Simon the Coldheart · Part I · Chapter 1 6 (2/2)

Presently Henry looked up and at Simon. His sunken eyes rested on him kindly for a moment before he spoke.

“Ye have done well, Sir Simon. Of how great an import these papers are, or what people this Serle has cozened to his side, we do not know. That we will find from the messenger. At all events it is a cunning plot, for I could not myself tell this seal from that of the late King, and the signatures do indeed bear a resemblance to his hand. The common folk might naturally be deluded into thinking Richard alive. How the gentle-people have received the false news we cannot know as yet.”

“No man of culture, of education, could believe so empty a tale,” the Duke said hotly.

“Oh, I find that the nobles believe in most empty tales, if they are like to bring them greater wealth, or greater rank!” Henry said tranquilly. “Have you, Sir Simon, heard talk of the late King?”

“Vague rumours I have heard, sire,” Simon answered. “Also talk of certain gold and silver hearts which King Richard was wont to give his knights, and which are now seen in Essex. I gave the rumours no credit, sir, thinking them but peasants’ tales, but it now seems to me that they are the fruits of this plot.”

“Perhaps,” Henry said. He gave a short, half-stifled sigh. “I suppose there will be plots until my death⁠—and after.” He glanced up at Simon. “King Richard is indeed dead,” he said.

“I never doubted it, sire,” Simon replied. “But he will come to life many times yet.”

The Duke laughed a little at that, and even the King smiled.

“Ay, that is so. Where lies this messenger from Serle?”

“At Saltpetres, my liege, in the tavern of the Ox. Six men guard him under one Gregory for whom I will vouch.”

“He must be conducted hither,” Henry said. “We will send to fetch him. Ye had best write to this Gregory, commanding him, lest he refuse to give up the prisoner without word from you.” Again he struck the gong. Simon noted that although his movements were languid, and his voice so gentle and tired, he went expeditiously about his business, and was not one to put off till tomorrow what might well be done today. When the secretary came he spoke without turning his head. “Bring writing materials.” As soon as his command had been obeyed, he nodded to Simon. “Will you write now, Sir Simon?”

Simon went to the table, and seating himself at it, drew the parchment sheet towards him. Henry watched him, liking the decisive way in which he set about his task and the entire lack of hesitation in choosing his words that he displayed.

“To Gregory Arnold of Saint Dormans,” Simon wrote.

“Deliver your prisoner unto the King’s men who shall come for him bearing this my command, and repair at once to Montlice as I bade you.

He sprinkled sand over the sheet to dry the ink, then, shaking it off, rose and gave his note to the King.

Henry read it, and smiled.

“I think ye are a man of action, Sir Simon,” he said, “not of letters.”

Simon smiled, too, and bowed.

“I trust that this is so, my liege.”

Henry laid his parchment down.

“Until the prisoner is brought safe to London, that is all, sir. It is our pleasure that ye remain with my Lord of Granmere until we send for you. We have to thank you again for your care of our person and our realm.” He struck the gong twice, and this time a page came who conducted Simon out.