Georgette Heyer (3 page)

When his seventeenth birthday came Simon was already a man in build and cool sagacity. In face he had changed hardly at all, save that his forehead was more rugged, the thick brows jutting further over the deep-set eyes of green-blue, and that his mouth had lost its youthful curve together with any softness that it might once have had. He smiled but rarely, nor ever laughed out as did my Lord of Montlice. If he laughed it was a short, dry sound, somewhat sardonic in tone, and quickly gone, but when he smiled there were two ways he had of doing it; one when he was crossed, that one more terrible than his frown, the other when he was in smiling humour, a singularly sweet smile, this, with a hint of boyishness at the back of it.

Fulk knew him for a soldier born, and a leader of men. If a disturbance arose in the Earl’s vast household it was Simon who quenched it when the fussy, incompetent Marshal had failed, and the Steward threatened in vain. The guards, inactive and fractious, would quarrel among themselves, and, heated by too much sack, come to blows and noisy, perilous fights. It needed but for Simon to come upon them with his soft tread and his cold composure to cause the brawlers to fall apart, great men though they were, and stand sheepishly before him, answering his crisp, stern questions with a meekness they did not show to John the Marshal. Boy as he was, Simon could reduce the most drunken roysterer to a state of penitent humility. He had but to use that upward glance of his and all insubordination was at an end. This he very soon discovered, and came to use the disconcerting look more than ever. There was something compelling in his appearance, an elusive air of rulership and haughtiness, and a suggestion of a hidden force that was invincible. Montlice recognised this as the Malvallet in him, and chuckled to himself, watching. He set Simon to rule his guards, and observed his ruthless methods with amusement. He would not throw the garment of his protection about his squire, wondering how he would maintain his position alone. Simon wanted no protection and found no difficulty in maintaining his position. At first, when he interfered in some quarrel, he met with insolence and threatened blows. That lasted for a very little time. Men found that insolence moved him to an icy anger that was to be dreaded, and if it came to blows there would be broken ribs, or dislocated jaws for those whom Simon’s fist struck. Therefore it swiftly ceased to come to blows. If it was a question of judgment or arbitration men found Simon relentlessly, mercilessly just, and because of this justice, no complaints of him were carried to my Lord Fulk.

With all his harshness and cold demeanour Simon was liked and trusted. The grumblers dwindled in number, for Simon had short shrift for any such. His code was a queer one, and men found his advice puzzling. But when they had slowly unravelled his line of thought they found it good, and this because it was his own code.

A guard met him once on the battlements and unfolded a tale of woe. One of his companions had a spite against him and plagued away his life. On this day the man had slyly tripped him up with his spear, so that he was burning to be avenged. What would Simon do for him?

‘Naught,’ Simon answered curtly. ‘Fight thine own battle.’

‘Yet, sir, if I strike this man as he deserves, you will come upon us and have us shut up for brawling, or maybe whipped.’

‘But ye will have struck him,’ Simon said, and walked on, leaving his man to think it over.

Presently the man came to him again.

‘Sir, if I punish mine enemy and there be something of a brawl, we shall both be punished by you.’

Simon nodded indifferently.

‘But if I strike him hard enough, methinks he will not again plague me.’

‘That is so,’ Simon said.

‘I think I will strike him,’ decided the man, and straightway went to do so.

There was indeed something of a brawl, and as a consequence Simon had them both under lock and key for twenty-four hours. But neither bore him any ill-will, nor was there another complaint lodged on the matter. Simon knew his men, and his method of ruling was his own, rude as were those men, and as rough. He was master, and not one of them thought to dispute the fact.

Fulk, watching from afar, smote his thigh and laughed triumphantly.

‘The boy is a man,’ he said, hugely delighted. ‘And was there ever such another?’

How he went with Fulk to Shrewsbury

At the time of Simon’s seventeenth birthday, affairs in Wales and the North of England had reached something approaching a crisis. It was in the year 1403, when Bolingbroke had sat upon the throne for four years, and his son, Henry of Monmouth, had held the reins of government in Wales, unassisted, for some months only. Although he was but sixteen years of age, the Prince had already led a punitive expedition into North Wales, and considerably harried the rebel, Owen Glyndourdy. But now Percy, the redoubtable Hotspur, had, with his father, the Earl of Northumberland, and his uncle, the Earl of Worcester, raised his standard in the North against the King, and was on the point of marching to join Glyndourdy in Wales.

