Georgette Heyer (23 page)

‘My lord!’ Simon strode to meet him, and gripped his hands. ‘My dear lord!’

Fulk embraced him.

‘My Simon – my lion-cub! I could not stay away. Fiend seize thee, thou hast grown again, or else I had forgotten thy great height. What a-God’s Name do ye in all this golden armour? Thou popinjay! My lad, my lad, kneel not to me!’ For Simon had dropped on his knee. Fulk pulled him up. ‘Give me thy hand again! I have heard of thy prowess, lion-cub. And thou wert once my pert squire! Glory, glory, I never thought I should live to be proud of thee!’ He held Simon at arm’s length, gazing at him. ‘Ay, ay, the same beetle-brows, and the same cold eyes. Turn to the light, silly boy! Now, by my troth, I do see a difference!’

Alan came to Simon’s side.

‘Wert thou surprised? My lord did come yesterday, straight from the King.’

‘I thought I dreamed,’ Simon said. ‘How came ye to these shores, my lord?’

‘Faith, in a boat, lad. There was I at home, fretting for news of ye both, which came not, and could bear it no longer. Since my lady died and my daughters are both wed, I must e’en be near one or other of you. So off went I to London to my cousin Granmere. Then went I to the King , and he sent me here. And since yesterday I have heard of naught save thy prowess, and how thou didst capture this place. Simon, Simon, it was well done! Would that I had been with thee, lad, but I am old and this accursed gout – well, well! What hath come to mine Alan? He left Montlice a silly boy, sighing and singing for his lady-loves, and here I find him a man at last, which I never thought to see him. Hast made a soldier of him, lad?’

Simon led him to a chair.

‘Nay. King Hal calls him his poet, but he can lead an attack better than Geoffrey here, if he has a mind to it.’

Fulk turned to look at Malvallet, who stood apart, watching them. Up he struggled once more and stumped forward.

‘Needs must I take thy hand, Sir Geoffrey,’ he mumbled. ‘If thou wilt have it so. This is war-time, and there is no room for enmity between us two.’

Geoffrey bent the knee gracefully.

‘I am only too well pleased to have it so, my lord,’ he said. ‘For Simon, Alan and I are one.’

So they clasped hands, and Fulk sat down again with all three about him. The Chevalier had minced away some time ago, and Santoy had taken the wounded and very much shaken Ranaud to find a surgeon, so that they were alone. Fulk blew out his cheeks, looking proudly from Alan to Simon, and smiled a little at the glory of Simon’s armour.

‘Well, I had heard of thy gilded armour, lad, but never till now have I seen thee in it. Thou coxcomb! And tell me, lion-cub, who was the lady whom ye bore in your arms?’

Simon rose, and glanced from one to the other of them. For a moment he was silent, and then the glimmering of a smile came into his green-blue eyes.

‘That, my lord, is the lady whom I will one day take to wife,’ he said deliberately.

How he received the Lady Margaret’s submission

My Lord of Montlice hobbled out on to the terrace. It was the day after Simon’s return, and he was still in a state of incoherent surprise over the amazing announcement that Simon had made the night before. At the time, he had stared open-mouthed, and before he had in the smallest degree recovered from the first shock of surprise, Simon had gone. All the evening he had been busy, so there had been no more private conversation. This morning he was closeted with his secretary, so Fulk wandered out in search of his son, whom he found on the terrace, fitting a new string to his harp. Alan smiled when he saw his father, and his smile was very sweet, as always.

Fulk lowered himself on to the chair that Alan vacated.

‘Fiend seize my foot!’ he growled, and glared at it.

Alan sat down on the parapet, a gay figure against the dull stone. His father grunted.

‘Still harping, silly lad?’

‘Still,’ Alan answered.

‘Hast naught better to do?’

‘Simon would tell thee ay. But Simon hath no ear for music.’

‘He tells me that thou art Master of his Horse.’

Alan laughed.

‘It is true, alack.’

‘He saith that thou art a good master, but I doubt he seeks to flatter thee to me.’

‘I think he doth,’ Alan said, and smiled again.

‘Alan!’ Fulk drove his stick on to the ground. ‘What meant the lad last night?’

Alan glanced up through his lashes.

‘Last night?’

Fulk roared at him.

‘Thou foolish boy! When he said that he would take the Lady Margaret to wife!’

‘Well, sir –’ Alan twanged his harp meditatively – ‘He is Simon of Beauvallet, so I suppose he did mean – just that.’

