The passion in Edward’s cry silenced them, but only for a moment. William de Lusignan glanced toward his brother, then nodded slowly. “So be it, then. As for me, I’m riding for Pevensey. De Montfort would barter his soul to catch me here, alive. You think he does not bear a grudge for Northampton? I could count myself lucky if he did not turn me over to that whelp of his, wrapped in a red ribbon!”
“Damn you, then, go! But I’ll not forget your craven flight, and you’ll find I make a more dangerous enemy than de Montfort!”
De Lusignan was not impressed. “Good luck; you’ll need it.” And then, to the others: “If we circle around the castle, we ought to be able to reach the bridge.” He waited no longer, rode off without a backward look, and with him went his brother Guy, their de Warenne cousin, Hugh Bigod, and more than three hundred knights. Edward was left alone on the field with his cousin Hal and the men of his own household.
There was an unobserved witness to this scene. Davydd had discreetly slipped away amidst all the turmoil. While he was in utter agreement—for probably the first and last time—with William de Lusignan, he had known better than to argue the point with Edward. A man just realizing the fatal extent of his own folly was not likely to be all that rational. But Davydd was not about to risk death to keep Edward content, and he had no intention, either, of risking capture. De Montfort would gladly wrap him in a red ribbon, too, a belated birthday present for his good friend and ally, Llewelyn of Wales.
And now what? He’d sooner take refuge in a lazar-house than Pevensey, preferring the company of lepers to de Lusignans. If he could make his way north to Guildford, he knew a lass there who’d take him in. After that, who could say? But something would turn up. It always did. Sheathing his sword, he left the battlefield behind. Like de Lusignan, he did not look back.
After leaving the priory, Simon made a circuit of the battlefield. Pursuit continued to the south, where Henry’s men were mired down in the river marshes. The castle garrison still held out, but surrender was inevitable. Now there were prisoners to be taken and wounded to be retrieved and dead to be claimed. Once he’d satisfied himself that these tasks were being carried out, Simon headed back toward the castle. He was still half a mile from the town when he came upon Humphrey de Bohun. He at once signaled his men to halt. “Were you wounded?”
Humphrey had been sitting in the grass, tended by a young squire. Dismounting, Simon waved him back as he struggled to rise. “I took a blow on the elbow, think I broke a bone.” Reaching with his free hand for Simon’s wineskin, he looked up intently into the other man’s face. “My father…he lives?”
“You’ve no need to fear. He survived the battle unhurt, is now in custody.” Simon had already removed his helm; now he jerked back his coif, ran his hand through tousled, sweat-drenched hair. “I’m getting too old for this, Humphrey. Even my eyelashes ache.”
Humphrey managed a smile that was part grin, part grimace. “Not for long; there’s no restorative like victory. Is it true that Henry fled to the priory?”
Simon nodded. “But he’ll not be leaving; we have it well ringed with men. He has no choice but to surrender—” He paused, having noticed a band of approaching horsemen. One of them spurred ahead at sight of him. Sliding from the saddle even before his stallion had come to a complete halt, Harry flung his arms around his father, nearly staggering Simon by his impetuous rush.
“You did it, Papa! For years to come, men will be talking of this day, of your victory! Not Charlemagne, not Richard Lion-Heart, not even Caesar—”
“You’re too sparing with your praise, lad,” Simon said gravely, and then the laughter in his eyes spilled over, and he returned the hug. He had always found it easier to show affection to this son, not because he was favored over his brothers, but simply because his own emotions were so open, so unguarded; Harry’s exuberance was usually catching. “I’m proud of you, Harry. You and Guy brought honor to our House this day.”
Harry looked as if he’d been awarded an earldom. “I bear welcome tidings, Papa.” He gestured toward the riders now drawing near. “Gloucester is bringing you a right valuable pawn—my uncle Richard!”
Simon was delighted, both that Richard was alive and that he was taken. “Gloucester captured him?”
“Not exactly.” Harry’s grin had more mischief in it than malice, for he was fond of Richard, in an absent-minded sort of way. “When the center broke, Uncle Richard, his lad Edmund, and a handful of men took refuge in yonder windmill. They even barricaded the door with sacks of flour! But some of Gloucester’s men soon surrounded the mill, shouting, ‘Come out, King of the millers!’ Uncle Richard will never live this down!” After a moment, though, Harry’s smile faded. “What of Ned, Papa?”
