Simon the Coldheart

To
the memory of
my father—
this,
his favorite.

Part I

I

How He Came to Fulk of Montlice

He came walking from Bedford into Cambridge one May morning when the sun was still young and the dew scarce gone from the grass. His worldly possessions he carried on his back in an old knapsack; his short jerkin was stained and torn, and there were holes in his long hose. On his square head and drawn over his brow he wore a frayed cap set jauntily, with a heron’s feather pointing skywards. He carried a quarterstaff, and stepped out right manfully, scanning the flat fenland from beneath his thick brows, his young mouth dogged, his sombre eyes coldly calculating. Of years he numbered fourteen, but his shoulders had a breadth beyond his age, and his thighs a thickness of muscle that gave him the appearance of a grown man dwarfed. Nor was the face below the clubbed fair hair that of a child, for in the low brow lay strength, and about the straight mouth purpose. There was little boyishness in the eyes, but a frowning look, and at the back, lurking in the green-blue depths, a watchful gleam that was never absent.

One spoke to him on the road, a pedlar tramping south, and gave him good day. He answered in a crisp, deep voice, and smiled, showing a row of strong white teeth.

“Whither goest thou, younker?” the pedlar asked him idly.

“To my goal, fellow,” Simon retorted, and passed on. The pedlar called after him for his haughtiness, but he paid no heed. He was never one to waste words.

So at length he came to Montlice, which was his goal, and stood for a moment before the drawbridge, surveying the rugged castle. A man-at-arms, lounging on the bridge, hailed him good-naturedly.

“What want ye, boy? This is the lion’s den.”

The glimmer of a smile came to light the darkness of Simon’s eyes.

“I seek the lion,” he said, and walked forward across the bridge.

The man laughed at him, barring his passage.

“Ho-ho! Ye seek the lion, eh? He would make but one mouthful of you, my fine sprig.”

Simon looked up into his face, jutting brows lowering, eyes agleam.

“I seek my Lord the Earl,” he said. “Out of the way, sirrah!”

At that the man clapped his hands to his sides, shaken with herculean laughter. Having recovered somewhat he achieved a clumsy bow.

“My lord is from home,” he said, mocking Simon.

“You lie!” Simon answered quickly. “My lord will know how to punish a lying servant. Let me pass!” He awaited no permission, but slipped by, eel-like, and was gone across the bridge in a flash. Out of sight he paused, not hesitating, but seeming to debate within himself. He looked thoughtfully at the great gateway, standing wide with soldiers lounging there, and his lips tightened. He went swiftly through, light-footed and sure, and attracted but little notice. One of the men stopped his task to shout a surprised question after him, and Simon answered briefly over his shoulder: “On my lord’s business!” The man laughed, thinking him some scullion’s child, and turned back to his companion. Simon went on up the winding slope to the castle door and was there met by a group of men-at-arms who denied him ingress.

“To the scullions’ entrance, babe!” one told him, and the muscles about his mouth stood out in anger. He kept his ground, not a whit afraid.

“I must see my lord,” he answered, and only that.

“Wherefore, pup?” the man asked him, and when he would not answer, sought to hustle him roughly away.

But Simon wriggled from under his hands, and springing to one side, brought his heavy quarterstaff down athwart the man’s shoulders with so much force that, great man though he was, the soldier staggered.

Matters then would have gone ill with Simon but for the appearance of a boy, a little younger than himself, who came strolling towards them, followed by two liver-coloured hounds. He was dark, and magnificently clad, and he carried himself with an air of languid arrogance.

“Holà there!” he called, and the soldiers fell away from Simon, leaving him to stand alone, arms folded and head turned to survey the newcomer.

The boy came up gracefully, looking at Simon with a questioning lift to his brows.

“What is this?” he asked. “Who are you who strike our men?”

Simon stepped forward.

“So please you, sir, I seek my Lord the Earl.”

One of the men, he whom Simon had dealt that lusty blow, started to speak, but was hushed by an imperious gesture from the boy. He smiled at Simon with a mixture of friendliness and hauteur.

“I am Alan of Montlice,” he said. “What want you of my father?”

Simon doffed his cap, showing his thick, straight hair clubbed across his brow and at the nape of his brown neck. He bowed awkwardly.

“I want employment, sir,” he replied. “These men deny me entrance.”

Alan of Montlice hesitated.