Eleanor found herself glowing too. What a leader Simon was, out-marshalling the enemy, seizing the right place, the right time to strike! 'What happened then?’
'Well, he gave the centre to my lord Gloucester and your sons, lady, held the right wing while Sir Nicholas Segrave and the London bands held the left. My lord was with the Earl of Gloucester and I with him. I swore to myself that I would not leave him, whatever happened.'
'God will bless you for that. And was it still dark?'
'Aye, but the dawn came soon after and then they saw us. The King and the Lord Edward and the Earl of Cornwall brought their army out of the town. Everyone says the Lord Edward will be a great leader one day. I saw him slay a dozen men, but he is still too wild,' Roger added as if he himself was a veteran. 'His men broke the Londoners and went chasing off, pursuing them half way to Fletching where we were the day before. I suppose he has never forgotten how they stoned his mother, for he took a bloody vengeance. He thought he had found my lord in the carriage and – but I've told you that. Anyway he paid for that revenge, by God, for he left their flank exposed.'
'And my lord? He was able to fight?'
'Able?' Roger laughed, his face lit with pride. 'He sat his horse as if his leg had never been injured and he was in the thick of it. No man ever fought as he did.'
'Oh, brave, brave!' Eleanor exclaimed. She could see it all in her mind's eye. The battlefield, the close-locked men in armour, the hideous clash of weapons, the dead and dying, and her lord in the saddle once more, the victor. 'Did my sons do well?' 'They fought to make their father proud of them,' Foliot told her, 'particularly Sir Guy who drove a great gap in the enemy line. Nothing can stop him when he has that look of blood-desire in his eye.'
No, she thought, she had seen that look out hunting, and then something in her cried out in relief that none of those she loved had fallen. Her thoughts turned to those others for whom she had once cared so much.
'And my brothers, the King and the Earl of Cornwall?'
Foliot gave a boyish grin. 'The Earl of Cornwall, lady, saw that things were going badly and he took refuge in a windmill which we soon surrounded. We – we called him the Miller and asked him to grind our corn for us! And when he came out at last he was all over flour and cobwebs and a sorry sight. They're singing a song about it already.'
Eleanor could not keep back a smile but she felt pity for Richard, the cool, the dignified. How he must have hated that surrender. 'Was the King taken too?'
'Aye, we found him in the Priory of St Pancras, but before that the Lord Edward had come back to find our standard over the castle instead of his father's and the day ours. He did manage to reach the Priory but he could do naught to aid his father and by the time darkness came again they yielded and it was all over.'
Eleanor was silent, her hands still clasped, unable to take it all. The Demoiselle questioned Roger again about her brothers and their prowess, crowing with delight as he told how they had held their own, and ending by saying how mortified Simon would be that he had not been there with them. But he would be freed now, father would see to that!
Eleanor shared her daughter's exultation, dwelling on the tale. She wished she had been near enough to ride to Lewes and share in her lord's triumph. She knew little of warfare but she could guess how great a gamble Simon had taken, how startled his enemies must have been at his sudden attack. She could imagine Edward returning from his wild pursuit and his fury at finding the battle lost. But Henry had never been a soldier and Richard had only toyed with warfare, and now Simon had vanquished them, repaid all the broken promises with blood.
'Did you go with my lord to the surrender?' she asked, breaking into his description of Guy's tempestuous attack.
'I did attend him, lady, he and my lord of Gloucester sat half the night with the King and his brother and the Lord Edward. They drew up a paper which the King signed and the others too. And then we all slept. Jesu, but I was weary! My lord left the King under guard at the Priory and we slept at the castle. It was a great victory, my lady, even the Lord Edward owned it.'
A thought struck her and she asked if Henry of Almaine had been there?
'My lord Richard's son? Yes, madame, he was in the mill with his father – the miller's boy!'
Her hands clenched. 'Fickle. My lord always said he was fickle. So much for his word. He deserves to have his spurs struck off for breaking such a promise. What has my lord done with his prisoners, Roger?'
