Falls the Shadow: A Novel

by Sharon Kay Penman

  When it happened, it was with stunning speed, almost as fast as the collapse of the Londoners’ left wing, for no contagion spread like fear. All around him, Simon now saw men in flight, saw the field swept by his army’s white crusader crosses. But he could no longer find the King’s great dragon banner.

  A knight on a chestnut destrier drew up alongside him; even before he saw the emblazoned shield, he recognized the stallion as Hugh’s. “Take some of our knights,” he commanded, “and cut off any retreat into the castle!”

  The prelude to the battle had begun in nightmarish chaos for Henry. He and his men had from the first been at a distinct disadvantage, thrust from sleep into the shock of mortal combat. Henry was never at his best in the mornings, and he found himself fretting unduly that he’d ended up commanding the left wing, the position of least honor. He was coming to realize, too, just how ill-advised had been his choice of the priory for his command headquarters, for the town was on higher ground and thus blocked his view of the castle and Downs; he went into battle not yet knowing that his son had taken the field against the Londoners.

  But worse was to come. Henry, for all his martial pretensions, was not that familiar with hand-to-hand combat, for he’d fought in very few pitched battles. Castle sieges, the debacle at Saintes, an occasional foray against Gascon rebels, several disastrous campaigns against the Welsh—that was the extent of his actual battlefield experience. Now, in his fifty-seventh year, he found himself fighting not only for his crown, but for his life.

  Henry did not lack for physical courage; his was a moral cowardice. But his survival skills were rusty. Within the first half hour of fighting, he suffered numerous small cuts and bruises, a sprained wrist, and a wrenched knee. He was truly shocked that his own subjects should be trying to kill him. He could accept the hostility of Welshmen and Gascons, but how could good Englishmen fight against their King? The wind shifted and he caught his first glimpse of the enemy banner—the crimson and silver of de Montfort. It could not be Simon; even he could not lead a charge from his horse litter. It must be Harry and Guy, then. He was facing his blood-kin, fighting his own nephews! God curse her, this was his sister’s fault. If she’d not been hot to have Simon in her bed, he’d have been spared all this grief! Well, he would indulge her no more. When the battle was done and de Montfort dead, she could plead in vain. Why should he pity Simon de Montfort’s widow?

  He was slow to realize the extent of his danger, so sure was he that the Almighty would favor a consecrated King. Another commander would have known they were giving ground; Henry needed to be told, and there were none at hand to tell him. He was vastly relieved when one of his couriers found him; at least now he’d learn what was happening on the rest of the field. His bodyguards and knights of his household formed a protective circle, and he could not help wishing he might shelter there indefinitely. But a king’s lot was a hard one. “How does my brother?” he demanded, was stunned by the reply.

  “Poorly, Your Grace. He’s being hard-pressed by Gloucester, barely holding his own. But it’s Lord Edward you ought to be worrying about. Sire, he has gone off after those Londoners, has left the field altogether!”

  “I do not understand. What are you saying?”

  The courier never got a chance to answer. Something was happening; something was very wrong. Henry turned a bewildered face toward the source of this new turmoil. Men were looking toward the west, pointing and shouting. And then they were running.

  Henry spurred his horse forward, crying, “Do not run! Hold fast!” His attempt to rally his men came to naught; no one seemed to be paying him any mind. As he glanced again toward the west, he thought he saw a second de Montfort banner. But he had no time to puzzle it out. His stallion shied suddenly, shuddered violently, and went down. Henry kicked his feet from the stirrups, scrambled free. It was only then that he saw the blood gushing from the animal’s belly, saw the soldier with sword poised to strike again. Cornered, he surprised even himself. Straddling his dying horse, he fought off his assailant with a gritty resolve he’d never shown before, and would never find again. After what seemed to be an endless exchange of blows, the other man backed away, and he let his sword arm go limp. The man had not even possessed a hauberk, doubtless one of de Montfort’s lowborn Londoners. That a common churl had almost killed a King! Where were his bodyguards?

  “Sire!” A knight was galloping toward him. His shield was split and his surcoat so blood-stained that his coat of arms was impossible to decipher. “Here, take my horse,” he insisted, sliding from the saddle and holding out the reins.

