Читать книгу The Notorious Knight - Margaret Moore - Страница 10

TRYING TO CONTAIN HIS frustration, Bayard tossed his helmet onto the large, canopied and curtained bed in the extremely tidy chamber to which a male servant had brought him after he’d left the solar. Linen shutters covered the window, and a chest painted green and blue stood in the corner opposite the bed. There was a cot for his squire and another table with an ewer and basin, and plenty of clean linen. The floor had been recently swept and everything looked remarkably free of dust.

It was certainly an improvement over their accommodations on the road, which had tended to be cramped—except that here, instead of being welcomed, he’d been met with distrust, disrespect, and disdain.

Although his rational mind told him that Lady Gillian was right to be suspicious, for these were dangerous times and John the most untrustworthy of kings, he couldn’t subdue his annoyance over his reception. You’d think he was the traitor, the way she’d treated him.

The garrison commander couldn’t be more suspicious if he were Philip of France himself. And as for that steward…

He wondered if the lady had any idea that her steward was in love with her. She was a lady, a ward of the king, and he was an untitled commoner, but a marriage between then was not completely impossible. John needed money to mount another campaign to win back his lost lands in France—a lot of money. He would eagerly accept bribes and payments that would enable him to do so, even from untitled commoners and in exchange for the hand of a noblewoman.

Yet, he’d seen no little looks of intimacy exchanged, no apparent desire on the lady’s part. Any tender concern had been in Dunstan’s eyes alone, not hers.

No doubt she was too selfish and too determined to rule this estate on her own to fall in love, for it was now abundantly clear that she, and she alone, was in command of Averette.

The only other women he’d ever heard controlling an estate had been widows and even then, not many and not for long. Then again, he’d never heard of a young woman like Lady Gillian, who might dress like a peasant, but was as arrogantly confident as any man he’d ever met. And stubborn.

Shaking his head, Bayard strode over to the table beside the bed and ran his finger along the top, skirting the beeswax candle in a bronze holder. No dust there, either.

The door crashed against the wall, heralding his squire’s entrance. Frederic carried the leather pouch containing their clothing over his shoulder and, with a weary sigh, heaved it onto the bed beside Bayard’s helmet.

Bayard was used to Frederic’s theatrics by now. “I didn’t realize a few items of wool and linen would be so taxing. Perhaps you should lie down.”

Grinning, for he was likewise getting used to his master’s sense of humor, Frederic pushed on the cot, making the ropes creak. “I would, if you think this’ll hold me.”

“If it doesn’t, try not to wake me when you land on the floor. But before you take a nap or unpack our clothes, get me out of my hauberk.”

It took a few moments to remove Bayard’s surcoat and to get the heavy mail hauberk over his head.

After Frederic helped him remove them, Bayard rotated his neck and stretched his arms over his head. He untied his mail hosen that protected his legs and gave them to Frederic to put away, then removed his padded gambeson and likewise handed it to his squire.

Clad in his loose shirt, breeches, and boots, he went to wash. There was a lump of soap that smelled of lavender beside the linen, as well as plenty of water in the ewer. He poured some into the basin until it was half full and felt his face, deciding he need not scrape the whiskers away until tomorrow.

“Did you see that pretty serving wench?” Frederic asked as he started to close the lid of the chest. “The one with red hair and freckles?”

“Yes,” Bayard replied, recalling the one female servant who’d been bold enough to show herself while he was on the way to the keep with Lady Gillian. She was pretty, he supposed, and slender, and about fifteen years old.

His squire got a look on his face that Bayard easily recognized. He’d encountered many jealous or envious men in his life, starting when he was younger even than Frederic, and including the Duc d’Ormonde—although that had actually proven to be a beneficial thing, or he might be in Normandy yet. The duke had feared that his captive was far too attractive to his wife and so had let him go on the payment of a very small ransom.

He’d seen it earlier today, too, on the steward’s face.

Unfortunately, he inspired jealousy wherever there were women, and whether there was cause or not.

In this instance, definitely not, and aside from the fact that Lady Gillian was Armand’s sister-in-law. She might be spirited—and a woman without spirit was like food without spice—but otherwise? Not at all appealing.

Her hair was a dull brown, straight, and drawn back tightly from her heart-shaped face. There were no charming little curls, no cunning little wisps escaping to give a man the opportunity for a surreptitious caress under the guise of tucking in a stray one. Lady Gillian’s nose was a pert little button, and a splash of freckles crossed the bridge and dotted her cheeks, marring her complexion. To be sure, her green eyes were bright and vibrant, but they weren’t particularly alluring. She was too thin, too, even though her breasts were full and round and her hips had a certain seductive sway when she walked…far too quickly.

“My conquests have been greatly exaggerated,” he reminded his squire. “And I assure you, that servant’s too young for me.”

His lips curved up into a wry little smile. “I’m not particularly fond of red hair, either.”

As his squire grinned with relief and set to work unpacking, Bayard inwardly, and sourly, added, “Nor am I fond of shrews.”

