The youths trotted out over the drawbridge of Hereford and fared into the nearby fields. “The race will go to those trees, no further.” Henry de Montfort pointed to the line of oaks on the near horizon. “Do you understand me, Cousin Edward?”
Edward mounted his chosen steed, the slender bay. “I understand you perfectly, Henry…but I fear you do not understand me!”
Suddenly he swung out with his fist, knocking his gaoler to the ground with a split lip, and then he clapped his heels to the bay stallion’s flanks. He thundered away in the direction of the Welsh borderlands, with Thomas de Clare riding like a fury on his heels, joining him in his bid for freedom.
Shouting and cursing, the rest of the youths galloped after Edward, intent on his capture…but my son had been correct. His steed, unridden that morning while the others tired out their horses careening around the bailey, was by far the fastest.
In the distance, at the river ford, he could see a party of armed men in the Mortimer colours, waiting for his arrival.
He was free! With the Mortimer knights surrounding him and Thomas de Clare, forming a barrier of iron, he went galloping away to safety at Wigmore where the Lady Maud was waiting to greet him.
I went down on my knees and gave thanks to God for his safe release, but soon I was up again, my mind in a renewed state of turmoil. Edward’s rescue had unleashed the whirlwind. He would attack de Montfort, I knew that, and give no quarter to his enemies. Either Simon or Edward would perish in the forthcoming fray.
But which would it be? Simon was older, had been a soldier for many years. Edward was winning renown for his prowess on the fields but he was young and could be as impetuous as he was ruthless. A wrong move, as had happened at Lewes, could be fatal.
Once again, I could do nothing but stay in my chambers and pace, eaten up by worry, waiting for tidings from across the rough grey sea.
Chapter Ten
August 4. A canopy raised over me to keep off the heat of the sun, I stood beneath a cloudless sky. A strange tension hung in the air and my stomach was in knots; I knew not why such unrest gripped me.
All of a sudden, a hot wind began to blow, whipping up huge swirls of dust within the gardens of the castle where I was lodged. Maids shrieked and ran, pennants were torn from their moorings, a pavilion went down like a deflated blancmange at the banqueting table. The heads of the nearby roses were torn off and petals showered all over me, crimson, ruby, scarlet, like droplets of new-fallen blood.
“It is an omen,” I murmured, and as I glanced at the sky, I saw that the blue was fading away, erased by a storm sweeping in from the west, sudden and ferocious; great dark clouds lifted like towers, black and yellow, crowned by fierce lightnings.
With my ladies-in-waiting surrounding me, Christiana shrieking as her headdress blew off, Willelma’s daughter Isabel trying to hold hers on, we raced toward the castle hall just as the storm-rain began to lash and the lightning bolts pounded with deadly fury all around us.
A visitor came, riding in from the coast. It was Henry of Almain, Richard’s son. He looked exhausted and stubble darkened his young face, but he smiled wearily as he was brought before me. He knelt, head bowed. “My gracious Queen, my dearest aunt,” he said. “I have come to tell you of a great victory. The Lord Edward has defeated Simon de Montfort at the field of Evesham. He has utterly crushed the rebels; there are almost no survivors amongst our foes.”
Around me the room spun; dark spots danced before my eyes. I shook my head to clear the uneasy sensation. “Henry!” I embraced him, kissed his cheek. “You have brought tidings long wished for. Tell me what happened. Here, be seated…” I gestured him to a stool and called for a servant to bring wine.
“Thank you, your Grace,” he said, sitting down with a bit of effort. “Ah, I am all bruises from the fight!”
“How is my son?” I asked.
“Unharmed, and revelling in victory. I will tell you of it, though some parts may not be fit for a noble lady’s ears.”
“I think my ears will survive, Henry,” I said wryly, with a little laugh.
“Then I will begin, your Grace. At the end of July, Edward had gathered a great force, almost twice that of de Montfort. He marched first to the castle of Kenilworth, where the Earl of Leicester’s son, also Simon, was ensconced with his troops and took them unawares. Simon the younger only escaped narrowly, rowing in a boat over the great moat. Having thrown the youthful de Montfort’s forces into disarray, Edward then hastened towards Worcester where he deemed the Earl was lurking. His intelligence was correct; the enemy was there.
