Georgette Heyer (16 page)

How the Lady Margaret could not stab him

The Lady Margaret sat on a raised dais, looking out of the window on to the bleak gardens of her castle. A fire burned at the far end of the chamber, and by it were gathered some four or five of her ladies, chattering together, and stitching at a length of canvas. The Lady Margaret sat with head averted and resting on her slender hand. She was dressed all in dull yellow, and her black hair lay over her shoulders in two great braids. A gold net covered her head and hung down to below her knees. Presently she sighed, and turned impatiently.

‘Get ye gone, get ye gone!’ she commanded petulantly. ‘Your silly chattering goes through my head. Jeanne, stay with me.’

The ladies departed softly, taking their work with them. The little lady who had smiled upon Geoffrey that day in the justice-house seated herself by the table, and looked up at her mistress gravely.

Margaret plucked nervously at her gown with fingers that quivered. Her delicate nostrils were a little dilated, and the long black eyes were troubled.

‘Ay, thou art calm!’ she said suddenly, and turned fiercely upon her companion. ‘Tell me how I may detest this English bully!’

Jeanne folded her hands. A smile hovered about her mouth as she answered.

‘Why, Margot, it seems that he is – a man.’

‘What mean you? A man! Ay, and an uncouth boor!’

‘But still a man,’ nodded Jeanne de Faucourt. ‘He hath thy measure, Margot,
chérie
.’

‘Ye think he will vanquish me? Ye think that?’

‘Why, I know not! Perchance. For till now thou hast known no man.’

Margaret sprang up and came down from the dais.

‘Oh, ay, ay! Thou art at one with this bully! Geoffrey of Malvallet hath bewitched thee!’

Jeanne went a rosy red.

‘Nay, madame!’

The Countess laughed angrily.

‘Think ye I have no eyes? An Englishman! Thou!’

‘He – he is very courtly, Margot,’ Jeanne pleaded.

‘Very courtly! To march into my domain, disarming my servants, wassailing in my hall at Christmastide! Oh, he charms thine ears with compliments, I make no doubt! Soon ye will desert me entirely!’

‘Madame!’ Jeanne rose, trembling.

Margaret ran to her, and caught her in her arms.

‘Nay, I meant it not! I – I am distraught with trouble! Jeanne, I did not say it! It was not me!’

Jeanne thrust her gently into a chair, bending over her and stroking her hands.

‘Poor Margot! Poor Margot!’ she crooned and drew the proud head to rest on her shoulder.

Margaret clung to her, sobbing for a space, but soon she disengaged herself and dashed her hand across her eyes.

‘Cry! I! I – I have seldom done that, Jeannette.’

‘Thou art too war-like,’ Jeanne chided her, and knelt by the chair. ‘Margot, Margot, make thy submission! To what avail this tilting against Lord Simon? He hath the advantage of thee in that he is a man, and holds thy lands beyond recall. Be wise,
mignonne
!
Be wise!’

‘If I could but escape!’ Margaret fretted. ‘If I could but reach Turincel!’

‘Turincel! Why,
chérie
,
it is ten leagues distant!’

‘What matter? If I could reach it, Fernand de Turincel would aid me! Aid me to throw this Beauvallet out of my land!’

‘Yes, Margot, yes, but thou canst not escape, and thou canst not journey ten leagues alone.’

Up went the dark head.

‘Ay, but that could I! Why, Jeanne, hast forgotten my strength?’

‘But thou art a woman,
chérie
,’ Jeanne said gently.

‘An Amazon!’ Margaret came to her feet, eyes flashing. ‘He calls me that, the English tyrant! Well, I will show him what an Amazon can do!’

Jeanne sat back on her heels, staring meditatively into the fire.

‘He is a strange man, this Lord of Beauvallet,’ she remarked. ‘His men do worship him, yet he is stern and silent. And he is tender with the children.’

‘Tender with the children? He would have slain them!’

‘Sir Geoffrey told me, no. He is half-brother to Lord Simon, and he says that if any man maltreat a child, Lord Simon’s hand is heavy upon that man.’

‘Lies, lies! He is cruel, I tell thee! Cruel!’

‘Nay, he hath treated thee fairly, Margot.’

The Countess swung round to face her, bosom heaving.

‘Thou dost think that? What of this scar I bear upon my breast? Thou didst see him press his sword into my flesh! What of this bruise on my wrist? It is three weeks now since he gripped my arm, but still I bear the marks of his fingers!’

Jeanne looked up at her mistress.

‘I think that scar will always remain,’ she said pensively.