‘But thou didst tell me that the Lady Margaret hated him, and sought to slay him!’ exploded Fulk.

‘Ay, my lord.’

‘Then what maggot hath Simon in his silly head?’

Alan drew his hand across the strings so that they sang softly under his fingers.

‘The maggot of love, my father.’

‘Love for a froward woman? Much have I heard of the lady on the way hither, and it seems to me that she is a bold, spiteful hussy.’

‘Bold, sir, and tigerish, but so is Simon. No milk-and-water maid could touch his heart. He must take a fitting mate unto himself. The Countess is such an one, and not soft speech will move her, but rugged strength, and maybe rough usage.’

Fulk stared at him.

‘Art very wise. I would fain meet this lady.’

‘Oh, sir, she will send thee from her side with a flea in thine ear.’

‘Oho!’ said Fulk. ‘I am an old man.’ He stroked his grey hair ruefully.

Alan touched his hand affectionately.

‘Yet the old man did come to France and is none the worse for his tedious journey,’ he said.

Fulk puffed, pleased at the compliment.

‘Oh, there is life in the lion yet!’ he nodded. ‘Who comes?’

Alan sprang up, for Jeanne was limping towards them.

‘It is Mademoiselle Jeanne, who is soon to be Geoffrey’s lady,’ he said, and kissed Jeanne’s hand. ‘Mademoiselle, ye see here my father, Lord Fulk of Montlice.’

Jeanne curtseyed in response to Fulk’s bow, and went to sit beside him on the bench.

‘Is it the gout?’ Fulk asked, interested, pointing to her feet.

Jeanne dimpled charmingly.

‘Nay, milor’, it is – oh, it is blisters!’

‘Ay, ay! Art a brave lass, I do hear.’

‘Not I, sir. ’Tis Margot who is brave.’

‘Mademoiselle,’ Alan interrupted, ‘what chanced in Raoul’s palace? Simon says naught, and I have had no word with Geoffrey. Is it true that Simon slew Raoul?’

Jeanne closed her eyes.

‘It was terrible,’ she said. ‘Raoul – Raoul had Margot in his arms. He – he kissed her, and she fought him. Then – then, when I thought all was lost, there came the clank of armour, and Lord Simon stood in the doorway with Geoffrey beside him. Oh, sir, I thought mine eyes deceived me! So great they looked, the one all black and grey, and the other gold and green! Raoul pushed my lady away, but he was too late.’ Jeanne threw out her hand dramatically. ‘I saw my Lord of Beauvallet grow stiff all at once, and there came a light into his eyes such as I have never seen before. He smiled, and indeed, indeed, that smile drove terror into my heart. Just one moment he stood there, while I wondered what he would be at. And then he seemed to leap forward! In a second he was by us, and had seized up Raoul in his arms. He bent him over his knee, backwards, until methought Raoul’s spine would snap. And he said’ – Jeanne tried to imitate Simon’s snarl – ‘“
Die,
thou dog!” Then he stabbed suddenly, and the blood spurted up! It was horrible, horrible! After that it is all – a mist. They fought, all of them, even Margot, but they could not hope to conquer, so we fled through a door behind us, and ran, and ran, and ran! And at last we found a stairway, which led out of the castle. Raoul’s men were hard on our heels, but we ran across a courtyard, and Ranaud wrenched the gate open. Then found we the horses, and fled for our lives.’

‘Simon ran way?’ Fulk asked incredulously.

‘What else could he do? I think – he lost his head. He meant not to kill Raoul, but when he saw my lady in his arms, he forgot caution, and only thought of vengeance.’

‘That is not like Simon!’ Fulk said.

‘It is like the new Simon,’ Alan answered.

To Simon came a French page, bowing low.

‘Milor’, I bear a message from madame.’

‘What is it?’

‘Madame requests milor’ to visit her. She hath that which she would say to milor’.’

Simon rose.

‘Lead me to madame.’

The page conducted him to Margaret’s rooms, and announced him.

The Countess was alone, standing by the window. She was clad in a long red robe, and she wore a horned head-dress upon her head. She came forward a few steps, to meet Simon, and he saw that her hands were tightly clenched.

‘Well, madame?’

Margaret moistened her lips. She began to speak jerkily, her eyes dark and troubled.

‘Milor’, there is much I must say to you. Ye have – placed me in your – debt.’ Her eyelids dropped a little, and the proud lips quivered.

Simon said nothing, watching her.

