When Sirocco went down, Edward’s men closed in for the kill. But Simon was able to fight his way free. The field was strewn with the bodies of men and horses, with discarded weapons, and it was becoming dangerously slippery, so much blood was there. Most of Simon’s men were dead. Peter lay sprawled almost at his feet. For a time, Simon and Harry had fought back to back, but then the tide of battle had torn them apart. Now he stood at bay by the edge of a muddy spring, as men pressed in on all sides, jostling one another in their eagerness to strike at the Lord Edward’s great enemy. So far Simon was holding them off, but for every two blows he deflected, a third got through his defenses. He was bleeding from half a dozen wounds, rocked by blows he never felt. There was neither pain nor fear, no thoughts at all. Just the lightning blazing overhead and the clash of swords, the lunge and cut and parry learned a lifetime ago, as a boy at his father’s French castle of Montfort l’Amaury.
Lightning seared the air, struck a tree on the crest of the hill, and for a moment, the bloody landscape was bathed in an eerie, unearthly light. They were moving in upon Simon again; again he fought them off. But this time they managed to get between him and the spring. He could no longer protect his back, and as he crossed swords with one of de Leyburn’s knights, another man darted forward, plunged a dagger into the base of his spine. The force of the blow knocked Simon to his knees, and he found he could not rise, the last of his strength bleeding away into the trampled grass, into the reddening waters of the spring.
“God’s grace…,” Simon gasped, stretching out his hand, but his sword was beyond reach. With his last conscious act, he fumbled weakly for his dagger, waiting for them to fall upon him. But they did not. It was the night that closed in—hours ere its time, swirling, blinding, shielding—and Simon stopped struggling, gave himself up willingly to the dark.
The men would never be able to explain what had halted them, why they found themselves unable to act, to draw their weapons upon the dying man. It may have been the awesome fury of the storm; they would later agree, with superstitious dread, that the tempest seemed to intensify just as de Montfort fell. It may even have been Simon himself, for so long a legendary figure even to his enemies. Whatever the reason, they hesitated, crowding in closer to see, but not yet ready to kill.
It was then that William de Mautravers found them. Shoving his way into the circle, he glared about him in disgusted disbelief. “What are you faint-hearted milksops waiting for? Since when are we so tender with traitors?” Striding forward, he raised his sword, snarling, “Beg, you bastard!” But he was too late. Simon’s eyes were already glazing over; he never saw the sword start on its downward swing, was dead by the time it plunged into his chest. De Mautravers jerked the blade free, and, as if to wreak vengeance upon the body for the escape of the soul, he struck again and again. Some of the more squeamish soldiers backed away, those who did not believe in mutilating the dead. De Mautravers was soon splattered with Simon’s blood, and the little spring turned crimson. The rain was coming down in torrents now; the storm had broken at last.
They had never seen a storm of such ferocity. Much against Bran’s will, for he was half-crazed by his desire for speed, they had to shelter for a time in Alcester. Bran fumed in vain; there was nothing to be done but wait out the squall. As soon as the rain slackened, though, he propelled them out into it, for nothing mattered more than reaching his father with the remnants of his Kenilworth army.
As soon as Edward had withdrawn, they’d set about retrieving their broken fortunes. Some of Bran’s men had gotten away, and they came back once the enemy retreated, gamely volunteering for another try at Edward. But horses were even scarcer now than soldiers, and it had taken Bran and John d’Eyvill all Monday to scrounge up mounts for their pitifully reduced force. A messenger from Simon had arrived in the midst of their horse-hunt. Upon learning that his father had crossed the Severn, Bran became frantic, would have moved Heaven and earth itself to keep his rendezvous with Simon on the Kenilworth road. He managed a minor miracle, and they marched out of Kenilworth Castle shortly after dawn on this rain-darkened Tuesday.
John d’Eyvill was impressed by Bran’s sudden, frenzied industry, but he could not help wondering why it had taken such a disastrous defeat to rouse Bran to the responsibilities of manhood. Well, better late than never, he supposed. He was in cheerful spirits himself; he was always invigorated by action. “Poor Baldwin,” he said. “Captured first at Northampton, now at Kenilworth. Not only did he miss Lewes, he’s like to miss the next battle, too. Bad luck, indeed—or good, depending upon the way you look at it!”
