The Bishop had an astute eye for the foibles of his fellow men, and he’d soon realized why Simon was so loath to surrender this particular fiction. It validated the central core of his claim: that his was not an insurrection against his King, but only against the King’s unscrupulous advisers. To abandon that premise would be to brand himself as a rebel, and the Bishop knew Simon could never accept that. His position was ambiguous enough as it was: a man whose natural instincts were for command arguing for a government of compromise and consensus, a prideful, highborn lord drawing much of his support from the commons, a Frenchman leading a movement hostile to aliens. Worcester had eventually decided that the enigma of Simon de Montfort could be explained only in terms of Simon’s very personal vision of chivalry, in a code of ethics that somehow managed to mingle the partisan passion of the zealot with the poetic gallantry of the knight-errant. He felt no surprise, therefore, when Simon—his fabled temper notwithstanding—yielded to Henry’s extortion.
“Oliver!” He beckoned to a young knight. “Send word ahead to St Mary’s. Tell them we shall be stopping there so the King may hear Mass,” Simon said, so grimly obliging that his forbearance was in itself an insult, a peace offering to a wayward child.
The Benedictine monks of St Mary’s welcomed Simon’s army with heartfelt enthusiasm, and as word spread of their arrival, the townspeople began to trickle into the abbey precincts, bringing freshly baked bread, wineskins, sacks of apples and wild plums. Simon had found familiar solace in the shadowed, incense-scented church, in the sonorous Latin liturgy of the Blessed Eucharist. Now, watching his young soldiers flirt with pretty village lasses, he no longer regretted having given in to Henry’s tantrum.
The monks had set a bountiful breakfast for Henry, but as he followed them into the abbey frater, he looked more like a man unjustly deprived of a grievance than one savoring a victory. While the King dined, Simon made ready to depart. These preparations were interrupted, however, by the arrival of one of his scouts, bearing triumphant tidings—the approach of an army from the north, flying Simon’s forktailed lion and the Earl of Oxford’s silver star.
Simon had earlier sent a sharp-eyed lookout up into the church’s central tower, and when he now yelled down a confirmation of the scout’s report, a common sigh of relief swept the ranks of Simon’s army. For weeks they had dwelt too intimately with danger, outnumbered and outmaneuvered by an enemy who seemed to foreshadow their every move. For weeks they’d subsisted on half-rations and hope, balked by Edward and a muddy river, baffled by Bran’s laggard response to his father’s need. Only their faith in Simon had kept them from despairing, and now, with that faith justified, with deliverance at hand, they laughed and joked with the exuberant intensity peculiar to the newly reprieved. Their hardships suddenly took on the sheen of high adventure, and the abbey garth was soon a scene of cheerful bedlam. Wineskins went soaring up into the leaden sky, cheers rattled windows and spooked horses, competing with the distant echoes of summer thunder.
Simon was willing, for once, to indulge their tomfoolery. They were good lads, were entitled to kick over the traces—for the moment. He was tightening Sirocco’s girth when he sensed a presence, turned to find a young monk hovering nearby. The youngster colored, then shyly thrust toward Simon a large, red apple.
“For your horse, my lord,” he blurted out, and glowed with pleasure as Simon fed his offering to the stallion. A lover of horses, he’d never been this close to one of such high caliber, and his eyes lingered on Sirocco’s sleek lines, caressed that glossy ebony coat. Only belatedly did he remember his manners. “I am Brother Damian, my lord. We are right honored to have you at our abbey. We in Evesham believe in the reforms, believe in you. We give no credence to the lies put about by your enemies, know you do not seek to rule as a king—” He broke off in dismay, fearing his tongue had once again run away with him.
“Is that what my enemies say—that I would be a dictator?” The boy nodded, appalled to think he might have offended. “Do you know what I think, Brother Damian? That St Luke was right: ‘Woe unto you when all men should speak well of you.’ ” Simon had spoken so seriously that it was a full moment before Damian caught the amused glint in the depths of those unsettling grey eyes.
