'What did he say?'
'Say?' Simon's eyes blazed. 'Christ, I'll not repeat it! But he dared to take me to task, to call me a traitor and rake up old sores, saying I had no right to what I had won by –’ he broke off abruptly.
Eleanor felt her stomach turn. 'Oh, my dear, will men never forget? Surely Henry did not stand by and allow this?'
Simon gave a harsh laugh. 'He would have done, but by then both de Valence and I had our swords out. I'd have killed him if I could, but Henry came between us.'
'Thank God, he did,' she cried out. 'Simon, if you had been slain –'
'Slain?' he echoed. 'I could have dealt with that young fool with one hand.' He paused by the window, his eyes on the sunset sky, the sun well down now, vivid gold and pink reflected in the still water of the mere. 'I tell you, wife, we have had enough.’
'We?'
'Gloucester, Norfolk, de Bohun, Oxford, some others. We will not stand by any longer and watch the Lusignans ruin this country, for that is what their greed and rapaciousness will do combined with their evil influence over the King. I tell you' –
his dark face was alive with a burning passion now – ‘I will not keep silence when I see good laws trampled on by such men. What had our miller done that he should be so ill treated? And in any case on my land it is I who administer justice. But Henry will not listen, he gives them everything they want and pardons all their excesses. I don't suppose you have heard the latest of these. It seems that Geoffrey was so annoyed with one of Henry's cooks who spoiled a sauce that he liked, that he carried the fellow off, hung him up naked and upside down, pulling out his hair until he died. Holy Cross, hell must have been made for men like that!'
She gave a little shudder. 'There was always bad blood in the Lusignans. I wish my mother had never married Hugh. But surely Henry punished Geoffrey for this?'
'The master of the cooks complained to him and do you know what Henry did? He pulled a face, sent the man back to the kitchen and went on with his supper. I saw it! He would not even reprimand Geoffrey, yet it was murder, plain murder.' She was silent, horrified that Henry should be so weak, Geoffrey so cruel, and she watched Simon pacing again, restless, possessed by one idea.
'I will never rest,' he went on, 'never until the rights of humble men are protected. That is what we have pledged ourselves to, to care for the people, to have the country governed not at the whim of one man but by a well chosen council, and perhaps even a gathering of the people, men from all over the land to represent their own needs. It is the only way.'
Bewildered she said, 'But the King is the King, anointed, the highest authority, consecrated by God.'
'But he is not above the law, certainly not above God's law. For all Henry's pious ways sometimes I think he does not know what Christian principles are. I wonder what he admits to his confessor, if he knows what wild folly he indulges in? The higher the office, the greater the responsibility and he does not seem to understand that.'
'What are you going to do?' she asked uneasily.
'I am going soon to Oxford, and you with me if you will. The hoketide parleying meets there and we mean to confront Henry, to force him to swear again to the Charter. We will have reforms so that he can't put underlings of his own choosing into high places. That fellow Mansel, a nobody, has the King's ear more than Gloucester or myself, but we mean to make an end to that situation, to have a great meeting where all men can be heard.'
'You care for them, don't you?' she said. 'I don't mean just those of our own rank, but people like that wretched cook and our poor miller.'
'Yes.' he said. He came back and sat down beside her. 'I think it was living here at Kenilworth that made me care. We know all our own people, down to the woman who brews the beer, and Dobbe looking after our sheep. I rule them, but they trust me. Who can trust the King, let alone his foreign favourites who care nothing for England but what they can steal from her?'
She remembered how, so long ago, he had been looked on as a Norman adventurer himself. Now no one thought of him except as a true peer of the realm and he was fast becoming a champion of ordinary folk, so that men came from all walks of life to ask him to redress their grievances. The hypocrite and whiner got short shrift from him, but a man with a genuine grievance never failed to get a hearing.
'Yes,' he said again, as if proving his own mind out loud, as he so often did with her, 'I think that business of the cook, minor as it was, finally fixed my intention. There will always be cruelty and injustice, but by the living God we should punish it, not go on eating our supper!’
