Falls the Shadow: A Novel

by Sharon Kay Penman

Servants were moving about the chamber, lighting candles one by one. Llewelyn watched the flames flare into life, then said somberly, “I have great sympathy for Simon’s family. But it is the Londoners I truly pity. God help them, for no one else will.”

  The first Friday in October was cool and overcast; at midday, it might have been dusk, so leaden was the sky. London’s streets were strangely stilled, shops tightly shuttered, houses barred and bolted and forlorn—or so they seemed to Cecilia Fitz Thomas as she trudged up Bishopsgate Street. Never had she seen her city so deserted. The cocky street urchins had vanished as if by alchemy; so, too, had the beggars, the vendors, the ale-house patrons, the nosy neighbors, all the usual eyewitnesses to the raucous, highly visible currents of London life. The few people Cecilia did encounter passed her by in preoccupied, funereal silence, shoulders hunched against the wind, heads down. Even the dogs were gone, save for an occasional stray, scurrying for shelter. They carried fear like fleas, Cecilia thought; they, too, scented blood. Leaves swirled around her ankles, clung to her skirts, blowing about the road in desolate disarray; somewhere a loose shutter banged. Like a town besieged from within, London lay open to its enemies, immobilized by suspense, awaiting the King’s verdict. Cecilia shivered, quickened her step.

  She was passing through the gateway into the courtyard of the Fitz Thomas manor just as two men exited the hall, started down the outer steps. She recognized them without difficulty, for Jacob ben Judah had conferred often with her husband in the past year, seeking together to ensure the safety of Jacob’s Jewish brethren. It was a source of pride to Fitz Thomas that he had indeed succeeded in drawing off some of the anti-Semitic poison from his city. Even in the panicked aftermath of Evesham, there’d been no killing of Jews, no terrified, drunken mobs surging into the Jewry—impressive tribute to the moral authority that Fitz Thomas still wielded in these last doomed days of his mayoralty.

  “Good morrow, Master Jacob. This is your son, is he not? I hope—What? Something has happened; I can see it in your faces. For God’s sake, tell me!”

  “I fear the news is bad, Mistress Fitz Thomas,” Jacob said gravely. “Whilst we were meeting with your husband, it came—the summons from the King.”

  He got no further. Cecilia gasped, then gathered up her skirts, began to run. Jacob’s face was grey, his breathing so uneven that Benedict put a supportive hand on his elbow. His father seemed to have aged years in the weeks since Evesham, become as brittle as glass, as faded as sundried flax. “Do you want to go back inside, Papa?”

  “Nay…to yonder horse block. I need to catch my breath…” Sinking down upon the weathered mounting stone, Jacob found himself panting as if he’d been laboring under a hot sun. So unfair that the body should wear out ere the soul did. But there was very little of fairness in the world as he’d known it; that was a privilege not often extended to Jews. “I know we are at odds over Simon de Montfort, Benedict. But whatever else he was, he was a fair man, and he tried in his way to be fair to us, too, after Lewes. Now…if it’s true that the old King has become somewhat addled, the Lord Edward will keep his hand on the reins, and I fear him, lad, I fear him sorely. He is a man utterly sure of his own righteousness, and he has no liking for Jews.”

  Benedict could not help himself. “Neither did de Montfort.” Try as he might, he could not share his father’s sorrow for a Christian lord, a crusader knight. “I agree with you, Papa, that under Edward we’ll be like sheep in the midst of wolves. But then, so were the Jews in Winchester!”

  “And would you want to be held accountable for another man’s crime? Lord Simon’s son bears the guilt for the Winchester bloodshed—and grievously has he answered for it. ‘God is not mocked; whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’ ”

  If so, then why had the murderous John Fitz John—of all men—been one of the few to survive the carnage of Evesham? But that was not a question Benedict would ever put to his father; his doubts, like his fears, he kept to himself. “Papa…I do not want to quarrel. I do not deny that Simon de Montfort did change toward us in the year that he exercised power in the King’s name. But though he sought to protect us, he was never our friend—as that man was and is.” He swung around to point at the silent Fitz Thomas manor. “I never thought I could learn to trust a Gentile, never thought a Christian was capable of treating Jews like men—no more, no less. I regret de Montfort’s death, but I grieve for Thomas Fitz Thomas, a good, decent man who does not deserve the evil about to befall him.”

