“Thou didst hear me, wench?” Had his squire been at hand, he would have shivered at the note which sounded through the softness.
The girl dragged herself up and went with lagging steps to where the wallet lay. She brought it to Simon, trembling, and having given it into his hand, retreated quickly.
The prostrate man made one great effort to be free, but his strength was gone, and one arm hung useless. Simon controlled his struggles with his right hand alone, and with the other thrust the wallet into his belt.
Through the wood came footsteps running. Roger shouted from somewhere nearby.
“Which way, sir? Which way?”
“Hither,” Simon called. “By the path that leads towards the brook.”
The footsteps grew louder, and Roger came racing round the bend to his master’s assistance. He paused when he saw what was toward, and gazed at Simon wonderingly.
“Go fetch the rope from thy saddle holster,” Simon ordered calmly. “Hasten, and say naught to anyone.”
With another astonished glance at the weeping girl, Roger turned and ran back through the wood. When he reappeared it was with a coil of stout rope which was one of the things that Simon always carried with him in case he should come upon robbers on the road. He went with it to Simon, and between them they trussed the swearing, groaning man, deftly and securely.
Simon pulled the last knot tight and stood up. He took the wallet from his belt, unfastening the strap that bound it.
A choking cry came from the bound man.
“My lord, my lord, there is naught of import therein, I swear! Some letters from my lass at home—that is all! For the love of God, sir, do not look!”
Simon paid no heed, but drew from the pouch some three or four packets. Each one was sealed, and as he examined the seal, Simon’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he cast a searching glance at the man at his feet. For the seal was to all appearance that of the dead King, Richard the Second, for whose sake Glyndourdy fought, and Hotspur had died. The first packet was addressed to a baron who lived not ten miles from Montlice, and whom Simon knew well. The others were all to nobles living either in Norfolk or Cambridge.
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
