Georgette Heyer (9 page)

How he returned to Montlice

A week later, Charles of Granmere and Simon of Beauvallet rode through Montlice towards the castle, their squires behind them. Word flew round that Sir Simon was back, and all along the road men came out to cheer him, and women dropped him shy curtseys. He acknowledged all with his curt nod, and sometimes he hailed a man by name and asked after his wife or his children.

‘Why, thou art beloved here!’ Granmere exclaimed. ‘What hast done to make them cheer thee so?’

‘I know them, and they know me. Some fought at Shrewsbury with me. That makes a bond.’

They arrived at the drawbridge and went over, saluted by some half-dozen men-at-arms, who one and all gave Simon welcome. And so they rode up to the castle door, and dismounted there. A lackey saw them from an upper window and cried the news abroad. Out came Alan, full tilt, with Fulk hobbling after him.

‘Simon, Simon, thou art alive and safe! Ah, God be thanked! We knew not what to think! Simon, I swear thou hast grown!’ Impetuously Alan flung himself upon Simon, only to be put gently aside, as Simon stepped forward to meet my lord.

Fulk came roaring.

‘Hey, Simon lad! Hey, thou rascally, turbulent, naughty knave! How darest thou stay away all these weeks! Hast no regard for me at all, cub? Praise be to God, no harm has come to thee! Holy Virgin, I would they had clapped thee up for a mad rogue! I might have known thou’dst return to enrage me further, small thanks to thee for doing it! Lord, Lord, thou’rt broader still! And had no one the sense to break thy head?’ For once Fulk’s reserve deserted him. He discarded his stick and caught Simon in a large embrace, kissing him loudly on both cheeks. ‘Thou self-willed puppy! I thought I was rid of thee at last! But no! Back thou comest, with not a hair out of place, as cool as ever thou wert! Now as God’s my life, I’ve a mind to send thee about thy business! We do well enough without thee, Master Stiff-Neck. Think not that we missed thee, thou conceited boy! Oh, Simon, Simon, let me get hold on thy hands!’ And thereupon he seized both Simon’s hands in his, and gripped them as though he would never let go.

Simon was a little flushed at this excited welcome, and his voice was deeper than ever as he answered Fulk, and strangely moved.

‘Thou couldst not shake me off, my lord. And glad I am to be here again with thee. Thy gout is no better?’

‘Better! How should it be better when I have to take thy place here and work myself to a shred all for a silly boy’s whim? Hey, hey, who’s here?’

Granmere, who had been such an amused spectator, came forward.

‘Hast also a welcome for me, cousin?’

Fulk released Simon and surged to meet his kinsman.

‘Ay, that have I! God’s Body, it’s a dozen years since I set eyes on thy countenance, Charles! Didst bring my rascal Simon home?’ He proceeded to embrace Granmere.

‘Nay, he brought me,’ Granmere answered.

‘Ay, ay, he would!’ chuckled Fulk. ‘Come within, lad, come within! Simon, Simon! Where goest thou, pray?’

Simon paused. He was walking away from the castle with Alan at his side.

‘I go to look to my men, my lord. Hast need of me?’

Fulk exploded into a mighty bellow.

‘He goes to look to his men! Beshrew me, was there ever such another? Come thou here, sirrah, this instant! Have I need of thee, forsooth! Thou quittest my side for a month, wandering God knows where, and as soon as thou art back, thou dost go to “look to my men”! Come thou here, I say, ere I lose my temper with thee!’

Simon came back to them, and seizing him by one arm and Granmere by the other, Fulk bore them into the great hall and shouted in stentorian tones for sack and ale to be brought. Then he sank down into a chair, and puffed.

Granmere withdrew his hands from his ears.

‘Cousin, I rejoice that the passing of years has not affected your lungs,’ he said. ‘Methinks they could hear thy voice in London.’

‘Ay, I can shout with the best of them,’ Fulk answered complacently. His unwonted display of feeling over, he turned to Simon and addressed him more or less quietly.

‘Well, didst thou see the King, my Simon?’

‘Twice, my lord.’

‘Well, well, I guessed as much! What of thy silly plot?’

Granmere answered him.

