Simon the Coldheart

foul of his peers. His very calmness of temper compelled respect, and for that he was every inch a man, men liked him and were eager to call him friend. Friendship he never courted, caring nothing for man’s opinion of himself, nor seemed he to have an ounce of affection in him, save it were for Fulk of Montlice, or Alan, whom he regarded with a mixture of contempt and liking. His father he saw a-many times, but it is doubtful whether Geoffrey of Malvallet noticed him. Once indeed at Bedford in the court of law, whither Simon had gone in Fulk’s wake to settle a dispute over some land between Montlice and Malvallet, Geoffrey, glancing idly around, surprised an intent stare from his enemy’s page, who sat with his chin in his hand, calmly and keenly scrutinising him. Geoffrey looked him over haughtily, but when his eyes met Simon’s and encountered that strangely disconcerting gleam he turned his head away quickly, a tinge of colour in his cheeks. Simon continued to survey him, not from any wish to annoy, but simply because he was interested, and wished to see what manner of man was his sire. He was not ill-pleased with what he saw, but neither was he enthusiastic. Geoffrey was a tall man, and slim, fastidious in his dress and appointments, soft-spoken, and proud⁠—so said Montlice⁠—as Lucifer himself. His close-cropped hair was grizzled now, but his eyes were like Simon’s in colour, and as deep set. His eyebrows were too thick and straight, but his mouth was gentle and full-lipped, which Simon’s was not, and his brow was not so rugged. He had one son, Geoffrey, who was just two years older than Simon, and whom Simon had never seen.

Between Alan and Simon positions were very soon reversed. It was Alan who gave devoted love and obedience; Simon received, and could return naught but a tolerant protection. They played together often, but in every sport Simon was an easy victor save when the game was of a gentle kind. At bowls and closh Alan could beat him, but when they played at balloon ball, Alan ruefully declared that he was no match for Simon, who played with his naked hand and struck the great leather ball with such deadly accuracy and strength that Alan was fain to dodge it instead of returning it. At archery he was even less skilled, and Simon watched his efforts to bend the bow with a contemptuous, rather amused air, which incensed young Alan so that he shot his arrow still more wide of the mark than ever. Simon tried to teach him the sport of the quarterstaff, and wielded his own staff moderately enough, in deference to Alan’s tender years. But Alan, although he was not lacking in courage, disliked such rude and rough play, and would not engage with Simon. He liked to go out chasing or hawking, and he showed an aptitude for pretty and quick swordplay. Tourneys were not so much to his taste, and rather than enter into any of these pastimes would he sit at home, strumming upon his harp and weaving fanciful songs to his many ladyloves. He would paint, too, and make poesies, for all the world like some troubadour of a century ago. With the ladies he was ever a favourite, and by the time he was fifteen he was forever paying court to some dame or another, greatly to Simon’s disgust.

“Hast thou never loved?” he asked Simon once, plaintively.

They were sitting together in a room high up in one of the turrets, Alan playing his harp, and Simon fashioning a new string to his great bow.

Simon did not raise his eyes from his task, but his lips curled disdainfully.

“Oh, love, love! Art forever prating of this love. What is it?”

Alan played a soft chord or two, bending his handsome head a little to one side. His dark eyes glowed, and he smiled.

“Dost thou not know? Is there no maid who stirs thy heart?”

“I know of none,” Simon answered shortly.

Alan put his harp away and crossed his shapely legs. He was wearing a tunic of peacock-blue velvet with long sleeves, lined with gold, that touched the ground. There was a jewel in his left ear, and a ring on his finger, while the belt that drew in his tunic at the waist was of wrought gold, studded with gems. He formed a striking contrast to Simon, who was clad in a long robe of crimson, with high boots on his feet and no ornament on all his dress. He still wore his hair clubbed at neck and brow, although it was now customary to display a close-cropped head. He was sixteen at the time, and already stood six foot in height, with mighty thews and sinews, a broad back down which the muscles rolled and rippled, and a pair of arms that were bear-like in their strength. Beside Alan’s slim figure he seemed a very giant.

Alan watched him for a moment, still smiling.

“My sisters are not so ill-looking,” he remarked, a laugh in his eyes. “Elaine is perhaps more comely than Joan.”

“Is she?” Simon said, still intent on his task.

“Which dost thou like the best, Simon?” Alan asked softly.

“I know not. I have never thought.” He glanced up, a sudden smile flashing across his face. “Dost suggest that one of them should stir my heart?”

“They do not? Ye feel not the smallest pulse-leap in their presence?”

Simon stretched his new string experimentally.

“A pulse-leap,” he said slowly. “What folly! My pulse leaps when I have sent an arrow home, or when I have thrown my man, or when a hawk has swooped upon its prey.”

Alan sighed.

“Simon, Simon, is there no softness in thee at all? Dost love no one?”

“I tell thee I know not what it is, this Love. It stirs me not! I think it is nothing save the sick-fancy of a maudlin youth.”

Alan laughed at that.

“Thy tongue stings, Simon.”

“If it might sting thee to