IV
How He Was Knighted, and How He Had Speech with His Father
He did not find his lord anywhere on the battlefield, but he was in no way perturbed. Back he rode to Shrewsbury, to Fulk’s lodging, and there he found Montlice, stretched upon a bed, and swearing mightily, whiles a leech dressed the wound in his shoulder. Simon clanked in, a grim figure in dusty, bloodstained armour that in one or two places had been shattered by some lusty blows. The face that looked out from under the peak of his helm was tired and drawn, but his green-blue eyes were as calm as ever, as if he had not seen more horrors today than in all his young life.
At sight of him a look of relief swept over Fulk’s countenance.
“Ah, God be thanked!” he rumbled. “I might have known thou’dst be hard to kill.”
“As I knew of thee,” Simon said. He beckoned to my lord’s page. “Unlace me, Francis.”
Montlice nodded.
“Ay, ay, unlace him, boy. Art whole, Simon?”
“Save for a scratch,” Simon answered. “Gently, Francis, with mine arm. How deep goes your wound, my lord?”
Fulk growled.
“A nothing, a nothing—Hey, thou clumsy wretch, have a care!” he roared as the leech handled him. “I saw thee by Malvallet, Simon. What madness seized thee?”
“None,” said Simon briefly. With his ungauntleted hand he unstrapped his helm and cast it on to the table. “When left you the field, sir?”
“I fell,” Fulk replied angrily, “and they bore me away, a million curses be upon them! I left it not of mine own will! They were wavering. What came of it?”
“They are in full flight,” Simon said. Free of his armour he stretched himself, and heaved a sigh of relief. “God’s my life, I am weary! Give me leave, sir, I would sleep.”
“Wait!” Fulk ordered. “Thine arm?”
Simon untwisted the bloody scarf, revealing a great gash that at once began to bleed again. Fulk pushed the leech away from him.
“Go tend my squire, good surgeon. I shall do very well.” He waited in silence while the leech washed and bandaged Simon’s wound. Then he nodded.
“Go thou, Simon, and rest. I will see thee anon.”
Simon went out and to his own tiny room. There he flung himself down upon his hard bed, and slept almost at once. He did not wake until past eight on the following day, and then he made all haste to dress himself and wait upon his lord. He found Fulk breakfasting, despite the late hour, his shoulder neatly bandaged and himself seemingly not very much the worse for wear. He grunted when he saw Simon, and waved him to a seat at his own table. Simon, unimpressed by the honour, sat down and disposed of a tankard of ale. He then drew a platter towards him and proceeded to make a hearty meal. Neither he nor Fulk spoke until they had satisfied their hunger. At length my lord pushed back his chair, and wiping his fingers on the coarse cloth, looked across at his squire.
“Thomas of Worcester and the Scottish Earl were taken,” he remarked.
Simon nodded, and there the conversation ended. Fulk went out presently, accompanied by his page, and Simon spent the morning polishing his sword and armour. Fulk did not return for dinner, which he took at Court, but soon after three in the afternoon he rolled in.
“Hark ye, Simon,” he puffed, “the King goes to make some dozen knights.” He looked narrowly at Simon as he spoke, but Simon displayed no interest. He was cleaning my lord’s shield, and his whole attention seemed centred upon it.
“With my good will he will make thee knight,” Fulk said.
Simon’s busy hands grew still. He shot an upward glance at Montlice.
“Ye jest, my lord.”
“Nay. The Prince remarked thy courage on the field and hath recommended thee for knighthood.”
For a minute Simon sat silent, staring before him. He drew a deep breath of wonderment, and looked again at Montlice.
“And thy—good will, sir?”
“Well, well,” Fulk said. “I should have recommended thee myself. Shalt have thy knighthood, lad, an thou’lt stay yet a while with me.”
“As your squire, my lord?” he asked.
Fulk laid a clumsy hand on his shoulder.
