Geoffrey picked up his cap.
“Thou’lt not ride in thyself?”
“Nay, there is work for me here. Take what arms ye find, Geoffrey, and keep the court under close surveillance. I would confine the Chevalier, but that he submitted. Watch him. I will come later. Take Master Hubert for Alan,” he added. “I trust not their French leech.”
Geoffrey lounged out, yawning.
“Heigh-ho! When shall we be quit of this troublesome town, I wonder?” At the door he paused, and looked back at Simon.
“She is lovely enow, lad, but I like not that termagant beauty.”
Simon drew the ink-horn towards him.
“Lovely? Oh, ay!”
“Thou hadst not remarked it?” An impish smile danced across Geoffrey’s mouth. “Take heed lest she slight thee for Alan.”
Simon’s hand travelled slowly across the paper. He laughed.
“Holy Virgin! She would kill Alan with but a look. She will kill me an I watch her not.”
“And dost thou admire the tigress, my brother?”
“Not I.” He paused in his writing. “She is very brave,” he added reflectively.
“She would have slain thee foully,” Geoffrey said solemnly.
“Ay. She is a woman. Get thee gone, Geoffrey, and summon thy men.”
“Oh, I go, I go! I leave thee to dream of thine Amazon.”
Simon smiled.
“Ye leave me to quarter my men,” he said.
VI
How the Lady Margaret Could Not Stab Him
The Lady Margaret sat on a raised dais, looking out of the window on to the bleak gardens of her castle. A fire burned at the far end of the chamber, and by it were gathered some four or five of her ladies, chattering together, and stitching at a length of canvas. The Lady Margaret sat with head averted and resting on her slender hand. She was dressed all in dull yellow, and her black hair lay over her shoulders in two great braids. A gold net covered her head and hung down to below her knees. Presently she sighed, and turned impatiently.
“Get ye gone, get ye gone!” she commanded petulantly. “Your silly chattering goes through my head. Jeanne, stay with me.”
The ladies departed softly, taking their work with them. The little lady who had smiled upon Geoffrey that day in the justice-house seated herself by the table, and looked up at her mistress gravely.
Margaret plucked nervously at her gown with fingers that quivered. Her delicate nostrils were a little dilated, and the long black eyes were troubled.
“Ay, thou art calm!” she said suddenly, and turned fiercely upon her companion. “Tell me how I may detest this English bully!”
Jeanne folded her hands. A smile hovered about her mouth as she answered.
“Why, Margot, it seems that he is—a man.”
“What mean you? A man! Ay, and an uncouth boor!”
“But still a man,” nodded Jeanne de Faucourt. “He hath thy measure, Margot, chérie.”
“Ye think he will vanquish me? Ye think that?”
“Why, I know not! Perchance. For till now thou hast known no man.”
Margaret sprang up and came down from the dais.
“Oh, ay, ay! Thou art at one with this bully! Geoffrey of Malvallet hath bewitched thee!”
Jeanne went a rosy red.
“Nay, madame!”
The Countess laughed angrily.
“Think ye I have no eyes? An Englishman! Thou!”
“He—he is very courtly, Margot,” Jeanne pleaded.
“Very courtly! To march into my domain, disarming my servants, wassailing in my hall at Christmastide! Oh, he charms thine ears with compliments, I make no doubt! Soon ye will desert me entirely!”
“Madame!” Jeanne rose, trembling.
Margaret ran to her, and caught her in her arms.
“Nay, I meant it not! I—I am distraught with trouble! Jeanne, I did not say it! It was not me!”
Jeanne thrust her gently into a chair, bending over her and stroking her hands.
“Poor Margot! Poor Margot!” she crooned and drew the proud head to rest on her shoulder.
Margaret clung to her, sobbing for a space, but soon she disengaged herself and dashed her hand across her eyes.
“Cry! I! I—I have seldom done that, Jeannette.”
“Thou art too warlike,” Jeanne chided her, and knelt by the chair. “Margot, Margot, make thy submission! To what avail this tilting against Lord Simon? He hath the advantage of thee in that he is a man, and holds thy lands beyond recall. Be wise, mignonne! Be wise!”
“If I could but escape!” Margaret fretted. “If I could but reach Turincel!”
“Turincel! Why, chérie, it is ten leagues distant!”
“What matter? If I could reach it, Fernand de Turincel would aid me! Aid me to throw this Beauvallet out of my land!”
“Yes, Margot, yes, but thou canst not escape, and thou canst not journey ten leagues alone.”
Up went the dark head.
“Ay, but that could I! Why, Jeanne, hast forgotten my strength?”
“But thou art a woman, chérie,” Jeanne said gently.
“An Amazon!” Margaret came to her feet, eyes flashing. “He calls me that, the English tyrant! Well, I will show him what an Amazon can do!”
Jeanne sat back on her heels, staring meditatively into the fire.
“He is a strange man, this Lord of Beauvallet,” she remarked. “His men do worship him, yet he is stern and silent. And he is tender with the children.”
“Tender with the children? He would have slain them!”
“Sir Geoffrey told me, no. He is half-brother to Lord Simon, and he says that if any man maltreat a child, Lord Simon’s hand is heavy upon that man.”
“Lies, lies! He is cruel, I tell thee! Cruel!”
“Nay, he hath treated thee fairly, Margot.”
The Countess swung round to face her, bosom heaving.
“Thou dost think that? What of this scar I bear upon my breast? Thou didst see him press his sword into my flesh! What of this bruise on my wrist? It is three weeks now since he gripped my arm, but still I bear the marks of his fingers!”
Jeanne looked up at her mistress.
“I think that scar will always remain,” she said pensively.
“Ay! And so shall I always remember! I will not rest until I have avenged myself! Jeanne, Jeanne, have ye forgotten how he used me, under the eyes of mine own people? Have
