“Whose land is this?” Simon asked.
The man shook his head.
“Lord, we have no master now, save the King. It is crown land, I do think, but there is no one to rule here.”
“How so?”
“My lord went with Lord Hotspur ’gainst the King, sir. He died.” The man crossed himself.
“By steel or by rope?”
He answered in a hushed voice.
“By rope, my lord.” The peasant glanced up at him. “So perish all traitors!” he said quickly.
Simon paid no heed.
“His name?”
“John of Barminster, good my lord.”
“There is no heir?”
“Nay, my lord, and the land is confiscate.”
“What call you it?”
“It is known as Fair Pastures, my lord.”
Simon turned in his saddle to look about him.
“How many leagues girdle it?”
“Four, my lord. It is a fair barony.”
“What cattle have ye?”
“Six herds, my lord, and all good beasts, save one which died yesternight of a colic. It is as my lord left it, with some two score swine in all, and many of the sows in litter. The stable is full, but the horses grow fat and lazy with little usage. Three falcons hath my lord’s steward, in ward, fine birds, sir, and fleet of wing. The hounds run wild, and the sheep stray, for there is none over us to command we do this or that, so that little land is ploughed, and much sack is drunk.”
“What force do ye number? Of archers, men-at-arms?”
The man shook his head sadly.
“But few, my lord. My lord took eight score with him in all. Some returned to royster here and abuse us. The rest are gone I know not where. Some slain, mayhap, others with the rebel Owen. All is waste here, till the King sends one to rule over us and subdue these accursed soldiers.” He waved his hands excitedly. “Naught is safe from them, sir, naught sacred to them! There is no priest on the estate, and no master at the castle. The men-at-arms carouse there, and the steward waxes fat on my lord’s larder. Little enough is left now in the cellars, and everywhere there is drunkenness and rioting!”
Simon made no comment, but the peasant saw his eyes grow hard. Still he stared about him, while his squire watched curiously. Then Simon gathered up his slack rein and tossed a groat to the kneeling man.
“Peace be with ye!” he said curtly, and set his horse at a brisk trot. Roger fell in behind, and for a long time they proceeded in silence.
When they stopped again it was close on four in the evening, and Roger’s resentment had grown considerably. He was hungry, he was thirsty, he was stiff and tired from the long hours in the saddle, he was very bored, and he wished to heaven his master would find some other amusement than this wandering about the country.
As he dismounted, Simon cast the squire a quick, shrewd glance. He had worked him hard this week, and Roger’s eyes were black-ringed from fatigue, his movements slow.
“We rest here tonight,” Simon said. “Take the horses to the stable and wait to see them tended.”
“Yes, sir,” Roger answered, devoutly thankful for this respite.
Simon strode into the tavern and calling for the host, demanded a room for himself and another for his squire.
The landlord inspected him covertly. Evidently this was not one to be denied. He bowed, spreading out his hands.
“Alack, fair sir, woe is me, I have but one room to offer, save that in which sleep the common people! If your good lordship would take that one room, and let me find space somewhere for your squire—? But an hour since one came riding from Essex and I have given him my great front room. Alack, that I did not know of my lord’s coming, for this man is not gentle, I think, yet I durst not say him nay now, for he is a brawny fellow and hot of temper!” He looked up at Simon with a comical expression of despair.
“Let be,” Simon answered. “I will take the other room and my squire shall sleep with me. See to it that supper be prepared for us.”
The little man bowed till his forehead seemed in danger of touching his knees.
“My lord is generous! The chamber is not so ill, sir, and I will see to it that you are made comfortable. As to supper, I have a haunch of venison roasting, as you see. In one little half-hour, sir, I will have all ready, if your lordship will deign to wait.”
Simon nodded.
“Ay, it will do. Fetch me a tankard of ale, mine host, and let one be brought for my squire.”
“Ah, my lord, at once, at once!” the landlord cried, and scuttled away to his cellar. He reappeared in an amazingly short time with two brimming tankards. One he set upon the table, the other he presented to Simon, watching him drain it, with an anxious eye.
“Is it to my lord’s taste? Will my lord have me fetch him more?”
“Nay, not now.” Simon set down the pewter vessel. “I will drink it at supper, good host. See to it that my squire gets his tankard when he comes from the stables.” He strolled out of the hot kitchen by the door at the back, and went to stretch his legs in the wood that lay beyond the small garden.
He went slowly, his hands behind his back and his brows drawn close together. Some project he seemed to be turning round in his brain, for his keen eyes had a faraway look in them, somewhat ruminating. He walked on through the wood, treading heavily and noiselessly crushing the tiny spring flowers ’neath his feet. Somewhere near at hand was a brook
