Authors: Simon the Coldheart
Then, as from a long way off, a horn sounded, wailing across the land. Thrice came the call, and something like a gasp of relief broke from eleven tense throats. Away in the camp, Geoffrey of Malvallet had given the signal for attack. Still Simon moved not, but stood rock-like, waiting.
Faintly came the noise of a great shout. Holland had obeyed the signal. Eleven men fixed their eyes upon their lord, muscles taut, to move at his least command. He stood immobile, his head slightly tilted, listening.
Gradually the noise grew, though it came muffled into the mine. An explosion rent the air; Holland had trained his one cannon on to the western wall the better to attract attention.
Nearer at hand turmoil sounded, subdued at first, but increasing in volume. The town was awake, and plunged into sudden and desperate activity.
At last Simon moved, and spoke one word.
‘Follow.’ He mounted the rude step and scrambled through the hole with surprising agility. Quickly his men followed, and found themselves on a patch of waste ground behind some rude houses, amidst rubbish and garbage. They closed up behind Simon and strode after him across the uneven ground.
‘Remember, ye are soldiers of Belrémy,’ he reminded them. ‘Spread a little, but follow me.’
On they went, and broke into a trot as they emerged upon a narrow street. It was thronged with hurrying men, and from the windows and doors of the houses women called, some hysterical, others calm. Soldiers were running towards the western ramparts, buckling on their swords or mailed gloves. Simon’s little band separated quickly and ran after him, to the south, pushing and jostling the excited townsfolk. From behind came the roar of Holland’s attack, but they tarried not to listen. On they sped, out into the main street and down it towards the gates, always keeping the green plumes in sight, and gradually drawing near to Simon again.
Through the rapidly filling street the gates loomed large ahead, and from them came part of the garrison, mounted, and galloping to save the western walls, heedless of the scattered humanity flying from before the plunging hoofs.
They were upon the gates now, and Simon’s voice rang out, clarion-like above the din.
‘To me, and do what I do!’
Full upon the startled sentries he rushed, and cried:
‘The Seneschal! The Seneschal!’
They fell back instantly, thinking he came from the Marshal, and he swept on, his men at his heels, to the gate-tower. There again they were accosted, but this time the sentry but asked for news.
‘They are through on the western side!’ Simon shouted, and thundered up the stairs, sword drawn. At the top some fifteen men were fretting, trying to hear or see what was toward. They fell upon Simon.
‘What news? What news? Are they through? Bring ye commands?’
Before they had realised he was a stranger, he had struck, and with a quick movement, he had flung his cloak about the foremost, muffling and blinding him. The room was suddenly full of armed men, and they hacked down the tiny garrison with deadly precision. Swords were wrenched from scabbards, daggers drawn; all was confusion in that desperate fight. Then again Simon’s voice rang out, and they saw him wrench at the lever which let down the bridge.
‘John, Malcolm, Frank, guard me this!’ he called, and was lost again amid the scuffling fight.
A cry went up for help; someone reached the great bell-rope, and set the iron bell clanging a wild alarm; dead and wounded lay upon the floor, but Simon’s eleven men were whole, three of them guarding the drawbridge lever as he had commanded. Simon plunged forward to the door, waving a huge key.
‘The rest follow me!’ he cried, and was gone down the winding stairs. Out they raced, pell-mell, to the barred gate.
The bell had stirred the garrison station nearby to action. From a little way off came shouts from the oncoming soldiers.
‘Guard my back!’ Simon gasped, and struck down a man who sought to stand against him. He leapt over the body and fumbled with the key. Cedric was at his side; behind them, his men were engaging with the startled enemy. Slowly, slowly the bolts were pushed back, and the iron bars removed. The gates swung back.
Simon swerved round on his heel to meet the attackers. Some dozen men-at-arms were striving desperately to reach the gate, but Simon’s men had the advantage of them and could hold them in check till Geoffrey came. Simon hacked a way through for himself and Cedric, intent on reaching the gate-tower before the soldiers, who were even now in sight, some mounted, and charging down the narrow street. He was just in time, for a small body of men rushed to the tower to draw up the bridge before it should be too late. They came upon a great knight in golden armour, who stood within the doorway, and met their charge like a rock. His sword slashed and thrust mercilessly, his brow was lowering.