“As my son if thou wilt, Simon. Art too young to fare forth alone. When Alan is older shalt go forth with him. Till then stay thou with me, and grow yet taller.”
Simon pondered it for a time.
“But what will you have me do, lord? It seems that I am no longer necessary to you, and I’ll not stay idle at Montlice.”
“Shalt command my men in Vincent’s room, who fell yesterday, God rest his soul! I will pay thee a good wage so thou mayst have money against thy later needs.”
Simon pondered again, his eyes on the distant hills. He brought them back presently to rest on his lord, and smiled.
“It is a fair offer,” he said.
“Thy hand on it!” Fulk answered promptly, and held out his great paw. Simon gripped it until the veins along the back of his hand stood out blue and thick. So he accepted Fulk as his liege lord.
The ceremony of knighting took place on the following day. Besides Simon were twelve other men, so that he made the thirteenth, a happening that Fulk regarded as inauspicious until Simon told him that thirteen was a number that brought him good luck. Fulk attended him to Court, and kept an anxious yet proud eye upon him during the rite.
Simon was the last to kneel before the King, and as he bent the knee he saw Malvallet standing amongst a group behind the Prince. Geoffrey smiled at him and made a little saluting movement with his hand.
At the King’s last words to him: “Rise, Sir Simon of Beauvallet,” Simon came to his feet. The rest of the ceremony passed in a kind of haze. When it was over he found that Geoffrey was at his side with the Prince. Simon bowed.
“I have heard yet more of your doings, Sir Simon,” Henry said, twinkling. “Paul of Lenoir tells a tale of your lynx-eyes.”
“That was nothing, lord,” Simon answered. “Mine eyes are sharp, and I can see in darkness.” He looked at Geoffrey for a moment. “So thou hast paid thy debt to me, Malvallet.”
“No, no!” Malvallet cried. “This is none of my making, though glad I am to see you knighted. Tell him, sir, that ’tis your Highness’s own contriving!”
“Ay, that is so,” nodded Henry. “Geoffrey had naught to say in the matter.”
“And so the debt remains unpaid,” Malvallet said. “Now at least, Simon, thou’lt quit Montlice.”
“Nay,” Simon answered. “I remain with him yet another year or two.”
At this point the Prince stepped aside to speak with one who passed. Geoffrey spoke lower, jerking his head towards the young Henry.
“Why dost thou not take service under him? He is a good master.”
“One day I will,” Simon answered. “For the nonce there are reasons why I should stay at Montlice. And Fulk has my word.”
“Then it is useless for me to say more,” Geoffrey shrugged. “It irks me to see thee with our lifelong foe.” Then, as Fulk came towards them, he clasped Simon’s hand for a moment. “I could love thee, Simon. Forget it not.”
“What did the fellow want with thee?” grumbled Fulk, when Malvallet was out of earshot. “Why must thou make a friend of mine enemy?”
“I make friends where I will,” Simon said curtly.
“Nay, that thou shalt not! Mine enemy is thine, I’ll have thee know!”
Simon looked at him thoughtfully.
“Not so. Yet this do I owe you, that I will not call Malvallet friend while I remain under your roof.”
They left Shrewsbury with the King, two days later, and went south with him until they had to branch off to reach Cambridge. Fulk’s losses had been few, and in place of Vincent was Simon, who proved himself to be so thoroughly equal to his task that Fulk remarked that Vincent’s death was more of a blessing than a curse.
And so they arrived at Montlice, early in August, after an absence of nearly a month. They rode up the castle-slope to find Alan awaiting them, with my lady at his side, and her two daughters behind her.
Fulk dropped heavily from the saddle and enfolded his frail wife in an elephantine embrace. The two girls hung back shyly, but he kissed them both heartily, and his son.
“Well, well, well!” he puffed. “So here ye see me, safe and sound, sweetling, with naught to show for my fighting save a scratch upon the shoulder.”
