“Nay, sire!” Simon answered forcefully. “She is no tigress, but a brave lady!”
“An Amazon!”
“Nay, a babe, for all her years and stateliness.”
Henry laughed at him.
“When I return from Rouen, I will see thy babe. Umfraville called her not that.”
“He knew her not,” Simon said, and smiled to himself.
Henry grasped his hand.
“God grant thee happiness, Simon. May thy lady be kind and gentle.”
Again Simon laughed.
“Gentle she is not, sire, kind I will make her. She is wilful and fierce, and swift with her dagger. It is a fighting maid that I will take to wife, not easily won. I would not have it otherwise.”
“Thou must ever choose the hardest task,” Henry said in amusement. “As soon as may be thou shalt go to Belrémy, but there is work yet to be done. May shall see thee in thy lady’s arms. Wilt thou write to Geoffrey?”
“Nay, sir. I will take them by surprise, so that my lady shall have no time to remember her stubborn pride. And, as your lordship doth know, mine is no able pen.”
Henry’s eyes twinkled.
“I have served thee out for thy curt dispatches, Simon.”
“I was not curious at all, sir,” Simon replied. “I thought your dispatch to me long enough. It told me that ye had need of me. What more should I wish to know?”
“God’s my life! Are ye turned courtier?” Henry exclaimed.
“Nay, I but spoke the truth,” Simon said, rather surprised.
XXI
How He Came to His Own
The Lady Margaret stood by the sundial in her pleasaunce, gazing wistfully down at it. It was May now, and all about her flowers bloomed, while the trees in the orchard, beyond the hedge, were laden with blossom. The sun shone warmly down upon the garden, and the birds sang, but the Lady Margaret was sad.
For a long time she stood motionless, thinking of one day in February when she had come running to this spot to warn Simon of danger. And as she thought, she smiled a little, drearily, and brushed her hand across her eyes. No word had come from him since March, and although Geoffrey made light of it, saying that Simon would never write unless he were forced to do so, Margaret felt the silence ominous, and feared she knew not what.
Today she was strangely nervous, jumping at every sound, as though she expected something to happen. Even now she lifted her head, listening, for it seemed to her that far away in the town some excitement was on hand. The faint noise died, but it came again presently, and she heard the echo of Fulk’s great voice, wafted to her by the gentle breeze. A deep breath she drew, and stood very still, hands clenched at her sides until the knuckles gleamed. She looked towards the entrance to the pleasaunce, lips slightly parted, and in her eyes were dread and hope.
And at length a soft tread reached her straining ears, and her knees seemed suddenly to shake. Round the bend in the alley that led to the pleasaunce, Simon came, and paused some few yards from her, looking at her from under his jutting brow.
The Lady Margaret stood very still; only her bosom rose and fell quickly, and her eyelids flickered. She gazed in dumb longing at the fair giant before her, but she could not speak.
Simon’s deep voice reached her, and she quivered with a kind of fearful joy.
“Willingly shalt thou come to me, and willingly give thy heart,” he said, and held out his arms.
The Lady Margaret took a faltering step forward, impelled by some invincible force. Her hands flew out, trembling.
“Milor’!” she whispered. “Thou hast—come back!”
“Ay, I have come as I swore I would. To lead thee to the altar.”
A sob broke from her, but it was a glad sob. She came to him, swiftly, stumblingly, her eyes full of tears.
“My heart—was thine—long since!” she said brokenly. “Willingly—do I—come!”
Then she was caught in a great embrace, swept off her feet, and crushed against Simon’s breast. She gripped the folds of his tunic with her slender hands, face upturned, half-crying and half-laughing.
“Thou art—with me again! Ah, Simon, Simon, I knew not what to think! I feared—Simon, milor’!”
His arms tightened ruthlessly about her. For one moment he looked down into her brimming eyes, his own ablaze with some newborn passion, then he bent and kissed her fiercely, on her eager mouth. And now, at last, the Lady Margaret returned his kisses, her pride dead, and all her fighting instincts flown.
So for a while they stayed thus, locked in each other’s arms, till the grip about Margaret’s shoulders slackened, and she was set upon her feet, breathless and quivering.
“My—queen!” Simon said huskily, and knelt suddenly to kiss the hem of her gown.
The Lady Margaret looked down at him, and in her face was all the wonder of love. Gently she laid a hand on the bent head, and put her other into his, drawing him to his feet.
“Simon, oh, milor’, kneel not to me! It is I who am ’neath your heel!” She sank against his shoulder, and laughed unsteadily. “I swore vengeance on thee! Undying vengeance!” she whispered. “I said that I would make thee rue the day thou didst cross my path. Ah, Simon, Simon!”
His arms were round her once again, holding her close.
“Mayhap I shall live to rue that day,” he said, and his rare humour peeped out. “Undying thy vengeance shall be, and on our marriage-day it will be complete.”
“Oh, ungallant!” she cried, and put up her hand to touch his lean cheek. “Thou most cruel of lovers! Was—was ever a maid so harshly wooed?”
“Was ever a maid so hardly won?” he retorted, and carried her hand to his lips. “Thou tigress! Wilt thou stab me, I wonder, if ever I gainsay thee?”
“Never again!” she said softly. “I could not do it—that
