Alan bent down, fondling one of the hounds.
“Thou hast the luck, Simon,” he said.
“Thou dost not want to go,” Simon answered. “What are wars to thee?”
“How can I tell when I have never taken part in one?”
“Ye quibble,” Simon said harshly. “Wilt be happier here with thy ladyloves.”
Alan said nothing for a while, still stroking his hound. At length he sat back in his chair.
“Needs must I win my spurs one day,” he said. “Why not now?”
“Time enough,” Simon replied. “This will mean forced marches over rough ground. Thou wouldst be weary ere thou hadst come to Shrewsbury.”
Alan looked wistfully up at him.
“And—and thou who art but one year my senior—art made of iron.”
“Hadst thou led the life I have led since my birth thou also wouldst be of sterner stuff.”
“Or dead,” Alan said, smiling.
“Ay, perhaps. Where went the Messenger from here?”
“To Grayman, and from thence to the Baron of Shirley. He was at Malvallet two days ago. The King calls for all his loyal servants. I wonder, shall we vanquish Percy?”
“God willing,” Simon answered.
“God willing indeed. Right must triumph.”
“In that case,” said Simon drily, “Hotspur is like to win.”
Alan opened his eyes wide.
“Simon! The King—the King—is the King!”
“So too was Richard,” Simon reminded him.
Alan digested this.
“And—and so thou dost not believe that—that right must win?”
“Not I!” Simon laughed shortly. “Might and generalship will win. What else?”
Alan hesitated.
“Simon, I fear me ’tis as Father Peter says,” he remarked gravely.
Simon cast him an inquiring glance.
“What says our worthy priest?”
“That thou art a thought godless in thy spirit.”
Simon laughed again, and this time the sardonic note sounded strongly.
“When said he this, Alan? Do I not attend Mass, and go I not to Confession?”
“Ay—but—sometimes thou dost say things. … Father Peter spoke to my lord of you.”
Simon was smiling now, so that his eyes were almost slits.
“And what answered my lord?”
“Oh, my father said: ‘Let be, Simon is very well.’ ”
“Ay, so I think. Set thy mind at rest, Alan, I am no heretic.”
Alan started up, shocked.
“Simon, I meant not that! Nor did Father Peter.”
“What a heat over naught!” Simon jeered. “What if thou hadst meant it? Yet I do not think I look a Lollard.”
“Oh, no, no!” Alan cried, and wondered to hear Simon laugh again.
Three days later Fulk left Montlice with his following, and started on the arduous march to Shrewsbury. And rough ground as much of it was they arrived at that town at the end of the week, one day before the King himself, who was hastening there to throw his army between the oncoming Hotspur and the Prince.
Some sprinkling of men Fulk lost on the march, but his casualties were few, so that he remarked with unwonted philosophy that if the weaklings would all fall out before they came to Shrewsbury, so much the better. Now that he was in action his irritability left him, and he surprised Simon by his good humour, and his patience in cheering on his men. His joviality was infectious, and it was a light-spirited little army that halted before the gates of Shrewsbury at the end of that weary week. They were welcomed royally, and quartered well, and within an hour of their coming the Prince of Wales sent to bid my lord wait on him at once. So Fulk sallied forth, accompanied only by his squire, and made all haste to Henry’s court. It was there, while waiting for Fulk to emerge from his audience, that Simon first met his half-brother, Geoffrey of Malvallet.
Geoffrey had arrived not twenty-four hours before Montlice, leading his men in place of his father who was sick at home. Simon recognised him at once from his likeness to Malvallet.
Geoffrey was sauntering through the great hall. He lounged past Simon, and glancing casually over his shoulder to see who it was, was startled to find that he was the object of a directly piercing stare, cast upward at him from under heavy brows. He paused on his way, and returned that stare from his superior two inches in height.
He was a handsome young man, some nineteen years of age, dark as Simon was fair, but with the same projecting forehead and green-blue eyes. But where Simon’s eyes were cold, Geoffrey’s sparkled; and where Simon’s mouth was hard, Geoffrey’s had a softer curve of laughter. It curved now in unveiled amusement, and his eyes twinkled merrily.
“What’s to do, young cockalorum?” he asked. “Whence that haughty frown? My complexion likes you not, perchance?”
Simon came forward, and as he came Geoffrey saw the red and gold device on his surcoat. His smile faded, and he half shrugged his shoulders.
“Ha, one of the Montlice brood!” he said, and would have turned on his heel.
“Nay,” Simon said. “Though I would as lief be that as aught else.”
Malvallet paused, and looked him over.
“And what are you, Master Deep-Voice!”
“I think I am Nobody, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Why so do I!” Malvallet mocked him. “And being Nobody, see ye cast me not another such glance as I surprised today, for it may be that I am hot of temper.”
Simon smiled then, not a whit angered.
“It may also be that I am strong of arm,” he said.
“Well, see ye cross not my path again,” Malvallet answered. “I am not so puny, I give you warning.” He strode on, leaving Simon to look after him with a curious glint in his eyes, not unfriendly.
Then Fulk came out in rare good spirits, and bore his squire back to their quarters, making him ride beside him instead of a few paces behind.
“By my troth, Simon,” he said energetically, “that boy is a man, with all a man’s brain and courage!”
Simon turned his head.
“The Prince, my lord?”
“Ay, young Henry
