“This is English gallantry,” sighed Jeanne. “Poor lady!”
“Not ‘poor,’ Jeanne, for she hath all a man’s heart.”
“Which is so little,” quoth she, “that she slipped it into her bag and forgot that it was there. Heyday!”
“But even though she forgot, being cruel, it still remained, braving her coldness and her tauntings, and waiting very humbly till she should grow kind.”
“A craven, cringing heart, wasting its life.”
“Nay, for although it was humble, it kept a close watch on the lady. And even though she scorned and flouted it, it made solemn oath unto itself that it would devote its whole life to guarding her welfare and her happiness.”
“Why, then, it was a busy heart, for doubtless it had sworn that oath many a time before.”
“Not so, Jeanne, for before it was asleep.”
“Oh, grammercy, was this its calf-love then?”
“All its love, lady. It knew none before it beheld the little lady with the big blue eyes and the pretty dimples. A French maid, Jeanne, with brown curls and a cruel tongue.”
“A spitfire, forsooth!”
“Just a wilful maid.”
“And French.” Jeanne nodded dreamily. “An enemy. Indeed, I am sorry for this heart.”
Geoffrey’s arm tightened about her.
“The heart is happy enough, Jeanne, but what of its owner! It left him to serve the lady, and now he hath none.”
“It was so little that he would scarce notice its absence,” Jeanne said.
“But he does indeed notice it, and though he would not have it return to him, he would fain have the lady’s heart in its place.”
“Oh, it would freeze him, sir!”
“He might warm it, sweet.”
“Nay, for he is English, and the lady’s foe. And mayhap the lady’s heart has been given elsewhere.”
Geoffrey rose.
“Now I know why she is cold,” he said. “Her heart was gone already, so that she had none to give this Englishman. So he left her—with his heart.”
Jeanne inspected her stitchery.
“Perhaps, after all—it was still a virgin heart,” she said softly. “The—the lady’s, I mean.”
Geoffrey came back.
“And might it be won, Jeanne?” he asked.
She bent lower still over her work, and the long lashes veiled her eyes.
“By an English foe, sir?”
“By an English lover, Jeanne.”
She poised her needle, looking at it intently.
“Nay. It could not be won.”
“Never?”
“Never. You see, sir, it was a cold, cruel heart, and it repulsed all its suitors. And—and it was a shy heart—but true. So—so one day—it left the lady—very secretly, so that at first she did not know that it had gone, and—and slipped into a man’s pocket. And—when the lady—tried to recall it—it would not come, but nestled down in its hiding-place. But—but it was such a timid little heart, that the man—he was a great, stupid Englishman—never knew that it was in his pocket, but besought the lady to give it to him. He was so blinded, you see—and just an English conqueror.”
“An English slave,” Geoffrey said, and knelt again, his arms about her. “A suppliant at the little lady’s feet.”
“But he was very strong and masterful withal,” Jeanne murmured, and let her stitchery fall. “And—and clad in crimson velvet which he knew became him well. A conceited popinjay, sir.”
Geoffrey drew her to rest against his shoulder.
“Nay, for he doffed his work-a-day clothes and donned the crimson velvet only to do his lady honour.”
“A peacock preening himself to dazzle the hen,” Jeanne replied, and smoothed her russet gown.
“She was such a pretty hen that he decked himself in velvet so as not to show himself a drab fellow beside her loveliness.”
“Oh, I do not think he was ever drab,” Jeanne said into his ear. “In his steel armour with the black plumes in his helm, and the black surcoat floating from his shoulders, and his great sword in hand—he—he was a fine figure.”
“When saw ye me thus, Jeanne?”
“From the tower window, sir. And I hated you. You and your leader, the icy Lord of Beauvallet.”
“And Alan?”
“Alan? Oh—well, he was my lady’s prisoner—and one does not hate a helpless man. And—and indeed he makes pretty love to a maid.” Unseen, she smiled.
“Doth he so?” Geoffrey turned her face up, a hand beneath her chin. “I will speak with Master Alan. Is his lovemaking so pretty as mine?” He kissed her red lips.
“Prettier by far,” Jeanne retorted, when she could. “For he did not squeeze me brutally, nor take advantage of my loneliness.”
“Why he is but half a man, then,” Geoffrey answered, and kissed her again.
Her bosom rose and fell quickly; she returned his kisses for a while, then struggled to be free of him, her neck and cheeks a rosy red.
“Oh, but we are traitors, both!” she cried, and set her hands on his breast, thrusting him away.
“Traitors, sweet? Why?”
“Thou to the Lord Beauvallet, I to the Lady Margaret! While these two stay at enmity I must cleave to the one, and thou to the other.”
“The Lady Margaret will make her submission,” Geoffrey said.
“Ah, you do not know her! She hath never bent the knee yet. I have been with her since childhood, and—and I know how strong is her will.”
“Fifteen years have I known Simon,” Geoffrey answered, “and I have yet to see him beaten.”
“But now he is pitted ’gainst a woman, and therefore is defenceless, for what weapons can he use? I tell thee, Geoffrey, ever since my lady’s father died, she hath ruled supreme. She will never bend, least of all before an Englishman.”
“In truth, the Lady Margaret is an Amazon,” Geoffrey said ruefully. “I mislike these tigress-women.”
“That is not true!” Jeanne cried hotly. “She is the sweetest, dearest lady! She shows herself tigerish to you, because you seek to conquer her!”
“Not I!” Geoffrey grimaced. “I do not willingly cross her path.”
“She is brave and proud! But to her own people she is, oh, so kind and just!”
“Beshrew me, I am glad that I am not of her people.”
“Sir,” said Jeanne coldly, “loose me!”
Geoffrey kissed her averted cheek.
“Nay, I meant not to
