Simon crossed to the table, searched for pen and parchment as the blacksmith watched anxiously, twisting his cap in huge, hammer-scarred hands. “There you are, Colin,” Simon said. “I’ve written: ‘Let it be known, lest sinister suspicions arise hereafter, that the right ear of Colin the farrier of Odiham, son of Elias the farrier, was torn off in an alehouse brawl.’ Keep it in a pouch around your neck, and show it the next time someone thinks you might be a runaway serf or a maimed felon.” He waited until Colin backed out, stammering his thanks, then sank down in the nearest chair.
Nell grabbed for her bedrobe. “Could that not have waited till the morrow?” she chided. “And where are your squires? You look half-asleep on your feet.”
“I sent the lads off to bed. No, stay there, Nell; you’ll catch cold.”
Nell ignored him, swung her legs over the side of the bed. “It could not be any more chilled up here than it was down in the hall tonight. I’ve rarely seen Edward so sullen. Is he still brooding about the cancellation of the Dunstable tournament?”
“I daresay our idiot sons are,” Simon said, so acidly that Nell’s eyes opened wide. “But I expect Edward has weightier matters on his mind; last week he had to surrender six royal castles. They were too strategic to leave in untrustworthy hands: Dover for certes, Nottingham, Corfe, amongst others. We had Henry turn them over to Edward, and he then yielded them to our control for a period of five years. It was all I could think to do, Nell, that would safeguard the government whilst still preserving Edward’s titles and rights to them. But I cannot blame Edward for being disgruntled about it.”
Nell leaned over his chair, began to massage his neck and shoulders. “I want to ask you about an unlikely story Harry told me, that when Mayor Fitz Thomas swore fealty to Henry, he dared to lecture Henry about a king’s duties! Did that truly happen, or was I taken in by another of Harry’s infernal jests?”
Simon’s sudden grin belied his fatigue. “No, by God, Fitz Thomas did indeed do that. After pledging his fealty to Henry, he added, ‘My liege, so long as unto us you will be a good lord and King, we will be faithful unto you.’ The way Henry choked, I thought he was going to swallow his tongue!”
“Where does Fitz Thomas find his courage?” Nell marveled. “So meek and mild he looks—until he opens his mouth!” Leaning over still farther, she kissed his cheek. “Simon, I’ve seen drawn bowstrings less taut than you are. For pity’s sake, love, come to bed.”
He nodded, got stiffly to his feet, and began to extinguish the candles; it was the first time in many months that she’d seen him limp. She shed her robe, climbed, shivering, into bed, and rolled over to make room for him. “I hate sleeping alone,” she confessed. “The bed feels so empty when…” She paused, frowning, for as her fingers slid along his chest, they’d encountered a patch of chafed skin. “Simon, why did you not tell me you had a rash? I’ve some orris root salve in my coffer—”
“You need not bother,” he said, and when she would have risen, he reached up, caught her arm. “Nell, let it lie.”
He expected her to argue. Instead, she grasped the sheet, jerked it back. He might have quenched all the candles, but the hearth fire still burned. Her eyes moved slowly, searchingly, over his body. His chest hair was soft and springy, easy to entwine around her fingers, faintly shadowed with silver as it slanted down toward his groin. Her fingers hovered, from habit, above his ribs, where an old scar traced a sword’s jagged passing. But she saw only the telltale red blotches.
“I’d wondered why you suddenly wanted to undress in the dark,” she said. “You did not want me to know you were wearing a hair shirt.” He confirmed her suspicion with silence, and she bent down, impulsively put her lips to the abraded, scraped skin. “But Simon, why? You have God’s favor, need not offer proof of your faith. Wearing a hair shirt is a gesture of truly admirable piety, but it is also a penance, and beloved, you have nothing to atone for!”
“I am not so sure of that, Nell, not any more. I no longer know what the Almighty wants of me, fear that I am failing Him. In truth, much of the time I feel like a man clinging to a rope that’s dangling over a sheer cliff. I can neither go up nor down, can only hope to hold on.”
“I’ve never heard you sound so disheartened. Is it Gloucester? Surely you do not think his envy would spur him to out-and-out rebellion?”
