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Dunstan shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, drawing her attention. “Perhaps, my lady, you should—”
She rose before he could offer her advice, or try to tell her what to do. She already knew what that would be—that Sir Bayard should go.
But if everything in Adelaide’s letter was true, then Averette was in danger from unknown enemies and she should not be keen to rid herself of a man who could help protect them. “I wish you a safe journey back to London, Charles.”
The wine merchant bowed. “It’s been a pleasure, my lady. I hope this is adieu and not farewell.”
She gave him a smile for an answer as she started for the door. “Dunstan, pay Charles and see to the unloading of the wine. I am going to the kitchen to talk to Umbert about the evening meal.”
“Yes, my lady,” Dunstan replied.
When she was gone, Charles regarded the steward with raised brows. “What do you think she’ll do? About Sir Bayard, I mean?”
Dunstan shook his head as he pulled the key to the strongbox from his belt. “I don’t know.”
He wished he did, almost as much as he wished Sir Bayard on the far side of the world.
Or dead, like James d’Ardenay.
AFTER LEAVING THE SOLAR, Gillian entered the hall, heading for the corridor leading to the kitchen. As the wine merchant had noted, Sir Bayard and his squire were seated at the trestle table on the dais, the chessboard between them. Several of his soldiers were in other parts of the hall. One with close-cropped hair was talking to Dena and saying something that made her laugh. Others were cleaning their mail with sand and vinegar, or sharpening their weapons. A few of her own men were doing the same, as well as keeping an eye on Bayard’s men. Two servants replaced torches in the sconces and they, too, watched the visitors with wary eyes.
Twisting a lock of his brown hair around his finger, Sir Bayard’s squire frowned as he studied the board, the few pieces no longer in play at his elbow. Sir Bayard leaned back in his chair, one leg casually thrown over the arm, as if this were his hall. Clearly he was used to making himself comfortable wherever he happened to be.
Although that annoyed her, she noticed a tension in his body that was distinctly at odds with his seemingly negligent attitude. She realized he was really paying close attention to his squire and the board, as if calculating every possible move, and every repercussion of every possible move, his squire might make.
No doubt there lurked a sharp intelligence in that man’s mind, and she wondered if his lovers had appreciated that about him, or if they thought only of his handsome face and powerfully built body.
His squire made a move, and even from where she stood, she could tell it was the wrong one.
“Checkmate,” Sir Bayard said matter-of-factly.
She got the impression that he was consciously making light of his victory, perhaps to spare his squire embarrassment.
Frederic swore and scowled anyway. “How could I not have seen that? I’ll do better next time. Another game?”
“I think not,” Sir Bayard replied, glancing away from the board—to her. “My lady!”
It would be too obviously rude to ignore him now, when he was also getting to his feet. “Yes, my lord? Is there anything you require?”
“I was wondering if you’d care to indulge in a game of chess?”
She suspected he was merely being polite and she had much to do; even so, she was tempted to accept. She and Adelaide had played chess often, for it was something they could do that wouldn’t disturb their father.
Lizette never played chess; she had not the patience.
“Thank you, my lord, but no,” she said. “I have too many other demands upon my time.”
“I’m not very good. You can probably beat me,” he cajoled with a smile that reminded her of a man who’d once tried to sell her bogus jewels, and she wondered if he thought her that stupid or vain.
“I probably could,” she agreed, hiding her annoyance, “but not today.”
Aggravation flashed in his eyes, yet it was gone nearly at once. “Another time, then.”
“Perhaps,” she said with a nod of farewell as she again started toward the kitchen.
“You shouldn’t have asked her,” she heard his squire say. “She would be upset when you won.”
Did Frederic think she was afraid to lose? Or that she couldn’t possibly win?
Gillian spun on her heel and marched back to the dais.
Chapter Five
SIR BAYARD AND HIS SQUIRE scrambled to their feet when they realized Gillian was returning, Frederic nearly knocking the chessboard off the table in his haste.
“Have you changed your mind?” Sir Bayard inquired with every appearance of good humor as Frederic shoved the board back from the edge.
She darted the squire a look that made him blush, then addressed his master. “I’ve heard a very interesting story about you, Sir Bayard.”
Frederic’s cheeks started to redden, and he slowly inched his way from the dais to join the soldiers.
She ignored the young man’s departure to concentrate on Sir Bayard. “I’ve been told that you once met a troubador who begged a horse of you in return for a song. You saw a knight, beat him in an unplanned joust, took his horse and brought it to the troubador before he’d finished his ballad. It was my understanding William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, did that, not Sir Bayard de Boisbaston.”
Sir Bayard didn’t look the least bit nonplused. “William Marshal did do that.”
He must be truly shameless.