It was in July that these state affairs first affected Montlice, although for some time past Fulk, ever-ready for war, had chafed and fretted in his fair land, debating whether he should take his men to join the Prince on the Marches or no. His uncertainty rendered him irritable to all who crossed his path; only Simon understood the reason of this irritability, and he gave no sign that he understood. But although he said little, he too was watching affairs, and under his habitual placidity was a glowing desire to be gone from quiet Montlice to Shrewsbury where lay the Prince of Wales with his insufficient army and his insufficient supplies.

One rode hot-haste through Cambridge, early in the month, and came to Montlice, covered with dust, dropping with fatigue, upon a jaded horse whose sides were flecked with foam, and whose slender legs trembled when at last he was checked before the bridge of the castle of Montlice.

‘In the King’s Name!’ he cried to those who would have questioned him, and passed over the bridge and up the winding path to the castle at a stumbling trot. At the great door he was met by Simon, coming forth to target practice. ‘In the King’s Name!’ he said again, and slipped wearily to the ground. ‘My lord the Earl is within, young sir?’

‘Ay.’ Simon beckoned to one of the guards who came to the tired horse’s head. ‘Take yon beast to the stables, William, and see to it that he is well cared for. Come within, sir.’ He led the King’s Messenger through the great, central hall where the scullions were clearing away the remains of dinner, to the room where he himself had first come to Fulk. The same leathern curtain hung across the doorway, and Simon pulled it back, stepping aside for the Messenger to enter.

‘My lord,’ he said calmly, ‘one comes from the King.’ Then, seeing the man safely within, he let fall the curtain and went out again to his target practice.

When at length he returned he found the Messenger departed and Fulk roaring for his squire. Even before he had set foot across the threshold of the castle he could hear his lord bellowing his name from the hall. He went in unhurriedly, and found that Fulk was standing at the foot of the winding stairway, vainly calling him. Alan sat in a great chair by the empty fireplace, and Simon saw at once that he was perturbed and a little nervous.

‘You called, my lord?’ Simon said, walking forward across the stone floor.

Fulk wheeled about.

‘So thou art here! And where hast been, cub? I have shouted myself hoarse, thou hapless fool!’

Simon propped his bow up against the wall.

‘I have been shooting without, sir. What is your pleasure?’

‘Shooting without, forsooth!’ roared Fulk. Then of a sudden his wrath died down. ‘Well, well, we shall have need of it belike. Come thou hither, Simon lad.’

Simon came to the table, and Fulk handed him a sheet of parchment. Simon read it through slowly, the while my lord puffed and blew, and stamped his feet, for all the world like some curbed-in battle-horse.

‘Well,’ Simon said at last. ‘So we go to war.’ He gave the King’s writ back to Fulk and frowned. ‘We can make ready in the space of three days,’ he added tranquilly.

Fulk laughed, stuffing the parchment into his belt.

‘Thou cold little fish! Is it nothing that the King has sent for me to join him at Shrewsbury?’

‘Nay, it is a great thing,’ answered Simon, ‘but I shall not be in a heat because of it. That is foolish.’

‘Holy Virgin, why?’ demanded Fulk.

‘There will be more done, and that expeditiously, if a head is kept firm upon one’s shoulders.’

‘Wise boy!’ Fulk shook with laughter. ‘Eh, but one would think thou hadst been in a dozen campaigns! Sit thee down, my Simon, that I may confer with thee. See our Alan there. The lad’s in a ferment! Never fret, Alan, I’ll not take thee along with me.’

Alan flushed at the taunt.

‘Indeed, sir, and that is my place! Dost say I shall not ride forth with thee?’ he cried.

‘A pretty captain wouldst thou make!’ jeered Fulk. ‘Paling at every sound, weary ere ever the day is begun! Thou’lt stay with the womenfolk. ’Twill be more to thy taste, methinks.’

Up sprang Alan in a rage.

‘It is not to be borne!’ he cried. ‘I have as much courage as thou, and I say it is my right to go with thee!’

‘And I say thou art a very babe,’ Fulk replied. ‘It is Simon I will take.’ Then as Alan looked as though he would fly at him, he spoke more gently, pleased at his son’s fury. ‘Nay, nay, Alan, calm thyself. I did not mean to taunt thee. Art too young for a hard campaign, but shalt rule here in my stead.’

