Edward turned away without answering, and Richard relaxed in his seat, content to wait until Edward’s pride would permit him to ask how he could make peace with his father. He was well pleased with what he had accomplished, for Henry’s breach with his heir had to be healed at all costs, and if in the process, he’d just sown some lasting seeds of enmity between Edward and Simon de Montfort, so be it.
“You are not being fair!” Edward’s indignation was colored with genuine surprise, for his past experience had led him to expect people to accept any excuse he deigned to offer, even to make the excuses for him. “I thought you would understand,” he said, and Simon shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I do not. In these past months, we’ve spent countless hours discussing the Provisions. You agreed wholeheartedly that they must be upheld, that there was an urgent need for reform. Yet after just one meeting with your father, you are now willing to disavow all our efforts?”
Edward’s mouth tightened. “I love my father too much to cause him further grief,” he said, and Simon reached out, grasped his wrist.
“If you truly love your father, lad, do not abandon him to evil counsel, to men like John Mansel and Gloucester. Use your influence, Edward, lead him back to the right path. Set him an example, show him that a king must keep his oath, that he must think of the common good, for even the least of his brethren are deserving of justice. If the Lord God pays heed even to the fall of a sparrow, can the King do less? These are lessons he must learn, Edward, lessons you alone can teach him.”
As flattering as Simon’s appeal was, the message itself was alien to Edward. As far as he could determine, Simon’s politics seemed to be a peculiar form of Christian chivalry, in which the ideals of knighthood were sanctified by faith, and he’d quickly concluded that Simon had paid too much heed to the visionary Bishop of Lincoln, for such an uncompromising code of ethics belonged in Camelot, not England in God’s year 1260. It was never Simon’s political theories that Edward had found so seductive; it was the blazing sun of his enthusiasm, the camaraderie of a shared quest with the greatest soldier of their age. But that singular sense of comradeship was no more; that, his uncle Richard had destroyed, utterly and for all time, leaving behind a residue of bitterness, self-reproach, and resentment.
He jerked free of Simon’s hold. “I am beginning to think that your enemies do well to suspect your motives. What would you have me do, fight my own father?”
Simon stepped back. “I would have you honor your word. Is that too much to ask of you? Of a sudden, I think it is.”
Edward flushed. “It is not for you to criticize me, my lord Earl. A man may be judged only by his peers, his equals. I am a King’s son, and therefore I am answerable only to my father, the King of England, and my uncle, the King of the Romans. Not to you!”
Simon was now flushed, too. “Yes,” he said scathingly, “you are indeed Henry’s son!”
“I am also the grandson of King John, a man who did not forget his enemies. You’d best bear that in mind!” Edward’s anger had blinded him to all but Simon. Turning, he brushed past Nell as if she were not there, stalked from the chamber.
There was an involuntary cry of “Ned!” from Harry, and then the slamming of the door. Simon had moved to the hearth. Nell followed, put her hand on his arm. He shrugged it off, but she forbore to take offense, for she knew the depths of his disappointment. “You tried,” she said. “What more could you do?”
“He never believed in the Provisions, Nell. If he had, he could not have renounced them with such ease. Lies, all lies! He cares naught for the Provisions, naught for our common enterprise. So he does not forget his enemies? Well, neither do I!”
Simon swung about, reaching for his mantle, and Nell cried, “Where do you go at such an hour?”
“Wherever my horse takes me,” he said brusquely. “I need the air, need time for my anger to cool. Do not wait up.”
She did not like the idea of his riding abroad, alone, at night, but she knew it would be futile to protest. “Just do not jump any fences,” she shouted after him. “Last time you almost broke your neck!”
An unhappy silence settled over the chamber, for Harry and Bran were no less troubled than Nell by this sudden rupture with Edward. But Guy appeared unfazed. “I am Edward and answerable only to God,” he said mockingly, “for I am surely a sovereign’s son!” He was a clever mimic, but a cruel one, too, for Edward did have a slight lisp. Bran’s mouth twitched, Nell frowned, and Harry snarled:
“Curb your tongue, you impudent whelp!”
