Falls the Shadow: A Novel

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “You know I bear no love for Simon de Montfort,” Eleanor said, after a long pause. “But I do think he is right in this, Henry. Rebels must be punished, and retribution must be swift. Whatever his other faults, Simon does understand that.”

  This was not the first time that Henry had found himself at odds with his wife. It never failed to surprise him that so feminine, so delicate a woman could be so resolute, so remorseless. He could not help envying her absolute certainty, her sure sense of right, and he worried sometimes lest she think him unmanly, for he knew she made a more implacable foe than he. She’d insisted he was too lenient with the Welsh, she shared none of his concerns about converting the Jews, would have gladly expelled them all from their realm, and he knew she cared no more than Simon that rebels were denied due process of law. In truth, Henry was not all that disturbed himself by the illegality of it, would not have objected had he not been forced to deal with the aggrieved complaints of those who felt wronged by Simon’s summary justice.

  Turning away from Eleanor, Henry looked challengingly at his brother. “Am I to assume from your silence that you, too, disapprove?”

  “In fact, I agree,” Richard said coolly. “Now that you’ve committed yourself to Simon, you have to support him. You owe the man that much. That does not mean, however, that I’ve changed my mind. I told you more than two years ago that de Montfort was the wrong man for the task at hand. He is more than capable of conquering a province, utterly incapable of pacifying it afterward. Whilst Simon excels at breaching walls, your Seneschal should be able to mend fences, too. But you paid me no heed, you would have yourself a soldier. Well, that is what you got, one of the most celebrated soldiers in Christendom. I daresay he’ll quell this latest rebellion soon enough; I’ve heard it said that the Gascons ‘fear the Earl of Leicester more than lightning.’ It is what you wanted, Henry, is it not? So do not complain to me because your soldier does not act like a statesman.”

  “And I suppose you would have been the ideal choice? The truth is, Richard, that you’ve never forgiven me for revoking that grant, for giving Gascony to my son instead of to you!”

  Richard rose, stalked to the door. “Take heart, Henry. If all else fails, you can always go to Gascony yourself. I’m sure the rebels would surrender at once, for who would dare to defy the victor of Saintes?”

  Henry flinched, but Richard didn’t see; he’d already slammed the door. Eleanor came hastily to her husband’s side. “Pay Richard no mind, beloved. Gascony is part of our Edward’s inheritance. It belongs by right to him, not to Richard.”

  “I know,” Henry said morosely. “But he is my brother, and it grieves me that we should be at odds over this. Damn him! Damn him and Simon both!”

  He had slumped down in the closest chair, straightened up hopefully as the door flew open. But it was not a repentant Richard, it was his son. Henry’s spirits soared at sight of the boy. He adored all his children, but Edward held a special place in his heart, Edward, his firstborn, Edward who gave every promise of one day being as tall, as fair, and as fearless as his famous grand-uncle, Richard Lionheart.

  “I heard that Uncle Simon was here! Is it true, Papa? Has he come back from Gascony?”

  Henry stiffened. Striving for nonchalance, he said, “Yes, lad, he is back. You just missed him, in fact.”

  “Mayhap I can still catch him then,” Edward exclaimed, and whirled, bolting from the chamber as precipitately as he’d entered.

  “Ah, Henry…” Eleanor reached out, sought without success to knead some of the tension from his neck and shoulders. “You must not let it hurt you, beloved. Edward is just at that age when lads are easily bedazzled by swordplay, by battlefield heroics, and Simon is…”

  She did not complete the sentence. She did not have to; Henry finished it for her. “ ‘…the greatest soldier in Christendom,’ ” he quoted bitterly.

  From the south solar window of the Bishop of Lincoln’s palace, Simon gazed down upon Danesgate. Sleet had been falling since mid-morning, and two carts had just collided on the steep, icy hill, spilling wine kegs and crated chickens and sacks of flour into the street. A crowd soon gathered, drawn by the creative profanity of the drivers. But Simon was oblivious to the chaotic scene below him. He was seeing the sun shimmer upon the muddy waters of the Nile, above an empty, copper-colored sky.

