Authors: Simon the Coldheart
The secretary looked up, a sudden gleam in his eyes.
‘Ye trust me, my lord?’
‘Ay.’
The tired shoulders straightened.
‘Your trust shall not be misplaced, sir,’ he said earnestly.
‘That I do know. I am seldom out in my reckoning of mankind.’
‘Yet I have done little to bring order into Fair Beauvallet.’
Simon glanced at him enigmatically.
‘All men were not born to fight,’ he said. ‘Why didst thou stay here?’
Bernard made a hopeless gesture with his hands.
‘For three reasons, my lord. Lack of money, love of this land, and – indolence.’
‘So I judged. Money thou shalt have, indolence thou must lose, love of this land I trust thou wilt retain. Tell me now, what knowest thou of the Captain, Maurice of Gountray?’
Bernard hesitated.
‘He – he is a dour man, sir, and – and not easily won over.’
‘So much the better. I have looked well into the records of the estate, and the mentions I find of him lead me to think him honest and stiff-necked, obstinate, yet a ruler.’
Bernard looked admiringly across at him.
‘That is so, my lord. But he loves not you, for ye have taken command of his men, and shown him that ye think him worthless. He curses your name, for all that he was at fault in allowing drunkenness and strife to come upon his men. He – he is slow to wrath, sir, but when his wrath flares up, it makes him blind and careless of what shall befall him. I think he will fly out upon you, and mayhap he may seek to do you an injury.’
Simon nodded.
‘He is easily dealt with. What of Nicholas of the Guards?’
‘Like all bullies, sir, he is a coward at heart.’
‘That also I know. What friends hath he?’
‘But few, my lord. He is too harsh in his dealings with the guards, for them to love him.’
‘So I thought. What record hath Basil of Mordaunt?’
The secretary was at a loss for a moment.
‘I do not think I know him, my lord,’ he said hesitantly.
‘No? He is a quiet fellow of some thirty-five summers, with broad shoulders and a square head set close upon them. He looks one between the eyes.’
Recollection came to Bernard.
‘Ah, yes, my lord! I know but little of him, save that he is peaceable in his ways, and orderly. The men like him, I believe.’
‘It is in my mind to promote him to Nicholas’s room,’ Simon said.
‘Ye will degrade Nicholas, sir?’
‘Nay, I will banish him. If I read him aright he is a sly fellow and I want none such here.’
‘You are wise, my lord. I had thought ye would put a stranger in command.’
Simon smiled, a different smile from the deadly snarl Bernard had seen before.
‘Yet ye call me wise,’ he said.
‘I had not realised how wise, my lord,’ Bernard riposted.
‘Nay? How read ye Walter of Santoy?’
‘Do ye know every man in Beauvallet, sir?’ asked Bernard wonderingly.
‘I have need,’ Simon said. ‘Dost thou?’
‘Nay, my lord, to my shame. But I know this man, and I would call him good. Also he is beloved of the men-at-arms.’
‘That will suit my purpose well,’ Simon nodded, but he did not disclose what was his purpose. ‘I think to make Harold the Smooth-Tongued steward in Hubert’s room.’
‘Then ye will do wisely, sir, for he is an honest man, and sober. What comes to Hubert?’
‘Naught,’ Simon answered. ‘He goes.’
‘Thus ye will be rid of a very pretty mischief-brewer, sir. He is full of indignation at your coming, and although he durst not go openly against you, he might do much harm by his talk.’
‘Ay.’ Simon rose. He pointed to the sheets of parchment that lay scattered over the table. ‘Have the goodness to make me fair copies of these, Master Talmayne. I go now to send for Maurice of Gountray.’
Bernard stood up.
‘My lord, if he comes not be not too enraged, for he –’
Simon glanced over his shoulder, smiling rather grimly.
‘Dost thou think I shall bungle my affairs, Master Talmayne?’
Bernard looked him in the eyes.
‘Nay, my lord. Your pardon.’
Simon gave his short laugh and went out.
He sent his squire to summon Maurice, but Roger returned alone.
