The Queen From Provence - Plaidy Jean - Страница 71

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That there must be no delay was obvious. They must attack the elder Simon before he realised what had happened to his son’s army.

Their great chance was in the element of surprise.

‘To Evesham,’ was the cry.

Simon de Montfort in the castle of Evesham believed that victory was near. Young Simon must be almost on Edward’s army now. Simon was a good general. He would choose the right moment to attack.

The anxieties of the last weeks had been great. Ever since he had heard of Edward’s escape he had been uneasy. The King he feared little. He saw him as an ineffectual man caught up in the great affection he bore to his family. He had allowed this to govern his life in as much as through it, determined to please the Queen, he had acted against the good of his subjects. Simon could understand that; but Henry had carried his fondness beyond the bounds of good sense.

The country to be governed by a king and his parliament. That was what Simon had worked for and was achieving. A parliament representing the cities, boroughs and counties of the nation. It was the only fair method as he saw it. And he had achieved it. He could be proud of that. All had gone well, until those fools had allowed Edward to escape.

In the far distance that which could be an army was detected marching on Evesham Castle.

Simon went with his barber Nicolas to the top of the abbey tower for Nicolas not only had exceptionally keen eyesight but was an expert on the cognisance of arms.

‘What see you, Nicolas?’ asked Simon.

‘My lord, I can make out the de Montfort ensigns. They are holding your standards high.’

‘God be praised. It is my son. I knew that he would be with us ere long.’

Simon was elated. Young Simon had either evaded Edward’s army or destroyed it and he could only believe that it was the latter. This would be the end of Edward’s revolt. This would be triumph for him and justice.

His company would be delighted. They need not prepare for war but for the happy reunion. The two armies together would be invincible and young Simon would have his tale to tell of victory.

Nicolas came to him white-faced and trembling.

‘My lord, I see other banners. It is only in the van of the army that they carry the de Montfort ensigns.’

‘What do you see? Tell me quickly.’

‘My lord, I can make out the triple lions of Edward and Roger Mortimer’s ensigns.’

‘God held us,’ cried Simon. ‘We have been deceived. What does this mean? How have they come by my son’s banners?’

There was no time to speculate. They must go into action without delay. But precious time had been lost and the enemy was almost upon them.

Simon was a man of great military ability but he realised that the advantage had been lost. With as much speed as he could muster he gathered his troops together. Many of them still believed that the advancing army was their ally and it took some time to get them to realise that they must prepare for battle.

Indeed the advantage was lost and full well did Simon know the importance of that.

We have been deceived, he kept thinking. What has happened to my son? This Edward has become a man, and I have been thinking of him as a reckless boy.

They had tricked him, and they should be tricked. Thank God he had the King in his possession here. The King should be placed in the forefront of the battle. He should stand against his own son who had come to rescue him.

Simon had time to marshal his troops and took up his stance at the top of a hill where he could watch the advancing enemy.

‘By the arm of St James,’ he cried, ‘they come on skilfully. Edward has learned his methods from me. He will never commit the folly of Lewes again. In conflict with me he has become a great general.’

It was two hours after noon and the hot August sun was almost overhead. The battle had begun.

The shame of it! To be there in the front of the enemy troops. He, the King, to be so treated! How dared Simon de Montfort, his own brother-in-law, inflict this indignity on him. Was this to be the end? Killed in battle … by his own son who mistook him for the enemy!

He thought of his adored Eleanor working so hard for him across the water. He thought of his beloved son. What anguish would be his when he knew that his men had killed his own father.

A curse on you, de Montfort! he thought. Would to God I had never shown you favour.

There was the pride of seeing the superiority of Edward’s forces; the advantage that initial surprise had given him. Edward would be the victor this day. He knew it. He would rejoice but how he would mourn when he came upon his father’s dead body on the battlefield.

The fight grew more fierce; Edward’s men were closing in. A spear pierced the King’s shoulder blade, and he turned and saw the murderous eyes of his assailant, his arm raised ready to finish what he had begun.

‘Hold!’ cried the King. ‘I am Henry of Winchester. Placed here by the traitor de Montfort. Kill me and you answer to the lord Edward.’

The man hesitated. For a second or two it seemed as though he was going to treat the King’s outburst with contempt. But one of the barons was nearby and Henry recognised him as Roger of Leyburne.

He shouted to him.

‘By God,’ said Roger. ‘It is indeed the King. Hold man! Take care not to harm the King. Come … my lord …’

When Edward saw his father he was overcome with joy.

He took the King’s arm and drew him to a place of safety.

There were tears in Henry’s eyes.

‘My son,’ he said, ‘I was never more proud than I am on this day.’

It was dark before the battle was over – a complete victory for Edward and the royalists. The slaughter had been terrible. Both Simon de Montfort and his son Henry had been killed. No quarter was given. The carnage was frightful; one hundred and sixty of de Montfort’s knights were slain on that battlefield and countless numbers of ordinary soldiers.

That was not enough. As night fell the rabble of Edward’s army roamed the battlefield and coming upon the bodies of Simon de Montfort and his son Henry they set up a cry of delight; they fell upon them, stripped them of their armour and with hideous cries of glee that sounded like no human noise, they proceeded to mutilate them in every obscene manner they could devise. And this was the end of the great earl Simon de Montfort.

The young Simon de Montfort who had escaped from Kenilworth had gathered together the remnants of his army and was marching on Evesham.

He saw in the distance a band of drunken revellers who held something high above their heads and sang ribald songs as they came along.

As young Simon came near he saw what they held. It was a sight which he would never forget while he lived.

His own father’s head being carried on a pike!

‘Would I had died,’ he cried, ’ere I had seen such a sight.’

He turned his horse and with his followers rode back to Kenilworth.

There he mourned for the loss of his father and his cause; and in time his sorrow was replaced by a great yearning for vengeance on those who had so debased a great man.

Meanwhile the soldiers with their gruesome burden marched on.

Their trophy was a gift from Hugh Mortimer to his countess who had ever been a faithful supporter of the King’s cause.

She was at prayers in her chapel when they arrived, and when she saw what they had brought her she cried out in great joy and gave thanks to God for His goodness.

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