“But so did I,” he continued, crossing his arms and leaning his weight on one leg. “I’d heard that tale, you see. I think my mother told it to me even as I suckled. She thought the Earl of Pembroke quite the finest man in the world—certainly finer than her husband, as she never tired of telling him.
“One day, as I was nearing Salisbury to take part in a melee, I came upon a troubador entertaining some ladies as they waited for fresh horses at an inn. He was telling the ladies that story and, braggart that I was, I said that I could do it, too, if ever the opportunity presented itself. At nearly that same moment, another knight, obviously headed for the same tourney, appeared on the road. The troubador immediately challenged me to prove my boast.
“I accepted the challenge and ordered him to start singing as I rode out to meet my foe. I beat the knight in the first pass, took his horse and returned in triumph to give it to the troubador before he ended his song.”
That might be true, or he might be a very glib liar. “I hope the knight you defeated was a worthy foe and not an old man or poor youth hoping to make a name for himself.”
“I regret to say it was my half brother, Armand,” he admitted with a wry little self-deprecating smile that could explain how he’d managed to seduce so many women. “Not the best way to ensure family harmony, especially since I knew it was Armand the moment I saw him. Fortunately, I won some prizes the next day and bought him another horse.
“And then he wrestled me to the ground, gave me a set of bruises the like of which I never hope to have again and made me promise I would never challenge him again, which I very gladly did.”
What sort of family had her sister married into? “You compete and even come to blows, yet you still feel obliged to do whatever he asks of you?”
“We’re brothers, and we’ve been through much together,” Sir Bayard answered. “Don’t you ever quarrel with your sisters?”
“Not with Adelaide,” she replied as she started to put the white pieces back into place on the chessboard.
“Because she’s the oldest?”
“Because she’s been like a mother to us. Our mother was often ill before she died.”
“And Lizette?” he prompted, replacing the black pieces on his side of the board.
She wondered if he could sympathize with her inability to get along with her younger sister. Even she could overlook the reasons Lizette could be so aggravating—when she wasn’t there. “I prefer order and she seems to enjoy chaos.”
“It’s been my experience that those who create disorder are never the ones charged with maintaining it,” he replied. “They don’t care about the disruption they cause, thinking only of their own wishes and desires.”
Apparently he could understand.
“Young people can change, my lady, if they’re treated with patience and kindness. I was no paragon in my youth, but I’m better than I was, thanks to Armand’s tutelage.”
As she lined up the pawns, Gillian wondered if that was really true, and what he meant by better. “I do try to be patient. Unfortunately, my patience doesn’t seem to last very long when I’m with Lizette.”
“Because she doesn’t take anything seriously and laughs in your face.”
Gillian glanced away from his long, slender fingers that moved with such delicate precision to his face, and the scar that ran down his cheek. “How did you know?”
His lips jerked up in another little smile. “Ask Armand.”
All her chess pieces in their proper order, she straightened and regarded him quizzically. “Were you such a holy terror?”
“Indeed, I was,” he admitted as he put his last piece—the king—in its place on the board. “I was spoiled, and selfish, and rash. I suspect I’d have made your sister look like a model of all the virtues.”
Again he gave her that wry little smile, like a good friend sharing a confidence.
She didn’t want him to be her good friend. She already had plenty of friends, ones who didn’t make her feel as if she was fifteen years old again and seeing James smile at her for the first time. She was older now, and wiser, and love had come and gone for her.
Besides, Umbert was waiting to hear what she wanted for the evening meal. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, the cook is waiting.”
“Of course,” he said, bowing, before she hurried from the dais.
“By all means, we mustn’t upset the cook,” he muttered as he watched her go, her slender back as straight as a lance and her hips swaying like a reed in the breeze.
GILLIAN WAS STILL in the kitchen when Dunstan appeared on the threshold, a scroll in his hand.
She raised her brows in silent query.
“From the court, my lady,” he replied.
She hurried toward him and, as they proceeded to the hall, broke the wax seal.
When they reached the larger chamber, and before she’d had a chance to read the contents, she halted. Something was…different.
And it wasn’t just Sir Bayard standing expectantly on the dais.
“Why are there so many of our soldiers in the hall? It’s not nearly time for the evening meal.”
Dunstan answered quietly. “If that letter should show that the last one supposedly from Adelaide was full of lies—”
“I see,” she interrupted, opening the letter and reading it quickly.
The writing was the same and revealed that Adelaide had indeed written and sent her message in the care of Sir Bayard de Boisbaston. This letter was undoubtedly from Adelaide, for the writer gave answers to Gillian’s questions that only her older sister would know.
In spite of that reassurance, and for the first time since she’d taken charge of Averette, she felt afraid. If everything Adelaide had written was true, she could be in grave danger. Her heart raced, until—and unaccountably—her gaze fell on Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, champion of tournaments, standing on the dais.
