Falls the Shadow: A Novel

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I…I cannot,” he stammered, “not before the little lass…”

  Ellen’s eyes darkened, pupils dilating in sudden fright. But she said resolutely, “If it concerns my father, I have a right to know!”

  “What are you keeping from us?” Amaury reached Damian first, with Richard just a step behind, and the young monk gave way before the intensity of the onslaught.

  “I will tell you,” he agreed wretchedly, knowing no other way, for obedience was as essential to his calling as it was inbred in his soul. “Lord Simon’s body was shamefully abused after his death. A man called Mautravers chopped off his head, impaled it upon a pike, and then—”

  Ellen’s cry would long echo in his ears. Clasping a hand to her mouth, she whirled, fled the chamber. Nell followed at once, and Damian sank down weakly upon a nearby stool, fervently thanking God for his reprieve; his was not a tale for female ears. Amaury and Richard looked as if they, too, yearned to flee the chamber, but pride was a powerful snare. They would not fail their father, would not shirk a man’s burden, and they waited mutely for Damian to tell them what they dreaded to know.

  He tried, clumsily, to soften the impact, but without much success. He was only half-way through his grisly narrative when Richard blanched, choked, and bolted for the privy tucked away in the south chamber wall. Amaury, looking scarcely less sickened himself, hastened after his brother, leaving a guilt-stricken Damian in sole possession of the chamber.

  He could hear sounds of retching, Amaury’s murmurings of comfort. Never had his throat felt so parched, and he looked wistfully at a wine flagon on Nell’s bedside table, but he was not about to drink—unbidden—the Countess of Leicester’s wine. He was earnestly wishing himself a thousand miles away from Dover Castle, from the havoc he’d so innocently wrought, when the door opened, and Nell reentered the chamber. He saw her eyebrows shoot upward, and said miserably, “Your younger lad…he took sick.”

  Nell glanced toward the privy, back at Damian. As the implications of his words sank in, she lost color as rapidly as Richard had. “You told them, then,” she said. “Now you may tell me.”

  “My lady…you do not want to know,” he entreated, to no avail. She regarded him steadily, and he found that he was no more capable of defying her than he would have been of gainsaying Simon.

  “After they beheaded him, my lady, they hacked off his arms, his legs, his…his private male parts.” Damian swallowed with difficulty. No matter what, he’d not tell her of the vile acts committed upon the Earl’s body; nor would he tell her about the dogs. “I was told that the Marcher lords sent the Earl’s severed limbs to various towns in the realm. I do know for a fact that Roger de Mortimer sent Lord Simon’s head to Wigmore Castle, as a…a gift to his wife!”

  He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been expecting, mayhap that she would weep or faint, what he imagined to be woman’s natural response to man’s cruelty. He found her utter silence far more unnerving than screams or tears. Only once did she make any sound at all, a hissed intake of breath when he told her of Maude de Mortimer’s ghastly trophy. Her eyes had narrowed upon his face, too hot to hold tears, a blue-white blaze of such fury that he shrank back, remembering all the stories he’d heard of Plantagenet rages, tales that carried the scent of sulphur and smoke. His life had been a sheltered one; until now he’d never known that a woman, too, could burn with a killing fever.

  Nell was trembling. She brushed past Damian as if he were not there, crossed to her bedside table. The flagon was fashioned of fine Venetian glass; hers had been a life of luxury and privilege, for was she not the King’s sister? Beside the flagon lay a psalter, bound in Spanish leather, engraved with a Latin cross. She reached first for the psalter. As Damian watched, uncomprehending, she flung it from her, into the ashes of the hearth. Damian gave a scandalized cry, was bending to retrieve the prayer book when Nell sent the flagon crashing into the hearthstones above his head. It shattered in a spray of glass; flying splinters shivered the air. Damian cried out as one cut into his neck. He scrambled to safety just as Amaury and Richard came rushing out of the privy.

  Nell seemed as oblivious of her sons as she was of Damian. She was staring blindly at the wine staining the white-washed wall of her bedchamber. Her cheek was bleeding, but she was no longer trembling. The psalter lay, half-opened, in the ashes, and Amaury snatched it up. Nell continued to watch the wine drip down the hearthstones. “I suppose,” she said, “that I should count myself lucky. After all, they could have sent his head to me!”

