“What of it? Why should I not make provisions for Bran?”
Nell was no less quick to chime in. “Have you forgotten that Bran is a second son? Simon’s title and the bulk of our estates will pass to Harry. But Bran and his brothers must be taken care of, too.”
They stared defiantly at Bishop Walter, in this utterly united, as they were in most things, and he knew it was useless to argue propriety or political acumen. With Simon and Nell, discretion would never take precedence over the protective passion of parent for child. “I tell you only that it would have been better had you bestowed the lands elsewhere; at the least, you ought to have consulted Gloucester ere you made the grant. If you would but indulge Gloucester’s crotchets, seek to gain his good will—”
“I am his ally, not his wet-nurse, Walter. Your young lordling has passed twenty winters, is old enough to know his own mind. If he believes in the Provisions, he will defend them. If he does not, all the pampering under God’s sky will not avail.”
The Bishop rose from the shadows, made a strategic withdrawal, knowing full well that Simon would balk if pushed. Simon had risen, too. Nell watched as he paced the chamber, to the window, back to the hearth, to the window again. She could take pleasure—even at such a moment—in his quick, sure step. She had never known a man so at ease in his own body; even on those rare occasions when he’d had too much wine, he was not clumsy, never awkward in his movements. It was Nell’s private conviction that Simon had been singularly blessed, and not just with a cat’s grace. In the twenty-five years that they’d been married, only twice had he been laid low with a raging fever; so infrequently did he suffer from headaches or hacking coughs or even the inevitable winter colds that Nell sometimes resented his apparent immunity to the disagreeable afflictions that vexed the rest of mankind. And now he seemed no less impervious to aging.
He would be fifty-five in December, but his energy still burned at full flame; he could outride men half his age, and, to Nell’s secret satisfaction, he looked years younger than either of her brothers. Unlike Richard, whose hairline had begun to recede while he was in his forties, or Henry, whose bald spot perfectly resembled a monk’s tonsure, Simon’s hair was still thick and luxuriant, if no longer the color of ink. Even before he’d reached fifty, it had begun to whiten, was now the purest shade of snow, much to Nell’s delight. On those days when he was not infuriating her with his obstinacy, she counted herself very lucky, indeed, that her husband was still so pleasing to her eyes. But if there was an erotic shading to her thoughts, there was also an underlying sense of unease.
“Simon…have you given any thought to returning to France?”
“Yes,” he said, surprising her by how readily he made that admission. “Of course I have. But it would be confessing defeat, Nell, would be an acknowledgment that Henry had won. The moment my ship raised anchor, he’d revoke the Provisions; we both know that. If I leave England, we lose any chance for reform, and place all we have in jeopardy. As soon as he dared, Henry would declare our lands forfeit. If war does come, I would rather we fought over the Provisions than over Kenilworth.”
“Is that what you see ahead of us, Simon…war?”
“All too often,” he conceded. He was back at the window; it was set with costly glass panes, for the Bishop of Durham did not believe man must mortify the flesh to find salvation. An early October dusk was settling over the city; lantern lights flickered like floating fireflies as river boats passed the Bishop’s dock. Simon watched in silence for a time. “ ‘Fishmongers and blacksmiths and beggars,’ was that what Edward called them? They may be men of low birth, of humble trades, but they do not lack for courage. Their support for the Provisions—for me—could cost them dear. I cannot forsake them, Nell.” He turned as she reached his side, saying, “Can you understand?”
She nodded, and he slid his arm around her waist. “I’ve always been so sure,” he said, “so certain of tomorrow. I always felt confident that I knew what God wanted of me. But now…”
She’d often teased him about that very certainty, pointing out that his will and God’s Will seemed to coincide more often than not. But she could find no humor in this unexpected confession of doubt. “Hold me close,” she said. “I feel so cold of a sudden.”