‘A great deal. One Serle hath a buffoon coached to counterfeit King Richard in Scotland, and half the country would have risen for him, had it not been for Simon here.’

Fulk opened his little round eyes as wide as they would stretch.

‘So, so! Tell me the whole tale from the very beginning, Simon, and see thou tellst it better than in thy letter. By Our Lady! My blood boils anew when I bethink me of that letter! Three or four bald words, and there was I a-fret to know the whole story! Well, go on, lad, go on!’

‘There’s not much to tell,’ Simon said. He took a long drink of sack. ‘I rode out one morning, as ye know, and came to Saltpetres in time for supper, where I chanced upon a fellow in the wood behind the inn and discovered that he bore treasonable papers, so –’

‘Hark to the boy!’ Fulk cried. ‘How didst chance on this fellow, numskull?’

Simon sighed.

‘I was walking in the wood, sir, and heard a woman scream. I went to see what was toward and found this ruffian with her in his arms. So I came upon him unawares and flung him backwards from her.’

‘Of what like was this woman?’ demanded Fulk suspiciously.

Simon stared.

‘Of what like, sir?’

‘Ay! Was she dark or fair, comely or plain?’

‘Faith, I know not, my lord. She – she was just a woman. Plain, I think.’

Fulk grunted.

‘Go on!’

‘The fellow came upon me and I closed with him. No, first I hit him, I think.’

‘Where?’

‘Over the ear. Then we wrestled awhile, and he broke away. Then a wallet fell from the bosom of his tunic, and for fear lest I should seize it, he came at me again. And when he found he could not throw me, he drew his dagger and rushed to stab me.’

‘Cur!’ roared Fulk. ‘Drew steel, eh? Dastardly cur! And what didst thou do?’

‘I broke his arm,’ Simon said simply.

‘Well done, well done! What next?’

‘Next I called Roger to me and we bound him. The rest is nothing.’

‘Tell it!’ Fulk ordered, and accordingly Simon recited the tale of his adventures up to his second interview with the King. Then, as he paused, Roger came into the hall, and on Fulk’s hailing him good-naturedly, doffed his cap, blushing.

‘So thou hast brought Sir Simon safe home, eh?’ Fulk said jovially.

Roger, already bursting with pride over his master’s new honour, and agog to tell the news to someone, answered primly: ‘My lord took no hurt, sir.’

Simon looked up frowning; Granmere smiled at the boy’s suppressed excitement; Fulk stared.

‘What’s this? Who now art thou “my lording”?’

The boy drew himself up.

‘My Lord of Beauvallet, sir.’

‘Roger, get thee hence!’ said Simon sharply. ‘Thy tongue runs away with thee.’

Roger retired, somewhat crestfallen.

‘Lord of Beauvallet, Lord of Beauvallet! What means the boy?’

Granmere spoke.

‘For his services the King made Simon Baron of Beauvallet, and gave him a land called Fair Pastures, which was once the estate of John of Barminster.’

‘Simon!’ Alan was out of his chair in a flash, catching his friend by the shoulders. ‘A lord? Thine own estate! Oh, Simon, I am so glad! Father, is’t not marvellous?’

Fulk collected himself with an effort. He rolled out a huge oath, which seemed slightly to relieve him. Then he started at Simon afresh.

‘A lord! God’s my life, what next? John of Barminster’s estate? Christ’s Wounds, wert thou my page but three years since?’

‘Ay. Else had I not now been lord, sir.’

‘Come thou here!’ Fulk commanded, and when Simon knelt before him, smote him on the shoulder, and embraced him again. ‘It is great news, lad, and I am glad for thy sake. But it means that I must lose thee, and I like it not.’

‘I must have gone one day, my lord, and as it chances I go not far.’

‘Ay, but who’s to take thy place here, my lion-cub?’

‘Alan is of an age now, my lord.’

‘Bah!’ growled Fulk. ‘Alan to take thy place! As if he could do one tittle of what thou canst do!’

‘He must,’ Simon said.

‘I hope I shall live to see the day! Simon, I shall miss thee sorely.’

‘And I you, my lord. Yet I shall be but a few miles distant.’

