Simon

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  Fairfax and Cromwell bided their time while the Royalists gathered; and when the right moment came, they struck. The young Prince was on the very eve of marching, when news reached him that Cromwell had surprised the main body of his Horse under Lord Wentworth, and scattered them to the four winds. And at the same time, though word of this did not reach him until a day or two later, Fairfax and a Brigade of Horse and Foot, with the straining gun-teams in their midst, were heading across the moor in a snowstorm, to attack Dartmouth, which fell within a few days.

  The whole Royalist plan for the relief of Exeter had become hopeless; the blockade had to withdraw from around Plymouth lest it should be cut off, and Tavistock was no longer safe for the Prince, who withdrew to Launceston, taking the Foot with him, and leaving only the remaining Horse to guard the Tamar. The Cornish train-bands began to desert, on the excuse that their first duty was to defend their own homes; and by mid-January the whole army was falling to pieces, while the generals fought among themselves.

  Meanwhile, Simon was facing a stiff fight of his own. He had been so glad to rejoin his Troop; in a way it had been like coming home, and to outward seeming he had slipped back at once into his old place. But from the first, something had been wrong. If he had come in for active service just then, it might have been easier, but Fairfax’s Horse did not form part of the Dartmouth expedition; and the slow, grinding business of the Exeter blockade did not help in the least. To begin with, he was desperately worried about his mother and Mouse, alone in Lovacott with his father still in the north. There had been no word from them for some while past, and knowing that his home countryside was overrun by Grenville’s troopers, he could not get much comfort out of Barnaby’s suggestion that in the present upheaval many letters must be sent that never reached the people they were meant for. Denzil Wainwright was being a pest too, never missing the least chance for making life difficult, goading him by every means in his power. In the months since he joined the Regiment, Simon had learned to bother about Denzil no more than if he had been a gnat; but now, quite suddenly, his carefully planted stings were maddening, and it was all Simon could do not to let him see when they reached their mark. Above all, and at the root of all the trouble, he could not forget about his encounter with Amias at Okeham Paine. Something in him had been hurt, that night, before ever his head was broken, and though his head mended, the deeper hurt remained raw and aching. Even his old joy of his Troop seemed dulled in him, and he carried out his duties doggedly, but with little pleasure in them.

  That was an unhappy time for Simon, but it ended with a most surprising suddenness, when, one evening about three weeks after he rejoined his Troop, he received orders to report for special duty to Major Watson of the Scouts. Half an hour later, wondering very much what it was all about, he was standing in the low-ceiled back parlour of the Hand-in-Glove, breathing the warm throat-catching reek of tobacco-smoke and Hollands, and gazing inquiringly at the man who sat at a littered table before the fire.

  Major Watson was a meagre man, who peered at the world through mild blue eyes behind fluttering sandy lashes; a most unlikely-looking individual to have charge of the bunch of brigands who made up the Intelligence Service of the New Model Army. Only his clipped voice gave the lie to his lamb-like appearance.

  Having nodded amiably to Simon when he entered, he put the tips of his fingers together and blinked at him over the top of them; while Simon, knowing that he was being sized up, gazed levelly back.

  ‘I could have wished for an older and more experienced man,’ said the clipped voice at last. ‘However, you have a good record. I am glad to see your head has not completely healed yet.’

  ‘Sir?’ said Simon in bewilderment.

  ‘Cornet Carey, I understand that your home is in North Devon.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where, exactly?’

  Simon told him, and he listened with close attention, putting searching questions about distances and communications; then nodded above his joined finger-tips, as though satisfied with the answers.

  ‘So. You have a good knowledge of your own countryside. That may be a help.’

  ‘Am I to go home, then, sir?’

  The Major regarded him consideringly for a few moments, then, as though making up his mind, abruptly parted his fingertips and sat up. ‘Yes. I am arranging that you shall be transferred for a few weeks to my—shall we say to my family? I am sending one of my men up to Torrington tomorrow, and you will ride with him. Officially, you will be going home on sick leave, and that is the reason that you will give in the Regiment; also I think you would be wise to give the same reason to your family. The less they know of the matter, the safer it will be for them.’

