Authors: Simon the Coldheart
How the Lady Margaret fell into the hands of Raoul the Terrible
They plodded valiantly on, over fields and through woods, and to help their tired feet onward, they sang a little, cheerily, Ranaud in a deep bass which seemed to come from a bottomless cavern within him, Margaret in a full contralto, and Jeanne in a small, weary soprano, which made itself heard spasmodically. They eschewed high roads, for they were in Raoul’s land, and the fame of his infamy had spread far and wide. Two days since they had left Turincel, but they went slower now, and sometimes Ranaud carried Jeanne in his great arms. The spring had gone out of Margaret’s step, and her feet were blistered and raw. Yet she made no complaint, but bit her lips when they walked over rough ground, so that her companions should not suspect. They visited no inns, but had furnished themselves with provisions at Turincel. The first night they had sheltered in a disused hut, but the second night had found them sleeping out in the open, wrapped about in their cloaks, and thanking God for the milder weather. Stiff and sore had the two girls been in the morning, but Ranaud showed no signs of fatigue or discomfort. Now they were tramping steadily eastward, hoping to leave Raoul the Terrible’s land behind them by nightfall.
‘Bad land,’ Ranaud remarked presently, breaking off in the middle of his song. ‘Drunken roysterers. Like master, like man. All goes to ruin while Raoul feeds his pleasure. Pah!’
‘Hast ever seen him?’ Jeanne asked.
‘Ay, once. A pig of a man, with flabby cheeks. A frog, a toad, a rat, a spider! Vermin!’
‘Why, thou art very bitter!’ Margaret said, and looked up to see him scowl.
‘I’ve reason.’
‘What was thy reason, Gaston?’
‘A girl,’ he growled. ‘My girl. Lascivious beast! May his bones rot in hell!’
‘Amen,’ said Margaret. ‘Ah, a stream! Needs must I bathe my feet.’
‘Oh, water!’ Jeanne limped forward thankfully.
They stayed by the stream awhile, resting, but presently Jeanne saw red berries growing nearby, and went to pluck some, singing softly to herself. Margaret stayed by the stream, lying flat upon the ground, arms crooked behind her head, half-dozing. Jeanne’s voice came to them.
‘Oh, such pretty, pretty berries! See!’
Margaret raised herself upon her elbow, smiling, for Jeanne had made herself a wreath of berries, and entwined them in her long plaits. In her russet dress, berry-hung, and her red mouth laughing, she was very beautiful, like some woodland elf. Margaret clapped her hands lightly, applauding her.
‘Wait, I will fetch thee some!’ Jeanne cried, and dived into the bushes.
Again Margaret fell to drowsing, lulled to sleep by the sound of Gaston’s low humming. How long she stayed thus she did not know, but suddenly she was roused by the sound of horses’ hoofs, and a scream. In a flash she was on her feet, and Ranaud too. Once more the scream rang out, and it was Jeanne’s voice.
Ranaud crashed into the bushes through which Jeanne had gone, Margaret at his heels, dagger in hand. They came out upon a clearing, and away to the right, down a cutting saw men and horses.
Quarter-staff gripped firmly, Ranaud thundered down upon this group, and as they drew near to it, panted over his shoulder to Margaret.
‘Raoul! Raoul! The devil hunts!’
Into the midst of the group they rushed, striking right and left. A squat man with a white face and loose cheeks sat upon a black mare, and held Jeanne before him, across his saddlebow. He gave a quick order, and some half-a-dozen men closed in upon Ranaud, swords drawn. Someone from behind her wrenched her quarter-staff from the Countess, and flung steel-like arms about her, bearing her backwards. She turned her head to see Ranaud down, and three men lashing his wrists and ankles together.
‘Toad, toad!’ Ranaud roared. ‘Misshapen toad! God’s curse be upon thee!’ He spat at Raoul, writhing still, and struggling.
‘Truss him,’ Raoul purred, and let his small, heavy-lidded eyes travel slowly over Margaret, who was seeking madly to free herself. ‘These be none of my people,’ he said, and looked down at Jeanne. ‘A sweet slut, i’ faith. Take her, one of you.’ He tossed her to the man whose horse stood beside his. ‘Spies, belike. Armagnac spies. Bear them after me.’ He wheeled his horse about and set it at a canter, through the wood.
Her captor threw Margaret face downwards over his saddlebow, and swung himself up. ‘Lie still, wild-cat!’ he said, and rode on after his master.