Bran merely grunted, never taking his eyes from the muddy road ahead. He’d shared nothing of his inner turmoil these three days past, and John could only speculate, but he suspected there was more to Bran’s urgency than mere remorse. It was as if his own misfortune had stripped blinders from Bran’s eyes, and he suddenly saw other men—even his father—in a new and vulnerable light. Had he belatedly realized the dangers his father had faced in Wales? John thought that was indeed the case. Why else would he be in such a tearing hurry to reach Simon, knowing that Simon would not likely forgive his criminal carelessness at Kenilworth?
“Johnny!” Bran’s sudden shout tore John from this reverie, but he did not at once see what had occasioned Bran’s alarm. Bran had the keener eye; when he pointed, John, too, saw the rider emerging from the mists of wind-driven rain. He was gesturing frantically, close enough now for them to recognize him—the scout they’d sent in search of Simon. John got a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Bran was already galloping toward the man.
“Go back, my lords! We’re too late! Dead, they’re all dead!”
“You’re lying!”
“God’s truth, my lord, I am not! There was a battle fought at Evesham! Your father is dead, he’s—”
Bran’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, and for a moment, it truly looked as if he meant to draw it upon the scout. But then he spurred his stallion, went off down the road in a wild shower of mud. His two squires cried out in alarm, started after him. The scout had half-turned his mount, almost as if he, too, meant to follow. But by then, John had reached him.
“Tell me now, and quickly, what you know. You say there was a battle?”
“Not a battle, my lord—a slaughter. I saw the bodies…saw…” The man shuddered, crossed himself.
“Why are you so sure that Earl Simon is dead?” John saw the scout hesitate, and said roughly, “What are you not telling me? What are you so loath to say?”
The man looked John full in the face for the first time. “I saw de Mortimer’s men and they had…they had Earl Simon’s head on a pike.”
“Bleeding Christ! And you let Bran go—”
“How could I stop him?” the scout protested, but John was no longer listening. He swung back toward their men, saw on their faces his own horror. “Quentin, hold them here! If you are threatened or I do not return, lead them back to Kenilworth!” With that, he gave his stallion its head, set off in pursuit of Simon’s son.
John d’Eyvill was not in the least sentimental, as tough and indomitable as the Yorkshire moors that bred him. But as he rode, he found himself praying that Bran would somehow miss de Mortimer’s men, that he’d not see their grisly trophy. Misbegotten Marcher savages, they could put the Welsh to shame! Damn them all, and damn Edward, too, for allowing it! The lad had enough griefs to bear, enough guilt for a lifetime and more. At least he could be spared this.
But when he finally did overtake them, he saw at once that he was too late. They were halted on the crest of the hill; below them lay the vale of Evesham. One of Bran’s squires had stumbled into the bushes, was vomiting weakly into the muddied grass. The other boy seemed bereft of all powers of speech; he looked dumbly up at John, tears cascading down his face. A few yards away, Bran sat his horse in the middle of the road. He neither moved nor spoke as John drew up alongside him, did not turn even when John reached over, grasped his arm.
“Bran? Bran, look at me!”
He might have been speaking to one stone-deaf; there was no response, not even the flicker of an eyelash. Bran continued to gaze blindly into some private vista of his own. John felt tears prick his eyes; he knew all too well what the younger man was seeing, what he’d be seeing for the rest of his days.
“Come on back, lad,” he said quietly. “We can do nothing for him now. It’s over.”
By 10:00 A.M., the battle of Evesham had ended, but the killing was to continue throughout the day. With victory assured, the Marcher lords began to hunt down the fugitive Welsh. They showed no mercy; to the horror of the monks, some of the Welsh were slain within the church itself.
A dazed, disheveled Henry was reunited with his son, but for all the talk of restoring the King, it was soon apparent to the monks that England’s true King was uncrowned. It was Edward who gave the orders, issued commands, took charge of town and abbey, and it was Edward who gave the monks permission to bury the dead.
