XXI
How He Came to His Own
The Lady Margaret stood by the sundial in her pleasaunce, gazing wistfully down at it. It was May now, and all about her flowers bloomed, while the trees in the orchard, beyond the hedge, were laden with blossom. The sun shone warmly down upon the garden, and the birds sang, but the Lady Margaret was sad.
For a long time she stood motionless, thinking of one day in February when she had come running to this spot to warn Simon of danger. And as she thought, she smiled a little, drearily, and brushed her hand across her eyes. No word had come from him since March, and although Geoffrey made light of it, saying that Simon would never write unless he were forced to do so, Margaret felt the silence ominous, and feared she knew not what.
Today she was strangely nervous, jumping at every sound, as though she expected something to happen. Even now she lifted her head, listening, for it seemed to her that far away in the town some excitement was on hand. The faint noise died, but it came again presently, and she heard the echo of Fulk’s great voice, wafted to her by the gentle breeze. A deep breath she drew, and stood very still, hands clenched at her sides until the knuckles gleamed. She looked towards the entrance to the pleasaunce, lips slightly parted, and in her eyes were dread and hope.
And at length a soft tread reached her straining ears, and her knees seemed suddenly to shake. Round the bend in the alley that led to the pleasaunce, Simon came, and paused some few yards from her, looking at her from under his jutting brow.
The Lady Margaret stood very still; only her bosom rose and fell quickly, and her eyelids flickered. She gazed in dumb longing at the fair giant before her, but she could not speak.
Simon’s deep voice reached her, and she quivered with a kind of fearful joy.
“Willingly shalt thou come to me, and willingly give thy heart,” he said, and held out his arms.
The Lady Margaret took a faltering step forward, impelled by some invincible force. Her hands flew out, trembling.
“Milor’!” she whispered. “Thou hast—come back!”
“Ay, I have come as I swore I would. To lead thee to the altar.”
A sob broke from her, but it was a glad sob. She came to him, swiftly, stumblingly, her eyes full of tears.
“My heart—was thine—long since!” she said brokenly. “Willingly—do I—come!”
Then she was caught in a great embrace, swept off her feet, and crushed against Simon’s breast. She gripped the folds of his tunic with her slender hands, face upturned, half-crying and half-laughing.
“Thou art—with me again! Ah, Simon, Simon, I knew not what to think! I feared—Simon, milor’!”
His arms tightened ruthlessly about her. For one moment he looked down into her brimming eyes, his own ablaze with some newborn passion, then he bent and kissed her fiercely, on her eager mouth. And now, at last, the Lady Margaret returned his kisses, her pride dead, and all her fighting instincts flown.
So for a while they stayed thus, locked in each other’s arms, till the grip about Margaret’s shoulders slackened, and she was set upon her feet, breathless and quivering.
“My—queen!” Simon said huskily, and knelt suddenly to kiss the hem of her gown.
The Lady Margaret looked down at him, and in her face was all the wonder of love. Gently she laid a hand on the bent head, and put her other into his, drawing him to his feet.
“Simon, oh, milor’, kneel not to me! It is I who am ’neath your heel!” She sank against his shoulder, and laughed unsteadily. “I swore vengeance on thee! Undying vengeance!” she whispered. “I said that I would make thee rue the day thou didst cross my path. Ah, Simon, Simon!”
His arms were round her once again, holding her close.
“Mayhap I shall live to rue that day,” he said, and his rare humour peeped out. “Undying thy vengeance shall be, and on our marriage-day it will be complete.”
“Oh, ungallant!” she cried, and put up her hand to touch his lean cheek. “Thou most cruel of lovers! Was—was ever a maid so harshly wooed?”
“Was ever a maid so hardly won?” he retorted, and carried her hand to his lips. “Thou tigress! Wilt thou stab me, I wonder, if ever I gainsay thee?”
“Never again!” she said softly. “I could not do it—that day in January, though I hated thee then. How should I stab thee now that my hate has turned to love? I would follow thee barefoot across the world!”
“Nay, for if I walked across the world, thou wouldst lie in mine arms, Margot. Never again shalt thou flee from me.”
“Thy strong arms … !” she murmured. “Even as thou didst bear me from Raoul’s palace. Stern, merciless conqueror! Simon, mon maître et mon seigneur!”
It was a long time before they left the pleasaunce, and then they went slowly, Simon’s arm about his lady’s waist, her head resting back against his shoulder, and her hand in his.
“I never thought to be so happy!” she sighed. “I never dreamed that I would bend to your will!”
“I must have loved thee from the moment I set eyes on thee,” Simon answered.
“What! Was it love then, that made thee mar my skin?” she pressed his hand to the scar on her breast.
“I know not. Thou wert a statue made of ice.”
“An Amazon thou didst call me! But oh, thy sword hurt!”
He bent to kiss the scar.
“An Amazon thou wert, who flinched not nor cried out. How could I have treated thee so?”
“Ah, no, I am glad! I said that for as long as the scar remained I would remember thy cruelty, and so I will, and with it mine own attempted treachery. Simon, that shame will never die!”
“My shame is greater, Margot, for I threatened a woman, a child.”
“No child am I, milor’. Just—just an Amazon.”