Then a welcome sound fell upon Simon’s ears, a roar and the thunder of hoofs on the wooden bridge. He heaved a short sigh of relief, for the men who guarded the gate for him were hard-pressed, and could hold out no longer. His voice rang out above the medley of sound.
‘Stand aside! Stand aside! Let Malvallet finish!’
Even as he shouted to them they had sprung away from the gateway, pressing back against the walls to let Malvallet through.
Plunging into Belrémy came the English, Malvallet at their head, unmistakable by his black plumes and surcoat. He held his lance in one hand, his shield in the other, with the bridle of his own horse, and that of Simon’s huge black charger. Behind him came his own men, and such was the force of their charge that they bore the French backwards into the town, so that they broke, and fled in confusion. In that brief respite Geoffrey wheeled about and came back to the gate. He saw Simon at the entrance of the tower, and charged down upon his assailants, scattering them.
‘All safe?’ he cried.
Simon caught his horse’s bridle, and the shield from the saddle.
‘Ay. I wait to see all in. Ride to the western ramparts now.’
Geoffrey turned again, and galloped back into the open street. An order was shouted, and the vanguard closed in behind him, horse and foot, orderly in an instant, the archers with their cross-bows held ready. The cavalcade streamed down a side street, making for the western gate.
Again the bridge shook, this time beneath the weight of Alan’s onslaught. In he came, red plumes waving, and his brilliant surcoat stretched out behind him by the wind. Close behind him, riding three abreast, were his horse-archers, skilled warriors every one, mounted on trained chargers. As Alan rode past, Simon shouted to him above the clatter of hoofs on the cobblestones.
‘On to the market-place! I join thee there! ’Ware men from the right!’
Alan glanced quickly over his shoulder, and waved his sword gaily in token that he had heard; then he was gone down the main-street to where the French had gathered, ready to defend their own.
In silence Simon watched his soldiers come running through the gateway, pikes levelled, and every foot striking the ground as one. His eyes glinted as he observed their shining armour and their disciplined appearance. There was no semblance of riot in their attack; they came swiftly and orderly, fine men all of them, and well equipped.
At last came Walter of Santoy, in green-and-russet, Beauvallet colours, riding at the head of the rearguard, some score and a half men-at-arms mounted. They halted within the town, and spread quickly to guard the bridge at a sharp command from Santoy. Eleven of them rode on to where Simon stood, and saluted, dismounting, and holding their steeds in readiness for the men who had entered the town with Simon. It was all done as if by machinery, without fluster.
Then at last Simon moved. He turned, and called up the stairs of the gate-tower.
‘All in! Down now to me!’
Down the stairs clattered the three men he had left aloft, wounded every one, but dauntless. Six of Santoy’s men went up to hold the tower in their place, and the three tired warriors mounted their waiting chargers, for they were to form Simon’s bodyguard. One man of the eleven was too badly wounded to move, but the others swung themselves into their saddles. Simon looked them over.
‘It was well done,’ he said, and from him that was praise enough to set them blushing. He glanced towards the one who was wounded, and raised his hand to his helm in stiff salute. ‘God be with you, Malcolm.’
‘And with you, lord!’ Malcolm gasped, and fell back into the arms of the surgeon who had come with Santoy.
Simon mounted his coal-black horse, and watched Cedric fling himself into the nearest horse’s saddle.
‘Onward!’ he said, and spurred forward down the street in Alan’s wake.
The English had pressed on to the wide market-place, but there the French were gathered, soldiers and townspeople and there they made a determined stand.
‘Way for Beauvallet!’ Simon roared, and pressed through to the fore. A hundred voices took up the cry; a wave of relief seemed to sweep through the English ranks.
‘Way for Beauvallet! Follow the Gilded Armour! The Lion, the Lion! Follow the Gilded Armour!’
The market-place was a medley of fighting men, a blaze of colour, with here and there the red-and-gold of Montlice showing, fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Malvallet black. Green-and-russet men were scattered all over, and away to the right, the King’s men hacked and hewed with Alan at their head.
