'You must speak for me,' he said faintly. 'You and de Bohun and the Bishop of Worcester must put our case as well as you can.' But, oh God, he thought as the litter jerked uncomfortably over the uneven road, that this should happen now! It was the worst of blows for he knew well he was the heart and soul of the baronial cause and only he could have brought full pressure to bear on King Louis. Was it a punishment from God? Was he the one at fault? No, he did not believe that, would never believe it.
He began to feel faint and nauseated, every movement causing him agony and when at last they got him back through the gates of Kenilworth Castle he had lost consciousness.
When he woke again it was to find himself lying on his own bed surrounded by worried attendants, Eleanor by his side, her face creased with anxiety. She slipped one hand under his head. 'My love! Thank God you are come to your senses. Try to drink a little wine.'
His barber, Peter, held a cup to his lips and he swallowed some. His physician was there, touching the leg with careful fingers and as Simon glanced at him questioningly he said, ‘The bone will knit, my lord, but it will take time. You are not at the age when bones heal quickly, and you have bruised your shoulder badly as well as cutting your head. But as I say, in time –'
'Time!' Simon broke in as he had done once before. 'Time is what I do not have.'
The leg was set, the physician complimenting Guy on his initial bandaging, while the chaplain murmured prayers and anxious knights gathered in the chamber whispered among themselves, shocked at this blow.
Simon's hand tightened on Eleanor's. 'Send them away, all of them. I would be alone with you.'
The room emptied and she sat beside him, one cool hand on his forehead. 'Does your leg pain you much, dear heart?'
He made a grimace that was sufficient answer. 'And my head aches damnably. Your hand is healing in itself. Eleanor, it is the most cruel trick of fate, or the Devil, to lay me on my bed at such a time.'
'I know, I know. You must trust to Harry and the rest to do their best for you.'
'They will, but they are none of them as versed as I am in dealing with Henry. I know his devious ways too well.'
'I wish he was dead and Edward were King,' she said passionately. 'How could he start a truce by giving our manors to Roger Mortimer? I never liked that greedy unbridled young man. Edward you could control.'
He gave a deep sigh and winced at the pain in his shoulder. His leg seemed to be on fire. 'I might have done once but I think Edward is now become too much our enemy. He had ideals – perhaps he still has – but nothing could hold him back from his father when it came to the choice. And now they will all work on Louis, the Queen will influence her sister, and I am not there to speak for our cause.'
He was in such distress of mind as well as in body that Eleanor rose. 'I have a potion of my own that will help you sleep, my heart. I won't share our bed tonight in case I should cause you pain, Dionysia shall make me up a truckle bed here at the foot.'
She made him drink her concoction of herbs and after a little more restless talk, his voice faded and his heavy breathing told her that he slept. She went softly into the adjoining bower to reassure the Demoiselle who was sitting up, despite the lateness of the hour, full of anxiety for her father. Then she returned and lay fully dressed on her pallet. Philip, her page, came to curl up by the fire and keep it replenished through the night.
Eleanor slept little, her mind tormented by Simon's injuries, by the vital moment lost, by tearing anxiety for the future. In the morning he was feverish and it was a week before the hectic flush left his face. Eleanor prayed, sent Roger Foliot to the shrine at Walsingham, with offerings for the Blessed Virgin, and through the cold January days watched beside her husband. Snow fell, the mere froze and she looked out on to a white landscape. In the courtyard men's feet trod the snow to slush which froze overnight and proved a trap for the unwary next morning. The cook was laid up with a twisted ankle and directed operations from a stool. Dionysia complained of chilblains and the Demioselle had a cold in the head.
The younger Simon proved himself indispensable, taking command off his mother's shoulders, leaving her free to nurse his father. He sat in the manorial court, dealt with offenders, listened to complaints and handled all affairs with a commonsense beyond that which his mother had expected of one not yet twenty-three.
