XIII
How He Found the Lady Margaret
When Raoul pressed his flaccid lips to Margaret’s mouth a second time, she jerked her head back wildly, tearing at his encircling arms like a tigress. Jeanne sprang to her aid, eluding her guard, and was borne back again before she had time to do more than strike at the grinning face bent over Margaret. Slowly Raoul controlled the frenzied struggling of Margaret’s limbs.
“The dove shows fight indeed,” he purred. “Well, I like it better so.”
Then was the door flung open, and then did the steward call Simon’s name. On the threshold two knights stood; one all gold and green, the other black and steel.
With an oath Raoul let Margaret go, pushing her from him so that she fell on to the ground. This was the worst that could befall Raoul, and as he passed his tongue between his lips, he sought feverishly in his mind for a plausible excuse wherewith to soften this English devil. For of all things he most feared an English invasion of his land.
But Simon had seen, and the sight of Margaret’s slim figure, fighting madly with this deformed, evil creature, awoke some hitherto dormant emotion within him. Rage surged up, and suddenly everything grew red. For the first time in his life he forgot caution, and sprang forward.
“Dog!” he roared, and caught Raoul in his iron grip, forcing him backwards over his bent knee, down and down, hands tightening above the flabby throat, crushing out life. His lips were drawn back in a terrible snarl, and his eyes blazed. “Die, thou dog! Die!” he cried, and stabbed above the collarbone with Margaret’s dagger, which he still held.
It was all over in a few seconds, but Raoul’s men were upon Simon even as he stabbed. Up he sprang, throwing the dying man down, and tore his sword from the scabbard. After the first shock of surprise Geoffrey had acted quickly, dragging the steward into the room that he might not give the alarm, and slamming the door to. Out came his sword, and in a flash he was upon Simon’s assailants, attacking them from the rear.
The two men who held Ranaud’s arms, lost their heads, and released him to join in the fight. One only got to the struggling mass, for Ranaud seized the other, and dealt him such a blow upon the chin, that he lost consciousness. Then the giant rushed to aid Geoffrey, and kicking against one fallen man, stopped to wrench the sword from his dead grasp. With this he fell to work, using it like a quarterstaff, and causing considerable damage upon the armourless courtiers.
Margaret flew to where Raoul’s crumpled body lay, and fell on her knees beside it, wrenching his light dress-sword from its scabbard. She thrust Jeanne back against the wall, and fought her way to Simon’s side, stabbing and thrusting with all her might.
But although Simon and Geoffrey were armour-clad, they were badly outnumbered, and already the noise of this fierce battle had reached the ears of those below. Simon cast a quick glance behind him, to see how far away was the door that led into the room beside the dais. He started to back, and called to Geoffrey in English.
“At my side! Through the door behind me is our only chance. Guard thou Jeanne!”
“Ah, yes, yes!” Margaret panted, and made sign to Ranaud, slightly jerking her head backwards. He nodded, bellowing out curses on his foes’ heads, and wielding his sword like a maniac. Blood was dripping from a gash on his cheek, and from his left arm, but it seemed only to goad him to fresh endeavours.
Jeanne had heard Simon’s command, and she slid along the wall, unnoticed in all this turmoil, and lifted the latch, ready to open the door at Simon’s word.
The palace-guards were in the room now, but Simon had drawn right back into the corner, so that his little following was guarded on two sides by the wall. He spoke again, gasping.
“Back, Geoffrey! I will hold them. Get all through first. Open!”
Jeanne flung the door back and ran into the adjoining chamber, Margaret at her side. Ranaud followed and stood within—sword upraised. The French made a desperate effort to cut Simon and Geoffrey off from this means of escape, but they stood now in the opening, Geoffrey with his left hand clutching the latch.
Simon cut down the foremost guard, and leaped backwards. On the instant Geoffrey dragged the stout oak door shut, and between them they slammed the bolts home.
