Читать книгу The Notorious Knight - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8

BAYARD WASN’T SURE WHAT to expect when he gently chastised Lady Gillian, but he wasn’t completely surprised when her green eyes flashed with equal challenge and she boldly walked up to him, raised herself on her toes, and bussed him heartily on both cheeks.

There was more than a slight flush coloring her own round cheeks when she stepped back.

“Such enthusiasm,” he remarked. “I may yet find myself delighted I was sent to Averette.”

As her blush deepened and his gaze held hers, the door to the hall opened, and a man appeared. He was of an age with Bayard and wore a long tunic that brushed the ground. He could have been a priest, except he had no tonsure, and the look he gave the lady was not of priestly piety.

That was interesting, too. Between the hearty kiss and the young man’s obvious affection, perhaps his first impression of Lady Gillian had been mistaken.

He’d been assuming she was the sort of noblewoman who would make a good nun.

Not that it mattered. He was here at Armand’s behest, and for a serious purpose, not to amuse himself with defiant young ladies.

“Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, this is Dunstan de Corley, the steward of Averette,” she said, introducing the young man. “Dunstan, Sir Bayard brings news from Adelaide. Please come with us to the solar.”

She started toward the hall, then paused on the steps before turning back to the yard. “Iain,” she called out. “I’d like you to come to the solar, too.”

The Scot joined them, then the lady of Averette led Bayard, her steward, and her garrison commander through a hall that was equally empty of servants, their footfalls muffled by clean, herb-scented rushes on the floor. Hounds lumbered to their feet, as grim and wary as the soldiers in the yard.

One of the dogs started to growl; a brisk word from the lady silenced him.

Finally Bayard saw a servant. A young, red-haired, freckled wench peered out of the door that led to the kitchen. When she realized he’d spotted her, she ducked out of sight. Perhaps she was just shy, but he was beginning to think Lady Gillian’s household was not a very merry place.

At the far end of the hall they went around a screen that hid another door, then up some steps leading to a narrow, covered wooden walkway. It went from the hall to the keep and was about fifteen feet above the ground.

One had only to set fire to the walkway to make the door to the keep unattainable save by ladders, supposing anyone was willing to risk a hail of arrows, or stones, or boiling water. If there was a well and food inside the keep, they could hold out there for weeks.

The lady unlocked the outer door, then waited while the others entered the building.

Once inside, Bayard surveyed the rough, gray stone walls. Stairs went up and around the inner wall to another level above, while others curved downward, probably leading to chambers used for storage and cells for prisoners.

Like the one in which Armand had been held captive for months, while he’d been treated more like a guest than a prisoner by the Duc d’Ormonde.

The room on the next level into which the lady led them wasn’t precisely a solar, for there was no bed or anything else to indicate it was anyone’s private chamber. Perhaps because it was so isolated from the rest of the castle, it appeared to have been turned into a place to keep accounts and the treasury of the estate, as evidenced by the heavy wooden chest bound with iron bands and a stout lock in one corner.

The sun lit the top of a table beneath an arched window. A holder bearing the remains of a candle sat near the right-hand edge of the table, and a few bits of quill littered the top, as if someone had tidied in a hurry. A chair waited beside the table, its cushion the only concession to personal comfort. A cupboard of the sort used to house records of tithes and other scrolls rested opposite the door.

Bayard reached into his belt and produced the letter Armand had entrusted to his care.

HIDING HER TREPIDATION, Gillian took the rolled parchment and went to the window. She trusted Dunstan and Iain, but she feared her face might betray too much emotion if she was close to them.

Mentally girding her loins, preparing for the worst, she broke the blue wax seal and began to read.

Adelaide hoped Gillian and everyone at Averette was well, as she was. Indeed, she was very happy, but she would explain more about that later. First, she had to warn Gillian.

Reading more quickly, Gillian discovered that Adelaide had helped to thwart a plot against the king that could have led to rebellion and civil war. Unfortunately, one of the conspirators had escaped and Adelaide feared her sisters were now in danger. Adelaide had written to Lizette, too, asking her to return to Averette at once.

Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, to whom Adelaide had entrusted this message, was a skilled knight and a champion of tournaments who had recently returned from the king’s campaign in Normandy. He would be staying at Aver-ette until all the traitors had been caught, imprisoned, or killed.

Gillian cut her eyes to Sir Bayard, who now stood with his hands clasped behind his back, calmly regarding them all like a conquering hero they should be glad to serve.

If he thought to overrule her here, in her home and among her people, he was sorely mistaken!

Grasping the letter tighter, Gillian read more quickly.

Sir Bayard was also the half brother of Lord Armand de Boisbaston, the finest, most honorable, bravest, best man in the world.

And Adelaide’s husband.

Gillian stared, aghast, at the words on the parchment before her. Adelaide married? It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be.

Adelaide would never give herself to a husband, never let a man rule her and treat her as his chattel, with no rights or say in anything. Lizette, perhaps, would break their vow, but not Adelaide, who had proposed their vow in the first place and pointed out all the reasons a woman shouldn’t marry.

Armand has agreed that Averette will still be your home and your responsibility, Adelaide had written. He has estates of his own in the north and says they are more than enough for him. Truly, Gillian, he is the best of men.

Gillian didn’t believe her. She knew the strength of infatuation, the power of love, and Adelaide sounded completely smitten. This Lord Armand de Boisbaston might merely be biding his time before swooping down upon Averette like a vulture—especially if he had his half brother already there to support him.

