A thick sea-mist shrouded the outline of Pembroke Castle as William and his soldiers approached the gates in the chilly April morning. The four ships that had slipped into the dock overnight had now disgorged their cargo of fighting men and horses. More were due from Ireland within the next few days once the castle had been secured.
A porter and his lad stood beside the open castle gates. Apart from a handful of servants, they received no greeting beyond that of the gulls wheeling over the buildings. The great domed tower built by Joanna’s grandsire, William Marshal, rose out of the mist in a blunt cylinder at the heart of the solid defences, but it was a place of ghosts, the sounds muffled and hollow. The back of William’s neck tingled. Although Pembroke belonged to him through marriage, he had never set foot here before.
John de Warenne joined him as the troops marched into the deserted stronghold. ‘My mother told me that when she was a little girl she used to drop her toys off the top of the tower,’ he remarked.
William stared around the defences. ‘It is a mighty fortress.’ He suppressed a shiver. ‘But on the edge of the world.’
‘It is,’ John replied. ‘You cannot get much further from the court than this, although of course it is a good launch point for sailing even further into the outreaches – to Ireland. My grandsire dwelt there for many years.’
William went to explore the castle, and climbed the great tower to the battlements. The mist had begun to dissipate and the seagulls wheeled and screamed in the blue, grainy air. A weighty sense of destiny settled on him even though he could not imagine living here for any length of time. Pembroke was the first stage of the road to return. He could sense the endurance and power in the stones, and the close connection with Ireland was strategic.
Some months ago he had begun receiving messages and coded overtures from Gilbert de Clare via letters from Joanna. De Clare had intimated his change of political direction and announced his intention of leaving Pembroke undefended should William and John de Warenne wish to take advantage. He had also sworn not to hamper William and John’s advance through Wales to the Midlands – the roads would be open for them. Everything thus far had been accomplished in secrecy, but de Montfort had his spies and would find out. Still, he would not come to Pembroke for he could not afford to be tied down in South Wales. Providing de Clare held to his word, William was safe, and could establish a base here while waiting for Irish troops, and for the next part of the plan which involved the lord Edward. It was his final chance. He would either survive and return to his lands, or die fighting, and that knowledge was as heavy and solid as the stones of the great tower on whose battlements he stood.
*
In Hereford, Edward was kicking his heels and trying to conceal his impatience. The May morning was as bright and fair as it had been yesterday and the day before. He had been waiting for a sign all week. He knew his uncle William and John de Warenne had landed at Pembroke and were making preparations. Word had come too from Roger Mortimer and Gilbert de Clare that everything was ready.
During his imprisonment, Edward had come to hate Simon de Montfort with a fury that burned beneath steely control. Conscious of what was at stake, he dissembled and was sociable with the servants appropriate to their rank. He rewarded people with what he could give and when funds had run out he had promised future rewards. He had moulded the situation, behaving as an honoured guest rather than a prisoner, always presenting a debonair front, lulling his gaolers and laying a false trail. He took great satisfaction in playing with them and turning them to his will, even while they thought they were controlling him.
If his mind turned to his wife and the loss of their daughter, the ice-burn inside him became almost unbearable. He had been forced to borrow money to pay for Katharine’s funeral and had been denied the comfort of grieving at her bier. For that alone Simon de Montfort would die, but he tried to avoid those thoughts, for they led him into darkness, and he had to keep everything light and allow those around him to relax, especially his chief gaoler, his cousin Henry de Montfort.
He was permitted to go out riding, but he was always well guarded. The forays and the chance to exercise his healthy young body and stretch his mind were what kept him from insanity. He had recently received a letter from his aunt Joanna at Bampton wishing him well and sending him a box of sugared marchpane balls. She said she remembered how much he had loved the confection as a little boy, and her cook Robert had made some to raise his spirits. His aunt often wrote to him. She had sent her condolences and some candles when Katharine had died. In January, a letter had arrived with an exquisitely embroidered napkin. At Easter there had been a palm cross and a little psalter. Ostensibly her contact consisted of social and family matters, but hidden in all these tokens and among the letters were other gifts – small coded pieces that told him what was happening beyond his prison.
