The dark was fading at they came within sight of Offham Hill. There they left their baggage train, along with three disaffected Londoners—Augustine de Hadestok, Richard Picard, and Stephen de Chelmsford, Edward’s collaborators in the abortive Southwark ambush; only John de Gisors, elderly and ailing, had been judged safe enough to leave behind in London. After chaining the hostages within Simon’s custom-made horse litter, the army took Jordan de Sackville’s roundabout route, began their slow, cautious climb up onto the Downs. The grass was wet, the air cool, for it was only the 14th of May, all around them the first stirrings of a springtime dawn. They heard linnets trilling from the shelter of gorse bushes, the warning chatter of jay and jackdaw, alerting the Downs inhabitants that man had invaded their domain, the sudden, piercing shriek of the swift—aptly named the Devil bird—a sound eerie enough to cause some of the town-bred Londoners to grope for crucifix or rosary. But for every magpie to break cover in a flash of iridescent blue, there were hedge sparrows that remained unseen, birds that stilled their song as men passed by, ebony-eyed foxes that monitored their approach, sentries invisible and ever-vigilant.
The furred and feathered denizens of the Downs were better sentinels than their human counterparts. Reaching the top of the hill, Simon’s scouts discovered a solitary sentry, sound asleep under a gorse bush. He had a rude awakening, and when Simon began to put questions to him, he needed no prompting, eager to buy his life with what information he had to offer.
“The King is to command the center battle, his brother the left wing, and Lord Edward the vanguard. They mustered about ten thousand men, including a fair number of Scots, sent by the King’s son-in-law, the Scots King. What else can I tell you? In the castle with Lord Edward are his de Lusignan uncles and his cousins, the Lord Hal of Almayne and John de Warenne. Also Hugh Bigod and a renegade Welsh Prince, Davydd ap…something.”
“Why were you keeping watch by yourself?”
“No one came up to relieve us, my lord. The others decided to return to Lewes for food and drink. We drew lots and I lost…” He trailed off, disconsolately. “Bad luck twice-over for me. But we could see no harm in it, for you were said to be miles away, and not likely to force a battle, what with having lost half your army at Northampton. Also, the King thinks you are still crippled from your fall, not yet able to sit a horse. By God, he’s going to get a right nasty shock!”
“That,” Simon said, “is what we are counting upon.” He gave the soldier a final glance, one of dismissal. “In truth, you are luckier than you deserve. Had you been one of my sentries and I found you asleep on duty, I’d have hanged you.” He never heard the sentry’s stammered thanks, was already turning away, for he’d spied a familiar face amidst the London contingent. Beckoning to the young man who’d sought him out at St Albans with news of the London rioting, he said, “Does Mayor Fitz Thomas know that his clerk has gone off to war?”
“Yes, my lord.” Prompted by his comrades, the youth stepped forward shyly. “I am Martin of Aldgate, my lord, am honored that you remember me.”
“I always remember a bearer of bad tidings,” Simon said wryly, pleased to see that Martin at least was properly outfitted with hauberk and sword, the Mayor’s doing, no doubt. Too many of the Londoners had only the meagre protection of leather gambesons, had only slings and makeshift weapons. It took courage to ride to war so ill-armed. “Good luck to you, lad,” he said, thus making of Martin an instant celebrity, able to secure an enviable position in the front ranks as Simon began to address his army.
“We are about to fight a man anointed by the Almighty as England’s King. I took an oath to him. But I also took an oath to reform the state of the realm. I fought in the Holy Land for the faith of Christ, would gladly have given my life for the glory of God Eternal. This day we fight for justice, for Christ’s poor, for the weal of England, for the promises broken and the trust betrayed. Our cause is just, our quarrel good. Let us now pray to the King of all that if He be pleased with our undertaking, He may grant us victory. To Him Whose we are, let us commend ourselves, body and soul.”
Swinging from the saddle, he knelt, and then lay prone in the grass. His men did the same, stretching out their arms, raising their voices to Heaven. They had sewn white crosses upon their surcoats, breast and back, to identify and inspire. To the Bishop of Worcester, there was a painful poignancy about the sight, row after row of white crosses catching the sun, burial markers for graves not yet dug. But as the men rose, he saw upon their faces the fervent faith of crusaders.
