IV
How He Saw the Lady Margaret
By noon he had brought some semblance of order into Belrémy and had held a long parley with the sheriff. The usual proclamations were posted up, in the King’s name, promising fair treatment and protection to all who would swear allegiance to Henry. For the most part the townsfolk availed themselves of this clemency, for they were tired of the long siege, and anxious to revictual the town. Simon’s men were stationed round the town and in it, and at length he had leisure to consider Alan’s predicament. It was rumoured that Montlice was first wounded, and then overcome by the Lady Margaret’s men-at-arms.
“Simon, thou’lt rescue him?” Geoffrey said anxiously. They were in the justice-house, which Simon had made his temporary headquarters.
“Ay,” Simon answered. “She will look to hold him as hostage, but I have her in a vice. I hold her uncle prisoner.”
“Her uncle? He fought this morning?”
“He is her Marshal. The Sire de Galledemaine. Huntingdon took him. Bernard, bring thy quill, and parchment.”
The secretary collected them, and sat waiting for further orders.
“Write,” Simon said slowly. “ ‘To the Lady Margaret of Belrémy. In the name of His Most Gracious Majesty, King Henry the Fifth of England and France, I, Simon of Beauvallet, command that ye surrender the keys of the Castle of Belrémy within the hour, swearing fealty to His Majesty King Henry, and delivering the knight, Sir Alan of Montlice, into my hands.’ Thou hast that?”
“Ay, my lord.”
“Dispatch it by my herald at once, then, and bid him await the lady’s answer.”
“What folly is this?” Malvallet asked, when Talmayne had withdrawn. “She will laugh at thy message.”
“Perchance. It is my formal command. If she laughs now, she will weep later.”
The herald returned within the hour, and knelt to give Simon the Lady Margaret’s packet.
Simon broke the seals and spread the crackling parchment sheets before him. Over his shoulder Geoffrey read:
“To Simon of Beauvallet.
“If ye depart not from this my city within the space of twelve hours, surrendering the keys unto Ferdinand de Valmé, my Sheriff, the knight, Sir Alan of Montlice, swings from the ramparts in thy sight.
Geoffrey let fly a great oath, and clapped his hand to his sword-hilt.
“Thou wilt storm the place, Simon?”
Simon smiled.
“Nay. That would surely bring death to Alan, thou hothead. Write again, Bernard: ‘If my commands be not obeyed, I, Simon of Beauvallet, do swear by the Rood and by all the blessed Saints that the Marshal, Jean de Galledemaine, dies before the Castle of Belrémy with the other prisoners in my hold, and every third breadwinner of this town. And further if any harm be done unto the knight, Sir Alan of Montlice, I do swear by God that I will raze this city to the ground, slaying all who dwell therein and sparing neither woman nor child. And that ye may see that I swear it not idly, six of the children will I slay before the castle if ye surrender not at once.’ ”
Malvallet laughed.
“Oh, ay! With thine own hand, belike!”
“It will not come to that,” Simon answered. He waited until Bernard had sealed the parchment and given it to him. He handed it to the herald. “If the Lady Margaret should speak with thee, asking what manner of man I may be, thou wilt tell her that what I say I will do, I do. Thou didst deliver mine other message into her hands?”
“Ay, my lord.”
“She spake not?”
“Nay, sir. She withdrew with her gentlemen, and was closely veiled.”
Simon nodded.
“Go then.”
When the herald returned again it was with a verbal message.
“ ‘Tell my lord of Beauvallet,’ ” he recited, “ ‘that the Lady Margaret, Countess of Belrémy, will treat with him within her castle of Belrémy if he comes alone, and under the laws of truce.’ ”
“Thou’lt not go alone into that trap!” Geoffrey exclaimed.
“No trap is it,” Simon said.
“What! Thou wilt trust to a woman’s honour?”
“Nay.” Simon smiled unpleasantly. “She dare not harm me, or detain me. If I return not within the hour lead out the Sire de Galledemaine, and slay him before the castle. Then if I still make no sign, thou mayst sack the town, to show that I lied not, and storm the castle, for I shall be dead.”
“What dost thou propose?” Geoffrey asked curiously. “Once within her stronghold thou art lost.”
Simon laughed.
“Am I so? Once within the castle, and I may crush the she-devil at will.” He rose. “Thou art lord in mine absence, Geoffrey, but look to it that ye obey mine orders.” He went out to his own quarters, where he found Cedric resting on his pallet, relating his glorious adventures to Edmund, who listened curiously, drinking in every word. When Simon came in, they both started up.
Simon looked Cedric over keenly.
“Thou wert wounded?”
“It is naught, sir,” Cedric blushed. His arm lay in a sling.
“The surgeon hath seen to it?”
The boy fidgeted.