‘Ay! And so shall I always remember! I will not rest until I have avenged myself! Jeanne, Jeanne, have ye forgotten how he used me, under the eyes of mine own people? Have ye forgotten how he put me to shame in the open street?’

‘Nay, none knew thee, and he said naught.’

Up and down the room paced my lady, lashing herself into fury.

‘Would that I had slain his Alan! Thus should I have hurt him! Ay, to the quick! Ah, why did I seek to treat with him?’

‘Ye could not have slain Sir Alan. Ye do know that, Margot.’

‘That could I! It was his threat that persuaded me! An empty threat, thou sayst! I would I had laughed at it.’

‘He would have found another way,’ Jeanne said slowly. ‘He is not easily worsted, Margot.’

‘We will see!’ The black eyes narrowed. ‘She-devil, he called me!’

A soft knock fell on the door. Jeanne rose to admit the Chevalier. Instantly Margaret’s passion left her. The colour died out of her cheeks, and her mouth took on its haughty curve.

The Chevalier came bowling into the room.

‘Sweet cousin, thou art well?’

‘Well enough. What want ye, Victor?’

‘Always so cold!’ he languished. He watched Jeanne withdraw to the window, and came closer to his cousin. ‘The English bear grows careless, methinks. He sits writing in the hall with none to guard his back. For once his faithful squire is absent.’

She was indifferent, moving away from him.

‘I brought thee this, Margot,’ the Chevalier said softly. Into her hand he slid a dagger with a jewelled hilt.

Her lip curled.

‘What would ye have me do with it?’ She tossed it on to the table.

‘Make thyself mistress yet again,’ he answered, watching her.

‘Stab him in the back? Pah!’

The Chevalier shrugged, spreading out his hands.

‘A woman ’gainst a man. What matter?’

She drew herself up, looking scorn upon him.

‘Ye grow noisome, Victor. Stab him thyself, if thou wilt.’

‘Oh, I have submitted!’ the Chevalier said nonchalantly. ‘Else would I surely stab him, and rid this land of his tyranny.’ He paused, and shot her a sidelong look. ‘Thou wert not always so nice, sweet Margot. Perchance thou durst not essay this venture?’

That stung her.

‘Durst not! Do ye think I fear Simon of Beauvallet?’

‘He is very ruthless,’ the Chevalier answered. ‘But a quick stroke from behind….’

‘Ah, you sicken me!’ she cried. ‘If I slay him ’twill not be from behind! Get thee gone from my room!’

The Chevalier walked mincingly to the door. He paused by the table as if to pick up the dagger.

‘Leave it!’ Margaret said sharply.

When he had gone, she swept to the table and hid the dagger in the bottom of her dress.

‘I would be alone, Jeanne.’

Jeanne rose, and without a word left the room. The door closed behind her, and once again the Lady Margaret fell to pacing the floor. At length she stopped, and drew the dagger from its hiding-place. Then, gathering her skirts close about her, so that they made no sound, she went to the door, and opened it. Before her the stone stairs led down to the great hall. Tiptoeing she approached them, and slowly descended.

In the middle of the hall Simon sat, his back turned towards her, writing. The scratching of his quill on the parchment was the only sound to be heard. He wore no armour, and his back was fair mark for an assassin’s dagger.

The Lady Margaret paused on the bottom step, hardly daring to breathe. Cautiously she stepped down, her little, soft-slippered foot making no sound on the stone floor. Inch by inch she went forward, never taking her eyes from that fair head, her dagger held ready. She meant to creep up to him and to strike him above the heart before he could save himself. Her lips were slightly parted, but her hand was steady, despite the wild beating of her heart. Nearer and nearer she approached until she was but three paces from him.

Simon’s hand travelled to and fro across the parchment. He did not lift his head. The silence seemed to grow, and still the Lady Margaret crept on. Then Simon spoke, his voice deep and calm.

‘Strike where the neck joins the shoulder, my lady,’ he said, and went on writing.

The Lady Margaret started back, letting fall her skirts. Her hand flew to her cheek, and now it was trembling. Her face went white, and her eyes dilated. Of a sudden she had grown cold, and her knees threatened to give way.

Simon signed his name elaborately, and sprinkled sand over the parchment. Then, and then only, did he rise and face the Countess.

‘Well, why do ye not strike?’ he asked her. ‘I wear no shirt of mail, and I have told ye how to stab. Art thou afraid?’ Then, as she did not answer, nor move, he strode forward under her petrified gaze, and folded his arms. ‘Strike, Margaret of Belrémy.’