‘H’m!’ Fulk let him go. ‘In what condition are thine estates?’

‘In bad condition, my lord. There has been no master there since last July.’

‘Good lack! Thou’lt have work enough even for thee!’

‘So I think, my lord, but it is work I like.’

‘Ay, ay. And thou shalt have as many men from here to help thee as thou askest of me. My Lord of Beauvallet, forsooth! Little did I think that thou’dst come to this, three years ago! And by the straight road, God wot! as thou didst say thou wouldst ever go! Ah, what an obstinate babe thou wert then! Charles, dost thou know that I have borne with this headstrong boy for three years?’

‘I do wonder that ye are both alive,’ Granmere replied.

‘I’ll not deny he has enraged me a-many times, but can one fight a block of ice? Well, well, come ye in to supper! This is a glad and a sad day for me.’ He heaved himself up, and leaning heavily on Simon’s shoulder, led the way into his chamber, where supper lay ready for them.

They rode out next day, Fulk and Granmere, Alan and Simon, to survey Simon’s lands. Not even Fulk’s swollen foot would induce him to remain behind. He was assisted into the saddle, groaning and cursing, by three of his varlets, and rode abreast with his cousin, while Alan and Simon fell in behind.

‘Will there be a place for me in thy castle, Simon?’ Alan asked.

‘Ay, whenever thou wilt,’ Simon answered. ‘And when I have set the place in order.’

‘I suppose thou wilt do that well enough. But it will be no easy task.’

‘I have never wanted that,’ Simon said.

Presently Alan shot him a mischievous glance.

‘Who shall be mistress of Beauvallet, Simon?’

‘None.’

Alan laughed.

‘So thou sayest, so thou sayest, but love comes to all men one day.’

‘I do pray it will pass me by.’

‘Ah, no, thou wilt fall, Simon! I shall see thee at some gentle maid’s feet, I know!’

‘Wilt thou?’ Simon said grimly. ‘I doubt it, lad.’

But Alan shook his head wisely and laughed again.

They rode rather silently through Fair Pastures, looking about them with appraising eyes. Occasionally Fulk turned in his saddle to make some remark to Simon.

‘There has been no work done here for months, lad. See that field yonder.’

‘I do know it,’ Simon answered.

Then as they passed a group of loiterers on the road:

‘Too little toil, too much sack,’ Fulk growled. ‘Thou hast a hard time before thee, Simon. When wilt thou come here?’

‘At once, my lord.’

‘Ay, ay. And how many men wilt thou take with thee?’

‘None, my lord, save Roger, my squire, and little Arnold, my page. And that only if it be thy pleasure.’

‘Much use would they be to me always pining to be with thee,’ grunted Fulk. ‘Thou shalt take Malcolm also for thy squire, then may Roger still have with whom to fight for thy favours. Art thou wise to refuse my men-at-arms? Will ye not take a man from Montlice to be thy Marshal?’

‘Nay, I will bring no strangers into Beauvallet. For the nonce I will make shift without a Marshal, but when I do better know my men, then will I promote some of them to rule under me.’

‘There speaks a sage man,’ Granmere remarked. ‘I shall look to see thee master in a month.’

Simon smiled a little.

‘In three months there shall be no lawlessness here,’ he promised.

How he took possession of his estates

In a small chamber by the kitchens at the Castle of Fair Pastures, now known as Beauvallet, sat Master Hubert, the steward, with James, called the Short-Leg, on account of his limp, and Bernard of Talmayne, the late John of Barminster’s secretary. They sat about an oaken table on which stood three brimming tankards of sack and a jug full of that liquid for when the tankards should need replenishing. Master Hubert, a little, pot-bellied man with an inflamed countenance and a large voice, fruity in timbre, was speaking, aggrievedly and as one to whom some sore injury has been done. Ever and anon he smote the table with his fat hand, and his voice throbbed with a righteous indignation.

