Georgette Heyer (24 page)

How he walked alone in the garden

Barehead he walked slowly through the garden that surrounded the castle, and the pale sunlight played about his fair hair, while the wind stirred it gently and blew it across his face. His sword hung at his side, but his hands were clasped listlessly behind him, and he bent his head, deep in thought.

It was four days since his talk with Margaret in the gallery and nothing further had passed between them since then. In two more days he would be gone from Belrémy, and for the first time in his life he was worried.

He paced slowly to and fro across the lawn before the castle, seemingly lost in his thoughts, frowning slightly. From an arbour close by the Lady Margaret watched him, hidden from his sight by the bushes through which she peeped. She had escaped from her ladies and come here to be alone, why, she knew not. Ever since the day when Simon had rescued her from Raoul she had been racked and torn by conflicting emotions. Not one of them could she recognise, but she knew that a strange misery had her in its hold, that would not let her rest, causing her sleepless nights and storm-tossed thoughts. She was hungry for an unknown something, and at times she would bite hard on her lip to hold back the rush of angry, heart-sick tears that sprang to her eyes. She was restless, too, and short with her ladies. Not even Jeanne would she have near her for long, but fled away by herself as now, fighting what she half-guessed to be a yearning for her mate. Try as she might she could not forget the feel of his arms about her on the ride from Raoul’s land, or the touch of his lips on hers. Again and again she tried to lash her anger to fresh energy, remembering all Simon’s iniquities, dwelling on them fiercely, pressing the scar on her bosom with nervous, trembling hands.

For a long time she sat motionless in the arbour, heedless of the cold, watching Simon’s ceaseless, measured pacing with eyes that burned dark and troubled. Presently she saw him wheel to the left, and in a moment he had passed from her sight, through a gap in the yew hedge. Some of the rigidity left her then, and she fell to plucking at her gown, twisting the silk between her fingers, her mouth all awry with some inward pain. But in a little while she covered her face with her hands, and so remained for a long time, silent.

She did not know why she suddenly looked up, every nerve strained to attention. No one was in sight, but from somewhere near at hand had come the sound of brushing against leaves. It was a tiny sound; a bird might have caused it, or some small animal, and yet she leaned forward, peering through the bushes with eyes that were narrowed and keen. Again came the sound, and she rose, noiseless, her skirts gathered up in one tense hand.

To the left was the castle, to the right the hedge that bordered the bowling-green. Straight ahead, at the far end of the lawn was the gap through which Simon had gone. It led along an alley between high hedges, to her own garden, the pleasaunce, away from the castle. On the other side of the hedge that ran parallel to the castle were fields, leading down to the moat. It was towards this hedge that she looked, and presently, where the leaves were sparse, saw a shadow, moving stealthily beside it, on the other side. It was but a fleeting glimpse that she had, but her nerves sprang to a conclusion. Quickly she pushed through the tangled bush, and stepped on to the green. One moment she stood there, staring intently to the right, and again heard the faint rustle. The leaves seemed to quiver in one spot, and grew still again.

Every pulse was throbbing in her body, but she forced herself to walk calmly forward, outwardly careless and aimless. The blood sang in her ears, for she knew that there was one, perhaps more, behind the hedge, watching her intently. On she went, heart beating loud and unevenly, but walking slowly, looking about her. It seemed to her that the bowling-green had become of a sudden a vast desert which she could never span, but at last she came to the end, pretended to hesitate a moment, and then went through the gap. The path twisted almost at once, and so soon as she had rounded the bend, she caught up her skirts and ran as if for dear life along the tortuous alley.

Simon was in the pleasaunce gazing abstractedly down upon the sundial that stood in the centre. All about him were little walks and flower-beds, with snowdrops growing in them. The sound of light footsteps speeding towards him made him look up quickly, a hand to his sword-hilt. Into the pleasaunce came the Lady Margaret, panting for breath and running like one possessed. He started forward, brow lowering.

‘What is it? Who hath dared –’

She almost fell into his arms, outstretched to receive her, clutching at his long tunic with desperate fingers.

‘Come, come away – I implore thee! Give – give me – thine arm! Thy – thy – sword? Ah! Quickly, quickly! Away – from this – spot!’

Simon’s hands were on her shoulders, his voice rang harshly in her ears.

‘Who hath dared to molest thee? Answer!’

‘None – none!’ She tugged wildly at his tunic. ‘It – it is not that! Oh, come, come! Every moment you stay – may mean – death!’

He stared at her in surprise, then cast a quick look around.

‘Death? What mean ye, child?’

‘Oh, tarry not!’ she implored. ‘I – take me to the castle – I beg of you! I – oh, come, milor’! Come! Come! There is someone – lurking – behind the bushes! He – I saw him yonder, creeping in thy wake! Even now – he may be – upon us! For God’s sake come away!’