BAYARD WAS PLEASED TO NOTE that despite Lady Gillian’s less-than-enthusiastic reception, she’d had the courtesy to give him the seat to her right at the evening meal.

The jealous steward sat on her left-hand side. Frederic was on Bayard’s right, as was the priest, a Father Matthew who ate as if he’d been fasting for days. His own soldiers were seated immediately below the dais with the garrison commander and more of Averette’s men.

The food was good, thank God. Since he had to stay here, he was grateful for that as he speared another piece of veal dressed with vinegar with his eating knife. Meanwhile, his hostess continued to ignore him and talk to the steward.

Lady Gillian had rather nice hands, he noticed, although they were browned by the sun. Ladies were supposed to sit inside doing nothing more strenuous than sewing or, if they were particularly active, engaging in a hunt, wearing gloves. If they went outside, they were supposed to sit demurely in the shade. Clearly she did little that other ladies did, or in the way they did it.

Determined to concentrate on something other than the chatelaine of Averette, Bayard studied the hall and the soldiers gathered there. The garrison appeared well trained, as far as mustering in the yard went, anyway. It remained to be seen how good they’d be in battle or during a siege.

“Oh, not again!” Lady Gillian suddenly—and loudly—exclaimed.

When Bayard turned to look at her, she was regarding the steward with dismay, although there was laughter lurking in her eyes.

“It’s true, I’m afraid,” Dunstan replied, shaking his head and smiling. “He’s charged Geoffrey with false measuring again. I truly think Felton would rise from his death bed if he thought he could shame Geoffrey.”

Lady Gillian laughed—an amazing, throaty, hearty laugh completely unlike the decorous little titters most ladies made in company. It was the sort of laugh one might hear in bed after a joyous bout of lovemaking, a laugh to make a man want to laugh, too, and he was astonished at the difference it made to Lady Gillian’s appearance. She looked years younger, and prettier.

Her full lips were very appealing, he realized, especially the charming dent in the top of her upper lip, and he was suddenly tempted to touch it. With his tongue.

Which was ridiculous. The journey here, so soon after his return from Normandy, must have been more taxing than he thought.

“Will there never be an end to this squabbling?” Lady Gillian asked when she stopped laughing. “Father Matthew, can you not speak to them? This feuding must cease!”

“Alas, my lady, I have tried,” the priest replied, “but they will not turn the other cheek.”

“There’s a feud?” Frederic asked eagerly, despite the arrival of baked apples—his favorite—for the final course.

“It’s a conflict of long, long standing,” she said, smiling at the lad.

Bayard wished she’d smiled that way at him when they’d first arrived. If she had, he would have been slower to take offense at her manner and swifter to forgive and forget the lack of a kiss of greeting.

Not that he regretted reminding her about that. Although at the time she’d held no great attraction for him, he’d been acutely aware of the sensation of her warm breath on his cheek and the knowledge that her body was a hair’s breadth from his own. Now, after hearing her delightful laugh and seeing her lovely smile—

“How did the feud start? An insult?” Frederic asked interrupting Bayard’s musing as the red-haired serving maid set down the spiced apple before him.

“A woman,” Lady Gillian replied. “The miller and the baker both wanted to marry the same one, and she chose the miller.”

“Ahh!” Frederic cried, giving Bayard a knowing grin.

Bayard clenched his jaw and stayed silent. He wasn’t going to say a word about jealous men, or women making choices, or anything to do with marriage.

“The baker brings a charge of false measure against the miller every hall moot, or so it seems,” the steward explained. “In two days’ time, they’ll stand before us again, arguing.”

That got Bayard’s full attention. “You’re having a hall moot?”

“Yes, in two days,” the lady answered as if he were dim.

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

Her brows lowered. “Why not?”

“Because it’s too public, and puts you in danger.”

“It’s to be held in my courtyard,” she protested. “Surely I’ll be perfectly safe there.”

“I don’t think so,” Bayard firmly replied. “An assassin could easily slip in with the villagers. It only takes one well-aimed arrow or knife throw to kill.”

Lady Gillian shook her head and spoke with most unfeminine certainty. “The hall moot cannot be delayed. The people have been expecting it. There are several quarrels to be decided and fines to be assessed.”

“I can appreciate that you require income, but your safety must come first.”

Her green eyes flashed with stubborn determination. “Hall moots are necessary for the peace of the estate. What can begin as a small disagreement, easily dealt with in a hall moot, can become much more serious if left to fester.”

She raised her pointed chin and got a remarkably defiant expression on her face. “I am still in command of Averette, am I not? If I am—and unless you know for certain I’m in immediate danger—the hall moot will be held as planned.”

“I’m sure she’ll be perfectly safe, Bayard,” Frederic seconded, although nobody had asked him. “You’re an even better swordsman than your brother.” He looked past Bayard to Lady Gillian. “He told you about the trial, didn’t he? That Lord Armand won?”

The lady frowned. “Sir Bayard has said nothing about a trial.”

