Читать книгу The Notorious Knight - Margaret Moore - Страница 11

THE NEXT DAY, GILLIAN ROSE from her seat at the table in the solar where she’d been reviewing the tithe rolls and lists of foodstuffs she’d recently purchased. She had to be aware of estate income and expenses, but sitting and staring at rows of figures was not how she preferred to spend her time.

Walking to the window, she looked out over the land she loved—the fields, meadows and woods, the village, and especially the people she cared about as if they were her family. She could see the mill and its wheel slowly turning, suggesting a peace she knew was absent from the miller’s household. Boats plied the river, and on the banks, several women did their washing, spreading their linen on bushes to dry and bleach in the sun. A few children swam a short distance away, splashing each other, their shouts and laughter inaudible above the bustle of the servants, and wagons, and merchants delivering goods in the yard below.

Smoke rose from the smithy in gray wisps and she could easily imagine Old Davy holding court with his fellows, talking about the news of the day, speculating about what the king might do next to try to retrieve his lands in France, and what he might tax to raise the money to do it.

She could see the open space of the green, and the wagons of some peddlers drawn up there, no doubt to the chagrin of those merchants whose stalls bordered the green. In the yard belonging to the widowed alewife, the cooper was unloading barrels. She was likely complaining, albeit in a good-natured way, about the price he’d charged her to make them. When he was finished, they’d probably retire to her brewery and sample her latest, then finish the day in bed together, for it was no secret that their relationship went beyond the bounds of business.

If she were to marry, Gillian reflected, she’d have to leave her home, and her friends, and the people she cherished to go to her husband’s estate. She would be a stranger among strangers, and surely very lonely.

Even when James was alive and they’d talked of a life together, she’d been troubled by that possibility.

To think it had been less than a year since her father’s death and she’d become the chatelaine of Averette, with Adelaide’s blessing and promise that it would always be so. Less than a year since Adelaide had gone to court. Less than a year since Lizette had gone north to visit friends and make more, for as Gillian never wanted to leave Averette, Lizette hated the notion of being tied to one place.

Would a man like Sir Bayard ever understand how she felt about her home and her desire to ensure that everyone here was safe and secure, at least as much as she could? That she would forego the things women were supposed to crave—a husband and even the joy of children—to make it so? And that she didn’t want to be under the power of any man?

Probably not. Indeed, she could easily imagine his disbelief and scorn if he ever learned of her vow never to marry, and that she had taken it willingly—nay, eagerly, since James had died.

“My lady?”

She turned to find Dunstan, dressed as usual in a long, dark tunic, standing on the threshold with a parchment in his hand. He wasn’t alone, however. There was a man standing beside him whom she’d never seen before. He was about the same age as Dunstan, and well dressed. He was well groomed, too, except for his rather unkempt beard.

“My lady, this is Charles de Fenelon,” Dunstan said as he stepped into the room. “He’s a wine merchant from London, with most excellent wares.”

Judging by his clothes, the merchant’s business must be a prosperous one. She guessed from the slight scent of wine about Dunstan that he’d recently tasted samples of some of the aforementioned wares.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” de Fenelon said with a bow and an ingratiating smile. “I’ve heard nothing but praise of you in the town.”

Dunstan, who knew how she felt about flattery, held out a small scroll. “Here’s a list of his prices.”

As she took it, their hands touched for a moment. Trying to ignore the unwelcome sensation, she moved toward the window.

“Our stores are rather low,” Dunstan noted. “Of course, we wouldn’t need so much wine if our guests would take their leave.”

Gillian wasn’t pleased that Dunstan had said such a thing in front of the merchant, but she wasn’t going to chastise her steward, not when she knew that more than concern for the wine stores had prompted his remark. He was jealous of Sir Bayard, although he had no reason to be. She didn’t care about Sir Bayard that way.

But neither did she harbor any desire for Dunstan.

She’d always thought of him as a brother, for his gentle, kindly father had been the steward here before him. Recently, however, and much to her dismay, she’d realized Dunstan’s feelings for her had changed into something more than brotherly affection. Unfortunately, while she could be blunt and direct about many things, she couldn’t bring herself to speak to Dunstan about his feelings for her, or tell him that she did not, and never would, reciprocate them.

Instead, she hoped the difference in their rank would prevent him from speaking to her of love. She was, after all, a lord’s daughter and he the untitled son of a Norman knight’s bastard. Although that difference didn’t influence either her affection or her trust in him, many would tell him to look for love elsewhere because of that alone. There were plenty of young women of lesser rank in and around Averette who would gladly consider marriage to the kind-hearted, competent steward.

But not her.

Focusing on the list, she read it quickly and said to de Fenelon, “Your prices seem a bit high.”