With a great effort she pulled herself together, setting her teeth. She lifted her dagger, her eyes riveted on his, but still she did not strike.

‘Thy hand trembles,’ Simon jibed. He stretched out his arm, and closed his fingers round her wrist. ‘Here,’ he said, and brought her hand to his neck, so that the dagger pricked his tunic. ‘Push home, my lady.’

‘Loose me!’ she whispered. ‘Loose me!’

Simon laughed, releasing her hand. Quickly she stepped back, stumbling over her train. The dagger tinkled to the ground.

‘I – I – oh, one day I will do it!’

‘Thou wilt never do it now, lady. The time is past, and thy courage forsook thee.’

‘No!’

‘What then?’

‘Oh, ye are a devil! a devil! How heard ye mine approach?’

Again he laughed.

‘I heard ye not.’

She stared, hands clasped at her breast. Simon looked her over.

‘Think ye I would sit alone and unguarded in this place had I not the sense that warns me of danger? I have tested thine honour before, madame, and I take no risks.’

She winced.

‘Mine honour? What of thine own, Simon of Beauvallet? What honour hast thou who will threaten a woman?’

‘No threat, madame. The scar on thy breast shows whether I lie or not.’

‘I will pay ye for that, tenfold!’ she cried. ‘Ye hold me captive, but ye shall see of what stuff Margaret of Belrémy is made! Dearly shall ye rue the day ye sought to pit your strength ’gainst mine!’

Simon stirred the dagger with his foot.

‘The means lies there, madame. Take up that plaything and sate your vengeance.’

‘Nay, I will meet thee on equal terms, milor’! At the head of mine army!’

‘Ay, I have heard that ye lead your men into battle. Ye were better occupied in your stitchery, madame.’

She laughed then, and came a step nearer to him.

‘Were I so, my lord? Yet I did defeat Umfraville, and would have defeated you, had you not taken Belrémy by a trick!’

‘It was thy wits against mine, madame, and my wits won the day.’

‘A coward’s trick!’

‘A ruse, madame, and one that beat you. I could have starved you into submission, but I chose the quickest road as always.’

She flung back her head.

‘Not yet have I submitted, Lord of Beauvallet!’

‘Thou wilt submit.’

‘Ye know me not! Ye may do what ye will with me, but ye will kill me before I bend to you!’

‘We shall see, madame. There are many things I can do to you, but I think ye are not worth it.’

Colour flew into her cheeks.

‘Thou insolent! Out of my way!’ She caught up her train and would have gone up the stairway had not Alan blocked her path, coming slowly down. His arm still lay in a sling, but the bandage had been removed from his head. He wore his hair long to conceal the scar upon his temple.

‘Your pardon, madame.’ He came down into the hall, and bowed to her.

Her eyes rested on his wounded arm for a moment, and travelled from there to his forehead.

‘My men strike hard, Sir Alan, is it not so? They leave their mark. A little deeper, and that scar that mars thy beauty would have dispatched thee!’

A swift tread sounded behind her. Simon’s hand descended on her shoulder, pulling her round to face him.

‘By the Rood, madame, I am minded to have thine arrogance whipped out of thee! Get thee gone to thine apartment, and let me see you no more today!’

‘Simon, Simon!’ Alan remonstrated.

Margaret laughed at him.

‘The gentle knight would protect me from the English boor’s wrath! I need no protection, Sir Alan! Had I that dagger now ye were dead a minute since, Lord of Beauvallet! Take thy hand from my shoulder! I go when I will, and how I will, I’ll have you know!’

‘Ye go now,’ Simon said grimly. ‘Away with you, or I call my men to carry you to your apartments!’

‘Oh, you – you – !’ Margaret struck him furiously, on his stern mouth. Then she broke free, and ran quickly up the winding stairway to her chamber.

Alan drew a deep breath, looking at Simon.

‘The termagant! Simon, what will you do with her?’

‘Conquer her,’ Simon answered, and led him to a chair. ‘Sit, lad. The vixen, to taunt thee so!’

Alan smiled.

‘I would not be alone with her for untold gold. Yesterday she braved Geoffrey so that he was trembling when he came to me, with anger and fear. He said she would have killed him had she a weapon to hand. She is like a tigress in her fierceness.’

‘She hath never met her master – until now. But I will school her.’

Alan looked at him through half-closed eyes. He said nothing, but his smile grew.

Upstairs, Margaret had cast herself into Jeanne’s arms in a fit of wild weeping.