Guy stamped restlessly about the place, went hunting in the snow, finding little game and wearing out the horses. Eleanor wished Amaury were at home for she found her youngest son a comfort to talk to, but Amaury had at last abandoned hope of becoming a proficient knight, realizing that his tastes lay in a more scholarly direction. He had become a clerk in minor orders and was now in Rouen occupying a prebend's stall, with his head no doubt happily immersed in books of theology. She missed him and determined that when the country was quiet again he should come home to a position in the English church.
The weeks went by and the snow gave way to a mild spell. On an afternoon when a pale winter sun lit the room Simon was at last sitting up in bed, his leg still unhealed but all danger past, and Eleanor was giving him an account of their estates when they heard the sound of hooves.
'Guy back from his hunting,' she said, but Simon shook his head.
'He's not been gone half an hour. See who has come to visit us, my love.'
But Eleanor had got no further than the door when she heard feet coming up the stair three steps at a time and her eldest son came hurrying along the passage. She gave a little start of pleasure but even as he kissed her she saw the unusual gravity on his face and asked hastily what had happened.
Instead of answering he asked in return, 'How is my father? Is he well enough to see me and hear my news?'
'Jesu!' she said. 'Is it so bad?' And when he nodded she drew him into the room.
There he told them both the worst they feared to hear. Without Simon, the baronial pleas had carried no weight with King Louis. In fact from the first he had been totally biased in favour of his brother king. Louis believed in the sanctity of kingship, the holiness of the anointing oil, the power he saw as God-given. He dismissed the Provisions, held that Henry was in no way bound by what he had been forced to sign, that he might appoint whom he willed, filling his offices with men of any nationality. This the French King gave as his ruling and the Pope supported his verdict: King Henry's subjects had only to obey in all things and there would be peace.
'Peace!' Simon exploded and smote one hand against the other. 'My God, Louis has given us not peace but civil war. This – this ruling will unite all our old supporters, every man who would see justice done in this land.'
'You are right, my lord,’ Harry said. 'Englishmen will have none of it. The call to war has already gone out. Gilbert the Red is summoning his men and my cousin Derby has a good force in arms. De Bohun is gone to the west to keep Mortimer in check.'
'Then we must make plans – at once. Send Sir John Penrose and Sir Roger Foliot to me and call in the abbot. I shall need funds and supplies.'
Eleanor came to him. 'Dear heart, you are not yet fit for all this. You cannot sit a horse.'
'Maybe not.' The lines about his mouth were grim. 'But I can direct from my bed. Better still, I'll have a wagon turned into a bed on wheels and that can carry me to London if necessary. I'll not lie here while all I have dreamed of lies in the balance.'
He sent Harry off to join de Bohun, the young Earl of Hereford, and Simon to hold Northampton Castle, called in his stewards and armourers, his fletchers and grooms, and set the castle on a war footing.
It seemed to Eleanor that the place rang all day to the sound of hammers on anvils, the comings and goings of horsemen. The baileys seethed with men answering the call, more mouths to feed than ever. Lawless bands, seeing in the mounting hostilities a chance to enrich themselves, ravaged and plundered, burning cottages and slaying innocent people. Simon despatched his third son to deal with one such band pillaging Leicester land and Guy came back reporting with fierce satis
faction a bloody skirmish and a dozen men swinging from trees as a warning to others.
Harry returned a few weeks later, utterly dejected. The Lord Edward had marched on Gloucester and though they were in greater strength Harry and de Bohun had treated with him. To Harry he was still the loved cousin, and he extracted from him an oath that he and his father would once more adhere to their promises at Oxford. Harry had believed the Prince and withdrawn his forces, but he had not reached home before a breathless messenger chased after him to say that Edward had not kept his word above a day, that he had seized the city of Gloucester and every penny in it for his father's cause.
'By God,’ Simon said, 'you must learn, my son, not to let your good nature make you so gullible. Edward loved us once but he is as much our enemy now as his father is.'
Harry, red with shame at this failure of his first mission, said to his mother later, 'How was I to know Edward would cheat us? We have always been friends since we were children.'