  By now, Henry had recognized the voice of Philip Basset. A gallant gesture, he thought approvingly, reaching gratefully for the reins. “What has hap—”

  “There’s no time to talk! Make haste and mount, ride for the castle. I’ll do what I can to hold our men here till you can—”

  “Run away? No!”

  “My liege, the battle is lost! De Montfort has launched an attack upon our flank, and our men are fleeing for their lives. Look for yourself. The day is his!”

  “No! No, that cannot be! I am England’s King, how could I lose? Where is Edward?” Henry shook his head, repeating plaintively, “Where is my son?”

  Edward had pursued the fleeing Londoners for a full four miles. By the time he felt his mother had been properly avenged, the sun was high overhead. But even after he realized how long he’d been gone from the battlefield, he was not unduly perturbed. Like his father, Edward could not conceive of defeat. Collecting as many of his men as he could find, he started back toward Lewes. They were approaching Offham Hill when they ran into one of William de Lusignan’s knights, and he had news to gladden Edward’s heart. On the lower slope of the Downs, less than a half mile to the west, lay the enemy baggage train. With his own eyes, he’d seen Simon de Montfort’s standard, seen his personal horse litter. Edward needed to hear no more. With a gleeful shout, the cry of a hunter closing in on his quarry, he spurred his stallion into action.

  Martin was still very frightened. He’d seen sights this day he could never forget, his dreams would be haunted for years to come, and his nightmare visions would be real. He felt no shame for running. Under the circumstances, that was common sense, not cowardice. His true test of manhood came later, when he determined to return to the battle. It was the last thing he wanted to do. Never had life seemed so sweet; dizzy with the dazzling joy of reprieve, he could easily have gotten drunk on the sounds and scents of spring alone. But he owed it to the two men whose approval meant all, Mayor Fitz Thomas and Earl Simon. Clutching his resolve to his breast like a life-saving shield, he began a slow retracing of his earlier panicked path. As he reached the hamlet of Offham, he came upon a weeping girl, whose torn bodice and bloodied skirt told a familiar story. Soldier’s prey, she stirred quick pity, but at sight of him, she screamed, fled into the woods. Offham’s few cottages had been plundered, stripped of what little they had. Martin looked at the broken crockery strewn about, the bedding wantonly destroyed, a dog’s body in an open doorway, and he wondered how he could ever have thought there was glory in war.

  Near Offham Church, he encountered a fellow fugitive, a youngster of seventeen or so. The boy was pathetically grateful for the company, and quite voluble. Within moments, Martin learned that his name was Godwin, that he had worked as a stable boy in a Southwark inn, that his employer had forbidden him to go off with the army, and he fretted that he’d lost his job. He babbled on about London ale-houses and a girl named Aldith, even the Smithfield horse fair, about everything but the battle. Martin glanced at Godwin’s tunic, at the telltale rip where his white cross had been torn away, and the boy, following his eyes, blushed. “Nay, lad, you mistake me,” Martin said hastily. “I meant no reproach. But I must tell you, Godwin, that I am on my way back to the battle.”

  Godwin stared down at the ground, scuffed his shoe in the grass, his fingers plucking nervously at those loose tunic threads. “I’ll come with you,” he mumbled. />
  “Good lad! Here is my idea. Earl Simon left a brave knight, Sir William le Blound, to guard the hostages and the baggage train. We’ll seek him out, ask him what to do.”

  Godwin brightened considerably, for it seemed as likely as not that le Blound would tell them to stay with the baggage, and he fell in step beside Martin as they trudged toward Coombe’s Hollow. Martin was only now discovering how very tired he was, and he let himself be lulled by the boy’s compulsive, inane chatter. He did not hear the sounds of battle, therefore, until it was almost too late.

  “And Aldith, she told me—”

  “Be still!” Godwin subsided, hurt, but when Martin took shelter in the bushes beside the path, he made haste to follow. They crept forward, by now close enough to see Simon’s standard, unfurled to full length against the bright, cloudless sky. William le Blound and his men were offering a valiant defense, but they were outnumbered, and as Martin and Godwin watched, they began to die.

