Georgette Heyer (12 page)

How he came to Normandy

He stood upon a hill by Alençon, looking out over France, and the wind blew his fair hair all about his face, and whipped his surcoat round his mailed form. He was past thirty now, and ten years had gone by since he became Lord of Beauvallet.

Behind him, sprawling on the soft grass, was his squire, a handsome youth with black curls and merry eyes. They were thoughtful now and admiring, for they rested on Simon, pondering him.

Simon stood motionless, half-turned away; he had not moved or spoken for some minutes, but was frowning over the fair land stretched at his feet. His squire watched the grim profile respectfully, glancing from the massive, projecting brow with the deep-set eyes shining from beneath it, to the strong jaw-bone, outlined clearly in the bronzed, lean cheek. One of Simon’s hands hung listless at his side, and presently clenched a little; the spurred feet were well apart and firmly planted. The squire reflected idly that the pose stood for all the strength and purpose that were Simon’s. He rolled over on to his side, supporting his head on one slim hand, still watching Simon.

This was not the first time that Simon had set foot on French soil. Twice before had he marched into this land; once under the King’s brother, Thomas, Duke of Clarence, and again under Henry himself, when they had fought at Agincourt. He was famous now for his generalship; his name was linked with that of Clarence, or of Umfraville; he was spoken of as the Fifth Henry’s friend, and the Iron Lord. Of some he was beloved, of others hated, but no man ignored him or thought him of little count. He had become great, and this by his own wit and strength. He had no equal save the King himself in generalship; no commander was so instantly obeyed, and no commander was so greatly respected by his men. He had power and wealth, a splendid body, fit for any hardship or endurance, a not unpleasing countenance, and a quick, cool brain. Yet something he seemed to lack, for with all his assets and attainments, he was cold as stone, almost as though some humanising part of him had been left out in his fashioning. There were those who said that a softer side of love and passion was not in him, but Henry the King, wiser than these, would point to some frolicking page in the Beauvallet green and russet when he heard this criticism.

‘What! Do ye think Beauvallet hath no tenderness within him? Fool, what of the children?’

The critics were silenced then, for Simon’s love of children was well-known.

‘It sleeps,’ Henry said once to Simon’s half-brother. ‘It will awaken one day.’

Geoffrey turned his head.

‘Of what speak you, sir?’

Henry’s eyes were upon the distant Simon.

‘Of the passion that lies in Simon.’

‘There is none, sire. Once I thought as you think, but I have known him for fifteen years, and never once have I seen him melt, or lose one jot of his coldness. Save with the children.’

‘Ay, save with the children. By that sign, Geoffrey, I do know that there is that in him that will spring to life one day.’

‘There is icy rage, sir,’ Geoffrey answered, smiling. ‘What manner of woman will it be before whom Simon will fall? How many fair maids hath he passed by? And now he is past thirty. He is not like to love. It is too late.’

Henry smiled, laying his hand on Malvallet’s arm.

‘Geoffrey, Geoffrey, sometimes thou art a fool! Alan is wiser.’

‘Alan is very wise in all matters of the heart, sir,’ Geoffrey retorted. He cast a laughing glance to where sat the young Montlice, chin in hand and soft eyes dreaming.

Henry followed his look, echoed his laugh.

‘What a trio have I about me!’ he said. ‘My Soldier, my Knight, and my Poet.’

And as such they were known, close friends all three, and each one unlike the other. Clarence once named them Iron, Flame, and Silver, and marvelled at their friendship, but the King’s name for them was more apt. Simon was all a soldier, dauntless and cool, born to rule and to lead; Geoffrey, the Knight, had a hot courage, a courtier’s tongue, and an impetuous spirit; Alan, the Poet, was a dreamer, unfit for wars, yet partaking in them much as some troubador of a hundred years before, born to love, perhaps not greatly, but often and sweetly. He followed where Simon led, but Geoffrey would sometimes leap ahead with characteristic blindness, only to be dragged back by Simon’s inflexible will. They had been together now, this ill-assorted trio, for many years. Geoffrey and Alan had watched Simon’s gradual conquest of his lands with amused yet admiring eyes; they saw him rise to fame without feeling a spark of jealousy stir within them; they looked on Simon as master, but they thought him a child in everything that had to do with the heart. Time and again had they watched him with some fair lady, breathlessly waiting to observe a change in him. Each time disappointment came, for although he had met the greatest and most lovely ladies of the time not one of them had ever stirred the sleeping passion within him. He was not, as some strong men, timid of the gentler sex; in a maiden’s presence his tongue did not stumble, nor did his tanned cheeks flush. It was simply that he had no room for women in his life, and no liking for them in his heart.