  “Mansourah,” he murmured, turning away from the window. “That was the name of the village. The French King’s hot-headed brother led the raid. Will warned him that they were badly outnumbered, but he paid no heed. Then when the Saracens attacked, he tried to flee, only to drown in the Nile. Not Will, though. He held his ground, refused to yield, saying he’d die ere he surrendered to infidels. So impressed were the Saracens with his courage that the Sultan of Babylon saw that he had an honorable burial.”

  Taking a seat across from the Bishop, he said softly, “I am proud to have called him friend. Few men are given such a glorious ascent into Paradise. But I shall miss him, more than I can say…”

  “And you wish with all your heart that you had been there to fight beside him,” the Bishop said, eliciting from Simon a startled smile.

  “Have you turned soothsayer now? How well you know me. Not that I yearn for martyrdom! But at least Will died in the service of the Almighty; his death had meaning. I had three near-misses with death myself in the past twelvemonth,” he admitted, somewhat to the Bishop’s surprise, for he rarely shared secrets of risk. “All men die, of course, and no Christian should fear death. But should my wife be made a widow, my children made fatherless, what comfort would they have, knowing I died for a fickle King’s favor?”

  “But did the King not promise to support your efforts against the rebels?”

  Simon gave a mirthless laugh. “Do you remember the legend of the birds of paradise? Surpassingly beautiful and dazzling to watch on the wing, but they could never land, for they lacked feet. Well, Henry’s promises soar upward, too, in flights of golden rhetoric, but they never make it back to earth. Today he pledges me his eternal gratitude. Tomorrow he may well lend an ear to Gaston de Béarn again.” Simon had reached for a wine cup, but now he set it down with a thud. “Gaston has no more loyalty than Lucifer, is hand-in-glove with the Kings of Navarre and Castile. His sworn word is spit on the wind. So how, then, can Henry give credence to anything he says? It is almost as if Henry wanted to believe ill of me!”

  “Mayhap he does, Simon. Although in fairness to Henry, I have to say that other voices besides Gaston de Béarn’s have been raised against you.”

  Simon was stunned. “I never thought I should have to defend myself to you, my lord.”

  “Nor do you.” The older man leaned across the table, laid his hand upon Simon’s arm. “I do not fault you for treating brigands as they deserve. These Gascon lords hate you because you sought to uphold the King’s rights and to defend Christ’s poor. I do regret, though, that you have been so inflexible, so loath to listen—”

  “When? What have you heard?”

  “The King’s Seneschal always came to the town of Saut to take the townsmen’s oaths of fealty, a privilege they held very dear. But you insisted that they come to you at Saint-Sever, and when they refused, you—”

  “Had I gone to Saut for the oath-taking, the other towns would have demanded the same privilege. It just was not practical, made no sense. I all but slept in the saddle as it was!”

  The Bishop nodded. “I do not doubt that you were hard-pressed for time. But sometimes, my son, there are other considerations than practicality. You are the best horseman I’ve ever seen, for you know how to guide your mount with the slightest pressure of your knees, whilst keeping a light hand on the reins. If you could but learn to use the same sure touch with men, Simon, you’d find them less likely to balk.”

  Simon was quiet for a time. The Bishop’s criticism was not as easily dismissed as Henry’s, for if Henry’s judgment was dross, Bishop Robert’s was unalloyed gold. Moreover, he was deeply touched by the Bi
shop’s fond use of “my son.” “As ever, you counsel wisely,” he said at last. “My temper does catch fire too fast, and I too often let my stubbornness lead me astray. I have tried to learn patience, but my resolve takes me only so far. In truth, my lord, I do not think I can change my nature.”

  The Bishop’s smile was still compelling, belying the burdens of ill health and age. “No,” he conceded, “probably not. Try to remember, though, that neither can Henry. Now…no more lectures. You have a Christian’s conscience and a knight’s honor; betwixt them, they shall see you through to a safe harbor. Let us talk, instead, of more cheerful matters, of your sons. They are fine lads, Simon, mayhap not the scholars I would wish; Latin in particular seems to elude them. But they have good hearts and more than their share of pluck. At times they can be too boisterous for an old man’s liking, but we expect blooded stock to have spirit. I think you will be well pleased with their progress.”