  Damian flinched, surreptitiously crossed himself. Nell saw and laughed, a laugh to haunt his dreams no less than her daughter’s tears. Richard looked at the frightened monk, at his brother, kneeling by the hearth, clutching the psalter to his chest, and then at this white-faced stranger who was his mother. “Mama?” he said, and the fear in his voice reached her. Nell turned, caught him to her in an embrace both fierce and tender, not letting him go until they both were breathless and the blood from her cheek smeared his, too.

  “Madame…” Damian hovered by the door, afraid to stay, unwilling to go. “God forgive me, for in seeking to comfort, I brought only pain. At least I can offer this small measure of solace. We claimed your husband’s body, mangled and maimed as it was. We dared not give him the funeral he deserved, but we buried him before the High Altar in our church, sent his soul on to Paradise on the wings of our prayers.” Even so simple an interment had not satisfied Simon’s enemies. Damian had heard talk of exhuming his body, had heard the Marcher lords arguing that a man dying excommunicate was not entitled to lie in consecrated ground. But nothing could have compelled him to share this new threat with Simon’s widow.

  “What of my son?”

  “He received an honorable burial, my lady…at the behest of the Lord Edward.”

  At mention of Edward’s name, Simon’s sons froze. Richard’s hand closed convulsively about the hilt of his dagger, and Amaury spat out a most unpriestly oath. Only Nell did not react. Exhaustion was now claiming her. She felt suddenly weak in the knees, sat down on the edge of the bed, and Damian was overcome by remorse. She looked ravaged, and he’d done his part, wittingly or not.

  “My lady, if only I could have brought you something of your husband’s! But those scavengers stripped him of his armor, stole his crucifix, his rings. We did retrieve a few scraps of his clothing, and part of his hair shirt, but then they disappeared.” Stumbling across the chamber, he dropped to his knees before Nell. “I’ve done naught but fail you, my lady. I should have realized how much men would crave such relics, but I was not thinking clearly. Had I only hid them away as I ought—”

  “What are you talking about? What relics?”

  “Lord Simon’s bloodied hair shirt, my lady! I only hope the thief was moved by piety, not greed, for in truth, he could easily sell bits of it to those coming to pray at Lord Simon’s grave—”

  “ ‘Pray at Lord Simon’s grave?’ ” Nell echoed, and Damian nodded eagerly. She did not know! His mission was not in vain, after all; he was to be the one to tell her.

  “People began coming to the church within a day or two of the battle, my lady. It took no longer than that for word to spread that we’d buried him there. Afterwards, they’d slip away to the battlefield. Your lord husband died beside a small spring, and people have been coming to it every day since the battle. They pray, and then they take away a vial of the water. When the Lord Edward learned of this, he was enraged, posted a guard. So now they come at night. Not just from Evesham, either, but from neighboring villages, some even as far away as Gloucester.”

  “But why?”

  The monk looked at her solemnly. “He died for them, my lady, just like St Thomas à Becket. Already I have heard of miraculous cures. There was a village lass burning with fever, sure to die, until her mother bathed her in water from the Earl’s spring. And then there was—my lady? You look at me so strangely. Have I offended you in some way?”

  “No, you have not offended me,�
�� Nell said wearily, not knowing whether she wanted to laugh or cry. “My husband was an honorable man, mayhap even a great one. But he was a man, Brother Damian, not a saint. He was very much a man.” The young face upturned to hers reflected disappointment, but not doubt, and Nell realized that Brother Damian, too, was a believer. Well, Jesus had His disciples; why not Simon? The thought was so blasphemous that she shivered, appalled by her own irreverence. But in a world gone mad, why should she be the only one still of sound mind?

  A fire had been lit in the hearth, and the shards of broken glass swept up. But the wall had not been scrubbed clean; Nell had said to let it be. They gathered together now by firelight, a circle broken beyond repair. The thought was Nell’s, one she did not share with her children. Reaching out, she brushed the hair back from Ellen’s face. “We need to talk of the future,” she said. “Amaury, I am making arrangements to send you and your brother to France as soon as—”

  Both youths broke into heated protests, Amaury insisting that he’d not leave her and Ellen, and Richard vowing that he would go only to Kenilworth Castle to fight with Bran.