Simon pressed on towards one of his captains, rapped out a sharp command, and rode to the left. The captain wheeled about to the right, shouting Simon’s order as he went. In a moment it seemed the English fell into two divisions, and the left flank charged after the great golden figure ahead, bearing down upon the enemy like a battering ram. Back and back fell the French till the market-place was left behind, and the mad fight swept on into the narrow streets beyond.
Women shrieked from doors and windows, hysterical at the sight of blood, and the sound of steel on steel and the roar of voices. Children who had slipped out into the road, fled hither and thither, terrified at this sudden invasion of fighting men. One babe ran right out into the road almost beneath the plunging hoofs of Simon’s horse. He wrenched the animal back upon its haunches and swung it deftly to one side, stooping to hoist the child up by its mud-spattered skirts.
An agonised, sobbing scream came from the side of the road, where the mother had flattened herself against the wall. Simon cut his way towards her, the babe held safe behind his shield, its face buried in the folds of his surcoat. He handed it down to the woman.
‘Get ye within doors,’ he told her sternly, and was gone again into the mêlée.
From the other end of the street enemy reinforcements came running, and the French retreat was checked and the English fell back a little.
Simon rose in his stirrups; his voice blared forth, and at the sound of it his men rallied round him again, and put new zest into their blows.
‘For St George and the King!’ Simon cried, and someone behind him started to roar out the song of Agincourt.
A score of voices took it up, and again the English pressed forward.
A burly fellow at Simon’s side smote down one Frenchman who would have hamstrung his horse, and as he did so he sang jovially.
‘“Our King went forth to Normandy” – have at ye now! “With grace and might of chivalry” – So, so! That for thy pains! “The God for him” – Would ye, would ye? ’Ware, lord! ’ware! – “wrought marv’lously” – Oh, brave, brave, my lord! On, on! “Wherefore England” – Hey, John Dawlish, Peter Westmere, take it up! – “may call and cry: De-o Gratias! De-o Gratias!”’
‘Deo Gratias, Deo Gratias!’ came the roar from all around, and on the words the English swept the French backwards, pressing on and on, down the street.
For fully an hour the fight lasted, all over the town, but at length, first in one place, and then in another, the French cried for quarter. In a little while the truce was called, and comparative silence fell, the battle-yells dying away. Quarter was granted everywhere, and soon the sheriff sent to Simon, who had pushed his way back to the market-place, surrendering the keys of the town.
Dead and wounded lay upon the ground, but already the women and the non-combatants were out, tending the wounded, whether they were French or English.
Simon found one of his captains in the crowd, and delivered his orders. Most of the French soldiery, it seemed, had fled north to the castle, which still held firm, and wherein lay the Lady Margaret.
Across the square came Malvallet, his armour dented and battered, his surcoat torn.
‘God be thanked! Thou art alive!’ he cried, and reined in beside Simon. ‘Huntingdon is in long since. Where is Alan?’
‘I have not seen him. To the right, I think, down the street. Holland hath his men in hand?’
‘Ay. They tend the wounded, some of them. We hold each gate. I’ll go seek Alan.’ He turned, and picked his way across the square.
When he came back it was full half-an-hour later, and the market-place was almost cleared.
‘Simon, Simon!’ Malvallet cried, and Simon turned sharply, waiting for Geoffrey to come up to him. ‘Alan is taken! Taken by that she-devil, and carried into her stronghold!’
‘What!’ Simon glared into Malvallet’s haggard face. For a moment he was silent, and then his upper lip curled back, showing his teeth in that famous tiger-snarl.
‘If I have not Alan by nightfall, may my soul wither in hell!’ he said softly.
How he saw the Lady Margaret
By noon he had brought some semblance of order into Belrémy and had held a long parley with the sheriff. The usual proclamations were posted up, in the King’s name, promising fair treatment and protection to all who would swear allegiance to Henry. For the most part the townsfolk availed themselves of this clemency, for they were tired of the long siege, and anxious to revictual the town. Simon’s men were stationed round the town and in it, and at length he had leisure to consider Alan’s predicament. It was rumoured that Montlice was first wounded, and then overcome by the Lady Margaret’s men-at-arms.
‘Simon, thou’lt rescue him?’ Geoffrey said anxiously. They were in the justice-house, which Simon had made his temporary headquarters.
‘Ay,’ Simon answered. ‘She will look to hold him as hostage, but I have her in a vice. I hold her uncle prisoner.’