“I’ve men on watch. If he wants to resume the battle, we’ll be ready.” Gloucester was only a few yards off. If not for that familiar thatch of fiery hair, Simon could have been looking at a stranger. So accustomed was he to Gloucester’s dourness, his inevitable and infuriating suspicions, that he suddenly realized he’d never seen Gloucester laughing before. But for the moment, the young Earl was brimming over with good will; he did not even seem to resent Harry for appropriating his news, for being the one to tell Simon of Richard’s capture. “Behold,” he cried, “the King of the millers!”
By now that was a stale joke, but his men chuckled dutifully. Richard stared straight ahead, stony-faced. He was not bound, but neither was he foolish enough to make a hopeless break for freedom; he cherished his dignity far too much to lose what little he had left. At sight of his brother-in-law, Simon bit back a grin. He’d seen hundreds of blood-soaked bodies this day, had also seen men well smeared with river mud. But Richard was the first one to be covered with flour.
At Richard’s left stirrup rode his younger son Edmund, a wide-eyed, flustered youngster of fourteen, and on his other side, a flushed, fair-haired youth only a few years older, who scrambled hastily from the saddle when Gloucester beckoned. “John, come meet the Earl of Leicester,” Gloucester said expansively. “This is the lad who accepted the royal surrender.”
“Who are you, lad?” Simon asked, and the boy, dazzled by all this attention, mumbled something none could catch.
Gloucester laughed again. “This is John Befs of Tewkesbury, squire to John Giffard.”
Simon glanced toward Richard’s frozen profile. A squire! No wonder Richard looked so sour. “Kneel,” he said, and the boy did, bewildered, not comprehending until Simon unsheathed his sword. “Be thou a knight,” Simon said, bringing the flat edge of the blade down upon the squire’s shoulder. The boy got slowly to his feet, his face aglow. Simon was equally pleased; in a day of bloody necessity, there was enormous satisfaction in this one act of pure, innocent chivalry.
“Thank you,” Richard said stiffly. At least now he had yielded his sword to a knight. Simon read his thoughts without difficulty, shook his head.
“I did not do it for you,” he said. “I did it for the lad.”
Richard raised a hand, swiped ineffectually at his flour-streaked face. “We ought to have known better than to have held you so cheaply,” he said bitterly. “One thing you’ve always excelled at is killing.”
Simon was not offended. Under the circumstances, he was willing to give Richard a certain leeway, if only for Nell’s sake. Harry was not. “And what do you excel at, Uncle? I’ve often wondered,” he snapped. Simon looked at his son in faint surprise, for a barb like that was more Guy’s or Bran’s style than Harry’s. But then, Harry had not been himself for some weeks, not since Bran’s imprisonment. Well, mayhap now he could stop blaming himself, Simon thought, at last having time to appreciate the dramatic dimensions of his victory. Bran would be freed, and Peter, all the prisoners taken at Northampton. The Londoners would be spared further suffering. The Provisions would be the law of the land, no less honored than the Runnymede Charter. What an England they would fashion now!
He looked toward Gloucester; it was only fair to give credit wher
e due. “You fought well this day, Gilbert, showed a talent for command.”
“Yes, I did,” Gloucester agreed, unwilling to admit how much the compliment pleased him. But he was happy enough to share the glory, and added generously, “We all did ourselves proud. All but the Londoners, that is.”
“They did the best they could.” Simon’s voice was suddenly cool.
“I do not doubt it.” Gloucester could not resist the sarcasm, but there was no venom in it; in his present frame of mind, he was willing to overlook much. “I think,” he began, and then stopped, turning as they all did, toward the direction of the town.
“My lords!” The rider was coming at a dead run, his mount kicking up great clods of grass and dirt. “My lord Fitz John sent me to find you, to tell you Lord Edward came back onto the field!” He reined in, panting. “But when they realized the battle was lost, the other lords balked. They headed for the bridge near the Franciscan friary. There was fighting, and some drowned when they rushed the bridge. But the de Lusignans and de Warenne got across. I’m sorry, my lord. We all know you wanted them taken.”
