Simon the Coldheart · Part I · Chapter 1 9 (2/2)

“But few, my lord. He is too harsh in his dealings with the guards, for them to love him.”

“So I thought. What record hath Basil of Mordaunt?”

The secretary was at a loss for a moment.

“I do not think I know him, my lord,” he said hesitantly.

“No? He is a quiet fellow of some thirty-five summers, with broad shoulders and a square head set close upon them. He looks one between the eyes.”

Recollection came to Bernard.

“Ah, yes, my lord! I know but little of him, save that he is peaceable in his ways, and orderly. The men like him, I believe.”

“It is in my mind to promote him to Nicholas’s room,” Simon said.

“Ye will degrade Nicholas, sir?”

“Nay, I will banish him. If I read him aright he is a sly fellow and I want none such here.”

“You are wise, my lord. I had thought ye would put a stranger in command.”

Simon smiled, a different smile from the deadly snarl Bernard had seen before.

“Yet ye call me wise,” he said.

“I had not realised how wise, my lord,” Bernard riposted.

“Nay? How read ye Walter of Santoy?”

“Do ye know every man in Beauvallet, sir?” asked Bernard wonderingly.

“I have need,” Simon said. “Dost thou?”

“Nay, my lord, to my shame. But I know this man, and I would call him good. Also he is beloved of the men-at-arms.”

“That will suit my purpose well,” Simon nodded, but he did not disclose what was his purpose. “I think to make Harold the Smooth-Tongued steward in Hubert’s room.”

“Then ye will do wisely, sir, for he is an honest man, and sober. What comes to Hubert?”

“Naught,” Simon answered. “He goes.”

“Thus ye will be rid of a very pretty mischief-brewer, sir. He is full of indignation at your coming, and although he durst not go openly against you, he might do much harm by his talk.”

“Ay.” Simon rose. He pointed to the sheets of parchment that lay scattered over the table. “Have the goodness to make me fair copies of these, Master Talmayne. I go now to send for Maurice of Gountray.”

Bernard stood up.

“My lord, if he comes not be not too enraged, for he⁠—”

Simon glanced over his shoulder, smiling rather grimly.

“Dost thou think I shall bungle my affairs, Master Talmayne?”

Bernard looked him in the eyes.

“Nay, my lord. Your pardon.”

Simon gave his short laugh and went out.

He sent his squire to summon Maurice, but Roger returned alone.

“My lord, he will not come!” he said, wide-eyed. “He⁠—he bade me tell you he⁠—he comes not at any⁠—any⁠—any⁠—”

“Well?”

“C-coxcomb’s call, my lord!”

“So?” Simon smiled unpleasantly. “Then I will e’en go to him.”

Roger put himself in front of him.

“Sir, take me with you!”

Simon looked down at him.

“Wherefore?”

“I⁠—indeed, I mislike his looks, sir!”

Simon laughed, and taking his squire by the shoulders put him aside.

“I need not thy protection, lad. Go thou to Malcolm, and bid him be ready to accompany me forth in an hour.”

“Oh!” Roger ran after him. “Sir, let me ride with you! I am not weary, and Malcolm⁠—”

“Thou didst hear me, Roger?” Simon said softly.

Roger sighed and fell back.

“Ay, my lord.”

Simon strode out into the sunlight. He crossed the courtyard to the men-at-arms’ quarters, and went in quietly. He walked through the hall, past staring, whispering soldiers, and made his way to the room which he knew to be Gountray’s.

He entered with his noiseless step, and found Maurice up with an oath and stood as if at bay.

Simon walked forward unhurriedly. He favoured Maurice with a long look before he spoke.

“This time I have come to you,” he said abruptly. “Another time I shall not do that.”

“I care not for your threats!” Gountray cried.

“I never threaten,” Simon answered composedly. He went to the table and lifted two wine bottles from it. These he flung out of the window with unerring aim.

“Now, by God⁠—” Gountray roared, and sprang forward.

Simon’s cold voice checked him.

“Do ye think it no shame, Maurice of Gountray, for a strong man to become a drunken sot?” he said.

Maurice flushed to the ears.

“I’ll not be answerable to you for my actions!” he snapped.

“Ay, that will you,” Simon said, “or leave this my land. I care not which ye choose, but an end will I have to your carousing and your rebellious insolence.”

“Rebellious insolence, forsooth!” Maurice cried. “Ye have yet to prove yourself strong enough to be my master! Think ye I will bend the knee to a pert boy not out of his teens?”

“Ay,” Simon answered.

“Then know that it is not so! I will fight ye for as long as ye remain here, and my men will refuse to do your bidding! One and all will stand by me! Ye have chosen to slight me, but I will show you of what stuff Maurice of Gountray is made!”