'He has taken them all to London, lady, the King riding beside him and held in respect, I assure you. Your lord will have no insolence, though' – he admitted apologetically – 'we do make jokes. The men will sing their songs of it. Your lord has sent trusted knights to hold all the castles in the realm. There will be peace now, my lady.'
'Peace!' she echoed. 'But for how long?'
'Please God our lord will see all well done. He has ordered men on both sides to go home and wage no more war, and he has sent me to say –’
'Yes? What message has he for me?'
'His greeting and his dear love, madame, and his wish that I should escort you and his daughter at once to London.'
The Demoiselle exclaimed in delight and Eleanor at once gave orders for them all to be ready in the morning, except the garrison which must remain behind. She acknowledged the eager congratulations, the delight of her household, and then went up the stair to her bower, setting Mary and Dionysia to search out the very best gowns for herself and her daughter.
While they busied themselves, chattering excitedly, she stood looking out over the mere, blue under a summer sky. She was almost too happy, too proud to think clearly, for this consummation of all her prayers was overwhelming. She leaned her head against the cool stone of the embrasure, trying to see into the future. It had been worth all the struggle, the anxiety, all his earnest endeavour, and with Henry his prisoner, what would not come to them? She and Simon were on a pinnacle of power, and her love and her ambition for him rose within her. He was the greatest man in the kingdom and she, Eleanor Plantagenet, was his wife.
CHAPTER TEN
Richard, Earl of Cornwall and King of the Romans did not relish captivity, though when one of his jailers was his own sister it made it a little more palatable. And he was hardly treated like a prisoner, more as an honoured guest. He had a fine bedchamber, servants to wait on him, luxuries ordered from London to suit his taste at table, everything he could possibly want – except his freedom.
His escapade in the mill at Lewes provided ample fodder for the impudent writers of scurrilous verse and a song was circulating:
'The Emperor of Germany thought he'd done well,
To make a strong fortress out of a mill. . .
Dick, up to every treacherous trick,
Your crafty career's done in, sir!'
It was humiliating, and even now outside in the bailey he could hear someone whistling the tune. He saw one or two lips twitching at the lower tables but no one dared to sing it openly in front of their Countess. At least, he thought, Eleanor kept his dignity and hers. Only he and she and Edward sat at the centre of this high table and no doubt soon her stern husband, his hand firmly on the nation's reins, would arrange some terms for his freedom. He would be allowed to go back to Germany, to his third wife, Beatrice of Falkenberg, but he reflected gloomily that if he went God alone knew what would happen to his brother. Henry was treated royally, but he was still watched every moment by Simon's men, bereft of his Queen, a lonely worried man pacing the palace of Woodstock.
Richard glanced at his nephew sitting on his other side. Edward's head was full of plans for escape, anyone could see that. A party of knights from Bristol had tried to rescue him from Wallingford where he had first been imprisoned and had nearly carried the day, but the defenders had threatened to shoot their captive over the wall from a mangonel if they did not withdraw. Edward had mounted the battlements himself and assured his friends that his captors meant what they said so the affair had come to nothing,
but Richard, watching his nephew's long handsome face, the blue eyes shadowed and deep in thought, was convinced that Edward could not be held for long.
His own son Henry of Almaine was also with him and hard words had nearly come to blows between Henry and Guy de Montfort, Guy reminding his cousin of his promise never to draw sword against the Earl of Leicester. Almaine had retorted that his loyalty to his father came first, and only restraining hands kept Guy from attacking his unarmed cousin. Now Guy scowled and ignored Almaine, seldom speaking even to his uncle Richard.
Richard reached for his cup. It was empty and Eleanor beckoned to an usher to bring wine. Richard liked the light wine from Gascony and nothing but the best was served to him. Tonight he had eaten of crane's flesh, served with parsnips topped with honey and baked so that they were deliciously browned, a pie of lampreys and this at their most expensive season, hashed duck and hard boiled eggs, salted salmon in a piquant white sauce, and now he was biting into a tasty honey and almond and raisin tart.