'You are not children now and family affection is lost in greater matters,' she said sadly. 'Once I would have thought nothing could have separated me from the love of my brothers, but now I hate the King for what he has done to your father, and as for Richard – I thought he would be the one to make Henry see how foolishly he has acted, but Richard is against us too and that I find hard to bear. Please God Simon will hold Northampton for us.'
But her prayer was not answered. The Lord Edward had got a taste for warfare and he and his father came storming up to Northampton and attacked the castle. Young Simon defended it well and led a sortie against the besiegers, conducting himself bravely as became a son of the Earl of Leicester, and it was sheer misfortune that in the thick of the fight his horse reared, he lost control, and falling backwards was seized by several of his cousin's men. Yelling with triumph they bore him away to the King and Henry sent him to Windsor Castle, a prisoner. Those of the Leicester force who escaped fled back to Kenilworth with the news.
With a set face Simon had himself carried to his wheeled car, his standard fixed to one of the poles holding the canvas covering. 'It is time I showed myself,' he told Eleanor. 'Our men need a rallying point if we are not to lose all. Keep this place while I am gone. I shall leave an adequate number for your defence.'
Eleanor clung to him for one last moment, so fearful for him in his injured state that she had to force back a plea that he should not go. Harry and Guy were to ride with him, and with Simon a prisoner and Amaury in France she felt suddenly bereft, left with only her twelve-year-old daughter. But as Simon was settled against the piled cushions, fully armed, his helm and shield beside him, his stiffened leg supported, her pride in him rose, stronger than fear. She held the Demoiselle's hand firmly and stood back from the procession waiting to move out.
'God go with you, my lord, and all of you,' she said clearly. 'You have the right on your side and He cannot be against us.'
And only when he had gone, when the last man-at-arms had marched out of the bailey and over the drawbridge, leaving the castle horribly empty, did she shut herself in her chamber and give way to weeping.
As the weeks slid by news came. Now he was at Leicester, now at St Albans, and at each step he did the unexpected. When Richard sent forces to cut him off from Oxford he circled the city and crossed the Thames. When they looked for him in London he went south to encourage the barons of the Cinque ports, and when Henry made for Kent, Simon entered London where the people greeted him vociferously. They had wrecked Richard of Cornwall's manor at Islington, ruining his new fishponds, and with wry amusement she imagined how such waste would annoy her careful brother. Henry had sent the Queen to Ponthieu, out of reach of the mob, and her train of Provencal hangers-on with her. Eleanor heard this news without regret for the sister-in-law she had never really liked.
She tried to concentrate on daily business at Kenilworth, waiting for tidings, praying for Simon to defeat their enemies, to send for her to share his triumph. If he triumphed this time bow much it would mean for him, for her, for them all. She dreamed of him in the seat of power, yet all the while was fearful of bad news, afraid of his incapacity to sit a horse, to escape if things went against him.
Spring gave way to early summer. She interested herself in the spring sowing, talked with the shepherd of the tally of young lambs, with Jack in the bakehouse and Nell who brewed their beer. She worried in case a late frost should spoil the prolific blossom on the fruit trees and was thankful for the support of Finch in all she did.
Simon had promoted him from the stables, leaving these in the care of his son, Martin Finch, and had made him a steward in charge of all huntsmen and grooms and stableboys responsible for the purchase of horses and for seeing that all the men were suitably clothed in their lord's livery. Martin had gone with the rest and Finch was proud of his son, proud of his own position. He wore a long belted gown and carried a staff; his lord had entrusted him with the care of his lady and Eleanor leaned on him as on an old friend.
She was more abstemious now over her own wardrobe, but had several new gowns made for her daughter. Simon must see about the girl's betrothal, she thought, and chose blue damask, white sendal trimmed with miniver, yellow velvet with gold embroidery. The Demoiselle was growing very pretty with a clear soft complexion and thick dark lashes to eyes that were so like her father's. The barbette and crespine of Eleanor's youth had given way to the wimple which she appreciated now that there were streaks of grey in her hair, but she placed only a simple veil on her daughter's head, letting the dusky plaits fall free to her waist.