‘My lord, he will not come!’ he said, wide-eyed. ‘He – he bade me tell you he – he comes not at any – any – any –’
‘Well?’
‘C-coxcomb’s call, my lord!’
‘So?’ Simon smiled unpleasantly. ‘Then I will e’en go to him.’
Roger put himself in front of him.
‘Sir, take me with you!’
Simon looked down at him.
‘Wherefore?’
‘I – indeed, I mislike his looks, sir!’
Simon laughed, and taking his squire by the shoulders put him aside.
‘I need not thy protection, lad. Go thou to Malcolm, and bid him be ready to accompany me forth in an hour.’
‘Oh!’ Roger ran after him. ‘Sir, let me ride with you! I am not weary, and Malcolm –’
‘Thou didst hear me, Roger?’ Simon said softly.
Roger sighed and fell back.
‘Ay, my lord.’
Simon strode out into the sunlight. He crossed the courtyard to the men-at-arms’ quarters, and went in quietly. He walked through the hall, past staring, whispering soldiers, and made his way to the room which he knew to be Gountray’s.
He entered with his noiseless step, and found Maurice up with an oath and stood as if at bay.
Simon walked forward unhurriedly. He favoured Maurice with a long look before he spoke.
‘This time I have come to you,’ he said abruptly. ‘Another time I shall not do that.’
‘I care not for your threats!’ Gountray cried.
‘I never threaten,’ Simon answered composedly. He went to the table and lifted two wine bottles from it. These he flung out of the window with unerring aim.
‘Now, by God –’ Gountray roared, and sprang forward.
Simon’s cold voice checked him.
‘Do ye think it no shame, Maurice of Gountray, for a strong man to become a drunken sot?’ he said.
Maurice flushed to the ears.
‘I’ll not be answerable to you for my actions!’ he snapped.
‘Ay, that will you,’ Simon said, ‘or leave this my land. I care not which ye choose, but an end will I have to your carousing and your rebellious insolence.’
‘Rebellious insolence, forsooth!’ Maurice cried. ‘Ye have yet to prove yourself strong enough to be my master! Think ye I will bend the knee to a pert boy not out of his teens?’
‘Ay,’ Simon answered.
‘Then know that it is not so! I will fight ye for as long as ye remain here, and my men will refuse to do your bidding! One and all will stand by me! Ye have chosen to slight me, but I will show you of what stuff Maurice of Gountray is made!’
‘Ye have shown me,’ Simon said deliberately. ‘Within a week of my coming hither I knew you for a drunken knave who proves himself trustless in the absence of a master. I see you now, a common, brawling malcontent whose muscles are weak for want of training, whose temper is soured by the lawless, pleasure-seeking life ye have led during these past months. I have little use for such, Maurice of Gountray. I want true men about me, not worthless braggarts who bluster and shout, yet who have not honour enough or strength to keep their men in order when the master is away.’
Livid with rage, Maurice sprang forward again. His passion enveloped him, so that all semblance of sanity was gone. Simon had supplied the spark that was needed to set his rancour in a blaze. In a flash he had whipped his dagger from its sheath and had rushed upon Simon, blindly.
There was a moment’s wild struggle, and then Simon’s hands were about his wrists like iron clamps, bearing them downwards. Panting, Maurice glared into the green-blue eyes, and saw them passionless.
‘Twice in my life hath a man sought to slay me foully,’ Simon said. ‘This is the second time. The first was when a base cur, a traitor little above the swine, could not worst me in a fight. Then, being base, he drew steel and would have stabbed me.’ He paused, staring grimly into Maurice’s eyes, until they sank, and the dark head with them. Then, with a quick, scornful movement he released Gountray’s wrists, and turned away, presenting his back, fair mark for an assassin’s dagger.
The tinkle of steel falling on the stone floor sounded behind him, and a man’s laboured breathing. He went quickly to a chair, and sat down, not even looking at Gountray.
Maurice spoke unsteadily.
‘I have – never – done that – before.’
Simon said not a word. Maurice turned, flung out his hands.
‘You goaded me to it! I would never have drawn steel had you not taunted me so!’
