The secretary looked up, a sudden gleam in his eyes.
“Ye trust me, my lord?”
“Ay.”
The tired shoulders straightened.
“Your trust shall not be misplaced, sir,” he said earnestly.
“That I do know. I am seldom out in my reckoning of mankind.”
“Yet I have done little to bring order into Fair Beauvallet.”
Simon glanced at him enigmatically.
“All men were not born to fight,” he said. “Why didst thou stay here?”
Bernard made a hopeless gesture with his hands.
“For three reasons, my lord. Lack of money, love of this land, and—indolence.”
“So I judged. Money thou shalt have, indolence thou must lose, love of this land I trust thou wilt retain. Tell me now, what knowest thou of the Captain, Maurice of Gountray?”
Bernard hesitated.
“He—he is a dour man, sir, and—and not easily won over.”
“So much the better. I have looked well into the records of the estate, and the mentions I find of him lead me to think him honest and stiff-necked, obstinate, yet a ruler.”
Bernard looked admiringly across at him.
“That is so, my lord. But he loves not you, for ye have taken command of his men, and shown him that ye think him worthless. He curses your name, for all that he was at fault in allowing drunkenness and strife to come upon his men. He—he is slow to wrath, sir, but when his wrath flares up, it makes him blind and careless of what shall befall him. I think he will fly out upon you, and mayhap he may seek to do you an injury.”
Simon nodded.
“He is easily dealt with. What of Nicholas of the Guards?”
“Like all bullies, sir, he is a coward at heart.”
“That also I know. What friends hath he?”
“But few, my lord. He is too harsh in his dealings with the guards, for them to love him.”
“So I thought. What record hath Basil of Mordaunt?”
The secretary was at a loss for a moment.
“I do not think I know him, my lord,” he said hesitantly.
“No? He is a quiet fellow of some thirty-five summers, with broad shoulders and a square head set close upon them. He looks one between the eyes.”
Recollection came to Bernard.
“Ah, yes, my lord! I know but little of him, save that he is peaceable in his ways, and orderly. The men like him, I believe.”
“It is in my mind to promote him to Nicholas’s room,” Simon said.
“Ye will degrade Nicholas, sir?”
“Nay, I will banish him. If I read him aright he is a sly fellow and I want none such here.”
“You are wise, my lord. I had thought ye would put a stranger in command.”
Simon smiled, a different smile from the deadly snarl Bernard had seen before.
“Yet ye call me wise,” he said.
“I had not realised how wise, my lord,” Bernard riposted.
“Nay? How read ye Walter of Santoy?”
“Do ye know every man in Beauvallet, sir?” asked Bernard wonderingly.
“I have need,” Simon said. “Dost thou?”
“Nay, my lord, to my shame. But I know this man, and I would call him good. Also he is beloved of the men-at-arms.”
“That will suit my purpose well,” Simon nodded, but he did not disclose what was his purpose. “I think to make Harold the Smooth-Tongued steward in Hubert’s room.”
“Then ye will do wisely, sir, for he is an honest man, and sober. What comes to Hubert?”
“Naught,” Simon answered. “He goes.”
“Thus ye will be rid of a very pretty mischief-brewer, sir. He is full of indignation at your coming, and although he durst not go openly against you, he might do much harm by his talk.”
“Ay.” Simon rose. He pointed to the sheets of parchment that lay scattered over the table. “Have the goodness to make me fair copies of these, Master Talmayne. I go now to send for Maurice of Gountray.”
Bernard stood up.
“My lord, if he comes not be not too enraged, for he—”
Simon glanced over his shoulder, smiling rather grimly.
“Dost thou think I shall bungle my affairs, Master Talmayne?”
Bernard looked him in the eyes.
“Nay, my lord. Your pardon.”
Simon gave his short laugh and went out.
He sent his squire to summon Maurice, but Roger returned alone.
“My lord, he will not come!” he said, wide-eyed. “He—he bade me tell you he—he comes not at any—any—any—”
“Well?”
“C-coxcomb’s call, my lord!”
“So?” Simon smiled unpleasantly. “Then I will e’en go to him.”
Roger put himself in front of him.
“Sir, take me with you!”
Simon looked down at him.
“Wherefore?”
“I—indeed, I mislike his looks, sir!”
Simon laughed, and taking his squire by the shoulders put him aside.
“I need not thy protection, lad. Go thou to Malcolm, and bid him be ready to accompany me forth in an hour.”
“Oh!” Roger ran after him. “Sir, let me ride with you! I am not weary, and Malcolm—”
“Thou didst hear me, Roger?” Simon said softly.
Roger sighed and fell back.
“Ay, my lord.”
Simon strode out into the sunlight. He crossed the courtyard to the men-at-arms’ quarters, and went in quietly. He walked through the hall, past staring, whispering soldiers, and made his way to the room which he knew to be Gountray’s.
He entered with his noiseless step, and found Maurice up with an oath and stood as if at bay.
Simon walked forward unhurriedly. He favoured Maurice with a long look before he spoke.
“This time I have come to you,” he said abruptly. “Another time I shall not do that.”
“I care not for your threats!” Gountray cried.
“I never threaten,” Simon answered composedly. He went to the table and lifted two wine bottles from it. These he flung out of the window with unerring aim.
“Now, by God—” Gountray roared, and sprang forward.
Simon’s cold voice checked him.
“Do ye think it no shame, Maurice of Gountray, for a strong man to become a drunken sot?” he said.
Maurice flushed to the ears.
“I’ll not be answerable to you for my actions!” he snapped.
“Ay, that will you,” Simon said, “or leave this my land. I care not which ye choose, but an end will I have to your carousing and your rebellious insolence.”
“Rebellious insolence, forsooth!” Maurice cried. “Ye have yet to prove yourself strong enough to be my master! Think
