“Ay, sir, but she loves not me, and I love not her.”
Fulk was inclined to be offended.
“Mayhap thou dost look higher for thy bride?”
“Nay. I look nowhere for a bride. I have no love for women, and I think to remain a bachelor.”
“But that is folly, lad!” Fulk cried, a little appeased. “A docile wife is a great thing to have!”
“Is it, sir?” Simon said drily. “Methinks I admire not gentleness, nor docility.”
“But, thou dost love children, Simon!”
“Do I?” Simon considered the point. “Nay, I think not.”
“Thou dost, lad! What of thy little page?”
“Cedric? Yes, I do care for him, yet I want him not for mine own.”
“Simon, Simon, thou quibblest! Since I have been in Beauvallet I have seen more pages than thou canst possibly have need of! What made thee take them—children that they are?”
“They—they are useful to me,” Simon answered, rather lamely. “They run mine errands.”
“How many hast thou?” Fulk demanded sternly.
“Six,” Simon said gruffly.
“And what does one man want with six pages?” Fulk persisted.
“I—I find employment for them.”
“Tush!” said Fulk. “Thou dost like to have them follow thee about.”
“Nay! I send them from me—when they plague me.”
“Simon, thou canst not deceive me,” Fulk told him. “Thou hast a love for children, and shouldst breed thine own.”
Simon flushed a little.
“Nay.”
“And I say, ay!”
“My lord, it is to no avail that ye seek to persuade me. I will take no woman to wife.”
Fulk grunted, but he knew Simon too well to argue any further.
“Well, please thyself. But one day ye will know that I was right, and a man must take a wife unto himself.”
“I will tell you when that day comes,” Simon promised.
Alan remained at Beauvallet a week, and Simon was rather glad of his companionship. He organised a chase for Alan’s amusement, and hired mummers from a neighbouring town. But Alan was quite content to dispense with these forms of entertainment, and to please Simon he went with him to practise archery. When he came away from this tedious sport, he shot Simon a sidelong glance. Simon was aware of it, without seeing it.
“Well?”
“How hast thou contrived to endear these men to thee, Simon?”
“Have I? Some of them like me not.”
“But most do like thee. What is it they do find to love in thee? What do any of us find? Thou art stern, and cold, and hast no love for any man.”
“Alan, if thou dost wish to prate of love, go do so to thy ladylove. I know nothing of it.”
“Why do thy men love thee?” Alan insisted.
“I know not. Perchance because I bend them to my will.”
“That may be so,” Alan mused. “But why do the children so dote on thee?”
“Because I pay but little heed to them.”
“Nay, that cannot be so. In truth, Simon, long as I have known thee, I still know thee not. Something there is ’neath thy coldness of which I wot not.”
“There is hunger,” Simon said, thereby closing the conversation.
When Alan had returned to Montlice, Simon set about reforming his men-at-arms, and archers, with so much success that within the space of six months he had a very fair army at his beck and call, composed of peasants’ sons, and some wandering soldiers. Walter of Santoy proved himself an admirable captain, so that Simon relaxed some of his vigilance, and turned his attention to the cultivation of his land. In Gountray he had full confidence, and Maurice would have worked himself to death to please his lord.
And so the year rolled placidly by and the New Year came. Then, when Simon had begun to look about him in search of fresh emprises, came Geoffrey of Malvallet, his father, one damp morning, to visit him.
When word was brought of his coming, Simon went swiftly out to meet him, and knelt to receive his guest.
“My lord, ye do me great honour,” he said gravely.
Geoffrey raised him.
“I hardly dared come to thee, Simon, but now I have an excuse for this visit which perhaps thou dost think importunate.”
Simon led him to his private room.
“Nay, sir, I am honoured.”
Geoffrey glanced around.
“Well, thou hast estates, after all. Of thine own endeavour.”
“As I did say I would have them,” Simon answered, and sent a page to bring ale. “What is your will of me, sir?”
“I am the bearer of a letter to thee from thy half-brother,” Malvallet answered. “Will ye read it?”
“From Geoffrey? Ay, that will I, and gladly! Will ye not be seated, sir?”
Malvallet chose a chair by the window, and watched Simon break the seals of Geoffrey’s letter.
“To Simon, Lord of Beauvallet.
“Dear and entirely well-beloved, I greet thee well, and send messages of joy and congratulation on thy new good fortune. I do know thy land and like it well. May thou prosper exceedingly as thou deservest!
“My brother, I do write to urge thee that thou shouldst come hither with what force thou mayst muster to join again with the Prince in quelling that most naughty rebel, Owen de Glyndourdy, whose followers are rife in this ill-fated land. Despite the fair promises of His Majesty’s Council, made in August, saying that he should have men and provisions enough to march boldly out against the rebels, naught hath been forthcoming, and at this date at which I write our force numbers little over five score men-at-arms and twelve score archers. Now thou art thine own master wilt thou come not again to fight at my side as thou didst promise? Matters grow serious here in Wales, for thou must know that in December of last year fell Cardiff, and Harlech, and Llampadarn, our most cherished fortresses. The rebel Owen hath not been so great before, and indeed, if we are to conquer him we must set out against him, and that as soon as spring shall have come. And with the spring, come thou, my brother, and I will promise thee as goodly a battle as that of Shrewsbury which