Simon turned his head and looked at him. Maurice went to the window, leaden-footed, and stood with his face averted. After a moment he came back into the room, his mouth set as though in pain.
‘Well … Kill me!’ he said. ‘My honour’s dead.’
Still Simon said nothing. Maurice stood before him, twisting his hands, his head bowed. Suddenly he looked up, and his voice quivered.
‘Ah, can you not speak?’ he cried. ‘Are you made of ice? I have sought to stab you foully, like a – cur! What will you do with me? Death would be welcome!’
‘I seek not your death,’ Simon answered sternly. ‘But by this one foul act have you placed your life and your fortune in my hands.’
Maurice straightened himself a little, but his head was bowed still, his fingers twitching.
‘Well,’ Simon said slowly, ‘I will make you my Marshal.’
For one whirling second Maurice was dazed. He took a hesitating step forward, staring in blank amazement. Then he recoiled.
‘Ah, you mock at me!’ he cried.
‘I do not mock.’
Maurice opened his mouth to speak, but only passed his tongue between his dry lips. He was trembling, and sweat stood on his brow.
‘Will – will you not – explain – ?’ he said hoarsely.
‘Sit down,’ Simon ordered him, and waited to see him sink limply into a chair. ‘What I have said, I have said. I will make you my Marshal, but I will have obedience from you.’
‘But – but –’ Gountray’s hand flew to his head as one in wild bewilderment ‘– I sought to kill you! In that moment I could have done it, ay, and would have done it!’
‘I know.’
‘Then – My lord, you torture me! What punishment will you inflict?’
‘None.’
‘None!’ Gountray came to his feet. ‘You – you –
forgive
?’
‘I forget,’ Simon said.
‘But why, why? What have I done to deserve your mercy?’
‘Naught. It is my pleasure. Sit ye down again, and listen. When I came hither I did find your men disorderly and drunken, yourself no better. Yet I do know a man when I see one, and I do know that ye are one, if ye will it so. And I do also know a ruler of men and a fighter. Therefore I say that I will make ye Marshal in Edmund’s room, where ye shall prove yourself worthy of my trust. But I will have obedience and no black looks. So if ye hate me and wish me dead, get thee gone from Beauvallet, for thou art of no use to me.’
There fell a long silence. Then as Simon’s words sank well into his soul, Maurice came to his knees before him, sobbing drily in overwrought gasps.
‘Ye cannot mean what ye say! What trust could ye place in me? – a cur who is like to stab you in the back when ye are unarmed!’
Simon smiled a little at that, but he said nothing.
‘Hanging is my desert! Ye have said that ye found all in disorder here, and myself a drunken sot! True it is – God pity me! What use have you for me now?’
‘I have told you.’
Then Maurice caught his hand and kissed it.
‘My lord, I swear that since ye are pleased to forget my treachery and to elevate me thus undeservedly, I will never – give you just cause to – regret it – so help me, God!’
‘That I know,’ Simon said calmly, and laid his hand on Gountray’s shoulder, gripping it.
Maurice raised his head and looked full into the compelling eyes.
‘My lord – forgive!’ he whispered.
‘It is as nothing,’ Simon answered, and rose. ‘Come thou to me this even, for there is much I would ask of you, and I think ye can fitly advise me.’ He held out his hand, and after a moment’s shamed hesitation Maurice laid his own in it. In that long grip was his allegiance to Simon sealed.
How he brought order into his lands
The next thing Simon did was to dismiss Nicholas of the Guards. At the same time he made it known that Basil of Mordaunt was to succeed him. Thus he did away with almost all opposition, for Basil was an easy-going, generous fellow, liked by his peers, and respected. Nicholas did not take this dismissal quietly. As soon as he was out of Simon’s hearing he fell to shouting his grievance over the estate, vowing that he would pay no heed to the new, upstart lord, but would hold his place and his men in Simon’s very teeth. In this he had little support, for the guards were weary of his hectoring and blustering. They listened to him in silence, but when he had gone they conferred amongst themselves, and for the most part agreed that they would be well rid of him. Yet for very fear of him and because they did not know their lord’s temper, they remained obedient to Nicholas until they should see which way the wind would blow. Some few declared openly that they would stand by Nicholas, but these were his friends and their number was small.