  Harry and Bran looked uncommonly neat and well-scrubbed to Simon. Harry was twelve now, and Bran ten, and Simon was amazed at how fast they’d grown in the six months since he’d seen them last. They’d seemed somewhat subdued as they entered, as if expecting to be called to account for found-out sins, but at sight of their father, they abandoned all decorum, flung themselves upon him with joyful shrieks. “Papa! You’re back! For how long? Is Mama with you? When can—”

  “Enough!” Simon laughed. “I cannot answer if you assail me both at once. Your mother is back in Bordeaux with your little brothers and sister, but I brought you her latest letter and some surprise packages. I expect to be at Kenilworth for just a month or so, however long it takes me to raise funds. Whilst I’d not want to interrupt your studies, I would like you to spend some time at Kenilworth with me. Now…other questions?”

  The boys exchanged glances, elected Harry as spokesman. “Papa…when you go back to Gascony, can we go with you?”

  Simon slowly shook his head. They knew better than to beg, but they looked so disappointed that Simon actually found himself wavering for a moment. “You know that is not possible, lads. I see no reason, however, why you cannot take a brief respite from your lessons, pass a fortnight in London with your cousin Edward. That is, if Bishop Robert agrees?” he added, and the Bishop gave an amused nod, marveling anew that Simon, of all men, should be such an indulgent father.

  Simon’s sons politely expressed their thanks, but it was obvious they considered London a poor substitute for Gascony. It was Bran whose discipline broke first. “Why must you go back to Gascony, Papa? Why can you not come home to stay?”

  “Because I gave the King my word, Bran.”

  Bran bit his lip. “I know you say a man must keep his word, Papa. But the King does not always keep his word! So why, then, must you still serve him?”

  Simon was taken aback, gave a rueful laugh. “Amidst your study of Latin and arithmetic and geography, have you taken up law, too?” But that was an evasion, and he owed the boy better than that. Reaching out, he drew Bran to him. “I serve Henry because he is the King.” Bran said nothing; it was clear, though, that he found it an unsatisfactory answer. Simon looked over at the Bishop and shrugged. He was not yet ready to admit, even to himself, how unsatisfactory an answer it was to him, too.

  The sky was beginning to lighten in the east; the last stars were fading from sight. April had been a month of sudden, chilling rains, slowing down Simon’s assault upon Castillon Castle, but it was May now and the siege was drawing to an end. Peter de Montfort had no doubts of that, for Simon had told him this would be the day that the castle fell, and Peter had learned to trust Simon’s military judgment. Castillon had dominated the River Dordogne since the ninth century, but it was not so formidable a stronghold as Fronsac and Gramont, castles said to be impregnable, castles captured by Simon. Peter felt certain that the rebel Viscount, Pierre de Castillon, would be a prisoner or a corpse before this day was done.

  Now, however, his immediate concern was for Simon. Mining was the slowest means of taking a castle, but the most effective, and once they had broken through Castillon’s outer defenses, Simon put his men to work with picks and shovels. Day by day, the tunnel snaked forward, while Simon kept the defenders distracted with a relentless barrage from mangonel and trebuchet. At last the mine was ready, having been cautiously and laboriously dug across the inner bailey, up under the southwest corner of the castle keep. Rising by cover of night, Simon’s men had stuffed the tunnel with brushwood, with the bodies of newly killed pigs, and they were about to set the fatal fire. Fueled by the lard, the flames would swiftly engulf the timbers used to shore up the tunnel roof, and when the tunnel collapsed, so, too, would the section of the keep above it.

  Peter did not expect the mine to fail. But he was disturbed that Simon had insisted upon going down into the mine himself while the fire was set, for he thought that was a needless risk. Peter hated mines, could not endure such close confinement, and he was well aware of their dangers; it was not uncommon for them to collapse upon their builders, and the image of a flame-filled mine seemed to him verily a description of Hell.

  The entrance to the mine was concealed by a wooden structure called a cat. Much to Peter’s relief, he finally heard running footsteps, and men began to scramble up to safety. Simon’s face was smudged with smoke and soot, but he was grinning. He coughed, laughed, and coughed again. “We’ve a right beautiful bonfire going, Peter. I’ll wager those sluggards will still be abed when the keep comes crashing down around them!”