As she grew calmer, she forced her attention back to the anxious Dunstan, who was watching her intently. “Everything in the other letter was true,” she whispered. “Adelaide is married, Sir Bayard is her brother-in-law, and there’s a conspiracy against the king that’s put us in danger, too. Dismiss the soldiers. Send them back to their duties.”
His lips thinned, but Dunstan didn’t protest, or say anything to her. He moved away and quietly issued an order to the men, who began to go.
Taking a deep breath and rolling up the scroll, she approached Sir Bayard. “It seems, my lord, that we were wrong to doubt you.”
His shoulders relaxed and a smile slowly blossomed on his face. “So now you believe I am who I claim to be.”
She nodded and took a seat, regarding him gravely. “Which means I must also believe we’re in danger here.”
“Yes,” he agreed, clasping his hands behind his back. “But less than before, now that I am here.”
She tried not to reveal her displeasure at his arrogant remark.
Unsuccessfully, apparently, for he gave her a rueful grin and said, “Not because I’m such a fearsome warrior, my lady. Because I’m an experienced one—and so I still think it would be a mistake to have a hall moot.”
She rose abruptly. “I do not, my lord. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do!”
THE NEXT MORNING, after a very restless night that she ascribed to anticipation of the hall moot, Gillian rose from her bed and wrapped her light bedrobe around herself. She went to the narrow window of her bedchamber and looked out at the eastern sky now lighting with the first pink flush of dawn. There were only wisps of cloud in the sky, their undersides orange and rose and a bevy of tints in between, and promising a fine day for the hall moot.
Which they must and would have today, in spite of Sir Bayard’s disapproval.
Disapproval he’d still harbored at the evening meal, no matter how genially he’d behaved last night. She had seen it in his face and his dark, intense eyes, eyes whose regard made her feel so…so…
She wouldn’t think about Sir Bayard’s eyes, and his notion to cancel the hall moot only offered further proof that he had little experience running an estate. Otherwise, he would understand that disputes between tenants should be settled as quickly as possible, before the conflict worsened.
The door to her chamber opened and Dena came bustling in with a jug of warm water. “Oh, it’s nice and cool in here this morning!” she exclaimed brightly as she poured the warm water from the jug into the basin on the washstand. “I’m thinking it’s going to be a hot day, though, my lady. Are you sure you want to wear the gold gown?”
“Yes,” Gillian replied before she started to wash. She should look her best when she sat in judgment; her gold damask gown was the finest one she possessed.
“At least the silk veil’s light,” Dena noted as she started to make the wide, curtained bed.
Gillian sat on the stool and started to run her comb through her long, straight hair. Sometimes she envied Adelaide her bountiful curls and waves, but not in the summer months. She well remembered the tears that came to Adelaide’s eyes when she tried to get a comb through the thick, curly riot of her hair on a summer’s morn.
Gillian deftly began to braid her hair. After she had done so, Dena would pin the braids around her head.
“I hear Geoffrey and Felton are at it again,” Dena said as she glanced over her shoulder at her mistress.
“Apparently.”
“Do you suppose Sir Bayard will attend the moot?”
“I don’t know why he would,” Gillian replied. “It’s nothing to do with him.”
On the other hand, there was little enough for him to do in Averette, so he might attend, if only to be entertained.
“Are you quite well, my lady?” Dena asked, her brow furrowing as she came to finish Gillian’s hair. “Your hands are shaking.”
“It’s nothing,” she said as she clasped them together. “I’m always a little anxious before a hall moot. You can never be sure how someone will react to a judgment.”
That wasn’t a lie, exactly. But she would not admit her state had anything to do with the possibility of Sir Bayard watching the proceedings.
Besides, even if he did come, she could ignore him.
By the time she was attired in her gown, with its long cuffed sleeves lined with scarlet sarcenet, her veil held in place by a slender gold coronet, and wearing gilded slippers that belonged to Adelaide, Gillian was confident that she would be able to conduct the hall moot with perfect ease even if King John himself appeared to witness it.
As she proceeded to the courtyard where a dais had been erected and one of her father’s chairs placed for her, she felt very much the chatelaine of Averette, as her own mother had never been. Her mother had been a timid creature, terrified of her husband and his rages, and ill from the constant struggle to give him the son he demanded.
Dunstan waited on the dais, likewise dressed in his best—a black tunic that swept the ground. He held the scroll containing the list of all those who sought justice and those against whom they had complaints. It was a long one, in no small part because the Lady of Averette was known to be just, as her father had not.
As she surveyed the crowd, several people exchanged wary glances and shifted uneasily. Even Old Davy, in his usual place by the stable doors, looked far from comfortable.
