IX
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, potbellied 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 overrule 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.
The secretary looked up, a sudden gleam in his eyes.
“Ye trust me, my lord?”
“Ay.”
The tired shoulders straightened.
“Your trust shall not be misplaced, sir,” he said earnestly.
“That I do know. I am seldom out in my reckoning of mankind.”
“Yet I have done little to bring order into Fair Beauvallet.”
Simon glanced at him enigmatically.
“All men were not born to fight,” he said. “Why didst thou stay here?”
Bernard made a hopeless gesture with his hands.
“For three reasons, my lord. Lack of money, love of this land, and—indolence.”
“So I judged. Money thou shalt have, indolence thou must lose, love of this land I trust thou wilt retain. Tell me now, what knowest thou of the Captain, Maurice of Gountray?”
Bernard hesitated.
“He—he is a dour man, sir, and—and not easily won over.”
“So much the better. I have looked well into the records of the estate, and the mentions I find of him lead me to think him honest and stiff-necked, obstinate, yet a ruler.”
Bernard looked admiringly across at him.
“That is so, my lord. But he loves not you, for ye have taken command of his men, and shown him that ye think him worthless. He curses your name, for all that he was at fault in allowing drunkenness and strife to come upon his men. He—he is slow to wrath, sir, but when his wrath flares up, it makes him blind and careless of what shall befall him. I think he will fly out upon you, and mayhap he may seek to do you an injury.”
Simon nodded.
“He is easily dealt with. What of Nicholas of the Guards?”
“Like all bullies, sir, he is a coward at heart.”
“That also I know. What friends hath he?”
“But few, my lord. He is too harsh in his dealings with the guards, for them to love him.”
“So I thought. What record hath Basil of Mordaunt?”
The secretary was at a loss for a moment.
“I do not think I know him, my lord,” he said hesitantly.
“No? He is a quiet fellow of some thirty-five summers, with broad shoulders and a square head set close upon them. He looks one between the eyes.”
Recollection came to Bernard.
“Ah, yes, my lord! I know but little of him, save that he is peaceable in his ways, and orderly. The men like him, I believe.”
“It is in my mind to promote him to Nicholas’s room,” Simon said.
“Ye will degrade Nicholas, sir?”
“Nay, I will banish him. If I read him aright he is a sly fellow and I want none such here.”
“You are wise, my lord. I had thought ye would put a stranger in command.”
Simon smiled, a different smile from the deadly snarl Bernard had seen before.
“Yet ye call me wise,” he said.
“I had not realised how wise, my lord,” Bernard riposted.
“Nay? How read ye Walter of Santoy?”
“Do ye know every man in Beauvallet, sir?” asked Bernard wonderingly.
“I have need,” Simon said. “Dost thou?”
“Nay, my lord, to my shame. But I know this man, and I would call him good. Also he is beloved of the men-at-arms.”
“That will suit my purpose well,” Simon nodded, but he did not disclose what was his purpose. “I think to make Harold the Smooth-Tongued steward in Hubert’s room.”
“Then ye will do wisely, sir, for he is an honest man, and sober. What comes to Hubert?”
“Naught,” Simon answered. “He goes.”
“Thus ye will be rid of a very pretty mischief-brewer, sir. He is full of indignation at your coming, and although he durst not go openly against you, he might do much harm by his talk.”
“Ay.” Simon rose. He pointed to the sheets of parchment that lay scattered over the table. “Have the goodness to make me fair copies of these, Master Talmayne. I go now to send for Maurice of Gountray.”
Bernard stood up.
“My lord, if he comes not be not too enraged, for he—”
Simon glanced over his shoulder, smiling rather grimly.
“Dost thou think I shall bungle my affairs, Master Talmayne?”
Bernard looked him in the eyes.
“Nay, my lord. Your pardon.”
Simon gave his short laugh and went out.
He sent his squire to summon Maurice, but Roger returned alone.
“My lord, he will not come!” he said, wide-eyed. “He—he bade me tell you he—he comes not at any—any—any—”
“Well?”
“C-coxcomb’s call, my lord!”
“So?” Simon smiled unpleasantly. “Then I will e’en go to him.”
Roger put himself in front of him.
“Sir, take me with you!”
Simon looked down at him.
“Wherefore?”
“I—indeed, I mislike his looks, sir!”
Simon laughed, and taking his squire by the shoulders put him aside.
“I need not thy protection, lad. Go thou to Malcolm, and bid him be ready to accompany me forth in an hour.”
“Oh!” Roger ran after him. “Sir, let me ride with you! I am not weary, and Malcolm—”
“Thou didst hear me, Roger?” Simon said softly.
Roger sighed and fell back.
“Ay, my lord.”
Simon strode out into the sunlight. He crossed the courtyard to the men-at-arms’ quarters, and went in quietly. He walked through the hall, past staring, whispering soldiers, and made his way to the room which he knew to be Gountray’s.
He entered with his noiseless step, and found Maurice up with an oath and stood as if at bay.
Simon walked forward unhurriedly. He favoured Maurice with a long look before he spoke.
“This time I have come to you,” he said abruptly. “Another time I shall not do that.”
“I care not for your threats!” Gountray cried.
“I never threaten,” Simon answered composedly. He went to the table and lifted two wine bottles from it. These he flung out of the window with unerring aim.
“Now, by God—” Gountray roared, and sprang forward.
Simon’s cold voice checked him.
“Do ye think it no shame, Maurice of Gountray, for a strong man to become a drunken sot?” he said.
Maurice flushed to the ears.
