“Check their murmuring, then. ’Twere to more avail than this whining in mine ear.”
Geoffrey flushed.
“I have not thy power over them. I can lead them into fight, but I cannot hold them in leash.”
“Ay, but thou canst; none better.” Simon spoke slowly, not looking at Malvallet. “Quell thine own complaining, Geoffrey, and thou mayst then rebuke thy men.”
“Even as thou dost now rebuke me?”
“Even as I do now rebuke thee.”
There fell a silence upon them, until Geoffrey spoke again.
“Thou art right, Simon. I will mend my ways. Thy pardon.”
Simon turned, hand outstretched. Some of the severity went out of his face.
“What is this fiery blood that runs in thy veins?” he asked, and gripped Geoffrey’s fingers till the bones cracked. “Is it Malvallet blood?”
“Nay, for it is not in thee. Give ye good night, Simon, I’ll school myself. Even as Alan,” he added, as the young Montlice came towards them. “What dost thou, pretty poet, out of thy bed at this hour?”
Alan came to Simon’s side, and laid a hand on his shoulder, leaning on it. His head was bare, and he was wrapped about in a great velvet coat, unlike the other two, who wore their armour. His dark eyes shone in the light of the fire at their feet, and he spoke softly.
“The night was so still,” he said. “Your voices woke me. What is toward?”
“Naught,” Simon answered. “Geoffrey pants to scale yonder walls.”
“Geoffrey must always fight,” Alan nodded. “I think I would we might remain here forever. There is peace in the air, and an ode in my head.”
“There is frost in the air,” Geoffrey shivered. “If Simon will not march in, I could find it in my heart to wish they would march out upon us, so we might have action at last. Simon hath pledged me his word we shall feast in Belrémy on Christmas Day, Alan.”
“He must always be boasting,” Alan replied. “I pray God we may enter together and whole.”
“That will not be if thou dost forget thine armour,” Simon said. His deep voice cut through the stillness like a knife. A sentry, hearing it, peered through the darkness to see where stood his lord.
“I wonder, do they starve within?” Alan said, looking towards the black shadow that reared itself before them, and was Belrémy. “No help came to them.”
“When Umfraville drew off to Alençon they revictualled the town, belike,” Geoffrey said.
“The New Year should see their skins stretched across fleshless bones,” Alan insisted. “In the winter starvation and sickness come swiftly. Thou couldst hold the siege, Simon, and waste no lives.”
“I will not.”
Alan looked up at him under his lashes.
“What is thy motive, Simon? In an assault ye must lose men; in a blockade ’tis but the enemy who dies.”
Simon gripped his arm above the wrist, and held it so, as in a vice.
“Fool! Were I to hold this town till starvation came, I should enter it over children’s bodies. I war not with babes.”
Alan was silent, abashed. From Simon’s other side spoke Geoffrey.
“It is for this, then, that thou’lt risk an assault, Simon?”
“Ay, but I risk naught. I strike not until the proper time. Go thou to bed, Geoffrey; it is past midnight.”
Geoffrey stretched himself.
“I am weary,” he sighed. “Thy great mine reaches almost to the walls now.”
“It must reach farther,” Simon said grimly, and laughed to himself.
Alan and Geoffrey strolled away together.
“What doth he propose?” Alan wondered. “Some plan he hath, I’ll swear.”
“Ay, but he says naught. Mayhap we are to enter Belrémy through this mine he digs so hard.”
“What! And be caught like rats in a trap? That is not Simon’s way.”
“Who knows? When the time comes he will tell us his will. If I read him aright he is as yet undecided. One thing I know.”
Alan yawned.
“And I. That I must sleep or die. What is thy knowledge?”
“That we enter Belrémy by Christmastide. What Simon says, he means.”
“He speaks not until he is sure,” Alan said. “If he told me he would march into Hell by Christmas and enslave the Devil, I would follow him.”
Geoffrey crossed himself.
“So would we all. Belrémy will be hell enough, God wot!”
“And the Lady Margaret, the Devil,” Alan chuckled.
III
How He Took Belrémy
He struck a week before the promised date, and the manner of his striking was typical of his policy throughout his career. His mine ran from the camp beneath the town-walls to a corner of waste ground within the town. He had made his calculations exactly, a rough plan of Belrémy as his guide. Two hours’ work would make an outlet from this subterranean passage.
Simon called a council of his captains on the day before his attack, and laid his last commands upon them. Holland was there, a youngster, unskilled in wars, but brave as a lion, and eager; Geoffrey, dark and tall, peerless in attack, and Alan, dreamy and nonchalant, yet ready to obey any order, blessed with the Montlice dash and verve whenever necessity called. They gathered together in Simon’s tent, unwontedly grave. Huntingdon was clad in leather, his armour laid by, and sat upon a rude bench, leaning forward the better to keep his eyes on Simon. Geoffrey stood before the table, fully equipped, but Alan had drawn a stool near to the entrance of the tent, and was dressed in soft cloth and silks. He rested his head in his hand, and his eyes were upon Simon, wide-open, and shining with a childlike innocence. Simon himself sat at the table, plans before him, in such a way that he might look easily from one to the other of his captains. His hands were loosely clasped upon the rough wood; he frowned, but his voice was passionless and even.
“You, Huntingdon, at the sounding of the horn at seven in the morning, shall fall upon the western gate with all your force, using your three towers of archers, and your breaching-tower. The
