Alan came to Simon’s side.
“Wert thou surprised? My lord did come yesterday, straight from the King.”
“I thought I dreamed,” Simon said. “How came ye to these shores, my lord?”
“Faith, in a boat, lad. There was I at home, fretting for news of ye both, which came not, and could bear it no longer. Since my lady died and my daughters are both wed, I must e’en be near one or other of you. So off went I to London to my cousin Granmere. Then went I to the King, and he sent me here. And since yesterday I have heard of naught save thy prowess, and how thou didst capture this place. Simon, Simon, it was well done! Would that I had been with thee, lad, but I am old and this accursed gout—well, well! What hath come to mine Alan? He left Montlice a silly boy, sighing and singing for his ladyloves, and here I find him a man at last, which I never thought to see him. Hast made a soldier of him, lad?”
Simon led him to a chair.
“Nay. King Hal calls him his poet, but he can lead an attack better than Geoffrey here, if he has a mind to it.”
Fulk turned to look at Malvallet, who stood apart, watching them. Up he struggled once more and stumped forward.
“Needs must I take thy hand, Sir Geoffrey,” he mumbled. “If thou wilt have it so. This is wartime, and there is no room for enmity between us two.”
Geoffrey bent the knee gracefully.
“I am only too well pleased to have it so, my lord,” he said. “For Simon, Alan and I are one.”
So they clasped hands, and Fulk sat down again with all three about him. The Chevalier had minced away some time ago, and Santoy had taken the wounded and very much shaken Ranaud to find a surgeon, so that they were alone. Fulk blew out his cheeks, looking proudly from Alan to Simon, and smiled a little at the glory of Simon’s armour.
“Well, I had heard of thy gilded armour, lad, but never till now have I seen thee in it. Thou coxcomb! And tell me, lion-cub, who was the lady whom ye bore in your arms?”
Simon rose, and glanced from one to the other of them. For a moment he was silent, and then the glimmering of a smile came into his green-blue eyes.
“That, my lord, is the lady whom I will one day take to wife,” he said deliberately.
XIV
How He Received the Lady Margaret’s Submission
My Lord of Montlice hobbled out on to the terrace. It was the day after Simon’s return, and he was still in a state of incoherent surprise over the amazing announcement that Simon had made the night before. At the time, he had stared open-mouthed, and before he had in the smallest degree recovered from the first shock of surprise, Simon had gone. All the evening he had been busy, so there had been no more private conversation. This morning he was closeted with his secretary, so Fulk wandered out in search of his son, whom he found on the terrace, fitting a new string to his harp. Alan smiled when he saw his father, and his smile was very sweet, as always.
Fulk lowered himself on to the chair that Alan vacated.
“Fiend seize my foot!” he growled, and glared at it.
Alan sat down on the parapet, a gay figure against the dull stone. His father grunted.
“Still harping, silly lad?”
“Still,” Alan answered.
“Hast naught better to do?”
“Simon would tell thee ay. But Simon hath no ear for music.”
“He tells me that thou art Master of his Horse.”
Alan laughed.
“It is true, alack.”
“He saith that thou art a good master, but I doubt he seeks to flatter thee to me.”
“I think he doth,” Alan said, and smiled again.
“Alan!” Fulk drove his stick on to the ground. “What meant the lad last night?”
Alan glanced up through his lashes.
“Last night?”
Fulk roared at him.
“Thou foolish boy! When he said that he would take the Lady Margaret to wife!”
“Well, sir—” Alan twanged his harp meditatively—“He is Simon of Beauvallet, so I suppose he did mean—just that.”
“But thou didst tell me that the Lady Margaret hated him, and sought to slay him!” exploded Fulk.
“Ay, my lord.”
“Then what maggot hath Simon in his silly head?”
Alan drew his hand across the strings so that they sang softly under his fingers.
“The maggot of love, my father.”
“Love for a froward woman? Much have I heard of the lady on the way hither, and it seems to me that she is a bold, spiteful hussy.”
“Bold, sir, and tigerish, but so is Simon. No milk-and-water maid could touch his heart. He must take a fitting mate unto himself. The Countess is such an one, and not soft speech will move her, but rugged strength, and maybe rough usage.”
Fulk stared at him.
“Art very wise. I would fain meet this lady.”
“Oh, sir, she will send thee from her side with a flea in thine ear.”
“Oho!” said Fulk. “I am an old man.” He stroked his grey hair ruefully.
Alan touched his hand affectionately.
“Yet the old man did come to France and is none the worse for his tedious journey,” he said.
Fulk puffed, pleased at the compliment.
“Oh, there is life in the lion yet!” he nodded. “Who comes?”
Alan sprang up, for Jeanne was limping towards them.
“It is Mademoiselle Jeanne, who is soon to be Geoffrey’s lady,” he said, and kissed Jeanne’s hand. “Mademoiselle, ye see here my father, Lord Fulk of Montlice.”
Jeanne curtseyed in response to Fulk’s bow, and went to sit beside him on the bench.
“Is it the gout?” Fulk asked,
