VIII
How the Lady Margaret Plotted
The Lady Margaret sat with some of her ladies in her audience-chamber. A dark-eyed page was at her feet, playing on a small harp, and Jeanne sat beside her. Margaret lay back at her ease, a splendid figure against the fur-skin that covered her chair. At the far end of the room some gentlemen stood, conversing together; the Chevalier leaned over the back of his cousin’s chair, whispering occasionally in her ear. She paid little heed to his sallies, but now and then jerked her shoulder impatiently, and frowned.
“Art cold today, sweet cousin,” the Chevalier whispered.
“I have not changed, Victor,” she answered curtly. “You weary me.”
“But one day, fairest, you will change? Shall I never find the way to thy heart?”
“At a distance I might like you better,” she said.
“Cruel, cruel! Ah, Margot, if ye would but smile upon me, what might not we do to oust this English boor?”
Her lip curled.
“I need no help from you, Victor.”
His voice sank lower.
“No, ma belle? Yet thou didst not slay him when I gave thee the chance.”
She flushed, tapping her foot on the floor.
“I told you that I would not.”
“And thou didst not essay it?” he purred. “How then came my dagger upon the floor in the great hall?”
“Oh, go, go!” she said quickly. “I would not kill him, because—because—I will—find a surer way.”
He drew himself upright, still smiling.
“Is it indeed so, Margot? Now I had thought. … Ah, well!” Sighing, he strolled out, and the Countess gave a little shiver.
Slowly the colour died from her cheeks. She turned to her page, laying a caressing hand on his shoulder.
“Thy song is joyous today, Léon.”
He looked up at her, eyes a-sparkle.
“Yes, madame. I am gay because the English lord hath granted me a pass out of the castle. I go to see my father, without the town.”
The long fingers on his shoulder gripped suddenly. Surprised, he looked up again, into the beautiful face bent over him, and saw it pale, lips slightly parted, and eyes shining.
“Is—no pass needed to leave the town?” Margaret asked softly.
“Nay, madame, for the town hath submitted.”
He heard the quick intake of her breath, and wondered.
“Léon, when wilt thou go?”
“Tomorrow, madame, if it please you.”
“And—and where is thy—pass?”
He patted his tunic.
“Safe here, madame. My lord signed it today.”
“Léon—” Margaret spoke in a whisper—“Thou dost love me, is it not so?”
“But yes, madame! I would die—”
“Then come to my room presently—with—with thy pass. And say naught, Léon! Say naught!”
“Yes, madame,” he answered obediently, but his eyes searched her face in mystification.
She leaned back, and in a moment had called one of the courtiers to her side, laughing gaily, and chattering with him, so that Jeanne glanced at her shrewdly more than once. Presently she rose, brushing her hand across her eyes.
“Ah, now I am tired, and have the migraine! Come with me, Jeanne.” She went out slowly, leaning on Jeanne’s arm. Never a word spake Mademoiselle until the door of my lady’s chamber was closed behind them. Then she turned to Margaret, taking her hand.
“Margot, what dost thou purpose?” she asked anxiously.
Tense fingers clutched at her wrists.
“Jeanne, you swear—you swear to stand my friend?”
“But, chérie! Can you ask?”
“This Geoffrey—” Jealous, suspicious eyes glared into hers—“you would not betray me to him? You would not?”
“Never! Margot, what ails thee? Tell me, please! What said you to Léon?”
“Jeanne—I—I trust thee!”
“And so thou mayst.”
“Then listen!” Margaret dragged her to a seat. “Léon hath a pass! To go from the castle tomorrow. You see? Tell me now, am I not a little like him?” With a quick movement she was at her looking-glass, gazing close upon herself. “Black eyes, the nose—well, no. Mine is more straight. Lips? Too haughty, Margot dear. No matter. Let us essay a glad smile. Ay, it will suffice. Enough for this Simon. A cap pulled low over my brow. Height?” She drew herself up. “I will measure me ’gainst Léon.” She swept about, clasping her hands, eyes a-brim with triumphant laughter. “Jeanne, shall I not make a pretty page?”
Jeanne started up.
“Margot, what wouldst thou be at?”
“I would go to Fernand de Turincel. Nay, but listen! A pageboy excites no suspicion. Ten leagues. I might find a horse. It shall be given out here that I am sick abed. Even an I walk to Turincel I can reach it within three days. Yes, yes, I can! Oh, Jeanne, shake not thy head!”
“Chérie, thou art distraught! Bethink ye, it is all too perilous an emprise for a maid. I could not let thee try it. Ah, mignonne, mignonne, I could not!”