Cedric, the squire, plucked a blade of grass and began to suck it meditatively. His eyes were upon Simon’s broad shoulders, and he was wondering if his would ever match them in breadth or straightness. He sighed a little, for he was a slim youth, not square-set as was his lord, and without the iron muscle that had been Simon’s long before he had attained Cedric’s age. His eyes travelled down Simon’s tapering flanks, to the arched, spurred feet, and then up again to that stern, rugged face. He had not been told why they had tramped out of Alençon this afternoon, and he knew better than to ask, privileged though he was. He had followed Simon to this hill, silent all the way, for Simon was deep in thought. Cedric guessed that he was puzzling over some weighty problem, by the frown on his brow, and the grimness about his mouth. They had been stationary upon this hill for a long time now, and Cedric rather wished that his lord would say or do something to relieve the tedium, instead of gazing far away at the distant horizon.

Then Simon spoke in his deep, grave voice, without turning his head.

‘Canst find naught better to do than stare at thy lord, child?’

Accustomed as he was to Simon’s unexpected ways, Cedric was startled. He had thought that Simon had forgotten his presence, nor been aware of the fixed scrutiny behind him.

‘Nay, my lord, I think not.’

Simon smiled a little.

‘I am so pleasing to thine eye?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cedric answered simply.

Simon moved at last, and looked down at his sprawling squire. There was a note of feeling in his voice now.

‘Thou lazy pup!’ he said, still smiling. ‘Take that grass out of thy mouth.’

Cedric ejected it, laughing up at Simon. He made no effort to rise, for well he knew that he was privileged in his lord’s eyes. Other pages had come and gone, but for none had Simon cherished the same affection that he felt for Cedric of Gountray, who, long years ago, had forced himself upon his notice.

‘Lord, when do we move from Alençon?’ he asked presently. ‘Are we to remain here for aye?’

‘When the time comes ye will know,’ Simon answered curtly.

Cedric was in no way abashed. He sat up, hugging his knees.

‘It is soon, I think,’ he said shrewdly, and cast a glance upward at Simon’s impassive countenance. ‘I wonder, do we march with the King, or with the Duke?’ He paused a moment, ‘Or alone?’ he added softly.

Simon vouchsafed no reply, but jerked his head, as a sign that they were going. He set off with striding steps towards the town, Cedric trotting along beside him.

Within the gates they came upon Sir Alan, whereupon Cedric fell discreetly to the rear.

Alan slipped his arm in Simon’s, looking up at him with the subservient affection that not all the years had tempered. He was very little changed from the youth Simon had met without the castle of Montlice. His face had retained its girlish curves, his figure its slender grace. He was attired in silks and velvets, for he scorned a soldier’s garb save when it was necessary.

‘Simon,’ he said in an undertone, ‘whence comes this talk of sending thee to Belrémy?’

‘From idle men’s tongues belike,’ answered Simon shortly.

‘It is not true?’

‘True enough, but prate not of it, Alan.’

‘Thou art indeed to pit thy strength against the Lady Margaret of Belrémy?’

‘Ay.’

‘Where Umfraville hath failed thou art to conquer. Shalt thou take the town, Simon?’

‘God willing.’

Alan chuckled softly, whistling ‘Deo Gratias’ below his breath.

‘I too shall come, of course,’ he remarked dreamily. ‘I have a mind to see this Lady Margaret.’

Then Simon smiled.

‘There will be no love-making while thou art with me, Alan.’

‘Will there not? Thou shouldst bear the Lady Margaret off thyself, lad. That indeed would be a conquest.’

