V
How He Rescued a Fair Damsel, and Discovered a Plot
The rest of the year passed quietly for those at Montlice, and once Simon’s grip was tight upon his men so that they durst not annoy him, be he at home or abroad, he began to ride out around the neighbouring country. Sometimes he took young Alan with him, but more often he was accompanied by his squire, a sturdy youth, who worshipped, in awe and fear, the ground on which his master walked. Occasionally Simon would go still farther afield so that he was absent from Montlice for days together. Fulk grumbled a little, and was curious to know the reason for these escapades. Simon would not tell him, nor did anyone know why he rode about the country, lynx-eyed, surveying every estate to which he came with a speculative glance that was sure sign of some scheme afoot within him.
At first Fulk’s grumblings were loud and insistent, but when he found that they had no effect upon his obstinate captain, and that in consequence of his absence no harm nor laxity in discipline came upon his men, they abated somewhat, and he bore with Simon’s vagaries with as good a will as possible.
Simon rode out one morning in the year 1404, bearing to the southeast. With him went Roger, his squire, in a gloomy mood, for he had fallen foul of Simon that very day and had received a severe reprimand, accompanied by a searching, flaming glance which he had learned to dread. Therefore there was no conversation on the journey, and Roger, feeling both sore in spirit and nervous, trotted as far behind his master as he dared. Simon paid no heed to him and felt no desire to talk. Now as ever he was frugal of words, and spoke rarely, but to the point. A little after ten he paused at a wayside tavern and dismounted. Roger rode up to receive his horse, and was bidden tend it and get his own dinner. Simon strode into the tavern and made a right hearty meal. Out he went again and pushed on towards the county of Suffolk. On the road they passed a large area of cultivated land, with a small castle raised on a slope, overlooking the domain. The place seemed well populated, but about the castle itself and the surrounding fields was an air almost of desolation.
Simon reined in his horse, and rose in his stirrups, the better to survey the land. There was pasture land in plenty, good grazing-ground, as Simon knew; away in the distance lay orchards and woodland, while through the estate ran a sluggish stream that wound about the castle, and kept moist the land. It appeared to be a prosperous domain, but little movement was afoot, and little care seemed to have been spent upon it for some months at least. In the distance men were working on the fields in a desultory fashion, but for the most part the peasants were lounging by their doors, exchanging idle talk. Simon beckoned to one of these, and the man came running, and knelt beside Simon’s horse.
“Whose land is this?” Simon asked.
The man shook his head.
“Lord, we have no master now, save the King. It is crown land, I do think, but there is no one to rule here.”
“How so?”
“My lord went with Lord Hotspur ’gainst the King, sir. He died.” The man crossed himself.
“By steel or by rope?”
He answered in a hushed voice.
“By rope, my lord.” The peasant glanced up at him. “So perish all traitors!” he said quickly.
Simon paid no heed.
“His name?”
“John of Barminster, good my lord.”
“There is no heir?”
“Nay, my lord, and the land is confiscate.”
“What call you it?”
“It is known as Fair Pastures, my lord.”
Simon turned in his saddle to look about him.
“How many leagues girdle it?”
“Four, my lord. It is a fair barony.”
“What cattle have ye?”
“Six herds, my lord, and all good beasts, save one which died yesternight of a colic. It is as my lord left it, with some two score swine in all, and many of the sows in litter. The stable is full, but the horses grow fat and lazy with little usage. Three falcons hath my lord’s steward, in ward, fine birds, sir, and fleet of wing. The hounds run wild, and the sheep stray, for there is none over us to command we do this or that, so that little land is ploughed, and much sack is drunk.”
“What force do ye number? Of archers, men-at-arms?”
The man shook his head sadly.
“But few, my lord. My lord took eight score with him in all. Some returned to royster here and abuse us. The rest are gone I know not where. Some slain, mayhap, others with the rebel Owen. All is waste here, till the King sends one to rule over us and subdue these accursed soldiers.” He waved his hands excitedly. “Naught is safe from them, sir, naught sacred to them! There is no priest on the estate, and no master at the castle. The men-at-arms carouse there, and the steward waxes fat on my lord’s larder. Little enough is left now in the cellars, and everywhere there is drunkenness and rioting!”
