“Toad, toad!” Ranaud roared. “Misshapen toad! God’s curse be upon thee!” He spat at Raoul, writhing still, and struggling.
“Truss him,” Raoul purred, and let his small, heavy-lidded eyes travel slowly over Margaret, who was seeking madly to free herself. “These be none of my people,” he said, and looked down at Jeanne. “A sweet slut, i’ faith. Take her, one of you.” He tossed her to the man whose horse stood beside his. “Spies, belike. Armagnac spies. Bear them after me.” He wheeled his horse about and set it at a canter, through the wood.
Her captor threw Margaret face downwards over his saddlebow, and swung himself up. “Lie still, wildcat!” he said, and rode on after his master.
Through the wood they cantered, and out on to the open country. For miles, it seemed to Margaret, they galloped along in Raoul’s wake, the hunt all about them, and somewhere near, Gaston, roaring out defiance. When at last they halted, she was bruised and shaken from her jolting ride, and for a moment, when she was set upon her feet, she could see nothing for the dancing specks before her eyes. Then the mist cleared, and she found herself within the courtyard of Raoul’s palatial hunting-lodge. A great rambling house of stone, it was, with turrets at each corner, standing upon a fair space of land and backing upon a slight incline. One minute had she in which to take in her surroundings, before she was jerked forward into the big hall. There Raoul stood, and Margaret shuddered a little. He was short and broad with a great paunch, and bloodshot, lashless eyes. The skin about his face and jowl hung in white folds, and his mouth was wide, the lower lip sagging to show pointed yellow teeth.
Gaston was carried in, cursing, and flung down by his sweating, staggering bearers. Raoul’s wicked eyes ran over the huge form, and his grin grew.
“Cut the bonds. Methinks I do know this fellow.”
One of the men released Ranaud, and he struggled up. He would have come at Raoul, had they not hemmed him in with swords.
“Yes, I do know him.” Raoul laughed a little, very softly. “You did seek to kill me once, good giant, long years ago. I remember.”
“And I will kill thee yet!” Ranaud bellowed. “Fat, shapeless spider!”
“Gently, my giant. I will make you sing small presently!” Raoul said sweetly.
Margaret twisted free of her captors, and ran to where Jeanne crouched upon the floor. She fell on her knees beside her, drawing her into her arms. Raoul smiled wider still.
“The pretty cooing doves,” he said, and Margaret grew cold at the sound of his purring voice. “Lock them up together, the doves,” he commanded. “Who shall say I am not merciful? A last night in each other’s arms.” Again he chuckled, so that his fat body shook like a jelly. “Pray that ye may find favour in mine eyes, sweet chuck. Alack, I have no time to waste on thee now. Away with them!”
A guard tossed Margaret over his shoulder, another caught Jeanne up. They were borne across the hall and along a passage. A flight of narrow steps ended this passage, and down it they went to a bare chamber whose only window was a narrow slit cut in the stones.
“Sleep well, my beauties!” Margaret’s bearer laughed, and set her down. He went out with his companions, and the key grated in the lock.
“Margot! Margot!” Jeanne stumbled towards her, white-faced and trembling. “Margot!”
Margaret flung her arms about her, holding her close, and pressing the berry-wreathed head to her shoulder.
“Ah, my dear, my dear, what have I done? Into what den have I dragged thee? God forgive me!”
Jeanne clung to her sobbing.
“His face, his face! He kissed me! Ah, the feel of his foul lips!” She broke off, weeping bitterly.
For a while Margaret soothed and petted her, stroking the brown curls with gentle, motherly hands.
“Thy Geoffrey will come,” she said desperately. “Beauvallet is in pursuit now. Please God he will come!”
“Too late, too late!” Jeanne moaned, and feeling the berries against her cheek, tore them off, and cast them from her. “How could he come? How could he know?”
“He will come,” Margaret repeated. “He will come.”
“Thou dost not believe it! Thou dost not!”
Margaret was silent for a moment, and Jeanne looked wistfully up into her face.
“Margot—Margot, thy dagger? Thou wilt lend it me?”
Margaret bowed her head.
“Lost,” she said bitterly. “But I will find a way. I must. If the worst—befall us—I will tell this Raoul who I am. He—he cannot then—harm us. I—I think he cannot.”
“Tell him not!” Jeanne gripped her arms. “What cares the Terrible for thy rank? Or—or he might—seek to make thee wed him, to gain thy rich lands. Margot, promise that thou wilt not tell him! It would break my heart! Thou wouldst not hurt me so?”
“God knows,” Margaret said, and cast herself down upon a wooden bench. “What have they done with Gaston? His and thy blood on my head! Ah, why did I let thee come? Selfish, headstrong shrew that I am!”
“Nay!” Jeanne was at her side in an instant. “Thou couldst not have prevented my coming! I would have followed thee barefoot!” She caught up Margaret’s hand and kissed it passionately. “Ah, my dear, my dear!” she crooned, and clung to the Countess.
The night passed on leaden feet, and dawn found them fitfully asleep, arms locked about each other. Slowly the grey light grew, and awakened Margaret. She opened her heavy eyes and looked about her at the glum stone walls that cased her round. Very pale she was, and tightlipped. Courage shone out of her dark eyes, but at the back was fear. She glanced down into Jeanne’s face, and shivered a little. Jeanne smiled in her sleep and murmured something. Margaret knew that she was dreaming of her lover, and a tiny sob shook her. She sat