  And in that, they were in full accord. Jacob took his son’s hand, struggled to his feet, and together they began their slow trek back to London’s Jewry.

  The great hall was empty, but at the sound of Cecilia’s footsteps, a tearful maid servant emerged from the kitchen. “He’s above-stairs, in the solar. Oh, my lady, what will happen to us now?”

  Cecilia didn’t answer; she didn’t know. Letting her mantle slip unheeded to the floor, she started for the stairs. The solar was in semidarkness, shuttered, lit by a single tallow candle. “Tom?” she whispered, and one of the shadows moved.

  “It has come,” he said, no more than that. But there was no need to say more. Two days earlier, Roger de Leyburn had taken their surrender to Henry at Windsor, London’s abject and inevitable submission to the King’s will. Fitz Thomas shoved his chair back. “Roger de Leyburn sent word that we are to meet him tonight at Vespers in the church of All Hallows Barking. Then on the morrow, Thomas Puleston and I, amongst others, are to accompany de Leyburn under safe-conduct to Windsor, where the King and the Lord Edward await us.”

  Cecilia choked on a sob. “Edward’s safe-conduct is as worthless as his word!”

  “I know,” he admitted, and she darted forward, knelt by his chair.

  “I asked you once before to flee with me. Now I beg you, Tom, whilst there’s still time! Please…we can sail tonight with our sons, be beyond Edward’s grasp ere he learns of your escape. Alexander le Ferrun chose exile, a better fate than awaits you at Windsor—”

  But he was shaking his head. “I cannot, Cecilia. Flight would cheapen the cause for which we fought. If they could dismiss me as a self-server, a man who cared only for saving his own skin, so, too, could they dismiss our aspirations.”

  He got to his feet, drew her up with him. “You must try to understand, my dearest one. It was not treason, was but a dream bred before its time, that the King should not be accountable only to God. No mortal man ought to be entrusted with power such as that, for any king’s son may be born a fool.” His mouth twisted. “Who would know that better than Henry’s hapless subjects? I was right to seek a voice for my Londoners. I was right to pledge my hopes to Simon de Montfort’s quest. I can disavow none of it, Cecilia.”

  She clung in despair, no longer arguing. “I am so afraid, Tom. Are you not afraid, too?”

  “Of course I am afraid,” he confessed, kissing her upturned face, her trembling mouth. “But Lord Simon would not run from his fate, and I’ll not run from mine.”

  The royal safe-conduct proved to be as false a coin as Cecilia Fitz Thomas feared. Upon their arrival at Windsor, Thomas Fitz Thomas, Thomas Puleston, and three fellow Londoners were turned over to Edward, cast into a dungeon in the castle keep. Henry then made a triumphant entry into his capital city, where he evicted more than sixty families from their homes, bestowing the seized houses upon supporters of the Crown. Numerous hostages were taken, scores arrested. But royal vengeance was indiscriminately meted out. Of the five men chosen as hostages for the entire city, three of them had been loyal to Henry, and of those despoiled of their property, more than a third had been royalists. Civil liberties were suspended, the city’s government taken over by a bailiff hand-picked by Henry. London Bridge was given to Henry’s Queen. A staggering fine of twenty thousand marks was imposed upon the city, one that would take fully thirty-five years to pay. And in the records of Henry’s reign there began to appear the words “Offense—a Londoner.”

  The Londoners were n
ot the only ones to suffer from royal reprisals; Henry had fifteen months of humiliation to exorcise. Summoning parliament, he pushed through a controversial edict for the seizure of the lands of any man deemed an “accomplice” of Simon de Montfort. The term itself was not defined, no advance finding of guilt was required, and as the forfeited estates were to be granted to Crown partisans, the potential for abuse was enormous. Richard argued vehemently against such sweeping, dubious confiscations. Edward, too, counseled moderation, for he was clear-sighted enough to see the danger in dealing too harshly with rebels or rebel sympathizers; if a man was to be stripped of all he owned, what incentive, then, had he to lay down his arms? But Henry was too bitter to heed any voice but the one crying out for revenge, and he found support for his wavering will in the relentless vengefulness of the Marcher lords. If, like the Romans, he must make a desert and call it peace, so be it.