“Can you not stay longer at the abbey, my lord? There is a storm coming for certes,” he pointed out hopefully. But Simon was shaking his head.
“No, lad, as soon as my son—”
“My lord Earl!” A horseman came racing through the gateway, scattering men in all directions. He paid no heed to their startled curses, spurred his stallion across the garth and reined in before Simon. The animal came to a heaving halt, frothing at the mouth, caked with lather. The rider—one of Simon’s best scouts—was in no better shape, soaked with sweat, bleeding, an arrow shaft protruding from beneath his rib cage. “A trick,” he panted, “a foul trick… They fly your son’s banners, but the army is Edward’s!”
The wind was rising. It tore leaves from shuddering trees, flattened the marsh grass, and hurled dark clouds toward the fleeing sun. By the time Simon reached the north window in the church tower, the storm was nigh. He could see it sweeping across the vale, bearing down upon them from the north, shadowing the army of the King’s son. Edward had taken up position on the crest of Green Hill, closing off the loop of the River Avon with a line of steel. A mile lay between their thousands and Evesham, no more. Simon needed but one glance to know that he and his men were doomed.
He sucked in his breath, jolted by a surge of purely physical fear, the body’s instinctive reaction to peril. But he’d faced death too often, had long ago learned how to make fear serve him; self-preservation was a powerful motivating force in and of itself. The fright bred into bone and muscle was a familiar foe, one he knew he could vanquish. But what followed it was far more terrifying, a fear born of the brain, one that offered him a haunting glimpse of the future, a lightning-lit landscape of desolation and lost faith. Was their dream to die with them, too? Had it all been for naught?
No. No, it could not be. They would not be abandoned in their time of need, for their cause was just and would prevail. He would not fail his trial of faith, would not disavow a single yesterday. Death came to all men, but defeat only to those who doubted. Fear not, I am thy shield, trust in me and be not afraid. He unclenched his fist, eased his desperate grip upon the shutter latch, and then turned to face those who’d followed him up into the tower, followed wherever he led, his sons, his friends.
“We must commend our souls to God,” he said, “for our bodies are theirs.”
They looked at him, stunned, still caught up in the struggle he’d just won, groping for faith in the face of calamity. Harry swallowed, found his voice. “Is Bran dead?”
Simon hesitated only briefly; they had time for naught but truth. “Yes, most likely he is,” he said, conjuring up without warning a phantom grief in the guise of memory: a ghost with ink-black hair and cocky grin, passionate and reckless—and bloodied. He blinked and the apparition vanished, leaving only Harry and Guy, not yet understanding, clinging to hope. Sweet Christ, how young they were! How could it be God’s Will that they, too, should die this day? “Edward would be upon us ere we could all retreat across the bridge. But there is still time for you to save yourselves.” He tore his eyes from his sons. “You, too, Peter…Hugh. I’d not see you sacrifice your lives like this. For the love of God,” he said huskily, “go and go now, with my blessing!”
They would not. Even as he made the plea, Simon realized it was in vain; they’d never agree. His sons would stand by him till the last. So would Peter, no friend more faithful. And Hugh, who had a son, too, a child of three, never now to know his father. Humphrey, who’d seen his own family torn asunder by his belief in the Provisions. The young men below in the abbey garth, who’d fought with him at Lewes, only to die with him at Evesham. He could save none of them.
“Papa, you must listen to me!” Harry reached out, grasped Simon by the arm. “Do not
throw away your life for naught, take what men you can and cross the bridge. I’ll hold Ned here, give you the time you need to retreat. Let me do this for you, Papa, I beg you!”
Simon’s eyes misted. “You know I cannot, lad,” he said softly, and suddenly there was nothing more to be said. They looked at one another, recognizing the moment for what it was—one of farewell. Harry made it easy for them. Stepping forward, he embraced his father, thus freeing the other men to do the same.
“Papa…” Guy seemed to have shed years in a matter of minutes; Simon had rarely seen him look so vulnerable. “What will happen to Mama and Ellen?”