The church was darkened, still. When a candle sputtered into life, it revealed a heart-rending sight to the elderly monk: row upon row of bodies. All afternoon his brothers had been retrieving them from the field, laying them out in the church until they’d run out of room. Brother Abel was an old man, but never had he seen death on such a dreadful scale. He limped among them, sickened.
He paused before a particularly pitiful victim: no more than sixteen, just a squire. He bowed his head, began a prayer for the boy’s soul as the north transept door swung open. Brother Abel held up his candle. “Who goes there? Ah, it’s you, Damian. Have you another body, then?”
They paid him no heed, moving with measured steps toward the High Altar. For all that the burden they carried rested upon a rickety ladder, draped with a muddied cloak, they bore it with somber dignity. Brother Abel followed, puzzled, watching as they carefully set the ladder down upon the tiles. Brother Damian stood for a moment staring at the torn, dirt-smeared cloak, and then spun around, strode to the altar. Before they realized what he meant to do, he’d snatched up the altar cloth. Kneeling, he gently tucked it about the body, smoothing out the wrinkles with painstaking care. “There,” he said, “ ’tis more fitting,” and at last Brother Abel understood.
“Earl Simon?” he said softly, and Brother Damian gave a jerky nod.
“What is left of him. Those whoresons threw him to the dogs!”
Brother Abel winced, not for the Earl, who was beyond pain, but for his stricken young colleague, for all those who’d loved or believed in Simon de Montfort. Slowly, stiffly, he knelt by the body. “Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven. May—” He got no further. A door opened; there was a sudden flare of light.
They’d learned caution this day. Brother Damian leaned over, breathed upon the candle, for he was not at all sure if Edward’s permission to bury the dead would be a grace extended to Simon. They could hear footsteps now in the nave, a murmur of voices. “Shall I accompany you, my lord?” “No.” A one-word reply, but it was enough to send a chill along Brother Damian’s spine. Recognizing the voice as Edward’s, he hastily drew the others back with him into the shadows.
They crouched in the corner, following the progress of that flickering light. So far Edward had not looked their way. He was walking among the bodies, moving up one row and down another until he found the one he sought. The lantern spilled light in a wavering circle; Edward’s hand seemed suddenly unsteady. He set it upon the floor, made the sign of the cross. “I swear to Christ, Harry, that I’d have saved you if I could,” he said, and the monks exchanged wondering looks as the victor of Evesham knelt by the body of an enemy and wept.
They reached Kenilworth at dusk, after a nightmare retreat that none would ever forget. Many of them had lost family or friends at Evesham, and all feared the future, feared the King’s vengeance now that Simon was dead, their dream destroyed. Kenilworth, the most impregnable stronghold of the realm, suddenly seemed a frail refuge against a world gone mad.
John d’Eyvill sighed with relief at sight of those formidable castle walls. “We made it,” he said, not surprised when Bran gave no response, for he’d not spoken for hours, had said less than half a dozen words since they began their desperate dash back to Kenilworth Castle. John knew that people handled grief in many different ways, but Bran’s way alarmed him. He was riding at John’s stirrup, almost close enough to touch, but John could not help thinking that he was not really there at all.
As they rode across the causeway, they could see troubled faces peering through the embrasures of the outer curtain wall. By the time they were admitted into the inner bailey, the entire garrison was awaiting them, eager to learn the explanation for their unexpected return—and yet dreading it, too.
“My lord, why are you back? Why did you not join forces with Earl Simon?”
The question was directed at Bran, but John knew it would be for him to answer; command had fallen to him by default. He hesitated, searching for the right words, knowing there were none, and one of his men, grieving for a brother and cousin, forestalled him.
“The Earl is dead. They’re all dead, every one of them. They slaughtered our men like sheep, sparing none, and then they hacked Lord Simon to pieces, struck his head on a pike for their ungodly pleasure.”