Guy had inherited his full share of Simon’s volcanic temper, and at seventeen, he was still exploring the outer boundaries of manhood. “I take no orders from you, Harry!”
Nell was not pleased, but she did not interfere. She and Simon believed their sons should settle their own disputes, and intervened only when blood seemed likely to flow.
It was Bran who acted as peacemaker, in his own inimitable way. “I’ve got ten marks, Mama, that says the cub knocks Harry on his arse.”
Harry snorted. “If you’ve got ten marks,” he gibed, “it means you filched my purse again!”
“I most certainly did not,” Bran said. “If I was going to steal from anyone, it would be from Amaury!” As Amaury was the one miser in a family of incorrigible spendthrifts, that got a laugh. But then Bran’s grin faded. “Why be so quick to defend Ned, Harry? How can you justify what he’s done?”
“I do not! But I find it easier than Papa to understand. We would be loyal to Papa unto death. So how, then, can we fault Ned for being loyal to his father?”
Nell saw that he’d scored some points with Bran, who looked suddenly thoughtful, but not with Guy, who said, “Yes, but Papa is in the right and Uncle Henry in the wrong!” And that no de Montfort would dispute.
Harry and Bran drifted over to the hearth, where they began a low-voiced discussion of Edward’s defection, laying plans to bring him back into the fold. Guy watched, looking both left out and sullen, and Nell gave him a curious glance. “You do not like Ned, do you?” she asked, and saw his eyes—grey like Simon’s—become suddenly wary.
“No,” he said, no more than that, and Nell decided not to press further. Returning to her seat, she picked up her account book. But she found it difficult to keep her mind upon household expenses, for her ears still rang with Edward’s angry warning, that he did not forget his enemies. Was that how he truly saw Simon now—as an enemy?
“Mama.”
Glancing up, she smiled. Her three elder sons so resembled Simon that she often found herself indulging them more than she ought, caught by a sudden grin, a familiar gesture, by tantalizing glimpses of a ghost, the young Frenchman who’d so long ago won her heart. Her youngest son, eleven-year-old Richard, also bore Simon’s stamp, while her girls, Ellen and the daughter buried in Bordeaux, had inherited her coloring. But Amaury was the anomaly. With his sturdy frame, his curly chestnut hair, he bore so little resemblance to his dark, long-legged, boisterous brothers that Guy occasionally called him a changeling. Amaury responded to such taunts with serene indifference, thus confirming to Simon and Nell that they’d been right to choose for him a career in the Church.
The Archbishop of Rouen had offered Amaury a prebend, and the boy was to sail for Rouen that summer, where he would be installed in his new benefice, continuing his studies under the Archbishop’s benevolent eye. Nell was delighted that they had secured so prestigious a post for Amaury, but she would miss him, too, more than she could admit, for their society expected sons to be sent away from home at early ages, expected mothers to acquiesce in long separations.
Amaury looked troubled; he, too, had been a witness to his father’s confrontation with his cousin Edward. Nell gestured for him to sit upon her foot stool, waited with unwonted patience for him to confide his concerns. He fidgeted, then blurted out, “The King hates Papa!”
“Yes,” Nell said slowly. “I fear he does.”
“He does not mean to
honor his word, does he, Mama? He is not going to abide by the Provisions.”
“I would hope he does, but his attempt to thwart parliament does not bode well for the future, lad.”
“Mama…will there be war?”
“Jesú, no!” Nell stared at her son. “Whatever Henry has done, he is still the King, and your father has sworn an oath of fealty to him. Think you that Simon could forget that?”
“But Papa has sworn to defend the Provisions, too, Mama. What if he has to choose?”
“God willing, it will never come to that, Amaury,” Nell said, firmly enough to forestall further questions. Amaury looked relieved, soon wandered over to engage Guy in a game of tables. But as Nell stared down unseeingly at her account book, the seed planted by her son took root, for with a fourteen-year-old’s forthrightness, Amaury had been the first one who dared to put Simon’s dilemma into words. What if he had to choose? Despite her assurances to her son, it was not a question Nell could answer. She doubted that Simon could have answered it, either.