He laughed down into her pleading eyes.
“That rankles still, my queen. I would not have thee aught but that. I did tell my King that the lady I love is a tigress, beautiful beyond words, swift with her dagger, proud and indomitable to her foes, but with a great heart, and a brave spirit.”
Margaret blushed.
“Nay. I am not so fine. I have failed in all that I meant to do, and only succeeded in one thing. And that I did not mean to do. I stole what men thought was not there to steal. Thy cold heart, monseigneur. I swore to bring an army about your ears, and behold, I was foresworn. I tried to keep my hatred for thee alive, but it withered. See how thou hast humbled me!”
Simon drew her closer.
“One mistake didst thou make, dear heart. Thou didst set thy will against mine, for I had sworn to vanquish and to wed thee.”
“How vain my fight hath been!” she sighed. “In everything was I beaten, till thou hadst me at thy feet. And even then I would not realise, though Jeanne knew, and my Lord Fulk roared at me for a pert, wilful baggage. A silly maid, he called me, and bade me know that Simon of Beauvallet was not one to be worsted by an obstinate woman.”
Simon smiled.
“If my lord hath called thee names, then doth he love thee indeed.”
“Oh, he hath not a good word to say for me, but bellows at me until I tell him that he is wrongly named, and should be the Bull, not the Lion. There is only one Lion.” She drew his hand to her cheek. “Thy King will let thee stay with me? Thou wilt not go forth again?”
“My King hath made me lieutenant of the troops he leaves in Normandy, Margot. Thou wilt never be rid of me again, but when he returns from his campaign I will show him a gentle, docile English wife.”
“Nay, ’tis I who will show him a tamed husband. Thou shalt be Count of Belrémy, and rule my land—thy land now.”
“And when I take thee to England thou shalt be the Lady Baroness of Beauvallet, for all I have is thine.”
They had come now to the castle, and went into the great hall, hand in hand. Geoffrey and Jeanne were there, waiting for Simon to bring his lady in, and Fulk was standing by Alan, one arm flung around his son’s shoulders. He and Jeanne came forward, Jeanne running to her friend, Fulk waving his stick at Simon.
“So there thou art!” he roared. “First it is Geoffrey and his Jeanne, kissing and fondling until I am made sick by the sight of it, and now thee, thou good-for-naught, and Margaret, the graceless lass! Hadst thou no more sense than to thrust thy head into the halter, thou silly lad? Let me get hold on thy hand, I say!” He wrung it vigorously, his little blue eyes twinkling ferociously. “Always thou must conquer! I could weep when I think how none hath ever withstood thee! Small wonder is it that thou art a conceited coxcomb. Margot, thou rogue, come to me!” He embraced her noisily, shaking her to and fro. “What did I tell thee? Did I not say that my lion-cub would master thee? I warrant he will tame thy hot blood, saucy maid!” He rounded on Simon again, smiting him fondly on the shoulder. “Now I do say that if she sticks the dagger into thee, it will be but thy just deserts, lad! We will see what a slip of a girl may do to thee! Oh, thou art well-matched! A pair of fools, by my troth!”
“Shouting and blustering again!” Margaret said severely. “Thy gout will plague thee more than ever, and that will be thy just deserts!”
Fulk laughed delightedly, never so pleased as when Margaret chided him.
“Oh, she will school thee, Simon! Never was there so determined a lass! God’s Body, I never thought to get me a daughter so much after mine own heart!”
Margaret pushed him into a chair, dropping a kiss upon his brow.
“A Bull and a Lion,” she said. “What will my life be betwixt you? What with thy passions and my lord’s obstinacy—oh, Jeanne, am I not beset?”
Simon was kissing Jeanne’s hand, in congratulation on her marriage. She dimpled, looking mischievously into his eyes.
“I shall warn Margot to have none of thee, milor’—I will tell her—oh, terrible things about a husband’s tyranny!”
Geoffrey laid his hand on Simon’s arm.
“Simon, mark well my words! Wives are the devil—and I know!”
“In truth,” Alan sighed, “I am the only wise one amongst us all.”
“Art a silly lad!” Fulk rumbled, and cast him an affectionate though fiery glance.
“Alan speaks sooth for once,” Simon said, and placed his finger on Margaret’s indignant lips. He had her in his arms again, and like a needle to the magnet, Jeanne had drawn near to her Geoffrey. “For Alan throughout hath known that needs must I fall, and at Margot’s feet.”
“Ah, and he knew that I loved thee, even before I knew it myself,” Margaret cried. “Methinks he hath worked very quietly to bring about our happiness. And yet he will not seek his own.”
“I observe thy folly,” he said, “and know mine own wisdom. That is happiness.”
Jeanne looked at Geoffrey, and a smile passed between them, of boundless conceit. Margaret stole her hand into Simon’s, smiling also. Not one of them answered Alan, and he laughed, leaning on his father’s shoulder, and surveying his two friends with soft, satisfied eyes.
“Are my sage words beneath contempt?” he asked.
“Ay,” Simon answered simply, and looked down into Margaret’s face for a long moment. A deep breath he drew, and glanced again at Alan. “Beneath contempt,” said Simon the Coldheart.