  ‘And—the real reason, sir?’ Simon asked quickly.

  Major Watson blinked mildly at the young officer’s eagerness. ‘The house we have been using as a meeting-place and clearing-house for dispatches, in your part of the world, was occupied by the enemy, three days ago. Now we need another house—and another man; and you and Lovacott together have the needful requirements. The house, from what you tell me, is in a good strategic position, easy of access from the three main towns and the country between, and with good communications with the Exeter road behind it. You know the country, and your recent wound gives you a reason for your return home, which is above suspicion.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Your job, so long as nothing goes wrong, will be simple. You will act purely as a go-between. You will receive dispatches from the man you ride with tomorrow, or from others, and you will pass them on to a man who comes for them later, and who you will know by a password I shall give you presently; and while they are in your care, you will guard them as you never yet guarded anything in your life. Understood? Very well, then. The details you will arrange for yourself, through Podbury, your travelling companion.’

  ‘Yes, sir—is that all?’ Simon said blankly.

  ‘That is all for the moment. The job may not be as dull as it sounds, for if you run into Royalist soldiery you will have only your own wits to depend on; and Grenville’s troopers are not likely to take the fact that you are on sick leave into account, if they once discover they have a Parliament Officer in their hands.’

  Simon hesitated. ‘Sir, may I ask you something?’

  ‘You may certainly ask. I make no promise to answer.’

  ‘Is something goint to happen in North Devon?’

  Major Watson shrugged. ‘I make you a present of three facts, all of which are common knowledge: since Dartmouth has fallen, South Devon is in our hands. North Devon is still open and the three main towns are Royalist held. There is a Royalist Army—of a sort—across the Cornish border, which may yet be pulled together again. There are your facts; marshal them together, and perhaps you will find the answer to your question. It may of course be the wrong answer, but it is best to take no chances. Oh, and Cornet Carey, the password is “There’s many a good cock come out of a tattered bag”, to which the reply is, “And a good tune played on an old fiddle”. You have that?’

  Simon repeated it, and Major Watson nodded. ‘The messages you receive will sometimes be by word of mouth, in which case you will take them down accurately and send them on in the usual way. Your signature will be the number 7, and under it the number of the man who brought in the information. We do not put names into writing in this game.’

  ‘Yes, sir; the number 7. Can you give me any idea how long I shall be away from the Regiment, sir?’

  ‘None whatever. But you will not leave your post for an hour, whatever happens, until you are recalled; or until battle actually joins, in which case it will probably not be possible to recall you, and you must make your own decision.’

  Dinner was already begun in the long upper room of the castle which served the officers of both Fairfax’s Regiments for a Mess when Simon slipped into his place far down the crowded table; and he glanced about him with the eye of leave-taking, wondering what would have happened bef
ore he sat among these men again. They were discussing a piece of news that was fresher than the fall of Dartmouth, their faces alert in the candle-light that fell warmly on scarlet and blue, and the sober black of the surgeons and chaplains.

  ‘Well, Lord Hopton will have his hands full, with that precious lot of lambs,’ said a crop-headed captain of Foot.

  ‘There’s been no Royalist Commander-in-Chief since My Lord Goring sailed for foreign parts with his boots full of other folk’s guineas,’ put in Ralf Marjory, farther up the table. ‘Perhaps that’s why their army has fallen to bits.’

  ‘Has anyone heard who is to command under him?’ asked a late-comer.

  Several voices answered him. ‘Wentworth the Horse and Grenville the Foot.’

  ‘Skellum Grenville! Phew! The Skellum will be more of a handful than all the rest combined. I wonder how Hopton will deal with him.’

  Captain-Lieutenant Meredith leaned forward to help himself to more salt. ‘In dealing with a rogue,’ he said, ‘Lord Hopton is at a disadvantage, being an honourable man.’