The October parliament broke up in rancorous disarray, hopelessly deadlocked over the issue of whether Henry should have the sole right to appoint officers of his household. As the Londoners rashly defied the King by re-electing Thomas Fitz Thomas by acclamation, Henry and Edward withdrew to Windsor, Simon to Kenilworth, and a tentative truce was worked out. But it lasted only until December, when Henry suddenly marched on Dover Castle. He was denied entry by the constable, and Simon hastened south with a small force. Reaching London by the first week of Advent, he encamped with his men across the river at Southwark and dispatched scouts to track the whereabouts of the royal army. A disquieting lull followed, what all knew to be a counterfeit peace.
The weather had been rainy and unseasonably mild, but the temperature plunged suddenly on the night of December 10, and Londoners awoke in the morning to a world of frozen, foreboding beauty. Icicles adorned the eaves of every roof, festooned the branches of barren trees, sheathed ale-stakes and shop signs, spangling the city in a shimmering, translucent glaze. The streets glittered in the greying dawn, powdered with snow, ice-encrusted. The air was crystalline, too, the sky the color of polished pearl, streaked with light wherever the sun sought to break through. It was a day for awe, not for travel; under cover of darkness, nature had contrived a dazzling December panorama, but man ventured into this frigid tableau at his own risk.
And yet John de Gisors, a man accustomed to sleeping late, a man whose age and wealth demanded self-indulgence, now stood shivering on a wind-whipped street within sight of the bridge. It was dubious consolation that his companions looked no less discomfited; like him, they were finding the suspense as penetrating as the cold. Augustine de Hadestok had lost his bluster. Richard Picard seemed uncommonly subdued, too. Only Stephen de Chelmsford’s smile was spontaneous, for he burned with a young man’s passion, undimmed by the chill, the early hour, any belated doubts.
John de Gisors was not plagued with last-minute regrets, for he was convinced that his own interests, his city’s future, and his King’s welfare could best be served by the death of Simon de Montfort. Yet it was unnerving, nonetheless, to be so close to fruition, poised as they were between planning and performance. At last he saw Adam running toward them. If he had a surname, de Gisors never knew it; what he did know was that this Adam was a seasoned soldier, a man willing to take great risks for the right price, a man as capable as he was cocky, to judge by his triumphant grin.
“It’s done,” Adam announced, only a little out of breath. “The guards were sleeping. Taking the bridge was almost too easy, no fun at all!” He held up a large metal key. “This opens the gatehouse. Without it, no man can lower the drawbridge.” He balanced the key tantalizingly for a moment, then flipped it through the air. John de Gisors nearly fumbled the catch, clutching the key awkwardly to his chest as Augustine de Hadestok demanded edgily:
“But others have keys to the gatehouse; the Mayor for certes, the sheriffs, mayhap that whoreson Puleston now that he’s been elected constable—”
“Make yourself easy, friend.” There was genuine amusement in Adam’s smile, and affable contempt. “We’re a half-mile ahead of you. The door of the gatehouse has been chained shut and locked…with this,” he said, producing a second key.
“I’ll take that,” John de Gisors said swiftly, thinking it advisable to reassert their authority over this insolent hireling. “Are you sure your men can hold the bridge?”
“You’d best hope so,” Adam drawled, the sound of his laughter floating back to them as he began to retrace his steps, moving at a provocatively leisured pace.
They watched him go in silence, as if stunned by their own success. De Gisors gave an audible sigh, echoing Adam’s boastful “It’s
done,” but with far more fervor. “Even as we speak,” he assured his accomplices, “the King is leading an army from Croydon, whilst the Lord Edward approaches from Merton. By the time de Montfort realizes his peril, it will be too late. With the bridge closed to him, he’ll be trapped between the river and the royal army. God willing, this shall be a day we’ll long remember—Thomas Fitz Thomas most of all!”
Simon had chosen to quarter his men in Southwark partly for safety’s sake, London offering a handy retreat should the need arise, and partly for convenience, Southwark having enough open space to accommodate an army encampment. But Simon had not taken into account the tempting proximity of the Southwark stews. Few soldiers could resist the lure of the bankside bordellos, and Simon suspected that most of his men had been sampling the hospitality of the Southwark whores. For certes neither of his sons had abstained; on his way to Mass at St Mary Overie, Simon had encountered Bran and Guy, just returning to camp, bleary-eyed and disheveled.