‘I have first – to thank you – for – what you did – yesterday.’ The words stuck in her throat a little, but she went on bravely. ‘Had ye not come – to my rescue – I had been – what I will not think – today.’ Her eyes searched his face, but it was impassive. Simon’s arms were folded across his great chest, and he stood very still before her. Again she moistened her lips. ‘Margaret of Belrémy – leaves not – her debts – unpaid. Had I not – fallen into Raoul’s clutches – I would have – brought – an army to Belrémy – to fight you. But – I failed, and – you – rescued me. I – I desire now – to wipe away – the debt I owe you. So – so – I will – make my submission to you.’ Her voice had sunk, but it vibrated with her pride.

‘I want more than that.’

She started, clasping her hands nervously together.

‘You – you seek – my life?’ she asked, and squared her shoulders.

Simon came heavily up to her, and took her wrists in his hold.

‘Thy life, ay. All of thee.’ Suddenly he bent forward, and kissed her, full on her red lips.

She sprang away, trembling and shaken, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks.

‘You – oh, you insult me! I have not deserved – that! My God, I had – I had come to think you – a man of honour!’

‘I insult thee not,’ Simon said calmly. ‘I want thy hand in marriage.’

She stared at him, hardly comprehending. Then she recoiled eyes aflame.

‘You – you – For what do ye take me? Think ye I would wed – an English boor?’ She spat the words at him, and her bosom heaved.

‘I think that thou wilt wed me, madame. What I want, I take.’

‘Ye take not me! Mordieu, are ye mad? Wed me? I – I am Margaret of Belrémy!’

‘Thou art my prisoner.’

‘No longer!’ She stepped quickly up to him, her silken skirts brushing the ground. ‘I have made my submission!’

He looked down at her for a moment, in silence; then he drew a folded parchment from his belt, and spread it upon the table.

‘It awaits thy signature, madame. Thy submission to my master.’

Slowly she approached the table, and read the formal words. A little shiver ran through her, and she bit her lip. She sat down, and picked up her quill. For a long time she sat very still, but presently she dipped the quill in the ink, and quickly signed her name. She would have risen then, but Simon’s hand was on her shoulder.

‘There lies thy submission to the King my master,’ he said and she saw that his eyes gleamed. ‘But thy submission to me must come soon. Thy life is mine by right of conquest, and well dost thou know it. Willingly shalt thou come to me, and willingly give thy heart. For I will have all or nothing.’

‘Nothing, then!’ she said hoarsely.

He smiled, and picked up the parchment.

‘“I have not, but still I hold”,’ he said, and laughed, swung round on his heel, and went out.

Margaret stumbled up, trying to control the wild leaping of her pulses. To her came Jeanne, and cast her a shrewd glance.

‘Jeanne!’ Margaret cried. ‘
He
has been here! He – he kissed me. Oh, how I hate him!’ Raging, she paced the floor, lashing herself to a fury.

‘I have heard that hate is akin to love,’ Jeanne remarked placidly.

‘Love! I love that – that –’ she choked for words. ‘He thinks to wed me! He! Ah, how I hate him!’

‘Thou didst not hate him when he killed Raoul,’ Jeanne said.

Margaret paused, staring at her, wild-eyed.

‘Did I not? Did I not? Oh, what ails me, Jeanne?’ She sank down upon the floor beside her lady, sobbing.

‘Pride dies hard,’ Jeanne said softly. ‘Thou art torn between love and hate.’

‘No, no! It is all hate, all hate!’

‘Then why dost thou weep?’

‘I – I do not know – I am distraught. It was his kiss, burning me! Shaming me! Ah, let me go!’ She sprang up and away, rushing from the room straight into the arms of her cousin.

‘Victor! You? What – do ye here?’

He twirled his scented kerchief, eyes running swiftly over her.

‘I came to wait upon thee, sweet Margot, but yon yellow-haired Saxon was before me. Thou art strangely disordered, cousin.’ He bent forward, scrutinising her. ‘Now what hath he done, I wonder?’

‘Out, out of my way!’ she cried, and swept past, down the corridor.

The Chevalier entered her room. Jeanne looked coldly at him, but he smiled.

‘So the English oaf kissed my cousin?’ he said gently, and showed his teeth a moment.

‘Ye would appear to be in his confidence,’ Jeanne snapped.

He paid no heed.

‘And she is all distraught. What does that betoken? …’

How he came upon the Lady Margaret in the gallery

On a voyage of exploration through the castle, Fulk came to a wide gallery where the musicians were wont to play. Coming towards him, away from her rooms, was the Lady Margaret, tall and stately as ever in a cloth of gold, with her long hair braided, and a gold band about her forehead from which glowed a single sapphire stone. She paused when she saw Fulk, and looked him over, for he was a stranger to her.