But Simon had his arms about her and his voice was strangely moved.

‘And thou didst come to warn me, Margaret?’

In her frenzy she scarcely noticed his embrace, but beat her clenched fists against his breast.

‘Oh, will you not come? Will you not come?’

‘I fear no assassin that ever drew breath, child,’ he said gently, ‘but I will come if you will it so.’

She drew a sobbing breath of relief, falling back.

‘Then – then – walk on my right, milor’, and – and – walk swiftly!’

Even as she spoke he turned sharply round on his heel, staring into the bushes. Slowly he drew his sword, and went forward, panther-like. Margaret stayed by the sun-dial, trembling, but fearful of uttering a single cry lest it warn the prey he stalked of danger. She saw Simon leap forward, as if some spring within him had been loosed, and thrust with his sword through the hedge. A muffled shriek came, a scuffle and the sound of thudding footsteps, retreating in haste. Simon turned, wiped his sword upon the grass, and sheathed it. Then he came back to Margaret and stood before her.

‘Was it only out of gratitude that thou didst come to warn me?’ he asked.

She started. Gripping the edge of the sun-dial, and gazing up at him with wild, hungry eyes.

‘Thine is a strange hatred,’ Simon went on, and held out his hands. ‘Is it hate indeed?’

Her knees shook under her; her breath came fast and uneven.

‘Ay – hate – hate – hate! Ah, what ails me? What have I done? What – what – I am mad! I – it was gratitude! I – I have not changed! I yield me – never!’ She shrank away, warding him off. ‘Touch me not! I could not let him slay thee – thus! I – I could not, but – I – I think – I am – like to – swoon!’

He caught her even as she swayed, sweeping her off her feet. One instant she struggled, crying out, and then crumpled up in his arms, her head falling back lifeless.

Swiftly Simon bore her to the castle, brushing past staring lackeys, and striding to the stairs. He came to the Countess’s rooms, and there found Jeanne with Hélène.

‘She hath swooned only,’ he said in answer to the startled outcry. ‘It was her wound, belike.’

‘Lay her down, lay her down!’ Jeanne commanded, and spread cushions on the wooden settle.

Gently Simon laid his burden on them.

‘She ran to warn me of danger from an assassin’s knife,’ he said curtly. ‘She hath ta’en no hurt, nor I. Look to her, mademoiselle, and have a care.’

Jeanne smiled a little at that.

‘Yes, milor’,’ she said demurely, and with twinkling eyes watched him go out.

Sighing the Lady Margaret came to her senses.

‘Jeanne? Methought – ah, he is safe?’ She struggled up, staring about her.

Jeanne pressed her back on to the cushions.

‘Yes,
chérie
,
quite safe. He brought thee here.
Mignonne
,
mignonne
,
I would not lie to thee!’

The strained muscles relaxed. Margaret lay still, eyes closed. Presently she opened them, and looked wistfully up at her lady.

‘I – I am mad, Jeanne,’ she said, and her lips quivered. ‘I – do not – really – care – whether he – is alive – or dead! I – my head – is reeling! Jeanne! I – I am – weeping! What – comes to me?’

‘Love,
chérie
,’
Jeanne whispered, and kissed her softly.

How he left Belrémy, and how the Lady Margaret dealt with her cousin

Geoffrey burst in upon him, Alan following languidly at his heels.

‘Simon, what is this I hear?’ Geoffrey demanded. ‘Is it true that one sought to slay thee?’

‘Ay.’ Simon smiled a little. ‘A creature in the Chevalier’s pay.’ He nodded to Alan. ‘Thou wert right, O sage!’

‘Of course I was right,’ Alan said placidly. ‘What wilt thou do now?’

‘I go to Bayeux.’

‘Ay, but what of thy would-be assassin?’ Geoffrey cried.

‘Naught. I know not who he was, and I have no proof. Once I am gone the Chevalier will be happy enough.’

Geoffrey was dissatisfied.

‘I would clap him up!’

‘I have not the power. He would deny the charge, and the Lady Margaret rules here now.’

‘Simon, it is not like thee to be magnanimous!’ Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘What ails thee?’

‘God knows. The Chevalier is too little for my vengeance, I think. I can punish him best by ignoring him. But when I am gone, do thou have a care, Geoffrey.’

‘I mislike the task of ruling this land,’ Geoffrey grumbled. ‘Leave Huntingdon, and take me with thee.’

‘He is too young. And thou wilt be content enough with thy Jeanne. She would never forgive me an I wrested thee from her now.’

‘What is that to thee?’ Geoffrey stated. ‘Thou art changed indeed, Simon!’

Simon shrugged.

‘Maybe,’ he said, and then was silent for a long time.

Later, Ranaud came to him, recovered now, and in high spirits. Simon received him unemotionally, but Ranaud tried to kiss his hand.

