XII
How Simon Set Forth in Pursuit
He left Belrémy at noon on the day of the Lady Margaret’s flight, having set a vigilant guard about her cage. He had no suspicion that the bird had flown, so he went to Sal-de-lac in ignorance of how he had been tricked. Geoffrey was left in command of the castle, and there was much to be done, for which reason he did not, on that first day, miss Mademoiselle Jeanne. But when, on the second day, she neither emerged from Margaret’s chamber, nor received Geoffrey in the anteroom when he entered on his round of inspection, he felt aggrieved and ill-used. The Countess’s other ladies were there, chattering and sewing; one of them, Mademoiselle Hélène, who was a grave-eyed lady and in Margaret’s confidence, came forward to curtsey to him.
“The Lady Margaret, mademoiselle?” Geoffrey asked politely.
“Monsieur desires to speak with her?” Hélène said composedly. “Madame is suffering from a headache, but doubtless—”
“No, no!” Geoffrey made haste to say. “I will not disturb my lady.” He lingered a moment. “Mademoiselle Jeanne is—is with her?”
Knowing glances were exchanged, and one girl tittered. Geoffrey turned a dull red.
“Yes, monsieur,” Hélène answered.
Geoffrey withdrew, too shy to ask to see Jeanne. Not until the following day were his suspicions stirred, and then but slightly. It appeared that the Countess was still indisposed, and could not spare Jeanne from her side. Geoffrey retired, a little puzzled, and closely questioned the guards. Their answers were satisfactory, and he knew them to be honest, for they were Simon’s own men. Still his suspicions were not quite lulled to rest, and he determined, much as he dreaded the task, to see the Lady Margaret when he went again to her apartments that evening, whether she were abed or not. Simon, he knew, would feel no qualms at entering her bedchamber thus unceremoniously, but he was not fashioned of such stern and uncompromising stuff, and his chivalrous soul shrank from such unchivalrous behaviour.
He had just risen from dinner, some time before three in the afternoon, when Simon strode in, most unexpectedly.
“Why, lad!” Geoffrey cried. “I did not think to see thee before tomorrow!”
Simon tossed his cap on to the table.
“Nay. The business was speedily done. Something impelled me to return. I know not whether I am a fool or whether my instinct truly warned me of danger. Is aught amiss?”
“Naught. I—think there is naught amiss.”
Swiftly the lowering brows met over Simon’s hawk-nose. He shot Geoffrey his sudden, sword-like glance.
“Well?” The word was snapped, and Geoffrey laughed rather uneasily.
“I—Simon, I have felt restless in my mind all this day, but I think I am mistaken in my suspicions.”
“The Lady Margaret?”
“I have not seen her,” Geoffrey said reluctantly. “Yet she has not passed by thy guards. That I know. Her ladies say she hath the headache and keeps her chamber. That is all. Little enough, you’ll say. Jeanne too I have not seen.”
Simon threw off his cloak.
“Come with me now,” he said briefly, and strode to the stairway.
Up they went to the Countess’s apartments. Rigid guards presented arms, but Simon stayed not to question them. He knocked upon the door of the antechamber.
Hélène opened it, and cool-headed as she was, she changed colour when she saw Simon, and her eyelids flickered. It was a very thin sign of fear, but it did not escape Simon.
“The Lady Margaret is abed?” he asked.
“Yes, milor’,” Hélène answered.
“What ails her?”
“A grievous pain in her head, milor’. She desires to be quiet.”
“I shall not disturb her long,” Simon said. “She should see a physician.” He went into the room, and shot a quick glance around. Most of the ladies were unperturbed, for they knew nothing, but Amélie was white to the lips. It was enough for Simon. Without a word he stalked to the door which led into Margaret’s bedchamber.
There was a quick movement from behind him, and a rustle of skirts. Hélène slipped before the door, calm still, but pale.
“Milor’, this is an intrusion,” she said. “Madame cannot be disturbed thus.”
“Mademoiselle,” Simon answered harshly. “Your face betrays you. Stand aside.”
But she would not, backing against the door, arms outflung to guard it.
“My orders are to let none in, milor’.”
Simon laid a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Your loyalty is worthy of praise, mademoiselle, but ye cannot fool me. I will lift you out of my way, if you do not this instant stand aside.”
Hélène read the purpose in his eyes.
“Take your hand from my shoulder,” she said freezingly, and stepped to one side.
Simon entered the chamber, took one look, and came back into the anteroom.
“So. Madame is ill,” he said grimly.
Bewildered faces stared up at him, but Hélène stood proud and stiff, eyes cast down, and Amélie seemed to shrink into her chair. Unerringly Simon swooped upon these two.
