III
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 ladyloves.”
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 firstborn. Thy father lies sick of a fever.”
“Doth he so? I have spoken with Geoffrey of Malvallet. While ye were with his Highness.”
“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 southeast.
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 faraway 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, catlike, 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.
“Up, lad!” Malvallet cried. “Art hurt?”
Simon swung himself on to the frightened animal’s back, and there in the heat of battle, smiled his tranquil smile, still calm and unruffled.
“A scratch or two. Take no heed of me, Geoffrey of Malvallet.”
“That will I!” Geoffrey retorted. “Stay by me—Nobody!”
Again they were enveloped in a swirling mass, and with it swept onward, their horses flank to flank, themselves hacking a path before them. Once Fulk drew near, puffing and blowing, his eyes gleaming red through his visor, then he too was swept onward and away.
To Simon the battle seemed interminable, but although his arm was weary and he had to change his sword to his left hand, he lost not one jot of his grim enjoyment. He fought on beside Malvallet, silent for the most part, his lips set in a hard, tight line, and his strange eyes glowing.
“Canst see Hotspur?” panted Geoffrey once. “Methought I heard a shout.”
Even as he spoke it came again, caught up by many voices: “Hotspur has fallen! Hotspur is dead! Hurrah for St. George of England!”
“He is down,” said Simon, “and they waver.”
Waver they did, and from that moment the zest seemed to go from the rebel army. The fighting became less arduous, but it was not until dusk fell that the battle ceased. And when at last the end came and his tired arm could be still, Simon sat quiet for a moment on his jaded horse, surveying the terrible field inscrutably, with little pity in his glance, but an expression of detached interest.
Geoffrey of Malvallet watched him for a moment in the half-light, and presently spoke to him.
“Art a very hardy youngster,” he remarked. “What think you of it all?” With a wave of his gauntleted hand he embraced the battlefield.
Simon made answer without turning his head.
“It is disorderly,” he said reflectively. “Methinks I will aid them to tidy it.”
Malvallet realised that he was of a mind to assist in carrying away the wounded.
“Not so fast, not so fast! Is that all ye think?”
Simon threw him a fleeting glance.
“It has been a fair day,” he said. “I would we might have another.”
Malvallet laughed at him.
“Thou cold-blooded tiger-cub! Thou hast no compassion for these wounded and these dead?”
“One must die,” Simon answered. “And I would deem this a good death. Why should I pity them?”
“Yet thou wouldst go tend the wounded,” Malvallet reminded him.
“So they may fight again,” Simon said. “I would help them, but I would not pity them, for that is foolish.”
Malvallet laughed again, wonderingly.
“Good lack, art made of ice! I’ll not have thee aid the wounded now. Art hurt thyself.”
Simon cast a casual glance at his arm, round which, through the shattered plates, he had twisted a scarf.
“Hurt? I? That is but a scratch, Sir Geoffrey. And thyself?”
“Well enough,” Malvallet replied. “This is not my first fight. I have been with the Prince here until a few months ago.”
“I pray God ’twill not be my last fight,” Simon said.
“Or mine. I had thought from thy bearing that an hundred campaigns had seen thee.”
“Nay. But mine is fighting blood.”
Malvallet eyed him curiously.
“Is it? From what stock dost thou spring, I wonder? Methinks I have seen thy like before.”
Simon gave his short laugh.
“Look in thy mirror, Geoffrey of Malvallet.”
Malvallet nodded, not surprised.
“It struck me that that was so a while back when thou didst come to my rescue. For which I thank thee, brother.” He held out his mailed hand, and Simon gripped it, flushing slightly. They rode slowly on, down the hill.
“Thy name?” Geoffrey asked presently.
“Simon—of Beauvallet.”
Geoffrey laughed.
“Oh, well done, Simon! I would thou wert not with Montlice. My father would take thee to himself were I to ask it.”
“Nay.”
“There is hatred in thy heart for him? Desire for vengeance, maybe?”
Simon turned his head.
“Why should I hate him?”
“Because of thy namelessness! Thy—thy mother?”
“A name will I make for myself. My mother chose her own road, and if she was not happy at least I never heard of it. She is dead. All that is nothing.”
“Thou art the strangest lad I ever saw!” Malvallet exclaimed. “Art squire, then, to Montlice?”
“Ay. One day I shall call no man save the King my master, but for the present I owe allegiance to Montlice. I wonder, is he here, or did he fall?” He looked round keenly, but in the fading light could not see his lord, nor distinguish one man from Montlice.
“If he is killed, what comes to thee?” asked Malvallet. “Wilt join my train?”
“Nay, I must lead our men back to Montlice. If Fulk is dead, then do I owe allegiance to Alan, his son. But I do not think he is dead.”
A rider came up with them, sitting very upright in his saddle. From under the shade of his protecting helm Simon saw a pair of shrewd, youthful eyes shining above the bandage that crossed the young man’s face. Malvallet lifted his lance in salute, and the stripling reined in his horse to walk beside them.
“Oh, bravely done, Malvallet, and you, sir! Bravely done indeed! I saw thee yonder, Geoffrey, when thou wert hard-pressed, and I saw thy companion go valiantly to aid thee. Is all well with thee?”
“I took no hurt, Highness, thanks be to Simon of Beauvallet here. I grieve to see you wounded, sir.”
“Why, it is naught!” Henry said merrily. “They made a deal of pother over it, but it irks me not.” He stretched his arms. “Ah, but this has been a glorious day!”
“Why, so Simon thinks, Highness, and wishes we might enjoy yet another like it.”
Henry bent forward to smile at Simon across Malvallet.
“That’s the spirit I love,” he said. “Whose man are you, Simon of Beauvallet?”
“I serve Montlice, Highness,” Simon answered.
“Montlice? I saw him fall a while since. They bore him away, but I do not think he is dead.”
“He would be hard to kill, sir,” Simon said. “I must go seek him, with your permission.”
Henry nodded pleasantly.
“Ay, do not wait on my coming. I would speak with Geoffrey. But I shall not forget you or your valour this day.”
Simon bowed.
“Your Highness is very kind, sir.”
Malvallet held out his hand yet again.
“We shall meet again, Simon.”
Simon gripped his outstretched hand.
“As foes, Malvallet, once I am at Montlice again.”
“Nay, nay,” Geoffrey answered. “I shall see thee in Shrewsbury. Remember I am in thy debt!”
Simon smiled, and released his hand.
“As I will bear no man gratitude so let no man be grateful upon me, Malvallet. Mayhap we shall fight again one day, side by side. Who knows?”
“Then it is farewell for the present, Simon?”
“Ay, Geoffrey. But one day we shall meet again as equals.”
“See thou forgettest me not!” Malvallet called after him, and watched him ride away towards the rearguard where they were tending the wounded.
“That is a passing strange man, Geoffrey,” the young Prince remarked. “Who is he? He is very like thee, save that he is fair where thou art dark.”
“He calls himself Beauvallet, sir, and is my half-brother. I met him for the first time on this campaign. He saved my life a while back, as your Highness saw.”
Henry nodded.
“Ay, ’twas bravely done. Shall I have my father knight him?”
“Ah, if your Highness would! Indeed, he deserves it on this day’s work alone.”
Henry looked after the now distant figure thoughtfully.
“There is that in him that pleases,” he said. “But he is very cold. Perhaps he will be a great man one day. I would fain call him friend, methinks.”