“Why, this is churlish!” Granmere chided. “It would be my pleasure to house thee. I do beg that thou wilt send thy squire back to the inn to pay thy reckoning and to bring thine appurtenances hither.”
Simon considered for a moment, and shot my lord a swift, piercing glance. Then he bowed.
“I thank you, sir.”
And that was how he first met Charles of Granmere.
My lord went to Westminster on the following day, and when he returned it was with a message from the King commanding Simon to a private audience that evening at six o’clock.
“He remembers thee,” Granmere said. “He says that thou wert the thirteenth knight, and when I described thee he said at once that thou wert the man recommended for knighthood by the Prince. He is anxious to learn of thy plot. There are too many such afoot for his liking.”
“And while the French Court pretends to lend credence to these tales of Richard being in Scotland, there will be a-many more,” Simon said grimly.
“But Henry is a man,” Granmere answered. “He will triumph throughout.”
“It is the young Henry who is a man,” Simon said.
When he presented himself at Westminster Palace that evening he was led at once to the King’s chamber, where he found Henry and the old Duke of York.
Simon paused on the threshold as his name was announced, and went stiffly down upon his knee. The King nodded to him, observing him with shrewd, deep-set eyes.
“Come forward, Sir Simon of Beauvallet,” he said. “We have to thank you for your courtesy and dispatch in informing us of this treacherous plot.”
Simon advanced, and standing before the King’s chair, told at his request the story of Serle’s messenger and his fight with him in the wood. It was not a graphic account that he gave, but it was concise, and devoid of embellishments or exaggerations. While he spoke the King watched him, chin in hand, marking every changing expression of Simon’s face, and every little movement of his strong, well-shaped hands. He listened carefully, several times interrupting to put a gently-spoken question. Yet for all Henry’s kind way and courteous manner, Simon knew that he was under cross-examination, for the questions came thick and fast as his tale proceeded, and it would have been very difficult to have avoided a slip had his story been false. The searching queries, and the steady scrutiny might well have discomposed Simon and have caused him to stumble or lose the thread of his narration. But he was not flustered and not a whit ruffled by these questions, which seemed to indicate that the King disbelieved him. He respected Henry for his lack of credulity and answered him firmly and patiently.
“And the documents?” Henry said at last.
Simon presented them, and waited in silence while the King and the Duke slit them open one after the other and perused them. The Duke muttered angrily as he read, and once or twice his eyes flashed, and he thumped his fist on his knee, but Henry read on calmly and almost detachedly. When he had come to the end he struck a small gong that stood on the table at his elbow, and on his secretary’s coming, ordered him quietly to bring the papers captured in Scotland in December. These were fetched, and the King compared them with those Simon had brought, the Duke of York looking over his shoulder.
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,
