Falls the Shadow: A Novel

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Simon nodded. “The irony of it, Llewelyn, is that I would once have been content with those very terms myself. But Edward and Henry balked at conceding even that much.”

  “Is Gloucester fool enough to think Edward will honor that pledge?”

  Simon shrugged. “In truth, I have not given it much thought. I have enough troubles of my own without taking on Gloucester’s, too.”

  Llewelyn’s smile was wryly sympathetic. “I suppose you have had better springs.”

  “I have had one setback after another,” Simon admitted. “After Edward escaped, I summoned our levies to assemble at Worcester. But Edward cut them off, took the town a fortnight ago. They’ve burned all the bridges across the Severn, destroyed the fords. I’d dispatched Robert de Ros to hold Gloucester Castle, but Edward has had it under siege for six days now, and if the castle falls, we’ll be stranded on the wrong side of the Severn, unable to get back into England, to join forces with my son Bran.”

  Llewelyn had his share of spies and superior scouts; most of what Simon had said was already known to him. He was very impressed, though, by Simon’s candor. His past experience had taught him that men invariably sought to put a high gloss upon the nakedness of their need. Favors were usually solicited in the oblique language of dissimulation, appeals made by indirection, rarely broached so boldly.

  Simon seemed to read his mind, saying abruptly, “I’ve no time for game-playing. I need your help, Llewelyn. We both know it, so what point is there in pretense?”

  “I admire your honesty, owe you as much in return. I do not find it easy to trust Englishmen. But I do trust you, Simon, and our past alliance has been to our mutual benefit. I am quite willing to aid you in your struggle against the King’s son.”

  Llewelyn paused, signaled for wine. Simon had first thought Pipton an odd choice for a conference; it was a sleepy little hamlet deep in the hills of Powys. But upon his arrival, he’d found Llewelyn comfortably ensconced in a fortified house overlooking the River Wye, De Treveley Manor, home of the hereditary lords of Pipton. They were sitting cross-legged on cushions, Welsh-style, but the chamber was well-lit, and as soon as Llewelyn beckoned, a servant moved unobtrusively to refill their cups, vanished just as inconspicuously. Simon shifted impatiently, and now it was Llewelyn’s turn to demonstrate how well attuned the two men were to each other’s thoughts.

  “I know,” he said dryly, “words are cheap. You want to know the particulars. Fair enough. I will pledge to support your government against our common enemies. I will renew homage to Henry as my liege lord. I will put thirty thousand marks at the disposal of the royal treasury, paying three thousand marks every Michaelmas. Lastly, I am prepared to provide you with the services of my Welshmen—five thousand spearmen and bowmen.”

  Simon felt no relief, not yet. “And what do you want in return?”

  Llewelyn thought it best to make his greatest demand first. “I want the English Crown to recognize me as Prince of Wales, to acknowledge that the other Welsh lords owe fealty to me as their liege lord.” He waited, but Simon was silent. “I want you to recognize my rights to Painscastle, Hawarden, and Ellesmere, all of which I now hold. And I want the Crown to assist me in recovering those castles and lands which were unjustly taken from my uncle, Davydd ap Llewelyn.”

  Those were hard terms, and would find no favor in England; even his London supporters would regard any concession to the Welsh as a deal with the Devil. But Simon had known Llewelyn would take full advantage of this God-given opportunity, demand as much as he could for Wales. He was too astute a politician, too ambitious a Prince, to confuse friendship with statecraft.

  “Henry will likely have a seizure when I tell him. But in all honesty, I do not find it so peculiar a notion, that a Welshman should rule Wales. I agree to your terms, Llewelyn, accept on behalf of the English government.”

  Llewelyn grinned, clinked his cup playfully against Simon’s. “What next, Simon? Where do you go from here?”

  “South…into Gwent. I cannot risk a pitched battle yet, cannot take on Edward, Gloucester, and all the Marchers, too, not until Bran brings up our reinforcements. My main concern is to find a way to cross the Severn. If I can take Newport, I can then send word to Bristol, ask them to dispatch ships for us. Edward’s garrison holds the castle there, but the townsmen are on my side, and I know I can count upon them for help.”

  Llewelyn nodded approvingly. “A clever move, one that ought to break you free of their snare. I’ll do what I can, too. Gloucester is Lord of Glamorgan, and has castles in Gwent. Let’s see how many we can put to the torch.”