Simon made no comment, but the peasant saw his eyes grow hard. Still he stared about him, while his squire watched curiously. Then Simon gathered up his slack rein and tossed a groat to the kneeling man.
“Peace be with ye!” he said curtly, and set his horse at a brisk trot. Roger fell in behind, and for a long time they proceeded in silence.
When they stopped again it was close on four in the evening, and Roger’s resentment had grown considerably. He was hungry, he was thirsty, he was stiff and tired from the long hours in the saddle, he was very bored, and he wished to heaven his master would find some other amusement than this wandering about the country.
As he dismounted, Simon cast the squire a quick, shrewd glance. He had worked him hard this week, and Roger’s eyes were black-ringed from fatigue, his movements slow.
“We rest here tonight,” Simon said. “Take the horses to the stable and wait to see them tended.”
“Yes, sir,” Roger answered, devoutly thankful for this respite.
Simon strode into the tavern and calling for the host, demanded a room for himself and another for his squire.
The landlord inspected him covertly. Evidently this was not one to be denied. He bowed, spreading out his hands.
“Alack, fair sir, woe is me, I have but one room to offer, save that in which sleep the common people! If your good lordship would take that one room, and let me find space somewhere for your squire—? But an hour since one came riding from Essex and I have given him my great front room. Alack, that I did not know of my lord’s coming, for this man is not gentle, I think, yet I durst not say him nay now, for he is a brawny fellow and hot of temper!” He looked up at Simon with a comical expression of despair.
“Let be,” Simon answered. “I will take the other room and my squire shall sleep with me. See to it that supper be prepared for us.”
The little man bowed till his forehead seemed in danger of touching his knees.
“My lord is generous! The chamber is not so ill, sir, and I will see to it that you are made comfortable. As to supper, I have a haunch of venison roasting, as you see. In one little half-hour, sir, I will have all ready, if your lordship will deign to wait.”
Simon nodded.
“Ay, it will do. Fetch me a tankard of ale, mine host, and let one be brought for my squire.”
“Ah, my lord, at once, at once!” the landlord cried, and scuttled away to his cellar. He reappeared in an amazingly short time with two brimming tankards. One he set upon the table, the other he presented to Simon, watching him drain it, with an anxious eye.
“Is it to my lord’s taste? Will my lord have me fetch him more?”
“Nay, not now.” Simon set down the pewter vessel. “I will drink it at supper, good host. See to it that my squire gets his tankard when he comes from the stables.” He strolled out of the hot kitchen by the door at the back, and went to stretch his legs in the wood that lay beyond the small garden.
He went slowly, his hands behind his back and his brows drawn close together. Some project he seemed to be turning round in his brain, for his keen eyes had a faraway look in them, somewhat ruminating. He walked on through the wood, treading heavily and noiselessly crushing the tiny spring flowers ’neath his feet. Somewhere near at hand was a brook which burbled and sang, and towards that sound Simon bent his steps, intending to lave his face in the fresh water. Then, of a sudden, the air was rent by a shriek, followed by yet another, and a cry for help.
Simon paused, listening. The voice belonged to a woman and to one in distress. Simon was no knight-errant, but he went forward quickly, catlike, so that not a twig squeaked.
He went softly round a corner of the beaten track, and found himself in sight of the brook he had heard. An overturned bucket lay across his path, and not six paces before him a serving wench was struggling wildly to be free of a great muscular fellow who had her in his arms and leered down into her frightened face.
Simon came upon him like a tornado. No sound had betrayed his approach, so that when he sprang it was like an unsuspected cannon-shot. He caught the man by the neck, and putting forward all his great strength, wrenched him staggering back. The girl gave a little glad cry and fell upon her knees with intent to kiss Simon’s hand.
“Oh, sir! Oh, my lord! Oh, sir!” she sobbed incoherently. “I came to draw water, and—and—”
Simon paid no heed to her wailing. Setting his feet squarely he awaited the other man’s rush. The fellow had fallen, but he picked himself up, purple with rage, and with a roar came upon Simon, head down, and fists doubled. Simon stepped lightly aside and delivered a crushing blow as the man passed him. The tousled head was shaken, like that of some wounded bull, and the man wheeled about and rushed on Simon yet again. This time Simon stood firm and closed with him.