“Thou shalt come with me then! As—as—my sister! Smile, Jeannette! It means escape, and help!”
“But the danger—”
“Pho! Have I not my dagger? If thou art afraid, I’ll not take thee, but go alone. Thou hast sworn to stand my friend.”
“Margot, thou canst not do it!” Jeanne cried. “Would you don boy’s raiment? Margot!”
“That would I!” laughed the Countess, and drew back her skirts to show her tapering foot. Smiling she regarded first it, and then her lady. “Too small, you think? But long, Jeanne. And—and a shapely leg.”
“Margot!” almost wailed Jeanne. “Thou—thou art mad!”
“I was never more sane!—There is Léon! Open, child!”
Jeanne crept to the door, and admitted the handsome page.
“Ah, the good Léon!” Margaret gave him her hand to kiss. “Léon, thou wilt help me?”
“Yes, madame, of course. But I do not understand—”
“Am I not about to tell thee? Léon, swear not to divulge what I shall say to any living soul! Not even my cousin. Swear!”
“I swear, madame.”
“Thou sweet boy! I want thy pass. Quick, let me see it!”
He gave it to her, staring. The Countess spread it out.
“The secretary writes plain,” she remarked. “ ‘Léon de Margrute. … This by mine order, Simon Beauvallet.’ Dieu, what a flourish! Léon, I want this pass! I escape from the castle tomorrow. Thou art in my plot now!”
“But, madame, you cannot—”
“And a suit of thine apparel. Hose, tunic—Oh, I’ll spare thy blushes, Jeannette! Bring me them secretly, Léon, tonight. Ah, Léon, thou wilt do it? I ask thy help!”
He bowed.
“Madame, I must obey. But indeed, indeed—”
She covered her ears.
“I will not listen! Keep close tomorrow, my Léon, so that they shall not wonder at thy presence here. And—and see ye choose me a plain, dark dress, with a cap to set on my head. Go now and fetch it, dear boy! I’ll reward thee for thy pains. Oh, and thou shalt have another pass when I return! No need of it then, perhaps.”
The astonished page retreated. Jeanne sank down on to a chair.
“Margot,” she began weakly, and stopped. “Oh, Margot!”
The Countess picked up a quill and dipped it in the ink.
“See, Jeanne, there is room to add ‘and sister.’ Think you I can copy this fist? Give me parchment!”
Jeanne brought it, and watched her mistress practise writing on it. At length Margaret wrote upon the pass, and sat back surveying her handiwork.
“ ’Tis marvellous. Let it dry, Jeanne, my sister. Aha, Simon of Beauvallet, how now?”
“We are not yet escaped,” Jeanne said drily.
“But we shall escape, very early. Look out thine oldest dress, petite, and wear a hood and cloak. Oh, I should have written ‘brother,’ and we could have been boys together.”
“Heaven forbid!” Jeanne shuddered.
The black eyes sparkled.
“Conceive Malvallet’s face of horror! Oh, la, la! In truth, thou art too small for the part, and all a woman. Now I”—she glanced down herself—“I am a thin creature—well, thin enough, and tall. I shall make a comely lad. … Enter, Léon! Enter!”
Back into the room came the page. Blushing, he laid a neat bundle on the table.
“I—think—I have forgot naught,” he stammered.
“Thou dear boy!” Margaret kissed him on both cheeks. “There! Keep my secret well, Léon, and thank you, thank you, thank you!”
No sooner had he left the room than she untied the bundle, holding up each garment in turn.
“Oh, the brave hose! See, Jeanne! … A cap—the tunic, the—oh, the trunks!” She went off into a peal of laughter, and let them fall. “Go away, Jeannette, into my closet! And—and come when I call!”
Jeanne crawled away into the outer chamber. There followed a long pause, punctuated by gurgles of merriment from within my lady’s chamber. At last Margaret called to her, and she went back into the room.
Before the looking-glass stood a slim stripling in a short brown tunic, a dagger in his belt, and a cap crammed down over his eyes. Long shapely legs were cased in brown hose, and set well apart. Margaret swaggered forward.
“Am I not brave? Sister, I salute thee! These clothes make me smaller, but ’tis no matter. Jeanne, Jeanne, look not so horrified!”
“Margot, for God’s sake!” implored Jeanne. “Thy—thy legs!”
Margaret inspected them, and cut a caper.
“Said I not that they were shapely? See what a fine calf I have! I must stuff the shoes a little to make them fit, but otherwise it is perfect. The high collar hides my throat, too, which is well. Would it be well to cut my hair, think ye?”
“No!” gasped Jeanne. “A thousand times, no!”