  “That,” Simon said, “is a prospect I find right pleasing. But what happens then, Llewelyn? Will you take the field with me in England?”

  “No,” Llewelyn said, “I will not. I’ll fight with you here in Wales and in the Marches, but once you cross the Severn, you’re on your own.”

  Simon’s eyes never left his face, eyes dark and riveting. “Why?”

  “Because,” Llewelyn said, without hesitation, “I cannot be sure you’ll win.” When Simon would have risen, he reached over, grasped his arm. “You are more to me than an ally, Simon. You are a friend. I want you to win your war, for your sake as well as mine. And indeed, I think you will. But as I said, I cannot be sure, and whilst I would willingly risk my life, I cannot risk the sovereignty of Wales. If, God forbid, you do fail, Edward will then turn upon Wales. If I were dead, too, how easy it would be for him…”

  His words seemed to echo in the silence that followed. Few men could accept a truth so unpalatable, but he was wagering that Simon would prefer honesty to equivocation or evasion.

  Simon was still studying him, his face inscrutable, and Llewelyn began to wonder if he’d misjudged the other man, after all. But then Simon settled himself back upon the cushions. “I cannot fault your logic,” he conceded, with a grim smile. “But I wonder if you’ve thought this through. We both know that this treaty would not long survive me, that you’d never again gain such favorable terms from the English Crown. You’ve as much at stake as I do, Llewelyn, for this chance will not come again for Wales. I agree that a prince can ill afford to be reckless, but too much caution can cripple, too. There are times when you have to risk all upon one throw of the dice.”

  Llewelyn was smiling, too. “Ours is a land famed for its eloquent speakers, but you’d hold your own with the best of them. Poor tonguetied Henry; he never had a chance!” Setting down his wine cup, he suggested, “Shall we join the others in the hall? My Welsh allies will be chafing at the bit.”

  Simon had not really expected to prevail. “There is something I want to say first. I, too, think of you as a friend, Llewelyn. Yours are the attributes I would have looked for in a son—courage tempered by common sense. We are already kinsmen of sorts, for your grandfather was wed to my wife’s sister. But I would see us more closely bound. You have no wife as yet. I would remedy that by offering you my daughter.”

  “No wonder you’ve fared so well on the battlefield. You’re devilishly good at surprises! This is Ellen? You have but the one lass, no?”

  Simon nodded. “We’ve cherished her all the more for that. Because of her youth—she’ll not be thirteen till October—Nell and I would insist upon a plight-troth now, with the marriage to take place once she passes her fourteenth birthday. I would, of course, provide her with a generous marriage portion. And although I realize that, as Ellen’s father, I am hardly an objective judge, I truly do think she has the makings of a beauty.”

  “The Lady Nell’s daughter? That I can well believe.” Llewelyn laughed suddenly. “I was just thinking,” he said, “that we’d be closing the circle. Llewelyn Fawr’s grandson and the Lady Joanna’s niece. I think such a marriage would have pleased them. I can say for certes that it pleases me. I would be proud, Simon, to wed your daughter.”

  Ellen de Montfort was not happy at Dover Castle. She felt dwarfed by its vastness, overwhelmed by its massive walls and sinister-looking siege weapo
ns. She missed the comfortable dimensions of Odiham, the familiar routine of daily life in a castle that was first and foremost a home, not a fortress. Above all, she missed Odiham’s glorious gardens, hedged in hawthorn for privacy, ablaze with iris and marigolds and lilies. Odiham’s gardens had roses climbing over trellised turf seats, a flowery mead carpet of daisies and periwinkles. Dover had no gardens at all. When she wanted to take their dogs for a walk, she had to confine them to the open space beyond the kitchen, taking care they did not dig in the small herb plot or splash in the fish stews.

  She had four of them with her on this afternoon in early July: Blanchette and Sable, her mother’s sleek greyhounds; Roland, her brother Harry’s favorite alaunt; Avalon, her own cherished briard, a New Year’s gift from her father. The briard was said to be descended from an ancient breed of sheep dog favored by Charlemagne, and Ellen loved it dearly, despite her brothers’ claims that it looked like a bush with feet. She loved animals in general, even those not considered pets, like cats, but she was particularly drawn to dogs, upon which she bestowed fanciful names culled from minstrels’ tales and chivalric myths. Her brothers grumbled, but humored her, as usual; Guy alone balked, insisting he was not about to own a “Tristan” or a “Lancelot.”