  Simon had been up for most of the night, making ready for the final assault. He took time now to eat a hasty breakfast of bread and cheese, washed down with a spiced red wine, all the while giving last-minute instructions to his captains. “When Castillon falls,” he predicted, “so, too, will the rebellion. They’ll all come on the run, seeking terms.”

  “They already offered terms,” Peter reminded him, and Simon grinned again.

  “Yes,” he said, “but now the terms will be mine,” and he signaled for the bombardment to begin. The mangonels heaved boulders into the inner bailey, and the trebuchets hurled the dreaded Greek fire, which not even water could extinguish. The castle came rapidly to life; men appeared, yawning and cursing, upon the roof battlements, at the narrow arrow slits.

  Simon had been both besieged and besieger, and he knew how unpleasant conditions must be for those mewed up within the keep, denied light or fresh air, unable to escape the pungent stink of the latrines, having to ration every swallow of water, to count every mouthful of food. “I think we’ve been able to locate the underground spring that feeds their well,” he said. “If the mine does not work, we can salt the spring. That should bring a surrender in short order!”

  But there was no need for contingency planning. The underground fire soon set the timbered roof ablaze, and when the tunnel caved in, the corner foundation of the keep cracked, split open in a shower of rock and mortar and ash. A few died in the collapsed rubble, more died trying to keep Simon’s men from gaining entry at these gaping holes in the wall. But the defenders were outnumbered, and the momentum was with the attackers. Simon’s men soon had control of the lower floor. Fighting his way up the stairwell, Simon discovered that the Viscount had barricaded himself in his private chamber, and Simon’s demand for surrender was met with a volley of verbal abuse.

  William Pigorel, Simon’s Gascon lieutenant, joined Simon in the stairwell, suggested that he remind the Viscount that the rules of warfare permitted the hanging of an enemy garrison if they held out after all hope was gone.

  Simon shook his head. “From what I know of Pierre de Castillon, he’d not turn a hair if we hanged his entire family from the battlements, as long as his own skin was safe. No, I’ve a better idea. Send some men up on the roof. Let’s see what happens if we stuff burning brands down the louvres.”

  They soon heard a commotion from within the chamber, as the trapped men sought frantically to put out the fires, and while they were thus occupied it was simple enough f
or a stout soldier with an axe to split the door asunder. Simon was among the first into the chamber.

  “De Castillon!” he challenged, and the Viscount moved to meet him. But no sooner had they crossed swords than Simon knew he was facing an inferior opponent, one who was, moreover, on the verge of panic. He easily parried the other man’s thrust, with enough force to stagger them both. Recovering first, Simon lunged, and his sword neatly sliced through the overhead bed hangings. De Castillon reeled backward, suddenly enveloped in billowing folds of Tripoli silk. He bumped blindly into the bed, sprawled into the rushes, much to the amusement of Simon’s soldiers, and by the time he managed to free himself from the shrouds of bedding, Simon was standing over him, sword poised above his windpipe.

  “You may yield,” Simon said calmly, “or you may die,” and de Castillon gasped, “I yield,” his sword clattering to the floor.

  Afterward, there was much to be done. Simon’s men had to make sure that the tunnel fire was extinguished. There were prisoners to be counted, and ransoms to be calculated, wounded men to be tended, and messengers to be dispatched, bearing word of Castillon’s fall. Much to Pierre de Castillon’s annoyance, he found himself shunted aside, utterly ignored, as if he were a person of no importance. He fumed in silence for a while, then demanded that he be taken to Simon, and he was so insistent that his guards finally grew tired of listening to his complaints, escorted him up the stairs into his own bedchamber.

  His resentment flared even higher to find that Simon had appropriated his private quarters. Nor did his temper improve any when Simon disregarded his presence, continuing to dictate letters and give orders.

  “Put the wounded in the hall until the smoke clears from the downstairs chamber. The cellar is still intact? Good, we’ll use it for a dungeon. You’d best set men to digging grave pits, Peter, and—” Simon paused, looking up as the Viscount wrenched free of his guards, pushed toward him.