‘Ah, lord, it was well done! I would it had been my hand that had slain the toad. By the Virgin, your grip was of iron on his fat neck!’

Simon smiled a little.

‘Ye did well, Ranaud, though I slew Raoul. Art a brave man, methinks. What want ye of me?’

Ranaud smote his thigh.

‘Thought I to myself, by God, this is a fit master for me! So please you, sir, I’ll join your guards, or your archers. I have some training with a cross-bow.’

Simon looked him over for a moment, and then nodded abruptly.

‘If I am the master for thee, thou art the man for me, yet the Lady Countess doth command your loyalty.’

‘I am Ranaud, and I serve whom I please,’ the giant answered. ‘But it seems to me that the day is not far distant when I shall call ye both master, and own not two neither.’

‘That is as maybe,’ Simon said coldly, and drew pen and parchment forward to enrol Ranaud.

On the day of his departure he went to the Lady Margaret’s bower where she reclined on a couch, pale and listless. He was clad in his armour, and at the sight of it her lips quivered.

‘I come to bid thee farewell, Margot,’ he said quietly.

She rose, gazing at him.

‘You – you are going – to Bayeux?’

‘Ay. Thou art rid of me at last.’

She winced at that, and her eyes filled with tears.

‘You – return – not?’

‘If God wills, I shall return. But if so be I fall in battle, think this of me, Margot, that if ever I harmed thee, or hurt thee, at least it was not of mine own desire. And remember also that I did love thee very dearly.’ He went down on his knee, most unexpectedly, and kissed her cold hand. ‘Plague not Malvallet,’ he said humorously. ‘He is no match for thy fierceness.’

She smiled wanly.

‘I have submitted.’

‘Ay.’ He rose and looked at her for a moment. ‘Farewell, Margot.’

‘Fare – well –’ The whisper just reached him. He turned and went to the door.

The weights that held Margaret to the floor seemed to fall away. She stumbled forward, hands outstretched.

‘Ah, thou wilt come back? Thou wilt!’

He caught her in his arms.

‘I will come back. But when I come it will be to lead thee to the altar, if I am alive still.’ He bent his head and kissed her long and passionately, and although she did not return his kiss, she was passive under it. The next moment he had released her, and was gone through the door, away.

The Lady Margaret fell on her knees beside the table, clinging to it, while hard, dry sobs shook her. How long she remained there she did not know, but presently came the noise of horses’ hoofs without, and the sound of voices. She pulled herself up, and dragged her feet to the window, kneeling on the high bench below it. Dry-eyed, she watched Simon clasp Geoffrey’s hand in farewell, and kneel to receive Fulk’s blessing. Then she saw him mount his horse, and ride towards the drawbridge, in the midst of his men. Once he looked up at her window and seeing her there, raised his mailed hand in salute. Then he was gone, and the clattering of the horses’ hoofs died away in the distance.

Jeanne entered softly, and came to her mistress, passing an arm about her waist. So they stood for a time, silent, until Margaret disengaged herself. Her voice was calm, now, and cold.

‘Jeanne, bid them fetch my cousin and his father.’

‘Yes,
chérie
. What will you do?’

‘Fetch them, Jeanne,’ Margaret repeated gently.

When the Chevalier and her uncle came in they found Margaret seated in a high-backed chair by the table, her hands folded in her lap, her stately head held high.

The Sire de Galledemaine bowed to her.

‘You desired our presence, madame?’

‘Yes, my uncle. I desire that ye shall hear what I have to say to your son.’

The Sire looked surprised, glanced inquiringly at the Chevalier.

‘Is it possible, madame, that Victor has annoyed thee?’

Her lips curled.

‘Annoyed is a small word, sir. The Chevalier will understand, when I say that I think his own lands stand in need of him.’

The Chevalier started, dropping the flower he held.

‘Margot!’

‘My name is not for such as you to use, sir!’ she said haughtily. ‘Ye do know why I will no longer harbour you.’

‘Fair cousin, you are distraught,’ the Chevalier said silkily. ‘I know naught.’

Her look was full of scorn.

‘Ye desire that I should be more explicit?’

‘Most certainly, madame, for I am in the dark.’

‘Then know, sir, that I was in the garden when you did send your bravo to slay my Lord of Beauvallet.’

Her uncle gasped, falling away from his son.

‘Victor! Madame, it cannot be true! My son –’

‘Look at his face,’ she said disdainfully. ‘Is it not proof enough?’

The Chevalier was gnawing at his lip, livid, but he contrived to smile.

‘You rave, cousin. I know naught of this affair.’

‘But ye will return to your own lands, sir, nevertheless.’

The Sire came towards her, and his eyes were haggard all at once.

‘Madame, it cannot be true! It were dishonour! I implore thee listen to Victor’s defence!’

‘Can he deny it?’ she sneered.