Somehow, his revelation was even more appalling for the flat, toneless way in which it was delivered. John heard gasps, muffled cries of disbelief and horror and pain. He swung about, just in time to see Bran’s face twitch, as if he’d taken a blow.
They were looking to John for confirmation, and he nodded bleakly. “Raymond speaks true. The Earl of Leicester and his men died this morn at Evesham.”
Kenilworth had been Simon’s pride and joy, and he’d chosen its castle garrison with the utmost care. These men were his unto death, fiercely loyal, sublimely sure that he could not fail. As they grieved now for Simon, for their kinsmen and neighbors, they grieved, too, for their loss of faith, the annihilation of hope. It was no safe place for the King’s brother, but that never occurred to Richard. His initial surge of joy had been swiftly tempered at sight of his nephew’s bloodless face. As glad as he was for Henry, for himself, he could still mourn for Nell’s sake, could even spare pity for her sons, and, with his own son, fifteen-year-old Edmund, in tow, he started down the steps of the great hall, ready to offer Bran what small solace he could.
It was an act as ill-advised as it was well-intentioned. To men struggling to accept the unthinkable, he was the enemy, the only one within reach. The castle blacksmith’s son had died at Evesham, and as the stricken father’s eyes lit upon Richard, his pain spilled out of control. “By God, you’ll not be gloating over my poor lad’s body!” he shouted, and flung himself at Richard’s throat. His startled victim staggered under the onslaught, lost his balance, and fell down the steps.
Before Richard could regain his footing, the blacksmith was upon him again, and now others joined in the attack, for these anguished, angry men wanted nothing so much as a target for their rage, a target suddenly provided in person of the King’s blood-kin. They could strike at Richard—pompous, prudent, little liked—as they could not at Henry, could punish him for Edward’s sins, for their suffering, and as Richard struggled to rise, he was kicked and cursed, beaten back onto the ground.
Dazed, bleeding, Richard sought to protect himself as best he could, bringing his arms up over his head, his knees up to his chest. From what seemed like a great distance, he could hear his son screaming, the sound muffled by the blood thudding in his ears. It came to him, more with a sense of astonishment than fear, that he was going to die here in the dirt of Kenilworth’s inner bailey, that these grief-crazed men were going to beat him to death.
But then the shouting changed, no longer the collective cry of a mob bent mindlessly on murder; the lethal circle seemed to be breaking apart. Through a swollen eye, Richard caught a glimpse of a stallion’s thrash
ing forelegs, pawing the air above his head. His assailants were scattering, retreating before the horse’s flailing hooves. Richard rolled over to find his nephew standing astride him, sword drawn.
Bran’s face was contorted, streaked with tears. “Get back! I’ll not let you whoresons dishonor my father like this!”
His fury was frightening, for it was not that far from madness, and the men sensed it. It was suddenly very quiet. John d’Eyvill pushed his way through to Bran’s side. “He is right,” he said loudly. “We will avenge Lord Simon, that I swear to you. But not like this. Is there a one of you who can say the Earl would have wanted this?”
No one could. The men began to back away, some shame-faced, others numbed. The killing fever had broken, would not flare up again. Realizing that the danger was past, Richard tried to sit up, and John reached down, helped him to his feet. Bran flung his sword into the dirt, turned and stalked away.
“Papa!” Edmund threw himself into his father’s arms, sobbing, and Richard wobbled anew, clutching at John’s arm to steady himself.
“I’m all right, lad,” he said, and discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that he was. His bruises would fade, his cuts would heal; only the memory would linger.
“Bran!” His cry went unheeded. Bran was already half-way across the bailey. Richard limped after him, calling out his name until Bran at last stopped, turned slowly to face him.
“You saved my life. I’ll not forget, that I promise you. I’ll do whatever I can for Nell, for you, too, lad.”
Bran said nothing, but at mention of his mother’s name, he seemed to flinch. Richard found himself unable to continue, so great was his pity for his sister’s son. He reached out, put a hand on Bran’s arm, half-expecting him to pull away. He did not, seemed to be focusing upon Richard for the first time. But Richard was never to know what his response might have been, for just then Edmund joined them.