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