“For which I thank God with all my heart!” said my lady devoutly. “I have been in an agony of dread, my dear lord, for thy sake.”
“A pack of rebels cannot slay Montlice,” he answered. “Simon is safe, as thou seest, but Vincent is gone.”
“Ah, poor Vincent!” she cried, but held out her hand to Simon. “I rejoice to see thee again, Simon of Beauvallet. Ye took no harm?”
Simon knelt to kiss her hand.
“None, lady, that is worth the telling. I trust I do see you well?”
She smiled.
“Well enough, now that I have my lord again.”
Fulk put his hand on her shoulder.
“There is news for thee, Eleanor. Our Simon is my squire no longer.”
She was puzzled, and looked inquiringly at Simon, who had risen to his feet. It was Alan whose quick instinct divined the truth. He ran forward and caught Simon’s hand.
“Hast been knighted! Simon, Simon, is’t true indeed?”
“Ay, knighted he is,” said Fulk, “and by the King’s own hand, for his exceeding great valour on the field. I present thee Sir Simon of Beauvallet, my lady.”
Then the Countess out of the sweetness of her nature, made Simon mightily uncomfortable. Overcoming her slight timidity of him, she stepped forward and laid her hands in his. Simon, flushing, bent, and received a kiss upon his rugged brow.
Fulk laughed, clapping his hands to his sides.
“Now art thou honoured indeed, lad! My lady, is there refreshment within? I could drain a well, and Simon too, I’ll swear.”
“ ’Tis laid out against your coming, my lord,” she answered. “Come within, and Simon also.”
Simon stepped back.
“I give ye thanks, lady, but I must first see to my men.”
“Ay, ay, there speaks the general,” chuckled Fulk, and watched him walk away towards the waiting column of men.
From that day onwards Simon ranked with Alan in my lord’s household. He sat at table with the family, far above the salt, and he was given a squire of his own and a page. A fair chamber was allotted to him, and in addition to all this he received a round sum each month as wage for his services. Still he felt no pang of gratitude, for if in these things his life was made easier and more luxurious, he repaid it amply by the work he did. In a surprisingly short space of time the management of the estate devolved itself on to his broad shoulders. My lord was no longer young, and the late campaign had taxed his strength, even though he would not admit it. He lost some of his untiring energy, and he was content to put the reins of government into Simon’s hands, since his son would have none of them.
So life drifted onwards for a time, placidly enough, with but one incident to disturb its even tenor. And this was the coming of Malvallet to Montlice.
He rode up to the castle, late one afternoon in September, attended by his page. One of Montlice’s varlets, astonished at his advent, was sent to advise my lord of this visit.
Fulk was with his lady, and when he heard the news, he screwed up his eyes and frowned.
“Simon,” he said succinctly. “Plague be on him!”
“But Malvallet in our domain!” cried my lady.
“Curse his impudence,” growled Fulk, and went out with his rolling gait to receive this unwelcome guest.
Malvallet was standing before the fireplace, his hands behind him, and one spurred foot tapping the ground. He did not move a step to meet Fulk, but merely inclined his head haughtily. Midway across the hall Fulk paused, and returned the faint bow every mite as stiffly.
“My lord?” he rumbled.
“I regret the necessity which compels me to intrude on your land, my Lord of Montlice,” said Malvallet icily. “I desire to see my son, Sir Simon of Beauvallet.”
“To what purpose?” A red gleam appeared at the back of Fulk’s eyes, sure sign of danger.
“Your pardon—” Malvallet gazed back at him unflinchingly—“That is mine affair.”
“Nay it is mine, my lord. Simon of Beauvallet is in my service.”
A little pulse started to throb on Malvallet’s temple. Fulk regarded it, pleased.
“That is an error which I will rectify,” Malvallet said. Under the calm of his voice anger sounded.
“Will you so, my lord? And what if Simon wills otherwise?”
“Sir Simon is my son, sir.”