  “Do they think Earl Simon is in the horse litter?” Godwin whispered, eyes wide and wondering.

  “I do not know.” Martin gasped, quickly crossed himself as William le Blound slumped over his horse’s neck, slid slowly to the ground. His death took the heart out of his men. Those who could, fled, and Edward’s knights turned their efforts upon the horse litter. The door was chained shut, but a few blows with a battle axe freed the hostages. Augustine de Hadestok and his co-conspirators were dragged out, babbling avowals of loyalty that no one heeded. Their panicked protests gave way to screams. Swords flashed; within moments, the hapless merchants were hacked to death.

  Martin looked away, sickened. In a day of horrors, somehow this seemed the most obscene horror of all, that Augustine de Hadestok, Stephen de Chelmsford, and Richard Picard should have been slain by their own allies. Godwin was tugging at his sleeve, urging him to flee, and indeed now was the time, while Edward’s soldiers were ransacking the baggage. But they’d only covered a few yards before they encountered an armed knight.

  He appeared to have been watching them for some time, at ease astride a bright chestnut destrier, his sword unsheathed and bloodied, but pointing downward. Rather than a great helm, he wore an old-fashioned kettle helmet with nose-guard, and the face turned toward them was young, sun-browned, surprisingly benign. But they were too frightened to notice his lack of rancor.

  Davydd had no particular liking for Londoners; they too often acted as if the Welsh had tails. But he could see no sport in killing these bedraggled, scared youngsters. Poor fools, if they had any sense they’d not be here at all; what did it really matter to them whether Edward or de Montfort prevailed? At that, he gave a low laugh; what did it matter to him, either? “Go on,” he said abruptly, “be off with you.” They gave him an incredulous look, then bolted. Davydd watched until they were out of sight, then urged his stallion into an easy canter, toward Simon’s ravaged encampment.

  Edward had removed his helm, was drinking deeply from a leather wineskin. “Here,” he said. “Take your first victory drink of the day.”

  Davydd accepted the wineskin with alacrity. “Did you truly expect to find de Montfort in that horse litter?”

  Edward’s smile was faintly self-conscious. “I suppose I let my hope run away with me. I ought to have known better. Even if he had to be tied to the saddle, Simon would be on the field.”

  Davydd wiped his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. He’d never learned to feel at home in England, either as hostage or fugitive, but rarely had he felt as alienated, as solitary as he did today; taking part in this embittered English civil war was like being a stranger at a particularly unpleasant family reunion. “Who are they?” he asked, glancing with mild curiosity toward the bloodied bodies of the hostages.

  Edward shrugged. “Who knows?” Raising a hand, he shielded his eyes, looked appraisingly up at the sun. “It’s past noon. We’ve tarried here long enough.”

  They drew rein on the crest of the hill, where their first glimpse of the battlefield seemed to confirm Edward’s every expectation. The battle was over, part of the town in flames. Bodies beyond counting lay sprawled in the sun, some already stripped by looters. Men were searching the field for friends or gain, others tending to the wounded, still others chasing loose horses. Only to the south, beyond the priory, did sporadic fighting continue, and that flurry of action degenerated, even as they watched, into a rout.

  Edward laughed. “The dolts, they’re going to blunder right into the mudflats! Simon will lose even more men in that marsh than he did in the river.”

  “Do you think he still lives, Ned?” Hal asked hesitantly, for he could not imagine Simon dead, any more than he could the sun plummeting from the sky.

  “No,” Edward said flatly. “He’s not a man to be taken alive.” Turning in the saddle, he raised his voice. “We’ll give our horses a brief rest; they’ve been roughly used this day. But the sooner we get back to the castle, the sooner we can begin celebrating!”

  Some of them were ready to celebrate then and there, and wineskins were soon passing back and forth. It was left to Davydd, the outsider, to stumble onto the truth. Moving to the edge of the bluff, he gazed down at the battlefield. So many widows, so many orphans made this day. And not all the tears shed for de Montfort would be English. Llewelyn had suffered a defeat, too, lost an ally worth his weight in gold. His eyes shifted from the trampled meadows to the town. Blood of Christ! For a long moment, he sat motionless in the saddle, scarcely breathing. Could it be that he’d wagered once again on the wrong horse?

