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How He Brought Order Into His Lands
The next thing Simon did was to dismiss Nicholas of the Guards. At the same time he made it known that Basil of Mordaunt was to succeed him. Thus he did away with almost all opposition, for Basil was an easygoing, generous fellow, liked by his peers, and respected. Nicholas did not take this dismissal quietly. As soon as he was out of Simon’s hearing he fell to shouting his grievance over the estate, vowing that he would pay no heed to the new, upstart lord, but would hold his place and his men in Simon’s very teeth. In this he had little support, for the guards were weary of his hectoring and blustering. They listened to him in silence, but when he had gone they conferred amongst themselves, and for the most part agreed that they would be well rid of him. Yet for very fear of him and because they did not know their lord’s temper, they remained obedient to Nicholas until they should see which way the wind would blow. Some few declared openly that they would stand by Nicholas, but these were his friends and their number was small.
Nicholas went roaring to the men-at-arms with intent to stir up rebellion. Gountray was no friend of his, but among the men he counted some six or seven allies. He found them murmurous and ill-at-ease, for they had a new captain in Walter of Santoy who was busily employed in disciplining them. Nicholas knew better than to approach him.
“Maurice of Gountray will stand my friend,” said he loudly. “If Maurice is dismissed he will be at one with me. He and I will smash this fellow!”
“It is rumoured that Maurice of Gountray is Marshal in Edmund’s room,” one of his friends said uneasily.
Nicholas laughed gustily.
“A likely tale! Why, he hath sworn how he will meet this lord, and hath cursed his name! I warrant ye I shall find a friend in him.” He swaggered across the courtyard, and came most opportunely upon Gountray who emerged from a door leading into the castle.
“Ha, good Maurice!” Nicholas cried, past enmity forgotten. “Come hither, man! There is somewhat I would say to thee.”
Maurice paused a moment and waited till Nicholas came up to him.
“I have orders to see ye leave this place within the space of seven hours,” he said coldly. “Look to it that ye are gone.”
Nicholas lost a little of his colour, but he strove to laugh as at a joke.
“Why, this is pretty hearing, beshrew me! From whom do ye take your orders, Maurice of Gountray?”
Maurice looked him steadily between the eyes.
“From my lord of Beauvallet, sirrah.”
“Ho-ho! Do you tell me that, Master Gountray? But yesterday ye did speak brave words against him!”
“Much hath happened since yesterday, Nicholas Conrad, and for what I have said against my lord am I heartily ashamed. Ye will leave this land today.” He strode on, and as he passed him Nicholas noticed the chain about his neck that bespoke his marshal’s office.
Back he went to the guardroom to find Basil of Mordaunt in his place. Then his rage knew no bounds, but he had little support now that the men saw that my lord’s word was not idly spoken. The end of it was that Nicholas departed from Beauvallet in an hour, calling down curses on Simon’s head.
In the week that followed strange and strenuous changes were wrought in Beauvallet. Malefactors were brought to judgment and Simon’s hand was heavy upon them. When they sought to rebel, the men found that his yoke was securely round their necks, and his new officers implicitly obedient to him. The week passed in grumbling and petty mutinies, but at the end of the week men knew Simon for master. Regulations were formed, irksome at first, but sound, as the wiser fellows realised; Simon was found to be ruthlessly just, and if his rule was stern, at least he was not above knowing his men individually. He had ever a nod and a curt word of greeting for all who crossed his path, and he mingled freely amongst them, saying little, but making himself familiar to them. The peasants were set to work again, and laboured with a will, because work meant fair wages. Walter of Santoy had orders to drill his men, and although they groaned under it, they submitted, and very soon put some life into their labours, for no one knew when Simon would appear upon the scene, watching closely from under his jutting brows, chary of praise, but giving it where it was due.
Disgust was felt when he ordained that archery was to be practised, and some of the peasants who were compelled to enter into this sport grumbled loudly, and declared that Simon worked them to a shred. But when he came himself with his great bow, and shot with them they ceased their lamentations to admire his skill. And when he declared that to the man who could shoot an arrow farther than his own he would award a prize of a grant of land, competition became keen, and day after day saw the serfs fitting arrows to bow till they could almost rival the archers themselves.
