Malvallet nodded slowly.
“Ay. He will be great one day—if he wills it so.”
“And if no woman comes into his life to divert his thoughts,” Geoffrey said.
“There is no woman as yet?”
Geoffrey laughed.
“Holy Virgin, sir, if thou couldst but see Simon with a maid! He pays no heed to them, nor seems to notice their presence! I tell him he will fall one day, and Alan tells him, too, but in truth, sir, I think he never will!”
“I wonder,” Malvallet said.
“Or if he doth, ’twill be before some timid, pale-faced wench who will make of herself a carpet for his disdainful feet!”
“I—wonder,” Malvallet said again.
Part II
I
How He Came to Normandy
He stood upon a hill by Alençon, looking out over France, and the wind blew his fair hair all about his face, and whipped his surcoat round his mailed form. He was past thirty now, and ten years had gone by since he became Lord of Beauvallet.
Behind him, sprawling on the soft grass, was his squire, a handsome youth with black curls and merry eyes. They were thoughtful now and admiring, for they rested on Simon, pondering him.
Simon stood motionless, half-turned away; he had not moved or spoken for some minutes, but was frowning over the fair land stretched at his feet. His squire watched the grim profile respectfully, glancing from the massive, projecting brow with the deep-set eyes shining from beneath it, to the strong jawbone, outlined clearly in the bronzed, lean cheek. One of Simon’s hands hung listless at his side, and presently clenched a little; the spurred feet were well apart and firmly planted. The squire reflected idly that the pose stood for all the strength and purpose that were Simon’s. He rolled over on to his side, supporting his head on one slim hand, still watching Simon.
This was not the first time that Simon had set foot on French soil. Twice before had he marched into this land; once under the King’s brother, Thomas, Duke of Clarence, and again under Henry himself, when they had fought at Agincourt. He was famous now for his generalship; his name was linked with that of Clarence, or of Umfraville; he was spoken of as the Fifth Henry’s friend, and the Iron Lord. Of some he was beloved, of others hated, but no man ignored him or thought him of little count. He had become great, and this by his own wit and strength. He had no equal save the King himself in generalship; no commander was so instantly obeyed, and no commander was so greatly respected by his men. He had power and wealth, a splendid body, fit for any hardship or endurance, a not unpleasing countenance, and a quick, cool brain. Yet something he seemed to lack, for with all his assets and attainments, he was cold as stone, almost as though some humanising part of him had been left out in his fashioning. There were those who said that a softer side of love and passion was not in him, but Henry the King, wiser than these, would point to some frolicking page in the Beauvallet green and russet when he heard this criticism.
“What! Do ye think Beauvallet hath no tenderness within him? Fool, what of the children?”
The critics were silenced then, for Simon’s love of children was well-known.
“It sleeps,” Henry said once to Simon’s half-brother. “It will awaken one day.”
Geoffrey turned his head.
“Of what speak you, sir?”
Henry’s eyes were upon the distant Simon.
“Of the passion that lies in Simon.”
“There is none, sire. Once I thought as you think, but I have known him for fifteen years, and never once have I seen him melt, or lose one jot of his coldness. Save with the children.”
“Ay, save with the children. By that sign, Geoffrey, I do know that there is that in him that will spring to life one day.”
“There is icy rage, sir,” Geoffrey answered, smiling. “What manner of woman will it be before whom Simon will fall? How many fair maids hath he passed by? And now he is past thirty. He is not like to love. It is too late.”
Henry smiled, laying his hand on Malvallet’s arm.
“Geoffrey, Geoffrey, sometimes thou art a fool! Alan is wiser.”
“Alan is very wise in all matters of the heart, sir,” Geoffrey retorted. He cast a laughing glance to where sat the young Montlice, chin in hand and soft eyes dreaming.
Henry followed his look, echoed his laugh.
“What a trio have I about me!” he said. “My Soldier, my Knight, and my Poet.”
And as such they were known, close friends all three, and each one unlike the other. Clarence once named them Iron, Flame, and Silver, and marvelled at their friendship, but the King’s name for them was more apt. Simon was all a soldier, dauntless and cool, born to rule and to lead; Geoffrey, the Knight, had a hot courage, a courtier’s tongue, and an impetuous spirit; Alan, the Poet, was a dreamer, unfit for wars, yet partaking in them much as some troubador of a hundred years before, born to love, perhaps not greatly, but often and sweetly. He followed where Simon led, but Geoffrey would sometimes leap ahead with characteristic blindness, only to be dragged back by Simon’s inflexible will. They had been together now, this ill-assorted trio, for many years. Geoffrey and Alan had watched Simon’s gradual conquest of his lands with amused yet admiring eyes; they saw him rise to fame without feeling a spark of jealousy stir within them; they looked on Simon as master, but they thought him a child in everything that had to do with