That night he lay in her arms, too tired for sleep, his head against her shoulder, talking of his plans, his hopes for a better order, the things that must be done to achieve his vision. He was over fifty now and saw the time growing shorter, and there was an urgency in his voice that betrayed nervous exhaustion.
'You must sleep,' she said at last. 'My love, you can do nothing if you do not rest.'
'I find it hard to rest when there is so much to be done.' She tried to soothe him, passing her hands over his shoulders and back, pushing her fingers through his hair, but he was in such a state of tension that there seemed to be only one way to release it. She set her mouth to his, knowing the old magic would work, but she was hardly prepared for the intensity, the sudden flaring of wild passion, exhausted though he was. He took her as if it was that dark wedding morning once again, his body thin and hard, hers a little plumper and softer, and after a while she gasped out thinking his possessing of her would never cease, as if he must pour all his frustration and anger, his love and hate into one outflowing of physical need. And then as suddenly he relaxed and lay sprawled across her, asleep almost at once.
She did not move, uncomfortable though she was, for not for anything in the world would she rouse him from that blessed sleep. She set her lips against his hair, more deeply in love than ever she had been at the beginning, great though their passion had been then. Let Henry do what he will, this man lying here was more to her than anyone in the world. Whatever he chose to do she would be with him to whatever end God chose for them.
In Oxford they lodged at Beaumont House and the first meeting of the barons took place at the castle at the beginning of April. The banks were bright with spring flowers, blossom was breaking out on the trees and the sky was a soft blue full of the promise of spring.
Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk and Marshal of England, spoke for the barons, setting before the King the list of demands, those demands so close to Simon's heart, that he had enumerated to Eleanor.
Henry listened in irritable silence. He was hard pushed for money, especially since the Sicilian disaster. He wondered now why he had ever thought of it for young Edmund, his especial darling, that bright-haired boy with his winning smile and slightly hunched shoulder. He wanted something for Edmund as a second son, but he had been trapped into reaching out for what had proved to be a nettle in his hand, a hollow crown that had embroiled him in debt and had now been seized successfully by another claimant. So much trouble! And now these stiff-necked barons led by Gloucester and his own brother-inlaw Simon were demanding, not asking, things of him such as the barons at Running Meade had demanded of his father on a June day more than forty years ago.
John Mansel urged him to play a waiting game, to seem to yield, to hold off for better times, but looking at these stern faces he wondered if he could do it. Why could they not leave him alone to enjoy his family, his love of art, his joy in building? He could be so magnificent a King if only they would give him the means to do it.
April was almost out and they were still talking when he came one day into the great hall to take his seat on the throne. The doors opened and the leading barons came in, dressed in full armour.
He felt the colour leave his face, a sickness in his stomach.
'What – what are you at, my lords 'Why do you confront your King in battle harness? Am I your captive?'
'No, sire,' Roger Bigod said in his clear resoundin
g voice. He was an open-faced man in his thirties, popular, an accomplished knight, and he believed in his cause. 'No harm is intended, but we want you to see we mean what we say. We will have the reforms laid out. We will have each office of the crown filled by men of worth; we will have a Parliament and a Council to discuss the affairs of the realm, and we will have no more ventures abroad that end to the detriment of this country. Nor will we have foreigners ordering affairs within our borders.'
'Aye.' Simon stepped forward. 'We have had enough of such interference. We have decided that no men of foreign birth should hold castles in their own right. I, as one born abroad, willingly place Kenilworth and Leicester at the disposal of the
Council.'
'Agreed, agreed,' the other barons broke in loudly but William de Valence, standing beside the King, shouted out that he would never yield Pembroke to men who betrayed their King.
Simon faced his enemy yet again. 'Understand this, de Valence. Either you yield your castle, or – it will be your head that you lose.'