‘An excellent supper, my dear sister,' he said. ‘You keep great state here at Kenilworth.'
‘How should I not when I have such guests.' She answered courteously but her relations with him were more formal than they had once been, their talk more edged.
‘Guests?' He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I'll not comment on our status yet again, but I confess I grow weary with sitting here doing nothing.’
‘And I,' Edward agreed. Only today a pedlar with a pack of silks and ribbons, belts and shoes, on his way from Bristol to the north, had stopped briefly at the castle. Something about his expression as he looked at the prince made Edward inspect his wares. Under cover of the purchase of an embroidered belt, the man had told him in a low voice that despite her lord's banishment Roger Mortimer's lady was devising a plan of her own for his rescue. His mouth widened as he thought of the Lady Maud, fiercely proud, beautiful and utterly unscrupulous – God send a good result of her scheming and then he would find a way to repay the indignity of Lewes and its consequences.
In a sudden spurt of irritation at the whole miserable business he said, 'I hear Harry is busy setting up as a wool merchant. Perhaps he cannot spare the time to sit in Parliament.'
'Your tongue is sharp,' Eleanor retorted with asperity. 'Harry is entitled to take dues on the wool shipped at Dover. Being warden of the castle he must raise money for its defence, but that is no reason why he should not attend Parliament. Simon has his affairs in hand at Porchester so no doubt they will ride up together. Knights from all the shires will be there.'
'We gathered all and sundry were to be invited,' Richard said. 'God's teeth, what are we coming to?'
'A better way of doing things,' Eleanor replied. She turned her head to look closely at her brother. He had grown heavier but he had not lost his hair as Henry had done. He was still enormously wealthy and had sunk a fortune in his brother's struggle to keep his crown. He, like Edward, was irrevocably Simon's enemy now and yet she found herself longing for something of the old love between them.
'Richard,' she said again in a softer tone, 'I know we have talked of this before but can't I make you understand Simon cares only for what is best for England?’
'Do you say so?' Richard's retort was dry. 'Not everyone thinks it for the best that the merchant and the goldsmith and the cooper should have as much right to sit in Parliament as their natural lords.'
'No one wants to upset the standing of their natural lords.' Eleanor lifted her head. 'Simon will never be other than master here, but he will have all his people able to speak for their own needs and rights.'
'High sounding phrases, but men think he has feathered his own nest pretty well since Lewes.'
'And rightly so. He must have means for his work.' She broke off abruptly. 'Pray, brother, take some of this cheese from Brie. It is very good. My lord' – she turned to a young man with thick, wildly curling dark hair and eyes that were almost black. 'Will you not sing us one of your Welsh songs? They are so charming.'
'A marching song perhaps?' Edward said under his breath, his hands curling themselves as if grasping a sword. He disliked the presence at this table of Llewellyn of Wales, but Simon had made a treaty with the young prince to keep the marches safe and Llewellyn was perhaps a more welcome guest than he, the Lord Edward! His own friends and closest supporters were the marcher lords and one day, when he his way, he would drive the turbulent Welsh back into their hills. But for the present he must sit and listen to this unruly fellow who called himself a prince playing the lute and singing a song in a language that was beyond understanding.
As he played Llewellyn's black eyes were on Edward's cousin, the Demoiselle, now blossoming into womanhood and beautiful womanhood at that. She blushed and looked down at her folded hands and wished she knew what the words meant, for she was sure they were a love song.
Eleanor watched them both, smiling a little and listening. She had something to say to her daughter on that score.
The company in the hall had quietened now, for a pleasant melody was coming from the lute under the Welshman's able fingers and he had a singularly sweet baritone voice, singing from the heart as all Welshmen seemed to do. Eleanor let her thoughts drift away, as always, to Simon. She had wanted to go to London with him but he wished her to remain here at Kenilworth to keep watch on their illustrious captives. She was troubled for him. He was fifty-seven now and the great burdens on him were at times almost insupportable; yet he worked with fury as if he saw the opportunity as brief, the years passing. This Parliament was indeed the culmination of his great dream, but it was not easily won. There was constant trouble for he had to contend with the jealousies of the barons who wanted to yield nothing, not one jot of their power. Gloucester was the most discontented of all, his most loud complaint that he had taken Richard of Cornwall prisoner and therefore had the right to him and his ransom yet Simon kept him at Kenilworth. Eleanor wished he would try to handle that dangerous young man with more tact, but when she spoke of it, Simon brushed the suggestion aside. Gloucester must abide the agreement made or suffer the consequences.