“No,” he said, without hesitation. “He truly does believe in the Provisions, in the need for reform. No matter how much he hates me, how could he betray his own conscience? He’ll not abandon the Provisions, but it will not be easy to coax him back into the fold. I sometimes think he’s more trouble as an ally than he would be as an avowed enemy!”
He slid his arm around Nell’s waist, drew her into an embrace comforting in its very familiarity. Pillowing her head in the crook of his arm, she was silent for a time. “Simon…why are you still so angry with our lads? I grant you that their idea of a tournament was sheer lunacy. Ere it was over, blood would have been flowing in earnest. But I’m sure they did not think—”
“Ah, Nell, it is not just the tournament. They never seem to consider the consequences of what they do. They bait Gloucester at every chance, race blindly ahead, churning up great clouds of dust and giving nary a thought for what lies around the next bend in the road. Did you know that men now call Harry ‘the wool merchant’? When I entrusted him with enforcing the prohibition against exporting wool, he took the charge too much to heart, auctioned off the wool he seized and kept the proceeds. He meant well, used the money to pay his men-at-arms, but he ought to have seen the folly of it. And Bran has been even more reckless. As soon as I appointed him as Constable of Portchester, he set his sailors to patrolling the coast, where they were soon preying upon Channel shipping. I had to intervene personally on behalf of a Bayonne merchant, order Bran to release his ship!”
“The young make mistakes, Simon. You’re right, of course; they chase after danger the way they do whores, and at times they can be foolhardy beyond belief. But they are good lads at heart, and they love you well, as few fathers are ever loved.”
“I know,” he said. “I know, too, that much of the blame is mine. If I had reined them in as I ought, if I’d not turned such a blind eye to their hell-raising, mayhap they’d not now be balking at the first prick of the spurs.”
“You’re overly tired,” she said. “That’s why you’re so dispirited. But this, too, shall pass, my love. You’ll be able to smooth Gloucester’s ruffled feathers, and—”
“And then what?” he asked, and there was something chilling in the very quietness of the question. “I patch up an uneasy peace with Gloucester, succeed in exiling the Marcher lords, and mayhap even manage to bring our sons to their senses. Yet nothing will have truly changed. How long can I hold Henry hostage? How long ere Edward breaks loose? We’d best face it, Nell. I’m fighting a war that cannot be won.”
“That’s not so, Simon! Once Edward can be made to see the need for the Provisions—”
“That would take nothing less than a miracle.”
Nell was not put off by his sarcasm. “I’ve been told that God is good at miracles,” she shot back, and coaxed from her husband a reluctant smile. She was not surprised that he’d failed to mention the most obvious option open to him. If he’d truly despaired of winning, why not withdraw to France? Other men would; she knew that. But she knew, too, that he could not, knew he’d see flight as a betrayal of those who’d come to believe in him, who’d made his cause their own.
“Simon, there is a question I must ask of you. Have you lost faith in the Provisions, in—”
“Jesú, no!”
“One more question, then. If you had it to do over again, would you still have sailed from France last spring?”
“I’ve thought on that—long and hard—and each time the conclusion is the same. I’d do it no differently. If it be God’s Will that the Provisions prevail—and I do believe that—how could I refuse to fight for them?”
“Th
en, my love, you’ve no reason to despair. You’ve done what you had to do, have no cause for regrets. Our Lord may test you, but this I do know—He would never forsake you, never!”
“Nor would you, my heart,” he said, and although his face was in shadow, she knew he was smiling. “Of all the manifold mercies that the Almighty has seen fit to bestow upon me, I am most grateful for you. You’ve done me a great service tonight, for you’ve made me see that I was in danger of doubting the Lord’s intent. The answer is so simple, Nell; Thy Will be done.”
Nell’s relief was beyond expressing, so thankful was she that she had found balm for her husband’s troubled spirit. “Thy Will be done,” she echoed gratefully, and would have sworn that she meant every word of that softly breathed prayer. But such was her faith in Simon that it colored her faith in God; unable to conceive of defeat, she never doubted that the Lord, too, willed Simon to win, and falling asleep in Simon’s arms, she did not dread the morrow, so secure was she in the strength of her yesterdays.
