They rode out next day, Fulk and Granmere, Alan and Simon, to survey Simon’s lands. Not even Fulk’s swollen foot would induce him to remain behind. He was assisted into the saddle, groaning and cursing, by three of his varlets, and rode abreast with his cousin, while Alan and Simon fell in behind.
“Will there be a place for me in thy castle, Simon?” Alan asked.
“Ay, whenever thou wilt,” Simon answered. “And when I have set the place in order.”
“I suppose thou wilt do that well enough. But it will be no easy task.”
“I have never wanted that,” Simon said.
Presently Alan shot him a mischievous glance.
“Who shall be mistress of Beauvallet, Simon?”
“None.”
Alan laughed.
“So thou sayest, so thou sayest, but love comes to all men one day.”
“I do pray it will pass me by.”
“Ah, no, thou wilt fall, Simon! I shall see thee at some gentle maid’s feet, I know!”
“Wilt thou?” Simon said grimly. “I doubt it, lad.”
But Alan shook his head wisely and laughed again.
They rode rather silently through Fair Pastures, looking about them with appraising eyes. Occasionally Fulk turned in his saddle to make some remark to Simon.
“There has been no work done here for months, lad. See that field yonder.”
“I do know it,” Simon answered.
Then as they passed a group of loiterers on the road:
“Too little toil, too much sack,” Fulk growled. “Thou hast a hard time before thee, Simon. When wilt thou come here?”
“At once, my lord.”
“Ay, ay. And how many men wilt thou take with thee?”
“None, my lord, save Roger, my squire, and little Arnold, my page. And that only if it be thy pleasure.”
“Much use would they be to me always pining to be with thee,” grunted Fulk. “Thou shalt take Malcolm also for thy squire, then may Roger still have with whom to fight for thy favours. Art thou wise to refuse my men-at-arms? Will ye not take a man from Montlice to be thy Marshal?”
“Nay, I will bring no strangers into Beauvallet. For the nonce I will make shift without a Marshal, but when I do better know my men, then will I promote some of them to rule under me.”
“There speaks a sage man,” Granmere remarked. “I shall look to see thee master in a month.”
Simon smiled a little.
“In three months there shall be no lawlessness here,” he promised.
IX
How He Took Possession of His Estates
In a small chamber by the kitchens at the Castle of Fair Pastures, now known as Beauvallet, sat Master Hubert, the steward, with James, called the Short-Leg, on account of his limp, and Bernard of Talmayne, the late John of Barminster’s secretary. They sat about an oaken table on which stood three brimming tankards of sack and a jug full of that liquid for when the tankards should need replenishing. Master Hubert, a little, potbellied man with an inflamed countenance and a large voice, fruity in timbre, was speaking, aggrievedly and as one to whom some sore injury has been done. Ever and anon he smote the table with his fat hand, and his voice throbbed with a righteous indignation.
“Now I do say it is not to be borne!” he swore, “and by my troth, it shall not be borne! Are we to cringe under this tyrant’s heel? What is he to us, I ask of ye? Whose men are we? Why, we were John of Barminster’s! But he being hanged for a rogue, whose men shall we be? Why, our own, say I, and rightly so!” He paused in his harangue and glared belligerently at his friends. “Who shall gainsay it?” Then as neither James nor Bernard seemed inclined to gainsay it, he continued. “We were very well before this beetle-browed deathshead came upon us. There was good food in plenty, much sack and strong ale, a rich land to call our own, and a life of ease and peace for us. What have we now? Why, what but a heavy-jowled youth, who comes upon us like a tyrant and an oppressor? Not a word of warning, not a moment’s respite to think on the matter at our leisure! Down he comes with his pert squires and tramps into the castle, willy-nilly, with his devil’s eyes like stones, and his thundering voice like a death-knell!”
“Nay,” Bernard interposed. “Ye mistake, Master Hubert. He spake softly enough, though with a note of danger creeping through the softness.”
Master Hubert thumped the table anew.
“What matters it how he spake, Master Secretary? His words were a death-knell!”
“Ay, that is so,” Short-Leg agreed. “Death-knell indeed, and as full of proud arrogance as an egg is full of meat.” He picked up his tankard and sought to drown his troubles in the comforting sack.
The steward crossed his fat legs and loosened his doublet.
“Arrogance indeed! What did he, I ask? To what lengths did his pert haughtiness carry him? Why, to call me to him in the hall! Me! As though I had been a scullion for the kitchens instead of the steward of Fair Pastures. He sent a varlet to fetch me—me! I ask myself today, why was I fool enough to go to him? Can ye tell me? Was it not because I am a courteous man, and peace-loving? What else should—”
“I did hear that it was because he sent his squire with yet another message when ye did tarry,” Bernard said drily. “And I did hear that the message ran shortly and sweetly: ‘Tell Hubert the steward that he knows not me, but that I know him.’ Then ye did go.”
Master Hubert’s full-blooded face grew purple. Before he could answer the secretary he had recourse to his sack. Then, wiping his flaccid lips on the back of his hand, he said in a voice half-choked with rage and drink:
“Take heed how ye listen to scullions’ gossip, Master Secretary! It is true that he did send that curt message, but could he intimidate me? I was of a
