Falls the Shadow: A Novel

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Leicester, Leicester!” It was a rhythmic, pulsing chant, rising above the clamor of the bells, a wave that had been gaining momentum as they rode down Wood Street, cresting now in Cheapside, engulfing them in raw, surging sound. “My God, Papa,” Bran gasped, “they’d make you King of London if they only could!”

  Simon smiled, then shook his head. “No, lad. If London has an uncrowned King, there’s the man.” And he gestured toward the steps of St Mary-le-Bow, where a euphoric Thomas Fitz Thomas awaited them.

  As Simon reined in his stallion, Fitz Thomas moved forward eagerly. “Had there only been time, my lord, we’d have been able to give you a truly memorable welcome. We’d have had pageants and white doves and conduits running with wine. But as I look about us, I can see that my Londoners have given you a gift of far greater value—their hearts.”

  “I’d heard that you had a way with words. I think we are fortunate, indeed, to have your eloquence harnessed on behalf of our cause. From here, we go to the Tower, to the King. This was your victory, too, Master Fitz Thomas. Have you a horse at hand?”

  “By some strange chance…” Thomas Puleston was grinning broadly, leading forth two well-groomed palfreys, and Simon laughed.

  “I ought to have known, Tom, that you’d never be caught unawares! Now…the King awaits us.”

  Fitz Thomas and Puleston quickly mounted, but the latter then said, “My lord,” while giving the Mayor a nod, jerking his head toward the pillory across the road.

  Fitz Thomas understood what the silent message meant, but still he hesitated. The men in the pillory looked utterly miserable. Bent forward from the waist, heads and hands locked into the wooden frame, they must be suffering, for not only was the position an acutely uncomfortable one, the weather had conspired to add to their woes; it was a particularly hot and humid afternoon. It was Fitz Thomas’s hope that Simon would order them freed, for that was just the sort of dramatic, generous gesture sure to appeal to his Londoners. But he did not want anything to mar the mood of this day, and he suspected that Simon was not a man to muster much sympathy for lawbreakers. Puleston had insisted, however, that Simon would free the men, and gambling now on his friend’s greater familiarity with the Earl, Fitz Thomas said loudly, “Those poor wretches! Think you, my lord, that they might be deserving of mercy on such a day?”

  Simon glanced toward the pillory, then back at the Mayor. “On such a day, Master Fitz Thomas, all men deserve mercy,” he said, setting off another burst of cheering, for the urbane, cynical Londoners were also capable of the most mawkish sentimentality.

  Fitz Thomas paced his mount to Simon’s stallion, experiencing a moment such as few men were ever granted, one of pure and perfect happiness. A soldier the Earl might be, the best in England he’d wager, but he was not utterly lacking in political instincts. De Gisors was wrong; they were allies in truth and in deed, together would make a new England. “This is how Adam must have felt,” he said, “in the days ere man’s fall from grace, when there were no boundaries, only penny-bright possibilities.”

  Simon gave him a sideways smile. “You’d best bear in mind,” he said, “that there are snakes in our Eden, too, Master Fitz Thomas.”

  Fitz Thomas laughed, not in the least deceived by Simon’s skepticism, for as their eyes met, he was swept with certainty, an instinctive awareness beyond refuting, that the Earl of Leicester shared his dreams for England, that Simon, too, saw this day as a new beginning.

  Arriving at the Tower, they found Henry awaiting them in the great hall. Flanked by his Queen and brother Richard, he looked haggard, even unwell. As Simon and the Earl of Gloucester knelt before him, Simon was startled by how much Henry had aged in the months since their last encounter. In stark contrast to the wan, dispirited Henry, his Queen glowed with vivid, defiant color. Her cheeks flamed, her throat glittered with jewels, and her gown was a deliberately dramatic crimson, as red as blood. When Simon kissed her hand, those elegant, ringed fingers twitched, clenched involuntarily. She would, he thought, nail her flag to the mast ere she’d run it down.

  “My liege,” he said. “There is much for us to discuss: the justiciarship, the appointment of guardians of the peace, the removal of foreign garrisons from royal castles, and your son Edward’s refusal to yield Windsor Castle. Will it be convenient for Your Grace to meet with us on the morrow?”

  “And if it is not?” But Henry’s flare of temper was fleeting; it lacked fire, even conviction. “On the morrow,” he agreed listlessly. “Now I am tired, my lords. I wish to retire to my private chambers.”