Within the castle all was quiet. Master Hubert had departed, wailing, and the new steward slipped into his place. There was plenty of work and plenty of good food, a fair dole of ale or sack, and sports to occupy spare hours. In a surprisingly short time the men of Beauvallet settled down under the new regime, and were content.
It was not until the end of the month that Montlice rode over to see Simon. He came without warning one day, and appeared before the castle just before ten, accompanied by his son and his cousin. Simon was shooting with his men, so Gountray, who received the guests, dispatched Arnold, Simon’s page, to fetch him.
Arnold sped out across the country, clad in the new green-and-russet livery. He came upon Simon among the archers, in the act of loosing an arrow from his bow.
Simon watched the arrow’s flight, and without turning his head, spoke to his page.
“Well, Arnold?”
This was an uncanny trick he had, and which greatly bewildered and discomposed his men. No matter how softly one might creep up to him, he always knew of the approach, and needed not to see who it was who drew near. Arnold was accustomed to the trick, so he showed no surprise.
“My lord, there are guests at the castle! My Lord of Montlice, Sir Alan, and my Lord of Granmere. Master Gountray sent me to fetch you.”
Simon rose from his knee.
“I will come,” he said. He stayed but to speak with Santoy a moment and followed Arnold to the castle. Arnold would have taken his bow, but Simon shook his head, smiling.
“How far wouldst thou bear it, child?”
Arnold drew himself up till he stood half as high as the bow.
“I could carry it, my lord, indeed!”
“I doubt not thy good will,” Simon said, but he would not relinquish the bow.
Arnold walked demurely behind him then. It was a curious turn of character in Simon that he liked children. His pages fell over one another to serve him and were perfectly happy if he but nodded to them, while the littlest one of all’s pride when Simon lifted him over a broad ditch one day knew no bounds. He was Gountray’s son, a dark, curly-headed boy of eight named Cedric, who owed his office to his own impertinence. When he found that his father would not speak for him to Simon, he determined to speak for himself. So up he went to the castle, a chubby little fellow with merry eyes, and waylaid Simon on his way out.
Simon, remembering his own coming to Fulk of Montlice, was amused. He made Cedric page with Gountray’s consent, and the child seemed to walk straight into his rather dormant heart. He was the one person in all Beauvallet who would openly defy Simon, and once when he burst into tears of rage at being thwarted, his father and the Secretary were struck dumb by the sight of him seated on Simon’s knee in the great hall.
He it was who now entertained Simon’s visitors with engaging and solemn conversation.
“And who art thou, young hop o’ my thumb?” Fulk asked him.
Cedric answered importantly.
“I am my lord’s page. I made him take me.”
Fulk burst into a roar of laughter.
“Oh, tit for Simon’s tat!” he cried. “How didst thou make him, prithee?”
“I said that I would be his page. And I am. He calls me the little one.”
Alan smiled, drawing the small person to him.
“That sounds not like Simon,” he remarked. “Dost thou like thy lord?”
“Ay, I love him dearly. As much as my father.” Cedric paused to give weight to his next statement. “I have sat upon his knee,” he announced with due solemnity.
“Holy Virgin!” Fulk said. “What comes to our Simon?”
Simon entered at this moment, and Cedric, wriggling free of Alan’s hold, skipped towards him.
“My lord, I received these guests with my father, and I gave them chairs, but I have not done your bidding!” He chuckled mischievously and danced before Simon.
Simon gave him his arrows.
“Put these away then, little miscreant—and see thou dost not play with them!” he added as Cedric trotted off. He came forward and grasped Fulk’s hand.
“My lord, ye are more than welcome, and you, Lord of Granmere. Well, Alan?”
“Never saw I so great a change in any land!” Fulk assured him. “We came to pry upon thee and to see how thou wert progressing, and behold! the place is as orderly as a monastery! As we passed we saw on all sides good work on hand, while as for thy household, it is as quiet as the grave! What hast done, lion-cub?”
“It was very easy,” Simon answered. “I struck at the heads of the disorder. How fares Montlice?”