  “Fiht? We’ve nothing left to fight for!” Nell caught herself, said more calmly, “We can do naught for the dead. It is the living who must concern me. We are not entirely without resources, hold the two most formidable castles in England, Kenilworth and Dover. I mean to make use of them, to strike the best bargain I can. But first I must see to your safety. My life is not in danger; nor is Ellen’s. For you, though—”

  “Mama, all know I study to be a priest, and Richard is but sixteen,” Amaury interrupted, giving his brother an apologetic look. “Why should we be in danger?”

  “And would you trust your lives to men who would so dishonor the dead?”

  That silenced them both. They looked away, unable to meet their mother’s eyes. Nell had been warned that Henry had ordered ships to patrol the Channel, with the specific intent of stopping her from sailing for France. Now she leaned forward, began to explain her plan for smuggling them out of England. But within moments, they were interrupted by Richard Gobion.

  His message was one she’d been expecting for some days: a knight was seeking admittance—on the Lord Edward’s behalf. Nell rose to her feet. “I will see him.”

  Edward had chosen a spokesman with some sensitivity. There was no swagger in the man’s bearing, and as he knelt to kiss Nell’s hand, she saw in his eyes a flicker of genuine pity; it was not his fault that was the one emotion she could never abide.

  “My lady, Lord Edward bade me give you this letter. He bade me also to reassure you that you are not in danger. He said that your womanly fears, however natural, are for naught; he does not wish you or your children ill. You are his kinswoman, and he does not blame you for Simon de Montfort’s crimes. You need only put yourself in his hands, and he will see that you suffer no harm. But you must, of course, surrender Dover Castle forthwith.”

  Nell reached for Edward’s letter, but did not break the seal. “I think not,” she said, and the knight blinked, looking so startled that she almost smiled. “You may tell the Lord Edward,” she said, “that the Countess of Leicester says no.”

  40

  ________

  Dolwyddelan, North Wales

  August 1265

  ________

  It was a splendid summer’s eve, that fleeting breath between day and dusk. The heavens had taken on the distinctive deep turquoise of a Welsh twilight, and although no stars yet shone, drifting clouds still retained sunset tints of lavender and lilac. But the men within Dolwyddelan’s great keep were blind to the beauty beyond the window. They saw neither the evensong sky nor the sylvan heights of Eryri, saw nothing but a lightning-seared, bloody field by Evesham Abbey.

  Silence reigned, for the language of outrage was soon exhausted, even more so that of grief. Goronwy and Einion exchanged troubled looks. For nigh on an hour, they’d watched as Llewelyn stalked aimlessly about the chamber, a man driven by demons they understood all too well. Not that he’d shared so much as a word of his regrets. Nor would he if left to his own devices, for he’d never learned that wounds of the spirit should be lanced like those of the flesh, exposed to the healing, open air.

  Goronwy at last decided to confront his suspicions head-on. “You are not to blame, you know…or do you?”

  Llewelyn gave him a brief, guarded glance, and then a shrug. “If any man is to blame,” he said, “I suppose it is Bran de Montfort.”

  Goronwy was not taken in by that apparent indifference. “You were right to refuse to fight on English soil, Llewelyn.”

  “I thought so at the time. Now…now I am not so sure. Mayhap if I had agreed to take up arms with Simon, he’d not have been at Evesham that day.”

  “Mayhap not,” Goronwy agreed. “And mayhap you’d have died there on the field with him. Can you deny that, too, is a possibility—even a likelihood?”

  Llewelyn could not. He moved restlessly to the window, watched as shadows laid claim to the valley. The sounds of a woman’s sobbing echoed across the bailey; he wondered for whom she grieved amongst the dead of Evesham, a husband? A son? Goronwy could absolve him of blame for Simon de Montfort’s death, but what of the Welshmen who’d died, too, on that Tuesday morn? Welshmen run down like rabbits by Roger de Mortimer, murdered long after the battle was done, with ice-blooded deliberation, for which there could be no forgiveness. There might be naught he could do for Simon now, but he could avenge his dead. He could teach his Marcher kinsman that there was not always so much sport in hunting Welshmen.

