Jeanne shivered.
“My heart was in my mouth. Thou wert—thou wert—terrible!”
Margaret laughed.
“I was wonderful. Just a pert pageboy. Well, when we left Balderin we went onward to Razincourt. And then it was a little after eleven, was it not?”
“That village! Ugh! The tavern! Oh, mon Dieu!”
“And the drunken peasant who would have clouted me for a saucy knave had he not stumbled over the chair.” Margaret gave a little skip, chuckling light-heartedly. “We ate dinner there, and I drank sack,” she grimaced. “Some of it I managed to spill,” she added pensively. “I think we remained there an hour. The dinner was not—very nice, was it?”
Jeanne closed her eyes for a moment.
“The meat …” she moaned.
“I know. Well, after that we did walk on and on—on—”
“And on and on and on.”
“Thou silly Jeannette!—till we came to the brook. And there we rested a while. And now we are here, and I wonder where it may be?”
“Where what may be?”
“Here,” said the Lady Margaret, embracing the whole countryside. “I had planned to rest the night at Tourdelonne. It is a tiny village, my poor Jeanne, and mayhap we shall sleep in the stable. What is the time, I wonder? It must be after three.”
“Long after three. We have been walking for hours.”
“It has not seemed so to me. But if we have, then Tourdelonne must be near. And when we are there we shall have covered five leagues, Jeannette, and another day will see us at Turincel.”
Jeanne wilted.
“We—we must walk tomorrow—as much as today?” she asked.
“It is wiser,” nodded the Lady Margaret firmly. “Oh, Simon of Beauvallet, ye shall rue the day ye sought to quell Margaret of Belrémy!”
“I do trust we shall not rue the day we sought to escape from Simon of Beauvallet,” Jeanne said peevishly. “My feet are raw and blistered.”
“Thou poor little one!” Margaret slipped an arm in hers. “Lean on me, Jeannette. I should not have brought thee. It was thoughtless and cruel! Thou hast not my strength!”
Jeanne pulled herself together.
“Nay, I am well enough, Margot. Shall—shall we have to sleep—in the common room, think you?”
“I do not know. Perhaps we may find two rooms. One for you, at least.”
Jeanne clutched her arm.
“Margot, we must not be separated!” she implored.
Margaret drew her arched brows together.
“I must see what I can do,” she said. “Perhaps if I say that thou art sick, they would give thee a chamber, and I could steal into it when none is watching. It is too cold to sleep in the woods, alack!”
“Sleep in the woods!” Jeanne almost shrieked. “Margot!”
“But it is impossible in this weather,” Margaret assured her. “Ah, look ahead! I see houses!”
“Hovels!”
“Tourdelonne!”
“I could welcome my Geoffrey,” sighed Jeanne. “Even though he were in a rage with me.” Her face brightened. “I wonder, is he very terrible when he is angered?” For a time she pondered this question deeply. “I think he might be,” she said at length, and nodded, pleased.
“If ever ye take him to husband he will assuredly beat thee,” Margaret remarked. “Because he is English.”
“Oh, dost thou think so?” Jeanne stepped out more briskly. “He might, of course, and yet … no, I think he is too gentle and kind. But very masterful. I wonder what he will say when he finds me gone?” She dimpled a little.
“I wonder what he will say when I bring Turincel about his ears?” Margaret said viciously.
“Ah no, Margot! You—you must not! Kill—Lord Simon, if you will—but—but not Geoffrey!”
“Never fear.” Margaret patted her shoulder. “Thou shalt have him as thy prisoner.”
“Then I shall not like it at all,” said Jeanne decidedly.
“What! Dost thou like to be his prisoner?”
“Yes, I do,” Jeanne said.
Margaret’s lip curled.
“An English tyrant’s prisoner! Mon Dieu, where is thy spirit?”
“It went when I fell in love with Geoffrey,” Jeanne answered. “One day thou wilt understand.”
“God grant that day be long in coming!” Margaret cried.
They were come now to the straggling hamlet, and they halted before the rude tavern. From within came the sound of men’s voices, laughing noisily. Jeanne shrank a little closer to the Countess.
“Margot—must we—!”
“We must,” Margaret said resolutely, and drew a deep breath. She knocked loudly on the door, and took a firm hold on her staff.
Presently the door was opened, and the landlord faced them, clad in a soiled leather jerkin.
“Good sir,” began Margaret, as deeply as she was able, “my sister and I journey to Joulinceaulx for the festival. Have ye room for the night?”
“No,” said the landlord uncompromisingly, and would have shut the door, but that Margaret set her foot within.
“But listen, good host, my—my father gave me a little money for the journey, and I can pay for our lodging.”
The landlord seemed undecided, but Jeanne, plucking up courage, clinched the matter.
“Oh, sir, do not turn us away! Indeed, I am weary, and hungry. Could ye let us sleep in the loft above the stable, perhaps?” She smiled wistfully upon him.
“Well, come within,” he grunted. “But I’ll see thy money first!” he added, turning truculently upon Margaret.
She pulled out a gold piece, and gave it him. His eyes shone greedily, and he pocketed it, beckoning them in.
The kitchen was very hot, and smelt of sack. Some half-a-dozen men were sprawled about a large table, upon which supper was laid. When they saw Jeanne one or two of them sat up, smirking, but for the most part they paid no heed to the newcomers.
As unobtrusively as possible the two girls slipped into their places in the table. Margaret pushed her shrinking companion on to a stool at the end of the table, and seated herself beside her, in between Jeanne and a burly fellow with a ferocious red beard. The landlord thrust two wooden platters of salt-beef before them, and some coarse bread. Hungry as she was, Jeanne’s dainty palate turned from the unappetising, ill-cooked and badly served food, but she made shift to eat, choking down her repulsion. Margaret,