Margaret pulled off her cap, revealing the dark braids bound round and round her shapely little head.
“It might be safer,” she reflected. “I cannot wear my cap always, and perhaps it might give rise to suspicion. What was it my father said?—‘See thou dost always set about thine affairs thoroughly, and do not the half only of a thing.’ Give me the scissors!”
“Margot, I implore thee, do not! Thy lovely hair! I—I will not countenance it.”
The Countess stood irresolute.
“It—it is—very nice hair,” she said undecidedly. “I doubt it would grow but slowly.”
“Half thy beauty goes with it!” Jeanne said vehemently.
Margaret looked at her seriously.
“Thou dost indeed think that, Jeannette?”
“Yes, yes! Margot, it would be wicked to cut it off!”
“It is to my knees almost. Well, perhaps I will leave it.” On went the cap again. “Wouldst thou know me, Jeanne? Speak truly!”
“Scarcely.” Jeanne walked round her, inspecting. “Thou art suddenly so little. I had thought thee tall.”
“So am I, but this raiment dwarfs me. The face, Jeanne! the face!”
Jeanne stepped back, looking into the Countess’s face with narrowed eyes.
“I should know thee, of course. But mayhap I should need to look twice.”
“Would Simon of Beauvallet know me?”
“They call him the Lynx-Eyed,” Jeanne said dubiously. “And yet—without thy horned headdress, or thy long braids and veil—yes, thou art different.”
“Summon Hélène,” commanded my lady. “I can trust her, and we will see if she knows me at once.”
Jeanne departed, presently returning with Mademoiselle de Courvonne. Margaret was standing before the fire, arms akimbo, and the long point of her cap drawn down over her shoulder, so that it hid the right side of her face a little.
Mademoiselle cast her a fleeting glance, and on encountering a wicked wink, blushed hotly, and turned her back.
“Where is Madame?” she asked Jeanne. “What does the page here?”
Margaret walked forward, striding nobly, and put her arm about Mademoiselle’s waist. The girl recoiled.
“Sirrah!”
“Speak me fair, speak me fair!” Margaret adjured her.
“Madame!” Mademoiselle fell back a pace, hands clasped at her breast. “Madame!”
Margaret swept her a bow.
“Am I not a pretty page, sweet chuck?” she smiled.
“Mon Dieu!” gasped Hélène. “But—but wherefore?”
Margaret told her, and the lady-in-waiting’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. Before she could exclaim or expostulate, however, a knock fell on the door of the adjoining closet.
“Who—? That is not my cousin’s knock, but a … Go, Jeanne!”
Jeanne slipped softly away, closing the door behind her. Margaret tiptoed to it, listening. There came the sound of voices, one deep and forceful.
“Beauvallet!” Margaret slid away from the door. “What can he want?”
Back came Jeanne, and whispered:
“I have told him that you are abed. Get thee between sheets, madame, quickly!”
“But what doth he want?”
“Naught, I think. He hath not seen you this day.”
Margaret pulled her hair down, and skipped into bed, drawing the clothes up under her chin.
“Tell him I am aweary. Why should he wish to see me?”
“I wonder?” said Jeanne, who had her suspicions. She went out again to Simon. “Madame will see you if it is necessary, milor’, but she bids me say that she is aweary.”
“I am sorry to trouble madame,” Simon answered, “but there is that I would say to her.”
“Eh bien!” Jeanne shrugged daintily, and allowed him to pass into the Countess’s chamber.
From the great bed Margaret regarded him haughtily.
“Am I to have no privacy, sir?” she inquired.
Simon, strangely ill-at-ease in these unaccustomed surroundings, bowed, and answered awkwardly.
“I cry your pardon, madame, but I may not see ye tomorrow. I go out to Sal-de-lac, where I shall rest three days. I am come now to say that during mine absence ye will please to keep your rooms. Ye will pardon my discourtesy, but a guard will be set upon these rooms from noon tomorrow, when I depart.”
The Lady Margaret’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“Your insolence passes all bounds, sir!”
Simon smiled.
“Mayhap, madame. Your ladies may come to you, but you may not go out.”
“A prisoner in mine own castle! Get thee hence, Lord of Beauvallet!”
But when Simon had gone, she sprang up, flushed and excited.
“It could not be better! It could not be better! Malvallet will command in his absence, and he would not dare to force himself upon me! None will notice mine escape, and all but Hélène here, and—and—Amélie, or Isabelle, must think that I am sick. Oh, it is marvellous, marvellous! We will leave this place at four in the morning, Jeannette, thou and I!”
“God pity me!” Jeanne sighed, and turned her eyes away from the Lady Margaret’s attire with a shudder.