Simon the Coldheart

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.

Then, ere Fulk could reply in kind, a deep, cold voice spoke from the doorway.

“Who is it desires speech with Simon of Beauvallet?” it said. “I am here.”

Malvallet swung round. Just within the hall stood Simon, a very giant of a man, regarding him fixedly from under lowering brows.

For a moment no one spoke. Then Malvallet strode forward.

“So thou art my son,” he said slowly.

“Am I?” Simon answered. “I have forgotten.”

With their eyes they measured one another. Malvallet spoke quietly.

“I come to offer thee the shelter of my roof, Simon.”

“I need it not, my lord.”

“A place at my table,” Malvallet insisted, “next thy brother, a place at my side as my acknowledged son.”

Simon’s lip curled, sneering.

“Oh, brave, my lord! Thy bastard son, forsooth!”

Malvallet flushed.

“I will make thee great in the land; ay, and I will give thee fair estates.”

“I need them not, my lord.”

Again there was a silence.

“Ye defy me, Simon? Ye have hate of me in your heart?”

“Nay.”

“Then return with me to Malvallet, and bear thine own name.”

“No name is mine save the one I have chosen.”

“An insult to me, that name!”

“Is it so, my lord?” He looked upward at Malvallet, without any feeling in his glance.

Malvallet stretched out his hands.

“Simon, to what avail, this coldness of thine? Am I not thy father?”

“So I am told,” Simon replied.

“Have I no right to thee? Has Montlice my right?”

“No man has a right to me, save it be the King. The law gives thee none. I am what I am.”

“Thou shalt be something more than what thou art.”

Livid with rage, Maurice sprang forward again. His passion enveloped him, so that all semblance of sanity was gone. Simon had supplied the spark that was needed to set his rancour in a blaze. In a flash he had whipped his dagger from its sheath and had rushed upon Simon, blindly.

There was a moment’s wild struggle, and then Simon’s hands were about his wrists like iron clamps, bearing them downwards. Panting, Maurice glared into the green-blue eyes, and saw them passionless.

“Twice in my life hath a man sought to slay me foully,” Simon said. “This is the second time. The first was when a base cur, a traitor little above the swine, could not worst me in a fight. Then, being base, he drew steel and would have stabbed me.” He paused, staring grimly into Maurice’s eyes, until they sank, and the dark head with them. Then, with a quick, scornful movement he released Gountray’s wrists, and turned away, presenting his back, fair mark for an assassin’s dagger.

The tinkle of steel falling on the stone floor sounded behind him, and a man’s laboured breathing. He went quickly to a chair, and sat down, not even looking at Gountray.

Maurice spoke unsteadily.

“I have⁠—never⁠—done that⁠—before.”

Simon said not a word. Maurice turned, flung out his hands.

“You goaded me to it! I would never have drawn steel had you not taunted me so!”

Simon vouchsafed no reply, but jerked his head, as a sign that they were going. He set off with striding steps towards the town, Cedric trotting along beside him.

Within the gates they came upon Sir Alan, whereupon Cedric fell discreetly to the rear.

Alan slipped his arm in Simon’s, looking up at him with the subservient affection that not all the years had tempered. He was very little changed from the youth Simon had met without the castle of Montlice. His face had retained its girlish curves, his figure its slender grace. He was attired in silks and velvets, for he scorned a soldier’s garb save when it was necessary.

“Simon,” he said in an undertone, “whence comes this talk of sending thee to Belrémy?”

“From idle men’s tongues belike,” answered Simon shortly.

“It is not true?”

“True enough, but prate not of it, Alan.”

“Thou art indeed to pit thy strength against the Lady Margaret of Belrémy?”

“Ay.”

“Where Umfraville hath failed thou art to conquer. Shalt thou take the town, Simon?”

“God willing.”

Alan chuckled softly, whistling “Deo Gratias” below his breath.

“I too shall come, of course,” he remarked dreamily. “I have a mind to see this Lady Margaret.”

Then Simon smiled.

“There will be no lovemaking while thou art with me, Alan.”

“Will there not? Thou shouldst bear the Lady Margaret off thyself, lad. That indeed would be a conquest.”

“Um!” Simon grunted. “A spitfire to wife? I thank thee.”

In the middle of the hall Simon sat, his back turned towards her, writing. The scratching of his quill on the parchment was the only sound to be heard. He wore no armour, and his back was fair mark for an assassin’s dagger.

The Lady Margaret paused on the bottom step, hardly daring to breathe. Cautiously she stepped down, her little, soft-slippered foot making no sound on the stone floor. Inch by inch she went forward, never taking her eyes from that fair head, her dagger held ready. She meant to creep up to him and to strike him above the heart before he could save himself. Her lips were slightly parted, but her hand was steady, despite the wild beating of her heart. Nearer and nearer she approached until she was but three paces from him.

Simon’s hand travelled to and fro across the parchment. He did not lift his head. The silence seemed to grow, and still the Lady Margaret crept on. Then Simon spoke, his voice deep and calm.

“Strike where the neck joins the shoulder, my lady,” he said, and went on writing.