It was as if her father had returned to rule Averette.
She looked out over the gathering and found a possible explanation for the people’s anxiety. Several soldiers were now stationed around the dais where she would sit in judgment. More lined the wall walk and extra guards manned the gates. Iain stood, feet planted, fully armed, beside the dais.
One would think a trial of the utmost importance was about to take place, not a simple village hall moot.
This was Sir Bayard’s idea of suitable precautions, no doubt, but it seemed far more threatening than comforting.
She was tempted to dismiss the extra soldiers, but what if she was in danger? There were always a few unfamiliar faces at a hall moot—visitors seeking entertainment, petitioners’ relatives from other towns, merchants, and tinkers, and others who traveled to sell their goods. She couldn’t be certain that there were no enemies with other goals among them.
Taking her seat, she nodded at Dunstan, who unrolled the scroll and read out those named in the first case.
Just as he finished, a startled murmur went through the crowd and the people seemed transfixed by something—or someone—coming toward the dais from behind her.
She looked over her shoulder to see Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, dressed in chain-mail hauberk, coif, gauntlet gloves, mail hosen, and surcoat, march toward the dais. Without a word, he stepped onto the platform and stood behind her chair, resting one hand on the hilt of his broadsword as if he intended to remain there the entire day.
Or as if he were the lord of Averette.
She’d accepted that they might need extra guards, but this was too much. Some of her tenants were clearly frightened; all of them looked uncertain and confused. Only little Teddy, holding tight to his father’s hand, smiled with unreserved happiness. He waved at Bayard and as Gillian glanced over her shoulder again, she was surprised to see the knight raise his hand in a small salute. Yet even that gesture couldn’t lessen the impact of his dramatic—and intimidating—arrival.
Dunstan didn’t look pleased at all, nor did Iain. Both men glared at Bayard as she would have liked to. However, dignity, decorum, and a need to appear united was more important than registering her dismay at this particular time. She could wait until they weren’t in full view of everyone in the yard to tell Sir Bayard precisely what she thought of his unnecessary presence.
Instead, she turned to Dunstan. “Summon the first petitioners.”
First was Felton bringing his charge of false measure against the miller. Many a miller was accused of using false weights, but such a charge had never been proven against Geoffrey.
Unfortunately, Geoffrey never ceased to act the gloating victor over the matter of his wife’s choice, even if he and his spouse often quarreled. Perhaps goading the baker was some compensation for his less-than-blissful marriage.
Whatever the cause of their squabbling, Gillian tried to maintain an appearance of impartial serenity as the baker declared his grievances, and the miller, smug as always, defended himself.
“Has anyone else ever complained about my weights?” Geoffrey concluded. “No! Because everyone knows I don’t cheat and never have! I’m an honest, God-fearing fellow.”
“Honest?” Felton sneered, his round belly quivering with indignation. “How honest is it to have hollowed-out weights? To put your finger on the scales? To charge more than—”
“Enough!” Gillian had to say, or they would go on forever. “Dunstan will check the measures again, Felton. If they’re found to be false, Geoffrey will be punished according to the king’s laws.”
“But, my lady,” Felton protested, “that’s what you always say!”
Behind her, she heard the soft clink of metal, as if Sir Bayard had moved. She didn’t want to acknowledge his presence, yet she couldn’t resist the urge to see what had made that sound.
Sir Bayard stood in the same place, but now his arms were crossed and it was quite obvious that beneath his helmet, he was frowning with displeasure.
Felton blanched. “I—I beg your pardon, my lady,” he stammered, backing away. “I meant no harm. I just think Geoffrey’s…I thought that maybe…never mind!” he cried before he rushed away through the crowd.
Leaving an even more smug Geoffrey. And an even more annoyed Gillian. “Geoffrey, you had best hope your measures are utterly accurate, and if I were you, I would cease behaving as if you’ve won a crown, not a wife. Otherwise, I might be tempted to rescind my permission for you to operate the mill and give it to someone more humble.”
Now it was the miller’s turn to blanch. “Yes, my lady.”
“Next, please, Dunstan,” she ordered, once again trying to ignore the presence of the knight behind her.
Which proved impossible.
As the day wore on, Sir Bayard never moved from behind her chair. She didn’t look at him, yet she was always aware of when he frowned, crossed his arms, or shifted his weight, because of the reactions of the people coming forward for judgment and permissions. In spite of the rulings she made, she felt more like a doll dressed up and put on the dais for show than the chatelaine of Averette.
The moment Dunstan declared the hall moot concluded, she rose and faced Sir Bayard. She didn’t raise her voice, but each word was an icicle, sharp and cold. “Sir Bayard, to the solar. Now!”
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