To and fro they swayed on the moss carpet, arms locked tight about each other, straining and panting, and trampling the moss underfoot. Beads of sweat stood out on either forehead, teeth were clenched, and lips parted. His opponent was older and bulkier than Simon, but his muscles were not in such splendid fettle. Time after time he made a supreme effort to throw Simon, and time after time he failed. Simon’s arms seemed to grow tighter and tighter about him till the breath was almost crushed out of his body. He realised that he could not throw this fair young giant and he twisted suddenly and cunningly so that he broke away. But in so doing his jerkin was rent open across his chest, and a leathern wallet fell to the ground and bounced to Simon’s feet.
The bully lost his head, seeing it, and his eyes started in wide apprehension. A strangled cry he gave, and sprang forward to retrieve the wallet. Before he could come upon it Simon’s sixth sense, ever acute, had warned him that here was something more than a lewd fellow waylaying a serving-wench. He stepped swiftly forward, over the wallet, and braced himself for the shock of meeting. The ruffian crashed into him so that he had to fall back a step. Yet he contrived to close with the man again, and held him in a bear-like embrace.
Then began a struggle in comparison with which the former one was as nothing. Plainly Simon’s opponent was desperate, filled with a great fear lest Simon should gain possession of that wallet. He fought like one possessed, and Simon’s muscles cracked under his crushing hold. Once the man tripped over a projecting root, and fell, dragging Simon with him. For a time they rolled and struggled on the ground, breathing in great gasps, sweat pouring down their faces, each one striving to get uppermost. At last Simon had his man under, and wrenching free, sprang up and back. In a flash the fellow was on his feet, and as he rushed on Simon yet again, Simon caught the glint of steel. And seeing it, his eyes narrowed to brilliant points of anger, and his stern mouth shut tightly. He did not wait for his attacker to fall upon him, but sprang to meet him, catching him about the waist with one arm, and with his free hand gripping that treacherous dagger-arm above the wrist. So swiftly had he acted that the man had no time to stab, but was well-nigh carried backward by the weight of Simon’s leopard-spring.
Simon had pinned the fellow’s left arm to his side, nor did his hold slacken for one moment, while with his iron right hand he gripped the other arm until the bully’s mouth was awry with agony as he struggled to get away. Then Simon gave a quick turn of his wrist and the dagger fell to earth with a thud. A groan burst from the man’s lips, and as Simon released him his right arm fell useless. Despite the pain of his broken bone he was game still, remembering that precious wallet, and came charging forward, only to be met by a shattering blow upon the jaw. He flung up his unhurt arm, and reeling, fell heavily to the ground. Simon was upon him instantly, one knee upon his chest, pinning him to the ground. Again the bully groaned, and made a convulsive effort to shake Simon off. But an iron hand held him down by the throat, and, shifting his position, Simon knelt across him so that with his knees pressed to the fallen man’s sides he held him powerless. With his free hand he pulled a whistle from the neck of his tunic, and placing it between his lips, blew thrice upon it, shrilly. He glanced over his shoulder at the girl, who crouched by her bucket, hiding her face in her hands and weeping.
“Cease thy lamentations, wench!” he commanded, “and bring me the wallet that lies yonder.”
She rocked herself, wailing.
“Oh, sir! oh, sir! Have—oh, have ye slain him?”
“Nay, thou foolish child. Do as I bid thee.”
But still she crouched where she was, and would not look up. Simon’s eyes grew a little colder, and his voice a little softer.
“Thou didst hear me, wench?” Had his squire been at hand, he would have shivered at the note which sounded through the softness.
The girl dragged herself up and went with lagging steps to where the wallet lay. She brought it to Simon, trembling, and having given it into his hand, retreated quickly.
The prostrate man made one great effort to be free, but his strength was gone, and one arm hung useless. Simon controlled his struggles with his right hand alone, and with the other thrust the wallet into his belt.
Through the wood came footsteps running. Roger shouted from somewhere nearby.
“Which way, sir? Which way?”
“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 trapdoor, 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.
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 trapdoor 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.