‘Now I do say it is not to be borne!’ he swore, ‘and by my troth, it shall not be borne! Are we to cringe under this tyrant’s heel? What is he to us, I ask of ye? Whose men are we? Why, we were John of Barminster’s! But he being hanged for a rogue, whose men shall we be? Why, our own, say I, and rightly so!’ He paused in his harangue and glared belligerently at his friends. ‘Who shall gainsay it?’ Then as neither James nor Bernard seemed inclined to gainsay it, he continued. ‘We were very well before this beetle-browed deathshead came upon us. There was good food in plenty, much sack and strong ale, a rich land to call our own, and a life of ease and peace for us. What have we now? Why, what but a heavy-jowled youth, who comes upon us like a tyrant and an oppressor? Not a word of warning, not a moment’s respite to think on the matter at our leisure! Down he comes with his pert squires and tramps into the castle, willy-nilly, with his devil’s eyes like stones, and his thundering voice like a death-knell!’

‘Nay,’ Bernard interposed. ‘Ye mistake, Master Hubert. He spake softly enough, though with a note of danger creeping through the softness.’

Master Hubert thumped the table anew.

‘What matters it how he spake, Master Secretary? His words were a death-knell!’

‘Ay, that is so,’ Short-Leg agreed. ‘Death-knell indeed, and as full of proud arrogance as an egg is full of meat.’ He picked up his tankard and sought to drown his troubles in the comforting sack.

The steward crossed his fat legs and loosened his doublet.

‘Arrogance indeed! What did he, I ask? To what lengths did his pert haughtiness carry him? Why, to call me to him in the hall! Me! As though I had been a scullion for the kitchens instead of the steward of Fair Pastures. He sent a varlet to fetch me – me! I ask myself today, why was I fool enough to go to him? Can ye tell me? Was it not because I am a courteous man, and peace-loving? What else should –’

‘I did hear that it was because he sent his squire with yet another message when ye did tarry,’ Bernard said drily. ‘And I did hear that the message ran shortly and sweetly: “Tell Hubert the steward that he knows not me, but that I know him.” Then ye did go.’

Master Hubert’s full-blooded face grew purple. Before he could answer the secretary he had recourse to his sack. Then, wiping his flaccid lips on the back of his hand, he said in a voice half-choked with rage and drink:

‘Take heed how ye listen to scullions’ gossip, Master Secretary! It is true that he did send that curt message, but could he intimidate me? I was of a mind to show him what manner of man am I, but I bethought myself – is it befitting for this coxcomb to stamp about the castle over which I am lord since Barminster died? I did go to him, constrained by courtesy, and when I came to the hall what found I? What but a mountain of a fellow with a damned flaxen head crammed full of haughty tyranny? A springald with not a hair to his lips, but great brows that ’most hid his wicked eyes, and a nose like to my hawk’s beak yonder.’

‘A jaw like a mastiff’s, a frame like a giant’s, eyes like two daggers, a smile like a tiger’s snarl,’ Bernard murmured.

‘Ay, he is all that!’ Master Hubert said. ‘A murrain be on him! And when I came to him, what did I do? I did bow in all politeness, yet stiffly withal, to show him that I’d not brook his surliness.’

‘I did hear that ye did bow so low that your head came below your knees,’ Bernard said.

‘Ye heard! Ye heard! Ye will hear next that I kissed his feet!’ Hubert cried angrily. ‘Little truth will ye learn from the scullions’ talk, Master Secretary! I bowed, as I have said, welcoming him with pleasant words, and demanding, as is my right, to learn of his business.’

‘Ay, and thou didst continue speaking, and continue speaking, whiles he stood there as quiet as the statue of King Richard Lion-Heart that is in Saltpetres, and spake never a word, nor seemed to breathe,’ piped Short-Leg suddenly. ‘And one hand he had on his hip, and the other he laid on his sword-hilt. And he interrupted thee not, nor seemed to grow out of patience, yet looked so great and formidable that even I was afeared!’

‘Hold thy babble!’ Master Hubert ordered, ‘though true it is that such was his discourtesy that he had no answer to my greetings, nor gave any sign of having hearkened to my discourse! Then when I held my peace, seeing that he was dumb and deaf, what did he but shoot at me a sudden glance the very thought of which makes –’

‘The blood freeze in your veins,’ Bernard said gently.

Master Hubert snapped at him.

