Georgette Heyer (4 page)

‘Spoken with him?’ Fulk turned to look at him. ‘What said he? Why didst thou accost him, pray?’

‘I did not. I but looked, and my look misliked him. Wherefore he gave me warning that I should not again cross his path.’

Fulk laughed.

‘That swift glance of thine, eh, Simon? So Malvallet called thee to book? And what dost thou think of him?’

‘He seems a man,’ Simon answered, and then relapsed into a silence which was not broken until they came back to their lodging.

A little after noon on the following day Simon sallied forth from his quarters and went afoot through the packed town towards the battlements. The streets were thronged with soldiers, both of high estate and low, so that Simon’s progress was necessarily slow. But at length he came to the battlements, on the east side of Shrewsbury, and entered into conversation with some of the men-at-arms stationed there. He was permitted, presently, to mount the battlements, and stood behind the parapet, looking out across the country. The breeze stirred his fair hair, and whipped his surcoat about his legs. He leaned his hands on the low wall; closely scanning the surrounding country. Thus he stood, motionless, until an officer came up to him.

‘Well, young sir, and what seest thou?’ he asked, rather amused.

‘I do not know,’ Simon answered. ‘Presently I will tell you.’

The officer shaded his eyes from the sun, looking out from under his hand to where Simon gazed.

‘There is naught, Sir Sharp-Eyes. No sign of life of Hotspur or of our King. For the one God be praised, and for the other God pity us. Ye came with Montlice?’

‘Ay.’ Still Simon stared at the distant horizon, his eyes narrowed and keen.

The officer laughed at him.

‘Do ye think to take my place in spying out the approach of men?’ he inquired.

‘Mine eyes are sharper than most,’ Simon replied. ‘See yonder!’ He stretched out his arm, pointing to the south-east.

The officer screwed up his face against the sun’s rays, blinking rapidly.

‘What is it? I see naught.’

‘Look more to the right. There, coming over the brow of the hill. Something moves. Do ye see it not?’

The man leaned forward, again shading his eyes.

‘Naught,’ he said uneasily. ‘Art sure, Sir Squire?’

Simon’s gaze did not waver.

‘Ay, I am sure. Something is coming over yonder hill, for I can see movement, and ever and anon there is a glistening like a tiny star. That is the sun on armour.’

The officer turned to hail one of his men.

‘Godfrey! Come hither! Ye have sharp eyes. What can ye see yonder?’

The archer stared at the far-away hills for a long time in silence.

‘A clump of trees, my captain,’ he ventured at last.

‘Nay, not that. Coming over the brow, more to the right.’

‘I see naught, sir. Ah!’

‘Well, what?’

‘Little enough, sir, or perhaps mine eyes deceived me. Methought I saw a twinkling. There again!’

Captain Lenoir turned again to Simon.

‘Mayhap ye are right, sir. But I’ll sound no alarm till we see more plainly. If what ye see is indeed an army it is twenty miles distant, or more. If it is Hotspur, we –’

At last Simon turned.

‘Hotspur? What folly is this? Hotspur will come from the north, from Chester. What I see is the King’s army.’

‘It may be.’ Paul Lenoir looked out again, and in a moment gave a start. ‘I saw a flash! Yet another!’

‘Ye will see them more and more as the army comes over the hill,’ Simon remarked.

Lenoir sat down upon the parapet.

‘I would give something for thine eyes, sir. May I not know thy name? I am called Paul of Lenoir.’

‘I am Simon of Beauvallet.’ He too sat down on the parapet, and for a long time they stayed thus, saying little, but ever watching the twinkling line that was slowly growing. And at last Paul of Lenoir rose and gave orders for the trumpeters to blare forth the great news that the King’s army was approaching. Then Simon left him, and went back to his lord’s side.

The town was of a sudden in ferment, the streets more crowded than ever, some men cheering, others asking excited questions, others gloomily prophesying that it was Percy and not the King who had made a cunning detour in order to bewilder them. One and all rushed to the walls to verify the joyous tidings, and Simon’s progress was even slower than it had been before.

He came upon Fulk, who was conferring with his marshal, and would have passed him silently had not Fulk called after him.

‘Ha, Simon! Where hast been? Is the King indeed approaching?’

Simon paused.

‘Ay, my lord. He is over twenty miles from here, but he brings a fair army as I should judge.’

‘Saw ye the approach then?’