  At Richard’s urging, a half-hearted attempt had been made to come to terms with Bran, but it was doomed to failure; Simon’s enemies had no sympathy to spare for his son. As September yielded to October, a defiant de Montfort banner continued to fly from the battlements of Kenilworth Castle, and to that formidable refuge flocked those who would not forsake Simon’s “common enterprise.” Others rallied to John d’Eyvill, hid themselves in the Fenlands, in the dark forests of Sherwood and Rutland, and here might well be found the genesis of the Robin Hood legends, those firelit tales of outlaw exploits, for they were reckless and sometimes gallant, these men known as “the Disinherited,” as “the Faithful.”

  Nell had succeeded in getting her two youngest sons to safety in France, along with eleven thousand marks. Dover Castle still held out, though, for Nell’s letters to her brother and to parliament had gone unanswered, and she was determined to cling to the only leverage she had left. But in mid-October, her highborn prisoners bribed two of their guards, overpowered the others, and seized control of Dover’s great keep; Nell herself narrowly missed being taken, too. Her men laid siege to the keep, but this was a God-given opportunity for Edward, and he made the most of it, leading a lightning assault upon the beleaguered stronghold. Caught between Edward’s besieging army and the rebelling prisoners within the great tower, Dover’s garrison could not hope to prevail. On October 18, Nell agreed to surrender the castle to her nephew.

  Edward was taken aback at sight of his aunt. Nell was not a tall woman, only of average height, but her bearing was such that few ever realized it; even surrounded by her towering de Montfort brood, she’d not been overshadowed, more than held her own. This was the first time that Edward had seen her without that deceptive aura of vivacity. It may have been the heightened perception born of pity. It may have been the stark black, the coarse russet of widowhood. Or that she’d obviously lost weight; he’d been told she ate virtually nothing at mealtimes. But never had she seemed to him so vulnerable, so delicate and fragile and defenseless, an impression that lasted only until she raised her lashes and he found himself looking into the eyes of an unforgiving enemy.

  “My lord,” she said, dipping down in a curtsy that was as correct, as controlled, and as chilled as her voice, “the castle is yours.”

  She was flanked protectively by Richard Gobion, her steward, and John de la Haye, Dover’s constable. They watched him warily, men resigned to their fate but unrepentant. Edward was not disturbed by their demeanor, one of stolid, reluctant compliance. He had only contempt for men who groveled in defeat, although he was equally irked by men who refused to admit they’d been bested, men who faced ruin with a sneer, a swagger. Not vengeful in victory unless he bore a personal grudge against the foe he’d vanquished—like the luckless Thomas Fitz Thomas—Edward was willing now to allow these diehard de Montfort loyalists their pride. For his aunt, he was willing to do far more, and taking the gatehouse keys from Nell’s outstretched hand, he said, “Is there somewhere we can talk alone?”

  Edward had hoped that privacy might ease the tension between them, but the atmosphere in Nell’s bedchamber seemed alive with echoes, with all she dared not say. He was holding out a leather pouch. “The Bishop of Worcester asked me to deliver this into your hands, as he’s not in a position to do so himself.”

  Nell noted that the Bishop’s seal was intact, bore no signs of tampering. She felt no surprise; Edward’s were not petty vices. “What shall happen to him?” she asked, dropping the pouch onto her bedside table.

  “It seemed best to leave his punishment to the Church. The Pope’s new legate intends to suspend Worcester and the Bishops of Winchester, London, and Chichester, summoning them to Rome to account for their sins.”

  “And what sins are those?” Nell asked tonelessly, but Edward refused the bait.

  “That is between the Bishops and His Holiness the Pope.” He took a step toward her. “Aunt Nell, I have news of Guy. The doctor at Windsor has written to me that he seems likely to live, after all.” Hers was an expressive face; he realized half-way through his revelation that she already knew. So even at his father’s favorite castle, de Montfort tendrils had taken root. Unless it was a natural sympathy for a grieving mother? “Guy must have a great will to live,” he said, “for his wounds were grave, indeed. But I am glad he’ll survive—for your sake and for Bran’s.”