‘Ay, with anger, Master Bernard! On my life, I grew pale and trembling with choler at the fellow’s impudence! I could scarce speak, so great was mine ire!’

‘Yet still thou wert courteous,’ James said eagerly. ‘Thou didst speak him fair, saying, “Lord, what may be your pl –”’

‘I do know very well what I did say without thy senseless reminder!’ Hubert rounded on his tactless friend. ‘I spake him fair, for, thought I, is it befitting for one in my high position to bandy words with a ruffianly tyrant? “What may be your pleasure?” I said. Then, with an effrontery at which I still gasp, “I am lord of this estate,” he said, and handed me a parchment roll. And there I found it set down in many words that the King had given Fair Pastures to Sir Simon of Beauvallet, who was now to be baron, and call the land after himself. Beshrew me, I suffocate, at the thought of it! Give me air!’ As though to prove his words he tore his doublet open still further, and rolled his eyes alarmingly. The obsequious James hastened to replenish his tankard, but the secretary paid little heed to Master Hubert’s sufferings. He leaned back in his chair, a smile hovering over his thin lips. After another draught of sack, Master Hubert resumed his harangue.

‘Then, ere I had time fully to grasp the import of that infamous document, he spake again, demanding that I should bring to him the accounts of the barony since last July! By Our Lady! I was so taken aback, so affronted, and so enraged, that I could find no words with which to express myself. And when I would have spoken reasonably to him, he turned on his heel saying: “See ye have them for my inspection in the morning.” Oh, I burn, I rage! All night was I at work striving to remember this payment and that, and setting all down in the book. And on the morrow I did go to the late lord’s chamber where sat this coxcomb, with you, Master Secretary, nor had we reached an end by ten of the clock. There he sat, and questioned me till my poor head reeled, and ever and anon he shot me that evil look from out his strange eyes, whereat I choked with passion. All the accounts of last year and the year before did he read, up to July, and knew to a farthing what sums were collected yearly, how many heads of cattle we numbered, how –’

‘Ay,’ James interrupted, ‘and he summoned Nicholas of the Guards to give an account of his men. Rare it was to see great Nicholas stammer, and strive to bluster and over-rule my lord’s queries.’

‘And all the while,’ said Bernard dreamily, ‘he did sit as still as carven stone, with only the glitter in his eyes to show that he lived. And when the bully Nicholas would have shouted and blustered more, then of a sudden he sprang to life. Methinks I shiver still.’

‘They told me,’ James said, ‘that he scarce raised his voice above the usual, yet so great and cold was his passion, so menacing his look, that Nicholas was silenced, and stood sulkily enough whiles my lord cut him in twain with his tongue. I would I had been there to see it,’ he sighed regretfully.

‘But that is not all!’ Master Hubert cried. ‘He had the audacity to summon also Edmund, the Marshal, that aged fool! What said he to Edmund, Master Secretary?’

‘Not much,’ Bernard answered. ‘I think he is not wont to waste his words. He spake the Marshal courteously enough for his years’ sake, but he asked him this question and that, till the Marshal was nigh to weeping with mingled fear, and shame for his negligence. My lord had the full sum from him, and at the end he said with great gentleness, “Edmund of Fenton, it seems that ye grow too old for your task, since rogues thrive under your rule and ye are either too weary or too fearful to check their arrogance. It were better that ye should retire now with the pension that I will give you.” And not another word would he vouchsafe, for all the Marshal’s pleading and argument. It is in my mind that my lord knoweth a rogue when he doth see one, nor will he bear with incompetence.’

‘How now, Master Secretary!’ the steward exclaimed. ‘This is pretty hearing indeed! Master Fenton is a worthy man, and not one to be prying into another man’s affairs! Now is he gone, and God alone knows what will come to this poor land!’

‘Nay, not God alone,’ the secretary said. ‘My lord knows also.’

Master Hubert flung up his chubby hands in horror.

‘Oh, blasphemous man!’ he cried virtuously. ‘To speak thus lightly! Oh, that I should live to hear thee!’

James the Short-Leg took this opportunity of filling his tankard. Master Hubert caught sight of him, and heaved a gusty sigh.