Near the town of Evesham, de Montfort brought his army in readiness, crossing Bengeworth Bridge…a foolish move, for once over the bridge, his route of escape could easily be blocked behind him. He must surely have thought upon it, for he was no fool, but he decided to proceed nevertheless; he had not received word of his son’s predicament at Kenilworth. He attended Mass within the great abbey that stood at Evesham, praying before the relics of four holy men—Egwin the founder, and Wigstan, Credan and Odulf. Men say the Virgin May herself had once appeared at Evesham, to a swineherd called Eof…but on that day Our Lady and Christ himself finally turned their faces from that traitor.”
“You loved him once,” I said softly. “Even when you left his side, you swore not to raise arms against him.”
“I was deceived.” Henry of Almain flushed to the roots of his hair. “And as he scorned me and my use of arms, so he had to find out that others did not scorn my valour.”
I bowed my head. “Continue, Henry…I did not mean to bring you discomfort. The young often make foolish mistakes.”
Henry cleared his throat. “When the Earl left the abbey after hearing Mass, he was met by his barber, a man called Nicholas, who had climbed the abbey tower as a lookout. Nicholas spotted a vast host approaching through the dawn mist, and at first was heartened for he recognised de Montfort’s banners but his initial joy quickly turned to terror. As the soldiers drew nearer, he could see some of the banners were torn, some bloodied; they had been taken in conflict. Fearful, he raced down the spire to find his master, crying out, “My lord, my lord…we are undone! By the Rood, we are all dead men, for we are surrounded by our enemies and not by our friends!”
“De Montfort then went to look for himself and it is said he spoke calm but terrible words to the knights gathered around him, “Commend your souls to God, my friends, for they…” he gestured to the marching host, “they will have our bodies.” He knew, even then, that he was doomed.”
“Go on.” I leaned forward, almost indecently eager. In my mind’s eye, I could see Simon’s eyes, so well remembered—those hard, wolfish eyes that both attracted and repelled.
“De Montfort gathered his army and began to march towards Green Hill. He had the King with him…”
My poor husband! I crossed myself.
“…dressed in Simon’s own colours to disguise him, and with an oversized helmet placed on his head, so loose and ill-padded he scarce could see. When the Earl reached the hill and the road beyond, he found it blocked by the men of Lord Edward and the Earl of Gloucester. He began a frantic attack, attempting to ram his way through the middle of their forces and escape.”
“But he did not succeed.”
Henry shook his head. “He was determined, my Lady, that was for certain. The line of Lord Edward’s army broke…briefly…in the centre. But then Roger Mortimer arrived from his castle of Wigmore, bringing up more troops from the bridge. The trap had been sprung.”
“And then…?” My breath railed between my teeth as I tried to envision the carnage of that distant field in Worcestershire.
“As a huge thunderstorm descended, almost like a token from heaven, Edward’s army slaughtered that of the Earl of Leicester. Nigh all of them. Few prisoners were taken, no ransoms were desired. Henry de Montfort was cut down before his father’s very eyes. His son Peter was also slain. Hugh de Spenser, John de Beauchamp and many more... All slain, all
food for the crows.”
“And the King? What of the King?” I almost dreaded asking. I knew Edward was victorious and unharmed, but what of my husband, an old man, weakened from illness, dragged into the fighting on the enemy side?
Henry of Almain bit his lip. “He is safe, your Grace, fear not…but I must tell you, he is wounded and suffering from fright. Simon had hold of him within his inner circle of knights. He cried out constantly, I am the old King, I am Henry of Winchester! Do not harm me…I am an old man and unable to fight! Nonetheless, he was hurt in the melee and driven to his knees. Luckily, the helmet Simon had forced him to wear fell away and he was recognised and pulled from the fray. Edward took his father to safety himself, then rejoined the battle.”
I gasped a heavy sigh of relief. The King was safe, if the worse for wear.
