Georgette Heyer (7 page)

‘Hither,’ Simon called. ‘By the path that leads towards the brook.’

The footsteps grew louder, and Roger came racing round the bend to his master’s assistance. He paused when he saw what was toward, and gazed at Simon wonderingly.

‘Go fetch the rope from thy saddle holster,’ Simon ordered calmly. ‘Hasten, and say naught to anyone.’

With another astonished glance at the weeping girl, Roger turned and ran back through the wood. When he reappeared it was with a coil of stout rope which was one of the things that Simon always carried with him in case he should come upon robbers on the road. He went with it to Simon, and between them they trussed the swearing, groaning man, deftly and securely.

Simon pulled the last knot tight and stood up. He took the wallet from his belt, unfastening the strap that bound it.

A choking cry came from the bound man.

‘My lord, my lord, there is naught of import therein, I swear! Some letters from my lass at home – that is all! For the love of God, sir, do not look!’

Simon paid no heed, but drew from the pouch some three or four packets. Each one was sealed, and as he examined the seal, Simon’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he cast a searching glance at the man at his feet. For the seal was to all appearance that of the dead King, Richard the Second, for whose sake Glyndourdy fought, and Hotspur had died. The first packet was addressed to a baron who lived not ten miles from Montlice, and whom Simon knew well. The others were all to nobles living either in Norfolk or Cambridge.

Without the faintest hesitation Simon slit open one and spread out the crackling sheets. The letter was couched in fair terms, and it assured my lord the Baron of Crowburg, faithful adherent to the true king, Richard by the Grace of God, lately escaped into Scotland, that despite the lying reports of his death, set about by the usurper, Henry Bolingbroke, called the Fourth of England, King Richard lived, and was shortly to show himself, when he would call all his faithfuls to his side to depose the monster Bolingbroke, and his son, Henry of Monmouth. And to all of this he, the writer, could testify, as he had seen and had speech with the blessed King, and who should know him better than himself who had been gentleman of the bedchamber during his reign? And if my lord still was wary of believing this truth, let him closely inspect the seal upon this parchment when he would surely recognise it as King Richard’s own. There was much more in this vein, and the letter was signed ‘Serle’, and dated a month earlier. Under the signature there was yet another, and examining it closely Simon saw that the scrawl was ‘Richard R.’

He folded the letter carefully, and together with the others put it back into the pouch, tucking the whole away into his own tunic. In his journeyings here and there some faint rumours had come to his ears of the late King’s being still alive, in Scotland, with a great force of French and Scots waiting to cross the border. He had paid no attention to the tale, thinking it but a fantastic belief of the common folk, but this letter warned him that there was more in it than that. He realised that he had surprised a pretty plot, and his eyes kindled a little at the knowledge. He turned and beckoned to Roger, who was trying to comfort the girl.

‘Here, lad! Thou must help me to carry yon fellow back to the tavern. Leave the silly wench to dry her tears. No harm has been done to her.’

Roger came, rather sulkily, and laid hold of the now unconscious man’s legs. Simon took his head, and they set off towards the tavern, the girl bringing up the rear and sobbing loudly all the way.

They set their burden down without the kitchen door, and Simon went in to seek the landlord. He took him aside, and questioned him sharply.

‘When came that fellow ye spoke of?’ he asked.

The landlord gazed at him.

‘W-which fellow, lord? – Ah, your pardon! But an hour before your noble self.’

‘What know you of him?’

The landlord began to look alarmed.

‘I – I have never set eyes on him before, good my lord!’ To his horror he found that Simon was looking at him piercingly. Flustered, he started back in bewilderment.

Simon nodded.

‘That is the truth, I think.’

‘God’s truth, sir! Why –’

‘I have that fellow bound without,’ Simon said grimly. ‘Thou hast harboured a traitor, unawares, maybe.’

The man’s eyes seemed like to pop out of his head.

‘A – a
traitor
, lord? Now, by my troth, lord, I knew of naught ’gainst this man! I swear it by the Rood, sir! and the neighbours will tell ye there is no more loyal servant to the King –’

‘Ay, that will do,’ Simon interrupted. ‘Provided ye obey my commands in this matter I will hold ye blameless, but if ye refuse to obey – why, then ’twill be my duty to report ye for a dangerous fellow.’

Mine host wrung his fat little hands.