‘Her uncle? He fought this morning?’
‘He is her Marshal. The Sire de Galledemaine. Huntingdon took him. Bernard, bring thy quill, and parchment.’
The secretary collected them, and sat waiting for further orders.
‘Write,’ Simon said slowly. ‘“To the Lady Margaret of Belrémy. In the name of His Most Gracious Majesty, King Henry the Fifth of England and France, I, Simon of Beauvallet, command that ye surrender the keys of the Castle of Belrémy within the hour, swearing fealty to His Majesty King Henry, and delivering the knight, Sir Alan of Montlice, into my hands.” Thou hast that?’
‘Ay, my lord.’
‘Dispatch it by my herald at once, then, and bid him await the lady’s answer.’
‘What folly is this?’ Malvallet asked, when Talmayne had withdrawn. ‘She will laugh at thy message.’
‘Perchance. It is my formal command. If she laughs now, she will weep later.’
The herald returned within the hour, and knelt to give Simon the Lady Margaret’s packet.
Simon broke the seals and spread the crackling parchment sheets before him. Over his shoulder Geoffrey read:
‘To Simon of Beauvallet.
‘If ye depart not from this my city within the space of twelve hours, surrendering the keys unto Ferdinand de Valmé, my Sheriff, the knight, Sir Alan of Montlice, swings from the ramparts in thy sight.
‘Written at my Castle of Belrémy this twenty-first day of December.’
Geoffrey let fly a great oath, and clapped his hand to his sword-hilt.
‘Thou wilt storm the place, Simon?’
Simon smiled.
‘Nay. That would surely bring death to Alan, thou hothead. Write again, Bernard: “If my commands be not obeyed, I, Simon of Beauvallet, do swear by the Rood and by all the blessed Saints that the Marshal, Jean de Galledemaine, dies before the Castle of Belrémy with the other prisoners in my hold, and every third breadwinner of this town. And further if any harm be done unto the knight, Sir Alan of Montlice, I do swear by God that I will raze this city to the ground, slaying all who dwell therein and sparing neither woman nor child. And that ye may see that I swear it not idly, six of the children will I slay before the castle if ye surrender not at once.”’
Malvallet laughed.
‘Oh, ay! With thine own hand, belike!’
‘It will not come to that,’ Simon answered. He waited until Bernard had sealed the parchment and given it to him. He handed it to the herald. ‘If the Lady Margaret should speak with thee, asking what manner of man I may be, thou wilt tell her that what I say I will do, I do. Thou didst deliver mine other message into her hands?’
‘Ay, my lord.’
‘She spake not?’
‘Nay, sir. She withdrew with her gentlemen, and was closely veiled.’
Simon nodded.
‘Go then.’
When the herald returned again it was with a verbal message.
‘“Tell my lord of Beauvallet,”’ he recited, ‘“that the Lady Margaret, Countess of Belrémy, will treat with him within her castle of Belrémy if he comes alone, and under the laws of truce.”’
‘Thou’lt not go alone into that trap!’ Geoffrey exclaimed.
‘No trap is it,’ Simon said.
‘What! Thou wilt trust to a woman’s honour?’
‘Nay.’ Simon smiled unpleasantly. ‘She dare not harm me, or detain me. If I return not within the hour lead out the Sire de Galledemaine, and slay him before the castle. Then if I still make no sign, thou mayst sack the town, to show that I lied not, and storm the castle, for I shall be dead.’
‘What dost thou propose?’ Geoffrey asked curiously. ‘Once within her stronghold thou art lost.’
Simon laughed.
‘Am I so? Once within the castle, and I may crush the she-devil at will.’ He rose. ‘Thou art lord in mine absence, Geoffrey, but look to it that ye obey mine orders.’ He went out to his own quarters, where he found Cedric resting on his pallet, relating his glorious adventures to Edmund, who listened curiously, drinking in every word. When Simon came in, they both started up.
Simon looked Cedric over keenly.
‘Thou wert wounded?’
‘It is naught, sir,’ Cedric blushed. His arm lay in a sling.
‘The surgeon hath seen to it?’
The boy fidgeted.
‘Nay, my lord. I asked him not, for he was busy with others, and indeed my wound is trifling.’