Through the wood they cantered, and out on to the open country. For miles, it seemed to Margaret, they galloped along in Raoul’s wake, the hunt all about them, and somewhere near, Gaston, roaring out defiance. When at last they halted, she was bruised and shaken from her jolting ride, and for a moment, when she was set upon her feet, she could see nothing for the dancing specks before her eyes. Then the mist cleared, and she found herself within the courtyard of Raoul’s palatial hunting-lodge. A great rambling house of stone, it was, with turrets at each corner, standing upon a fair space of land and backing upon a slight incline. One minute had she in which to take in her surroundings, before she was jerked forward into the big hall. There Raoul stood, and Margaret shuddered a little. He was short and broad with a great paunch, and bloodshot, lashless eyes. The skin about his face and jowl hung in white folds, and his mouth was wide, the lower lip sagging to show pointed yellow teeth.
Gaston was carried in, cursing, and flung down by his sweating, staggering bearers. Raoul’s wicked eyes ran over the huge form, and his grin grew.
‘Cut the bonds. Methinks I do know this fellow.’
One of the men released Ranaud, and he struggled up. He would have come at Raoul, had they not hemmed him in with swords.
‘Yes, I do know him.’ Raoul laughed a little, very softly. ‘You did seek to kill me once, good giant, long years ago. I remember.’
‘And I will kill thee yet!’ Ranaud bellowed. ‘Fat, shapeless spider!’
‘Gently, my giant. I will make you sing small presently!’ Raoul said sweetly.
Margaret twisted free of her captors, and ran to where Jeanne crouched upon the floor. She fell on her knees beside her, drawing her into her arms. Raoul smiled wider still.
‘The pretty cooing doves,’ he said, and Margaret grew cold at the sound of his purring voice. ‘Lock them up together, the doves,’ he commanded. ‘Who shall say I am not merciful? A last night in each other’s arms.’ Again he chuckled, so that his fat body shook like a jelly. ‘Pray that ye may find favour in mine eyes, sweet chuck. Alack, I have no time to waste on thee now. Away with them!’
A guard tossed Margaret over his shoulder, another caught Jeanne up. They were borne across the hall and along a passage. A flight of narrow steps ended this passage, and down it they went to a bare chamber whose only window was a narrow slit cut in the stones.
‘Sleep well, my beauties!’ Margaret’s bearer laughed, and set her down. He went out with his companions, and the key grated in the lock.
‘Margot! Margot!’ Jeanne stumbled towards her, white-faced and trembling. ‘Margot!’
Margaret flung her arms about her, holding her close, and pressing the berry-wreathed head to her shoulder.
‘Ah, my dear, my dear, what have I done? Into what den have I dragged thee? God forgive me!’
Jeanne clung to her sobbing.
‘His face, his face! He kissed me! Ah, the feel of his foul lips!’ She broke off, weeping bitterly.
For a while Margaret soothed and petted her, stroking the brown curls with gentle, motherly hands.
‘Thy Geoffrey will come,’ she said desperately. ‘Beauvallet is in pursuit now. Please God he will come!’
‘Too late, too late!’ Jeanne moaned, and feeling the berries against her cheek, tore them off, and cast them from her. ‘How could he come? How could he know?’
‘He will come,’ Margaret repeated. ‘He will come.’
‘Thou dost not believe it! Thou dost not!’
Margaret was silent for a moment, and Jeanne looked wistfully up into her face.
‘Margot – Margot, thy dagger? Thou wilt lend it me?’
Margaret bowed her head.
‘Lost,’ she said bitterly. ‘But I will find a way. I must. If the worst – befall us – I will tell this Raoul who I am. He – he cannot then – harm us. I – I think he cannot.’
‘Tell him not!’ Jeanne gripped her arms. ‘What cares the Terrible for thy rank? Or – or he might – seek to make thee wed him, to gain thy rich lands. Margot, promise that thou wilt not tell him! It would break my heart! Thou wouldst not hurt me so?’
‘God knows,’ Margaret said, and cast herself down upon a wooden bench. ‘What have they done with Gaston? His and thy blood on my head! Ah, why did I let thee come? Selfish, headstrong shrew that I am!’
‘Nay!’ Jeanne was at her side in an instant. ‘Thou couldst not have prevented my coming! I would have followed thee barefoot!’ She caught up Margaret’s hand and kissed it passionately. ‘Ah, my dear, my dear!’ she crooned, and clung to the Countess.
The night passed on leaden feet, and dawn found them fitfully asleep, arms locked about each other. Slowly the grey light grew, and awakened Margaret. She opened her heavy eyes and looked about her at the glum stone walls that cased her round. Very pale she was, and tight-lipped. Courage shone out of her dark eyes, but at the back was fear. She glanced down into Jeanne’s face, and shivered a little. Jeanne smiled in her sleep and murmured something. Margaret knew that she was dreaming of her lover, and a tiny sob shook her. She sat very still, waiting for Jeanne to awaken. And in a little while Jeanne stirred, throwing out her arm, and looked up into her mistress’s face.