“Nay, my lord. I asked him not, for he was busy with others, and indeed my wound is trifling.”
Simon went to him and unbound his arm. An ugly flesh wound met his eye, which still bled sluggishly.
“Fetch me water and clean linen,” Simon ordered briefly, and Edmund ran out. He came back with the water, and watched his lord wash Cedric’s wound quickly and deftly. Simon bound it up again, and Cedric’s teeth slowly unclenched. He was rather pale, for Simon’s methods were rough and ready.
“Get thee to bed,” Simon said, “and stay there. Edmund, bring mine armour. Ye have cleaned it?”
“Ay, my lord.”
“Fetch it then, and get thee ready. I go to the castle.”
Cedric, who had retired to his pallet, raised himself on one elbow.
“My lord!”
The hard eyes looked down upon him coldly.
“Well?”
“Take—take me!”
“Edmund goes with me. Lie thou still.”
“But, sir!—”
“It shall be thy punishment for defying me today,” Simon said inexorably.
“Oh, my lord, no! I cannot let ye go to the castle without—”
“Let? Let? What is this talk? Thou wilt be silent, Cedric, an ye desire not my displeasure.”
Cedric’s eyes filled with tears.
“My lord, punish me how you will, but take me with you now! If—if aught should befall you—”
“What help could ye give me?” Simon said scathingly.
Cedric plucked at his blanket with trembling fingers.
“I—I should—at least be—with you. If—if ye should be slain, I—I—”
“Ye will have learned a lesson. I am not lightly defied, Cedric.”
The boy turned his face to the wall without another word. Not until Simon was fully clad in his shining armour, did he speak again, and then it was to Edmund, who stood preening himself in his green-and-russet dress.
“If harm comes to my lord, I will beat thee senseless!” he whispered savagely.
Simon strode out, an amused glint in his eyes.
He rode through the town with Edmund close behind him, and came quickly to the castle. The bridge was let down for them, and they went across at a walk-pace. In the courtyard Simon dismounted and gave his horse into Edmund’s charge. Unattended, he followed the steward into the castle.
The great hall was empty, and the steward led Simon across it, to the Countess’s audience-chamber. He swung back the curtain, and sonorously announced, “My Lord of Beauvallet!”
Simon entered, stepping firmly, yet panther-like. Within the room he paused, hand upon his sword-hilt, and sent a swift glance round.
Upon a dais, seated on a throne-like chair, was the Lady Margaret, like a pillar of ice. Her regal head, crowned by a cloud of black locks, and a great horned headdress, from which hung a veil of gold net, pearl embroidered, was held high. Not a muscle in her long white throat quivered; her face was mask-like, oval and pale, with thin, disdainful lips, and black eyes that shone between lowered lids. The lashes, long and curling, seemed to cast a shadow on the perfect skin beneath them. Her nose was short and straight, the nostrils finely carved, and slightly pinched. She was clad in a gown of wine-red silk, which moulded itself to her superb form, showing the swell of her breasts, and the long line to her hips. It fell about her feet in a great train, hiding them, and clung close to her rounded arms till it widened at the wrists in huge sleeves which brushed the ground as she walked. Her white hands lay along the arms of her chair, the nervous fingers gripping the carved wood tensely. On her bosom a great ruby glowed, the only living thing about her.
Beside her stood a dark gentleman, foppishly clad, who regarded Simon with a faint sneer upon his full lips. He twirled a rose between his fingers, and raised it to his nose now and again. Other gentlemen were scattered about the room, all in court-dress, and all watching Simon curiously. Behind the Countess stood three of her ladies, still as was their mistress.
Simon walked forward deliberately. He seemed to tower above the men present, an incongruous figure in the midst of this elegant assembly, Saxon-fair, and all in gold save for his waving plumes, and long green surcoat. Before the dais he halted, and glanced calmly at the Countess from beneath his helm.
“Madame,” he said in blunt French, “I am here to receive your submission.”
The haughty lips curved in a pitying smile. The Countess made a gesture with her right hand, and the foppish gentleman stepped forward. He answered Simon in lisping English.
“You are a leetle brusque, milor’, is it not so? Madame my cousin desires to make terms with you.”
“My terms are these,” Simon said, addressing her. “If ye do surrender unto me the keys of this castle, and do swear fealty to my master, King Henry”—he raised his hand to his helm a moment—“I can offer you his gracious protection and clemency.”
A pulse on her temple throbbed angrily.
“My cousin,” she said, also in English, “tell him that it is for me to make terms.” Her voice was clear and cold. She did not look at Simon.
The dapper gentleman seemed to deprecate this harshness.
“Ah, oui! You will agree, milor’, that Madame la Comtesse is in a more fit position to treat than are you.”
Simon’s mouth was grim.
“Nay, sir. I cannot agree. I hold Madame and you all in a vice.”