Adam Marsh came to visit her and lectured her on the danger of making the Demoiselle too concerned with worldly things.
'We live in the world, Brother Adam,' she answered, 'and a sorry place it is now. I pray only that it will be more peaceful when she is wed and taking her place in it.'
'Amen.' he said, but his tone was not hopeful. 'I grieve to hear that your husband has found it necessary to plunder innocent landowners, even holy houses.'
'He takes only what he needs,' she retorted. 'He must have money and food for his men. Do you doubt he fights for justice? Or that God will pardon what must be done in that cause?'
Brother Adam gave a heavy sigh. 'There was never a war yet, lady, in which both sides did not believe equally that they had the right.’
For once Eleanor was glad when he went. It was no more than three days after his departure that there was a frantic clatter of hooves over the drawbridge and into the inner bailey and a knight flung himself down from the saddle. Eleanor was in the hall near the open door and her heart turned over as Roger Foliot ran up the steps, pulling off his helm. He was dripping with perspiration, his hair clinging to his forehead, his cheeks flushed. He looked up at her with his face glowing, his eyes alight.
'A great victory!' he cried out. 'Lady, our lord has won a great victory!'
She clasped both hands at her breast. 'God be praised! Tell me – tell me quickly. Where? How?'
'At Lewes. Oh, it was beyond anything how fortune favoured us. We had thought everything going so badly after the Lord Edward took Tonbridge Castle. He seized all my lord of Gloucester's treasure and arms and his wife into the bargain.'
For a moment Eleanor's attention was diverted as a brief memory came back of Edward flirting with Alice in this very place six years ago, and she wondered what the meeting had been like. Gilbert the Red must be very angry that his wife was in Edward's hands. But she must know it all. 'And my lord? Is he well? How did it all happen?'
'The King had a great army and he was marching on London.' Foliot paused as those in the hall gathered round to hear the news, servants pushing by the buttery screen, grooms and kitchen lads crowding the outer steps to listen, a buzz of excitement growing. He went on, 'Some of our leaders thought my lord Simon made a great mistake in trying to intercept the King, for our army was much smaller. My lord of Gloucester was all for racing the King back to London. But our master proved to be right for the men of Kent cam
e out in their hundreds to join us. We hid ourselves in the Weald and the King did not know where we were. He sent out a few scouts and those he did send somehow never got back to him! And when we came up on to the Downs north of the town we only found one sentry and he had fallen asleep under a bush. We saw that the fellow told us what we wanted to know before we sent him to sleep again, for good.'
How like Henry, Eleanor thought, to be so slack, so overconfident. 'Go on. You have not told me about your lord.'
'He is much better, madame. He can sit a horse now, but he let no one know that until the last moment. He kept his standard flying on that chariot of his, but instead of lying in it himself he put four prisoners in it, and when the Lord Edward drove the Londoners back in the battle, his troops slew the prisoners, thinking they had found Lord Simon. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I've not told you how it started.
He looked so hot and so weary that Eleanor made him sit and Finch, his wrinkled face wearing a satisfied smile, summoned an usher to bring ale. Roger drained the mug before he went on, and eager as she was for news, it was enough for Eleanor to know that Simon was well, that he had won a victory.
The Demoiselle, hearing the commotion, had run down the stair and was listening wide-eyed. Now she cried out, 'Oh pray go on, Sir Roger. Tell us how father won the battle.'
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'It was dark when we came to the top of the Downs. We thought if the King's men had the hill they call the Black Cap there would be little chance for us. My lord Simon said it was the point he would have made for if he had been in the King's shoes, but it seemed they thought us far away, for they were all asleep in the town, except that one fellow I've told you of. We moved quietly, my lord forbade us to speak, but there were no royalists anywhere outside the walls and soon our men held the cut through the hills as well as the heights and no one the wiser.'
The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2) Page 17