‘Um!’ Simon grunted. ‘A spitfire to wife? I thank thee.’

They were nearing the King’s quarters, and passed several knights who waved a greeting, or asked a question of Simon.

‘I came in search of thee,’ Alan said. ‘The King would speak with thee. Where hast been?’

‘Over yonder, upon the hill.’

‘Wherefore?’

‘To think, and to breathe. The town chokes me. Dost thou come with me to the King?’

‘Ay. Geoffrey is there, and swears he will go with thee to Belrémy. So we fare forth together once more.’

They entered the house and made their way up the staircase to the King’s apartments. Henry was there, with Geoffrey of Malvallet, and Gilbert of Umfraville. He looked up as Simon entered, and smiled.

‘Hither, my Soldier. I did send for Gilbert.’

Umfraville came forward to grip Simon’s hand.

‘Unlike me, thou’lt be like unto Caesar, Simon,’ he said. ‘To Belrémy wilt thou go, and where I saw, thou wilt also conquer.’

‘Thou wouldst have conquered but for the short space of time accorded thee,’ Simon answered slowly.

Henry laughed, signing a sheet of parchment that was spread out before him.

‘Hark to my Soldier! He blames me for Umfraville’s defeat.’

‘Nay, sire!’ Geoffrey interposed swiftly. ‘He is not so ungallant.’

‘He is not gallant at all,’ responded Henry. He pushed the parchment from him, and turned to look at Simon. ‘He is honest. Tell me, Simon, was it my fault that we took not Belrémy?’

‘Ay, sir,’ Simon replied imperturbably. ‘Ye did underrate the enemy. The task had been too easy before.’

‘That is so,’ nodded the King. ‘And now a woman baulks me. So I send her Simon the Coldheart.’

Geoffrey laughed out.

‘Nay, nay, your generals feel no love for her, sir! She is a very Amazon. Is it not so, Gilbert?’

‘Ay, so I believe. I have not seen her, nor any of my men.’

‘They say she is garbed in armour and fights at the head of her men.’

‘Whether that be true or not, her men are wild-cats,’ Gilbert said ruefully. ‘I met them but once when a body marched out upon us by night. Thou wilt do well to have a care, Simon. The town is so strongly fortified that ’twould take thee months to batter down the walls. Provisions they seem to have in plenty.’

‘By the gleam in Simon’s eyes, I know it to be a task after his heart’s desire,’ Henry said quizzically.

Simon gave his short laugh.

‘Ay, sir. I will hand you the keys of Belrémy.’

‘And I will write a canzonet to music on it,’ Alan said. ‘Save that our King be not with us, it will be another Agincourt.’

‘What, dost thou go with Simon, my Poet?’ Henry asked. ‘Who then will charm mine ears with song?’

Alan blushed, shaking back his curls.

‘So please your Majesty, I must e’en stay by Simon lest he lose his heart to Margaret the Amazon,’ he bowed.

‘Nay, the woman Simon will wed must be some puling lass with a timid tongue,’ Henry retorted. ‘It is always thus.’

‘’Twould be to mate an eagle with a dove, sir,’ Gilbert said. ‘Simon will return to you an enslaved creature, having prostrated himself at the Amazon’s proud feet.’

‘Well, she is a fair maid, so I hear,’ Henry said. ‘Dost thou covet her, Simon?’

‘Nay, sire. Her lands rather. Alan shall charm her into submission.’

Henry laughed.

‘Is that thy reason for taking my Poet from me?’

‘What else, sir?’ Simon answered, smiling. ‘A soldier he is not, nor a leader.’

‘And what shall Geoffrey do?’

‘Oh, there is work enough for Geoffrey,’ said Simon tranquilly. ‘Whither do ye go, sir, when ye quit this town?’

Henry looked up at him gravely.

‘Back to Falaise, my Soldier.’

Simon nodded.

‘Ay, take that town, sir. It is worthy of the endeavour.’

‘So if the King take Falaise, Simon shall take Belrémy,’ Gilbert remarked. ‘Who shall say which task be the harder?’

‘I shall say.’ Alan had seated himself by the window, apart from them, but now he turned his head, smiling sweetly upon Sir Gilbert of Umfraville.