Nicholas went roaring to the men-at-arms with intent to stir up rebellion. Gountray was no friend of his, but among the men he counted some six or seven allies. He found them murmurous and ill-at-ease, for they had a new captain in Walter of Santoy who was busily employed in disciplining them. Nicholas knew better than to approach him.
‘Maurice of Gountray will stand my friend,’ said he loudly. ‘If Maurice is dismissed he will be at one with me. He and I will smash this fellow!’
‘It is rumoured that Maurice of Gountray is Marshal in Edmund’s room,’ one of his friends said uneasily.
Nicholas laughed gustily.
‘A likely tale! Why, he hath sworn how he will meet this lord, and hath cursed his name! I warrant ye I shall find a friend in him.’ He swaggered across the courtyard, and came most opportunely upon Gountray who emerged from a door leading into the castle.
‘Ha, good Maurice!’ Nicholas cried, past enmity forgotten. ‘Come hither, man! There is somewhat I would say to thee.’
Maurice paused a moment and waited till Nicholas came up to him.
‘I have orders to see ye leave this place within the space of seven hours,’ he said coldly. ‘Look to it that ye are gone.’
Nicholas lost a little of his colour, but he strove to laugh as at a joke.
‘Why, this is pretty hearing, beshrew me! From whom do ye take your orders, Maurice of Gountray?’
Maurice looked him steadily between the eyes.
‘From my lord of Beauvallet, sirrah.’
‘Ho-ho! Do you tell me that, Master Gountray? But yesterday ye did speak brave words against him!’
‘Much hath happened since yesterday, Nicholas Conrad, and for what I have said against my lord am I heartily ashamed. Ye will leave this land today.’ He strode on, and as he passed him Nicholas noticed the chain about his neck that bespoke his marshal’s office.
Back he went to the guardroom to find Basil of Mordaunt in his place. Then his rage knew no bounds, but he had little support now that the men saw that my lord’s word was not idly spoken. The end of it was that Nicholas departed from Beauvallet in an hour, calling down curses on Simon’s head.
In the week that followed strange and strenuous changes were wrought in Beauvallet. Malefactors were brought to judgment and Simon’s hand was heavy upon them. When they sought to rebel, the men found that his yoke was securely round their necks, and his new officers implicitly obedient to him. The week passed in grumbling and petty mutinies, but at the end of the week men knew Simon for master. Regulations were formed, irksome at first, but sound, as the wiser fellows realised; Simon was found to be ruthlessly just, and if his rule was stern, at least he was not above knowing his men individually. He had ever a nod and a curt word of greeting for all who crossed his path, and he mingled freely amongst them, saying little, but making himself familiar to them. The peasants were set to work again, and laboured with a will, because work meant fair wages. Walter of Santoy had orders to drill his men, and although they groaned under it, they submitted, and very soon put some life into their labours, for no one knew when Simon would appear upon the scene, watching closely from under his jutting brows, chary of praise, but giving it where it was due.
Disgust was felt when he ordained that archery was to be practised, and some of the peasants who were compelled to enter into this sport grumbled loudly, and declared that Simon worked them to a shred. But when he came himself with his great bow, and shot with them they ceased their lamentations to admire his skill. And when he declared that to the man who could shoot an arrow farther than his own he would award a prize of a grant of land, competition became keen, and day after day saw the serfs fitting arrows to bow till they could almost rival the archers themselves.
Within the castle all was quiet. Master Hubert had departed, wailing, and the new steward slipped into his place. There was plenty of work and plenty of good food, a fair dole of ale or sack, and sports to occupy spare hours. In a surprisingly short time the men of Beauvallet settled down under the new régime, and were content.
It was not until the end of the month that Montlice rode over to see Simon. He came without warning one day, and appeared before the castle just before ten, accompanied by his son and his cousin. Simon was shooting with his men, so Gountray, who received the guests, dispatched Arnold, Simon’s page, to fetch him.
Arnold sped out across the country, clad in the new green-and-russet livery. He came upon Simon among the archers, in the act of loosing an arrow from his bow.