The Sire turned to his son.

‘Victor! My God, Victor, thou didst not do this thing?’

‘Nay,’ the Chevalier muttered, but could not look at him.

His father started forward, seizing him by the shoulder.

‘Look at me! Is it true?’

The Chevalier shot one glance at Margaret’s rigid countenance, and laughed.

‘You are over squeamish,
mon père
,’
he said carelessly.

The Sire’s hand fell away from him as from a thing unclean.

‘Thou craven cur!’ he whispered, and turned again to the Countess. ‘Madame, I can say naught, save that this deed is as foul to me as it is to you.’

She bent her head.

‘That I know, sir. I do trust that thou wilt continue here, for I do value thy friendship. But thy son goes within forty-eight hours, or I will formally banish him from my domain. That is my last word.’

‘You are generous, madame,’ her uncle said, very low.

‘For thy sake, my uncle,’ she answered, and stretched out her hand to him.

The Chevalier bowed.

‘Then I take my leave of thee, fair cousin.’ He sneered at her. ‘When thou art miserable in yon Saxon’s arms, think of me!’

‘Go!’ his father thundered. ‘Must you add to your vileness? Go!’

The Chevalier bowed again, ironically, and went out. His father picked up the flower he had dropped, and threw it into the fire.

‘Madame, ye will excuse me. I am – not myself. This hath been a bitter blow. I would fain retire.’

‘Indeed, I am very sorry,’ Margaret said, her hand on his arm. ‘I could not do otherwise.’

‘Ye were too generous,’ he said shakily, and kissed her hand.

As soon as he was gone, Margaret turned to Jeanne, who all the time had stood silent behind her chair.

‘
Chérie
,
wilt thou request thy Geoffrey to wait on me here?’

Jeanne threw her arms about Margaret.

‘Oh, Margot, Margot, it was well done. I will fetch Geoffrey at once!’ She ran out, flushed and excited.

She found Geoffrey in the great hall, disconsolate at his friends’ departure. When he saw her his brow cleared, and he held out his arms.

‘Nay, I am come on an errand,’ she said demurely, and curtseyed. ‘The Lady Countess doth request your presence in her chamber, milor’.’

Geoffrey came to her, sweeping her off the ground in his embrace.

‘What care I for the Lady Countess? Kiss me, thou rogue!’

Jeanne obeyed meekly, and was set down.

‘This is very wrong,’ she reproved him. ‘It is no way to treat a herald. Follow me now, Geoffrey, at once!’

‘What wants thy mistress?’ he asked.

Jeanne led him up the stairs.

‘No doubt she will tell thee,’ she said. ‘Geoffrey, it is not at all seemly to put thine arm about a herald’s waist.’

‘Nay, but it is very seemly to put mine arm about my betrothed’s waist,’ he retorted, and drew her protesting onward. Outside Margaret’s door he paused. ‘Kiss me, or I will no further,’ he threatened.

‘Thou art a sore trial,’ Jeanne sighed, and raised her bewitching little face. ‘No, that is enough, Geoffrey! What if someone was looking?’ She opened the door. ‘Sir Geoffrey, madame!’

‘Enter, enter!’ Margaret said, and came forward to meet them. ‘Methinks thou wert gone a long time on thine errand,
chérie
?’
Her eyes sparkled a little.

‘That was not my fault, madame,’ Jeanne said. ‘Indeed, Sir Geoffrey is very – very – obstinate in the matter of – coming quickly.’

‘I doubt it not,’ Margaret smiled, and looked at Malvallet. ‘Sir, I did request your presence to tell you that I have banished my cousin from this land for – for setting his men to slay Lord Simon. I – I will have no such – dishonour on my head – so – so will ye please to – see to it that he is gone within – forty-eight hours? I – I do not desire that – anyone should be told – why he goes.’

Geoffrey recovered from his amazement with difficulty.

‘Madame! Ay, I will see to it. Let me say, madame, that I honour you – greatly.’

She smiled rather sadly.

‘It was – the least I could do,’ she said. ‘I – Sir Geoffrey, you and I – you and I – have fought in the past – and I have given ye – no cause to love me. But – but I am wiser now – a little – and I would wish to – live at peace with you.’

Geoffrey knelt at once, kissing her hand.

‘Madame, I thank you. Be assured that I will do all in my power to aid and uphold you in this land.’

She pressed his fingers slightly.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘When do ye steal my Jeanne from me?’

He rose.

‘Why never, madame. I only seek to wed her. And that right soon.’

‘I – I wish you – happiness,’ she said unsteadily, and tried to smile.

Jeanne caught her hands.

‘Ah,
chérie
, you
too shall have happiness!’

Margaret’s head was bowed.

‘Maybe. I – I think I will be – alone for a while.’

They left her then, her head held bravely and her lips smiling.