“We miss thy strict hand,” Fulk grimaced. “But Alan doth what he can. God’s my life, when I think that scarce a month ago this land was peopled by drunken rogues, and the crops going to ruin for want of care, and look at it now, I can scarce believe mine eyes!”
“I am not surprised,” Granmere remarked. “From what I had seen of thee, I had thought to see thee conquer within the month. Who was yon chubby page?”
Simon smiled a little.
“That is my Marshal’s son.”
“Who sits upon thy knee,” Alan teased.
Simon looked up.
“Did he say that? ’Twas but once, when he cried because that I chid him for some fault.”
“Simon,” Fulk interrupted, “I demand that ye loose thy tongue and tell me all that thou hast performed here!”
“Well, sir, if ye must have the full tale, will ye come out whiles my varlets lay dinner?”
“Ay, that will we,” Fulk nodded, and rose. “Alan would stay with thee, if thou’lt permit him.”
Alan locked his arm in Simon’s affectionately.
“I shall stay whether thou likst it or no.”
“Why, of course thou canst stay!” Simon said, and led them forth into the sunlight.
They returned presently to dinner, when Simon presented his marshal, his captain, and all his other officers. It was nearly three hours later when they came away from the table, and Fulk took Simon aside.
“Simon lad, thou art now come to manhood,” he began, by way of preamble. “There is a proposition I would set before thee.”
“My lord?”
Fulk tapped him on the shoulder.
“Look ye, boy, thy land should have a mistress, ay, and an heir! Now it is in my mind to give thee my daughter Elaine, though I had intended her for John of Balfry’s son. What dost thou say to that?”
Simon compressed his lips.
“Why, sir, I say that albeit I do thank thee for the honour ye would do me, yet were it best that ye should give the lady to Robert of Balfry.”
“Thou’lt none of her?” Fulk was incredulous. “Bethink you, silly boy, she is comely and gentle, and fair-dowered!”
“Ay, sir, but she loves not me, and I love not her.”
Fulk was inclined to be offended.
“Mayhap thou dost look higher for thy bride?”
“Nay. I look nowhere for a bride. I have no love for women, and I think to remain a bachelor.”
“But that is folly, lad!” Fulk cried, a little appeased. “A docile wife is a great thing to have!”
“Is it, sir?” Simon said drily. “Methinks I admire not gentleness, nor docility.”
“But, thou dost love children, Simon!”
“Do I?” Simon considered the point. “Nay, I think not.”
“Thou dost, lad! What of thy little page?”
“Cedric? Yes, I do care for him, yet I want him not for mine own.”
“Simon, Simon, thou quibblest! Since I have been in Beauvallet I have seen more pages than thou canst possibly have need of! What made thee take them—children that they are?”
“They—they are useful to me,” Simon answered, rather lamely. “They run mine errands.”
“How many hast thou?” Fulk demanded sternly.
“Six,” Simon said gruffly.
“And what does one man want with six pages?” Fulk persisted.
“I—I find employment for them.”
“Tush!” said Fulk. “Thou dost like to have them follow thee about.”
“Nay! I send them from me—when they plague me.”
“Simon, thou canst not deceive me,” Fulk told him. “Thou hast a love for children, and shouldst breed thine own.”
Simon flushed a little.
“Nay.”
“And I say, ay!”
“My lord, it is to no avail that ye seek to persuade me. I will take no woman to wife.”
Fulk grunted, but he knew Simon too well to argue any further.
“Well, please thyself. But one day ye will know that I was right, and a man must take a wife unto himself.”
“I will tell you when that day comes,” Simon promised.
Alan remained at Beauvallet a week, and Simon was rather glad of his companionship. He organised a chase for Alan’s amusement, and hired mummers from a neighbouring town. But Alan was quite content to dispense with these forms of entertainment, and to please Simon he went with him to practise archery. When he came away from this tedious sport, he shot Simon a sidelong glance. Simon was aware of it, without seeing it.
“Well?”
“How hast thou contrived to endear these men to thee, Simon?”
“Have I? Some of them like me not.”
“But most do like thee. What is it they do find to love in thee? What do any of us find? Thou art stern, and cold, and hast no love for any man.”
“Alan, if thou dost wish to prate of love, go do so to thy ladylove. I know nothing of it.”