“What of Edward? Did he flee, too?”
“No, my lord, he did not. With less than a score of men, he fought his way into the priory, joined his father the King.”
John Fitz John’s first attack upon the priory had been repulsed by the desperate men sheltering within. He was about to launch a second assault when Simon galloped up. Thick, black smoke overhung the priory; orange flames, fanned by the wind, flared from the windows of the frater, licked at the roof of the church. Soon after Simon stopped the onslaught, a flag of truce was waved from the great gate, and then a gaunt, smoke-smudged figure was emerging onto the dusty, bloodstained street.
“I am William de Neville, Prior of St Pancras,” he began, but to his dismay, John Fitz John interrupted curtly, demanding to know if he was not formerly the Prior of St Andrew’s in Northampton. Fitz John did not remind those listening that it was a monk of St Andrew’s who had betrayed the town to Edward; he did not have to. But the Prior did not have the luxury of denial. “Yes, I was,” he acknowledged reluctantly. His eyes swept the circle of men, hastily sought out Simon. “My lord Leicester, I beg you to halt your assault whilst my monks fight the fire. Your arrows have set our church aflame!”
“A grievous mistake.” Simon slanted a flinty look toward Fitz John. “I would not deliberately burn a House of God.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The Prior sighed. “You’ll allow us, then, to put out the flames?”
“I think it time, Prior William, to put out all the flames. Go back and fight your fire. And deliver a message to the King. Tell him I am offering a truce, from this hour until sunset tomorrow. Choose from amongst your monks two to speak for the King. I will send into the priory two of the Franciscan friars to act on my behalf—our behalf,” he amended, remembering Gloucester just in time. “We are all reasonable men,” he said, with enough irony to amuse his soldiers. “I am sure that we can come to terms.”
Fitz John watched, frowning, as William de Neville hastened back into the priory. “Why a truce? Give me just two hours and I’ll give you the King.”
“He is not a fox you’ve run to earth, Sir John. He is the King of England, and we can spare his dignity.” Simon’s smile was suddenly grim. “What else does he have?”
33
________
Lewes, England
May 1264
________
They met in the priory Chapter House. Neither Henry nor Edward appeared to have slept, theirs the dazed, hollow-eyed look of men suffering the greatest of all possible bereavements, the loss of God’s favor. At sight of Simon, Henry began to tremble with impotent rage, with a visceral fear that was immune to common sense, impervious to Edward’s repeated reassurances. “I yield my sword to you, my lord of Gloucester,” he cried, “and only to you!”
Simon stepped back, watching without comment as Gloucester accepted Henry’s sword. But Henry’s next act could not be as easily shrugged off. Glaring at Simon, he said in a loud, belligerent voice, “Need I remind you that I have another son, safe in France with my Queen? Should any evil befall me or Edward, Edmund would be the rightful heir!”
Edward winced; he thought he’d managed to allay that particular fear. Simon and Gloucester looked equally outraged. Gloucester dropped Henry’s sword into the rushes, with the grimace of a man coming upon something unclean. No one was touchier about his honor than Gloucester—with the possible exception of Simon, who said icily, “You, my liege, are England’s King. No one challenges that.” Adding, with a sudden glint of steel, “From now on, however, you will be governing as a king ought.”
Henry gasped, but Richard forestalled him, falling back, out of habit, into his role of peacemaker, a role he was regretting more and more ever having abandoned. The loss of every manor in Christendom would not justify yesterday’s battle; why had he not seen that sooner? “Did you know that Philip Basset was sorely hurt?” he asked hastily, and Henry shook his head, made mute by a remorseful memory—riding off to safety on Philip Basset’s horse. Moving toward the table, Richard picked up the document awaiting their seals. He read rapidly, and when he raised his eyes to Simon’s face, they held a gleam of reluctant respect. “You never fail to surprise me, Simon. You’ve just won one of Christendom’s great victories, and yet your terms are exactly the same as they were ere the battle began!”
Simon’s pride still bled. “Sometimes,” he said coldly, “I suspect the lot of you must be deaf. For as far back as I can remember, I talk and you listen not. I fought for the Provisions, no more, no less. How often do you have to hear it to believe it?”