‘I have been with one Lenoir upon the battlements and espied the army by the glittering of armour in the sun.’

‘I dare swear thou wert the first to do so, my lynx-eyed Simon!’

‘Ay, but one saw them not long after me. They will be at the gates soon after dusk, for they are marching swiftly.’

He proved to be right, for not long after sundown an advance guard from the army galloped up to the gates to tell, officially, of the King’s coming in full force. The gates were opened, and the young Prince of Wales rode out to stand there in readiness to receive his father. Henry came at last, and publicly embraced his son. Then he rode into the town beside him, while the excited inhabitants who lined the streets cheered till they were hoarse, flinging flowers before him, and scuffling among themselves to obtain a better view.

Within an hour a council was summoned from which Fulk did not return until well into the night, when Simon lay sleeping peacefully and dreamlessly upon his hard pallet.

They had hardly risen next morning when my lord’s page came flying in with the news that Percy had appeared before the walls, and at sight of the royal banner, withdrawn his men, some thought to one place, some to another.

Fulk summoned his squire to him, and made all haste to the court, which they found packed with the various captains and generals. The King held another council, and when Fulk at last rejoined Simon his eyes were kindling with the lust for battle, and his mouth smiled grimly.

‘We are to march forth, God be thanked!’ he told Simon. ‘Glyndourdy is not come, so the King will pit his strength against Percy. Stafford is to lead the van, the King takes the right wing, and the Prince the left. We are to go with the Prince. Malvallet also. Malvallet is the Prince’s friend,’ he added. ‘I did not know. He is very like thee in face, Simon.’

‘Save that he is dark. Do we enrol ourselves under the Prince’s standard?’

‘Ay, at once. Summon me John the Marshal and Vincent, lad, and see to it that thou bearest thyself in readiness within the hour. I will carry my great cross-hilted sword, and the old lance.’

Simon nodded and went quickly away to carry out his orders. In an hour he was fully equipped, riding behind his lord, and after what seemed to be a marvellously short time, the army was marched out of the town, fourteen to fifteen hundred strong, north to Hayteley-hill, whereon Hotspur had drawn up his army.

‘God’s my life!’ muttered Fulk. ‘This is a pretty place for fighting!’

Simon surveyed the ground coolly, and frowned a little. Along the foot of the hill were a number of ponds, and in front of them grew thick rows of peas. Behind these obstructions were the rebels ensconced.

There was a long, long wait, during which the horses stamped and fidgeted restlessly, and the men murmured among themselves. Then from the royal lines went forth a herald to treat with Percy. Another wait followed, and the herald returned, accompanied by a man clad all in armour and mounted on a fine horse, with his squire behind him.

‘Worcester,’ said Fulk. ‘Are we to treat, then?’

No one had an answer for him, and he sat silent, waiting. To Simon it seemed hours before the Earl returned to the rebel lines, and after that was still another long pause. Evidently Hotspur refused to accept the terms laid before him, for there was a stir in the enemy’s lines, and word came down the King’s army that the King was about to give the order to ‘advance banner’. It was now long past noon, and from the impatient, chafing men came something of a cheer, and cries of ‘St George for England! St George, St George!’

Fulk settled himself more firmly in his saddle, curbing his horse’s sidling movements.

‘Is thy blood fired, Simon?’ he asked, smiling from beneath his helmet.

Simon’s eyes looked out, cool and watchful as ever.

‘Ay,’ he said shortly. ‘Does Stafford charge?’

Fulk nodded.

‘God help him, yes! I mislike the look of yon army, Simon. Hotspur is no novice in battle, but there is some talk of a prophecy concerning him that says he will fall today. Keep at my back as far as thou art able, and do not lose thy head. Hey, we are moving – and so are they!’

After that there was no time for conversation. Through the hampering growth of peas charged the van, led by Stafford, and to meet him came Hotspur, thundering down the hill with spears levelled, and from either wing the archers shooting. Suddenly the air seemed thick with flying arrows, and alive with cries and the clash of arms. Among the ponds and beyond them the vans of the two armies engaged, and for a while nothing could be seen save a medley of soldiers fighting together in growing disorder.

A shout went up from Hotspur’s lines, and one cried from beside Simon: ‘Stafford is down, and they are through!’

An order ran down the Prince’s flank, and in a moment they were in action, galloping forward to charge the enemy’s right wing.

