“That is as may be,” Simon answered. “But still I shall hold.”
At that Fulk broke into a great laugh, and released him.
“Oh, go thine own road, cub, so ye do not take it into thy hot head to hold me!”
Simon looked him over, frowning.
“That I think I cannot do,” he said. “I am not sure.”
Whereat Fulk laughed the more and liked him the better.
When his seventeenth birthday came Simon was already a man in build and cool sagacity. In face he had changed hardly at all, save that his forehead was more rugged, the thick brows jutting further over the deep-set eyes of green-blue, and that his mouth had lost its youthful curve together with any softness that it might once have had. He smiled but rarely, nor ever laughed out as did my Lord of Montlice. If he laughed it was a short, dry sound, somewhat sardonic in tone, and quickly gone, but when he smiled there were two ways he had of doing it; one when he was crossed, that one more terrible than his frown, the other when he was in smiling humour, a singularly sweet smile, this, with a hint of boyishness at the back of it.
Fulk knew him for a soldier born, and a leader of men. If a disturbance arose in the Earl’s vast household it was Simon who quenched it when the fussy, incompetent Marshal had failed, and the Steward threatened in vain. The guards, inactive and fractious, would quarrel among themselves, and, heated by too much sack, come to blows and noisy, perilous fights. It needed but for Simon to come upon them with his soft tread and his cold composure to cause the brawlers to fall apart, great men though they were, and stand sheepishly before him, answering his crisp, stern questions with a meekness they did not show to John the Marshal. Boy as he was, Simon could reduce the most drunken roysterer to a state of penitent humility. He had but to use that upward glance of his and all insubordination was at an end. This he very soon discovered, and came to use the disconcerting look more than ever. There was something compelling in his appearance, an elusive air of rulership and haughtiness, and a suggestion of a hidden force that was invincible. Montlice recognised this as the Malvallet in him, and chuckled to himself, watching. He set Simon to rule his guards, and observed his ruthless methods with amusement. He would not throw the garment of his protection about his squire, wondering how he would maintain his position alone. Simon wanted no protection and found no difficulty in maintaining his position. At first, when he interfered in some quarrel, he met with insolence and threatened blows. That lasted for a very little time. Men found that insolence moved him to an icy anger that was to be dreaded, and if it came to blows there would be broken ribs, or dislocated jaws for those whom Simon’s fist struck. Therefore it swiftly ceased to come to blows. If it was a question of judgment or arbitration men found Simon relentlessly, mercilessly just, and because of this justice, no complaints of him were carried to my Lord Fulk.
With all his harshness and cold demeanour Simon was liked and trusted. The grumblers dwindled in number, for Simon had short shrift for any such. His code was a queer one, and men found his advice puzzling. But when they had slowly unravelled his line of thought they found it good, and this because it was his own code.
A guard met him once on the battlements and unfolded a tale of woe. One of his companions had a spite against him and plagued away his life. On this day the man had slyly tripped him up with his spear, so that he was burning to be avenged. What would Simon do for him?
“Naught,” Simon answered curtly. “Fight thine own battle.”
“Yet, sir, if I strike this man as he deserves, you will come upon us and have us shut up for brawling, or maybe whipped.”
“But ye will have struck him,” Simon said, and walked on, leaving his man to think it over.
Presently the man came to him again.
“Sir, if I punish mine enemy and there be something of a brawl, we shall both be punished by you.”
Simon nodded indifferently.
“But if I strike him hard enough, methinks he will not again plague me.”
“That is so,” Simon said.
“I think I will strike him,” decided the man, and straightway went to do so.
There was indeed something of a brawl, and as a consequence Simon had them both under lock and key for twenty-four hours. But neither bore him any ill-will, nor was there another complaint lodged on the matter. Simon knew his men, and his method of ruling was his own, rude as were those men, and as rough. He was master, and not one of them thought to dispute the fact.
Fulk, watching from afar, smote his thigh and laughed triumphantly.
“The boy is a man,” he said, hugely delighted. “And was there ever such another?”
III
How He Went with Fulk to Shrewsbury
At the time of Simon’s seventeenth birthday, affairs in Wales and the North of England had reached something approaching a crisis. It was in the year 1403, when Bolingbroke had sat upon the throne for four years, and his son, Henry of Monmouth, had held the reins of government in Wales, unassisted, for some months only. Although he was but sixteen years of age, the Prince had already led a punitive expedition into North Wales, and considerably harried the rebel, Owen Glyndourdy. But now Percy, the redoubtable Hotspur, had, with his father, the Earl of Northumberland, and his uncle, the Earl of Worcester, raised his standard in the North against the King, and was on the point of marching to join Glyndourdy in Wales.
It was in July that these state affairs first affected Montlice, although for some time past Fulk,