That was the question Simon had been most dreading. “Edward will not make war on women, not his own blood-kin. He and Richard will speak for your mother and sister, Guy, will not see them suffer for sins not theirs.”
Harry’s eyes—so like Nell’s—were riveted upon his face. “You truly do believe that, Papa?” Simon nodded; he had to believe that.
“Come,” he said. “We must give our men a chance to flee if they so choose. Some of them can still escape over the bridge if—”
“Mother of God!” Simon’s lookout spun around, pointing. “It is too late,” he gasped. “We’re all dead men!” The tower offered commanding views of the abbey and town. They could see quite clearly now the blue-and-white banners of Roger de Mortimer, flapping wildly in the wind as his men moved in from the east, blocking the bridge, cutting off all escape from Evesham.
They crowded into the churchyard just east of the bell tower, pressing in so they might hear Simon speak. A hush slowly fell as he reined in his stallion before them, looked out upon their upturned, ashen faces.
“Scriptures say that man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. That you know right well. You know, too, that death comes to us all, to the king in his palace and the crofter in his hut. All a man can do is hope to face it with courage and a measure of grace. Most of us shall die this day, for we meet a foe twice our numbers, and there will be no quarter given. But we do not die in vain, that I can promise you.”
Simon paused, drawing a steadying breath as lightning seared the sky above their heads. “You’ve every right to ask why it must be. I would that I had an answer for you. But the ways of the Almighty are not for mortal man to fathom. The Holy Land is soaked with the blood of true believers, those who died for Christ before the walls of Jerusalem. Because they died, does that mean their Faith was false? So, too, is our cause just, and it will triumph. The men of England will cherish their liberties all the more, knowing that we died for them.” Again thunder sounded, drowning out his next words. He waited for the echoes to abate, and then concluded quietly:
“I am proud to fight with men such as you. Go into battle with good heart, knowing we have right on our side, and knowing, too, that whosoever believeth in Our Lord Christ shall not abide in darkness, but shall have life everlasting.”
There was no sound now but that of the coming storm. Simon turned his horse toward the base of the bell tower, where his captains awaited him. But before he could dismount, Henry rushed forward, into the stallion’s path. Sirocco reared up, as Simon swore and Humphrey de Bohun snatched Henry from harm’s way. He seemed oblivious to his peril, intent upon Simon and only Simon. “This is madness,” he cried, “sheer madness! Surrender whilst you still can, Simon. You cannot hope to win, so why ride out to certain death?”
Simon said nothing, thinking of all the good men who’d died because this inept, faithless fool had been born a King’s son. “I pity a man who has nothing in his life worth dying for,” he said, so scathingly that Henry recoiled. Swinging from the saddle, he beckoned his captains closer, with the point of his sword drew Edward’s battle formation in the dirt at their feet. The men moved in, Henry forgotten.
“As every hunter knows, bringing his quarry to bay is but half the hunt. He still has to make the kill…if he can. There is a chance, a tattered rag of a chance, that we might be able to break free of this snare. Edward has posted his men between the branches of the river, but that is a fair piece of ground to cover, about a mile, so he’s bound to have stretched the line thin in places. If we hit them between their vanguard and their center…” He demonstrated with his sword, drew a slash in the dirt.
“I am going to propose a novel battle plan. Envision a battering ram with our knights as the iron-rimmed head, the men-at-arms as the oaken beam…and the Welsh at the tail, for I think them likely to run. I watched their faces whilst I was speaking to the men, and I do not think,” Simon said dryly, “that they are enthralled at the prospect of dying for English liberties. In truth, I cannot blame them, for this is not their war and I am not their Prince.”
He’d just offered them a precious gift, a glimmer of hope, however slight, and when he gave the command to array their men, they obeyed with alacrity. Henry had been listening in dawning horror, slowly coming to comprehend what Simon’s battle plan would mean for him, and he reached out, plucked frantically at the sleeve of Simon’s surcoat. “You cannot take me with you!”
“We have no choice. We have to have you with us if we break through—”
“But you will not! You’re all going to die, and if you take me out onto the field with you, I’m likely to die, too! What would that prove?”
