Henry drew a deep breath.
“By God, but thou art a Man!” he cried, and looked at Simon in admiration. “And the Amazon? Tell me of her!”
It was Alan who answered.
“She is the loveliest woman ever I saw, sir, and the bravest. A tigress.”
“But she submitted?”
“Ay,” Simon said. “Because I did save her life. Give me leave, sir. I would come out of this armour.”
Henry nodded.
“Ay, go. And Alan too. I like not Alan in armour. Did my Lord of Montlice find thee? I sent him.”
“He did arrive, roaring,” Alan smiled. “We left him with Geoffrey.”
“He is a man after mine own heart,” Henry said, and dismissed them.
The very next day he called for Simon and was closeted with him for a long hour. When Simon emerged at last Alan was waiting for him, and took him apart.
“Well?”
A sigh escaped this new Simon.
“I am to go into the Côtentin. To join Gloucester. Huntingdon goes to Coutances. Thou art to remain here.”
“For how long art thou to be away?”
Simon shrugged.
“Till the Côtentin is subdued. Gloucester plans to lay siege to Cherbourg as early in April as may be. Cherbourg will not fall easily.”
“I see,” Alan said, and said no more.
Simon left Bayeux the following week, but it was not until some ten days had passed that Henry, much occupied with the affairs of his conquered land, had time for private speech with Alan. Then, one day, when he was listening to Alan’s harping, he roused himself, and spoke.
“Alan, what ails our Simon?”
Alan drew a last, sobbing wail from his strings, and laid the harp aside.
“Ah!”
“Dour he was always, but never did his mind wander as now it doth! Half the time he dreams, and once I heard him sigh. Simon! Then there is new light in his eyes, and methinks he is more gentle than of yore. What hath come to him? Is he sick?”
“Some call it sickness, sire.”
Henry turned sharply round in his chair to gaze at Alan.
“God’s my life, he is not—he cannot be—in love?”
“Why, sir, have you not always said, with me, that love would one day come to him?”
“Ay, but—Alan, I never suspected. Who is it?”
“It is the Lady Margaret of Belrémy, sire.”
The King’s jaw dropped. In blank astonishment he stared at Alan.
“The Amazon? The tigress? Alan, you jest!”
“No, sir. True it is. I saw it coming slowly, but Simon knew not his own heart till he saw my lady in Raoul’s arms.”
“Then that was why he killed him!” Henry started up. “It was jealousy!”
“It was the lion in him, sir, roused to awful rage.”
Henry sank back.
“ ’Fore God, I am glad I was not Raoul! And she? Doth she love him? Is there love in her?”
“Love there is, sir, but also pride. She loves him, but she will not admit it, even to herself. They woo with daggers, Simon and his lady.”
Henry smiled.
“I would give much to see it. She hates him, then?”
“So she says, sir, but it is a strange hatred. She loves him, and when he returns to her, she will wed him.”
“Return?” Henry frowned. “I had planned to have him at my side when I march on Rouen.”
Alan said nothing.
“Speak, Alan!”
“If ye take Simon to Rouen, sire, it is death to his happiness. That campaign may last a year.”
Henry leaned his chin in his hand, thinking.
“What would ye have me do? If Simon loves indeed he must have his way. Geoffrey, too, I suppose. Yet I can ill spare them.”
“He will follow your Majesty unquestionably, sir. It is not for me to advise you.”
“He would sacrifice his love for his duty?”
“He is Simon of Beauvallet,” Alan said quietly.
XIX
How They Fared at Belrémy During His Absence
The Lady Margaret walked upon the terrace of the castle alone. It was mid-March, and Simon had been absent for three long weeks. She had had news of him through Geoffrey, and knew that he was fighting in the Côtentin, away to the west, with King Henry’s brother, the Duke of Gloucester. He did not write to Margaret, and he sent no messages. The letters that came from him came rarely, and were bald and unsatisfying.
The Lady Margaret glanced across the gardens wistfully. In the pleasaunce Geoffrey sat with his bride, she knew. She craved companionship, but she would not intrude into these two lovers’ idyll. Her ladies watched her, and she had sent them from her, to pace slowly up and down the terrace, her thoughts far away, and her black eyes sad and longing.
A rumble sounded behind her; Fulk was stumping after her, his little eyes twinkling good-humouredly.
“Hey, hey! Not so fast, lass!” he roared. “Come thou here, I say!”
He and she were close friends by now, and the haughty Lady Margaret came meekly to his side, to sit down on the stone seat. Fulk sank heavily beside her, puffing and blowing.
“What dost thou here, silly maid?” he demanded.
“I am not a silly maid,” she answered mildly. “I am a woman-grown. So be not so rude, milor’.”
“Ho—ho! And how old art thou? No more than twenty-eight, I’ll swear.”
“Twenty-eight?” Margaret sat up indignantly. “I am not yet twenty-six!”
Fulk laughed.
“A maid still! Now whence this fiery blush?”
“Do—do I look twenty-eight?” Margaret demanded.
“Nay, nay, twenty-one rather. What dost thou here, alone?”
“I was—taking the air.”
“I’ll warrant ye were sighing and pining for that lad of mine.”
“Alan?” said the Lady Margaret coolly. “Nay, why should I?”
“Alan! Hark to the child! Simon, thou dull girl!”
“I—do not think of him at all! And—and I will not have ye—call me names!”
“Here’s a heat! Art a pert, saucy lass,