  All down the table men were deep in the discussion, and Simon, left to himself, sat with his elbow on the table, staring down into the tawny depths of his beer mug, and thinking about his interview with Major Watson and the task that was ahead of him. Odd, to think that in two days’ time he would be at home again; odd, that it really would not be a home-coming at all, but just going somewhere to do a job in the Army, and the somewhere happening to be Lovacott. There was a queer mingling of feelings inside him: relief that at last he would be able to see how things were with his womenfolk; interest and excitement at the prospect of this new kind of danger; and a queer distaste for the idea of bringing the hidden beastliness of war into Lovacott. And yet, for the very reason that Lovacott meant so much to him, standing for all the things that he was fighting for, the beloved place could not be grudged to the fight like a fine lady who must not be allowed to soil her hands. Deep in this confusion of thoughts and feelings, he did not notice that the air was thickening with tobacco smoke and men beginning to lounge up from the table and make for the fire that burned at one end of the room.

  ‘Our friend Hodge would seem to find his thoughts deeply interesting,’ said Denzil Wainwright’s voice at his shoulder, and he looked up with a start, to see his tormentor beside him. ‘Pleasant thoughts?’ inquired Cornet Wainwright tenderly.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Simon, with elaborate politeness.

  ‘Were they of cows, may one inquire—or possibly turnips?’

  Simon said nothing. He was aware of a small crowd gathering around them to look on with interest.

  ‘Or could it be your worthy mother?’

  Simon was staring into his beer-mug as though he had not heard. But his left hand, hidden under the table, was clenching and unclenching convulsively.

  Denzil gave him a light poke. ‘I’m talking to you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Simon between shut teeth. ‘I thought it was a blue-bottle buzzing.’

  ‘Rude,’ sighed Denzil. ‘Also crude.’ He lounged against the table. ‘This is your part of the world, isn’t it, Hodge?’

  Simon did not look up. ‘Farther north, Torrington way,’ he said briefly.

  ‘Ah, a case of “so near and yet so far”, eh?’

  ‘Not really. I’m going home tomorrow—on sick leave.’

  There was an instant’s surprised pause; and then, in a clear amused voice, raised a little for the whole room to hear, Denzil said, ‘You’re not such a fool as you look, Hodge.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It must have taken quite a lot of—shall we say intelligence?—yes, intelligence, to get sick leave out of that scratch on your head. I take it that when once you get back among the ancestral pigs and pastures, we shall not be counting you among our numbers again?’

  Simon stopped staring into his beer-mug and got up deliberately. ‘Look here, drop it, can’t you?’ he said, breathing quickly through widened nostrils; and the onlookers saw that he had gone very white.

  ‘Drop what?—Oh, don’t come trampling over me, you oaf!’

  ‘Drop it!’ Simon said again, his voice shaking with passion.

  And Denzil, hearing the tremor, and mistaking its cause, laughed.

  At the sound of that laugh, a scarlet flame seemed to leap up in Simon, fanning out so that he saw Denzil’s dark amused face through the fiery redness. He drove his fist into it, with the full weight of his body behind the blow, and saw it suddenly surprised and with a bloody mouth. There was a fierce joy in him, and he never heard the crash of splintering wood as a chair went over and was kicked aside; he never felt the blows that were landing true on his own face. All he knew was the savage exultation of battle as his own blows went home, every blow the avenging of an insult too long borne.

  Presently the red flame began to sink and he found that he was leaning against the table and drawing his breath in whistling gasps, the centre of a crowd of staring faces.

  ‘Phew!’ Cornet Fletcher was saying admiringly. ‘I never knew Carey had a temper like that!’

  One of his eyes was rapidly closing, but out of the other he saw an overturned chair and a litter of pots and dishes that had been swept from the table; and beyond, Denzil Wainwright sagging against the wall in the midst of another group. Denzil’s face seemed the most appalling mess, and Simon looked vaguely from it to his own broken knuckles, and back again. Chaplain Joshua Sprigg was saying something about lewd brawling and ungodly behaviour, but Simon was not listening; without the red flame, he felt suddenly cold and very tired. The crowd parted to let someone through, and he saw that it was David Morrison.