‘I tell thee –’

Fulk brought his fist down on the table so that the boards almost cracked beneath it.

‘Hold thy tongue! What I have said I have said. Sit thee down again!’

Alan went sulkily to his chair and sank into it. Satisfied that he was silenced for the time, Fulk turned to Simon.

‘Look you, Simon, there are six score men-at-arms I can muster, and eight score archers, under Francis of Dalley. There is John the Marshal, and Vincent, my captain. No puny force that, lad! And thou shalt ride with me and taste the joys of war. Does the prospect please thee?’

‘Very well,’ Simon said, with the glimmer of a smile. ‘Which way do we go?’

For over an hour they discussed the various routes, until Alan began to yawn and fidget.

‘It is through Northampton and Warwick I will go!’ declared Fulk obstinately.

‘And thereby waste time,’ said Simon. ‘It is through Lutterworth and Tamworth, or Lichfield, we must go.’

‘I say I will not! Who can tell in what state are the roads that way, foolish boy?’

‘The Messenger came through Lichfield, sir,’ remarked Alan languidly. ‘He made no complaint.’

‘Well, I will think on it,’ growled Fulk. ‘Hotspur is marching towards Chester, so we must e’en take the speediest road.’ He heaved himself out of his chair. ‘And now to tell my lady,’ he said, and tugged ruefully at his beard. For my lady, gentle though she was, was the only being before whom Fulk bent the knee of his headstrong obstinacy. He went heavily up the stairs now to her bower, leaving Alan and Simon alone.

Alan bent down, fondling one of the hounds.

‘Thou hast the luck, Simon,’ he said.

‘Thou dost not want to go,’ Simon answered. ‘What are wars to thee?’

‘How can I tell when I have never taken part in one?’

‘Ye quibble,’ Simon said harshly. ‘Wilt be happier here with thy lady-loves.’

Alan said nothing for a while, still stroking his hound. At length he sat back in his chair.

‘Needs must I win my spurs one day,’ he said. ‘Why not now?’

‘Time enough,’ Simon replied. ‘This will mean forced marches over rough ground. Thou wouldst be weary ere thou hadst come to Shrewsbury.’

Alan looked wistfully up at him.

‘And – and thou who art but one year my senior – art made of iron.’

‘Hadst thou led the life I have led since my birth thou also wouldst be of sterner stuff.’

‘Or dead,’ Alan said, smiling.

‘Ay, perhaps. Where went the Messenger from here?’

‘To Grayman, and from thence to the Baron of Shirley. He was at Malvallet two days ago. The King calls for all his loyal servants. I wonder, shall we vanquish Percy?’

‘God willing,’ Simon answered.

‘God willing indeed. Right must triumph.’

‘In that case,’ said Simon drily, ‘Hotspur is like to win.’

Alan opened his eyes wide.

‘Simon! The King – the King – is the King!’

‘So too was Richard,’ Simon reminded him.

Alan digested this.

‘And – and so thou dost not believe that – that right must win?’

‘Not I!’ Simon laughed shortly. ‘Might and generalship will win. What else?’

Alan hesitated.

‘Simon, I fear me ’tis as Father Peter says,’ he remarked gravely.

Simon cast him an inquiring glance.

‘What says our worthy priest?’

‘That thou art a thought godless in thy spirit.’

Simon laughed again, and this time the sardonic note sounded strongly.

‘When said he this, Alan? Do I not attend Mass, and go I not to Confession?’

‘Ay – but – sometimes thou dost say things…. Father Peter spoke to my lord of you.’

Simon was smiling now, so that his eyes were almost slits.

‘And what answered my lord?’

‘Oh, my father said: “Let be, Simon is very well.”’

‘Ay, so I think. Set thy mind at rest, Alan, I am no heretic.’

Alan started up, shocked.

‘Simon, I meant not that! Nor did Father Peter.’

‘What a heat over naught!’ Simon jeered. ‘What if thou hadst meant it? Yet I do not think I look a Lollard.’

‘Oh, no, no!’ Alan cried, and wondered to hear Simon laugh again.

