Her lips curled.
“Annoyed is a small word, sir. The Chevalier will understand, when I say that I think his own lands stand in need of him.”
The Chevalier started, dropping the flower he held.
“Margot!”
“My name is not for such as you to use, sir!” she said haughtily. “Ye do know why I will no longer harbour you.”
“Fair cousin, you are distraught,” the Chevalier said silkily. “I know naught.”
Her look was full of scorn.
“Ye desire that I should be more explicit?”
“Most certainly, madame, for I am in the dark.”
“Then know, sir, that I was in the garden when you did send your bravo to slay my Lord of Beauvallet.”
Her uncle gasped, falling away from his son.
“Victor! Madame, it cannot be true! My son—”
“Look at his face,” she said disdainfully. “Is it not proof enough?”
The Chevalier was gnawing at his lip, livid, but he contrived to smile.
“You rave, cousin. I know naught of this affair.”
“But ye will return to your own lands, sir, nevertheless.”
The Sire came towards her, and his eyes were haggard all at once.
“Madame, it cannot be true! It were dishonour! I implore thee listen to Victor’s defence!”
“Can he deny it?” she sneered.
The Sire turned to his son.
“Victor! My God, Victor, thou didst not do this thing?”
“Nay,” the Chevalier muttered, but could not look at him.
His father started forward, seizing him by the shoulder.
“Look at me! Is it true?”
The Chevalier shot one glance at Margaret’s rigid countenance, and laughed.
“You are over squeamish, mon père,” he said carelessly.
The Sire’s hand fell away from him as from a thing unclean.
“Thou craven cur!” he whispered, and turned again to the Countess. “Madame, I can say naught, save that this deed is as foul to me as it is to you.”
She bent her head.
“That I know, sir. I do trust that thou wilt continue here, for I do value thy friendship. But thy son goes within forty-eight hours, or I will formally banish him from my domain. That is my last word.”
“You are generous, madame,” her uncle said, very low.
“For thy sake, my uncle,” she answered, and stretched out her hand to him.
The Chevalier bowed.
“Then I take my leave of thee, fair cousin.” He sneered at her. “When thou art miserable in yon Saxon’s arms, think of me!”
“Go!” his father thundered. “Must you add to your vileness? Go!”
The Chevalier bowed again, ironically, and went out. His father picked up the flower he had dropped, and threw it into the fire.
“Madame, ye will excuse me. I am—not myself. This hath been a bitter blow. I would fain retire.”
“Indeed, I am very sorry,” Margaret said, her hand on his arm. “I could not do otherwise.”
“Ye were too generous,” he said shakily, and kissed her hand.
As soon as he was gone, Margaret turned to Jeanne, who all the time had stood silent behind her chair.
“Chérie, wilt thou request thy Geoffrey to wait on me here?”
Jeanne threw her arms about Margaret.
“Oh, Margot, Margot, it was well done. I will fetch Geoffrey at once!” She ran out, flushed and excited.
She found Geoffrey in the great hall, disconsolate at his friends’ departure. When he saw her his brow cleared, and he held out his arms.
“Nay, I am come on an errand,” she said demurely, and curtseyed. “The Lady Countess doth request your presence in her chamber, milor’.”
Geoffrey came to her, sweeping her off the ground in his embrace.
“What care I for the Lady Countess? Kiss me, thou rogue!”
Jeanne obeyed meekly, and was set down.
“This is very wrong,” she reproved him. “It is no way to treat a herald. Follow me now, Geoffrey, at once!”
“What wants thy mistress?” he asked.
Jeanne led him up the stairs.
“No doubt she will tell thee,” she said. “Geoffrey, it is not at all seemly to put thine arm about a herald’s waist.”
“Nay, but it is very seemly to put mine arm about my betrothed’s waist,” he retorted, and drew her protesting onward. Outside Margaret’s door he paused. “Kiss me, or I will no further,” he threatened.
“Thou art a sore trial,” Jeanne sighed, and raised her bewitching little face. “No, that is enough, Geoffrey! What if someone was looking?” She opened the door. “Sir Geoffrey, madame!”
“Enter, enter!” Margaret said, and came forward to meet them. “Methinks thou wert gone a long time on thine errand, chérie?” Her eyes sparkled a little.
“That was not my fault, madame,” Jeanne said. “Indeed, Sir Geoffrey is very—very—obstinate in the matter of—coming quickly.”
“I doubt it not,” Margaret smiled, and looked at Malvallet. “Sir, I did request your presence to tell you that I have banished my cousin from this land for—for setting his men to slay Lord Simon. I—I will have no such—dishonour on my head—so—so will ye please to—see to it that he is gone within—forty-eight hours? I—I do not desire that—anyone should be told—why he goes.”
Geoffrey recovered from his amazement with difficulty.
“Madame! Ay, I will see to it. Let me say, madame, that I honour you—greatly.”
She smiled rather sadly.
“It was—the least I could do,” she said. “I—Sir Geoffrey, you and I—you and I—have fought in the past—and I have given ye—no cause to love me. But—but I am wiser now—a little—and I would wish to—live at peace with you.”
Geoffrey knelt at once, kissing her hand.
“Madame, I thank you. Be assured that I will do all in my power to aid and uphold you in this land.”
She pressed his fingers slightly.
“Thank you,” she said. “When do ye steal my Jeanne from me?”
He rose.
“Why never, madame. I only seek to wed her. And that right soon.”
“I—I wish you—happiness,” she said unsteadily, and tried to smile.
Jeanne caught her hands.
“Ah, chérie, you too shall have happiness!”
Margaret’s head was bowed.
“Maybe. I—I think I will be—alone for a while.”
They left her then, her head held bravely and her lips smiling.
XVIII
How He Came to Bayeux, to the King
He rode slowly into Bayeux, at the head of his men, Alan at his side, and Huntingdon some way behind, leading the rearguard. He