Simon wasted no words. He caught Margaret’s hand and ran with her down the long, empty chamber to an archway at the far end. Through this they sped, Geoffrey with Jeanne in his arms, and Ranaud bringing up the rear, singing now, an exultant chant. Room after room they traversed, whither they knew not, while from behind came the sound of frenzied blows on the bolted door. At last they came to a large hall, leading from which were three doors, all shut. Margaret flew to one, opening it. A long corridor was revealed. Simon, who had gone to another, found that it led into yet another chamber.
“Here, here!” Margaret cried.
“On then!” Simon commanded, and flung the door he stood by wide. He hurried after Ranaud, who was rolling in Margaret’s wake, down the corridor, and waited for Geoffrey to bear Jeanne through. Then he went himself, and stayed to shut the door.
“They should be through by now, but they will go by the door I left open,” he panted.
From ahead Margaret’s voice sounded.
“Stairs! Stairs!”
“Gently!” Simon hissed, and pushed by Geoffrey. “There may be men below. I go first.” Sword in hand he went down the stairs, to find a scullion staring at him open-mouthed. They had come to the kitchens.
The scullion fled for his life, down yet another passage, calling for help.
“The window!” Geoffrey gasped.
“Nay, the door,” Simon answered, pointing. “For your life!”
Ranaud tore it open, and out they tumbled into a narrow yard. At the end of it was a barred gate, and to this they ran.
Sounds betokening pursuit came from behind them, and it was with desperate fingers that Simon and Ranaud dragged back the bolts. The gates swung outward, and they found themselves upon greensward. To the right was Santoy, with his men. He saw them, and spurred forward, leading Simon’s horse, and shouting to his men to follow.
Simon attempted no explanation, but flung Margaret up on to his horse. She clutched at the animal’s mane, sitting astride, and gripping hard with her knees.
Geoffrey seized his own mount, and swung himself up, setting Jeanne on her feet before he did so.
“Hand her up!” he called, and Simon tossed her into his arms.
Ranaud clambered clumsily on to the back of one of the spare horses, grunting and cursing.
“God’s my life, I’ve never sat a horse but once before.”
Simon heaved himself into the saddle behind Margaret, his strong arms about her, lifting her across the saddlebow.
“Cling tight,” he said, and smiled down at her. “To the south, and spur them on!” he commanded his men, and on the word his horse sprang forward.
It was not a moment too soon, for through the gate behind them came their pursuers, yelling in hideous discord. For a while they ran after the mounted men, but soon they realised the hopelessness of the chase, and turned back.
Simon looked over his shoulder.
“Gone to get horses, belike. Well, we are near the border, and a little while should see us out of this accursed land.” He looked across at Geoffrey, and laughed. “Geoffrey, this is the first time—and the last, please God—that I have turned my back on the enemy.”
“And the first time that thou hast lost thy head,” Geoffrey retorted. “I was so taken aback—after thy warning to me, too, that I should keep a cool brain! God’s my life, what will King Henry say?”
“He will say good riddance to a foul knave. Bear to the right, Santoy.”
Raoul’s palace stood but a league from the border, and soon they had crossed it, riding in close formation. Not until they were half a league into the neighbouring domain did Simon give the order to draw rein. Then they halted, while Simon slammed his sword home into the scabbard, and unstrapped his great green cloak from the saddle. This he threw over his shoulders, clasping it at the neck, and drew the heavy folds round him so that they covered the Lady Margaret, shielding her both from the cold wind and from curious eyes. He shifted her a little, so that she lay cradled in his left arm, held in an unyielding grip. Her late labours, the terror she had passed through, and the hardships she had endured during these last five days all told on her. While danger threatened and she had to take command of her emprise she bore up, shaking off fatigue, but now that Simon had come and swept all before him, the need for strength and watchfulness was gone. She lay limp in his arms, half-conscious, knowing herself safe at last. Too tired to realise—or, if she did realise, to care—that Simon was her hated foe, she nestled close against his hard armour, clutching his cloak with a little sigh of relief. Simon looked down at her, and saw that her eyes were shut. And something else he saw, which made the fierce light come into his eyes again. A red patch showed on the sleeve of her tunic. He turned his head, addressing Geoffrey, who was busy wrapping his Jeanne in a cloak.