Simon had remounted his stallion, reining in a few feet away. “Will you be safe here?” he asked, and the Bishop nodded.
“You’ve given them a great gift,” he said, “the belief that even if they die, it will be in a holy quest.” A faint smile flitted across his lips. “I think it fortunate, Simon, that you use your talents for good, not evil, for I could not help thinking that these men would follow you even unto Hell.”
Simon did not return the smile. “They are following me to Hell. They just do not know it yet,” he said, and the Bishop saw that his eyes were fixed upon the Londoners.
“My lord!” The shout came from the crest of the hill. Simon urged his stallion forward, at once saw the cause of the alarm. Grooms had ventured out onto the meadows north of the castle, seeking forage for their equine charges, only to run into the advance guard of Simon’s scouts. After a brief skirmish, the surviving grooms were in flight back toward the town, where they’d soon be raising a panicked hue and cry. Dawn’s light seemed to be chasing them across the valley; the horizon was aglow. From the Downs, Simon’s men could see the shadows in retreat, could make out bodies crumpled in the grass, bright splotches of color amidst a sea of green. “First blood,” Simon said, with grim satisfaction. The battle of Lewes had begun.
The Londoners had hoped to reach the town before the royalist army could react; there was sure to be utter chaos as men scrambled to dress, to array themselves for battle. But Edward had been more prudent than his father, had stationed lookouts in the north tower of the castle. As dawn broke over the Downs, a horrified sentry was stumbling into the tower stairwell, shouting for the King’s son. While Henry was just rolling out of bed, bleary-eyed and bewildered, Edward was already arming himself, alerting his battle captains. He had the advantage, as well, of geography, for the castle was a half-mile closer to the Downs than the low-lying priory. In consequence, the Londoners had only reached the bottom of Offham Hill when Edward’s cavalry sallied forth to intercept them.
Nicholas Segrave and his knights spurred forward to meet the charge, the Londoners struggling to keep pace. They came together with shattering impact, with a splintering of lances and a clash of swords. Martin had never seen anything like it; he slowed, stared open-mouthed as horses were flung back on their haunches, as men traded blows and curses, as Segrave’s knights were overwhelmed by sheer numbers. It happened so suddenly that there was no time for fear. One moment there was a writhing, thrashing line, there was dust rising and stallions screaming and blood spurting. And then the line was giving way, there were riderless horses shearing off from the fighting, there were men down in the grass, and Edward’s knights were upon them.
Martin brought his sword up, braced his feet, and swung as a horseman came within range. His sword glanced off the knight’s shield, and he staggered backward, a numbing pain shooting down his arm. Shocked, he dropped the sword; he’d not even seen the blow coming. The Mayor’s hauberk had saved his life, though, for the metal links had not broken under the thrusting blade. But the men around him were not so fortunate. Swords were slashing through their leather gambesons, rending flesh, smashing bones. Another knight was bearing down upon him, and Martin snatched up his sword. At the last moment, the knight swerved toward closer prey. The man stumbled, and, as Martin watched in horror, fell beneath the destrier’s flailing hooves.
“Martin, look out!” Wat, journeyman to a currier in the Shambles, shouted his warning just in time. Martin d
ived sideways as a chained mace sliced the air above his head, only to trip over a body sprawled at his feet. Rising to his knees, clutching his sword in a death-grip, he glanced down and his stomach lurched, for the dead man had a bloody, gaping gash where his face should have been.
He made no conscious decision to run. It was made for him. All around him, men were in flight, and he was swept along with them, a twig helplessly adrift on a surging flood-tide of fear, a torrent that engulfed the field, carrying all before it. Some of the Londoners followed Segrave’s retreating knights toward the river. Most, Martin among them, fled back up the hillside.
But Edward’s cavalry did not slacken pursuit. The north slope of Offham Hill was well wooded, yet even after the Londoners reached the sheltering trees, the slaughter continued unabated. Their headlong flight began to resemble a grisly roundup; the knights harried them like wolves stalking a flock of sheep, putting stragglers to the sword, herding them toward clearings where there was more space for killing.