“Why do thy men love thee?” Alan insisted.
“I know not. Perchance because I bend them to my will.”
“That may be so,” Alan mused. “But why do the children so dote on thee?”
“Because I pay but little heed to them.”
“Nay, that cannot be so. In truth, Simon, long as I have known thee, I still know thee not. Something there is ’neath thy coldness of which I wot not.”
“There is hunger,” Simon said, thereby closing the conversation.
When Alan had returned to Montlice, Simon set about reforming his men-at-arms, and archers, with so much success that within the space of six months he had a very fair army at his beck and call, composed of peasants’ sons, and some wandering soldiers. Walter of Santoy proved himself an admirable captain, so that Simon relaxed some of his vigilance, and turned his attention to the cultivation of his land. In Gountray he had full confidence, and Maurice would have worked himself to death to please his lord.
And so the year rolled placidly by and the New Year came. Then, when Simon had begun to look about him in search of fresh emprises, came Geoffrey of Malvallet, his father, one damp morning, to visit him.
When word was brought of his coming, Simon went swiftly out to meet him, and knelt to receive his guest.
“My lord, ye do me great honour,” he said gravely.
Geoffrey raised him.
“I hardly dared come to thee, Simon, but now I have an excuse for this visit which perhaps thou dost think importunate.”
Simon led him to his private room.
“Nay, sir, I am honoured.”
Geoffrey glanced around.
“Well, thou hast estates, after all. Of thine own endeavour.”
“As I did say I would have them,” Simon answered, and sent a page to bring ale. “What is your will of me, sir?”
“I am the bearer of a letter to thee from thy half-brother,” Malvallet answered. “Will ye read it?”
“From Geoffrey? Ay, that will I, and gladly! Will ye not be seated, sir?”
Malvallet chose a chair by the window, and watched Simon break the seals of Geoffrey’s letter.
“To Simon, Lord of Beauvallet.
“Dear and entirely well-beloved, I greet thee well, and send messages of joy and congratulation on thy new good fortune. I do know thy land and like it well. May thou prosper exceedingly as thou deservest!
“My brother, I do write to urge thee that thou shouldst come hither with what force thou mayst muster to join again with the Prince in quelling that most naughty rebel, Owen de Glyndourdy, whose followers are rife in this ill-fated land. Despite the fair promises of His Majesty’s Council, made in August, saying that he should have men and provisions enough to march boldly out against the rebels, naught hath been forthcoming, and at this date at which I write our force numbers little over five score men-at-arms and twelve score archers. Now thou art thine own master wilt thou come not again to fight at my side as thou didst promise? Matters grow serious here in Wales, for thou must know that in December of last year fell Cardiff, and Harlech, and Llampadarn, our most cherished fortresses. The rebel Owen hath not been so great before, and indeed, if we are to conquer him we must set out against him, and that as soon as spring shall have come. And with the spring, come thou, my brother, and I will promise thee as goodly a battle as that of Shrewsbury which thou didst so much enjoy.
“I send thee my love and greetings.
Simon folded the parchment slowly.
“Wilt thou go?” Malvallet asked abruptly.
Simon seemed to consider. His eyes wandered to the window and stared out across the quiet fields. He brought them back to his father, and smiled.
“It seems likely, my lord,” he said.
He rode next day to Montlice to take counsel of Fulk. To my lord’s surprise Alan sprang up, vehement.
“If thou dost go, Simon, then so will I!” he exclaimed. “Too long have I rested at home! I will lead our men to Wales, and I too, will taste the joys of battle!”
When he had recovered from his amazement, Fulk scoffed.
“Little joy wilt thou find in battle.”
Alan turned sharply.
“If thou dost say me nay, my lord, then will I go in Simon’s train. Alone!”
“No need for such heat,” Fulk grunted. “Thou shalt go if thou dost wish it. When dost thou think to depart, Simon?”
“Next month, my lord, towards the end, so that I shall come to Wales in March.”
“And leave thy land masterless?”
“Nay. Maurice of Gountray shall rule in my stead.”
“As he ruled when Barminster died?” Fulk inquired with heavy sarcasm.
“I am not Barminster,” Simon said.