Frederic grinned from ear to ear, looking more like an excited puppy than ever. “He’s too modest to brag about his brother, but you should be very proud of your brother-in-law, Lord Armand, my lady. It was an amazing victory.”

“I would never have suspected modesty to be one of Sir Bayard’s virtues,” Lady Gillian remarked.

Bayard’s grip tightened around the stem of the goblet. She had to be one of the most aggravating women in England. “I saw no need to speak of it,” he said, “since Armand was proven innocent and the real traitor exposed.”

“The man who has wed Lady Adelaide, was accused of treason?” the steward asked as if that was the most disturbing thing he’d ever heard in his life.

“Falsely accused and proven innocent,” Bayard said, wishing Frederic had kept quiet about Armand’s recent troubles, especially since everyone else in the hall had fallen silent, as well they might.

The lady abruptly rose from her chair. “I was planning to announce this at the hall moot,” she said in a clear voice that easily reached the far end of the hall, “but the news has already been revealed here tonight. I have recently been informed that my sister, Lady Adelaide, may have wed Lord Armand de Boisbaston.”

As Lady Gillian’s servants and soldiers exchanged surprised looks, a murmur of wonder, disbelief, and excitement filled the hall. Over by the door leading to the kitchen corridor, the red-haired maidservant and another young woman whispered behind their hands, and so did several others seated at the tables or standing in clusters around the hall.

“This knight, Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, is his brother.”

Another mutter went through the hall, this time less excited and more suspicious. Bayard’s own men shifted uncomfortably, aware of the sudden tension in the hall. It was as if an ill wind had blown through, chilling all it touched except Bayard, who smiled as if all was well with the world, and he was delighted to find himself related to this termagant.

“I’m sure some of you fear that there will be a new lord of Averette,” Lady Gillian continued, balling her napkin in her hand. “That is not so. Lady Adelaide has given me her word Averette will always be mine to govern. She assures me this is still so, despite her marriage.”

However odd that might be, Bayard thought grimly.

A collective sigh filled the hall. Apparently the men of Averette didn’t share his reservations about having a woman in command of a castle.

Perhaps it was different here because of what Armand had told him about the late lord of Averette. Lady Gillian’s father had been vicious, cruel and unjust. Under those circumstances, perhaps any new lord would be met with dread and suspicion. Nevertheless, and despite the evidence of his own eyes—for seeing Armand and Adelaide together, no one could doubt but that they were deeply in love—Bayard still couldn’t accept that Armand was willing to leave this castle and estate in a woman’s control. To be sure, Lady Gillian was not the most feminine female he’d ever encountered, but she was still a woman.

“Now, my lord,” she said, returning to her seat and turning the full force of her vibrant green eyes onto him, “tell me about this trial.”

Since Bayard had no choice but to answer, he did, repeating the bare facts. “My half brother was falsely accused of treason and proved his innocence in a trial by combat against one of the men who denounced him to the king.”

“I’ll say he proved it!” Frederic cried, fairly bouncing in his chair. “He ran his sword right through Sir Francis’s face!”

The lady gasped, the priest paled, and the steward looked rather queasy.

“That was the traitor’s choice,” Bayard explained, not wanting them to think Armand was some kind of savage. “Francis ran into Armand’s sword rather than suffer a slow execution.”

“I wish I’d seen it!” Frederic exclaimed.

“A true knight takes no pleasure in death, however it comes about,” Bayard said swiftly, and sincerely. “When he has a duty to do, he does it, but he should never relish the taking of a life.”

He turned back to Lady Gillian, whose face bore an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. But he didn’t care what she thought. He’d had enough of her unladylike demeanor and behavior, her envious steward, her orders and refusals.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lady,” he said, getting to his feet, “it’s been a long day, so I’ll give you good night.”

No doubt just as happy to see the last of him for the day, she regally inclined her head. “Good night, Sir Bayard.”

“May I stay?” Frederic asked.

Since he didn’t require his squire’s help to prepare for bed, Bayard nodded. Then he bid his men a restful night and marched from the hall.

WHILE SUPPOSEDLY LISTENING to Dunstan relate the cases expected to come before for judgment at the hall moot, Gillian watched Sir Bayard cross the hall with long, purposeful strides. He paused to have a word or exchange greetings with his men, and they replied with seemingly genuine good humor, as if he were their friend as well as commander.

Interesting, and quite different from Iain’s method of command. He would no sooner jest with his men than he’d strip naked in the courtyard.

Sir Bayard would likely be only too willing to do such a thing if he lost a wager or for some other silly reason. With such a body he’d probably be glad to.

She could just imagine him standing there, smiling with arrogant vanity, taking off his clothing one piece at a time…

“My lady?” Dunstan said, laying his hand on her arm. “Did you hear me?”

As embarrassed as if Dunstan had read her thoughts, she swiftly pulled away. “Yes. If the chandler’s daughter wishes to marry the cooper’s son, I have no objections.”

Unable to prevent a blush, she took a drink of wine while Dunstan slowly and deliberately folded his hands upon his lap.