The Frenchman smiled.
“Aha?” He raised the rose gracefully. “One man against—shall we say five score?”
Simon shot him that rapier-glance, and despite his effrontery, the Frenchman involuntarily stepped back.
“I came under the laws of truce,” Simon said harshly.
The Chevalier de Fleurival recovered himself. He raised his shoulders nonchalantly.
“In times of stress, milor’ … eh bien! You walked in so—so—without guile, is it not so?”
“And if I walk not out within the hour, the Sire de Galledemaine dies before your gates.”
The Chevalier paled a little, but still he smiled.
“So you think, milor’, to take this castle single-handed?”
“Within the hour.”
“Est-ce possible?” The Chevalier laughed gently. “My father, the Sire de Galledemaine, is old, milor’. Death comes easily to the old.”
“And to the young.” The words fell heavily, and again the Countess stirred in her chair.
“That foolish threat!” The Chevalier shook with supercilious merriment. “We are not fools, milor’.”
“If ye surrender not this castle, and Sir Alan of Montlice, then will ye indeed be fools,” Simon said calmly. “Ye will see my soldiers burn Belrémy to the ground, and slay all those who dwell therein. I threaten not.”
The Chevalier smelt his rose delicately. Over it, his eyes never left Simon’s face.
“But if, milor’, you are dead, to what avail? I have heard such threats before.”
Simon smiled.
“Ye know not me, sir, if ye think my captains obey not my word, whether I am quick or dead.”
“Yes? But ye grow discourteous, milor’. Be sure the Comtesse desires not your life. Her terms are that if ye will withdraw your men from Belrémy, swearing never to return, she will deliver Sir Alan of Montlice into your care as soon as ye have left the town.”
“I thank Madame la Comtesse!” Simon’s voice grated. “But she is overproud, methinks.”
“In a word, milor’, you refuse?”
“I ignore.”
The clear voice from the throne spoke again.
“Tell him, my cousin, to consider well. If he refuse my terms, then will I send to dispatch Sir Alan of Montlice right speedily, and will send him the same road.”
Simon stood silent, and a gleam of triumph came into the Chevalier’s eyes.
“That gives food for thought, milor’?”
Simon heeded him not, but looked at the Lady Margaret.
“That is your last word, madame?”
“My last word,” she answered.
Then Simon moved. In a flash he had torn his sword from the scabbard and was upon the dais, holding the weapon shortened, the point touching the Countess’s white breast.
There was a horrified cry; the men sprang forward, but stopped short as Simon drew his arm back to thrust. His left hand gripped the Countess’s wrist; he looked over his shoulder at the room.
“One step more, and your mistress dies,” he said softly. “The truce is at an end.”
The Countess sat rigid, braving Simon with her dark eyes. The Chevalier had dropped his rose. He spoke uncertainly, ashen-cheeked.
“Milor’, milor’! One does not offer violence to a lady.”
“But a she-devil one burns,” Simon barked, “as I will burn this Amazon if I find not Sir Alan, alive and unhurt.”
A shudder went through the Chevalier; one of the ladies-in-waiting started to sob wildly.
Simon looked down into the proud face that defied him so bravely.
“Those six children, madame, my captain holds in safe custody,” he said. “Ye shall see them die.”
Her eyelids flickered uncontrollably, and he saw the muscles of her throat contract.
“You would not dare!”
Simon laughed.
“An ye fail to order your men to submit, madame, ye will see how much I dare.”
“Cur!” She spat the word at him, breathing short and fast. “Ye would kill babes? Cur that ye are!”
“Nay, ’tis you who will kill them, madame.”
Her fingers clenched together.
“I will first kill Sir Alan of Montlice!” she flashed, and turned her head. “Go, Henri de Malincourt! Slay me this English Alan!”
“Ay, go,” Simon said, and brought his sword to her breast. Under its point a tiny red speck appeared, but the Countess flinched not. Only she stamped her foot.
“Go, I say!”
One man stepped forward a pace.
“Madame, I dare not,” he said humbly.
“Craven! Will not one of you do my bidding? Call me not mistress again if ye defy me now!”
The Chevalier raised one shaking hand.
“Let no man stir. Milor’, this is between men. Release my cousin.”
Simon’s hold on the lady’s wrist tightened till she bit her lip with the pain of it.
“Bid thy men swear before God to submit themselves,” he said.
Her teeth were tightly clenched.
“Thou shalt slay me first!”
Tighter and tighter grew his hold on her arm.
“And thy people?—the children of Belrémy?”
For a long minute she glared up into his strange eyes, but try as she might she could not read his mind.
“Ye seek to force me to yield through pity!”
“God wot, not I! Hast thou any, thou breaker of truces?”
Again she spoke to the men who stood rooted to the ground before her.