“Good lack, have ye but just discovered it?” Fulk jeered.
Malvallet bit his lip.
“Just, Lord Fulk.”
“Hey, hey! And he has squired me these three years!” Fulk said, and watched the barb go home.
“That would not have been had I known, my lord.”
Fulk gave a great laugh.
“Well, I suppose ye knew of the existence of a child, Lord Geoffrey. Methinks your efforts at paternal authority are a thought belated.”
Malvallet was silent for a moment, curbing his anger. Presently he looked up again.
“My lord, will ye have the goodness to summon my son?”
“To what avail?” Fulk asked politely. “Three years since he came to me of his own free will, in preference to you. I do not think he is like to change.”
Again Malvallet battled with himself. But his voice trembled a little with passion when he spoke.
“Nevertheless, my lord, I demand to have speech with him.”
“Demand, demand! And by what right do ye ‘demand’ in my domain, my lord?”
“I have told you. Simon is my son.”
“Simon is my servant,” Fulk retorted quickly. He saw Malvallet’s jaws clench.
“This bandying of words is useless!” Malvallet said. “We but waste time.”
“Why, so I think,” bowed Montlice. “I will e’en summon your horse.”
Malvallet tapped the table between them with his riding whip. He leaned forward, glaring at Fulk.
“Lord Fulk, I do not stir from this spot until I have seen Sir Simon!”
Then, ere Fulk could reply in kind, a deep, cold voice spoke from the doorway.
“Who is it desires speech with Simon of Beauvallet?” it said. “I am here.”
Malvallet swung round. Just within the hall stood Simon, a very giant of a man, regarding him fixedly from under lowering brows.
For a moment no one spoke. Then Malvallet strode forward.
“So thou art my son,” he said slowly.
“Am I?” Simon answered. “I have forgotten.”
With their eyes they measured one another. Malvallet spoke quietly.
“I come to offer thee the shelter of my roof, Simon.”
“I need it not, my lord.”
“A place at my table,” Malvallet insisted, “next thy brother, a place at my side as my acknowledged son.”
Simon’s lip curled, sneering.
“Oh, brave, my lord! Thy bastard son, forsooth!”
Malvallet flushed.
“I will make thee great in the land; ay, and I will give thee fair estates.”
“I need them not, my lord.”
Again there was a silence.
“Ye defy me, Simon? Ye have hate of me in your heart?”
“Nay.”
“Then return with me to Malvallet, and bear thine own name.”
“No name is mine save the one I have chosen.”
“An insult to me, that name!”
“Is it so, my lord?” He looked upward at Malvallet, without any feeling in his glance.
Malvallet stretched out his hands.
“Simon, to what avail, this coldness of thine? Am I not thy father?”
“So I am told,” Simon replied.
“Have I no right to thee? Has Montlice my right?”
“No man has a right to me, save it be the King. The law gives thee none. I am what I am.”
“Thou shalt be something more than what thou art.”
“I doubt it not.”
“Through my contriving.”
“Nay.”
“Simon,” Malvallet cried, “is there no blood-tie betwixt us?”
“It has never been thy pleasure to acknowledge it,” Simon answered coldly.
“I knew not of thine existence!”
Simon looked him over.
“Thou didst know that a child would be born to thee by Jehanne, my mother. Thou didst make no effort to provide for it, nor to discover even whether it were a boy or girl.”
Malvallet’s hands dropped to his sides.
“It is resentment then, that makes thee churlish now?”
“I feel none.”
“Then what moves thee to this coldness, Simon?”
Simon waited for a moment before replying.
“If I do seem cold to thee, my lord, it is not from hatred or soreness of spirit. Thou art a stranger to me. How should I bear thee affection who have never shown me any?”
Malvallet winced.
“All this will I make right betwixt us, my son. Let the past be buried, for indeed there is love in me now. Canst not forget the harm I have done thee by mine indifference?”
