She laughed harshly.
“I thank you, milor’! So it was with a child that thou didst—didst—fall in love—if love this be!”
“It must be love, Margot, but I know little of such matters. I only know that I want thee, and must have thee.”
“Then know also, sir, that I will none of thy wooing! Now let me pass!”
He stood aside at once, and she almost ran down the gallery to her rooms, meeting Alan on the way, and brushing past him without a glance in his direction. Alan strolled up to Simon, half-smiling.
“One pair of lovers left I in the hall, and here I stumble upon yet another. And I—I the only real lover amongst you—am maid-less. It is a sad world.”
“Alan,” Simon said abruptly. “Tell me of love. What is it?”
“I can tell thee naught that thou dost not know already. Long, long ago I did say that the day would come when some maid should wake thy cold heart. Behold, it is here at last, and thou dost ask me to tell thee of love!”
“It is love, then, that stirs my blood? But—but—but—”
Alan laughed softly.
“It comes to all men at least once, and to some many times. To thee it came slowly, but to some it comes as a sudden shock.”
Simon pondered gravely, and in a few moments Alan spoke again.
“I came in search of thee. I want to warn thee.”
Instantly Simon was on the alert, and the softness went out of his face.
“Well?”
“I mislike the looks of yon Frenchman, the Chevalier. Of late there hath come a new gleam into his eyes, and I think he seeks to do thee harm.”
“That little popinjay!”
“But he was first in the field,” Alan said quietly.
“What mean ye?”
“Why, that he also loves the Lady Margaret, although she slights him.”
“He—loves—!” Simon’s hand clenched. “If I find—”
“Nay, listen, thou jealous lover! As I came hither I chanced on him, descending the stairway. Methinks he doth play the spy, and if it seems to him that thou art like to win the Countess, he will dispose of thee as best he can.”
Simon shrugged.
“What can he do! He made his submission long since.”
“And ye would trust to his honour, Simon?”
“I have as yet no reason—since his submission—for doubting it.”
“Save his shifty eyes, and spying ways. I would like to see him safe under lock and key, lad.”
“I cannot do that,” Simon answered shortly. “Do ye think I fear him?”
“Not I, but the soft-spoken are the most dangerous of all foes. Look well to thyself, Simon.”
“Ye think he will slay me?”
“Nay, I think he will try to,” Alan riposted. “Or mayhap he will hire some rogue to do it for him, and thus in a little salve his conscience.”
Simon smiled.
“I doubt that same rogue will find his task hard indeed,” he remarked. “I have ears that hear that which makes no sound, and eyes that see in the dark.”
“Still, be more watchful than ever,” Alan warned him. “When do ye go to Bayeux?”
“Next week. I leave Geoffrey here, with thy father. Huntingdon must go with me.”
“And I.”
“And thou.”
“When wilt thou return?”
“I know not.” Simon sighed faintly. “The message that thy father brought told me that the King had need of me. He waits but to see Gloucester triumph, and Domfront fall to Warwick. Then he will march on Rouen.”
“Whom will he leave to govern this land?”
“The Lady Margaret hath submitted. She will rule here.”
“Some overlord he will appoint.”
“Perhaps Salisbury. Who knows?”
“Who indeed?” said Alan softly.
XVI
How He Walked Alone in the Garden
Barehead he walked slowly through the garden that surrounded the castle, and the pale sunlight played about his fair hair, while the wind stirred it gently and blew it across his face. His sword hung at his side, but his hands were clasped listlessly behind him, and he bent his head, deep in thought.
It was four days since his talk with Margaret in the gallery and nothing further had passed between them since then. In two more days he would be gone from Belrémy, and for the first time in his life he was worried.
He paced slowly to and fro across the lawn before the castle, seemingly lost in his thoughts, frowning slightly. From an arbour close by the Lady Margaret watched him, hidden from his sight by the bushes through which she peeped. She had escaped from her ladies and come here to be alone, why, she knew not. Ever since the day when Simon had rescued her from Raoul she had been racked and torn by conflicting emotions. Not one of them could she recognise, but she knew that a strange misery had her in its hold, that would not let her rest, causing her sleepless nights and storm-tossed thoughts. She was hungry for an unknown something, and at times she would bite hard on her lip to hold back the rush of angry, heartsick tears that sprang to her eyes. She was restless, too, and short with her ladies. Not even Jeanne would she have near her for long, but fled away by herself as now, fighting what she half-guessed to be a yearning for her mate. Try as she might she could not forget the feel of his arms about her on the ride from Raoul’s land, or the touch of his lips on hers. Again and again she tried to lash her anger to fresh energy, remembering all Simon’s iniquities, dwelling on them fiercely, pressing the scar on her bosom with nervous, trembling hands.
For a long time she sat motionless in the arbour, heedless of the cold, watching Simon’s ceaseless, measured pacing with eyes that burned dark and troubled. Presently she saw him wheel to the left, and in a moment he had passed from her sight, through a gap in the yew hedge. Some of the rigidity left her then, and she fell to plucking at her gown,