“Ye have shown me,” Simon said deliberately. “Within a week of my coming hither I knew you for a drunken knave who proves himself trustless in the absence of a master. I see you now, a common, brawling malcontent whose muscles are weak for want of training, whose temper is soured by the lawless, pleasure-seeking life ye have led during these past months. I have little use for such, Maurice of Gountray. I want true men about me, not worthless braggarts who bluster and shout, yet who have not honour enough or strength to keep their men in order when the master is away.”

Livid with rage, Maurice sprang forward again. His passion enveloped him, so that all semblance of sanity was gone. Simon had supplied the spark that was needed to set his rancour in a blaze. In a flash he had whipped his dagger from its sheath and had rushed upon Simon, blindly.

There was a moment’s wild struggle, and then Simon’s hands were about his wrists like iron clamps, bearing them downwards. Panting, Maurice glared into the green-blue eyes, and saw them passionless.

“Twice in my life hath a man sought to slay me foully,” Simon said. “This is the second time. The first was when a base cur, a traitor little above the swine, could not worst me in a fight. Then, being base, he drew steel and would have stabbed me.” He paused, staring grimly into Maurice’s eyes, until they sank, and the dark head with them. Then, with a quick, scornful movement he released Gountray’s wrists, and turned away, presenting his back, fair mark for an assassin’s dagger.

The tinkle of steel falling on the stone floor sounded behind him, and a man’s laboured breathing. He went quickly to a chair, and sat down, not even looking at Gountray.

Maurice spoke unsteadily.

“I have⁠—never⁠—done that⁠—before.”

Simon said not a word. Maurice turned, flung out his hands.

“You goaded me to it! I would never have drawn steel had you not taunted me so!”

Simon turned his head and looked at him. Maurice went to the window, leaden-footed, and stood with his face averted. After a moment he came back into the room, his mouth set as though in pain.

“Well⁠ ⁠… Kill me!” he said. “My honour’s dead.”

Still Simon said nothing. Maurice stood before him, twisting his hands, his head bowed. Suddenly he looked up, and his voice quivered.

“Ah, can you not speak?” he cried. “Are you made of ice? I have sought to stab you foully, like a⁠—cur! What will you do with me? Death would be welcome!”

“I seek not your death,” Simon answered sternly. “But by this one foul act have you placed your life and your fortune in my hands.”

Maurice straightened himself a little, but his head was bowed still, his fingers twitching.

“Well,” Simon said slowly, “I will make you my Marshal.”

For one whirling second Maurice was dazed. He took a hesitating step forward, staring in blank amazement. Then he recoiled.

“Ah, you mock at me!” he cried.

“I do not mock.”

Maurice opened his mouth to speak, but only passed his tongue between his dry lips. He was trembling, and sweat stood on his brow.

“Will⁠—will you not⁠—explain⁠—?” he said hoarsely.

“Sit down,” Simon ordered him, and waited to see him sink limply into a chair. “What I have said, I have said. I will make you my Marshal, but I will have obedience from you.”

“But⁠—but⁠—” Gountray’s hand flew to his head as one in wild bewilderment “⁠–⁠I sought to kill you! In that moment I could have done it, ay, and would have done it!”

“I know.”

“Then⁠—My lord, you torture me! What punishment will you inflict?”

“None.”

“None!” Gountray came to his feet. “You⁠—you⁠—forgive?”

“I forget,” Simon said.

“But why, why? What have I done to deserve your mercy?”

“Naught. It is my pleasure. Sit ye down again, and listen. When I came hither I did find your men disorderly and drunken, yourself no better. Yet I do know a man when I see one, and I do know that ye are one, if ye will it so. And I do also know a ruler of men and a fighter. Therefore I say that I will make ye Marshal in Edmund’s room, where ye shall prove yourself worthy of my trust. But I will have obedience and no black looks. So if ye hate me and wish me dead, get thee gone from Beauvallet, for thou art of no use to me.”

There fell a long silence. Then as Simon’s words sank well into his soul, Maurice came to his knees before him, sobbing drily in overwrought gasps.

“Ye cannot mean what ye say! What trust could ye place in me?⁠—a cur who is like to stab you in the back when ye are unarmed!”

Simon smiled a little at that, but he said nothing.

“Hanging is my desert! Ye have said that ye found all in disorder here, and myself a drunken sot! True it is⁠—God pity me! What use have you for me now?”

“I have told you.”

Then Maurice caught his hand and kissed it.

“My lord, I swear that since ye are pleased to forget my treachery and to elevate me thus undeservedly, I will never⁠—give you just cause to⁠—regret it⁠—so help me, God!”

“That I know,” Simon said calmly, and laid his hand on Gountray’s shoulder, gripping it.

Maurice raised his head and looked full into the compelling eyes.

“My lord⁠—forgive!” he whispered.

“It is as nothing,” Simon answered, and rose. “Come thou to me this even, for there is much I would ask of you, and I think ye can fitly advise me.” He held out his hand, and after a moment’s shamed hesitation Maurice laid his own in it. In that long grip was his allegiance to Simon sealed.