“You, mademoiselle, and you, will follow me,” he said, and to Amélie his words rang out as a death-knell. She crept out in his wake, Hélène at her side, and the horrified, bewildered Geoffrey bringing up the rear.
Simon led the way to the room where he conducted all his business, and sat himself down at the table, judge-like, motioning the two women to stand before him.
“Mademoiselle Amélie, ye will answer me truthfully,” he said. “When, and how did the Lady Margaret escape from her room?”
Amélie sobbed and shrank against Hélène.
“I—I do not kn-know! I m-must not s-say!”
Simon’s voice grew harder.
“Mademoiselle, you will be wise to answer me now, of your own free will,” he warned her. “The Lady Margaret has escaped with Mademoiselle Jeanne. That I know, and that she escaped during mine absence. To leave this castle were impossible, unless she had a pass. Did she have one, or is she still within these walls?”
“I cannot, I cannot! Do not ask me! I—Oh, Hélène, help me!”
Hélène stepped forward.
“Amélie knows naught, milor’. You frighten her to no purpose. And if she knew—The Lady Margaret’s ladies do not easily betray their mistress.”
“They have done so easily enough, if she has left Belrémy,” Simon said. “Fool, do ye not know what perils lie in the path of two women, journeying over this country?”
Some strange note in his voice made Geoffrey look sharply at him. Simon heeded him not.
“I know what perils await her at your hands did I betray her,” Hélène answered bravely.
“Think you I avenge myself on women?” Simon sneered. “Ye know not Beauvallet. Speak now, for, by the Rood, I swear I will wring thy knowledge from thee by torture if need be.”
“And yet ye avenge not yourself on women.”
“No vengeance, mademoiselle. A means, which I should be loth to take.”
“Then know, sir, that my mistress is beyond the reach of your power.”
“She is dead then,” Simon replied. He turned again to Amélie. “Mademoiselle, there is as yet no need for thy tears, but if ye answer me not ye will weep tears of blood.”
Amélie shrieked, and began to implore his mercy.
Simon held up his hands.
“Listen, both of you! By Christ’s Wounds I do swear that no injury nor harshness shall befall the Lady Margaret at my hands. Now speak.”
“I dare not! Oh, I dare not!”
Simon rose.
“Then follow me yet again, mademoiselle.”
“Ah, no! Ah, no! I will speak! I promise I will speak the truth!” Amélie wailed, and would have fallen on her knees had not Geoffrey put her gently into a chair.
Simon sat down again.
“It is well for you, mademoiselle. When did the Lady Margaret escape?”
“The—the day—you went to Sal-de-lac. Before—very early in the morning.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed.
“I was still in the castle?”
“Yes—oh, yes! I—oh, God forgive me!”
“How passed she the guards without the castle?”
“It was Léon—his pass—she—oh, Hélène, Hélène!”
“Léon the page? Ay. I remember. How did she contrive to use his pass?”
“She—she went as a page. He gave—his clothes. And—and she wrote—‘and s-sister’ on the p-pass, so Jeanne—went with her.”
A low whistle of admiration came from Geoffrey.
“Oh, the Amazon!” he chuckled.
“Where went she?”
“To—to Turincel—to—to bring—my Lord Fernand—to—fight you.”
Simon smiled.
“Then that quest was vain. Turincel has submitted. Where next did she think to go?”
“I do not know. Indeed, indeed, I do not know!”
Simon was silent for a moment, frowning. Then he stood up.
“Ye may go. And Mademoiselle Hélène.”
Hélène paused.
“Milor’—what will you do?”
“Do! I will fetch her back, silly girl. How could ye let her go thus? God and the Devil know what may have befallen her!” He waited until she had withdrawn, and then he turned to Geoffrey. “Send me Santoy, Geoffrey, and five men of Beauvallet. See them armed and mounted, with two horses to spare.”
“Simon—think ye danger—”
Simon laughed shortly.
“I fear the worst. As I rode through this country I found it seething with rogues and footpads.”
Geoffrey paled.
“God! And Jeanne—Simon, I come with thee on this quest. It is my right.”
“As ye will. Wear thine armour. Send Alan to my room, he must rule here. The Chevalier is safe?”
“Ay. I think he knows naught.” Geoffrey swung out.
Within the hour they were riding out of Belrémy, black plumes and green side by side, bearing for Turincel. They reached it in the evening, but Simon went at once to the Castle, only to be told that Fernand de Turincel was abroad. The Captain of the Guard received Simon, and eyed him curiously, for the fame of his name and spread over France.
“Tell me,” Simon said curtly, “came there a pageboy to this castle within these last five days, with his sister, demanding to see Lord Fernand?”
