Simon the Coldheart · Part I · Chapter 1 5 (2/2)

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.