Simon watched the arrow’s flight, and without turning his head, spoke to his page.
‘Well, Arnold?’
This was an uncanny trick he had, and which greatly bewildered and discomposed his men. No matter how softly one might creep up to him, he always knew of the approach, and needed not to see who it was who drew near. Arnold was accustomed to the trick, so he showed no surprise.
‘My lord, there are guests at the castle! My Lord of Montlice, Sir Alan, and my Lord of Granmere. Master Gountray sent me to fetch you.’
Simon rose from his knee.
‘I will come,’ he said. He stayed but to speak with Santoy a moment and followed Arnold to the castle. Arnold would have taken his bow, but Simon shook his head, smiling.
‘How far wouldst thou bear it, child?’
Arnold drew himself up till he stood half as high as the bow.
‘I could carry it, my lord, indeed!’
‘I doubt not thy good will,’ Simon said, but he would not relinquish the bow.
Arnold walked demurely behind him then. It was a curious turn of character in Simon that he liked children. His pages fell over one another to serve him and were perfectly happy if he but nodded to them, while the littlest one of all’s pride when Simon lifted him over a broad ditch one day knew no bounds. He was Gountray’s son, a dark, curly-headed boy of eight named Cedric, who owed his office to his own impertinence. When he found that his father would not speak for him to Simon, he determined to speak for himself. So up he went to the castle, a chubby little fellow with merry eyes, and waylaid Simon on his way out.
Simon, remembering his own coming to Fulk of Montlice, was amused. He made Cedric page with Gountray’s consent, and the child seemed to walk straight into his rather dormant heart. He was the one person in all Beauvallet who would openly defy Simon, and once when he burst into tears of rage at being thwarted, his father and the Secretary were struck dumb by the sight of him seated on Simon’s knee in the great hall.
He it was who now entertained Simon’s visitors with engaging and solemn conversation.
‘And who art thou, young hop o’ my thumb?’ Fulk asked him.
Cedric answered importantly.
‘I am my lord’s page. I made him take me.’
Fulk burst into a roar of laughter.
‘Oh, tit for Simon’s tat!’ he cried. ‘How didst thou make him, prithee?’
‘I said that I
would
be his page. And I am. He calls me the little one.’
Alan smiled, drawing the small person to him.
‘That sounds not like Simon,’ he remarked. ‘Dost thou like thy lord?’
‘Ay, I love him dearly. As much as my father.’ Cedric paused to give weight to his next statement. ‘I have sat upon his knee,’ he announced with due solemnity.
‘Holy Virgin!’ Fulk said. ‘What comes to our Simon?’
Simon entered at this moment, and Cedric, wriggling free of Alan’s hold, skipped towards him.
‘My lord, I received these guests with my father, and I gave them chairs, but I have not done your bidding!’ He chuckled mischievously and danced before Simon.
Simon gave him his arrows.
‘Put these away then, little miscreant – and see thou dost not play with them!’ he added as Cedric trotted off. He came forward and grasped Fulk’s hand.
‘My lord, ye are more than welcome, and you, Lord of Granmere. Well, Alan?’
‘Never saw I so great a change in any land!’ Fulk assured him. ‘We came to pry upon thee and to see how thou wert progressing, and behold! the place is as orderly as a monastery! As we passed we saw on all sides good work on hand, while as for thy household, it is as quiet as the grave! What hast done, lion-cub?’
‘It was very easy,’ Simon answered. ‘I struck at the heads of the disorder. How fares Montlice?’
‘We miss thy strict hand,’ Fulk grimaced. ‘But Alan doth what he can. God’s my life, when I think that scarce a month ago this land was peopled by drunken rogues, and the crops going to ruin for want of care, and look at it now, I can scarce believe mine eyes!’
‘I am not surprised,’ Granmere remarked. ‘From what I had seen of thee, I had thought to see thee conquer within the month. Who was yon chubby page?’
Simon smiled a little.
‘That is my Marshal’s son.’
‘Who sits upon thy knee,’ Alan teased.
Simon looked up.