Martin’s breath was coming in ragged gasps; his injured arm was throbbing; he was scratched and sore from falls into the brambles and hawthorn, and through his dazed mind kept running one bewildered refrain: Why do they not stop? His battle lore might be second-hand, but he’d read enough tales of knights-errant to know that soldiers did not pursue defeated men like this—more than two miles from the field.
He had no idea what had become of Wat, or Ralph, the weaver’s son, or Andrew, the goldsmith’s apprentice. His friends were gone, either dead on the field or running for their lives. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a knight strike down a man he knew well, William Gratefig. “Blessed Lady, Holy Mother…” He had not breath enough for prayer. If Gratefig—an important man, a former city sheriff—could be run through like a pig on a spit, what chance had he?
Risking another backward glance, he stumbled over an exposed tree root. It was a bruising fall; the metal rim of his kettle helmet slammed into his temple. His vision blurring, his head spinning, he lay still until the dizziness passed. A huge oak towered above him, dwarfing the other trees in the clearing. Sunlight filtered through a cloud of leaves, casting soft shadows, warming his face. The sounds of the hunt were fading. Almost, he could believe he was alone in a woodland world of enchanted calm, centuries removed from the horrors of Offham Hill. And then he noticed the corpse. The body was of a young man, lacking even a leather gambeson. His tunic was soaked with dark, clotted blood; so was the grass, for he’d taken a sword thrust in the abdomen. His face was contorted, and to Martin, mercifully unfamiliar. He struggled upright, made the sign of the cross.
“I tell you, Davydd, I saw some of them go this way.”
Martin froze. “So? Has Your Grace not slain enough Londoners for one day? Jesú, from the way you’ve gone at it, I’d think someone must be paying a bounty on them!” This second speaker spoke accented French; he sounded oddly detached, as if this carnage had naught to do with him.
Martin peered through an opening in the thickets. A handful of riders had reined in not twenty feet from where he lay, but he saw only the knight upon a huge, white destrier. His hauberk caught the sun’s rays, shone like silver; the sword resting upon the pommel of his saddle was three feet long, the blade well smeared with blood. Martin’s mouth went dry. He knew he was looking upon the Lord Edward, knew now why their pursuit had been so relentless, so implacable. He and his comrades were paying for a July day at London Bridge, paying for every rotten egg that landed in Queen Eleanor’s barge, for every shout of “Drown the bitch,” for every promise sworn to Simon de Montfort. He sank lower in the grass, staring at the King’s son, astride that lathered, restive stallion. And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death. They were coming this way, coming straight toward him. He slumped down on the ground next to the corpse, daubed some of the dead man’s blood on his face, and made himself go limp. His cheek pressed into the grass, his heartbeat drowning out every other sound, he held his breath.
From the heights of the Downs, the men of Simon’s army had watched in stunned disbelief. That the Londoners should break and run was no great surprise. But no one had envisioned a catastrophe of this magnitude. Not even the most experienced soldiers had ever seen a rout occur with such shocking speed. In what seemed to be the blink of an eye, it was over, their battle lost before it truly began.
Simon had ridden his stallion to the very edge of the bluff, staring down at the battlefield below. It was strewn with bodies, abandoned weapons, the wounded and the dying. The high grass was trampled and torn, bloodied. Loose horses galloped aimlessly, the scene one of utter desolation.
“Simon?” Hugh le Despenser and a sheet-white Thomas Puleston reined in beside him. “What do we do?” The question was rhetorical, for to Hugh, there could be but one answer. Use the reserve—thank God for Simon’s foresight—to fill in the gap on their left flank, then await Henry’s army from the defensive heights of the Downs…and pray as they’d never prayed before. “Shall I order the reserve to align themselves along the left battle?”
Simon glanced toward him, revealing a face as ashen as Puleston’s. “No. Hold the reserve. Sound the advance.”
“You would take the offensive? Christ’s pity, man, why? How high can a bird fly if its wing be broken? Edward just crippled us, Simon. You saw it!”
