Falls the Shadow (49 page)

The Oxford Provisions stipulated that there were to be three parliaments a year, and in late January 1260, Simon and Nell sailed from Normandy. But Simon’s haste was for naught. The Candlemas parliament could not meet, for Henry was still in France. There were urgent matters to discuss—Llewelyn of Wales was besieging Edward’s castle at Buellt, and there were reforms still to be implemented—but nothing could be done in the King’s absence. As long as Henry remained in France, he effectively paralyzed the opposition.

“I would be heard,” Simon said, striding toward the center of the chamber. “I have listened as you berated the King, accused him of bad faith, and bewailed our plight. But we are not as powerless as some of you seem to think. There is an obvious solution, so simple I marvel that none of you have thought of it. We no longer wait for the King; we hold the parliament now.”

There was a shocked silence; more than one lord looked at Simon as if he’d suddenly lost his senses. Hugh Bigod, the Justiciar, was shaking his head in disblief. “You cannot be serious!”

“Indeed, I am. What could be more logical? Are we to permit the King to cripple all our reforms merely by fleeing to the French court? If so, my lords, the Oxford Provisions will be meaningless, will—”

“But to summon parliament in the King’s absence?” Bigod was not the only one to seem stunned; even some of Simon’s supporters looked uneasy. “My lord of Leicester, think what you are suggesting. The King would no longer be the ship’s captain, would be no more than a figurehead, carved upon the ship’s prow!”

“Nonsense,” Simon said impatiently. “To put it in your terms, we are only asking for a say in plotting the ship’s course. If we have no right to meet except at the King’s pleasure, we are utterly at his mercy. Is that what you want, my lords?”

Glancing about the chamber, Simon saw that the younger lords were beginning to nod agreement. The Earl of Surrey had made a complete turnabout since the expulsion of his de Lusignan brothers-in-law, was now one of Simon’s more fervent disciples, and he and the young Earl of Derby were caught up in the sudden excitement, echoing Simon’s arguments to their neighbors. But Simon knew they were too youthful, too callow, to influence the others. “What say you, my lord Bishop?” he asked.

Walter de Cantilupe, Bishop of Worcester, was a friend, but a man of such integrity that his opinion would not be suspect. Getting slowly to his feet, he said, “My lord of Leicester is proposing a radical reform, one not to be undertaken lightly. And yet…and yet, how else can we redeem the Provisions?”

Looking about him, Hugh Bigod saw, to his dismay, that Simon might well prevail. Most of the men present lacked Simon’s imagination, his audacity, but they did share his frustration, and as Simon now explained it, his proposal began to seem more and more reasonable. Men repeated the Bishop’s query: what else, indeed, could they do?

“I do not know what alchemy you work here,” Bigod said softly to Simon. “But I’ll not let you infect us with your madness.” Raising his voice, he said, “The Lord Edward sent me word that he would be attending this session. He ought to be here within the hour. Which of you wants to tell the King’s son that you mean to hold parliament in his lord father’s absence, against his lord father’s express wishes?”

Edward’s fiery temper was already becoming a byword, and Bigod saw disquiet flicker from face to face. As he’d hoped, Simon’s spell began to waver before the reality of Edward’s outrage, and Bigod turned triumphantly to face Simon, sure that he’d won—until he saw Simon’s smile.

“I think you will be most interested in what the Lord Edward has to say,” Simon said, raising his hand for silence. “You see, he and I are in agreement. He, too, thinks that parliament ought to meet.”

Thoroughly alarmed by the reports coming across the Channel, Henry took the French King’s advice and hastily returned to England. Accompanied by armed mercenaries, he arrived in London on Friday, April 23.

William Fitz Richard, the city’s Mayor, and both city sheriffs were summoned to the Bishop of London’s manor, where they were confronted by a very angry, very distraught King, who ordered them to bar the city gates to the Earl of Leicester and the Lord Edward, his son and heir.

Henry’s brother was a silent, disapproving witness to this harangue. Richard was accustomed to Henry’s histrionics, but even he had been shocked by this latest tangent of his brother’s, and as soon as they were alone, he said incredulously, “Henry, you cannot mean this! How could you possibly believe that Edward has been plotting to depose you?”

“You think I want to believe that? Blood of Christ, Richard, we’re talking of Edward, my flesh-and-blood, my firstborn! But what else can I think? Has he not allied himself with that treacherous, swaggering hellspawn? He does de Montfort’s bidding, Richard—my own son! He backed de Montfort’s treason, agreed to have parliament meet in my absence, and when de Montfort and his lackeys dared to dismiss my wife’s uncle, Peter of Savoy, from the royal council—my own council—Edward even agreed to that, too! He is evil, Richard, evil, and damned to everlasting Hell for his double-dealing, that I swear to you upon the very bones of St Edmund!”

“Who?” Richard said coldly, “Edward or de Montfort?” and Henry gave him a startled, reproachful look.

“De Montfort, of course. Jesú, Richard, what ails you?”

“Henry, do you ever listen to yourself—truly listen? The man is infuriating, arrogant, and Lucifer-proud, but the Antichrist he is not, Brother. And in all honesty, you’ve done your share to poison that well, too.”

“That’s a damnable lie! I’ve been more than fair to that whoreson.”

“By selecting Gloucester as one of the men to arbitrate Nell’s dower claims? I’d say you have a right quaint concept of fairness.” Richard shook his head wearily. “So far you’ve called de Montfort a whoreson, a traitor, a liar, a hellspawn. Have you forgotten that he is also our sister’s husband?”

