“Yon wench picks at her food,” remarked her tormentor. “A dainty maid!”
“My sister is not strong,” Margaret said quickly. “She hath no appetite.”
“The food is good enough,” growled their host. “If it is not to thy liking—”
“It is good indeed,” Margaret made haste to assure him. “Is it not, Jeanne?”
“Yes, Léon. Very good,” Jeanne answered in a small voice.
“Perchance thy sister is used to richly cooked meats?” sneered the landlord, unconvinced that his guests were not slighting his culinary efforts.
Margaret nodded.
“My sister is serving-maid to the Lady Margaret of Belrémy,” she said daringly, and heard Jeanne gasp beside her.
There was a guffaw of laughter.
“That for a tale!” jeered the man opposite. “Thou pert youngster!”
Margaret’s neighbour leaned across her to stare at Jeanne, whose hands had begun to tremble.
“Well, she is pale enough,” he rumbled. “Thy hands are too white, lass. Thou dost not labour on the fields, i’ faith.”
“She is my lady’s tiring-woman,” Margaret said.
A little stir went round the table.
“And what art thou, springald?” asked one. “Page, belike, with thy grand tunic?”
“Page indeed,” nodded Margaret. “My lady hath given us leave of absence to—to journey to Joulinceaulx for the festival.”
“And what may be thy name?” inquired the red-bearded man.
“Léon Margrute,” Margaret answered promptly.
The landlord came to the table.
“The accursed English are in Belrémy, is it not so?” he asked.
“Ay.” Margaret’s eyes flashed.
“What does thy lady?”
“She is prisoner.”
“Ho-ho!” The man opposite Jean clapped his hands to his sides. “The proud countess prisoner! Ho-ho! There’s for her and her hot blood!”
Jeanne laid an imploring hand on Margaret’s arm, for the Countess had grown suddenly stiff. She recovered herself, and forced a laugh.
“Hast seen my lady, then?” she asked.
“Once, when she rode out with her fine court. A haughty maid, indeed! Men say that she leads her men into battle. There’s a shrew!”
“She—she did so once,” Margaret admitted. “And well they fought!”
“Riding astride her horse, clad in armour! A forward, masterless wench!”
Someone cracked a lewd joke, and Margaret’s cheeks became scarlet with fury. The red-bearded man grinned.
“See the young turkey-cock! Perchance thou dost love thy lady, Léon Margrute?”
“That do I!”
“And is she kind to thee?”
The colour died out of Margaret’s face. She laughed.
“Oh, she is sometimes kind, and sometimes cruel.”
He nodded sympathetically.
“Ay, ay! ’Tis ever thus with these noble dames. But surely thou art over-young, lad?”
Certainly she looked it in her boy’s gear, though in reality she numbered twenty-five summers.
“I—oh, I am—seventeen,” she stammered.
“And thy pretty sister?” asked the man before Jeanne, leaning over the table to leer into her face.
Jeanne shrank back, gripping her fingers together.
“Eighteen,” Margaret answered. “Be good enough to sit back, sir. Ye discommode my sister.”
“Thou saucy knave! Is thy sister so nice then, that an honest man—”
“Let be, let be!” growled Margaret’s burly neighbour. “The maid is tired.”
“Too tired to kiss?” the tormentor grinned, and lurched forward across the table.
Jeanne gave a tiny cry, but Margaret was on her feet in a trice, dagger in hand.
“Keep off, sirrah!” she commanded. “My dagger is sharp.”
On the instant there was an outcry, and three men scrambled up and would have come at Margaret had not the red-bearded giant interposed his huge frame.
“Tush! Sit ye down, Jacques and Louis! ’Tis but a lad. Let the girl be, Founard!”
“I would teach the pert knave to speak his elders fair,” grumbled one, but he sat down again. “Thou art too soft, Ranaud.”
Ranaud thrust Margaret into her seat.
“Put up thy dagger, foolish pup, else I will let them at thee.”
“I’ll have no brawling here!” the landlord cried. “Out ye go, young sir, and your sister with ye! Thy pretty ways and mincing tongue!”
Ranaud brought his great fist down on the table so that the platters jumped.
“Let be, I say!” he roared. “God’s Wounds, what is this pother? If the wench is modest, why, the better for her! I’ll crack thy skull for thee, fat host!”
The landlord drew back muttering, for Ranaud was too formidable for his taste. The discontent subsided gradually, and in a little while Margaret took Jeanne’s hand and rose.
“Good sir,” she said, addressing the landlord. “Wilt show us the way to the stable-loft?”
“I have no room. Hast eaten. Go now.”
“Nay, I prithee—”
Up got Ranaud, his little eyes blazing fiercely.
“Have I to teach thee a lesson in manners?” he thundered, and the landlord retreated.
“I will show thee, I will show thee!” he said hastily.
“And I will come too,” said Ranaud.
Out they went into the fast-gathering gloom, the landlord hurrying nervously before them, Jeanne clinging to Margaret’s hand, and Ranaud striding along beside them, towering over all. So they came to the tumbledown stable, and with a muttered word that they would find the ladder into the barn in place, the landlord went away.
Margaret turned to the kindly giant.
“I have to thank thee, sir, for thy protection,” she began. “Indeed—”
“It is naught. Up with ye into the loft, and bolt the trap, youngster. Mayhap I will accompany thee part of the way to Joulinceaulx. All ways are one to me.”
“Why, it is—it is very kind,” Margaret said nervously, “but—”
“It is not your goal, belike?” Ranaud asked shrewdly.
“I—of course it is—I mean—”
“Oh, I am not curious!” he answered. “Go thy way if ye will, but I am a masterless man, and I have taken a fancy to thee. Art over-young to go wandering over the country alone with thy sister.”
“You—would come with us?” Margaret asked uncertainly.
“Ay, if ye will. There are a-many rogues about, and mayhap ye will be robbed or killed. If we join company I can guard thee from such. Ye can trust me.”
“Indeed, I think so,” Margaret said, and put out her hand. “May—may we speak more of this in the morning?”
“Ay, if ye will.” Margaret’s hand was lost in a gigantic paw. “Get thee to rest now. And bolt the trap.”
“I will,” she