‘Ay, drink, James, drink! ’Tis little ale or sack will flow in the future. Verily this new lord hath lynx-eyes! I shudder to think of the things he threatened to do unto me if I gave more than he commanded to any man in the castle! Oh, an evil fate hath befallen us! He is everywhere at once, so that I have ta’en to starting at every sound! And what doth he purpose? No man can tell, for he goes softly and saith little. He doth ride forth all this week about the estate, and I learn from Robert the Herd that already he knoweth each man by name and how many children he hath, or what is his fortune. Plague be upon it, the peasants cheer him and hasten to do his bidding. They are all upon the fields again, and tending the cattle.’

‘Ay, but the guards murmur against him,’ James remarked. ‘And the men-at-arms would rise against him at any moment.’

‘Small wonder!’ Master Hubert said. ‘For what hath he done? Why, within a week of his coming he had laid strict rules on all the men-at-arms and archers that are here, so that they fret and grumble. And as for Maurice of Gountray who commands them, it needs but a spark to set him blazing. Would that I had died before this fate had come upon us! We were happy before, but now no man may call his soul his own. Back hath come Father Jocelyn, and we have Masses and penances enough to make a poor man’s flesh shrink. Woe is me! Oh, woe is me!’ Overcome by grief and sack, the steward beat feebly at his breast and moaned. ‘If he would but make known his vile intentions!’ he cried. ‘My teeth are all on edge because that I know not from one hour to the next when he will fall upon me!’

Someone knocked upon the door and the steward started upright, pulling his doublet together. His little eyes shifted uneasily.

‘En – en – enter!’ he said.

A page thrust his head into the room.

‘My lord hath need of Master Bernard,’ he said importantly.

The steward drew himself up.

‘Ho!’ he grunted. ‘Is it for this you disturb me, boy? A murrain seize your impudence!’

The boy grinned.

‘Shall I bear that message to my lord?’ he asked tauntingly. ‘It is not convenient for Master Bernard to come to him?’

Bernard rose.

‘If it is convenient for my lord, then is it convenient for his secretary,’ he said with some dignity.

The steward blew out his flabby cheeks.

‘I wonder that ye go so humbly! I wonder at it!’

Bernard went to the door.

‘I go because I dare not tarry,’ he said.

Master Hubert laughed jeeringly.

‘Oh, brave! Oh, brave! Ye will tell me next that ye love this new lord, craven!’

‘I think I do,’ the secretary said, and closed the door softly behind him.

The page, a child of ten or twelve years, danced a few paces in front of him adown the corridor.

‘Oh, and I do love this lord!’ he said. ‘He lets not the bullies beat us and ill-treat us, and though he is cold to us and stern, he is kind withal, and just. And though he flies not into a passion over a little thing, yet we durst not disobey his commands. Nor does he strike one down when one comes late to do his bidding, as the old lord was wont to do, but looks at one so that one is afraid, and shamed. Indeed, I am glad that he is come, for it was an ill time for us pages when the Marshal ruled.’

‘Where is my lord?’ Bernard asked.

‘In the chamber looking south where he doth sit so often. He sent me for you, yet I do not think he is angered with you!’

The secretary smiled faintly, and leaving the page to join his fellows, went to Simon’s room.

Simon was seated at a table, his arms resting upon it, and his brows frowning. He glanced up as Bernard entered, and then the heavy frown lifted a little.

‘Sit ye down, Master Bernard,’ he said. ‘There is much I would say to thee.’

The secretary looked at him in momentary surprise, for this was the first time that Simon had made use of the familiar ‘thou’ in speaking to him. He drew up a chair and sank into it, his gentle, tired eyes resting on Simon’s face.

‘I have been in this land a fortnight,’ Simon said, ‘and much have I seen. Mayhap ye think that I have been strangely inactive?’

‘Nay,’ Bernard answered. ‘Your lordship hath done much already. The peasants cleave to you. I have thought that ye but hold your hand until all things be clear to you.’

‘That is so,’ Simon said. ‘And until I should know what men I might trust.’

The secretary bowed his head.

‘I do now wish to take counsel with thee,’ Simon said evenly.