“It may have been so, sir, but I know not. My men—”
“Will ye summon them, sir? The page was none other than my prisoner, the Countess of Belrémy.”
The captain stared.
“The—the—God’s life! If ye will follow me, milor’—?”
Simon clanked after him to the guardroom, and in a very short space the guards were drawn up before him.
“Came there a page and his sister to this castle lately?” the captain asked. “A page who desired to see my lord?”
The man who had rebuffed Margaret stepped forward.
“Ay, sir. A poor, betwitched lad, who said he was the Lady Margaret of Belrémy. There was a wench with him, and a roystering giant who would have offered violence when we denied them entrance.”
“A man?” Simon addressed him. “Are you sure?”
“Ay, sir. A great burly fellow with a red beard.”
Simon frowned.
“Know ye such an one, Geoffrey?”
Geoffrey shook his head.
“Not I. Tell me, good fellow, of what like was this page?”
“A pretty lad, sir, with black eyes and a hot temper.”
“It is she, beyond doubt,” Geoffrey said. “Saw ye which way they went?”
“Nay, sir. I—I did not think to look. I—”
“No matter.” Simon turned on his heel. “Sir Captain, I thank you for your courtesy. I have heard enough.”
“Milor’ Beauvallet, I but regret I can tell you no more. Stay! At what hour came the page?”
The man looked at his fellows.
“It—it was late, I think, sir. Close on four. But I cannot swear to it.”
“Then they slept in Turincel that night,” Simon said. “Your servant, sir. Come, Geoffrey.” He went out, the captain at his heels.
“Milor’, my master would wish me to do all in my power—”
“I thank you. I have but to scour the taverns of this town and that I can best do myself.”
“There are six, milor’. A guide—?”
Simon paused.
“You are very good, sir. A guide, if you please.”
One was brought swiftly, and the cavalcade set out once more in the waning light.
“Art very surly,” Geoffrey said. “They are surely in Turincel. Where else should they be?”
“The Lady Margaret is too obstinate to own herself vanquished so easily,” Simon answered. “She will have gone on again. Plague take the woman!”
The insignificant tavern by the gates was the fourth at which they called, and by that time Geoffrey had grown uneasy. The landlord at the tavern was loth to disclose what he knew, until Geoffrey tossed him a gold piece. Then his tongue wagged freely, and it transpired that he was guilty of listening at keyholes.
“They rested the night here, sir. A parlour they had, and I did serve supper therein, for the lad was weary or ill. He crouched in a chair, and methought he looked very sick. I—I did—chance—to hear that they purposed journeying to Vazincourt. The—the red-bearded fellow—a bellowing, roaring, bully, good sir!—did speak loud, and—and I did hear him say ‘Raoul the Terrible.’ Then there was some talk of danger in Raoul’s land, and indeed, sir, no man will lightly enter it, for Raoul is the Devil himself. I—I think they did purpose going through his land, for it is the quickest way to Vazincourt.”
“Raoul!” Geoffrey gripped Simon’s arm. “Thou dost remember? That squat man with the loose speech and evil eyes! Into his lands! My Jeanne! Simon, to horse!”
“Thy Jeanne? She hath not the beauty of Margaret! If Raoul see the Countess—God’s Death, what folly is hers?” He turned and would have gone out again to his horse, had not the guide put in a word.
“Sir, it were folly indeed to enter the Terrible’s domain now! What good will ye do at night? Rest here till morning, sir!”
Simon stopped.
“Ay. I had forgot.”
“Simon, Simon, do not waste time!” Geoffrey implored.
“We can do no good, as this man says. Pay him, Geoffrey; I will arrange with the landlord.” He went into the tavern again.
Over supper they discussed the situation, Geoffrey in agitation but Simon calmly.
“If he has taken them prisoner he would not harm them. He is more like to sell them to me. He will not offend us. Ye remember how he came to submit when first we landed? Faugh!”
“Simon, thou dost not know! Much have I heard of this man. Not for nothing is he called the Terrible, and women—women are his pastime.”
“If he thinks to make a pastime of these women—” Simon broke off, but his eyes smouldered. “I will ride first to his castle. If they are not there—I will scour the land. It may be that they passed through unharmed. And yet—something warns me of danger. That red-bearded man … who could he be?”
“God knows. A rogue.”
“Yet he went with them. Therefore he sought not to rob, for that could he have done here. The Lady Margaret commands men’s loyalty and service, I think. God grant this one be true.”
“Thou art very anxious for the Lady Margaret,” Geoffrey remarked, but he was too worried to laugh or jibe at Simon.
“I am responsible for her to the King,” Simon said shortly.
