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.
VI
How He Rode Hotfoot to London
Simon had hardly finished his breakfast next morning when Roger returned, leading his own mare, and accompanied by Gregory, Simon’s lieutenant, and six of his most trustworthy men.
At sight of this troop the landlord was thrown into a flutter. It was bad enough to have a prisoner in his loft, but seven great men to house was too much for him. Simon had told him what was expected of him, and although he dared not expostulate, the little man wrung his hands despairingly and screwed up his face into a hundred worried wrinkles. He had had experience of men-at-arms and their ways, and he feared for the peace of his household and the well-being of his cellar. He hinted at these qualms to the impervious Simon, who waved him aside with the curt promise that for any damage these men of Montlice did he should be paid in full. That was all very well, thought the landlord, but it would not recompense him for the loss of his good name and that of his house. However, he was something of a philosopher, and finding that there was no help for it, he trotted away to arrange for the soldiers’ accommodation.
Simon went out to meet his men, and was greeted by a smart salute from everyone. Roger slipped from the saddle and presented him with a packet from Montlice which Simon reserved for future perusal. He turned to Gregory, who stood respectfully awaiting his orders.
“Send thy men to stable their horses, Gregory, and come with me.”
Gregory gave the order, and leaving the flustered landlord to guide the men to the stables, followed Simon to the back of the house. Together they paced the little garden while Simon told him briefly of what had happened.
“Ye will quarter your