There was immediate uproar, the Lusignans and others of the Queen's men adding to William's defiance. Henry for once acted wisely. He seized his half-brother's arm and held him in check. 'Be silent,' he hissed. 'Would you undo me altogether?'
De Valence subsided, glaring at the Earl of Lincoln. Henry looked helplessly from one to the other of his determined barons. He saw the Marshal's eager, earnest face, too honest to compromise; the Earl of Lincoln, wrinkled and grey, his mouth set grimly; the Earl of Oxford with the usual cynical expression in his eyes as if the whole business, so humiliating to his King, was a mere amusement. Gilbert the Red sat beside his father, his freckled face set in harsh lines while Gloucester's uneven features were cold and relentless. The Earl had broken a nose during a tourney: he loved jousting but seldom did well and now, not yet forty, he had lost what looks he once had. If his enormous wealth and influence were on the enemy's side, Henry thought, it was the greatest blow against him. As for his brother-in-law, he saw nothing in that stern dark countenance to give him any cause for hope.
At last he said, 'I cannot fight you all. So be it. Have your way – and may God reward you all!'
That night Simon told Eleanor it had been a momentous day for England, and in the weeks that followed he and a number of others including Gloucester, Roger Bigod and the Bishop of Worcester sat down as a committee to work out the necessary Reforms. These 'Provisions' the King reluctantly signed. A few weeks later, beaten down by public opinion and their own inflammatory behaviour, the Lusignan brothers left England.
'You think you have won,' Henry cried out to Simon. 'You take away my brothers; my dearest friends, you undermine my rights as King – do you expect me to love you for it?'
'No, sire,' Simon said grimly, 'but I expect you to abide by your promises.'
The court returned to London and the Earl and Countess of Leicester lodged at Durham House. Simon was constantly at work with the Council, implementing the reforms, and Eleanor had to endure harsh words from the Queen who roundly called them both traitors. 'In that case, madame,' she retorted, 'half my brother's kingdom might be called the same. My lord is not alone in this.'
'I am surprised at you,' the Queen snapped. 'You cannot remember, of course, but someone must have told you what your father suffered at the hands of unruly barons. A few heads would fall if I had my way.'
'Thank God you have not,' Eleanor said sharply. 'Henry is unwise enough as it is. At least he has seen that he must now defer in some measure to his council.'
'Ruled by your husband.'
'Better than by your uncles – or my half-brothers.'
It was the end of any pretence of friendship between them.
'You are no sister to Henry, nor to me,' was the Queen's parting shot as she swept out of the room and Eleanor was glad enough to see her go. After that they met only at court functions when Simon chose to attend, though on one occasion Henry wept openly to see his wife and his sister on such frigid terms.
On a warm afternoon in May when Simon had come early from Westminster and his deliberations, a sudden thunderstorm broke over their heads, to be followed by torrential rain. A fire burned in the centre of the hall and they went to sit by it, Eleanor and the Demoiselle busy on a piece of embroidery while Simon dozed in his chair. He looked very worn still and Eleanor was glad to see him resting. Harry and young Simon had gone to visit Gilbert the Red, but Guy and Amaury were playing a game of chess, Guy intently absorbed, Amaury listening dreamily to the sound of the storm.
'Wake up, brother,' Guy said. 'If we are going to play, for God's sake, play.'
'Very well,' his brother answered amusedly. 'I am not so lost as you imagine. There, you are in check.'
'But not beaten.' Guy moved a piece. 'You did not see that, did you?'
'Oh no. But I'll have you yet. What was that?' as there was a sudden thumping sound.
'Only thunder,' Guy said, but his mother raised her head from her sewing.
'I think someone is knocking,' she said and nodded to an usher to open the door.
Outside the rain was still streaming down and on the steps that led up from the river stood half a dozen men. They were all soaking wet, water dripping from their hats and among them was the King himself.
He stood in a puddle and said, 'I was on my way to the Tower when the storm came up. I must ask shelter, though I'd rather it was in any house but this.'