Simon could summon up no sympathy for their morning-after malaise, never having suffered a hangover himself. During Mass, a time when his thoughts should be turning only to God, he could not help brooding about their constant carousing. As impatient as he was with his own weaknesses, the foibles of other men, he’d always found a wealth of forbearance for the shortcomings of his sons. So proud was he of their courage, their high spirits, their impassioned loyalty, that it had been easy to indulge them, to overlook their lack of prudence, to excuse their skylarking, their tempers. Even their whoring and hell-raising could be shrugged off as the inevitable folly of youth—at first.
But Simon’s tolerance was beginning to wear thin. They were no longer raw striplings; Harry was twenty-five, Bran twenty-three, and Guy twenty-one, men grown by any standard, even a permissive parent’s. Just how reliable were they? A question not even love could deflect, a question he could deny but not—in all honesty—answer.
“My lord.” Simon’s anger at being interrupted at prayer died away as soon as he recognized the intruder. He rose without a word; so did his companions. Under the curious eyes of the congregation, they followed Simon’s scout from the church.
Their squires had anticipated trouble; the horses were waiting. Turning to face Simon, the scout blurted out his news in one gulped breath. “My lord, you are in grave danger. I kept watch on the Lord Edward’s camp at Merton, as you ordered, and early this morn he bestirred his men, took the road north—toward London. Once I realized his intent, I did not spare my mount, but he is not that far behind me, and Merton is eight…nine miles away at most.”
Simon did not bother to ask if Edward’s army outnumbered his own, taking that as a given, for he had less than a hundred men, and only twenty or so were knights; he’d been awaiting reinforcements. “You’ve done well,” he said, with a smile that brought a pleased flush to the youth’s face, then swung up into the saddle. While he was not particularly alarmed, there was no time to tarry.
Upon their return to their bankside encampment, they found a scene of considerable commotion. Even the most drink-sodden of the soldiers were no longer abed. The tents stood empty, while men mulled about in loud, quarrelsome confusion. At sight of Simon, they surged toward him in obvious relief, all talking at once. Simon finally got a coherent account from Guy and the young Earl of Derby. The latter looked even worse than Simon’s sons, greensick from too much ale, not enough sleep, but he was wide awake now, and once Simon heard his news, he understood why; he could think of no greater stimulant than an approaching army.
This latest warning came not from one of Simon’s scouts, but from a farmer sympathetic to Simon’s cause. He swore that Henry had left Croydon at dawn, leading a goodly sized force up the London road.
Simon’s smile was wry. “Passing strange, for it seems that Edward also plans to come calling on us. A pity they shall ride all this way in vain, but of a sudden I have a great desire to spend the day in London!”
The men laughed, and without waiting for orders, scattered toward their tents, snatching up what belongings they could. The atmosphere in the camp had dramatically altered; an air of edgy excitement prevailed, the satisfaction of a fox about to outwit the hounds.
Simon’s jesting had set their mood, but Simon himself did not share in it, for he knew at once that this ambush was Edward’s doing. It was too well coordinated for Henry to have devised; Henry couldn’t spring a mouse-trap without catching his own fingers. No, God curse him, this was Edward’s snare. But would he rely so utterly on surprise? For certes, he must have realized that, given the least warning, they’d seek safety in London. Or had he found a way to thwart their escape?
As unsettling as that suspicion was, in consequence, Simon alone felt no surprise when they reached the bridge; he was already half-braced for disaster. A crowd had gathered before the stone gateway: baffled pedestrians, curious passers-by, and frustrated tradesmen. Seeing an armor-clad knight on horseback, a man shouted to Simon, “My lord, can you help? Those misbegotten guards must be drunk, for it’s well past dawn and they’ve yet to lower the drawbridge!”