  The woman’s weeping was audible to the others now. Einion flinched away from the raw, wrenching sound of a stranger’s grief, aching for that unknown mourner, aching for all the dead of Evesham, Welsh and English alike. “So many sorrowing women,” he said sadly, “so many heart-stricken children. I shall pray for the widows of Evesham, and I shall pray first for de Montfort’s lady, as I know you’ve long had a fondness for her, Llewelyn. In truth, though, I do not see how she can bear up under such a blow; what woman could?”

  “You’re wrong, Einion. Nell de Montfort is Eleanor of Aquitaine’s granddaughter; blood like that tells. And she was far more than Simon’s bedmate, was for nigh on thirty years his soulmate, too, his partner, his confidante, and his consort. Did you know he even named her as sole executrix of his will, advised his sons to be bound by her counsel? That is a rare honor, for theirs is a world in which noblewomen are customarily denied the wardship of their own children. No, a woman like that will not break. Nell de Montfort will find the strength to endure, to survive her loss. I am not so sure, though, if her daughter can.”

  That earned him a sharp look from Goronwy. If Llewelyn the Prince was a canny pragmatist, he knew that Llewelyn the man was a secret romantic, his heart constantly at war with his head. While the politician invariably prevailed over the clandestine counsel of the idealist, Goronwy was always on the alert for slippage. He had a deep distrust for passion, and sensed that Llewelyn’s cool exterior was but camouflage, leaves strewn across pitfalls of impulse and deep emotion. It had occurred to him that Ellen de Montfort’s plight was all too likely to tug at Llewelyn’s heartstrings, and he sought now to cure any fevers of misguided gallantry with a dose of unsentimental reality, saying swiftly, “When you write to the Countess of Leicester, convey my condolences. A pity there is so little we can do for her. I trust she’ll understand that naturally there can be no question now of honoring the plight troth?”

  “Naturally,” Llewelyn said, so dryly that Goronwy flushed, disconcerted that Llewelyn should have read his mind so easily. “Nell de Montfort is no cloistered nun, Goronwy. She is worldly wise enough to expect me to disavow the plight troth. But what of the little lass? How could she understand?”

  “I’m sure the Lady Nell will explain it to her,” Goronwy said warily, still not completely convinced that Llewelyn was going to heed his common sense and not his conscience.

  Einion chose that moment to add his voice to G
oronwy’s. “You’re too hard on yourself, Llewelyn. The girl is not your responsibility. Pity is an indulgence you cannot afford, not when it comes to making a marriage of state. You might as well be crazed enough to marry for love!”

  That was so preposterous a proposition that both Llewelyn and Goronwy had to smile. “I know I cannot marry the lass now,” Llewelyn admitted, “for that would indeed be madness. But there is a bond between us, and I cannot utterly forsake her in her time of trouble. I shall write to Nell that my alliance with Simon holds good for his sons, too. I shall offer them refuge in Wales if any of them so wish. And I suspect that I’ll find my peace haunted in days to come by a child I’ve never even met.”

  Llewelyn turned away from the window; the last of the light was gone. “I keep thinking of a verse from Scriptures, something about darkness over the land. That is indeed true for England after Evesham, although I think Edward will discover that Simon de Montfort casts a long shadow. In my life, I have been privileged to know two extraordinary men, one of whom was my grandfather, the other my ally. As far back as I can remember, I’ve been striving to prove worthy of Llewelyn Fawr’s legacy. I cannot help wondering what Simon’s legacy will be. For now, I fear, naught but suffering…”

  “It is never easy to lose a husband, a father—”

  “No, Einion, I was not thinking of the de Montforts. As deeply as they grieve, time and God’s Grace will heal some of their pain. And they are far from friendless. Remember, for all that he seems destined to become an English saint, Simon de Montfort was French-born, his bloodlines amongst France’s finest. I do not doubt that his kinsmen will rally to his wife and children. Moreover, I speak from experience when I say that Nell de Montfort is a woman of considerable charm—and the French King has a soft heart for grieving widows.” Llewelyn smiled faintly. “I’ll wager that Nell finds at the French court enough sympathy to send Brother Henry into spasms!”