“Geoffrey, she is wounded. I want linen.”
Jeanne started.
“Wounded? Margot? Oh, sir, is—is it deep?”
“Nay, I think not. Give me thy kerchief.”
Jeanne tore it away from her neck, handing it to him, and for a while Simon bent over his charge, slitting the sleeve of Margaret’s tunic with his dagger. The wound was above the elbow, and slight, but Margaret gave a little cry when Simon started to bind it tightly round. He paid no heed, but tied the bandage, and drew his cloak round her once more, so that she was entirely hidden.
“Art ready, Geoffrey?”
Geoffrey was kissing Jeanne at the moment, but he nodded, and they trotted forward briskly. He drew away from Simon, and looked down into the big eyes that surveyed him.
“Art—art thou—angered with me, Geoffrey?” Jeanne asked him.
“No,” he said simply. “I could not be.”
The eyes grew rounder.
“I—I thought thou wouldst be furious,” Jeanne said, just a little disappointed.
He shook his head.
“Nay, but I will take good care ye play me not such a trick again, sweetheart.”
This was better. Jeanne sighed.
“But how wilt thou prevent me?” she asked.
“I will wed thee,” Geoffrey said. “Then shalt thou see that I am a stern husband.”
Jeanne’s spirits were reviving fast. She dimpled.
“Thou wilt bear me, then, to the altar by force, sir.”
“If need be,” Geoffrey replied.
“Would—would you really?” she asked in keenest admiration.
“I would.”
“Then I shall hate thee,” Jeanne said severely.
He laughed.
“And make thy life a misery with my shrewish ways.”
“Thou wilt be punished, then,” Geoffrey said.
“How?”
He kissed her.
“Thus.”
“It is very grievous,” she said. “I do not think I could bear it.”
“Then it is thy life which will be a misery,” Geoffrey told her.
“In truth ye would make me your chattel,” she sighed. “It is very sad and ungallant. But English, no doubt! A barbarous race.”
“I will show thee how the English make love, sweet.”
“Oh, I can guess, sir. With a club. As Beauvallet will woo my mistress.”
“Beauvallet? Woo the Lady Margaret?” Geoffrey said incredulously. “Thy wits are wandering, Jeanne.”
“It is you that are just a great stupid man,” she replied scornfully. “I have seen it coming this many a day.”
“But Simon doth not—”
“If Simon loves not my lady, why did he slay Raoul?”
“I do not know. I—”
“That is very true,” Jeanne said firmly, and closed her eyes.
They rode on in silence then, but at noon they halted at a tavern. Both ladies were asleep, so their bearers carried them into the parlour. They did not wake until dinner was served, and even then Margaret was too worn-out to eat. She drank a little wine, but relapsed almost at once into heavy slumber.
An hour later they set out again, and rode steadily onward, not drawing rein again until dusk, when the gates of Belrémy loomed large ahead. They went through, and along the street to the castle. Jeanne woke then and stretched herself.
“Where are we?” she asked drowsily.
Geoffrey dismounted, holding her against his shoulder.
“Home, dear heart. See!”
“Ah, how good!” she exclaimed. “Set me down, Geoffrey. I will not be carried.”
He put her on her feet, turning to Simon and holding out his arms.
“Let me take her, lad.”
“Nay.” Simon’s arm tightened about Margaret’s sleeping form. He dismounted carefully, and strode into the castle.
There were several people in the hall. Alan, the Chevalier, and a big man who sat back in the shadow. Hélène too was there, and she ran forward.
“Thou hast my lady?” she cried, and would have drawn back the folds of Simon’s cloak.
He warded her off.
“Ay.”
Alan hurried forward.
“Already! Both, lad? Ah, Geoffrey!”
