XIV
How He Received the Lady Margaret’s Submission
My Lord of Montlice hobbled out on to the terrace. It was the day after Simon’s return, and he was still in a state of incoherent surprise over the amazing announcement that Simon had made the night before. At the time, he had stared open-mouthed, and before he had in the smallest degree recovered from the first shock of surprise, Simon had gone. All the evening he had been busy, so there had been no more private conversation. This morning he was closeted with his secretary, so Fulk wandered out in search of his son, whom he found on the terrace, fitting a new string to his harp. Alan smiled when he saw his father, and his smile was very sweet, as always.
Fulk lowered himself on to the chair that Alan vacated.
“Fiend seize my foot!” he growled, and glared at it.
Alan sat down on the parapet, a gay figure against the dull stone. His father grunted.
“Still harping, silly lad?”
“Still,” Alan answered.
“Hast naught better to do?”
“Simon would tell thee ay. But Simon hath no ear for music.”
“He tells me that thou art Master of his Horse.”
Alan laughed.
“It is true, alack.”
“He saith that thou art a good master, but I doubt he seeks to flatter thee to me.”
“I think he doth,” Alan said, and smiled again.
“Alan!” Fulk drove his stick on to the ground. “What meant the lad last night?”
Alan glanced up through his lashes.
“Last night?”
Fulk roared at him.
“Thou foolish boy! When he said that he would take the Lady Margaret to wife!”
“Well, sir—” Alan twanged his harp meditatively—“He is Simon of Beauvallet, so I suppose he did mean—just that.”
“But thou didst tell me that the Lady Margaret hated him, and sought to slay him!” exploded Fulk.
“Ay, my lord.”
“Then what maggot hath Simon in his silly head?”
Alan drew his hand across the strings so that they sang softly under his fingers.
“The maggot of love, my father.”
“Love for a froward woman? Much have I heard of the lady on the way hither, and it seems to me that she is a bold, spiteful hussy.”
“Bold, sir, and tigerish, but so is Simon. No milk-and-water maid could touch his heart. He must take a fitting mate unto himself. The Countess is such an one, and not soft speech will move her, but rugged strength, and maybe rough usage.”
Fulk stared at him.
“Art very wise. I would fain meet this lady.”
“Oh, sir, she will send thee from her side with a flea in thine ear.”
“Oho!” said Fulk. “I am an old man.” He stroked his grey hair ruefully.
Alan touched his hand affectionately.
“Yet the old man did come to France and is none the worse for his tedious journey,” he said.
Fulk puffed, pleased at the compliment.
“Oh, there is life in the lion yet!” he nodded. “Who comes?”
Alan sprang up, for Jeanne was limping towards them.
“It is Mademoiselle Jeanne, who is soon to be Geoffrey’s lady,” he said, and kissed Jeanne’s hand. “Mademoiselle, ye see here my father, Lord Fulk of Montlice.”
Jeanne curtseyed in response to Fulk’s bow, and went to sit beside him on the bench.
“Is it the gout?” Fulk asked, interested, pointing to her feet.
Jeanne dimpled charmingly.
“Nay, milor’, it is—oh, it is blisters!”
“Ay, ay! Art a brave lass, I do hear.”
“Not I, sir. ’Tis Margot who is brave.”
“Mademoiselle,” Alan interrupted, “what chanced in Raoul’s palace? Simon says naught, and I have had no word with Geoffrey. Is it true that Simon slew Raoul?”
Jeanne closed her eyes.
“It was terrible,” she said. “Raoul—Raoul had Margot in his arms. He—he kissed her, and she fought him. Then—then, when I thought all was lost, there came the clank of armour, and Lord Simon stood in the doorway with Geoffrey beside him. Oh, sir, I thought mine eyes deceived me! So great they looked, the one all black and grey, and the other gold and green! Raoul pushed my lady away, but he was too late.” Jeanne threw out her hand dramatically. “I saw my Lord of Beauvallet grow stiff all at once, and there came a light into his eyes such as I have never seen before. He smiled, and indeed, indeed, that smile drove terror into my heart. Just one moment he stood there, while I wondered what he would be at. And then he seemed to leap forward! In a second he was by us, and had seized up Raoul in his arms. He bent him over his knee, backwards, until methought Raoul’s spine would snap. And he said”—Jeanne tried to imitate Simon’s snarl—“ ‘Die, thou dog!’ Then he stabbed suddenly, and the blood spurted up! It was horrible, horrible! After that it is all—a mist. They fought, all of them, even Margot, but they could not hope to conquer, so we fled through a door behind us, and ran, and ran, and ran! And at last we found a stairway, which led out of the castle. Raoul’s men were hard on our heels, but we ran across a courtyard, and Ranaud wrenched the gate open. Then found we the horses, and fled for our lives.”
“Simon ran way?” Fulk asked incredulously.
“What else could he do? I think—he lost his head. He meant not to kill Raoul, but when he saw my lady in his arms, he forgot caution, and only thought of vengeance.”