“When Edward returned to the battlefield, the slaughter was terrible. De Montfort’s men began to flee. They drowned in the river and were cut down in the garden of the abbey, even in the nave of the abbey church itself. Their blood polluted the steps to the high altar.”
I crossed myself again, envisioning that mad final flight of the rebels…and the rage of my warlike son.
“The circle of knights around his Montfort broke. His standard-bearer, Guy de Balliol, was slain. De Montfort’s horse was speared, and fell beneath him. And that….” Henry of Almain took a deep breath. “That, God be praised, was the end.”
“I want to know.” My voice came out hard and cruel. “More. All of it.”
“Your Grace?” Henry looked dubious; he reddened again.
“You heard me, Henry. All of it.”
“Edward’s men closed in, like leopards around prey. They chanted at their quarry, tormenting him: Old traitor, old traitor, it is not possible that you shall live. Then Roger Mortimer surged forward, tired of the baiting and eager to finish it. He stabbed de Montfort in the neck, and as the Earl fell to the ground, others leapt upon his body, hacking and hewing.” Henry licked his lips. “Men vented their anger upon the traitor’s dead body. They stripped him and cut off his head and hands. They also…” He stared at the tiled floor, embarrassed, “cut off his…his…ballocks and draped them across the nose of his severed head…I am sorry, Madame, to foul your ears with such horrors but you…”
“Asked for it, Henry. Asked for it. Yes, Henry, I did. And what became of his remains after that?”
“The monks of Evesham took the torso for burial. The hands and feet were sent about the kingdom. The head—and its…its decoration—was sent to Lady Mortimer at Wigmore, in honour of her husband Roger, who struck the fatal blow. It is said she held a banquet that very eve, with de Montfort’s head towering above the high table on a spike.”
“A hard woman,” I said, “but she saved my son.”
“Indeed. Much is owed to Lady Maud’s courage.”
I stood up, turning my back on Henry of Almain and gazing up into the summer’s sky. It was deepest blue, royal blue, all storms now past. Simon de Montfort was dead, and never more would those wild, yellowish wolfish eyes haunt me again, those brutal eyes that repulsed and yet intrigued at the same time. My husband was King once more, unchallenged. The treacherous barons were slain almost to a man.
I was Queen and no longer needed to linger in exile.
I was going home.
Chapter Eleven
Homecoming was a strange time. Although they did not hiss or boo my passage in the wake of Simon’s failure, the people of England yet did not cheer me as part of the victorious party. They looked on, almost blank-faced, as if I had become, almost overnight…somehow irrelevant.
It was my son, Edward, imposing and terrible in his polished golden armour, who was cheered, along with his wife, Eleanor of Castile, his dutiful little shadow. She was, I had to grudgingly admit, a fine counsellor, filling her husband’s ears with wisdom while keeping her own profile that of a meek, demure wife. She had borne no sons, only several daughters who had died shortly after birth…but there was still time. Plenty of time. I noted that no one spread cruel rumours of barrenness about that Eleanor.
I was taken to reunite with my husband in London, and we fell upon each other with many embraces and tears—but how aged he seemed, how frightened and tremulous. His shoulder was wounded and in bandages, and pained him greatly, the sight of which made we weep anew.
“We will live quietly now, Eleanor,” he said, holding me as if he feared I might run away. “At Winchester and Clarendon, or even your small castles in the wilds—Ludgershall and Marlborough. Anything of import that needs to be done, let Edward handle it. The people love him as they do not love me, and he has strength of body and mind that I do not.”
So we retired to our various homes, and let Edward deal with the last pockets of rebellion burning in England, particularly that of the younger Simon de Montfort, who had holed up behind the broad red walls of Kenilworth. The castle eventually fell to Edward’s siege engines but Simon escaped and fled abroad, along with his brother Guy, who was still half crippled from the injuries he received at Evesham.
Henry and I might have faded into the background of political life had it not been for the parliament held in Winchester in September of 1265. Here Edward was given Dover and Edmund was handed Simon de Montfort’s earldom. London was fined for its treacherous behaviour and support of the rebels, and London Bridge…Well, Henry awarded it to me, in memory of the infamous day when I was attacked there while on the river.