Having reconciled with his son, Henry then sought to bring Simon to trial, charging him with perjury and lèse-majesté. But his council balked, and the French King was dismayed by Henry’s bad faith, dispatching the Archbishop of Rouen to England to speak in Simon’s defense. Henry was forced to back down.
He then took a page from his father’s book of tricks. Just as King John had persuaded Pope Innocent III to annul the Runnymede Charter, Henry now appealed to Pope Alexander IV, and in June 1261, he triumphantly made public the papal bull invalidating the Oxford Provisions.
But he had misjudged the mood of his countrymen. His barons were outraged; even the Earl of Gloucester rallied to the opposition. Simon, Gloucester, and the Bishop of Worcester went so far as to summon three knights from each shire to St Albans, a truly revolutionary step, for this was the first time that men other than lords were to be given a voice in the affairs of state. Edward cleverly countered their move by having Henry hastily summon the knights to meet with him on the same September day at Windsor, and the confused knights chose the safer course, stayed home. Both sides began to recruit foreign mercenaries; conflict seemed inevitable.
And then the Earl of Gloucester once again switched sides, came to a private understanding with Henry. The barons were so shaken by his defection that Simon’s “common enterprise” began to fall apart. Appalled, Simon cursed his irresolute allies in vain. Declaring that he’d never known a people as faithless as the English, he withdrew to France in a fury, vowing to go on crusade.
In Simon’s absence, the barons agreed to submit their dispute with Henry to the judgment of his brother Richard, and in May of 1262, Richard found in Henry’s favor. In July, Henry followed Simon to France, where he sought to have Simon arraigned before the French King. Again, his attempt failed.
As 1262 came to a close, it seemed that Henry had won. The barons were in disarray, Simon in voluntary exile, the Oxford Provisions declared null and void. But Simon refused to repudiate the Provisions, and such was the shadow he cast that until he did, Henry’s victory was in doubt. The country was uneasy. In November, there were ugly anti-Semitic riots in London, for as always in times of stress, the unfortunate Jews served as scapegoats. Along the Welsh Marches, strife flared up again. Charging the English with violations of the truce, Llewelyn laid siege to Edward’s castles of Deganwy and Disserth. And all men turned their eyes toward France, wondering how long it would be before Simon de Montfort returned to England.
26
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Dolbadarn, North Wales
April 1263
________
“I tell you, Owain, England totters on the very brink of civil war!” Davydd gave an excited laugh. “Edward and the young de Montforts spent last year in France, fighting in tournaments and ale-houses. Henry was at the French court, doing what he could to give grief to de Montfort, whilst his brother Richard was chasing a phantom crown the length and breadth of Germany. But they are all back in England now—even that de Lusignan half-brother of Henry’s.”
Owain yawned. “Aymer?”
Davydd frowned. “William—the Earl of Pembroke,” he said with strained patience. “Do you not remember, Owain? Aymer died in Rome. So…the stage is set. But the principal actors are still biding their time, for the play cannot begin without de Montfort. All of Christendom now looks to France, waiting for de Montfort to make up his mind—as if there is any doubt what he’ll do! Henry has alienated most of the young lords, Gloucester and de Warenne and even his own nephew, the Lord Hal, and they’ve been entreating de Montfort to lead them, to—”
“I thought Gloucester backed the King,” Owain said, and Davydd slammed his mead cup down upon the table.
“Jesus wept, where are your wits? Gloucester died last summer! It is his son I speak of, Gilbert de Clare. Do you not read my letters?”
Owain flushed. “For certes I do. But English affairs now hold little interest for me, Davydd. What is the point, after all? Whether Gloucester allies himself with the King or de Montfort, it is all the same to me. Whatever these English lords do, the morrow will find me still here at Dolbadarn, will it not?”
Davydd winced. He did not begrudge Owain his anger, but there was more self-pity than bitterness in Owain’s lament. In recent months, Davydd had noted a marked deterioration in his brother’s spirits. Senena’s December death had struck Owain a telling blow. He alone of Senena’s sons truly mourned her passing, and his grieving had yet to show signs of healing, for his yesterdays were all he had.
