“I shall grow, my lord.”
“Nay, nay. Art too small. What are thy years?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“A babe, forsooth! Get thee gone, babe; I’ve no need of squires.”
Simon stood still.
“Your page, then, till I am grown to your liking.”
“God’s my life, methinks thou art overbold, babe, I do not take peasants for my pages.”
“I am no peasant.”
“Ho-ho! What then?”
“As gentle as yourself, my lord.”
“By Our Lady! What art called?”
“Simon, my lord.”
“Well, it’s a name. What else?”
Simon lifted his shoulders, half-impatiently.
“I call myself Beauvallet, sir.”
My lord pursed his full lips.
“It hath a ring,” he nodded. “What is thy real name, sirrah?”
“I have none.”
“Tush! Your father’s name!”
Simon did not answer for a moment, but at last he shrugged again, and looked up.
“Geoffrey of Malvallet,” he answered.
“Holy Virgin! I should have known that face! Art Malvallet’s bastard then?”
“So my mother told me, my lord.”
“Who is she? Does she live?”
“She is dead these four years, sir. She was one Jehanne, of Malvallet’s household. That is nothing.”
Montlice sank back again.
“Ay, ay. But what proof have you?”
“A ring, my lord. Little enough.”
“Show me.”
Simon put his hands up to his neck and drew a ribbon from his breast from which hung a golden ring. Montlice looked at it long and curiously.
“How came she by this?”
“I never asked, my lord. It matters not to me whether I am Malvallet’s son or another’s. I am what I choose to be.”
“Here’s a philosophy!” Montlice became aware of his son, still kneeling, and waved him to his feet. “What thinkest thou, Alan? Here is one of the Malvallet brood.”
Alan leaned carelessly against the table.
“Malvallet is no friend of ours, sir, but I like this boy.”
“He hath courage. Tell me, babe, where hast been since thy mother died?”
“I had a home with her brother, sir, a woodcutter.”
“Well, and then?”
“I wearied of it, my lord, and I came here.”
“Why not to thy father, bantam?”
Simon jerked his shoulder again.
“Him I have seen, my lord.”
Montlice rumbled forth a laugh.
“And liked not his looks?”
“Well enough, sir, but you also had I seen, and of both have I heard.”
“God’s Body, do I so take thy fancy?”
“Men call you the Lion, my lord, and think it harder to enter your service than that of Malvallet.”
My lord puffed out his cheeks.
“Ay, so is it. Ye like the harder task, babe?”
Simon considered.
“It is more worth the doing, my lord,” he replied.
My lord looked him over.
“Art a strange lad. Having forced thy way into my stronghold, thou’lt not leave it?”
“I will not.”
“I am no easy master,” Montlice warned him.
“I would not serve any such.”
“Ye think to earn knighthood with me?”
Simon glanced up.
“What I become will be of mine own making, sir. I ask no favours.”
“Then I like thee the better for it. Shalt be page to my son till I find thee fitter occupation. And that to spite Malvallet, look you. Art satisfied?”
Simon knelt.
“Ay, my lord. And I will serve you faithfully and well, that there shall be no gratitude to weigh me down.”
Montlice smote him on the shoulder, delighted.
“Spoken like a sage, my little fish! Well, get thee gone. Alan, take him, and see to it that he is clothed and fed.”
And thus it was that Simon came to Fulk of Montlice.
II
How He Grew to Manhood
From page to Alan, he became page to my lord himself, and was decked out in Montlice red and gold. Very brave he looked in the short red tunic worked with gold and caught in at the waist by a leathern belt. His hose were gold, his shoon red, and red was the cap that sat a thought rakishly on his fair head. His duties were many and arduous, nor did my lord spare him any fatigue or exertion. He slept on a hard pallet across Fulk’s threshold, rose early and went late to bed. It was part of his duty to wait upon my lord and his lady at dinner, and every morning at ten Simon took his stand on the dais beside my lord’s chair, attending to his wants or standing immobile the while my lord and his guests ate and drank their fill. He was at three people’s beck and call: my lord, his lady, and young Alan, and he spent his time running from one to the other.
He grew apace in height and breadth and strength until there were few who could throw him in a wrestling match; few who could shoot an arrow farther or more precisely, be it at butt, prick or rover; and few who could stand beneath his mighty buffet. Yet for the most part he was gentle enough, if stern, and it was only when his cold anger was aroused that the caged lion within him sprang to life and swept all before it. And when that happened there came that light to his eyes which could make the hardiest evildoer cringe and the most arrogant squire cry mercy, even before Simon’s iron hands had touched him.
Blows he received a-many, whenever my lord chanced to be in an ill-humour, which was often, but they never disturbed his cold composure, nor awakened any feeling of resentment in his breast. From Fulk he bore blows in an acquiescent mood that yet held no meekness nor humility, but woebetide the squire or serf who crossed his path belligerently inclined! When he still was page, my lord’s squire, Lancelot of the Black Isle, commanded him loftily, and when Simon paid no heed to his orders, dealt him a buffet that should have felled him to the ground. Simon staggered under it, but recovered, and gave back blow for blow with so much force behind his steel wrist that Lancelot, full five years his senior, went tumbling head over heels and was sore and bruised for days after. When Fulk heard the tale he made Simon squire in Lancelot’s place, and swore that there was more of himself in Simon than in his own son.
But it was seldom that Simon fell
