“Nay, none knew thee, and he said naught.”
Up and down the room paced my lady, lashing herself into fury.
“Would that I had slain his Alan! Thus should I have hurt him! Ay, to the quick! Ah, why did I seek to treat with him?”
“Ye could not have slain Sir Alan. Ye do know that, Margot.”
“That could I! It was his threat that persuaded me! An empty threat, thou sayst! I would I had laughed at it.”
“He would have found another way,” Jeanne said slowly. “He is not easily worsted, Margot.”
“We will see!” The black eyes narrowed. “She-devil, he called me!”
A soft knock fell on the door. Jeanne rose to admit the Chevalier. Instantly Margaret’s passion left her. The colour died out of her cheeks, and her mouth took on its haughty curve.
The Chevalier came bowling into the room.
“Sweet cousin, thou art well?”
“Well enough. What want ye, Victor?”
“Always so cold!” he languished. He watched Jeanne withdraw to the window, and came closer to his cousin. “The English bear grows careless, methinks. He sits writing in the hall with none to guard his back. For once his faithful squire is absent.”
She was indifferent, moving away from him.
“I brought thee this, Margot,” the Chevalier said softly. Into her hand he slid a dagger with a jewelled hilt.
Her lip curled.
“What would ye have me do with it?” She tossed it on to the table.
“Make thyself mistress yet again,” he answered, watching her.
“Stab him in the back? Pah!”
The Chevalier shrugged, spreading out his hands.
“A woman ’gainst a man. What matter?”
She drew herself up, looking scorn upon him.
“Ye grow noisome, Victor. Stab him thyself, if thou wilt.”
“Oh, I have submitted!” the Chevalier said nonchalantly. “Else would I surely stab him, and rid this land of his tyranny.” He paused, and shot her a sidelong look. “Thou wert not always so nice, sweet Margot. Perchance thou durst not essay this venture?”
That stung her.
“Durst not! Do ye think I fear Simon of Beauvallet?”
“He is very ruthless,” the Chevalier answered. “But a quick stroke from behind. …”
“Ah, you sicken me!” she cried. “If I slay him ’twill not be from behind! Get thee gone from my room!”
The Chevalier walked mincingly to the door. He paused by the table as if to pick up the dagger.
“Leave it!” Margaret said sharply.
When he had gone, she swept to the table and hid the dagger in the bottom of her dress.
“I would be alone, Jeanne.”
Jeanne rose, and without a word left the room. The door closed behind her, and once again the Lady Margaret fell to pacing the floor. At length she stopped, and drew the dagger from its hiding-place. Then, gathering her skirts close about her, so that they made no sound, she went to the door, and opened it. Before her the stone stairs led down to the great hall. Tiptoeing she approached them, and slowly descended.
In the middle of the hall Simon sat, his back turned towards her, writing. The scratching of his quill on the parchment was the only sound to be heard. He wore no armour, and his back was fair mark for an assassin’s dagger.
The Lady Margaret paused on the bottom step, hardly daring to breathe. Cautiously she stepped down, her little, soft-slippered foot making no sound on the stone floor. Inch by inch she went forward, never taking her eyes from that fair head, her dagger held ready. She meant to creep up to him and to strike him above the heart before he could save himself. Her lips were slightly parted, but her hand was steady, despite the wild beating of her heart. Nearer and nearer she approached until she was but three paces from him.
Simon’s hand travelled to and fro across the parchment. He did not lift his head. The silence seemed to grow, and still the Lady Margaret crept on. Then Simon spoke, his voice deep and calm.
“Strike where the neck joins the shoulder, my lady,” he said, and went on writing.
The Lady Margaret started back, letting fall her skirts. Her hand flew to her cheek, and now it was trembling. Her face went white, and her eyes dilated. Of a sudden she had grown cold, and her knees threatened to give way.
Simon signed his name elaborately, and sprinkled sand over the parchment. Then, and then only, did he rise and face the Countess.
“Well, why do ye not strike?” he asked her. “I wear no shirt of mail, and I have told ye how to stab. Art thou afraid?” Then, as she did not answer, nor move, he strode forward under her petrified gaze, and folded his arms. “Strike, Margaret of Belrémy.”
With a great effort she pulled herself together, setting her teeth. She lifted her dagger, her eyes riveted on his, but still she did not strike.
“Thy hand trembles,” Simon jibed. He stretched out his arm, and closed his fingers round her wrist. “Here,” he said, and brought her hand to his neck, so that the dagger pricked his tunic. “Push home, my lady.”
“Loose me!” she whispered. “Loose me!”
Simon laughed, releasing her hand. Quickly she stepped back, stumbling over her train. The dagger tinkled to the ground.
“I—I—oh, one day I will do it!”
“Thou wilt never do it now, lady. The time is past, and thy courage forsook thee.”
“No!”
“What then?”
“Oh, ye are a devil! a devil! How heard ye mine approach?”
Again he laughed.
“I heard ye not.”
She stared, hands clasped at her breast. Simon looked her over.
“Think ye I would sit alone and unguarded in this place had I not the sense that warns me of danger? I have tested thine honour before, madame, and I take no risks.”
She winced.
“Mine honour? What of thine own, Simon of Beauvallet? What honour hast thou who will threaten a woman?”
“No threat, madame. The scar on thy breast shows whether I lie or not.”
“I will pay ye for that, tenfold!” she cried. “Ye hold me captive, but ye shall see of what stuff Margaret of Belrémy is made! Dearly