“And have you forgotten that he brought hired mercenaries with him from France? Or that he holds Kenilworth and Odiham, two of the most formidable castles in England—castles he swore to surrender to the Crown! The man is a menace, Richard, a danger to us all; how can you not see that?”

“He did yield the castles,” Richard pointed out. “The barons then returned them to his custody.” But his heart was not in his defense; he was furious with Simon, too. “Henry, this serves for naught; we can argue about de Montfort from now till Judgment Day. But what of Edward? How can you doubt his loyalty? Do you not realize how much Gloucester hates him? Since Gloucester’s return to England, he and Edward have quarreled each time they’ve met, twice almost coming to blows! Whatever he has told you is suspect, Henry, is—”

“There was a time when you were right fond of Gloucester!”

“Do you truly think I need you to remind me that the man is my stepson? Yes, I was once wed to his mother, and yes, I was fond of him. He was a likable lad—then. But now I’d sooner trust a Gascon, and I’d believe a converted Jew ere I would Gloucester. Lest you forget, he was one of the lords responsible for the Oxford Provisions. Yet this is the man who now seeks to curry favor with you, the man who would poison your mind against your own son!”

“Edward’s actions speak for themselves,” Henry muttered, and turned away to pour himself wine.

Richard followed, unrelenting. “Tell me again,” he demanded. “Tell me you mean to hold to this madness, refusing to see your son.”

Henry spun around. “Do you not think I want to see the lad? But I dare not, Richard, I dare not. For if I were to see him, I could not keep from embracing him, from forgiving him any sin, even treason…”

There were tears in Henry’s eyes, and Richard’s irritation ebbed away. It was fifteen months since he had returned from Germany, and while he did not repent of his decision to stand by Henry in his time of need, his resentment had begun to fester, for Henry had taken his homecoming for granted. But he had not consolidated his hold on Germany; the King of Castile was a rival claimant for the German crown; and the Pope was no longer offering his unqualified support. Richard thought it the ultimate irony that, in seeking to secure Henry’s throne, he might well have sacrificed his own. Looking at his brother now, though, he felt a sharp throb of pity.

“I’m going to Edward,” he said. “If he can satisfactorily explain his behavior—and I’d wager the surety of my soul that he can—I am then bringing him back here, so he may make his peace with you. Do you agree?”

Henry swallowed. “Yes,” he whispered. “Please…”

“How could he believe that of me?” Edward sounded stunned. “That I meant to depose him and rule in his stead—Christ, that is madness!”

“Kings are prone to madness of that sort,” Richard said grimly. “But in his heart, lad, he knows you’d not betray him, wants only to be reassured of that.”

“This is that whoreson Gloucester’s doing!”

Richard nodded. “Gloucester baited this hook with care, and Henry could no more resist it than he could fly, for the mere mention of Simon’s name can throw him into a frenzy. In truth, lad, where Simon is concerned, he is like one possessed, so consumed with suspicion that it has clouded his wits, allowing him to think the unthinkable.”

“No matter how much he hates Simon, how could he ever suspect me? What I’ve done, I’ve done for him!”

Edward had begun to pace. “My uncle Simon would never plot to depose the King; in that, my father wrongs him. But he is besotted with those damnable Provisions, so much so that I think he’s gotten them confused with the Commandments. When he began to feud with that Judas, Gloucester, I sought to turn their discord to our advantage. And I did, Uncle! Simon trusts me now, confides in me. He—Why do you look at me like that? Do you not believe me?”

“Yes, lad, I believe you. I do not doubt that was your intent. But you are no longer traveling that road, Edward, have been led astray, into—”

“What are you saying, Uncle? That I’ve become Simon’s puppet? Think you that I am so weak-willed, so simple?”

“No, Edward, merely young. You are not the first one to misjudge de Montfort’s ability to bedazzle. I’ve watched him for nigh on thirty years, and even I do not fully understand how he so easily inflames the imagination. But again and again I’ve seen him—”

“With all due respect, Uncle, that is nonsense!”

“Is it? Tell me this, then. Why did you support Simon’s demand to hold parliament in your father’s absence?”

“Because,” Edward said angrily, “Papa had miscalculated, and badly. I do not understand how he can be so short-sighted. Better to deny a right altogether than to grant it and then seek to disavow it. By agreeing to hold regular parliaments, and then reneging, Papa did needlessly stir up rancor and resentment. It is dangerous to make men feel cheated; that is not the way to handle them. Give them nothing and they have nothing, then, to lose. Rather, give them a little, lest they ask for a lot, just enough to content them, not enough to whet their appetites for more. Jesú, Uncle, it is so simple! Why can my father not see that?”

“So you were seeking only to repair the damage done by Henry’s foolishness? Fair enough. But answer for me one question. How did holding that parliament serve your interests as the next King of England? What happens once you’re on the throne and your lords want to follow Simon’s example?”

“You said one question, Uncle, not two.” But Edward’s sarcasm was defensive, and color was rising in his face. “The answer is easy. Once I am King, I would forbid it, of course. Men will not defy me as they do my father.”

“But did you not just argue—very convincingly—that it was a great mistake for a king to confer a privilege and then revoke it? Simon’s parliament would set a dangerous precedent, one to haunt future kings, to haunt you, Edward. He took from you a measure of your authority, even made of you an accomplice in his usurpation. And yet you’d have me believe that you’d not been infected by Simon’s zeal, that you were totally immune to his blandishments!”

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.”