Margaret curbed her quick temper.
“He is away?”
“Oh yes, Highness, he is away!”
She looked at him sharply.
“It would be well for you to speak truthfully, my friend. My lord will punish any insolence offered to me.”
The man laughed.
“Will he so? My lord is perhaps a friend of thine, whelp?”
“A friend indeed,” Margaret answered. “I will inquire at the castle for him, since ye are so ignorant.” She made as if to pass on, but the soldier barred her way.
“Nay, nay, it will not suffice. I have mine orders, and I will obey them. Get thee hence, saucy puppy!”
Margaret flung up her head.
“Knave, ye know not to whom ye speak! I am the Lady Margaret, Countess of Belrémy.”
The soldier shook with laughter.
“Is it indeed so? I am Fernand, Duke of Turincel, at your service, Countess.”
“Ye do not believe me? Summon your captain hither, and ye shall see!”
“The lad is foolish,” said another man, tapping his forehead.
“I know. I had thrown him off the bridge, else.”
“Shall I cut thee a way?” Ranaud asked, surging forward.
In an instant pikes were levelled.
“How now! Brawling and roystering, eh? Away with ye, all!”
Margaret thrust forward, checking her turbulent henchman.
“Put up, put up! Tell me, good fellow, is it true that my lord is in Paris?”
One of them, more good-natured than the rest, answered her.
“Nay, he is gone to present his submission to King Henry, lad.”
For a moment all reeled before Margaret’s eyes. Then she sprang forward.
“Ye lie! Ye lie!” she cried furiously.
“Gently, gently! ’Tis true enough. We want no ravaging of our land. My lord hath promised allegiance to the English King, and hath promised to aid none in withstanding him. Why, what ails the lad?”
It was Jeanne who flung her arms about the Countess.
“Chérie, chérie!” she whispered. “Come away! Perchance it is not true. Come!”
Margaret suffered herself to be led away, stunned by the shock. Ranaud took command of the party, and conducted them to a small hostelry near the gates of the town. In the deserted parlour, Jeanne knelt before her mistress, chafing her hands and crooning to her.
“Ma belle, ma mignonne! Petite chérie, lift thy head!”
A big tear rolled down Margaret’s cheek, and at the sight of it Jeanne drew her head to rest on her bosom, and Ranaud discreetly retired.
“In vain! All in vain!” Margaret whispered. “Fernand turned traitor. … What shall I do? What can I do?”
“Why, sweeting, we will find a way, never fear! Thou—thou wilt not return to Belrémy and—and make thy submission?”
The slim form quivered.
“Never! Never while I live! Go back, vanquished, humble, broken? Ah, not that! Rather would I stab myself!”
“But, chérie, what canst thou do? At least Belrémy spells safety for thee, and thou canst not wander over the countryside at will. Beauvallet will treat thee fair, I know. Smother thy pride, sweet, and go back. Indeed, indeed it is wisest!”
Margaret sat up, brushing away the tears.
“Shall I be unfaithful to the name I bear? What says my motto?—‘Conquest or death’—well, I will conquer. Would my father turn back? Nay, nay! Why, what ails me? There is a boulder in my path, and I lose heart! Body o’ me, I will go on!”
“But where, mignonne? Thy father was a man, thou art but a woman.”
“No woman I. In man’s clothes I stand, and a man will I be. He called me the Amazon. Full well will I merit that title. Let me think! Let me think!” She flung off her cap, running her fingers up through the thick masses of her hair, eyes narrowed and keen, elbows on her knees.
Jeanne rose silently, and went to the window. Presently Margaret spoke.
“Jeanne, perhaps our good Gaston would conduct thee back to Belrémy, if I asked him.”
“I go with thee,” Jeanne said shortly.
“But thy feet, little one! Thou canst do no more.”
“What thou canst do, I will do.”
“Thy heart is at home, with Malvallet.”
“My heart is here with thee.”
“I may tramp many leagues, and I must march quickly.”
“Then march I too, till I drop.”
“Oh, Jeannette, Jeannette, thou art too brave and sweet! Thou dost deserve a better, kinder mistress! Not—not a turbulent—Amazon. God help me! Where is Gaston?”
“I know not. He went out a while back. I think he leaves us here.”
“Ay.” Margaret’s head sank back into her hands, and for a long time there was silence.
Back into the little room came Ranaud, seeming to fill it with his great bulk and height.
“Supper comes,” he said gruffly to Jeanne, and jerked his thumb towards the still figure by the fire, with an inquiring lift of his red brows. Jeanne shrugged, and Ranaud seemed to understand, for he gave a grunt, and sat down by the table.
The landlord entered presently, bringing supper, and when it was set out upon the table Jeanne went to her mistress, and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Come, sweet; supper.”
Margaret roused herself.
“Supper? Ah, yes, I must eat, I suppose. Why, the good Gaston has returned! Gaston, heard ye aught in the streets?”
“Ay. ’Tis true enough, what they told you on the bridge.”
Margaret heaved a little sigh.
“Well; I doubted it not. What have we here? Bacon, as I live, and fresh beef! Gaston, how should we fare without thee?”
“Well enough,” he said, and fell to carving the meat.
For some time Margaret ate in silence, frowning, and seeming not to hear the desultory conversation of her two companions. But after a while she spoke, looking at Ranaud.
“Gaston, how many leagues onward lies Vazincourt?”
His little eyes widened in a momentary surprise.
“Some thirteen leagues or more, to the east.”
“No nearer?”
“That is the quickest, lady. And the way runs through the lands of Raoul the Terrible.”
“Ah!” She caught her breath. “And if one went not that way?”
“Sixteen—twenty leagues. I know not.”
Margaret relapsed into thought, and did not speak again until supper was over. Then she pushed her stool back from the table, and Jeanne saw that her mouth was tightly set.
“I will go there.”
“Go where?” Jeanne asked her.
“To Vazincourt. To the