  Eleanor gave Simon a look that all but scorched the air. “I trust that meets with your approval, my lord of Leicester?”

  Simon deflected the sarcasm with silence, and Eleanor took her husband’s arm. They turned away, rather pointedly snubbing the Mayor, who seemed to shrug off their rudeness with equanimity. Gloucester shouted after them, “We’ll also be discussing my estates. I’m sure Your Grace has reconsidered, that you’re now willing to give me seisin of my lands!”

  Richard had not accompanied his brother. Moving toward Simon, he said quietly, “I should like to thank you for all your efforts on my son’s behalf.”

  “I was glad that I could be of assistance. It is my understanding that, due to the French King’s intercession, Hal is soon to be freed?”

  Richard nodded. “God be praised,” he said, and then, “Simon, it ought never to have come to this.”

  “Your brother gave me no choice,” Simon said coolly.

  “I’ll not deny that Henry made mistakes, more than his share. But I doubt that you are as blameless as you seem to think.”

  Simon said nothing, and Richard turned, slowly followed after Henry. With the departure of the King and Queen, the atmosphere in the hall changed dramatically, the mood becoming festive. Wine began to flow freely; there was much bantering and raucous horseplay among the younger knights. Simon let them have their fun, uncharacteristically indulgent, while he shared a flagon of malmsey with Peter de Montfort and Hugh le Despenser, who’d served as Justiciar in those heady days following the adoption of the Provisions, only to be dismissed by Henry as soon as the opportunity arose.

  “You did it, Simon,” Hugh exulted. “By God, you did it!”

  “So it seems,” Simon agreed, somewhat absently, for his attention was focused across the hall, upon the boisterous Marcher lords. “I would that I could truly trust them,” he confessed, “but they are a faithless breed. I keep remembering Roger de Mortimer, who swore with such passion to uphold the Provisions—until the Crown made it worth his while to switch sides.”

  Neither Peter nor Hugh disputed him; the Marcher lords had never been known for constancy. “What think you of Gloucester, Simon?”

  “I think he’s of finer mettle than the Marchers, Peter, but Christ, he’s green, badly in need of seasoning.” Simon frowned, for the Earl of Derby was now sprawled in Henry’s chair of state, a needless provocation. But this was a day for rejoicing, not rebukes. Catching a servant’s eyes, Simon ordered writing materials, then beckoned to one of his squires.

  “Ranulf, find me a courier, a man I can trust. He is to leave within the hour for Kenilworth. Tell him the letter is to be given only into the hands of my Countess. Tell him, too, not to tarry.”

  Peter and Hugh having tactfully withdrawn, Simon sat for a time looking upon the jubilant pandemonium that rocked the hall. His sons were in the very midst of it, celebrating noisily. As he watched, Harry and Bran began to toss a wineskin back and forth, as if it were a pig’s bladder football, shouting with laughter when the inevitable happened and it sprayed all within range. Simon smiled in spite of himself, then picked up a quill pen.

  “To my dearest wife, greetings.” He was already envisioning Nell’s response. She’d impatiently break the seal, scan the letter rapidly for the heart of the message, and only then would she go back to the beginning, study it with care—if the news was good. It was the way she always read letters; he knew her habits
as well as he did his own. How she would have enjoyed this day, even the noise and confusion and crowding. She so loved pageantry and spectacles, would have reveled in it all. He paused, then put the pen again to the parchment.

  “Beloved,” he wrote, “we have won.”

  28

  ________

  London, England

  October 1263

  ________

  Hal had not removed his mantle; as he spoke, his hands kept fiddling with the clasp. So tense was he that when the pin pricked his thumb, he did not even notice the trickle of blood. Those who knew Hal best sometimes joked that he must be a foundling, so lacking was he in the volatile Plantagenet temperament. He was by nature placid, eager to please, and now his distress was genuine. There was entreaty in the look he directed toward the silent witnesses: his aunt Nell, his de Montfort cousins, the Bishop of Worcester, Peter de Montfort, the Mayor of London. He encountered no understanding, though, only mute accusations.

  “Uncle Simon…” For it was Simon whose approval mattered, Simon who could reward with a smile, sear with a glance, Simon whose eyes had taken on the color of smoke, the glaze of ice.