‘Oh, my lord, my lord, I will do aught you please! For my respectable house to harbour a traitor! Oh, woe is me, that I was born under an unlucky star! At my birth they foretold –’

‘Hold thy tongue! Have you a strong place wherein I can imprison this man?’

The little man clapped his hands to his head.

‘Have I? Have I? Ah, yes, above the stable, in the loft! Only reached by the trap-door, and the roof sound as can be, good my lord!’

‘Then lead me thither,’ ordered Simon, and went out again to his prisoner, the twittering landlord at his heels. They bore the victim in the wake of mine host, and with difficulty mounted the ladder leading into the loft. There they deposited the man, and leaving Roger to stand guard, Simon departed with the landlord, and bade him fetch ink and parchment. When these were brought to him he sat down at a table and proceeded to write to my lord of Montlice, tersely, and with none of the customary embellishments of style.

‘My lord,

‘I am bound for London, having taken a man prisoner here who bears traitorous dispatches concerning the late King. Send me Gregory with six men of his choosing who shall relieve me here. And this with all speed tomorrow.

‘Simon of Beauvallet.

‘Written at Salpetres at the tavern of the Ox.’

He folded his document and sealed it; then he went out again, and calling Roger down from the loft, gave him the letter.

‘Look ye, Roger, thou must ride back to Montlice at once, and deliver this into my lord’s own hands. Then change thy horse for another – Sultan or Rover – and bring with thee my mare, Fleet-foot. Gregory will come back with thee, and thou shalt take my horse Cedric to Montlice again. We ride to London on the morrow.’

Roger stared.

‘To London, sir?’

‘Have I not said so? Keep thy prating tongue still to all save my lord. Now go.’

Roger heaved a sullen, weary sigh. He turned away, unenthusiastically.

‘Stop!’

Roger jumped, and paused. He looked over his shoulder at Simon.

‘Stay thou at Montlice,’ said Simon evenly. ‘Send me Malcolm in thy stead. He will maybe stand the journey better than thou, and spare me these black looks. Go.’

Roger flushed to the roots of his curly hair. He came back to stand before his master.

‘Nay, sir, I – I – shall stand the journey – very well. Bid me not send Malcolm!’

Simon looked down at him sternly.

‘Malcolm will serve me better, and with a readier will,’ he said cruelly.

Roger swallowed hard and sent a fleeting glance upwards.

‘Indeed, sir – I – I am sorry, that – that I have angered thee. Take me with thee, sir! Not that – that dolt Malcolm!
He
would not serve you as willingly as would I.’ He gave a contemptuous sniff, for between him and Malcolm was a heated rivalry for Simon’s favours.

‘Very well,’ Simon said. ‘Take the short road home, not the route by which we came. Thou’lt return tomorrow. See to it that ye go at once to bed on your arrival. It is understood?’

Roger’s spirits revived miraculously.

‘Ay, sir. I will do as ye bid me!’ He caught Simon’s hand, kissed it, and went gaily off to the stables.

Simon went back to the tavern, where he collected linen and some wood which he fashioned into a rough splint. With these and a bottle of Rhenish and a loaf of bread, he went to see his prisoner.

This worthy had come out of his swoon, but he lay quiet and weak upon the floor of the loft. Simon untied his bonds, and ripping up the sleeve of his leathern jerkin, set the bone of his broken arm and bound it to the splint. The man groaned a little, and winced, for Simon’s surgery was crude, but he offered no resistance. Simon gave him the wine and bread and stood silently over him while he ate and drank his fill. Then he rebound him, leaving his useless arm free, and made him a comfortable bed of straw. After that he departed, without having said one word, and bolted the trap-door on the outside. He went back to the tavern for supper, and the landlord marvelled at his appetite. But he was more than shocked that Simon should elect to sleep in the stable under the loft when he had three men who might guard the prisoner during the night. Simon refused the offer of these men curtly. He was never one to shift responsibility.

How he rode hot-foot to London

Simon had hardly finished his breakfast next morning when Roger returned, leading his own mare, and accompanied by Gregory, Simon’s lieutenant, and six of his most trustworthy men.