They rode next day into Raoul’s lands, but although King Henry’s warrant, which Simon bore with him, gained them fearful respect, they could discover nothing. Ranaud had been careful to eschew high-roads, and Raoul’s domain was large. The tracks seemed lost, so Simon branched off to the north, deserting the route to Vazincourt, and riding towards Raoul’s stronghold.
“If he hath not taken her, I must have his aid,” Simon told Geoffrey. “Whiles we ride on to Vazincourt, Raoul must search within his own land. He dare not refuse me, for he is afraid for his peace. Ye remember his bearing when he came to the King?”
“Ay, and I would not trust him.”
“In this I can trust him, for he is a coward, and he would sell his soul to keep King Henry away.”
Raoul’s castle lay some miles to the north, and so bad was the road that it was close on five in the evening when they came to it. A stir was caused by their arrival, but a cringing chamberlain assured them that his lord was away at his palace in the south, where he hunted that week.
An oath escaped Geoffrey, for this meant that they had ridden a day’s journey out of their way. A storm was brewing, and they had not covered many miles on their return journey when it burst above their heads in such fury that Simon was forced to halt at the first village they came to, to take shelter for the night.
They were up betimes next morning, and rode on again in the calm weather that follows a storm. Shortly after eight they found themselves once more on the road that led to Vazincourt, and on inquiry of a peasant which was the way to Raoul’s hunting-lodge, were bidden to cut through the woods that flanked the road on one side, and to bear on to the southwest.
Picking their way, they pushed into the wood along the same path which Margaret and her companions had trodden the day before. Slowly they went, and carefully, for the low-hanging tree branches impeded their passage.
Suddenly Simon exclaimed, and reined in his horse. Startled, Geoffrey followed his gaze. By a clear stream lay a cloak, sodden with rain. Side by side he and Simon sped forward, and dismounted. Simon caught up the cloak, shaking it out. It was of a length to suit a boy, made of plain but rich stuff. Simon wheeled about, looking about him keenly.
“Ah!” Quickly he went forward to the bush through which Margaret and Ranaud had plunged when they raced to Jeanne’s rescue. “That was not done by the storm!” Simon said, and pointed to the broken branches. “Some large body forced its way through. Did they not say the red-beard was a giant?”
“Through! Through!” Geoffrey said hoarsely, and dived in.
Simon followed him, and they came upon the cutting at the end of which Raoul had captured Jeanne. With one accord the two men strode down it, and presently came to where Margaret’s dagger lay. Simon pounced upon it.
“There has been a struggle. See! Hoof marks!” He pointed to the trampled ground, and Geoffrey saw the muscles about his jaw stand out in anger. “Out on his hunt, belike, and found them. Two women. ’Twas good enough. By God, if harm has been done to either he will dearly rue the day! Come!”
“Simon, that devil with my Jeanne! My little, little Jeanne!” Geoffrey hurried after him, back to where their men waited.
Through the wood they went, and out on to the open. A rough track plainly showed the way to the palace, and they rode down it at a brisk canter.
“I command thee, Geoffrey, keep thy head! Raoul will give them up, but we are eight men to their hundreds, and we must go cautiously to work. I go as an envoy from King Henry. It should be simple.”
“If he has hurt Jeanne—”
“If he hath discovered that the page is none other than Margaret of Belrémy, he will seek to sell her, methinks. He will not harm them, unless he is a fool.”
Geoffrey said nothing, but he compressed his lips in disbelief. Presently the palace came into view, and a few minutes later they halted before it. Simon turned to Walter of Santoy.
“Walter, Sir Geoffrey and I enter alone. Do you hold the horses here, in readiness. Stir not until I come. No danger awaits us, for I go as an envoy.” He dismounted and gave his horse into Walter’s care. Together he and Geoffrey went to the great door of the palace, and knocked upon it loudly.
A lackey opened it, but fell back when he saw the two armour-clad figures who stood there so menacingly.
Simon showed his warrant.
“I am Simon of Beauvallet, and I come with a message from King Henry to your master. Lead me to him, sirrah!”
“Lord Simon!” The man crossed himself. “My master is—is—occupied. I doubt—”
“Knave!” thundered Simon. “Do ye deny the King’s messenger ingress? Lord Raoul knows that I come. Lead me to him!”
Too nervous and startled to reflect that his master had not warned his household of a messenger’s advent, the lackey ushered them in, and called forward the steward who thought it politic to placate this wrathful man in golden armour. Accordingly he backed before Simon, bowing low, and conducted him up the stairs to the room where Raoul sat, with his three prisoners. He flung wide the door and announced the Lord of Beauvallet in the name of King Henry of England.