His face fell. “That is the best I can do, if I’m to make any profit at all.”

He probably thought that because she was a woman, he could play on her sympathy and thus charge her more. “We shall either take them at the prices you have written here, or not at all.”

“Very well, my lady,” he agreed, thankfully without trying to haggle.

Because his prices were satisfactory, she said, “If your wine is as good as Dunstan claims, we’ll be happy to do business with you again.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Charles replied, beaming with delight.

“Charles knows Sir Bayard de Boisbaston,” Dunstan said with a significant look.

“Not personally,” Charles added hastily. “I sell wine to many of the nobles who are friends of the king and his court.”

“Then you’ve seen him?” Gillian asked, trying not to betray any overt interest to de Fenelon.

She would also prefer that this wine merchant, whom she’d never met before, not be privy to any suspicions they might have about their supposedly noble guest.

“Many times, most recently when I came through your hall. He’s playing chess with a young man your steward says is his squire.”

So that knight really was who he claimed to be.

Gillian walked to her chair and slowly lowered herself onto it. That made it more likely that the letter she’d received was really from Adelaide, too, and therefore everything in it was true, as well.

If so, Adelaide had broken her vow and married, and Lord Armand de Boisbaston could be the master of Aver-ette. Therefore, and regardless of whatever Adelaide had promised, Gillian had no legal right to govern Averette. Lord Armand did, if he would lay claim to the estate.

God help her, he could take command of Averette and do whatever he liked. He could even send her away.

Dunstan cleared his throat and she realized the wine merchant was still there, watching her. She wanted to tell him to go, and Dunstan, too. She wanted to weep, and rant, and wail, but she managed to control that impulse.

Dunstan took a step closer and clasped his long fingers together, shaking his hands to emphasize his point as he always did when he had something important to say. “Unfortunately, my lady, there’s more. Charles tells me Sir Bayard is notorious for his seductions, and is a coward, as well. He’s reputed to have seduced over fifty women at court, and he surrendered the castle he was charged to hold in Normandy after a siege of less than a week. They also say he seduced his captor’s young wife.”

Gillian’s eyes narrowed. Sir Bayard didn’t appear to be a coward, but how could one tell that except in battle? As for being a lustful rogue…he was handsome enough that she could believe he would be successful at seduction. Her maidservants certainly acted like addle-pated ninnies when he was nearby.

On the other hand, he hadn’t behaved like some of the lustful noblemen who’d come to Averette claiming to be interested only in the lord’s daughters while chasing every serving wench who crossed their paths.

If the merchant was merely repeating gossip, she knew how little faith she should have in his information. Adelaide had once told her some of the stories being spread about the ladies of Averette. “Is that so, Charles?”

“I’m sorry to say it is, my lady,” the wine merchant reluctantly replied. “At court, they call him the ’Gyp-tian lover because he travels from bed to bed, stealing women’s hearts.”

That shouldn’t surprise or disappoint her; what did she know of Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, after all? But she was disappointed nonetheless—perhaps because there was a chance she was related to him by marriage.

“His squire’s also putting it about that Sir Bayard once came upon a troubador entertaining some ladies before a tourney,” Dunstan said. “The troubador, aware of Sir Bayard’s alleged prowess in the melee, asked him to reward his song with a horse. Sir Bayard agreed, spotted an approaching knight, immediately unhorsed the fellow and returned to present the singer with the horse before his song was done.”

Gillian had heard this story before, but not about Sir Bayard de Boisbaston. “The Earl of Pembroke did that.”

“So at the very least, the man takes credit he doesn’t deserve,” Dunstan averred.

If this was true, Sir Bayard did not sound like a man she wished to be related to. She wondered if Adelaide knew what he was like—or if she really knew the man she’d married, either. The wedding had apparently happened with rather remarkable haste.

“Are you likewise familiar with his brother, Lord Armand de Boisbaston?” she asked Charles.

“Indeed, my lady,” he replied with more confidence. “What happened to him at Marchant was a bad business. The king should have sent reinforcements.”

Instantly wondering why Charles felt he could criticize the king to her, she said, “It’s not for us to question the king’s actions.”

“No, no, certainly not,” Charles quickly replied. “I was only thinking of Lord Armand’s unfortunate capture.”

He gave her another obsequious smile. “His luck has certainly changed since he returned. The very day he arrived at court, he won your sister’s heart.”

Had it really happened as quickly as that? Or was this another tale embellished in the repeating?

“I see that beauty runs in your family, my lady.”

It was all Gillian could do not to roll her eyes. She was no beauty and never would be. Adelaide and Lizette took after their poor, pretty mother. She looked like her father’s late sister. “The image of that ugly sow Ermentrude,” he would shout at her.

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.