“I’ll not be answerable to you for my actions!” he snapped.
“Ay, that will you,” Simon said, “or leave this my land. I care not which ye choose, but an end will I have to your carousing and your rebellious insolence.”
“Rebellious insolence, forsooth!” Maurice cried. “Ye have yet to prove yourself strong enough to be my master! Think ye I will bend the knee to a pert boy not out of his teens?”
“Ay,” Simon answered.
“Then know that it is not so! I will fight ye for as long as ye remain here, and my men will refuse to do your bidding! One and all will stand by me! Ye have chosen to slight me, but I will show you of what stuff Maurice of Gountray is made!”
“Ye have shown me,” Simon said deliberately. “Within a week of my coming hither I knew you for a drunken knave who proves himself trustless in the absence of a master. I see you now, a common, brawling malcontent whose muscles are weak for want of training, whose temper is soured by the lawless, pleasure-seeking life ye have led during these past months. I have little use for such, Maurice of Gountray. I want true men about me, not worthless braggarts who bluster and shout, yet who have not honour enough or strength to keep their men in order when the master is away.”
Livid with rage, Maurice sprang forward again. His passion enveloped him, so that all semblance of sanity was gone. Simon had supplied the spark that was needed to set his rancour in a blaze. In a flash he had whipped his dagger from its sheath and had rushed upon Simon, blindly.
There was a moment’s wild struggle, and then Simon’s hands were about his wrists like iron clamps, bearing them downwards. Panting, Maurice glared into the green-blue eyes, and saw them passionless.
“Twice in my life hath a man sought to slay me foully,” Simon said. “This is the second time. The first was when a base cur, a traitor little above the swine, could not worst me in a fight. Then, being base, he drew steel and would have stabbed me.” He paused, staring grimly into Maurice’s eyes, until they sank, and the dark head with them. Then, with a quick, scornful movement he released Gountray’s wrists, and turned away, presenting his back, fair mark for an assassin’s dagger.
The tinkle of steel falling on the stone floor sounded behind him, and a man’s laboured breathing. He went quickly to a chair, and sat down, not even looking at Gountray.
Maurice spoke unsteadily.
“I have—never—done that—before.”
Simon said not a word. Maurice turned, flung out his hands.
“You goaded me to it! I would never have drawn steel had you not taunted me so!”
Simon turned his head and looked at him. Maurice went to the window, leaden-footed, and stood with his face averted. After a moment he came back into the room, his mouth set as though in pain.
“Well … Kill me!” he said. “My honour’s dead.”
Still Simon said nothing. Maurice stood before him, twisting his hands, his head bowed. Suddenly he looked up, and his voice quivered.
“Ah, can you not speak?” he cried. “Are you made of ice? I have sought to stab you foully, like a—cur! What will you do with me? Death would be welcome!”
“I seek not your death,” Simon answered sternly. “But by this one foul act have you placed your life and your fortune in my hands.”
Maurice straightened himself a little, but his head was bowed still, his fingers twitching.
“Well,” Simon said slowly, “I will make you my Marshal.”
For one whirling second Maurice was dazed. He took a hesitating step forward, staring in blank amazement. Then he recoiled.
“Ah, you mock at me!” he cried.
“I do not mock.”
Maurice opened his mouth to speak, but only passed his tongue between his dry lips. He was trembling, and sweat stood on his brow.
“Will—will you not—explain—?” he said hoarsely.
“Sit down,” Simon ordered him, and waited to see him sink limply into a chair. “What I have said, I have said. I will make you my Marshal, but I will have obedience from you.”
“But—but—” Gountray’s hand flew to his head as one in wild bewilderment “–I sought to kill you! In that moment I could have done it, ay, and would have done it!”
“I know.”
“Then—My lord, you torture me! What punishment will you inflict?”
“None.”
“None!” Gountray came to his feet. “You—you—forgive?”
“I forget,” Simon said.
“But why, why? What have I done to deserve your mercy?”
“Naught. It is my pleasure. Sit ye down again, and listen. When I came hither I did find your men disorderly and drunken, yourself no better. Yet I do know a man when I see one, and I do know that ye are one, if ye will it so. And I do also know a ruler of men and a fighter. Therefore I say that I will make ye Marshal in Edmund’s room, where ye shall prove yourself worthy of my trust. But I will have obedience and no black looks. So if ye hate me and wish me dead, get thee gone from Beauvallet, for thou art of no use to me.”
There fell a long silence. Then as Simon’s words sank well into his soul, Maurice came to his knees before him, sobbing drily in overwrought gasps.
“Ye cannot mean what ye say! What trust could ye place in me?—a cur who is like to stab you in the back when ye are unarmed!”
Simon smiled a little at that, but he said nothing.
“Hanging is my desert! Ye have said that ye found all in disorder here, and myself a drunken sot! True it is—God pity me! What use have you for me now?”
“I have told you.”
Then Maurice caught his hand and kissed it.
“My lord, I swear that since ye are pleased to forget my treachery and to elevate me thus undeservedly, I will never—give you just cause to—regret it—so help me, God!”
“That I know,” Simon said calmly, and laid his hand on Gountray’s shoulder, gripping it.
Maurice raised his head and looked full into the compelling eyes.
“My lord—forgive!” he whispered.
“It is as nothing,” Simon answered, and rose. “Come thou to me this even, for there is much I would ask of you, and I think ye can fitly advise me.” He held out his hand, and after a moment’s shamed hesitation Maurice laid his own in it. In that long grip was his allegiance to Simon sealed.