  His sudden shout drew all eyes. Edward was moving toward him, though without haste. Davydd spurred his stallion away from the bluff. “If we won the battle,” he said tautly, “why is the castle under siege?”

  His words started a stampede. Within moments, the bluff was lined with shocked, silent men. But if most of them needed time to assimilate what they were seeing, Edward did not. One swift, disbelieving glance to substantiate Davydd’s claim, and he was running for his horse. Swinging up into the saddle, he paused only long enough to replace his helm. “What are you whoresons waiting for?”

  They obeyed, but with no great enthusiasm. Davydd noted how slow some were to mount; experienced riders were unaccountably having difficulty with their horses. Others, like William de Lusignan, Davydd’s particular bête noire, and his equally detestable brother Guy, had yet to don their helms, a sure sign that they had no intention of resuming the fight. None of this surprised Davydd in the least. Edward might well be distraught enough to throw his life away in a grand gesture of defiance, but he’d find few willing to travel that lonely road with him. The battle was lost; they knew it even if Edward did not.

  A rider was coming from the priory, coming fast. He was angling toward the west when he looked up, saw Edward’s banner at the top of the hill. Swerving sharply in their direction, he met them half-way down the slope. “Go back, my lord, save yourself whilst you still can!”

  “Coward! How dare you abandon your King like this?”

  “The battle is over! My liege lord is Roger de Mortimer, and he’s long since fled the field. Simon de Montfort has triumphed, has won a victory beyond imagining.”

  “No!” Edward’s face was hidden by his helm, but his voice betrayed him. “I do not believe you! God would never favor him over us!”

  De Mortimer’s knight prudently said nothing. But by then, Hal had reached them. “What of my father?”

  “I do not know. The King sought refuge in the priory when he was cut off from the castle, but I’ve heard nothing of your lord father.” The knight glanced uneasily toward the King’s son. “After…after you left the field, my lord, de Montfort attacked the King’s left flank. God knows where he got the men, but of a sudden he was there, and we were trapped between his knights and their vanguard. And once our line broke, he threw his men against our center. It was over so fast, I can still scarce believe it…”

  “Cousin, we’d best make haste.” John de Warenne maneuvered his mount
alongside Edward. “Pevensey Castle is less than twenty miles away. From there, we can take ship for France—”

  “You’d run away? What of my father, your King?”

  “What would you have us do, Ned?” William de Lusignan demanded impatiently. “Why sacrifice ourselves for a battle already lost? I say we retreat whilst we still can. There’ll be other days, other battles—but not if we fall into de Montfort’s hands.”

  “Listen to him, Ned,” de Warenne entreated. “De Montfort may have won the battle, but he need not win the war.”

  “I’ll not abandon my father!”

  The passion in Edward’s cry silenced them, but only for a moment. William de Lusignan glanced toward his brother, then nodded slowly. “So be it, then. As for me, I’m riding for Pevensey. De Montfort would barter his soul to catch me here, alive. You think he does not bear a grudge for Northampton? I could count myself lucky if he did not turn me over to that whelp of his, wrapped in a red ribbon!”

  “Damn you, then, go! But I’ll not forget your craven flight, and you’ll find I make a more dangerous enemy than de Montfort!”

  De Lusignan was not impressed. “Good luck; you’ll need it.” And then, to the others: “If we circle around the castle, we ought to be able to reach the bridge.” He waited no longer, rode off without a backward look, and with him went his brother Guy, their de Warenne cousin, Hugh Bigod, and more than three hundred knights. Edward was left alone on the field with his cousin Hal and the men of his own household.

  There was an unobserved witness to this scene. Davydd had discreetly slipped away amidst all the turmoil. While he was in utter agreement—for probably the first and last time—with William de Lusignan, he had known better than to argue the point with Edward. A man just realizing the fatal extent of his own folly was not likely to be all that rational. But Davydd was not about to risk death to keep Edward content, and he had no intention, either, of risking capture. De Montfort would gladly wrap him in a red ribbon, too, a belated birthday present for his good friend and ally, Llewelyn of Wales.