Three days later Fulk left Montlice with his following, and started on the arduous march to Shrewsbury. And rough ground as much of it was they arrived at that town at the end of the week, one day before the King himself, who was hastening there to throw his army between the oncoming Hotspur and the Prince.

Some sprinkling of men Fulk lost on the march, but his casualties were few, so that he remarked with unwonted philosophy that if the weaklings would all fall out before they came to Shrewsbury, so much the better. Now that he was in action his irritability left him, and he surprised Simon by his good humour, and his patience in cheering on his men. His joviality was infectious, and it was a light-spirited little army that halted before the gates of Shrewsbury at the end of that weary week. They were welcomed royally, and quartered well, and within an hour of their coming the Prince of Wales sent to bid my lord wait on him at once. So Fulk sallied forth, accompanied only by his squire, and made all haste to Henry’s court. It was there, while waiting for Fulk to emerge from his audience, that Simon first met his half-brother, Geoffrey of Malvallet.

Geoffrey had arrived not twenty-four hours before Montlice, leading his men in place of his father who was sick at home. Simon recognised him at once from his likeness to Malvallet.

Geoffrey was sauntering through the great hall. He lounged past Simon, and glancing casually over his shoulder to see who it was, was startled to find that he was the object of a directly piercing stare, cast upward at him from under heavy brows. He paused on his way, and returned that stare from his superior two inches in height.

He was a handsome young man, some nineteen years of age, dark as Simon was fair, but with the same projecting forehead and green-blue eyes. But where Simon’s eyes were cold, Geoffrey’s sparkled; and where Simon’s mouth was hard, Geoffrey’s had a softer curve of laughter. It curved now in unveiled amusement, and his eyes twinkled merrily.

‘What’s to do, young cockalorum?’ he asked. ‘Whence that haughty frown? My complexion likes you not, perchance?’

Simon came forward, and as he came Geoffrey saw the red and gold device on his surcoat. His smile faded, and he half shrugged his shoulders.

‘Ha, one of the Montlice brood!’ he said, and would have turned on his heel.

‘Nay,’ Simon said. ‘Though I would as lief be that as aught else.’

Malvallet paused, and looked him over.

‘And what are you, Master Deep-Voice!’

‘I think I am Nobody, Sir Geoffrey.’

‘Why so do I!’ Malvallet mocked him. ‘And being Nobody, see ye cast me not another such glance as I surprised today, for it may be that I am hot of temper.’

Simon smiled then, not a whit angered.

‘It may also be that I am strong of arm,’ he said.

‘Well, see ye cross not my path again,’ Malvallet answered. ‘I am not so puny, I give you warning.’ He strode on, leaving Simon to look after him with a curious glint in his eyes, not unfriendly.

Then Fulk came out in rare good spirits, and bore his squire back to their quarters, making him ride beside him instead of a few paces behind.

‘By my troth, Simon,’ he said energetically, ‘that boy is a man, with all a man’s brain and courage!’

Simon turned his head.

‘The Prince, my lord?’

‘Ay, young Henry of Monmouth. He is one year thy junior, but by God, he is three years thy senior as well! And thou art no babe.’

Simon bent to pass his hand thoughtfully down his horse’s neck.

‘What thinks he, sir? Can we hold against Hotspur?’

Fulk shot him a sidelong glance, and pursed his small mouth.

‘Who shall say, Simon? It is said that Hotspur is fourteen hundred strong. And he hath Douglas with him, and Worcester, with Glyndourdy like to join him ere we can engage. Word is brought that he is little over a day’s march from here. We are a handful, and if help comes not we can but hold the town.’

‘The while Glyndourdy joins him. H’m! Where lies the King this night?’

‘I know not. If he comes before Hotspur all may be well. But …’

‘What manner of man is this Henry of Bolingbroke?’ asked Simon. ‘Is he one to allow another to forestall him?’

‘Nay, by the Rood! Henry is a man, even as his son.’

‘Then I doubt not he will be with us before Percy,’ said Simon placidly. ‘Whate’er befall, it will be an interesting combat.’

‘It is like to be bloody enough to satisfy even thy savage heart,’ Fulk grunted. He shifted a little in his saddle. ‘Malvallet is here.’

‘I know.’

‘Hast seen him then? ’Tis not thy father, but his first-born. Thy father lies sick of a fever.’

‘Doth he so? I have spoken with Geoffrey of Malvallet. While ye were with his Highness.’