Fulk looked back at her squarely, leaning on his stout ash-plant. The Lady Margaret would have passed on, chin lifted, but he blocked her passage.

‘Know ye the way back to the hall, madame?’ he asked, in very fair French. ‘I have lost my path.’

‘The stairs are yonder, sir,’ she said, pointing.

Fulk sighed, and thought that he would be very cunning.

‘Stairs, stairs, stairs! If there were chairs I should like it better. I have had the gout this many a day, lady, and it plagues me sorely.’

The Countess hesitated, but Fulk’s white hairs made her courteous.

‘There are chairs behind you, sir,’ she said.

‘Why then, madame, if you will be seated, so will I,’ he answered.

‘I thank you, no.’ On swept my lady, but was arrested by Fulk’s roar. He could never be patient for long.

‘Come back, come back! God’s Body, have I not been lonely enough? Come hither, whoever ye may be, and bear an old man company.’

The Lady Margaret spoke coldly.

‘I am the Countess of Belrémy,’ she said, and her tone should have crushed him.

‘What care I for that?’ he demanded. ‘If you wish to sing titles, I am the Earl of Montlice. Now sit ye down, a-God’s sake!’

Margaret was somewhat taken aback.

‘I – I do not know the Earl of Montlice, sir.’

‘That do ye. Sit thee down, I say!’

Margaret was inclined to be haughty, but when Fulk stamped his foot and swore at the pain, she laughed, and came to him, sitting down.

‘I do not know why ye should desire to keep me with you,’ she said frankly. ‘I have no love for Englishmen.’

Fulk lowered himself beside her.

‘Now what hath been done to thee by an Englishman?’ quoth he.

She flushed.

‘Ye call it nothing that my land hath been ta’en by an Englishman?’ she cried.

‘Fortune o’ war,’ he grunted. ‘Thou hadst a worthy foe.’

‘Sir?’

‘Why I do hear that my boy Simon and thou do tilt at one another. Now Simon is a man, God wot!’

‘Indeed, sir?’

‘Did ye doubt it?’ Fulk slewed round to face her. ‘A plague be on the lad, what hath he done? He was ever a pert, headstrong child, but I never heard that he did more harm to a maid than turn his back on her.’

‘Oh, he is very chivalrous!’ she sneered. ‘See this scar on my breast! That did he with his sword!’

Fulk looked at it.

‘Did he so? Wherefore should he do that?’

‘Because I would not yield thy son to him, nor my castle!’

‘Ah, well!’ Fulk puffed out his cheeks. ‘Alan is dear to him. As for thy castle – what he had sworn to take he would take, willy-nilly. It is his way. Lord, Lord, I should know, for had I not to bear with him four long years? The lad was my squire, lady.’

‘Thy squire?’ She was surprised, in spite of herself. ‘How could he be that?’

‘Why, look ye, he was Malvallet’s bastard, and Malvallet was my foe. When Simon’s mother died he came to me, and bearded me in my lair.’ He chuckled. ‘I was a fierce fellow in those days, lady, but Holy Virgin, he was as fierce! A square-set whelp, some fourteen years old, and forced himself into my service. A pretty time I had with him, madame, and an obstinate, impudent cub he was. Many’s the beating I’ve given him, but do ye think he cared? Not he! He’d e’en go his own road, say or do what I would. Cold as a stone, as strong as I was myself. Up he grew, like a young tree. The shoulders of him! He hath a blow which would fell an ox, lady, and the coolest brain ever I knew. Now hark while I tell thee how he came by his land.’ Fulk settled himself more comfortably, and proceeded to recount the exploits of his beloved lion-cub. Margaret listened, eyes downcast, but once she raised them, and they were sparkling with sympathy for one of Simon’s deeds. But at the end of the recital the colour died out of her cheeks, and she remembered that Simon was her enemy.

‘Ye would seem to have a fondness for this Simon, milor’.’

‘Needs must I,’ Fulk grunted. ‘I do indeed love the boy. He cares for me a little, but he hath never asked a favour of me, and never will. What he wants, he will win himself. Never was there a prouder, more cock-sure lad!’

‘It is praiseworthy, perhaps,’ Margaret said slowly, ‘but he cannot – always – win.’

Fulk’s eyes twinkled.

‘So, so! And who shall teach him that, lady?’