Simon parted from Nell on April 2; in the company of his sons, Henry, and Edward, he reached Gloucester at the end of April, soon moved on to Hereford, where he learned that William de Lusignan and John de Warenne had landed in South Wales. But he was able to “patch up a peace” with the Earl of Gloucester. On May 12, the young Earl came to Hereford, renewed his homage to Henry, and on the 20th, a proclamation was issued, declaring that the Earls of Leicester and Gloucester were now “of one mind and harmonious in everything.”
The Benedictine priory was chiming Vespers. A silvery, melodic sound, it echoed above the strident clamor of Hereford’s narrow, noisy streets, floated on the wind as far as the meadows where Harry and Edward were squabbling amiably. They cocked their heads, listening to the bells, but made no move to start back to the castle; there were at least two hours of daylight remaining. While there were always watchful eyes upon him, Edward was no longer denied the recreational pastimes of a prince; he and Harry frequently went riding or hunting in the woods known as the Hay, albeit under escort. On this mild Thursday in late May, they had been racing their horses on the level ground north of the town walls. Edward had been given a flashy chestnut stallion a few days past, and he’d been eager to try his new mount’s speed. Much to the amusement of his companions, all his boasting came to naught. The stallion had pulled up, lame, in the first trial, and he’d been compelled to borrow mounts from his guards in order to continue racing against Harry and Robert de Ros, a young baron who had distinguished himself at Lewes, enough to be entrusted with the custody of the King’s son.
They were making quite a commotion, cheering their horses on, exchanging barbed banter and boisterous jokes, and they soon attracted an audience of bored townsmen. Money changed hands, wineskins were passed back and forth, rows broke out, and by the time Thomas de Clare reached the meadow, the scene was as raucous and rowdy as any fair or market-day gathering.
Thomas drew rein, watching as Harry’s lathered roan nosed out a rangy gelding Edward had coaxed from Rob de Ros’s squire. Harry was laughing; he’d lost few wagers so far, for his stallion was the class of the lot. Edward was laughing, too, uncommonly good-natured in defeat. He accepted a wineskin, was raising his arm to blot sweat from his brow when he spotted Thomas. Their eyes linked above the heads of the crowd, and Thomas nodded slowly. He would never forget the look on Edward’s face, an unguarded instant of blazing, white-hot triumph.
Thomas wished he could share in it, but he had too squeamish a conscience. Not that he faulted Ned for seeking any means of escape. It was his brother’s deception he could not stomach. In truth, he’d never been all that enamored of the Provisions. But Gilbert had been a true believer. So how could he cast them aside like so much rubbish? And how could he give his sworn word, profane holy relics with a knowing lie? Men were damned for less.
Edward took his time in beckoning to him. Never had Thomas so envied the King’s son his icy nerves than as he watched Edward trade affable insults with Harry and Rob de Ros, for all the world as if nothing more was at stake than a carelessly laid wager.
Thomas sighed, sought to rouse himself for what lay ahead. This was no time to dwell upon Gilbert’s dishonor. That was between Gilbert and God. All that mattered now was Ned’s escape. For if they failed, Ned would never have another chance and he’d be lucky to see the sun again.
“Come take a look at my horse, Tom,” Edward called out. “He seems to have gotten some gravel embedded under his shoe.” Thomas hastened toward him, and as they bent over to inspect the chestnut’s foreleg, he whispered that all was set. Roger de Mortimer had men concealed in a wood on the Tillington road, ready to escort them the twenty-three miles to Wigmore Castle. They need only await the signal.
It was not long in coming. A horseman appeared on a distant hill, waved his hat twice. Thomas quickly remounted; Edward was already in the saddle. “Harry!” As his cousin turned, he swept off his hat in a mocking farewell salute, then spurred his stallion forward. The chestnut had been chafing at the bit. Given its head at last, it bolted, went thundering across the field at a dead run.
There were cries of astonishment from the spectators, slow to comprehend what they were seeing. Not so Harry and Rob de Ros. Within seconds, they were running for their own mounts, shouting for their men.
So swiftly had Harry reacted that Edward and Thomas did not have that much of a head start. By the time they reached the road, their pursuers were only a few lengths behind. But there they hung, unable to close the gap.