In a minute they seemed to be in the midst of a storm of flying arrows. One whistled past Simon’s head, but he only laughed, and spurred on, trampling peas underfoot, and hacking through. A cry came to his ears, taken up by many voices: ‘The Prince is wounded! The Prince is wounded!’ The ranks wavered and fell back irresolute, appalled by the flood of arrows. One rode up to the Prince who had plucked the arrow from out his cheek and was staunching the blood. He seemed to remonstrate, to try to force Henry away. But the Prince shook him off, and rose in his stirrups, waving his sword. His clear, young voice was wafted back to the serried lines.

‘Onward, onward!’ he shouted. ‘Follow me!’ He set spur to his horse and charged forward. ‘St George, St George for us!’ he cried.

Others followed his example. Montlice and Malvallet galloped forward side by side with Simon a little to the fore.

‘Follow the Prince!’ roared Fulk. ‘The Prince and Victory!’

A rumble went through the lines: ‘The Prince, the Prince!’ There was a sudden surge forward, as the King’s men charged up the hill after that heroic, flying figure. Some fell into the disastrous ponds, some stumbled in the entangling pea-rows, but the bulk kept on till they had overtaken their leader. Then onward still to meet the enemy’s right flank. Like some heavy thunderbolt they fell upon it, and carried on, as it were, by their own impetus, they rolled it back and back, hacking and hewing before and beside them, until they had enclosed it between themselves and the King’s division.

Far away to the right Simon could see Fulk, swept from him by the tide of men, wielding his sword like one possessed; and nearer to him was Malvallet, cut off from the main body of the fight and hard-pressed by Percy’s men, yet holding his own nobly. From his own tight-packed corner Simon saw Malvallet’s horse go down, and Malvallet spring clear. A man on foot caught at his own horse’s rein, but before he could strike Simon had bent forward and slashed him across his unvisored face. Then he broke free, and cut himself a way to where Malvallet fought. Down he came upon the group at a full gallop, and ere the rebels could turn to see what it was that fell upon them so suddenly like a bolt from the blue, he had struck. His huge sword with all his iron strength behind it descended on one hapless shoulder where it joined his victim’s neck, and cleaved through the sheltering armour as though it had been so much cardboard. As the man fell, soundless, Simon came to Malvallet’s side, and sprang to earth. His sword swept a circle before them, and with his free hand he thrust the horse’s bridle into Malvallet’s hand.

‘Up, up!’ he cried, and sprang forward, lithe as a panther, to bring one man to earth by a single stroke so nicely measured, with so much skill and brute force behind it, that his two-edged sword split the helm on which it fell, and also its wearer’s crown. He leaped back again as Malvallet shook the reins clear of his arm.

‘At my back!’ Geoffrey gasped, and swept his sword up suddenly to intercept a deadly blow at his neck.

‘Fool!’ Simon answered in a fury. He caught his horse as it would have bolted past him, and setting his feet squarely, forced it back upon its haunches. From the saddle-holster he snatched his treasured bow which not all Fulk’s remonstrances had induced him to leave behind. Down he went on his knee, seeing that Malvallet could still stand alone, and calmly fitted an arrow to the bow. Calmly, too, he took aim, and bent that mighty weapon. The arrow sang forth, but so sure was Simon of his skill, equal, Fulk said, to that of the best bowman in all Cheshire, that he paused not to see it hit its mark. One after another he fitted arrows to his bow, and shot them among the dwindling group about Malvallet, until a sound behind him warned of danger. Up he sprang, cat-like, and in a flash exchanged bow for sword. And with this he did so much good work that when Malvallet came to guard his back, he had killed a man outright, and dealt three others some shattering blows.

‘I am with thee!’ Malvallet called from behind, but Simon needed no encouragement. Not for nothing had he trained his muscles throughout the years he had been at Montlice. His arm seemed tireless, his eye unwavering.

Then the body of the fight swept down upon them, and they were all but lost in its writhing masses. Free of his assailants, Simon caught at a horse’s bridle. He had lost his shield and his bow, but with his sword he did battle against the mounted man. Then, once more, Malvallet was with him, himself mounted on a stray horse, and helmed again. He charged down upon Simon’s foe, lance poised in readiness, and as the unknown rider would have cut Simon to earth, caught him fairly in the ribs with such force that the man, taken unawares, was toppled backwards out of his saddle, and the wind knocked out of him.