Eleanor sprang up, ignoring the last remark. Simon woke from his doze, startled, and seeing the party huddled by the door, rose and came forward:
'So you are come to us for shelter, sire?' he queried in an edged voice. 'You are welcome. You will find only hospitality in this house.'
For a moment they confronted each other, the sodden King, rain dripping off his mantle on to the floor, and the tall gaunt man whom he now saw as the enemy of all he held most dear.
Reluctantly he came into the hall and Simon called to his sons to attend the King. They sprang forward to take his hat, his cloak, and he gave them an odd glance, as if his distrust extended to them, young as they were.
'Do you assure me so, Sir Simon? I am glad to hear it, for I think I fear you more than the storm.'
He came forward to the fire, warming his cold hands at the blaze, while his sister and her husband stood silently watching him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Lord Edward had come home from France and was riding into London followed by a stream of young knights and squires. On London Bridge he was cheered and a girl ran forward with a nosegay for him, a delicate blending of flowers and herbs to keep away the oppressive smells of the city. He leaned down to kiss her soundly on the mouth before tucking the flowers into his tabard and the cheers redoubled, but his face wore a graver expression than it would once have done. He had enjoyed himself abroad but Roger Leyburn, who had been to England on business for him, had returned with such an account of the doings there that Edward felt obliged to return. It ceased to be amusing to wander through France and Flanders and Germany jousting and drinking and wenching when grave matters affecting his own future were taking place at home. He rode to the Tower and dined there with the two Rogers and a number of his knights and then took a boat up the river to the steps of Durham House where, he was told, he would find his aunt and uncle.
The river as always was busy with shipping of all sorts, merchantmen bringing wine from Gascony, spices and dried fruit from the east, and loading in return with bales of wool. All the wharves were bustling with trade. Barges and smaller craft ferried all manner of folk up and down river and across from one bank to the other, and to Edward on this hot August afternoon London was the greatest city in the world.
The boat drew up at the steps of Durham House and he sprang out lightly where the water lapped the stone. He was wearing a blue gown and over it a magnificent tabard with the leopards of his house embroidered upon it, a black velvet cap on his fair head, and as he glanced up at the walls he saw another figure as tall and as ri
chly dressed as himself. His uncle was standing on one of the turrets, looking out at the river, lost in thought until he seemed to become aware of the boat below and the arrival of his nephew. He turned and disappeared down the steps.
Eleanor welcomed their unexpected visitor warmly.
'I swear you are taller every time I see you,' she said as he bent to kiss her. 'You must be above your uncle now. Ah, here he is. Simon, Edward is come to visit us.'
'So I see. Welcome, nephew. We did not know you were in London.'
'I only rode in this morning.' Edward accepted wine and for a while the talk was desultory. They listened to his account of his travels but it was clear that that particular light-hearted sojourn was something he was prepared to consign to a youthful past. Graver matters were on his mind.
Eleanor sensed that he wanted to talk to Simon and left them to speak to her steward about supper for her guest, while Simon took Edward to the private chamber where he conducted his business. There he sent his clerk away and offered the Prince the only chair, but Edward with a pleasant gesture indicated that his godfather should take it and sat himself down on a stool.
'Well,’ Simon said, 'what has brought you home? Your father is in Paris.'
'I know. But I have heard that my uncle Richard intends to come home to swear to the Provisions you set out at Oxford and I would see him. He knows that I have sworn.'
Simon regarded him gravely for a moment. 'Reluctantly I think. Do you mean to adhere to them? Do you understand our aims? I thought you too frivolous to care.'
The words were hard but the tone not unpleasant, and Edward leaned forward eagerly. 'Perhaps I was, but I have had time to think. My lord, I do believe in your plans for the better governing of this country. England is the best place in the world, that much I have learned on my travels, and I mean to be the kind of king such a country needs. When my time comes, which, God being merciful to my father, will not be for many years yet, I mean to rule rightly, to have a council about me of the best men in the kingdom.'
The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2) Page 14