“That the Almighty has a sense of humor,” Guy snapped, piercing Henry with a look of such venom that his mouth went dry. He was surrounded by hatred, could see it on all their faces. They blamed him for their plight, would see him dragged down to Hell with them. “You cannot do this, Simon,” he pleaded. “It…it is not just!”
Simon had been reaching for Sirocco’s reins. He paused, his eyes glittering, his contempt at last breaking free. “We are all in God’s Hands,” he said tautly, “even you.”
Sirocco was skittish, unnerved by the storm, eager to run. Simon reined the stallion in with difficulty, stopping within a few feet of the Bishop of Worcester. They regarded each other in a silence that expressed more than words could have done. “I shall pray for you, Simon,” the Bishop said at last, and Simon found a flickering smile.
“I know of no man whose prayers are more likely to be heeded than yours. But there is something else you can do for me.” Stripping off a gauntlet, he pulled a sapphire ring from his finger, dropped it into the Bishop’s palm. “I would ask that you give this to my wife,” he said, and the Bishop nodded, throat suddenly too tight for speech.
The monks and townspeople had clustered by the gateway, and as Simon led his army out of the abbey grounds, more than a few watched with tears trickling down their faces. Feeling a wetness on his own skin, the Bishop thought dully, So the rain has begun. But when he raised a hand to his cheek, he found that he, too, wept.
The ground slanted up sharply toward the north. As Simon’s army reached the crest of the ridge, they could see the enemy spread out above them, row after row of armed knights. Less than six hundred yards separated the two armies. Only then did Edward give the signal to advance. Slowly, at first, they began to move down the hill.
“They come on well,” Simon said to Peter. “But then, they learned that from me. I’d wondered, Peter, just what lesson Edward would draw from Lewes. Now I know.”
Peter did not reply. He was flanked by his sons, just as Simon’s two sons hovered at his stirrups. Their faces were shielded by their helms, although it was not difficult to guess their thoughts. Simon raised his arm. “Advance banners! For Almighty God and England!”
His knights spurred forward, collided head-on with Gloucester’s line. The sounds of battle began to rival the rumblings of thunder. Simon’s men had nothing to lose, and they pressed onward with such reckless abandon, such crazed courage, that Gloucester’s troops began to give way. Simon’s men pushed them back as far as the Worcester road, and some dared to hope that they would break free, after all.
But it was not to be. Edward had positioned cavalry on his and Gloucester’s flanks, and they now wheeled inward, entered the fray. They
hit Simon’s men on both sides. His Welsh had faded away even before the battle began, and the sheer superiority of numbers soon told in Edward’s favor. Simon’s army was beaten back from the road, outflanked, and then surrounded.
Henry was never to forget the horror that followed. Once it became clear that there’d be no escape, his guards lost all interest in him, were soon fighting for their lives. Henry found himself forsaken in the midst of mayhem. He feared the thunder and lightning as much as he did his son’s men; never had he seen a storm like this, one to herald the end of the world. He jerked half-heartedly at his helm, before deciding that protection mattered more than recognition. Whenever anyone came too close, he shrieked, “Do not harm me! I am your King!” And it seemed to work; more than one attacker sheered off at the last moment. But then he took an arrow in the shoulder. It was a fluke, for crossbowmen were to play no great part in the battle, and it did no real damage, embedding itself in a link of his hauberk, only scratching the skin. For Henry, though, it was one affliction too many. He gave way to panic, was in a state bordering on hysteria when the Marcher lord Roger de Leyburn finally found him.
De Leyburn reined in his mount alongside Henry’s without fear, for Henry had never even drawn his sword. “My liege?”
“Yes,” Henry sobbed, “yes!” And then, no longer forgotten, he was surrounded by men who would protect him with their lives if need be. De Leyburn reached out, took his reins. As they led him to safety, Henry glanced back only once at the carnage continuing on the field. Simon’s banner still flew, but he could no longer find Simon’s raging, black stallion, and in the butchery the battle had become, he could no longer find Simon.
Falls the Shadow Page 72