“That is not like Simon!” Fulk said.
“It is like the new Simon,” Alan answered.
To Simon came a French page, bowing low.
“Milor’, I bear a message from madame.”
“What is it?”
“Madame requests milor’ to visit her. She hath that which she would say to milor’.”
Simon rose.
“Lead me to madame.”
The page conducted him to Margaret’s rooms, and announced him.
The Countess was alone, standing by the window. She was clad in a long red robe, and she wore a horned headdress upon her head. She came forward a few steps, to meet Simon, and he saw that her hands were tightly clenched.
“Well, madame?”
Margaret moistened her lips. She began to speak jerkily, her eyes dark and troubled.
“Milor’, there is much I must say to you. Ye have—placed me in your—debt.” Her eyelids dropped a little, and the proud lips quivered.
Simon said nothing, watching her.
“I have first—to thank you—for—what you did—yesterday.” The words stuck in her throat a little, but she went on bravely. “Had ye not come—to my rescue—I had been—what I will not think—today.” Her eyes searched his face, but it was impassive. Simon’s arms were folded across his great chest, and he stood very still before her. Again she moistened her lips. “Margaret of Belrémy—leaves not—her debts—unpaid. Had I not—fallen into Raoul’s clutches—I would have—brought—an army to Belrémy—to fight you. But—I failed, and—you—rescued me. I—I desire now—to wipe away—the debt I owe you. So—so—I will—make my submission to you.” Her voice had sunk, but it vibrated with her pride.
“I want more than that.”
She started, clasping her hands nervously together.
“You—you seek—my life?” she asked, and squared her shoulders.
Simon came heavily up to her, and took her wrists in his hold.
“Thy life, ay. All of thee.” Suddenly he bent forward, and kissed her, full on her red lips.
She sprang away, trembling and shaken, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks.
“You—oh, you insult me! I have not deserved—that! My God, I had—I had come to think you—a man of honour!”
“I insult thee not,” Simon said calmly. “I want thy hand in marriage.”
She stared at him, hardly comprehending. Then she recoiled eyes aflame.
“You—you—For what do ye take me? Think ye I would wed—an English boor?” She spat the words at him, and her bosom heaved.
“I think that thou wilt wed me, madame. What I want, I take.”
“Ye take not me! Mordieu, are ye mad? Wed me? I—I am Margaret of Belrémy!”
“Thou art my prisoner.”
“No longer!” She stepped quickly up to him, her silken skirts brushing the ground. “I have made my submission!”
He looked down at her for a moment, in silence; then he drew a folded parchment from his belt, and spread it upon the table.
“It awaits thy signature, madame. Thy submission to my master.”
Slowly she approached the table, and read the formal words. A little shiver ran through her, and she bit her lip. She sat down, and picked up her quill. For a long time she sat very still, but presently she dipped the quill in the ink, and quickly signed her name. She would have risen then, but Simon’s hand was on her shoulder.
“There lies thy submission to the King my master,” he said and she saw that his eyes gleamed. “But thy submission to me must come soon. Thy life is mine by right of conquest, and well dost thou know it. Willingly shalt thou come to me, and willingly give thy heart. For I will have all or nothing.”
“Nothing, then!” she said hoarsely.
He smiled, and picked up the parchment.
“ ‘I have not, but still I hold,’ ” he said, and laughed, swung round on his heel, and went out.
Margaret stumbled up, trying to control the wild leaping of her pulses. To her came Jeanne, and cast her a shrewd glance.
“Jeanne!” Margaret cried. “He has been here! He—he kissed me. Oh, how I hate him!” Raging, she paced the floor, lashing herself to a fury.
“I have heard that hate is akin to love,” Jeanne remarked placidly.
“Love! I love that—that—” she choked for words. “He thinks to wed me! He! Ah, how I hate him!”
“Thou didst not hate him when he killed Raoul,” Jeanne said.
Margaret paused, staring at her, wild-eyed.
“Did I not? Did I not? Oh, what ails me, Jeanne?” She sank down upon the floor beside her lady, sobbing.
“Pride dies hard,” Jeanne said softly. “Thou art torn between love and hate.”
“No, no! It is all hate, all hate!”
“Then why dost thou weep?”
“I—I do not know—I am distraught. It was his kiss, burning me! Shaming me! Ah, let me go!” She sprang up and away, rushing from the room straight into the arms of her cousin.
“Victor! You? What—do ye here?”
He twirled his scented kerchief, eyes running swiftly over her.
“I came to wait upon thee, sweet Margot, but yon yellow-haired Saxon was before me. Thou art strangely disordered, cousin.” He bent forward, scrutinising her. “Now what hath he done, I wonder?”
“Out, out of my way!” she cried, and swept past, down the corridor.
The Chevalier entered her room. Jeanne looked coldly at him, but he smiled.
“So the English oaf kissed my cousin?” he said gently, and showed his teeth a moment.
“Ye would appear to be in his confidence,” Jeanne snapped.
He paid no heed.
“And she is all distraught. What does that betoken? …”