“Do not be a fool, Ned! You cannot hope to escape!”
Edward looked over his shoulder. “What’ll you wager, Harry? That heaving, staggering nag you’re riding?”
Thomas risked a backward glance, saw that the roan stallion was indeed laboring. Heart alone had taken it this far; despite Harry’s frantic urgings, it was shortening stride. So were the other horses; their best speed lay back on that grassy meadow. Slowly, inexorably, Edward’s chestnut and Thomas’s unraced bay began to draw away.
Roger de Mortimer was—for once—as good as his word. As they raced through the hamlet of Tillington, a large body of horsemen came galloping out of the woods. Harry’s companions hastily yanked on their reins, flung their horses back upon their haunches. Harry alone charged ahead, ignoring de Ros’s dismayed shout: “Harry, no! You’re not wearing mail!”
“We did it, Ned!” Turning to share his wonder, Thomas was horrified to find that Edward had checked his stallion. Paying no heed to Thomas, he watched until he saw his cousin extricate himself, pull back to safety. Only then did he urge his horse to catch up with Thomas, giving his thwarted pursuers one final glimpse of his chestnut’s streaming, golden tail before disappearing into the distance.
Emerging from Simon’s chamber, Peter de Montfort paused at the sight of their tragic, young faces. He’d never seen two souls so wretched as Robert de Ros and Harry, and beneath his anger, pity stirred. Guy was not so charitable. From a shadowed window-seat, he stabbed his brother and de Ros with eyes of implacable ice. “Idiots!” he snarled, loud enough to be heard, meaning to be heard. Rob de Ros would normally have bristled; now he merely glanced at Guy, his the indifference only unmitigated misery can engender. Harry never even looked Guy’s way, unable to tear his gaze from that closed, oaken door.
“Does he know?” he asked, very low, and Peter nodded.
“His rage must have been terrible,” Rob de Ros ventured, almost inaudibly. But this time Peter shook his head.
“No…,” he said, still sounding somewhat bemused. “He heard me out in silence, utter and absolute silence. In truth, this is a side of him that I’ve never seen before. Not only did he not seem outraged, I do not even think he was surprised!”
Harry flinched. “I have to see him,” he said, and Rob gave him a look of awed admiration, for Simon de Montfort was the last man on God’s earth he’d have wanted to face at that moment. Peter shrugged, stepped away from the door, and Harry raised his head, squared his sh
oulders, then reached for the latch.
Twilight had descended upon the vale of the Wye, blurring and softening the outlines of the world beyond the window. The sky was still too pale for night, too dark for day. It was an hour Simon had never liked, a time of transition, of ambiguous boundaries and hazy silhouettes. A few stars glimmered through the dusk, and below, the river washed against the south curtain wall, winding about the castle like a mourning ribbon, black and lusterless, flowing from the Welsh heartland toward the mouth of the Severn. Wales. He said it aloud. Wales and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. Why not? What did he have to lose?
He hadn’t heard the door opening. When he didn’t turn from the window, Harry froze where he was. “I do not blame you for not wanting to look upon my face,” he said huskily. “How you must hate me now!”
“I do not blame you, Harry. How could I? I was the one who taught you to trust a man’s word.”
“He played me for a fool, Papa! How can you forgive that?”
“And Gloucester played me for one. He came to Hereford for one reason only—to gain the time he needed to plot Edward’s escape.”
Remorse can be a selfish emotion; Harry had been focusing only upon his own part in the debacle. “You think Gloucester is behind it?” he asked, somewhat dubiously. “The men we saw wore de Mortimer’s colors…”
Simon discovered that patience—always perverse—came more easily once a man reached the outer limits of exhaustion. “If Gloucester’s was not the guiding hand, why did his brother flee with Edward? No, it has to be Gloucester, and I should have suspected…But I did not believe he would betray the Provisions. Nor did I think he would besmirch his honor with a false oath. More fool I…” He looked back at his son, for the first time noticed the blood staining Harry’s sleeve. “Peter told me you’d crossed swords with de Mortimer’s men, but not that you’d been hurt. Why did you not let the castle leech—”
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