“Love! I love that—that—” she choked for words. “He thinks to wed me! He! Ah, how I hate him!”
“Thou didst not hate him when he killed Raoul,” Jeanne said.
Margaret paused, staring at her, wild-eyed.
“Did I not? Did I not? Oh, what ails me, Jeanne?” She sank down upon the floor beside her lady, sobbing.
“Pride dies hard,” Jeanne said softly. “Thou art torn between love and hate.”
“No, no! It is all hate, all hate!”
“Then why dost thou weep?”
“I—I do not know—I am distraught. It was his kiss, burning me! Shaming me! Ah, let me go!” She sprang up and away, rushing from the room straight into the arms of her cousin.
“Victor! You? What—do ye here?”
He twirled his scented kerchief, eyes running swiftly over her.
“I came to wait upon thee, sweet Margot, but yon yellow-haired Saxon was before me. Thou art strangely disordered, cousin.” He bent forward, scrutinising her. “Now what hath he done, I wonder?”
“Out, out of my way!” she cried, and swept past, down the corridor.
The Chevalier entered her room. Jeanne looked coldly at him, but he smiled.
“So the English oaf kissed my cousin?” he said gently, and showed his teeth a moment.
“Ye would appear to be in his confidence,” Jeanne snapped.
He paid no heed.
“And she is all distraught. What does that betoken? …”
XV
How He Came Upon the Lady Margaret in the Gallery
On a voyage of exploration through the castle, Fulk came to a wide gallery where the musicians were wont to play. Coming towards him, away from her rooms, was the Lady Margaret, tall and stately as ever in a cloth of gold, with her long hair braided, and a gold band about her forehead from which glowed a single sapphire stone. She paused when she saw Fulk, and looked him over, for he was a stranger to her.
Fulk looked back at her squarely, leaning on his stout ash-plant. The Lady Margaret would have passed on, chin lifted, but he blocked her passage.
“Know ye the way back to the hall, madame?” he asked, in very fair French. “I have lost my path.”
“The stairs are yonder, sir,” she said, pointing.
Fulk sighed, and thought that he would be very cunning.
“Stairs, stairs, stairs! If there were chairs I should like it better. I have had the gout this many a day, lady, and it plagues me sorely.”
The Countess hesitated, but Fulk’s white hairs made her courteous.
“There are chairs behind you, sir,” she said.
“Why then, madame, if you will be seated, so will I,” he answered.
“I thank you, no.” On swept my lady, but was arrested by Fulk’s roar. He could never be patient for long.
“Come back, come back! God’s Body, have I not been lonely enough? Come hither, whoever ye may be, and bear an old man company.”
The Lady Margaret spoke coldly.
“I am the Countess of Belrémy,” she said, and her tone should have crushed him.
“What care I for that?” he demanded. “If you wish to sing titles, I am the Earl of Montlice. Now sit ye down, a-God’s sake!”
Margaret was somewhat taken aback.
“I—I do not know the Earl of Montlice, sir.”
“That do ye. Sit thee down, I say!”
Margaret was inclined to be haughty, but when Fulk stamped his foot and swore at the pain, she laughed, and came to him, sitting down.
“I do not know why ye should desire to keep me with you,” she said frankly. “I have no love for Englishmen.”
Fulk lowered himself beside her.
“Now what hath been done to thee by an Englishman?” quoth he.
She flushed.
“Ye call it nothing that my land hath been ta’en by an Englishman?” she cried.
“Fortune o’ war,” he grunted. “Thou hadst a worthy foe.”
“Sir?”
“Why I do hear that my boy Simon and thou do tilt at one another. Now Simon is a man, God wot!”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Did ye doubt it?” Fulk slewed round to face her. “A plague be on the lad, what hath he done? He was ever a pert, headstrong child, but I never heard that he did more harm to a maid than turn his back on her.”
“Oh, he is very chivalrous!” she sneered. “See this scar on my breast! That did he with his sword!”
Fulk looked at it.
“Did he so? Wherefore should he do that?”
“Because I would not yield thy son to him, nor my castle!”
“Ah, well!” Fulk puffed out his cheeks. “Alan is dear to him. As for thy castle—what he had sworn to take he would take, willy-nilly. It is his way. Lord, Lord, I should know, for had I not to bear with him four long years? The lad was my squire, lady.”
“Thy squire?” She was surprised, in spite of herself. “How could he be that?”
“Why, look ye, he was Malvallet’s bastard, and Malvallet was my foe. When Simon’s mother died he came to me, and bearded me in my lair.” He chuckled. “I was a fierce fellow in those days, lady, but Holy Virgin, he was as fierce! A square-set whelp, some fourteen years old, and forced himself into my service. A pretty time I had with him, madame, and an obstinate, impudent cub he was. Many’s the beating I’ve given him, but do ye think he cared? Not he! He’d e’en go his own road, say or do what I would. Cold as a stone, as strong as I was myself. Up he grew, like a young tree. The shoulders of him! He hath a blow which would fell an ox, lady, and the coolest brain ever I knew. Now hark while I tell thee how he came by his land.” Fulk settled himself more comfortably, and proceeded to recount the exploits of his beloved lion-cub. Margaret listened, eyes downcast, but once she raised them, and they were sparkling with sympathy for one of Simon’s deeds. But at the end of the recital the colour died out of her cheeks, and she remembered that Simon was her enemy.
“Ye would seem to have a fondness for this Simon, milor’.”
“Needs must I,” Fulk grunted.