“I think you’re beginning to get our attention.” But Edward’s sarcasm was lame. As his eyes locked with Simon’s, defensive color flooded his face. “Go on, say it! I know what you’re thinking—that I played the fool yesterday, lost the battle for my father.”
They’d rarely seen his nerves so raw, but he elicited little sympathy from either Simon or Gloucester. The latter’s smile was a dazzle of deadly mockery. “You’re too modest, Ned, in tallying up your sins. You lost the battle on the field, but then, by scorning flight, you lost the war as well!”
Edward glanced toward his father. “I did what I had to do,” he said roughly, surprised when Simon nodded agreement.
“It may have been a foolhardy gesture,” he said, “but it was also a gallant one.” Some of Edward’s high color began to ebb. For just a moment, he looked young and vulnerable, flustered. Unlike his father, he was capable of learning from his mistakes; Simon had seen evidence of that. But what lesson, he wondered, would Edward draw from the battle of Lewes?
Edward stepped forward, formally handed Simon his sword. “Hal and I shall surrender ourselves on the morrow, as agreed upon. What happens then?”
“You shall be placed in the custody of my son Harry, taken to Dover Castle.”
Edward’s mouth twitched. “And to think, Uncle, that your enemies accuse you of lacking a sense of humor!” For the first time, he looked directly at Harry, standing in the shadows near the door, and then he grinned. “Dover would not have been my choice of residence, but at least I’ll have no complaints about the company—Cousin.”
The olive branch fell short. Harry gave him the cool, appraising look of a stranger. “I’d not wager upon that if I were you—Cousin,” he said, and not even waiting for Edward’s response, turned and walked out.
Edward watched him go, then summoned up an exaggerated shrug, a display of amused indifference that none found convincing. Sensing their skepticism, he abruptly began to query Simon about the battle casualties. Two thousand, seven hundred known dead, Simon said somberly, and more who drowned in the river and marshes, whose bodies might never be found.
Those were sobering figures; death had claimed nearly one out of every five men. If theirs was a society that glorified battlefield prowess while deploring battlefield deaths, it was because none could hon
estly reconcile their Church’s “Thou shalt not kill” with the seductive allure of a chivalric brotherhood based upon the sword. Even the comforting concept of a “just war” was not applicable when Christian fought Christian, and a respectful silence fell, the not entirely hypocritical honor the living accorded the dead.
Henry alone felt no compunction that so many had died. The numbers did not even register with him. Like one staring too long at the sun, he was blinded to all but his helpless hatred for Simon. It acted upon him like a sickness, set his heart to pounding, his pulse to racing, leaving him weak and debilitated, dizzy with the sheer intensity of the emotion, one frightening in its unfamiliarity, for his was not a violent nature. Now, however, he felt himself unforgivably wronged. “Why do we waste so much time?” he demanded suddenly. “We are here to affix our seals to that accursed Mise. Let’s do it, then, so we can end this…this wretched farce!”
There was an awkward silence. All eyes turned instinctively to Simon for guidance. And only then did Henry fully comprehend the consequences of the battle of Lewes. The crown was still his, the command Simon’s.
Under the Mise of Lewes the Oxford Provisions were recognized as the law of the land. An arbitration commission was to be set up to deal with specific disputes, but under no circumstances would Henry be allowed to appoint foreigners to his council. He would also be required to curb his extravagant spending, to live modestly until his debts could be satisfied. A full amnesty was proclaimed for Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Gloucester, and all their followers. There were to be no ransom demands for men captured at Lewes; they were to be freed, as were the prisoners taken at Northampton. And Edward and Hal surrendered themselves as hostages, as pledges for their fathers’ good faith.
From Lewes, Henry and Simon moved on to Battle, and then to Canterbury, so that Simon could check coast defenses. In consequence, a fortnight passed before they had their entry into London. Once again the Londoners turned out in large numbers to welcome Simon into their city, but it had been—for them—a bitter-sweet victory, and the procession was muted. London resembled a brilliant, vividly colored painting—bordered in black. Simon found himself cheered by women whose faces were wet with tears, by men who’d staked their very lives upon his triumph, by those fresh from ale-houses and others coming from funerals, by the reprieved and the newly widowed, the joyful and the bereaved. It was a celebration stained with blood.