  The old surgeon took him by the shoulders and turned him to the light of a branch of candles. ‘Ach, these hot-headed bairns that canna’ thole a fancied smutch on their honour!’ said he, severely, shaking his head. ‘No harm done, save a black eye; but ye may thank your Maker that ye have na’ reopened that wound, ma laddie.’ And he patted Simon’s shoulder approvingly as he turned away.

  ‘Major Disbrow’s going to hear about this!’ said Denzil, as he dabbed at his bleeding mouth. ‘You went for me like a devil, Carey!’

  Barnaby Colebourne, who was standing at his Cornet’s side, swung round on him in cold contempt. ‘Don’t be a fool, Wainwright. You’ve been asking for trouble all this past year, and now you’ve got what you were asking for. And I shouldn’t do any reporting, if I were you; too many of us can tell the truth about this evening’s performance.’

  There was a murmur of agreement; and Ralf Marjory, the senior captain present, who had been ostentatiously staring out of the window into the night, with his back turned to the whole proceedings, looked round for the first time. ‘I suggest Cornet Wainwright puts his face to rights, and then turns in,’ he said, but it was an order, not a suggestion.

  ‘Sir,’ said Denzil, pulling himself together with an obvious effort, and stalking rather groggily from the room. But in the doorway he turned and looked at Simon, a long, dark look. ‘I swear I’ll even the account with you for this!’ he said, and lurched out into the gallery.

  So next morning Simon rode northward, beside one of Major Watson’s scouts. They were an ordinary-looking couple, with nothing about them to catch the notice of any Royalist they might encounter; farmers or well-to-do tradesmen, to judge by their comfortable homespun garments; though to be sure the face of Simon’s companion, under the brim of his beaver, seemed somewhat leery for a farmer. As a matter of fact, he had been first a lawyer’s clerk and then a fairground thimble-rigger before he joined the New Model.

  Simon had pulled his slouch hat far down to cover the general state of his face, as well as the ill-healed scar on his temple, for a beefsteak applied last night to his eye had not had much effect; and he rode lazily, with his free hand thrust deep into the pocket of his russet riding-coat, in manner very different from the way he had learned to ride as an officer of Fairfax’s Horse. His saddle felt unfamiliar after the hard Ca
valry saddle he had grown used to, and he missed the light kiss of his sword against his left thigh. It had become so much a part of himself, his sword, and he had had to leave it behind, since a farmer going about his lawful business would be most unlikely to carry such a thing. But pistols were another matter; anyone going on a journey in these hazardous days might carry pistols, and Simon’s were safe in their holsters at his saddle bow.

  He had spent a rather worried night, for he realized that last evening’s affair had not been quite in keeping with sick leave. But save that Barnaby had remarked in a slightly puzzled tone, ‘I must say that for an invalid, you have an uncommon punishing left,’ there had been no awkward developments, and as they turned into the familiar road, his heart lifted because he was going home, just as it used to lift when he rode that way on the first day of the school holidays.

  It was not a pleasant journey, with the roads churned to quagmire and every stream coming down in green spate from the melting snows of Exmoor, and some miles short of South Molton they were thankful to turn aside for the night at a dirty hedgetavern. Here they found two troopers of Grenville’s, who seemed to have mislaid the rest of their regiment, though they assured the newcomers that they were not deserters. They all spent a very merry evening together, and Simon, watching Mr Podbury drinking rum with his feet on the table after cheating the younger of the Royalists out of one and ninepence at the dice, remembered with interest a rumour which had run through the Army a while before, that the scouts had demanded a rise of pay to recompense them for the danger to their immortal souls.

  Simon slept in the stable with Scarlet that night, partly because the straw seemed less flea-ridden than the tavern beds, and partly because he did not trust Grenville’s troopers where a horse was concerned. But nothing happened, and in the morning he and the scout took the road again.

  Some miles short of Torrington they parted, after making certain careful arrangements. The scout held straight on towards the town, while Simon turned off into the maze of lanes and bridle-tracks that he knew like the lines of his own palm; and in the first fading of the winter day, he swung into the dearly familiar track that led home.