But the common folk loved the victor of Lewes. In the London taverns they raised their tankards of ale to 'Sir Simon the Just', and not a few, she suspected, would be glad to see her at Westminster and Simon beside her. Yet she knew he did not want that, had never wanted it, though there were times when she herself had dreamed of it, Plantagenet ambition rising in her. Simon was worthy of a crown and was she not the daughter of a king?
She gave a little sigh and turned her attention to the singer. The last notes ended, the lute strings died on a melancholy chord and the Welsh prince smiled across at the Demoiselle as, politely clapping her hands, she raised her eyes to his.
After supper Eleanor retired to her bower with her daughter and there put a hand to the girl's cheek. 'You are hot, my little coney,' she said and the blush returned. 'Do you care so much for him?'
'Oh!' The Demoiselle clasped her hands together. 'Mother, how did you know?'
'How? Child, I have been in love.'
'But – but my lord Llewellyn – does he, I mean – would father –'
Eleanor laughed, finding the girl's confusion charming. She drew her to sit on a stool at her feet. 'Your father has already discussed the matter with me, when he was last here. He has also spoken to the Prince and your betrothal will be announced when he next comes home.'
The Demoiselle gave a startled gasp and then laid her head against her mother's knee. 'I did not know. I am so happy – I did not think I could be so happy.'
'You will be happier yet, please God.' Eleanor said, stroking the long plaits. 'If one is fortunate in marriage, as I have been, there are joys to come beyond your imagining. Llewellyn is a brave young man and our friend. Your marriage will bind him to us and then between him and your father the marcher lords will be kept to a truce. There is policy in this match as well as your inclinations!'
The Demoiselle was enough a maiden of her generation to und
erstand, but she scarcely paused to consider this point of view; her thoughts were all for those black eyes, the lilting voice, the square strong hands that had held hers in a dance this evening. The next day Eleanor brought the prince to her bower and allowed them a few moments together. Llewellyn was to leave after dinner on his way back to Wales and the eager girl stood within the circle of his arms to be kissed for the first time, her young body responding to that swift eager touching of the lips. When he had gone she craned from the tower window to watch the dragon banner fluttering over his head until she could see it no longer, and for the rest of the day sat in a dream, unable to set a stitch in her embroidery while Eleanor smiled at her indulgently.
Some weeks later on a cold February day, Eleanor sat reading a long letter from her lord full of the doings of Parliament, of Henry's forced concurrence in the achievements there. Edward and Henry of Almaine, summoned to London, were nominally released and Edward gave to his uncle the wealthy earldom of Chester as an earnest of his good behaviour. 'But,' Simon wrote, 'I do not trust his youthful impulses. He will seek an opportunity to destroy me and I keep my own men constantly outnumbering his in his retinue.'
There was however another matter engaging him. Before the long debates were over their three elder sons, always easily wearied with too much talking, organized a tournament with Gilbert the Red, to be held at Nottingham. Overstrained and in no mood for frivolity, Simon forbade it, at least until Parliament had ended its deliberations. Harry and his brothers were much put out of countenance by this, but they glumly obeyed their father, 'like tiresome children,' he added, 'but Gilbert has taken it as a personal insult. It is time he grew a wiser head on his shoulders for he stands second to me among our barons.'
Eleanor was troubled, more deeply than she allowed anyone to see. She wrote back to Simon, entrusting the letter to her faithful messenger, Truebody. 'Keep Gloucester at your side,' she urged him. 'If you will, my dear lord, you can win him back to you.'
The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2) Page 18