At sight of this troop the landlord was thrown into a flutter. It was bad enough to have a prisoner in his loft, but seven great men to house was too much for him. Simon had told him what was expected of him, and although he dared not expostulate, the little man wrung his hands despairingly and screwed up his face into a hundred worried wrinkles. He had had experience of men-at-arms and their ways, and he feared for the peace of his household and the well-being of his cellar. He hinted at these qualms to the impervious Simon, who waved him aside with the curt promise that for any damage these men of Montlice did he should be paid in full. That was all very well, thought the landlord, but it would not recompense him for the loss of his good name and that of his house. However, he was something of a philosopher, and finding that there was no help for it, he trotted away to arrange for the soldiers’ accommodation.

Simon went out to meet his men, and was greeted by a smart salute from every one. Roger slipped from the saddle and presented him with a packet from Montlice which Simon reserved for future perusal. He turned to Gregory, who stood respectfully awaiting his orders.

‘Send thy men to stable their horses, Gregory, and come with me.’

Gregory gave the order, and leaving the flustered landlord to guide the men to the stables, followed Simon to the back of the house. Together they paced the little garden while Simon told him briefly of what had happened.

‘Ye will quarter your men here, Gregory, and look to it that there be no laxity of discipline, for which ye will answer to me. There must be a guard over the prisoner all the time. Ye will arrange for that. And no one is to have speech with him save yourselves. Nay, nor sight of him. Ye will deliver him to whoever shall come from London with orders from the King, or from me. And when ye have delivered him up ye will return at once to Montlice. It is understood?’

‘Exactly, sir.’

‘Keep the prisoner in the loft. It is safer. I start for London as soon as Roger of Maitland has broken his fast.’

Gregory bowed.

‘Shall I take command at once, Sir Simon?’

‘At once. Remember that I will have no carousing among the men.’

As soon as Gregory had departed, Simon broke the seal of his lord’s letter, and started to decipher the wild scrawl.

‘To Sir Simon of Beauvallet.

‘What in Hell ails thee, lad, that thou must poke and pry into plots and other such treasonable matters? Let well alone, and for God’s sake do not implicate thyself to thine own undoing! Thy letter has started my gout again. If thou must ride to London because thou hast waylaid a traitor on the road, thou mightest at least write me the full sum of it! The few lines I do receive from thy hand would enrage a saint, nor could thy rascally squire tell of aught beyond thy fight in the wood over a wench or some such fandangle. And I tell thee, Simon, that I had thought more of thee than that thou’dst embroil thyself in a quarrel over some silly maid. Natheless I say naught for I do suppose that thou wilt ever go thine own headstrong road, plague be upon thee for thine obstinacy!

‘Were it not for this accursed gout which, as thou dost know, hath me fast by the leg, and is an hundred times worse from thine unreasonable behaviour, I would be up and after thee to learn the whole tale from thine own tongue, and see for myself what maggot has entered into thy head. And a pretty welcome thou wilt have at Westminster, thou silly boy, carrying a cock and bull story of a trumped up plot! Were it not that I know what a headstrong, impudent determination is thine, I should say thou wouldst never gain access to the King. But I do suppose that thou wilt, and by the front door, as thou didst come to me when thou wert but a babe. I do conjure thee not to break the heads of his guards, for that would surely land thee in gaol, which I do trust will happen if it might tame thy hot blood. And furthermore thou must know that I am considerably incensed with thee and would have come with Gregory had I not had this accursed gout, if only to break my stick across thy shoulders. And if thou art slain by footpads on the road, or clapped into prison for an importunate fool, it will be but thy just deserts, and I shall not grieve nor move a finger to aid thee.

‘I send thee twenty guineas by Roger, against thy needs, and if thou stand in need of a friend, or a lodging, repair to my cousin, Charles of Granmere, who hath a goodly establishment in the Strand, which is in London, and show him this letter. He will maybe keep thee from running thy silly pate into a halter.

‘God be with thee, my dear lad, and bring thee safe home again. If thou dost stand in need of more money, ask it of my cousin in my name. And bear a courteous tongue in thy mouth, and spare the King that fiery glance of thine, else he will surely account thee mad and not wrong neither. I would I might go with thee, dear lad, but I know that thou art wise enough for ten.

‘I send thee my love and blessing, lion-cub.

‘Fulk of Montlice.

‘Written at Montlice.’

Simon smiled a little as he finished this remarkable epistle, and turning, found that Roger was by his side with a purse in his hand.