Between the fine of £1000, and my taking possession of the bridge, it was too much for those still of rebellious nature. Troubles broke out across England. Towns burned and men were murdered in their beds. Like so many times in the past, Henry and I retired to the safety of the Tower, fearful of the potential rise of another man like Earl Simon.
Edward and Edmund fought valiantly, keeping our foes at bay.
As months slipped into years, an uneasy peace descended…
Having an ever-active mind, I kept abreast of all that happened in both England and abroad; I was never the type of woman to be satisfied solely with needlework and such mindless if proper niceties. I noted the activities of my youngest sister Beatrice and her husband Charles, the younger brother of Louis of France—they were busy claiming the throne of Sicily, which I had once earmarked for my son Edmund. When his name had been withdrawn from candidacy, a crown-hungry Charles had snapped at the chance like a starving dog snaps at meat. He had taken an army over the Alps, and Beatrice had ridden with him, defying all danger—they were crowned in Saint Peter’s church in Rome.
At last Beatrice, whose jealousy of her sisters had pained our hearts, who with sadness we suspected of harbouring Simon de Montfort’s supporters, was at last a queen herself. But a queen without a proper throne or country—Manfred still held Sicily and Charles would have to fight him…to the death.
And so he did, against great odds, with the lives of many Frenchmen given for the cause. Manfred had Saracen bowmen amidst his troops and fearsome German cavalrymen. However, one of Charles’ keen-eyed knights noticed a chink in the armour of the enemy—their armpits were exposed when they raised their swords to strike. “To your daggers!” he exhorted the French troops, and they cut down their enemies through the weak spots of their mail.
After long and vicious fighting, Manfred’s army broke and scattered. No one knew where Manfred himself had gone; he had vanished during the rout. But two days later a common soldier wandered into a nearby town, leading a mule stumbling beneath a heavy load, while calling out in mocking tones, “Who buys Manfred, who buys this usurper?’ And when men came running to see what the commotion was about, they saw the body of Manfred slung across the back of the mule.
So Beatrice really was Queen now; she was an equal. I did not care any longer, as long as she left us alone.
She had no time to do anything otherwise. In July of that year, she sickened and died while her husband was besieging a castle. Her corpse was sent home to Provence, to lie beside the tomb
of our esteemed father, Raymond Berenger.
I could pray for her; that was all I could do for Beatrice now. Guiltily, I thought prayers would have to do, as I had never loved her much in life, the smallest sister I had known so little, and who had envied all her siblings to the point she would have betrayed us.
Evil also befell Marguerite. Saintly, faith-driven Louis decided to attempt another Crusade. Desperately, vainly, she tried to dissuade him; his ministers tried too. He would not be moved. He ordered his lords to gather to him at fear of his displeasure. Even nobles confined to the sickbed were not excused from attendance at his court in Paris where he discussed his plans for warfare in the east.
Although the older barons, remembering Louis’ earlier failed Crusade, baulked at faring to the Holy Land once more, crusading fever began to run rampant amongst the uninitiated young. The Crown prince took the cross; so did Marguerite’s other sons Jean Tristan and Peter; so too did her daughter Isabelle.
The unwholesome fighting fever spread, as I feared it might, to my son Edward, who had grown bored as the unrest died down in England. He had no money to fare away on campaign but Louis, glad of his young nephew’s fervour, offered to lend him a veritable fortune. Henry and I prayed that the idea of repaying such loan for years on end might turn Edward aside from this path, but he remained enthusiastic and determined.
He came before our high seats, all fire and passion, his eyes alight like brands. Edward loved nothing more than war, though Eleanor his wife came surprisingly close. “It will be a great honour, can you not see that, mother, father? A great honour to convert the wild infidels, to bring the pagans to God or put them to the sword!”
“Please remain in England,” I said, speaking calmly for I knew argument would avail me not at all. “Remember that Louis was unsuccessful years ago, and the results devastating. The loss of life to the heat, to illness, to treachery, to the paynim sword…”
MY FAIR LADY: A Story of Eleanor of Provence, Henry III's Lost Queen Page 23