‘Margot
chérie
…’ she murmured drowsily, and suddenly remembered where she was. She struggled up, eyes wide, and looked round shuddering. ‘It – it is – tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I – I pray God – it will soon be over.’
Margaret rose, stretching her aching limbs.
‘I will not lose hope!’ she said vehemently. ‘If I had but my dagger! Ah, to plunge it into his black heart!’ Her hands clenched.
‘Oh!’ Jeanne covered her face with her hands. ‘Thou – thou couldst not!’
‘Could I not? That could I, and blithely too! Hark!’
Jeanne started up, hands clasped at her breast, for down the stone stairs without heavy footsteps were coming.
‘Bear a brave front!’ Margaret implored, and pulled her down on to the bench. ‘Let them not see thy fear!’
The key grated in the lock, and the door swung back. A soldier came in, bearing bread and wine.
‘See how kind is my lord!’ he said, and set down his burden. ‘In a little ye shall come before him, pretty pigeon.’ He patted Jeanne’s cheek, which flamed under his hand. ‘Thou and thy sweet lover. Fare thee well!’ He went out, and her rigidity left Jeanne. She started to tremble, gripping her fingers together.
Margaret picked up the wine, coaxing her to drink, and crumbled a little of the bread.
‘It chokes me!’ Jeanne cried. ‘I – cannot!’
Margaret left her then, and went to the narrow window, tiptoeing that she might peep out. The country stretched away beneath her, dotted here and there with houses. Sighing she came back into the room, and sat down beside Jeanne, to wait.
Hours crept by, but at length footsteps sounded again on the stairs, and again the door was thrown open. Two men entered, and beckoned to them.
‘My lord waits,’ one said, and laughed. ‘Do ye shrink, little dove? Nay, but he hath ta’en a fancy to thee. Fret not.’
‘I – cannot!’ Jeanne whispered, and shrank back.
But Margaret took her hand and led her forward. Up the stairs they were led, along a corridor, up more stairs, through large rooms until they came to one which was carpeted with skins of wild animals, and at one end of which was a dais with a carved chair thereon. In that chair Raoul sat, a gorgeous figure clad in scarlet and gold, his bowed legs crossed, and one hand stroking his hairless face. Some four or five of his courtiers were in the room, and at the door through which the girls had come an armed guard stood.
Raoul smiled gently upon his prisoners and motioned them to stand before him. A great noise sounded without, and Ranaud was brought in, roaring out curses. His guards kept a firm hold on him, but he spat at Raoul yet again.
‘Silence him,’ Raoul sighed, and one of his men struck Gaston across the mouth so that the blood sprang up.
‘If ye are noisy, ye will be gagged,’ Raoul said, and turned again to the pair before him. For a long time he gazed at them.
‘The white dove trembles,’ he remarked presently, and turned his eyes to Margaret, surveying her long and closely. He leaned forward in his chair, and under his scrutiny Margaret felt the red colour flood her cheeks. Desperately she sought to stop this betraying blush, and stared back into the little eyes defiantly.
‘Ah!’ Raoul breathed, and rose. He came down from the dais and stood before her. He looked her over closely, and passed his hands over her taut body. His smile broadened. ‘Well, ye make a pretty boy, my dear,’ he said, and removed her cap. Down tumbled the thick braids, over her shoulders, reaching almost to her knees. ‘But ye make a prettier woman,’ Raoul said. ‘Now, I wonder…?’ Again, he caressed his chin. ‘I had thought thy companion lovely,’ he remarked. ‘But thou art stronger meat.’
Margaret closed her eyes for a moment, holding fast to her courage. Beside her she could hear Jeanne’s quick, sobbing breaths.
‘No peasant wench thou,’ Raoul went on. ‘So what do ye in my land? Methinks I have somewhere seen thy face before. Thy name?’
Margaret shut her teeth.
‘No name? Some great lady art thou? Escaping belike… From whom…? From the English, perchance. Now I made my submission a long time ago, and it may be that the English would give much to have thee back again.’ He looked at her sharply, chuckling. ‘And yet thou art very beautiful. I think I have a mind to thee myself. What is thy name?’
Margaret’s hands were clenched hard at her sides. From behind her came Ranaud’s voice.
‘Tell him not! Tell him not!’
Raoul wheeled about with something like a hiss.
‘I shall not tell,’ Margaret said quietly. ‘Save at a price.’
‘I bargain not,’ Raoul smiled. ‘Thou wilt tell.’