Jeanne dimpled charmingly.
“Nay, milor’, it is—oh, it is blisters!”
“Ay, ay! Art a brave lass, I do hear.”
“Not I, sir. ’Tis Margot who is brave.”
“Mademoiselle,” Alan interrupted, “what chanced in Raoul’s palace? Simon says naught, and I have had no word with Geoffrey. Is it true that Simon slew Raoul?”
Jeanne closed her eyes.
“It was terrible,” she said. “Raoul—Raoul had Margot in his arms. He—he kissed her, and she fought him. Then—then, when I thought all was lost, there came the clank of armour, and Lord Simon stood in the doorway with Geoffrey beside him. Oh, sir, I thought mine eyes deceived me! So great they looked, the one all black and grey, and the other gold and green! Raoul pushed my lady away, but he was too late.” Jeanne threw out her hand dramatically. “I saw my Lord of Beauvallet grow stiff all at once, and there came a light into his eyes such as I have never seen before. He smiled, and indeed, indeed, that smile drove terror into my heart. Just one moment he stood there, while I wondered what he would be at. And then he seemed to leap forward! In a second he was by us, and had seized up Raoul in his arms. He bent him over his knee, backwards, until methought Raoul’s spine would snap. And he said”—Jeanne tried to imitate Simon’s snarl—“ ‘Die, thou dog!’ Then he stabbed suddenly, and the blood spurted up! It was horrible, horrible! After that it is all—a mist. They fought, all of them, even Margot, but they could not hope to conquer, so we fled through a door behind us, and ran, and ran, and ran! And at last we found a stairway, which led out of the castle. Raoul’s men were hard on our heels, but we ran across a courtyard, and Ranaud wrenched the gate open. Then found we the horses, and fled for our lives.”
“Simon ran way?” Fulk asked incredulously.
“What else could he do? I think—he lost his head. He meant not to kill Raoul, but when he saw my lady in his arms, he forgot caution, and only thought of vengeance.”
“That is not like Simon!” Fulk said.
“It is like the new Simon,” Alan answered.
To Simon came a French page, bowing low.
“Milor’, I bear a message from madame.”
“What is it?”
“Madame requests milor’ to visit her. She hath that which she would say to milor’.”
Simon rose.
“Lead me to madame.”
The page conducted him to Margaret’s rooms, and announced him.
The Countess was alone, standing by the window. She was clad in a long red robe, and she wore a horned headdress upon her head. She came forward a few steps, to meet Simon, and he saw that her hands were tightly clenched.
“Well, madame?”
Margaret moistened her lips. She began to speak jerkily, her eyes dark and troubled.
“Milor’, there is much I must say to you. Ye have—placed me in your—debt.” Her eyelids dropped a little, and the proud lips quivered.
Simon said nothing, watching her.
“I have first—to thank you—for—what you did—yesterday.” The words stuck in her throat a little, but she went on bravely. “Had ye not come—to my rescue—I had been—what I will not think—today.” Her eyes searched his face, but it was impassive. Simon’s arms were folded across his great chest, and he stood very still before her. Again she moistened her lips. “Margaret of Belrémy—leaves not—her debts—unpaid. Had I not—fallen into Raoul’s clutches—I would have—brought—an army to Belrémy—to fight you. But—I failed, and—you—rescued me. I—I desire now—to wipe away—the debt I owe you. So—so—I will—make my submission to you.” Her voice had sunk, but it vibrated with her pride.
“I want more than that.”
She started, clasping her hands nervously together.
“You—you seek—my life?” she asked, and squared her shoulders.
Simon came heavily up to her, and took her wrists in his hold.
“Thy life, ay. All of thee.” Suddenly he bent forward, and kissed her, full on her red lips.
She sprang away, trembling and shaken, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks.
“You—oh, you insult me! I have not deserved—that! My God, I had—I had come to think you—a man of honour!”
“I insult thee not,” Simon said calmly. “I want thy hand in marriage.”
She stared at him, hardly comprehending. Then she recoiled eyes aflame.
“You—you—For what do ye take me? Think ye I would wed—an English boor?” She spat the words at him, and her bosom heaved.
“I think that thou wilt wed me, madame. What I want, I take.”
“Ye take not me! Mordieu, are ye mad? Wed me? I—I am Margaret of Belrémy!”
“Thou art my prisoner.”
“No longer!” She stepped quickly up to him, her silken skirts brushing the ground. “I have made my submission!”
He looked down at her for a moment, in silence; then he drew a folded parchment from his belt, and spread it upon the table.
“It awaits thy signature, madame. Thy submission to my master.”
Slowly she approached the table, and read the formal words. A little shiver ran through her, and she bit her lip. She sat down, and picked up her quill. For a long time she sat very still, but presently she dipped the quill in the ink, and quickly signed her name. She would have risen then, but Simon’s hand was on her shoulder.
“There lies thy submission to the King my master,” he said and she saw that his eyes gleamed. “But thy submission to me must come soon. Thy life is mine by right of conquest, and well dost thou know it. Willingly shalt thou come to me, and willingly give thy heart. For I will have all or nothing.”
“Nothing, then!” she said hoarsely.
He smiled, and picked up the parchment.
“ ‘I have not, but still I hold,’ ” he said, and laughed, swung round on his heel, and went out.
Margaret stumbled up, trying to control the wild leaping of her pulses. To her came Jeanne, and cast her a shrewd glance.
“Jeanne!” Margaret cried. “He has been here! He—he kissed me. Oh, how I hate him!” Raging, she paced the floor, lashing herself to a fury.
“I have
