“It is praiseworthy, perhaps,” Margaret said slowly, “but he cannot—always—win.”
Fulk’s eyes twinkled.
“So, so! And who shall teach him that, lady?”
She looked at him, and he saw her lips tight-shut.
“Aha! So ye think to bring Simon to heel, madame? I wonder if you will do it?”
“I desire only that he shall leave my land, never to return.”
“Well, he is like to,” Fulk announced. “He goes soon to join the King.”
“I am glad,” said the Lady Margaret primly. “I hope it will be very, very soon!”
“Here’s a heat!” Fulk remarked. “Why dost thou hate him so?”
“I have told thee. Once I sought to kill him—” she spoke through clenched teeth—“and could not! Could not, though he would have let me! I was a coward, and now I do owe my life to him.”
“And didst fight at his side, if Malvallet and thy lady speak sooth. That was not done of hate, madame.”
“I fought because—because I had to escape. Not to save him!”
Fulk grunted.
“And even now, had I the means to hand, I would slay him gladly! Ay, gladly!”
“Brave words,” Fulk said. “Simon is not one to be worsted by a maid. What good would his death bring you? King Henry would fall upon thy land.”
“I held out ’gainst Umfraville!”
“Ay, but the English are in now,” Fulk said.
A soft yet heavy tread sounded. Along the gallery came Simon, and at sight of him the Lady Margaret rose, yet was too proud to seek refuge in flight.
Simon halted before her, looking gravely into her eyes. But all at once a smile came to disperse the gravity, and it was so unlike the smile she had seen on his lips before, that almost it drew from her an answering gleam. There was no grimness in it, but a species of amused understanding.
“So my lord hath found thee?” he said. “I dare swear he hath told thee that I was once the bane of his life.”
“My lord is generous in his praise of you,” she answered stiffly.
Simon glanced at Fulk with uplifted brows.
“Never said I one word of praise!” Fulk roared. “I praise thee? God’s Body, I am not yet in my dotage! Praise—thou pert boy, what ails thee? My lady knows now thy stubborn temper. Praise, forsooth!”
Simon laughed.
“Wert ever chary of praise to my face, sir,” he said mildly.
“And behind thy back!” Fulk averred. “A more worthless, blundering, silly-pated, obstinate lad never I saw! A pity is it that none ever thought to knock a little sense into thee.”
“Nay, my lord, one did try, but it seemed he failed, although he had me in my youth to mould.”
“A graceless, impudent coxcomb thou wert!”
“Indeed, I think I was so indeed,” Simon reflected. “A sore trial to thee, sir.”
“Thou art well enough,” Fulk grunted. “Ye need not seek to cozen me.”
“Why, sir, I do know it to be useless,” Simon said.
Margaret glanced from one to the other. This new Simon was a stranger to her. The Simon she knew was a stern lord with little humour but great strength, not a smiling man who meekly listened to abuse of himself. She drew her skirts about her, preparing to depart, but Fulk struggled up, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“Now here is a right noble lady,” he informed Simon bluffly. “Shouldst take a lesson from her, lad.”
Simon’s eyes were upon her face, and Margaret felt the colour rise to her cheeks.
“It boots not to sing my praise to Lord Simon of Beauvallet, sir,” she said icily.
“Nay.” It was Simon who answered. “I need no telling.”
“Hadst best have a care to thyself,” Fulk warned him jovially. “My lady will be satisfied with naught save thy life.”
Margaret’s cheeks were flaming now. She bit her lip, glaring at the well-meaning but tactless Fulk.
“My life is hers,” Simon said quietly.
“I should have said thy death,” Fulk chuckled.
Simon drew his dagger from its sheath and presented the hilt to Margaret.
“That also.”
Margaret drew away from under Fulk’s hand.
“The jest is no doubt amusing, sir. I will leave you to enjoy it.”
Fulk conceived that this curious pair of lovers should now be left alone, so he stumped off towards the stairs, shaking his head over the incomprehensible ways of the younger generation.
Simon stood before Margaret, barring her passage. He was in a genial mood this morning, and strange forces were at work within him.
“Be pleased to let me pass,” Margaret said imperiously.
He shook his head.
“In a little while, Margot.”
“My name, sir?” Her eyes flamed.
“Thy name.” He turned the naked dagger in his hand, looking down at it. “It was no jest, madame. If thou wouldst strike, strike now.”
“Thou hast tied my hands,” she answered bitterly. “I am not sunk so low. Thou hast told me that my life is thine by right of conquest. That is not so, but thou didst rescue me, in my dire peril, for which I must needs be grateful.”
“I want not thy gratitude. That debt is paid, and the past is dead. If thou dost indeed hate me—”
“Ah, can you doubt that?” she cried.
He smiled a little.
“Thou hast assured me of thy hatred many a time, and of thine undying lust for vengeance. And yet. … Thou didst lie in mine arms once, content to be there, and it was not hate that prompted thee to feel thyself safe, and to sleep with thy head on my breast.”
“You taunt me with that? I was weary, and beside myself with fear and—and everything!”
“Nay, I do not taunt thee. The memory of that ride is precious to me.”
She was silent.
“Methinks,” Simon went on, “I never knew thee until I saw thee clad in thy boy’s clothes, fighting at my side.”
She flushed.
“Not for nothing am I the Amazon,” she said through her shut teeth.
“The Amazon? Nay, thou didst seem just a helpless child, grown suddenly small