‘Sir, my lord sent this. I forgot to give it thee with the letter.’

Simon took the purse.

‘Hast thou breakfasted, Roger?’

‘Ay, sir. I am ready, and your mare hath the devil himself in her.’ He spoke feelingly, and grinned a little as Simon smiled.

‘Bring her to the door, lad.’ He went into the tavern to speak again to the landlord, and left five of my lord’s golden sovereigns on account. Thus it was that the landlord’s spirits rose considerably, and he was able to bow his guest out in his best manner.

Side by side Simon and his squire rode south-west towards Royston, at a brisk, steady pace. There they dined and rested, and again set off down the old Roman road to London. They lay that night at a village near Hertford, and were up betimes on the morrow to complete the journey. The horses were tired, so that they did not reach Bishopsgate until after dusk, when Simon at once set about finding a lodging for the night.

He had heard that the city abounded with ruffians and footpads, but none sought to rob him, nor did he meet with any rudeness when he paused to inquire the way. He asked for a tavern as near to Westminster as possible, and an interested mercer directed him to the Lamb and Saracen’s Head, or, if he found it full, to the Rose, nearby. Simon thanked him gravely, and with Roger riding sedately behind him went at a respectable pace to his hostelry. They had no difficulty in securing a room, and the supper laid before them was plentiful enough to satisfy even their hungry appetites. Roger, in a twitter of excitement, implored Simon to let him walk out after supper to see the town, but this Simon would not allow, sending him peremptorily to bed, well-knowing that he would not dare to disobey. He himself sallied forth, armed with a dagger and his trusty quarter-staff. It may have been this stout weapon which kept him immune from assault, or it may have been his formidable bearing. At all events he wandered in perfect safety about Westminster, returning early to the tavern to rest.

On the next morning he set about the making of his plans. He had not a doubt but that, if he willed it so, he could gain access to the palace during an Audience with the utmost ease, but he was wise enough to realise that this would be of very little use to him. In all probability he would have no opportunity of speaking privately to the King. Nor did he consider that this would be a proper way of approaching Henry. Accosted by a strange knight in the midst of a reception, he might very well feel annoyance and wave Simon and his news aside. And once that had happened Simon knew that he would never gain a hearing. Had the Prince of Wales been at Westminster he might have risked a rebuff, for he knew that the young Henry would remember him. But the Prince, having wintered in London, was now back on the Marches.

Simon decided at length to write to the King, and accordingly he called for quills, ink, and parchment, and sat himself down to compose a suitable note. It proved to be no easy task, for his epistolary style was naturally curt. He had wit enough to see that curtness would not tend to make easier his mission, and he spent the best part of the morning writing and re-writing. In the end it was, for him, a very fair letter.

‘My very dread and Sovereign Lord the King,

‘Your Gracious Lordship may perchance remember one Simon of Beauvallet whom you knighted at Shrewsbury after the battle in last July. This same Simon of Beauvallet doth now write to your Majesty with intent to beg an audience of you, or of one of your Majesty’s Council. The matter I would disclose to your Majesty is of great import, as I do judge, and should be attended to with all speed lest it lead to more serious harm. But three days since, I did chance upon one whom I found to bear documents in his possession addressed to various lords of the counties of Cambridge and Bedford, purporting to come from the late King, and seemingly fastened with his seal. These papers I would deliver up to your Lordship, or to those whom your Lordship shall appoint to receive them. The messenger I hold under lock and key and well guarded by the men of my Lord of Montlice.

‘If it be your Majesty’s pleasure to search further into this matter, I do beseech you to give me a hearing, when I will tell all that I know, and disclose the whereabouts of this messenger.

‘In humble obedience to your Majesty’s gracious wishes,

‘Simon of Beauvallet.

‘Written at the sign of the Lamb and Saracen’s Head.’

Simon dusted the finished letter and carefully sealed it. Then a new difficulty presented itself, to wit: how he should assure himself of this letter reaching the King. He thought of Fulk’s cousin, Charles of Granmere, and, much as he disliked asking for aid, he decided to repair to his house in the Strand and demand his assistance.

He called Roger to him, who sat kicking his heels by the window, and bade him fetch their horses. Delighted at the prospect of seeing more of the town Roger ran to do his bidding, wreathed in smiles.