Simon went to him and unbound his arm. An ugly flesh wound met his eye, which still bled sluggishly.
‘Fetch me water and clean linen,’ Simon ordered briefly, and Edmund ran out. He came back with the water, and watched his lord wash Cedric’s wound quickly and deftly. Simon bound it up again, and Cedric’s teeth slowly unclenched. He was rather pale, for Simon’s methods were rough and ready.
‘Get thee to bed,’ Simon said, ‘and stay there. Edmund, bring mine armour. Ye have cleaned it?’
‘Ay, my lord.’
‘Fetch it then, and get thee ready. I go to the castle.’
Cedric, who had retired to his pallet, raised himself on one elbow.
‘My lord!’
The hard eyes looked down upon him coldly.
‘Well?’
‘Take – take me!’
‘Edmund goes with me. Lie thou still.’
‘But, sir! –’
‘It shall be thy punishment for defying me today,’ Simon said inexorably.
‘Oh, my lord, no! I cannot let ye go to the castle without –’
‘Let? Let? What is this talk? Thou wilt be silent, Cedric, an ye desire not my displeasure.’
Cedric’s eyes filled with tears.
‘My lord, punish me how you will, but take me with you now! If – if aught should befall you –’
‘What help could ye give me?’ Simon said scathingly.
Cedric plucked at his blanket with trembling fingers.
‘I – I should – at least be – with you. If – if ye should be slain, I – I –’
‘Ye will have learned a lesson. I am not lightly defied, Cedric.’
The boy turned his face to the wall without another word. Not until Simon was fully clad in his shining armour, did he speak again, and then it was to Edmund, who stood preening himself in his green-and-russet dress.
‘If harm comes to my lord, I will beat thee senseless!’ he whispered savagely.
Simon strode out, an amused glint in his eyes.
He rode through the town with Edmund close behind him, and came quickly to the castle. The bridge was let down for them, and they went across at a walk-pace. In the courtyard Simon dismounted and gave his horse into Edmund’s charge. Unattended, he followed the steward into the castle.
The great hall was empty, and the steward led Simon across it, to the Countess’s audience-chamber. He swung back the curtain, and sonorously announced, ‘My Lord of Beauvallet!’
Simon entered, stepping firmly, yet panther-like. Within the room he paused, hand upon his sword-hilt, and sent a swift glance round.
Upon a dais, seated on a throne-like chair, was the Lady Margaret, like a pillar of ice. Her regal head, crowned by a cloud of black locks, and a great horned head-dress, from which hung a veil of gold net, pearl embroidered, was held high. Not a muscle in her long white throat quivered; her face was mask-like, oval and pale, with thin, disdainful lips, and black eyes that shone between lowered lids. The lashes, long and curling, seemed to cast a shadow on the perfect skin beneath them. Her nose was short and straight, the nostrils finely carved, and slightly pinched. She was clad in a gown of wine-red silk, which moulded itself to her superb form, showing the swell of her breasts, and the long line to her hips. It fell about her feet in a great train, hiding them, and clung close to her rounded arms till it widened at the wrists in huge sleeves which brushed the ground as she walked. Her white hands lay along the arms of her chair, the nervous fingers gripping the carved wood tensely. On her bosom a great ruby glowed, the only living thing about her.
Beside her stood a dark gentleman, foppishly clad, who regarded Simon with a faint sneer upon his full lips. He twirled a rose between his fingers, and raised it to his nose now and again. Other gentlemen were scattered about the room, all in court-dress, and all watching Simon curiously. Behind the Countess stood three of her ladies, still as was their mistress.
Simon walked forward deliberately. He seemed to tower above the men present, an incongruous figure in the midst of this elegant assembly, Saxon-fair, and all in gold save for his waving plumes, and long green surcoat. Before the dais he halted, and glanced calmly at the Countess from beneath his helm.
‘Madame,’ he said in blunt French, ‘I am here to receive your submission.’
The haughty lips curved in a pitying smile. The Countess made a gesture with her right hand, and the foppish gentleman stepped forward. He answered Simon in lisping English.
‘You are a leetle brusque, milor’, is it not so? Madame my cousin desires to make terms with you.’