The most recent letter, concealed in the box lid containing the marchpane balls, had given details of the planned escape and his part in it. He was to watch for a Welsh horse trader arriving with some new coursers and he was to select the black one. The rest was up to him. He had burned the parchment to ashes on the small altar in his chamber and in the morning had sent a messenger to Joanna, thanking her for the gift and saying that she always knew what would please him. That had been three days ago.
Edward had visited his palfrey in the stables and remarked that he thought it was going lame. He made a point of having the groom examine the horse and expressed his concerns, saying that he needed a replacement.
Thomas de Clare put his head round the chamber door. ‘Sire, the horse trader is here.’ He was flushed and breathing swiftly. ‘He might have something to suit you.’
‘At last! I had better come and see.’ Edward plucked his cloak off its peg and steadied his breathing. He tugged on his riding boots and fastened his spurs.
Thomas, younger brother of Earl Gilbert de Clare, was one of his guards, and had become a clandestine ally in the changing tides of allegiance.
The trader stood in the yard, talking to Henry de Montfort. Edward immediately noticed the large black courser. It had a deep chest, powerful quarters and long legs and was looking round with pricked ears and flaring nostrils. Edward dropped his gaze from the horse and looked at his cousin instead. ‘Fine weather for a try out,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if there is one suitable among this lot, although I will be hard-pressed to replace Bayard.’
Henry raised his brows. ‘I would go for the black,’ he said. ‘He looks the likeliest.’
Edward shrugged and smiled. ‘I agree with you, but I’ll leave him until last. I want to give the others a chance first and enjoy myself.’ He approached a rangy chestnut and stroked its nose. ‘I shall try this one,’ he announced. ‘Who will race me to try its mettle. Tom? Your roan is strong and fast.’
Thomas de Clare grinned. ‘Rufus has never been beaten.’ He patted his chaser and gave Edward a meaningful look.
As soon as the chestnut had been saddled, Edward mounted and trotted him about, warming him up, then moved to a canter, and then with a look and a shout to de Clare, spurred to a full gallop. The chestnut had a rapid turn of speed but was no match for de Clare’s Rufus and was easily beaten by several lengths as it ran out of stamina.
Edward tried a grey next and encouraged three of his guards to race with him. The grey, flat out, won by a neck, but Edward complained that the others had not been trying hard enough to overtake him.
‘I like this one here.’ He indicated another chestnut with a golden sheen to its coat and a flaxen mane and tail.
Henry de Montfort shook his head. ‘Not enough power at the back.’
‘No harm in trying, is there?’ Edward responded. ‘Come, all of you, race with me again.’ He fixed Henry de Montfort with a challenging stare and a sharp grin.
Henry reined his bay to face the field. The group set off at a hard canter which soon increased to a stretched gallop over the firm ground. Edward rode the chestnut hard, forcing him to work, spurring him when he flagged, and he stayed in front. Thomas de Clare was riding Rufus again, but the palfrey had lost his edge following the first race, and this one was harder still. Not to be outdone, de Montfort forced his bay, and beat Edward and de Clare by a head. By the time Edward pulled up, all of the horses were blowing and sweating.
Edward’s squire arrived, mounted on Bayard, Edward’s usual horse, the excuse being he was gently exercising him despite the suspect lame leg. The young man was leading the black and had harnessed him with a spare saddle and bridle.
Edward dismounted from the heaving chestnut and approached the black. He offered him a piece of apple from his belt pouch and rubbed the horse’s muzzle as it crunched the treat. ‘So,’ he said. ‘We are friends.’ The black pawed the ground and butted Edward’s hand, seeking more. He gave the horse another piece and scratched its forehead, then set his foot in the stirrup and mounted. He gathered the reins and walked him around a little, warming him up to a trot, then a short canter, before returning to the knot of guards and companions.
‘Another race?’ he asked. ‘Henry, your bay is still fresh and strong.’