“Ye are ten to his one! Think ye he would dare to slay me? On to him, I command!”
A little deeper pressed the sword, and the red speck grew. Simon smiled grimly down upon his foes.
The Chevalier’s eyes shifted from face to face; all the smiling insolence had gone out of them. They came at last to his cousin. His mouth worked a little.
“Cousin, thou must yield! I implore thee, be not foolhardy!”
“Ye would be wise to listen to your cousin,” Simon said. “I will give ye one minute, and then I will strike home.”
“Thus you seal your own doom!” she cried. “Once I am sped, there are ten men ready to fall upon thee!”
“It matters not,” Simon said. “If I die no Frenchman will live in this town by sunrise tomorrow. The minute passes, madame. Think well.”
“Cousin, thou art distraught! I stand as regent during thy madness. Is there a man here will refuse to recognise me as lord?”
A low murmur of approval went up.
“Then I submit, milor’, in the name of the Countess Margaret.”
The Countess lashed round in her chair.
“Ah, never!” she cried, and would have flung herself upon Simon’s sword, had he not drawn it swiftly back. He bowed slightly to the Chevalier.
“Ye do swear before God to offer no violence nor obstruction either now, or later?”
The Chevalier was biting his nails, seeking feverishly for some outlet. He sent Simon a look of hatred.
“I swear before God to offer no violence nor obstruction now or later.”
“And for thy men?”
“And for my men.”
“Good.” Simon jerked the Countess to her feet. “Ye will lead me now, madame, to Sir Alan of Montlice. These gentlemen will go before.”
“Milor’!” The Chevalier was livid with rage. “Is that necessary? Unhand my cousin! You have mine oath!”
“I would sooner have thy cousin, for thus shall I also have thine oath,” Simon answered.
The Chevalier quivered with outraged dignity.
“It seems ye trust us not, sir!”
The green-blue eyes narrowed.
“Fair sir, were I a fool, then should I trust to your word. I am not a fool.”
The Chevalier’s hand flew to his sword-hilt.
“Ye shall answer to me for that insult!” he choked.
Simon spoke sternly.
“When I entered this place, sir, I entered it alone, as the Countess desired, under the laws of truce. Those were her words. But once within these portals it pleased the Countess, and ye all, to forget the laws of truce. Ye did threaten me with violence, who had come to treat. I fight clean, sir, when I may, but I choose my foe’s weapons, and when the foe seeks to fight me foully, why, then, the time for chivalry is past. Lead on, Sir Chevalier.”
The Chevalier went blindly to the door, and the courtiers followed him, one by one. Last of all came Simon, holding the Countess a little before him. She struggled once, striking up at his face with her free hand, but Simon forced her onward. She went proudly then, her head held high, carrying herself with queenly dignity, her skirts sweeping behind her.
Out into the great hall they went, past startled menials, to the narrow stairway. The Countess went forward, for two could not walk abreast, and Simon had released her. Up they went to a room in the tower. There Simon took her wrist in his hold again, and as she winced, loosened his clasp a little.
Alan lay upon a couch beneath the narrow window; he was resting on his elbow, and his head was supported in his hand. A bandage crossed his forehead, and one arm was in a sling. He glanced up as the cavalcade came in, and his lips set firmly.
“So my Lord of Beauvallet would not yield?” he said faintly. “Ye were all so certain!” He laughed, and withal his weakness there was a ring of pride in his voice. “Beauvallet is made of sterner stuff, and well he knows that life to me, under thy conditions, is disgrace!”
Then Simon clanked in, and Alan gave a great start.
“Simon!” A look of horror came into his wan face. “Ah, no, Simon! Not thou! Death were easier!”
“Didst thou think that I would leave thee to die?” Simon asked him gently. “I hold this castle—alone.”
Alan sank back against his pillows. A laugh shook him.
“Oh, thou indomitable one!” he chuckled. “I doubted thee not until this moment! Geoffrey is safe?”
“Ah. I came but to see that thou wert alive, and well-tended. I go now, and the Lady Margaret goes with me, as hostage for thy safety.”
“Ah no, by God!” the Chevalier exploded. “Would ye put my cousin to this shame?”
“Oh, brave to war on women!” the Countess snapped. “Do with me as ye will, but take heed lest I strike thee one day when thou art grown careless! Thou shalt pay in full, I swear!”
“Whither go ye, Simon lad?” Alan asked.
“To Malvallet. If I return not, he will sack the town. I shall come again with my men, never fear. Thou art safe, for if harm befall thee, the Lady Margaret dies by my sword.”
The Countess drew herself up. Her bosom rose and fell quickly. Full into Simon’s eyes she looked, her own blazing with anger.
“I will not rest until I have avenged myself,” she said very quietly. “Thou English beast!”