Together they rode towards London and proceeded down the Strand, past the greater palaces till they came upon one that was less magnificent, and bore the name of Granmere Hall. They rode into the courtyard, and on a lackey’s demanding their business, Simon asked for my Lord of Granmere in no uncertain tones.

‘Tell my lord that Sir Simon Beauvallet comes from my Lord of Montlice!’ he said peremptorily, and, dismounting, signed to Roger to stay with the horses.

He followed the lackey into the central hall of the palace, and waited there whiles the man bore his message to my lord. Presently he returned, and bowing to Simon, begged him to follow him to my lord’s apartment.

Simon was ushered into a long low room where sat my Lord of Granmere, a man of middle age with a kindly rugged countenance, in which his eyes twinkled humorously. He came forward as Simon entered.

‘Give you good den, sir. Do ye come from my cousin?’

‘My Lord Fulk directed me to seek you out, my Lord of Granmere, in case I should need assistance. And lest ye should doubt that I do indeed come from Montlice he bade me show you this letter which he did write to me.’

Charles of Granmere took the scrawled sheets and read them through. When he came to the end, he smiled, and gave Fulk’s letter back to Simon.

‘Ay, that is my cousin’s fist,’ he said. ‘Methinks his words to you give me insight into your nature.’ His eyes twinkled more than ever. ‘What is this plot, if it be not an impertinent question, and what may I do for you?’

Briefly Simon gave him the outline, and showed him his letter to the King.

‘It is not my way, sir, to seek assistance, but although I think I might succeed in this, unaided, the thing will be quicker done if you, my lord, will consent to bear my letter to the King.’

‘Well, that is good sense, Sir Simon. Hast a hard head on thy shoulders. Where art thou staying?’

‘At the Lamb and Saracen’s Head, my lord, with my squire.’

Granmere’s eyes twinkled anew.

‘It seems that I should be defying my cousin’s behests an I allowed thee to remain there. Wilt thou honour my poor house, Sir Simon?’

Simon flushed.

‘Ye are more than kind, my lord, but all I ask is that ye will bear my letter to the King.’

‘Why, this is churlish!’ Granmere chided. ‘It would be my pleasure to house thee. I do beg that thou wilt send thy squire back to the inn to pay thy reckoning and to bring thine appurtenances hither.’

Simon considered for a moment, and shot my lord a swift, piercing glance. Then he bowed.

‘I thank you, sir.’

And that was how he first met Charles of Granmere.

My lord went to Westminster on the following day, and when he returned it was with a message from the King commanding Simon to a private audience that evening at six o’clock.

‘He remembers thee,’ Granmere said. ‘He says that thou wert the thirteenth knight, and when I described thee he said at once that thou wert the man recommended for knighthood by the Prince. He is anxious to learn of thy plot. There are too many such afoot for his liking.’

‘And while the French Court pretends to lend credence to these tales of Richard being in Scotland, there will be a-many more,’ Simon said grimly.

‘But Henry is a man,’ Granmere answered. ‘He will triumph throughout.’

‘It is the young Henry who is a man,’ Simon said.

When he presented himself at Westminster Palace that evening he was led at once to the King’s chamber, where he found Henry and the old Duke of York.

Simon paused on the threshold as his name was announced, and went stiffly down upon his knee. The King nodded to him, observing him with shrewd, deep-set eyes.

‘Come forward, Sir Simon of Beauvallet,’ he said. ‘We have to thank you for your courtesy and dispatch in informing us of this treacherous plot.’

Simon advanced, and standing before the King’s chair, told at his request the story of Serle’s messenger and his fight with him in the wood. It was not a graphic account that he gave, but it was concise, and devoid of embellishments or exaggerations. While he spoke the King watched him, chin in hand, marking every changing expression of Simon’s face, and every little movement of his strong, well-shaped hands. He listened carefully, several times interrupting to put a gently-spoken question. Yet for all Henry’s kind way and courteous manner, Simon knew that he was under cross-examination, for the questions came thick and fast as his tale proceeded, and it would have been very difficult to have avoided a slip had his story been false. The searching queries, and the steady scrutiny might well have discomposed Simon and have caused him to stumble or lose the thread of his narration. But he was not flustered and not a whit ruffled by these questions, which seemed to indicate that the King disbelieved him. He respected Henry for his lack of credulity and answered him firmly and patiently.