The silence was so prolonged that Owain at last became aware of it. “So tell me, lad,” he said, too heartily. “How is that red-haired lass of yours? What is her name—Meryl?”
“Meriel. But that was over months ago. My current lady’s name is Eleri.” Davydd rose, crossed to his brother. “When I was speaking of the English King’s woes, I was not just making idle conversation. The English turmoil matters, matters more than you know. Will you hear me out?”
When Owain nodded, Davydd gestured toward the closest bench. “Sit then, whilst I refresh your memory. When Gloucester died last year, his son hastened to Boulogne, where he sought to persuade Henry to give him seisin of the de Clare estates. Henry balked. Legally, he was within his rights; Gilbert was just nineteen then, two years shy of his majority. But politically, his refusal was madness, yet another of Henry’s self-inflicted wounds. Let me tell you about the young Earl. Men call him ‘Red Gilbert,’ for like you, he has fiery hair…and like you, a fiery temper. Henry made an enemy in Boulogne, and needlessly. Moreover, he succeeded in estranging Richard’s firstborn, for Hal counts Gilbert as a friend.”
“So Gloucester is nursing a grudge? What of it?” But Owain’s indifference was feigned; he was listening in earnest now.
“Three days ago, Edward crossed into North Wales, bringing supplies to his garrisons at Deganwy and Disserth. It will avail him naught, of course, for both castles will fall to Llewelyn sooner or later. You’ll not like hearing this, Owain, but I daresay our brother has given Edward some sleepless nights of late. You see, he now poses a threat twice-over to England. No Welsh prince ever wielded the power he does, not even our grandfather. Moreover, he and Simon de Montfort are much too friendly for the English Crown’s comfort. Once de Montfort returns from France, he’ll seek Llewelyn out, and that is an unholy alliance in truth, one to put the fear of God into any English king, much less a timid soul like Henry!”
“Do you truly think I want to hear you laud Llelo’s prowess on the battlefield?”
“But if he were not so formidable a foe, Owain, Edward and Henry would not be in such desperate need of Welsh allies.” Davydd’s smile was sudden, sardonic. “Our grandfather profited right handsomely from the last English civil war. I expect to profit no less from this one.”
Owain’s eyes widened. “What mean you to do, lad?”
Davydd’s smile lost its edge. “I mean,” he said, “to set you free.”
There were just thirteen months between Gilbert de Clare and his younger brother, Thomas, and they could have been taken for twins, for they had inherited the same stocky build, the same flaming red hair, and an apparent infinity of freckles. But Thomas lacked Gilbert’s irascibility, his prickly pride, and Edward found him to be a more amiable companion than the young Earl of Gloucester. Thomas was intelligent, Oxford-educated, but he had a full measure of common sense, too. Above all, he was a good sport, and while he’d voiced some qualms about this midnight meeting of Edward’s, he was now riding at Edward’s stirrup.
“Do you trust him?” he asked, casting an uneasy glance over his shoulder, for the Welsh woods were utterly black. They seemed to have entered a long, leafy tunnel, bereft of even the faintest glimmer of starlight, but alive with unseen eyes.
Edward grinned. “Trust a Welshman, Tom? Are you daft?”
“Then what are we doing out in the middle of the forest, in the middle of the night?”
“Because he could not come to me. Would you have him ride into Deganwy, brazen as you please? With Llewelyn’s men keeping vigil day and night?”
Thomas said nothing. Edward had logic on his side, but Thomas had an uncomfortable suspicion that Edward relished the intrigue, even the risk.
Their Welsh guide now reined in his mount. “We are here,” he announced, although to Thomas this glen looked like every other woodland clearing they’d passed through since leaving Deganwy. Edward signaled for his men to wait, and he and Thomas dismounted.
Thomas immediately tripped over a hidden root, nearly falling flat, to his chagrin and Edward’s amusement. “I can just see us,” he grumbled, “waiting out here till dawn, whilst this phantom ally of yours is comfortably abed back at Aber. This is just the sort of perverse jest to appeal to a Welshman!”