‘Speak, Sage,’ Henry invited.

Alan crossed his legs.

‘Belrémy is the harder task, sire, saving your presence.’

Geoffrey frowned.

‘Wherefore, Alan?’

‘Because the Sire de Mauny rules Falaise, and the Lady Margaret rules Belrémy.’

Geoffrey shook his head.

‘What dost thou mean?’

‘Ay, propound me this riddle,’ Henry said.

‘’Tis very simple, sir. A man holds Falaise, and a woman, Belrémy. I would sooner fight a man than a woman.’

‘This woman,’ Gilbert corrected. ‘Alan is right. When a woman guards her own she is more dangerous than a man. Yet this lady knows not Simon.’

‘And Simon knows not her,’ Alan answered gently.

How he encamped before Belrémy

Midway through October in that year of grace, 1417, Simon appeared before the town of Belrémy, with an army of fifteen hundred strong, Geoffrey of Malvallet leading the van, John Holland, Earl of Huntingdon, the left wing, and himself the right, Alan of Montlice with him, acting Master of Simon’s Horse. Two squires came in Simon’s train, Cedric of Gountray and Edmund Marnet. In the rear, with the ordnance and provisions, were the surgeons, the priest, and one John Tarbury, with his officers, as Master of Works.

Belrémy stood upon a slight incline, with its castle frowning down upon this force, and its grey walls sullen and forbidding.

‘God’s my life! I like not this place!’ murmured Alan, at Simon’s side.

Simon looked out from under his heavy brows, surveying the town, and Alan saw him smile. It was his tiger-snarl, and Montlice shivered a little, pitying Belrémy.

Simon turned, glancing along his halted army. He spoke over his shoulder to his squires.

‘Fetch me John of Tarbury. Alan, bid Huntingdon march on to cover the western side. He knows.’

Within an hour the army was at work, under Simon’s direction. His men were set to build wooden huts, for Simon anticipated a prolonged siege, and winter was drawing on. Trenches were dug, and palisades erected for the protection of the army, and until these were finished, some ten days later, the camp was hard at work, both officers and men.

Simon sent a herald to the town, bidding them surrender, but the Lady Margaret returned a hot answer, that he should enter Belrémy over her dead body. Simon had no taste for heroics, and he received this answer indifferently.

And so he began his blockade, hearing occasionally some tidings from the King. He had learned the art of war under Henry, and he followed his precepts strictly, with the result that he lost no men, save by sickness, during all that weary siege. Nor did he once lose patience, although Geoffrey of Malvallet was nigh to weeping from boredom and inactivity.

‘Simon, Simon, art thou grown timorous?’ he cried one night, standing by Simon without his tent.

‘Nay,’ Simon answered placidly. ‘Nor am I of a sudden foolhardy, Geoffrey.’

Geoffrey jerked his shoulder in impatience.

‘Shall we sit down before this town for ever?’ he demanded. ‘To what avail your bombardment? The walls of Belrémy seem made of granite! They laugh at thy guns! I tell thee, Simon, this is waste of time!’

Simon deigned no answer, nor looked at his half-brother.

‘To what avail?’ Geoffrey asked peevishly.

‘So that I may weaken their fortifications, and, by hunger, weaken the soldiers.’

‘And thy mine? Dost thou hope to enter the town under ground?’

‘Maybe,’ Simon answered.

‘Were I in thy place I would storm it now in full force!’ Geoffrey exclaimed.

A little smile flitted across Simon’s face.

‘That I know. Yet I am wiser than thou.’

Geoffrey laughed at that, and slipped his arm in Simon’s.

‘Ay, I know. How much longer, Coldheart?’

‘Thou shalt feast at Christmas within those walls,’ Simon said, pointing. ‘I pledge thee my word.’

‘A month hence!’

‘Nay, three weeks only. Fret not, Geoffrey. I do indeed know my strength.’

‘Oh, I doubt it not!’ Geoffrey heaved a sharp sigh. ‘My men grow troublesome, and murmur.’

‘Check their murmuring, then. ’Twere to more avail than this whining in mine ear.’