She looked at him, and he saw her lips tight-shut.

‘Aha! So ye think to bring Simon to heel, madame? I wonder if you will do it?’

‘I desire only that he shall leave my land, never to return.’

‘Well, he is like to,’ Fulk announced. ‘He goes soon to join the King.’

‘I am glad,’ said the Lady Margaret primly. ‘I hope it will be very, very soon!’

‘Here’s a heat!’ Fulk remarked. ‘Why dost thou hate him so?’

‘I have told thee. Once I sought to kill him –’ she spoke through clenched teeth – ‘and could not! Could not, though he would have let me! I was a coward, and now I do owe my life to him.’

‘And didst fight at his side, if Malvallet and thy lady speak sooth. That was not done of hate, madame.’

‘I fought because – because I had to escape. Not to save him!’

Fulk grunted.

‘And even now, had I the means to hand, I would slay him gladly! Ay, gladly!’

‘Brave words,’ Fulk said. ‘Simon is not one to be worsted by a maid. What good would his death bring you? King Henry would fall upon thy land.’

‘I held out ’gainst Umfraville!’

‘Ay, but the English are in now,’ Fulk said.

A soft yet heavy tread sounded. Along the gallery came Simon, and at sight of him the Lady Margaret rose, yet was too proud to seek refuge in flight.

Simon halted before her, looking gravely into her eyes. But all at once a smile came to disperse the gravity, and it was so unlike the smile she had seen on his lips before, that almost it drew from her an answering gleam. There was no grimness in it, but a species of amused understanding.

‘So my lord hath found thee?’ he said. ‘I dare swear he hath told thee that I was once the bane of his life.’

‘My lord is generous in his praise of you,’ she answered stiffly.

Simon glanced at Fulk with uplifted brows.

‘Never said I one word of praise!’ Fulk roared. ‘I praise thee? God’s Body, I am not yet in my dotage! Praise – thou pert boy, what ails thee? My lady knows now thy stubborn temper. Praise, forsooth!’

Simon laughed.

‘Wert ever chary of praise to my face, sir,’ he said mildly.

‘And behind thy back!’ Fulk averred. ‘A more worthless, blundering, silly-pated, obstinate lad never I saw! A pity is it that none ever thought to knock a little sense into thee.’

‘Nay, my lord, one did try, but it seemed he failed, although he had me in my youth to mould.’

‘A graceless, impudent coxcomb thou wert!’

‘Indeed, I think I was so indeed,’ Simon reflected. ‘A sore trial to thee, sir.’

‘Thou art well enough,’ Fulk grunted. ‘Ye need not seek to cozen me.’

‘Why, sir, I do know it to be useless,’ Simon said.

Margaret glanced from one to the other. This new Simon was a stranger to her. The Simon she knew was a stern lord with little humour but great strength, not a smiling man who meekly listened to abuse of himself. She drew her skirts about her, preparing to depart, but Fulk struggled up, laying a hand on her shoulder.

‘Now here is a right noble lady,’ he informed Simon bluffly. ‘Shouldst take a lesson from her, lad.’

Simon’s eyes were upon her face, and Margaret felt the colour rise to her cheeks.

‘It boots not to sing my praise to Lord Simon of Beauvallet, sir,’ she said icily.

‘Nay.’ It was Simon who answered. ‘I need no telling.’

‘Hadst best have a care to thyself,’ Fulk warned him jovially. ‘My lady will be satisfied with naught save thy life.’

Margaret’s cheeks were flaming now. She bit her lip, glaring at the well-meaning but tactless Fulk.

‘My life is hers,’ Simon said quietly.

‘I should have said thy death,’ Fulk chuckled.

Simon drew his dagger from its sheath and presented the hilt to Margaret.

‘That also.’

Margaret drew away from under Fulk’s hand.

‘The jest is no doubt amusing, sir. I will leave you to enjoy it.’

Fulk conceived that this curious pair of lovers should now be left alone, so he stumped off towards the stairs, shaking his head over the incomprehensible ways of the younger generation.

Simon stood before Margaret, barring her passage. He was in a genial mood this morning, and strange forces were at work within him.

‘Be pleased to let me pass,’ Margaret said imperiously.

He shook his head.

‘In a little while, Margot.’

‘My name, sir?’ Her eyes flamed.

‘Thy name.’ He turned the naked dagger in his hand, looking down at it. ‘It was no jest, madame. If thou wouldst strike, strike now.’