  Whistling for Avalon—she was inordinately proud of the fact that Harry had taught her to whistle like a boy, with two fingers—Ellen wandered over to a wooden bench. This was a strange summer, unlike any she’d ever known. She’d been frightened only at first, when her mother had gotten word of Cousin Ned’s escape from Hereford. They’d departed Odiham in great haste, galloped through the night toward Portchester. She’d stopped being afraid then, for Bran was there, and he’d personally escorted them to Dover. While she didn’t much like Dover, she did feel safe here.

  But she was so bored, and so lonely. Amaury and Richard were always off running errands for Mama, and she was like a veritable whirlwind, so busy was she. Arranging to send horses to Bran and spices and sweets to Uncle Richard back at Kenilworth, ordering additional mangonels for Dover’s defense, seeing that their fourteen highborn prisoners were well treated and yet well guarded, dispatching letters to Papa, to Bran, to London’s Mayor, the French King, entertaining two of Louis’s ambassadors and the townsmen of Sandwich and Dover and Winchelsea, doing whatever she could to win new converts to Papa’s cause.

  “Ellen!” She jumped guiltily to her feet, for she was supposed to be laboring over her lessons. But there was no reproach in Nell’s voice. “Sit down, darling.” Taking her daughter’s hand, she drew her back to the bench. “A courier just rode in with a letter from your father.”

  “What does he say, Mama? Can I read it?”

  “Yes…later. First we need to talk. Ere your father departed Odiham, he thought we ought to tell you then, but I said to wait; if it had fallen through, there’d be no need for you to know.”

  Ellen could contain herself no longer. “Know what, Mama?”

  “I do not mean to keep you in suspense, for I am sure you’ll be pleased. Ellen, your father and I have arranged a brilliant marriage for you.”

  Ellen had always expected to hear those words, but not so soon. “Is…is he English, Mama?” When Nell shook her head, she bit her lip, struggling to hide her dismay. While she trusted her parents to pick a worthy husband for her, she was loath to live abroad, far from the people she most loved; her Aunt Isabella’s fate was uppermost in her mind, the Emperor Frederick’s neglected consort, dying in lonely isolation in a distant, alien land.

  “Ellen, do you not want to know your husband’s name? You shall have a crown, for we have betrothed you to Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales.”

  “Wales,” Ellen breathed, and closed her eyes for a moment, dazzled by the sudden brightness of the sun. “Truly, Mama? Like Aunt Joanna?”

  “Yes, Ellen, like Joanna,” Nell said softly, and then Ellen was in her arms, clinging tightly, whispering over and over again:

  “I’m so glad, Mama, so glad…”

  “I’d hoped you would be, darling.” Nell’s eyes misted. From earliest childhood, her daughter had been enthralled by tales of great romance, by tragic heroines like Iseult and Guinevere. But no love story had so beguiled her as that of her own aunt, who’d found her destiny in the alpine heights of Eryri, in the arms of a gallant Welsh Prince, a man who’d loved her enough even to forgive adultery. Nell had been reasonably certain that her starry-eyed Ellen would be eager to follow in Joanna’s hallowed footsteps, but there was relief in confirmation; she’d not have wanted to see the child wed against her will.

  “How old is he, Mama—my Welsh Prince? Is he like Joanna’s Llewelyn?”

  “Well, he is thirty-six or thirty-seven, I believe. And he’s dark, tall for a Welshman, and pleasing to the eye.” Nell laughed. “I took a liking to him from the very first, do not think you’ll be disappointed. Now—is he like Llewelyn Fawr? In some ways, yes—for certes, he shares his grandfather’s ambition, his ability, his dream for Wales. But your Prince is more intense, more earnest than Joanna’s Llewelyn. I often suspected that he regarded the world as something of a perverse joke, man most of all. Your Llewelyn is more serious-minded, more like your father.”

  “Then he must be a very good man,” Ellen concluded, with utter confidence; she could envision no greater compliment than a comparison with her father. “Will he come into England to meet me ere the wedding?”

  “Yes, of course. But not for a while, not until…”

  “Not until Papa has fought Cousin Ned.”

  Nell nodded reluctantly, and Ellen groped for her hand. “What else did Papa say in his letter? Was his other news bad?”