Geoffrey flushed.

‘I have not thy power over them. I can lead them into fight, but I cannot hold them in leash.’

‘Ay, but thou canst; none better.’ Simon spoke slowly, not looking at Malvallet. ‘Quell thine own complaining, Geoffrey, and thou mayst then rebuke thy men.’

‘Even as thou dost now rebuke me?’

‘Even as I do now rebuke thee.’

There fell a silence upon them, until Geoffrey spoke again.

‘Thou art right, Simon. I will mend my ways. Thy pardon.’

Simon turned, hand outstretched. Some of the severity went out of his face.

‘What is this fiery blood that runs in thy veins?’ he asked, and gripped Geoffrey’s fingers till the bones cracked. ‘Is it Malvallet blood?’

‘Nay, for it is not in thee. Give ye good night, Simon, I’ll school myself. Even as Alan,’ he added, as the young Montlice came towards them. ‘What dost thou, pretty poet, out of thy bed at this hour?’

Alan came to Simon’s side, and laid a hand on his shoulder, leaning on it. His head was bare, and he was wrapped about in a great velvet coat, unlike the other two, who wore their armour. His dark eyes shone in the light of the fire at their feet, and he spoke softly.

‘The night was so still,’ he said. ‘Your voices woke me. What is toward?’

‘Naught,’ Simon answered. ‘Geoffrey pants to scale yonder walls.’

‘Geoffrey must always fight,’ Alan nodded. ‘I think I would we might remain here for ever. There is peace in the air, and an ode in my head.’

‘There is frost in the air,’ Geoffrey shivered. ‘If Simon will not march in, I could find it in my heart to wish they would march out upon us, so we might have action at last. Simon hath pledged me his word we shall feast in Belrémy on Christmas Day, Alan.’

‘He must always be boasting,’ Alan replied. ‘I pray God we may enter together and whole.’

‘That will not be if thou dost forget thine armour,’ Simon said. His deep voice cut through the stillness like a knife. A sentry, hearing it, peered through the darkness to see where stood his lord.

‘I wonder, do they starve within?’ Alan said, looking towards the black shadow that reared itself before them, and was Belrémy. ‘No help came to them.’

‘When Umfraville drew off to Alençon they revictualled the town, belike,’ Geoffrey said.

‘The New Year should see their skins stretched across fleshless bones,’ Alan insisted. ‘In the winter starvation and sickness come swiftly. Thou couldst hold the siege, Simon, and waste no lives.’

‘I will not.’

Alan looked up at him under his lashes.

‘What is thy motive, Simon? In an assault ye must lose men; in a blockade ’tis but the enemy who dies.’

Simon gripped his arm above the wrist, and held it so, as in a vice.

‘Fool! Were I to hold this town till starvation came, I should enter it over children’s bodies. I war not with babes.’

Alan was silent, abashed. From Simon’s other side spoke Geoffrey.

‘It is for this, then, that thou’lt risk an assault, Simon?’

‘Ay, but I risk naught. I strike not until the proper time. Go thou to bed, Geoffrey; it is past midnight.’

Geoffrey stretched himself.

‘I am weary,’ he sighed. ‘Thy great mine reaches almost to the walls now.’

‘It must reach farther,’ Simon said grimly, and laughed to himself.

Alan and Geoffrey strolled away together.

‘What doth he propose?’ Alan wondered. ‘Some plan he hath, I’ll swear.’

‘Ay, but he says naught. Mayhap we are to enter Belrémy through this mine he digs so hard.’

‘What! And be caught like rats in a trap? That is not Simon’s way.’

‘Who knows? When the time comes he will tell us his will. If I read him aright he is as yet undecided. One thing I know.’

Alan yawned.

‘And I. That I must sleep or die. What is thy knowledge?’

‘That we enter Belrémy by Christmastide. What Simon says, he means.’

‘He speaks not until he is sure,’ Alan said. ‘If he told me he would march into Hell by Christmas and enslave the Devil, I would follow him.’

Geoffrey crossed himself.

‘So would we all. Belrémy will be hell enough, God wot!’

‘And the Lady Margaret, the Devil,’ Alan chuckled.