  “I should like to see Guy ere I sail for France.” Nell had resolved to put her pride aside, to beg if need be, but she saw at once that she’d be humbling herself for naught. “You’d truly deny me even that?” she demanded incredulously. “A last farewell with my wounded son?”

  “No, I would not!” Shaken out of his poise by her scorn, Edward looked surprisingly young; he was, she remembered, just twenty-six, a year younger than Harry, Harry who would be forever twenty-seven. Her eyes misted, but the tears didn’t fall. In these past two months, her grief had frozen; she sometimes felt as if her heart were encased in ice. Ice and fire, anguish and rage, the only emotions she seemed able to summon up.

  Edward had moved toward her. Reaching out, he grasped her by both arms, oblivious to her recoil. “Aunt Nell, if it were up to me, I’d take you to Guy tomorrow. But my father forbade it, and he…he is the King.”

  “Yes,” Nell echoed, “he is the King.”

  He let her go, stepped back. “Uncle Richard and I argued against sending you into exile, but my father would not listen. He has hardened his heart against you, Aunt Nell. He was furious when you managed to get your younger lads to France. He even wrote to the French King, urging Louis to seize the money you’d entrusted to them.”

  “He must have been most disappointed when Louis refused,” Nell murmured, and he saw that this, too, she’d known.

  “He was,” he admitted. “I could understand why he hated Simon, but I do not understand why he should hate you—and yet I fear he does. They do not even refer to you in the patent rolls as the ‘King’s sister’ anymore; it is always as the ‘Countess of Leicester.’ ”

  “Henry’s hatred does not surprise me. What does is his resolve. It seems he has hardened his backbone as well as his heart.”

  From Edward’s earliest years, ambivalence had characterized his relationship with Henry, love for a devoted father vying with chagrin for an incompetent King. He was not offended now by his aunt’s lethal sarcasm, for he had long ago learned that to remain loyal to so foolish yet so loving a father, he had to distance himself from Henry’s foibles—while swearing upon his very soul that he would be a King no man would dare to mock.

  “The Marcher lords spur my father on,” he said. “So, too, does Gloucester. Surprisingly, he has been arguing for clemency; mayhap he feels guilty for having forsaken the Provisions. But he has not a shred of pity for anyone who bears the de Montfort name, and he’s done his share to salt my father’s wounds, he and de Mortimer.”

  De Mortimer. Edward’s good friend and carousing companion. Nell swung away from him, locking her eyes onto the patch of sky visible from the window. It was a vivid shade of blue, a harvest sky; her color, Simon always claimed.


  “Aunt Nell…” She turned, reluctantly, to find Edward regarding her with unsettling sympathy, unsettling for it seemed sincere. “Aunt Nell,” he said, “I am not your enemy.”

  “I am glad to hear you say that,” she said, as evenly as she could manage. “For it would not be easy to ask an enemy’s aid.”

  “What can I do for you? You need only name it,” he said, before caution compelled him to add, “provided that it is in my power to do so.”

  She’d placed the parchment upon the table, awaiting just this moment. Handing it to him, she said, “That is a list of the twenty-two men and women of my household. I ask you to allow them to remain in England. I ask you to spare them exile from their homeland and their families.”

  He glanced but briefly at the list, hesitating only at the name of John de la Haye, her constable. “I shall write to the Chancellor, informing him that I have taken them under my protection, and I shall instruct him to order the shire sheriffs to make sure they retain seisin of their lands.”

  She’d not expected it to be so easy, had been afraid to let herself hope. She closed her eyes for a moment; at least she could do this for her people, for those who’d served her so faithfully. At least their worlds, too, need not be wrecked. “Thank you.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “There is a Dominican convent at Montargis, south of Paris. I shall—”

  “A convent! You do not mean to take vows?”

  “No, I shall not take vows,” she said, smiling for the first time; he wondered why the smile held such bitter amusement. “The convent was founded by my husband’s elder sister; his mother is buried there. When I sought to think where my daughter and I could go, it was Montargis that came first to mind.”

  “Ellen,” he said softly, not noticing how the sound of her daughter’s name in his mouth affected Nell. “She has been in my thoughts, for I know how much she loved Simon…and Harry. I suppose she’d not want to see me?”