Peter de Montfort rode at Simon’s side; he clearly heard Peter’s gasp, the sound a man might make if suddenly hit in the pit of his stomach. Urging his stallion forward, Simon forced his way through the crowd, under the stone gateway, onto the bridge. The drawbridge gate rose above the seventh arch, barricaded, beyond reach. Once Adam’s gatehouse guards recognized Simon, they began to call down taunts, but he never heard them. As his stallion moved restively, Simon sat motionless, staring at the gap in the bridge, at that expanse of turbulent, grey water. And then he turned the horse, rode back to his men.
They were close enough to see the church spire of St Mary Overie; the priory was a quarter-mile to the west, and it was there that Simon led them. When he drew rein in a snow-sheltered grove, he found himself looking, not at the encircling ashen faces, but at the glazed December sky, as brittle a blue as he’d ever seen, a color fired on a potter’s wheel. The sun had scattered the last lingering clouds. Although it had yet to warm the frigid morning air, it rendered the snow iridescent; the glistening field looked as if it had been paved with moonstones. So quiet had it become that Simon could hear an occasional snap, as icicles began to break away from swaying tree branches, to shatter upon the frozen earth below. So great was his sense of disbelief that it blocked all fear. Even knowing as he did that there could be but one outcome to such a one-sided battle, he found it impossible to conclude that God had been leading him to this moment. How could it be his destiny to die here, in these snow-clogged Southwark streets? How could the Almighty forsake him, when the Provisions could not survive him?
“Gather close so all might hear.” His breath froze as soon as it reached the air, interspersing his words with wisps of white smoke. “We cannot hope to assault the bridge. Nor can we retreat in time. By now Edward’s army must be within a few miles of Southwark, and the King’s army cannot be far behind. But some of you can still save yourselves. With luck, a man alone may elude pursuit. For those of you who would attempt an escape, go now and godspeed. For those of you who choose to fight, I will not lie to you; we are greatly outnumbered. I can say to you only what the Almighty said to Joshua: ‘Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed, for the Lord thy God is with thee.’ ”
Mingling with his men were black-clad canons from the priory and frightened citizens of Southwark. With the realization that they were about to face the wrath of Edward’s army, they panicked and began to stream away in all directions, intent upon hiding themselves, their loved ones, and their possessions. But Simon’s soldiers heard him out in a dazed silence. Some, avoiding the eyes of their fellows, began to back away. Others closed ranks. None seemed to feel the need for words; flee or fight, it was done in eerie quiet.
Simon had risen in his stirrups so his voice might carry. Now he settled back in the saddle, but as he drew air into his lungs, he felt as if its chill had penetrated to the very marrow of his bones, for his eyes had c
ome to rest upon the white, stunned faces of his sons. Fear congealed his brain, his blood. Dismounting so hastily that his horse shied sideways, he grasped Bran by the arm.
“I want you both gone from here. Now, whilst there is still time!”
“No!” Bran was shaking his head vehemently. “No, Papa. Not without you.”
“I cannot,” Simon said, “I cannot,” and his sons nodded slowly, having expected no other answer.
“Neither can we, Papa.”
Simon’s protest died aborning. How could he deny them the right to die with honor? It was a man’s choice to make. He looked from one to the other, feeling such pride in them, such fear for them, that words failed him. He wanted nothing so much as to embrace them both, to hold them close. But he’d never been demonstrative; a lifetime of constraint froze him where he was, unable to take that first step. Harry would have taken it; he alone of Simon’s sons was joyously, almost defiantly, expressive in his affections. But Bran and Guy had learned too well to reflect their father’s reticence; when speaking the language of emotion, they were mute.
Unable to act upon their need, it was almost with relief that they heard Simon’s name being shouted. A rider had entered the priory grounds, reining in his mount a safe distance away. “I seek the Earl of Leicester!” As Simon stepped forward, he declared loudly, “I come at the behest of the Lord Edward, the King’s son. He accuses you of treason, demands that you make an immediate and outright surrender.”
“No.”
Edward’s messenger waited for Simon to elaborate upon that terse refusal. When he realized that Simon had said all he meant to say, he colored angrily, as if Simon’s curt dismissal somehow reflected upon him. “I hope you are ready to die, then, for you’ll get no second chance from my lord. None of you will.” He raised his voice. “You fools! You’re dead men, all of you!”