening forward, with Peter only a step behind.
A son’s homecoming was a private moment, not to be shared with strangers. Jacob and Benedict offered polite excuses, eliciting from Simon only the vaguest of responses in return; he was smiling at his second-born, all else forgotten.
“Come, I’ll see you out,” Fitz Thomas said; he, too, felt out of place in a family circle so tightly drawn. The laughter of the de Montforts followed them as they entered the stairwell, cut off suddenly by the closing door. So dark was it that Fitz Thomas was only a sensed presence, a cheerful voice. “When you speak to the other Jews,” he said, “I’ll go with you.” He brushed aside Jacob’s thanks as if his gesture were of no moment; he sounded as if he was smiling. “You’ll not regret it, Master Jacob. If there is one man in Christendom who can be trusted with no reservations, Earl Simon is that man.”
Jacob, still caught up in his visionary dreams of a new England, murmured agreement. Benedict said nothing, but his silence challenged, and Fitz Thomas reached out unerringly in the dark, touched his arm. “You can trust him, lad,” he said. “You’ll see.”
It was an eerie conversation, disembodied voices in a black void. Benedict would later remember and marvel, both at the oddness and the unguarded honesty of his answer. “I cannot trust him,” he confessed, “however much I might want to. But—but I think I do trust you. And if you have such faith in him, well…mayhap that is enough.”
As word spread that Simon was at the Tower, he found himself besieged by petitioners: aldermen eager to curry favor; relatives frantic for word of missing loved ones; friends of John de Gisors, seeking pardon for the elderly merchant. Simon’s sons soon found excuses to disappear; even Peter defected, only Fitz Thomas holding fast till the end. It was very late by the time Simon finally left the Tower, and almost midnight when he reached Durham House. Dismissing his escort, he entered the great hall. It was dark, silent, the household asleep. To Simon’s surprise, though, Bran was waiting up for him.
“Where have you been, Papa? We expected you back hours ago!”
“I had trouble making my escape. But I’d have thought you’d be out celebrating with your brothers.” Simon paused, gave his son a quizzical smile. “Why,” he asked, “are we whispering like
this?”
Bran quickly gestured for silence. “So we do not wake Mama.”
“Since Kenilworth is nigh on ninety—Here? Where? My bedchamber?”
Bran grinned, beckoned Simon toward the hearth. Simon stood for a moment by the settle, gazing down at his sleeping wife. When he glanced up at his son, Bran shrugged.
“I could not tell you, Papa. She swore me to silence, for she was bound and determined to surprise you. I tried to convince her she ought to wait, but she wanted to come to London straightaway, and you know Mama once she makes up her mind! You’d best be forewarned, though. She’s right vexed with you, for she had a special supper planned.”
He raised his candle, revealing to Simon the elaborate table setting: silver candlesticks and polished plate and scarlet roses on a linen tablecloth as immaculate as new snow. Looking back at Nell, Simon saw that she had taken equal pains with her appearance. Sometime during her long, frustrating vigil, she’d discarded her veil and wimple, but her gown was a vivid shade of turquoise silk, and she wore at her throat the pearls he had bought for her in Paris. Leaning over, he caught a seductive hint of jasmine. She sighed and her lashes fluttered as he lifted her in his arms, but she didn’t wake, pillowing her head on his shoulder as if she were asleep in her own bed.
Nell had not neglected their bedchamber. Strategically placed candles gave off muted, flickering light, and the air was perfumed with her favorite sandalwood incense; she’d put out wine and wafers, even scattered rose petals over the turned-back sheets. She murmured wordlessly as he laid her down upon the bed, but her breathing stayed slow, even. Her hair caught the candle sheen, stray wisps curling softly at her temples, against her cheek. Simon sat beside her on the bed, content for a time just to watch her. He was a fitful sleeper, easily roused, often wakeful, utterly unlike Nell, whose sleep was usually peaceful, deep and dream-filled. Now she looked serene, slightly disheveled, and, to Simon, irresistible. He found it impossible to believe more than twenty-six years stretched between this night and that October eve at Odiham Castle, when he’d bedded her for the first time. Bending over, he touched his mouth to hers. She sighed again, her lips parting, responding with drowsy desire, not yet fully awake.
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