‘Thou hast tied my hands,’ she answered bitterly. ‘I am not sunk so low. Thou hast told me that my life is thine by right of conquest. That is not so, but thou didst rescue me, in my dire peril, for which I must needs be grateful.’

‘I want not thy gratitude. That debt is paid, and the past is dead. If thou dost indeed hate me –’

‘Ah, can you doubt that?’ she cried.

He smiled a little.

‘Thou hast assured me of thy hatred many a time, and of thine undying lust for vengeance. And yet…. Thou didst lie in mine arms once, content to be there, and it was not hate that prompted thee to feel thyself safe, and to sleep with thy head on my breast.’

‘You taunt me with that? I was weary, and beside myself with fear and – and everything!’

‘Nay, I do not taunt thee. The memory of that ride is precious to me.’

She was silent.

‘Methinks,’ Simon went on, ‘I never knew thee until I saw thee clad in thy boy’s clothes, fighting at my side.’

She flushed.

‘Not for nothing am I the Amazon,’ she said through her shut teeth.

‘The Amazon? Nay, thou didst seem just a helpless child, grown suddenly small in thine unaccustomed raiment. It was that, I think, that awoke some devil within me, and made me slay Raoul.’

She laughed harshly.

‘I thank you, milor’! So it was with a child that thou didst – didst – fall in love – if love this be!’

‘It must be love, Margot, but I know little of such matters. I only know that I want thee, and must have thee.’

‘Then know also, sir, that I will none of thy wooing! Now let me pass!’

He stood aside at once, and she almost ran down the gallery to her rooms, meeting Alan on the way, and brushing past him without a glance in his direction. Alan strolled up to Simon, half-smiling.

‘One pair of lovers left I in the hall, and here I stumble upon yet another. And I – I the only real lover amongst you – am maid-less. It is a sad world.’

‘Alan,’ Simon said abruptly. ‘Tell me of love. What is it?’

‘I can tell thee naught that thou dost not know already. Long, long ago I did say that the day would come when some maid should wake thy cold heart. Behold, it is here at last, and thou dost ask me to tell thee of love!’

‘It is love, then, that stirs my blood? But – but – but –’

Alan laughed softly.

‘It comes to all men at least once, and to some many times. To thee it came slowly, but to some it comes as a sudden shock.’

Simon pondered gravely, and in a few moments Alan spoke again.

‘I came in search of thee. I want to warn thee.’

Instantly Simon was on the alert, and the softness went out of his face.

‘Well?’

‘I mislike the looks of yon Frenchman, the Chevalier. Of late there hath come a new gleam into his eyes, and I think he seeks to do thee harm.’

‘That little popinjay!’

‘But he was first in the field,’ Alan said quietly.

‘What mean ye?’

‘Why, that he also loves the Lady Margaret, although she slights him.’

‘He – loves – !’ Simon’s hand clenched. ‘If I find –’

‘Nay, listen, thou jealous lover! As I came hither I chanced on him, descending the stairway. Methinks he doth play the spy, and if it seems to him that thou art like to win the Countess, he will dispose of thee as best he can.’

Simon shrugged.

‘What can he do! He made his submission long since.’

‘And ye would trust to his honour, Simon?’

‘I have as yet no reason – since his submission – for doubting it.’

‘Save his shifty eyes, and spying ways. I would like to see him safe under lock and key, lad.’

‘I cannot do that,’ Simon answered shortly. ‘Do ye think I fear him?’

‘Not I, but the soft-spoken are the most dangerous of all foes. Look well to thyself, Simon.’

‘Ye think he will slay me?’

‘Nay, I think he will try to,’ Alan riposted. ‘Or mayhap he will hire some rogue to do it for him, and thus in a little salve his conscience.’

Simon smiled.

‘I doubt that same rogue will find his task hard indeed,’ he remarked. ‘I have ears that hear that which makes no sound, and eyes that see in the dark.’

‘Still, be more watchful than ever,’ Alan warned him. ‘When do ye go to Bayeux?’

‘Next week. I leave Geoffrey here, with thy father. Huntingdon must go with me.’

‘And I.’

‘And thou.’

‘When wilt thou return?’

‘I know not.’ Simon sighed faintly. ‘The message that thy father brought told me that the King had need of me. He waits but to see Gloucester triumph, and Domfront fall to Warwick. Then he will march on Rouen.’

‘Whom will he leave to govern this land?’

‘The Lady Margaret hath submitted. She will rule here.’

‘Some over-lord he will appoint.’

‘Perhaps Salisbury. Who knows?’

‘Who indeed?’ said Alan softly.