“Thou hast worked no harm on me. The past is naught, as shall be the present.”
“Simon, Simon, thou art unjust and cruel! Hadst thou come to me, three years ago, I would have taken thee to my bosom!”
The green-blue eyes narrowed.
“In me, my lord, is Malvallet blood. A Malvallet asks no favours. Hadst thou come to me three years ago, then indeed might things have been different. It was not then convenient to thee, or mayhap thou hadst forgotten that a baseborn child of thine was living. In those days I did fend for myself because it was not thy pleasure to seek me out. Now, when my need of help is dead, it has become thy pleasure. It is not mine.”
Malvallet heard him out in silence. He answered very low.
“Mayhap I do deserve thy scorn and thy hatred. But is thy hatred so great that it denies me the means to make amends?”
“I have told thee, my lord, that I feel no hatred for thee.”
“I had rather that than thine indifference!”
“If I cause thee pain, I do crave thy pardon. What else but indifference can I feel for one with whom I have never exchanged a word until today?”
Malvallet went nearer to him.
“Come with me now, Simon, and I will teach thee to care for me! Come away from the land of Montlice! Thou—my son!—canst not remain here!”
“Ay, that is what irks thee,” Simon answered. “I serve thine enemy, Montlice. Were I an hundred leagues from here thou hadst not come to me today, or ever. Thy pride is hurt.”
“I swear it is not so!”
Simon jerked his shoulder.
“No matter. Whate’er thy motive, mine answer remains the same. I owe my Lord Fulk allegiance, and I will break my word for no man.”
Then there fell another long silence. Malvallet made a hopeless gesture with his hands. He spoke dully.
“No argument will prevail with thee?”
“None.”
“Then we must part—foes?”
“I bear no malice to thee or thine, my lord, and between thy son and me is friendship. But whiles I serve Montlice his enemies are mine. Tell Geoffrey he was ill-advised to send thee to me, but tell him also that one day he and I will meet again when there shall be naught of enmity betwixt us.”
“And betwixt thee and me?” Malvallet cried eagerly.
“Again naught. Neither love nor hatred. The past is dead and with it our kinship, but if ever we two shall meet again it will not be as foes.”
“Thou art—generous,” Malvallet said slowly. “Think well before ye say me nay! Much can I do for thee, and very powerful can I make thee. Do these things count for naught?”
“My lord, it is my set purpose that I will take no honour, no power, no wealth, no title, that I have not earned by mine own endeavour. I like not thine easy road, but all these things will I acquire, either by toil, by skill, or by valour. I do thank thee for thine offer, but mine answer is nay.”
“Ay, thou art a man,” Malvallet sighed, “and my blood runs hot in thee. This is farewell, but before I go, wilt thou not lay thy hand in mine and tell me that my past neglect of thee is indeed forgiven?” He held out his hand, looking almost wistfully at his son.
Simon put his into it deliberately, and for a moment their fingers gripped.
“If wrong has been done to me I do readily forgive it, for thy neglect has made me what I am, and no cosseted stripling of the court.”
Malvallet still held his hand firmly.
“Promise me one thing, Simon! If ever thou shouldst have need of me, if ever thou shouldst wish to undo this day’s work, thou wilt put thy pride aside and come to me, for that will be thy condescension, not mine.”
Simon frowned.
“ ‘If ever I have need of thee’—I can stand alone. ‘If ever I should wish to unsay my nay’—that will be never. I will promise, my lord.”
Malvallet almost crushed his hand. Then quickly he released it, and looked at Simon with a queer, twisted smile.
“Thou son after mine own heart!” he said softly, and strode forth with never a word to Fulk, and never a backward glance.
There was silence for a long minute when he had gone. Fulk was looking at Simon with wonderment in his eyes.
“Is it to please thyself or me that thou hast said Malvallet nay?” he asked.
“Both, maybe,” Simon answered briefly, and swung out of the door.