The Chevalier minced forward.
“Milor’, set my cousin down. It is not fitting that you should carry her thus. Her ladies will attend to her.”
“Out of my way,” Simon said curtly, and brushed past him to the stairs.
Margaret woke, pushing aside the cloak, and looking about her. She was flushed from sleep, and drowsy still.
“Home! Hélène!” She glanced up into Simon’s rugged face, and her eyelids fluttered.
“If you please—I will walk,” she said.
“I will carry thee to thy rooms,” Simon answered. “Lie still, madame.”
She remembered her boy’s clothing, and obeyed. Simon swung quickly up the stairs, Jeanne and Hélène at his heels.
A bevy of ladies swarmed about him, but he pushed by to the Countess’s chamber, laying her on the bed.
“Get her to bed,” he commanded. “One of you fetch the surgeon for her wound.” In his turn he was swept aside. The Lady Margaret’s ladies gathered about her, exclaiming and fondling. Simon went out, back to the great hall.
A bluff voice smote his ears.
“Now by the Rood, is that my Simon? God’s Body, what doth he with a maid in his arms? Ha, Simon, thou rogue! Come hither!” Fulk limped forward, hands outstretched.
“My lord!” Simon strode to meet him, and gripped his hands. “My dear lord!”
Fulk embraced him.
“My Simon—my lion-cub! I could not stay away. Fiend seize thee, thou hast grown again, or else I had forgotten thy great height. What a-God’s Name do ye in all this golden armour? Thou popinjay! My lad, my lad, kneel not to me!” For Simon had dropped on his knee. Fulk pulled him up. “Give me thy hand again! I have heard of thy prowess, lion-cub. And thou wert once my pert squire! Glory, glory, I never thought I should live to be proud of thee!” He held Simon at arm’s length, gazing at him. “Ay, ay, the same beetle-brows, and the same cold eyes. Turn to the light, silly boy! Now, by my troth, I do see a difference!”
Alan came to Simon’s side.
“Wert thou surprised? My lord did come yesterday, straight from the King.”
“I thought I dreamed,” Simon said. “How came ye to these shores, my lord?”
“Faith, in a boat, lad. There was I at home, fretting for news of ye both, which came not, and could bear it no longer. Since my lady died and my daughters are both wed, I must e’en be near one or other of you. So off went I to London to my cousin Granmere. Then went I to the King, and he sent me here. And since yesterday I have heard of naught save thy prowess, and how thou didst capture this place. Simon, Simon, it was well done! Would that I had been with thee, lad, but I am old and this accursed gout—well, well! What hath come to mine Alan? He left Montlice a silly boy, sighing and singing for his ladyloves, and here I find him a man at last, which I never thought to see him. Hast made a soldier of him, lad?”
Simon led him to a chair.
“Nay. King Hal calls him his poet, but he can lead an attack better than Geoffrey here, if he has a mind to it.”
Fulk turned to look at Malvallet, who stood apart, watching them. Up he struggled once more and stumped forward.
“Needs must I take thy hand, Sir Geoffrey,” he mumbled. “If thou wilt have it so. This is wartime, and there is no room for enmity between us two.”
Geoffrey bent the knee gracefully.
“I am only too well pleased to have it so, my lord,” he said. “For Simon, Alan and I are one.”
So they clasped hands, and Fulk sat down again with all three about him. The Chevalier had minced away some time ago, and Santoy had taken the wounded and very much shaken Ranaud to find a surgeon, so that they were alone. Fulk blew out his cheeks, looking proudly from Alan to Simon, and smiled a little at the glory of Simon’s armour.
“Well, I had heard of thy gilded armour, lad, but never till now have I seen thee in it. Thou coxcomb! And tell me, lion-cub, who was the lady whom ye bore in your arms?”
Simon rose, and glanced from one to the other of them. For a moment he was silent, and then the glimmering of a smile came into his green-blue eyes.
“That, my lord, is the lady whom I will one day take to wife,” he said deliberately.