  “I thought you truly believed in the need for reform, Hal.”

  Hal flinched; his uncle’s voice was low, yet crackled with intensity, with barely suppressed outrage. He was suddenly very grateful that his cousin Ned had offered to come with him. “I do, Uncle,” he said plaintively, “I do! But this estrangement is breaking my father’s heart!”

  If he’d hoped to gain Simon’s sympathy, he should have known better. Simon’s eyes moved past him dismissively, focusing instead upon the man leaning against the door.

  “You’re becoming quite adroit at fishing in troubled waters, Edward. Lest it go to your head, you might do well to remember that some fish will snap at any hook, take any bait.”

  Edward smiled coolly, saying nothing, but color flooded Hal’s face. “Uncle, that is unfair! Ned did not buy my support!”

  Simon’s smile was no less sardonic than Edward’s. It was Bran who said, with high indignation, “And what of Tickhill? Ned’s manor, now yours!”

  “I admit Ned gave me Tickhill, but that is not why I heeded him…” Hal faltered, for he could find on their faces nothing but disbelief. Mustering what dignity he could, he said, “I cannot forsake my father, but this I promise you, Uncle, that I’ll not bear arms against you.”

  “How very reassuring,” Simon said, so sarcastically that Hal flushed anew. Too hurt to hide it, he turned on his heel, bumping into Edward in his haste to escape the chamber.

  “God keep you, Aunt Nell.” Edward included Harry and Bran in his farewell, while pointedly ignoring Guy. Opening the door to follow Hal, he paused. “I have some advice for you,” he said, in an altogether different tone, one overlaid with unmistakable menace. But the warning was not directed at Simon; he was staring at Thomas Fitz Thomas. “Do not stand again for Mayor. Even if you win, it will avail you naught, for my lord father will dispatch a royal writ to the Exchequer, forbidding them to admit you to office.”

  Fitz Thomas had heard that Edward now harbored an embittered grudge against Londoners, blaming the innocent and guilty alike for what had befallen his mother at the bridge. But Fitz Thomas had not known that he was to bear the brunt of Edward’s hostility. It was a sobering thought, the realization that he must count the King’s son as his enemy.

  “Does Henry plan to issue a writ forbidding the winter snows, too?” Simon inquired, and Edward swung around, Fitz Thomas forgotten.

  “My father is England’s King, whilst you, Uncle, are but a failed rebel. It is over for you, Simon; do you not know that yet? You had your moment in the sun—your entry into London—but your support has begun to bleed away. By Christmas, you’ll stand alone, utterly alone.”

  “The Earl of Leicester holds London, my lord,” Fitz Thomas said, and Edward laughed.

  “You have just proved my point, Master Fitz Thomas. These are the only allies you have left, Simon—lowborn fishmongers and blacksmiths and beggars. But mayhap you can convert a few Jews.” Still laughing, he turned, sauntered without haste from the chamber.

  No sooner had he gone than Simon’s sons exchanged glances, moved with conspicuous nonchalance toward the door. Nell tensed, but then she saw Peter rise, too, slip silently after them. Fitz Thomas was bending over her hand, taking his leave; she gave him the smile meant for Peter.

  “Master Fitz Thomas.” The Mayor stopped, glanced back over his shoulder, and Simon said, “Do you plan to stand for reelection?”

  “Of course,” Fitz Thomas said, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Simon’s tenuous control of his temper lasted until Fitz Thomas’s departure, but not a moment more. “Christ Jesus,” he exploded, “never have I known men so fickle, men whose words mean so little! Hal’s betrayal ought not to have surprised me, for I’ve lost count of the Marcher lords who’ve been bought by Edward. So much for allies of high birth! Look at your cousin, Nell, look at de Warenne. He boasts the best blood in England, yet he swings like a weathercock in a high wind, first supporting the de Lusignans, then endorsing the Provisions, and now…Damn him if he’s not let Edward befool him again, just like Hal!”

  “I know, love,” Nell commiserated, no less indignant than Simon. “Hal’s ingratitude is unforgivable. He’d still be languishing in French captivity if not for you!”