‘Did he say that? ’Twas but once, when he cried because that I chid him for some fault.’
‘Simon,’ Fulk interrupted, ‘I demand that ye loose thy tongue and tell me all that thou hast performed here!’
‘Well, sir, if ye must have the full tale, will ye come out whiles my varlets lay dinner?’
‘Ay, that will we,’ Fulk nodded, and rose. ‘Alan would stay with thee, if thou’lt permit him.’
Alan locked his arm in Simon’s affectionately.
‘I shall stay whether thou likst it or no.’
‘Why, of course thou canst stay!’ Simon said, and led them forth into the sunlight.
They returned presently to dinner, when Simon presented his marshal, his captain, and all his other officers. It was nearly three hours later when they came away from the table, and Fulk took Simon aside.
‘Simon lad, thou art now come to manhood,’ he began, by way of preamble. ‘There is a proposition I would set before thee.’
‘My lord?’
Fulk tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Look ye, boy, thy land should have a mistress, ay, and an heir! Now it is in my mind to give thee my daughter Elaine, though I had intended her for John of Balfry’s son. What dost thou say to that?’
Simon compressed his lips.
‘Why, sir, I say that albeit I do thank thee for the honour ye would do me, yet were it best that ye should give the lady to Robert of Balfry.’
‘Thou’lt none of her?’ Fulk was incredulous. ‘Bethink you, silly boy, she is comely and gentle, and fair-dowered!’
‘Ay, sir, but she loves not me, and I love not her.’
Fulk was inclined to be offended.
‘Mayhap thou dost look higher for thy bride?’
‘Nay. I look nowhere for a bride. I have no love for women, and I think to remain a bachelor.’
‘But that is folly, lad!’ Fulk cried, a little appeased. ‘A docile wife is a great thing to have!’
‘Is it, sir?’ Simon said drily. ‘Methinks I admire not gentleness, nor docility.’
‘But, thou dost love children, Simon!’
‘Do I?’ Simon considered the point. ‘Nay, I think not.’
‘Thou dost, lad! What of thy little page?’
‘Cedric? Yes, I do care for him, yet I want him not for mine own.’
‘Simon, Simon, thou quibblest! Since I have been in Beauvallet I have seen more pages than thou canst possibly have need of! What made thee take them – children that they are?’
‘They – they are useful to me,’ Simon answered, rather lamely. ‘They run mine errands.’
‘How many hast thou?’ Fulk demanded sternly.
‘Six,’ Simon said gruffly.
‘And what does one man want with six pages?’ Fulk persisted.
‘I – I find employment for them.’
‘Tush!’ said Fulk. ‘Thou dost like to have them follow thee about.’
‘Nay! I send them from me – when they plague me.’
‘Simon, thou canst not deceive me,’ Fulk told him. ‘Thou hast a love for children, and shouldst breed thine own.’
Simon flushed a little.
‘Nay.’
‘And I say, ay!’
‘My lord, it is to no avail that ye seek to persuade me. I will take no woman to wife.’
Fulk grunted, but he knew Simon too well to argue any further.
‘Well, please thyself. But one day ye will know that I was right, and a man must take a wife unto himself.’
‘I will tell you when that day comes,’ Simon promised.
Alan remained at Beauvallet a week, and Simon was rather glad of his companionship. He organised a chase for Alan’s amusement, and hired mummers from a neighbouring town. But Alan was quite content to dispense with these forms of entertainment, and to please Simon he went with him to practise archery. When he came away from this tedious sport, he shot Simon a sidelong glance. Simon was aware of it, without seeing it.
‘Well?’
‘How hast thou contrived to endear these men to thee, Simon?’
‘Have I? Some of them like me not.’
‘But most do like thee. What is it they do find to love in thee? What do any of us find? Thou art stern, and cold, and hast no love for any man.’
‘Alan, if thou dost wish to prate of love, go do so to thy lady-love. I know nothing of it.’
‘Why do thy men love thee?’ Alan insisted.
‘I know not. Perchance because I bend them to my will.’
‘That may be so,’ Alan mused. ‘But why do the children so dote on thee?’