“Geoffrey, she is wounded. I want linen.”
Jeanne started.
“Wounded? Margot? Oh, sir, is—is it deep?”
“Nay, I think not. Give me thy kerchief.”
Jeanne tore it away from her neck, handing it to him, and for a while Simon bent over his charge, slitting the sleeve of Margaret’s tunic with his dagger. The wound was above the elbow, and slight, but Margaret gave a little cry when Simon started to bind it tightly round. He paid no heed, but tied the bandage, and drew his cloak round her once more, so that she was entirely hidden.
“Art ready, Geoffrey?”
Geoffrey was kissing Jeanne at the moment, but he nodded, and they trotted forward briskly. He drew away from Simon, and looked down into the big eyes that surveyed him.
“Art—art thou—angered with me, Geoffrey?” Jeanne asked him.
“No,” he said simply. “I could not be.”
The eyes grew rounder.
“I—I thought thou wouldst be furious,” Jeanne said, just a little disappointed.
He shook his head.
“Nay, but I will take good care ye play me not such a trick again, sweetheart.”
This was better. Jeanne sighed.
“But how wilt thou prevent me?” she asked.
“I will wed thee,” Geoffrey said. “Then shalt thou see that I am a stern husband.”
Jeanne’s spirits were reviving fast. She dimpled.
“Thou wilt bear me, then, to the altar by force, sir.”
“If need be,” Geoffrey replied.
“Would—would you really?” she asked in keenest admiration.
“I would.”
“Then I shall hate thee,” Jeanne said severely.
He laughed.
“And make thy life a misery with my shrewish ways.”
“Thou wilt be punished, then,” Geoffrey said.
“How?”
He kissed her.
“Thus.”
“It is very grievous,” she said. “I do not think I could bear it.”
“Then it is thy life which will be a misery,” Geoffrey told her.
“In truth ye would make me your chattel,” she sighed. “It is very sad and ungallant. But English, no doubt! A barbarous race.”
“I will show thee how the English make love, sweet.”
“Oh, I can guess, sir. With a club. As Beauvallet will woo my mistress.”
“Beauvallet? Woo the Lady Margaret?” Geoffrey said incredulously. “Thy wits are wandering, Jeanne.”
“It is you that are just a great stupid man,” she replied scornfully. “I have seen it coming this many a day.”
“But Simon doth not—”
“If Simon loves not my lady, why did he slay Raoul?”
“I do not know. I—”
“That is very true,” Jeanne said firmly, and closed her eyes.
They rode on in silence then, but at noon they halted at a tavern. Both ladies were asleep, so their bearers carried them into the parlour. They did not wake until dinner was served, and even then Margaret was too worn-out to eat. She drank a little wine, but relapsed almost at once into heavy slumber.
An hour later they set out again, and rode steadily onward, not drawing rein again until dusk, when the gates of Belrémy loomed large ahead. They went through, and along the street to the castle. Jeanne woke then and stretched herself.
“Where are we?” she asked drowsily.
Geoffrey dismounted, holding her against his shoulder.
“Home, dear heart. See!”
“Ah, how good!” she exclaimed. “Set me down, Geoffrey. I will not be carried.”
He put her on her feet, turning to Simon and holding out his arms.
“Let me take her, lad.”
“Nay.” Simon’s arm tightened about Margaret’s sleeping form. He dismounted carefully, and strode into the castle.
There were several people in the hall. Alan, the Chevalier, and a big man who sat back in the shadow. Hélène too was there, and she ran forward.
“Thou hast my lady?” she cried, and would have drawn back the folds of Simon’s cloak.
He warded her off.
“Ay.”
Alan hurried forward.
“Already! Both, lad? Ah, Geoffrey!”
The Chevalier minced forward.
“Milor’, set my cousin down. It is not fitting that you should carry her thus. Her ladies will attend to her.”
“Out of my way,” Simon said curtly, and brushed past him to the stairs.
Margaret woke, pushing aside the cloak, and looking about her. She was flushed from sleep, and drowsy still.
“Home! Hélène!” She glanced up into Simon’s rugged face, and her eyelids fluttered.
“If you please—I will walk,” she said.
“I will carry thee to thy rooms,” Simon answered. “Lie still, madame.”
She remembered her boy’s clothing, and obeyed. Simon swung quickly up the stairs, Jeanne and Hélène at his heels.
A bevy of ladies swarmed about him, but he pushed by to the Countess’s chamber, laying her on the bed.
“Get her to bed,” he commanded. “One of you fetch the surgeon for her wound.” In his turn he was swept aside. The Lady Margaret’s ladies gathered about her, exclaiming and fondling. Simon went out, back to the great hall.
A bluff voice smote his ears.
“Now by the Rood, is that my Simon? God’s Body, what doth he with a maid in his arms? Ha, Simon, thou rogue! Come hither!” Fulk limped forward, hands outstretched.
“My lord!” Simon strode to meet him, and gripped his hands. “My dear lord!”
Fulk embraced him.
“My Simon—my lion-cub! I could not stay away. Fiend seize thee, thou hast grown again, or else I had forgotten thy great height. What a-God’s Name do ye in all this golden armour? Thou popinjay! My lad, my lad, kneel not to me!” For Simon had dropped on his knee. Fulk pulled him up. “Give me