“They saw it, too. Give them time to think about it and they’ll lose all stomach for battle. We attack and we attack now, ere Edward returns to the field and whilst Henry’s men are still in total confusion.” Simon gestured toward the distant army of the King. They were hastening to array for battle, but the best proof possible of the disorder and turmoil in the enemy camp was that Henry’s great dragon banner was to be found leading the left battle, not the center.
Hugh said something about too great a risk, but Simon was no longer listening. With his left wing destroyed, he could not afford the luxury of caution. He’d always been willing to take chances other men spurned; now, that willingness was all he had. He raised his arm, let it fall sharply. Their trumpets blared. The banners of Gloucester and de Montfort caught the wind, and the center and vanguard began their descent from the Downs.
“What would you have us do, my lord?” Puleston had been badly shaken by the slaughter of his fellow Londoners, but his voice was level; he had himself in hand.
“When Edward comes back to the field, he’ll cut open Gloucester’s flank. Unless we can stop him.”
Theirs was a small band for so great a task. Hugh and Puleston exchanged bleak looks, then turned their eyes toward the field below. Both the center and vanguard were now engaged, and the fighting looked savage, the fierce hand-to-hand combat of men with little to lose. Simon, too, was watching intently. They were still outnumbered, but as long as Edward stayed off the field, the disparity was not as lethal. Moreover, his sons and Gloucester seemed to be acquitting themselves well, pressing the attack with enough verve to have gained a slight edge. Neither Henry nor Richard had ever shown a flair for command. But where in bloody Hell was Edward?
Simon swung away from the battlefield, turning to stare at the wooded heights of Offham Hill. A suspicion was stirring, one so improbable that only now was it infiltrating his conscious awareness. “Where is Edward?” He did not even realize that he’d spoken the question aloud. Supposition was crystallizing into certainty. “The fool!” He whirled his stallion about. “Hugh, do you not see?” he demanded, eyes ablaze with sudden light, with a wild, surging hope. “I can scarce believe it, but Edward has left the field! If he were regrouping his men, he’d have been back by now. He’s still in pursuit of the Londoners!”
They gazed at him in wonderment. But after a moment, Hugh shook off Simon’s spell. “Simon…Simon, what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.” Simon was smiling. “As God is my witness, Hugh, I’m not!”
His household knights and the surviving Londoners had gathered around him, but not too close, giving his stallion plenty of respect
ful room, for destriers were notorious—in fact, prized—for their fiery temperament. Simon had found this particular mount in France, the buy of a lifetime. His color was an unfashionable black, and he was not as big-boned as others of his breed. But most destriers could not sustain their speed, their natural gait a jarring trot, and Simon’s black stallion could fly like the wind. He was said to be half-Arab, and Simon often thought that one day he must experiment with such cross-breeding. He’d named the destrier Sirocco, after the hot Saracen windstorms, in tribute to the animal’s blazing speed, and now, feeling Sirocco quiver under his thighs, feeling the stallion’s eagerness to run, he thanked the Almighty for giving him the best horse of his life in this, his time of greatest need.
His squire was holding up his great helm. He took it with reluctance; while the eye-sights were wide enough to provide adequate vision, helms were heavy, often weighing twenty-five pounds, and so uncomfortable that no knight ever donned one until the last possible moment. Cradling it in the crook of his arm, Simon looked out over the assembled men. When he spoke, it was to the Londoners. “Your brothers died for us. You could not save them. But you can avenge them. If the shepherd is taken, the sheep will scatter. So…we ride against the King!”
Simon’s surprise attack upon Henry’s left flank was even more successful than he dared hope. He had to hold Sirocco in check, lest he outdistance his own knights, but they were not far behind; his confidence was contagious and the odds suddenly in their favor. Gathering speed as they charged down the hill, they were upon Henry’s men before they even realized their peril.
From the corner of his eye, Simon caught movement. He didn’t recognize the coat of arms on the knight’s shield, but that mattered for naught; what was relevant was the lance leveled at his chest. Simon braced himself, took the thrust dead center upon his shield. The lance shattered, rocking him back against the saddle cantle, but he retained his seat, and when the knight circled, sword drawn, Simon got the better of the exchange.