  The Bishop of Worcester had yet to move. Cloaked in shadow, he sat, unobtrusive, observant, for he had a gift for stillness that even a cat might envy, a heavy-lidded gaze that missed little. He was living, breathing proof of the deceptiveness of outer packaging, for he was squat, barrel-chested, jowled and florid, looking like the very reincarnation of the merry, wine-swilling monk of popular folklore. But his appearance could not have been more misleading. He was in reality an ascetic and an intellectual, austerely pious yet intensely ambitious, one who adhered to a rigid code of honor, a man either blessed or cursed with an analytical eye, a distaste for sentiment. He had never learned to value humor, or he might have appreciated the irony inherent in his friendship with Simon, Simon who was impulsive and outspoken and often reckless, all traits the Bishop earnestly deplored.

  He waited, rather impatiently, for Simon’s anger to run its course, and then said, “There was some truth to Edward’s boasting. Simon, your position is more perilous than you seem willing to admit.”

  “Simon does not lack for support! It is not just the Londoners who have rallied to him. The other towns, the Oxford students, the Franciscans, even the parish priests—”

  “What you say is correct, Madame. Your husband is held in great esteem by those you’ve just named. Unfortunately for him, for us all, that is not true for the men of his own class…and therein lies the danger. When the Provisions were first adopted, the barons were united in opposition to Henry. Now…now that is no longer so. They still resent Henry’s follies, scorn his weaknesses, but they are not following us down this road. You’ve scared them, Simon. Your peers do not share your zeal for reform. They never did.”

  “I do not believe that,” Simon said sharply, and the Bishop shook his head.

  “You do not want to believe it. The fact is, Simon, most men prefer the devil they know…even feckless, hapless Henry. The King, God save him.”

  “He is my King, too, Walter. I do not seek to depose him!”

  “No…but you would rein him in, curb his more lunatic whims, by force if need be, make him answerable to his council. You’d even hold parliament without him. Ah, Simon, do you not see? You’d take us down a road dark and unfamiliar, with no map, no lanterns, no known landmarks. Little wonder men balk! For such a journey as that, you’ll need every ally you can get. The support of Londoners and university students will not be enough. You’ll need men of high birth, men of wealth and renown.”

  “You mean Gloucester.”

  “Yes…Gloucester. He is the linchpin of our cause, for without his backing, the Provisions are bound t
o fail. But already he is shying away, and you do nothing to hold him fast. To the contrary, you—”

  “What would you have me do? He lacks seasoning, bristles if any man even looks at him askance. Is it my fault that he takes offense at shadows?”

  “I grant you he is no easy ally: too thin-skinned, too prideful, and so jealous of you that he’s like to sicken on it. But he does believe in the Provisions, Simon. If you would but play to his pride, take him into your confidence…and put an end to his foolish feuding with your sons. There’s bad blood between them, and when you seized John Mansel’s lands, gave them over to Bran—”

  “What of it? Why should I not make provisions for Bran?”

  Nell was no less quick to chime in. “Have you forgotten that Bran is a second son? Simon’s title and the bulk of our estates will pass to Harry. But Bran and his brothers must be taken care of, too.”

  They stared defiantly at Bishop Walter, in this utterly united, as they were in most things, and he knew it was useless to argue propriety or political acumen. With Simon and Nell, discretion would never take precedence over the protective passion of parent for child. “I tell you only that it would have been better had you bestowed the lands elsewhere; at the least, you ought to have consulted Gloucester ere you made the grant. If you would but indulge Gloucester’s crotchets, seek to gain his good will—”

  “I am his ally, not his wet-nurse, Walter. Your young lordling has passed twenty winters, is old enough to know his own mind. If he believes in the Provisions, he will defend them. If he does not, all the pampering under God’s sky will not avail.”

  The Bishop rose from the shadows, made a strategic withdrawal, knowing full well that Simon would balk if pushed. Simon had risen, too. Nell watched as he paced the chamber, to the window, back to the hearth, to the window again. She could take pleasure—even at such a moment—in his quick, sure step. She had never known a man so at ease in his own body; even on those rare occasions when he’d had too much wine, he was not clumsy, never awkward in his movements. It was Nell’s private conviction that Simon had been singularly blessed, and not just with a cat’s grace. In the twenty-five years that they’d been married, only twice had he been laid low with a raging fever; so infrequently did he suffer from headaches or hacking coughs or even the inevitable winter colds that Nell sometimes resented his apparent immunity to the disagreeable afflictions that vexed the rest of mankind. And now he seemed no less impervious to aging.