‘My terms are these,’ Simon said, addressing her. ‘If ye do surrender unto me the keys of this castle, and do swear fealty to my master, King Henry’ – he raised his hand to his helm a moment – ‘I can offer you his gracious protection and clemency.’
A pulse on her temple throbbed angrily.
‘My cousin,’ she said, also in English, ‘tell him that it is for me to make terms.’ Her voice was clear and cold. She did not look at Simon.
The dapper gentleman seemed to deprecate this harshness.
‘Ah,
oui
!
You will agree, milor’, that Madame la Comtesse is in a more fit position to treat than are you.’
Simon’s mouth was grim.
‘Nay, sir. I cannot agree. I hold Madame and you all in a vice.’
The Frenchman smiled.
‘Aha?’ He raised the rose gracefully. ‘One man against – shall we say five score?’
Simon shot him that rapier-glance, and despite his effrontery, the Frenchman involuntarily stepped back.
‘I came under the laws of truce,’ Simon said harshly.
The Chevalier de Fleurival recovered himself. He raised his shoulders nonchalantly.
‘In times of stress, milor’ …
eh bien
!
You walked in so – so – without guile, is it not so?’
‘And if I walk not out within the hour, the Sire de Galledemaine dies before your gates.’
The Chevalier paled a little, but still he smiled.
‘So you think, milor’, to take this castle single-handed?’
‘Within the hour.’
‘
Est-ce possible?
’
The Chevalier laughed gently. ‘My father, the Sire de Galledemaine, is old, milor’. Death comes easily to the old.’
‘And to the young.’ The words fell heavily, and again the Countess stirred in her chair.
‘That foolish threat!’ The Chevalier shook with supercilious merriment. ‘We are not fools, milor’.’
‘If ye surrender not this castle, and Sir Alan of Montlice, then will ye indeed be fools,’ Simon said calmly. ‘Ye will see my soldiers burn Belrémy to the ground, and slay all those who dwell therein. I threaten not.’
The Chevalier smelt his rose delicately. Over it, his eyes never left Simon’s face.
‘But if, milor’, you are dead, to what avail? I have heard such threats before.’
Simon smiled.
‘Ye know not me, sir, if ye think my captains obey not my word, whether I am quick or dead.’
‘Yes? But ye grow discourteous, milor’. Be sure the Comtesse desires not your life. Her terms are that if ye will withdraw your men from Belrémy, swearing never to return, she will deliver Sir Alan of Montlice into your care as soon as ye have left the town.’
‘I thank Madame la Comtesse!’ Simon’s voice grated. ‘But she is over-proud, methinks.’
‘In a word, milor’, you refuse?’
‘I ignore.’
The clear voice from the throne spoke again.
‘Tell him, my cousin, to consider well. If he refuse my terms, then will I send to dispatch Sir Alan of Montlice right speedily, and will send him the same road.’
Simon stood silent, and a gleam of triumph came into the Chevalier’s eyes.
‘That gives food for thought, milor’?’
Simon heeded him not, but looked at the Lady Margaret.
‘That is your last word, madame?’
‘My last word,’ she answered.
Then Simon moved. In a flash he had torn his sword from the scabbard and was upon the dais, holding the weapon shortened, the point touching the Countess’s white breast.
There was a horrified cry; the men sprang forward, but stopped short as Simon drew his arm back to thrust. His left hand gripped the Countess’s wrist; he looked over his shoulder at the room.
‘One step more, and your mistress dies,’ he said softly. ‘The truce is at an end.’
The Countess sat rigid, braving Simon with her dark eyes. The Chevalier had dropped his rose. He spoke uncertainly, ashen-cheeked.
‘Milor’, milor’! One does not offer violence to a lady.’
‘But a she-devil one burns,’ Simon barked, ‘as I will burn this Amazon if I find not Sir Alan, alive and unhurt.’
A shudder went through the Chevalier; one of the ladies-in-waiting started to sob wildly.
Simon looked down into the proud face that defied him so bravely.
‘Those six children, madame, my captain holds in safe custody,’ he said. ‘Ye shall see them die.’
Her eyelids flickered uncontrollably, and he saw the muscles of her throat contract.
‘You would not dare!’
Simon laughed.
‘An ye fail to order your men to submit, madame, ye will see how much I dare.’