  “Some of it, yes. Gloucester Castle fell to Edward on the twenty-ninth. But you need not fret, Ellen. Your father is a man well able to take care of himself. He has captured the Earl of Gloucester’s castles at Monmouth, Usk, and Newport, is now awaiting ships from the good men of Bristol. And Bran is hastening west with a large force. He ought to be able to link up with Simon within the next fortnight, mayhap sooner. Once he does, the danger is over.”

  Ellen nodded somberly. She liked her cousin Ned, was sorry that he’d been led astray by evil advice. She did not doubt that when the inevitable battlefield confrontation came, her father would prevail. But men would die, die for naught. “It’s so sad, Mama,” she said, “so sad…”

  Night had fallen over Newport, but the darkness was flame-lit. Out in the harbor, the last of Simon’s Bristol ships were burning down toward the water-line, and wind-driven cinders swirled high above the castle, blown from the smoldering bridge that had spanned the River Usk.

  Simon stood on the castle walkway, watching as the harbor fires were quenched, one by one, by the black icy waters of the Severn estuary. So much had happened so fast that he’d lost all sense of time; it seemed like days instead of hours since the Bristol transport ships had appeared on the horizon, their long-delayed deliverance. But as they approached the harbor, disaster struck. They were intercepted by three fast-moving galleys, lurking in ambush for the clumsy flatboats, from their mastheads flaunting the banners of the King’s son. As Simon and his men watched in horror from the shore, Edward’s galleys swooped down upon the Bristol ships like hawks upon pigeons. The fight was brief, savage, and one-sided. By the time it was over, eleven of the Bristol ships were afire, and as they floundered, began to sink, they dragged down with them Simon’s last hope for crossing the Severn.

  And worse was to follow. While Simon’s men were mesmerized by the catastrophe taking place out in the harbor, a large enemy force was landing upriver. They were almost upon the town before Simon’s sentries sounded the alarm. Soon two battles were being fought, one on the heaving decks of the Bristol ships, another on the muddied banks of the Severn. Edward’s men had the advantage of surprise and numerical superiority; Simon’s soldiers had to give ground. As they retreated back into the town, for a time Newport’s fate hung in the balance. Simon finally managed to stave off utter def
eat by setting fire to the wooden bridge that arched over Newport’s second river. He would later see the irony in that: one river his nemesis, the other his salvation.

  Unable to cross the Usk, the attacking force withdrew, and darkness soon concealed the ugly evidence of the day’s carnage. Bodies were mercifully shrouded in shadows, bloodied ground camouflaged until the morrow. Only the fires still burned.

  The wind was hot upon their skin; Simon’s face stung from exposure to flying embers and ashes. He’d ventured himself onto the bridge, and his hair was singed, so blackened by smoke and soot that he seemed to have miraculously shed decades, regained the raven hair of lost youth. He was flanked by two equally dark heads, Harry and Guy, gazing out across the harbor in stunned silence. Peter and Hugh le Despenser, too, were mute. What was there to say?

  “Simon!” Humphrey de Bohun was hastening along the wall walk. “I did as you ordered,” he reported, in a voice hoarse with fatigue. “We’ve posted sentries at every approach to the town.” Seized by a sudden coughing fit, he spat over the wall, leaning upon the merlon for support. “My throat feels like I’ve been swilling sawdust; does anyone have a wineskin? That whoreson Edward is getting too good at this game! You think he’ll move in on the morrow?”

  “Yes…which is why we pull back tonight. What defenses does Newport offer? No town walls, just an earthen bank and outer ditch—how long ere they breach that? We’ve no choice but to withdraw into the Welsh uplands. Llewelyn controls the upper Usk valley. At least there we will be safe from pursuit.”

  They could take meagre comfort in that; there’d be considerable hardship in a retreat into Wales. During this past month, they’d soon sickened on the unfamiliar Welsh fare, yearning for bread and ale, neither of which was a staple of the Welsh diet. But no one objected. How could they? They were doomed if they stayed where they were, and all knew it.

  Out in the harbor, the last flaming wreck disappeared beneath the waters of the Severn. Simon turned away from the wall. “We’d best make haste,” he said. “We’re running out of time.” For a moment, his eyes lingered on their smoke-smudged, haggard faces. “Jesú, the lot of you look like men on the way to the gallows! The prospect of eating Welsh food cannot be that disheartening, can it? I’ll not deny that this day was a disaster. But there’ll be other days. By now Bran will have gotten my last summons, alerting him to the urgency of our plight, to the need for speed. All we can do is retreat beyond the Usk, then wait for him to reach us.”