His features full of concern, Dunstan came a few steps closer. “What is it? Is Adelaide ill?”

She shook her head. “No, she’s well.” Or at least she wasn’t sick the way he meant. Sick with love, perhaps.

Yet surely if the unthinkable were true and Adelaide had married, she would come here herself to tell them. She wouldn’t send some stranger to do the deed, or to help protect Averette, either.

She thrust the letter at Dunstan. “Do you think this was written by my sister?”

“It looks like Adelaide’s hand,” he murmured as he started to read.

She knew the instant he saw the thing that had shocked her most, too. “She’s married?” He stared at Sir Bayard. “To your brother?”

“Half brother.”

Half or full, what did it matter?

“Who’s married?” Iain demanded.

Sir Bayard’s jaw clenched before he answered, but his voice was calm when he spoke. “Lady Adelaide has recently wed my half brother, Lord Armand de Boisbas-ton, a knight of the realm.”

“When? How?”

“Four days ago,” Sir Bayard replied with that same damnable composure. “In the usual fashion. I myself was not a witness to the nuptials, being newly returned from France, but I assure you, they are wed and very much in love—so much so that Armand has refused all rights to Averette.”

Something Sir Bayard obviously couldn’t fathom, Gillian realized, and neither could she. “Whoever heard of a lord who refuses more land?”

“Whatever you or I might think of it, that’s the agreement he made with his wife,” Sir Bayard replied. “As a man of honor, he will abide by it. And I give you my word as a knight of the realm that this letter is from your sister and you are in danger.”

“Danger?” Iain repeated. “What danger?”

Gillian quickly described what Adelaide had said about a conspiracy, including the news that Sir Bayard was expected to remain at Averette, something that clearly upset Dunstan and Iain as much as it did her.

“For how long?” Iain demanded.

“Until my brother and his wife deem it safe for me to go,” Sir Bayard replied.

“Am I to have no say in this matter?” Gillian angrily inquired.

“Rest assured, my lady, you’re still in command of Averette,” Sir Bayard said. “I am to provide such advice and assistance as you may require, and nothing more.”

“We’re more than capable of defending ourselves,” Dunstan said, his hand on the hilt of the sword he’d only ever wielded on a practice field.

Sir Bayard raised a brow and crossed his powerful arms. “You’ve had experience commanding men in battle? Or under siege?”

Iain threw back his shoulders. “I was in battle before you left your mother’s teat.”

“That is not what I asked,” the knight returned. “Have you commanded in battle, or under siege?”

Iain’s answer was a stony silence. He’d been in battles, Gillian knew, but his appointment to garrison commander was recent, awarded by her father shortly before he died of apoplexy during yet another drunken rant about his lack of sons and abusing God for cursing him with useless daughters.

Dunstan had no battle experience of any kind. His skill was arithmetic and keeping accurate accounts.

“These enemies we face are determined men,” Sir Bayard said to her, “and unless you’d put your pride above your people’s welfare, you should welcome any aid I can provide.”

What if this letter was true? she asked herself. What if these enemies Adelaide and Sir Bayard spoke of were dangerous and ruthless and coming to Averette? She had complete confidence in Iain’s abilities, but she would be a fool to refuse the help of an experienced knight. “Very well, my lord, you may stay.”

She held up her hand to silence Iain and Dunstan’s protests and continued to address Sir Bayard. “Although I’m quite confident Iain and my men can defend the people of Averette against any enemy force, you and your soldiers may stay. However, I’m writing to my sister to confirm that you are who you claim to be and that what this letter says is true. Now, having delivered this message, my lord, you may go to the hall and avail yourself of refreshment.”

The slight lowering of Sir Bayard’s dark brows told her he realized he was being dismissed. Nevertheless, his voice betrayed no hint of anger when he said “Until later, then, my lady.” Then he gave her an excuse of a bow and strolled out of the door.

“Hospitality or no, we should send that arrogant ass back out the gates right now,” Iain declared the moment the door closed.

“That man should leave Averette today,” Dunstan agreed. “Such impertinence!”

Gillian looked from one man to the other, appreciating their loyalty and concern, yet aware that Averette and its people were her responsibility. “What if he is related to me by marriage? Until we know for certain, we must treat him as a guest. If he is an enemy, it might be wiser to keep him here, where we can watch him.”

“Aye, there is that,” Iain conceded.

“What if he’s a spy, trying to find out our garrison’s strengths and weakness?” Dunstan demanded.

Gillian hadn’t thought of that, and the notion sickened her. “Surely Averette has no weaknesses.”

“There’s always a weakness, my lady,” Iain said, “no matter how hard we train the men or reinforce the walls.”

Gillian knew he was right, but Adelaide’s letter and her duty as chatelaine stopped her from ordering Sir Bayard to leave. There was a chance the letter was genuine and this knight had been sent by her sister to help them. She wasn’t willing to run the risk of either offending a nobleman who was related to her by marriage or refusing his aid if Averette was in danger.

But she wasn’t willing to allow a possible spy to wander at will about the estate, either.

“He and his men may stay,” she decided, “apparently as honored guests. Tell the servants and soldiers to treat Sir Bayard, his squire, and his men with every courtesy until they hear otherwise. However, our guests aren’t to leave the confines of the castle. If Sir Bayard or his men protest, they should be sent to me.

“Iain, have half the garrison billeted in the village to hide our true strength, and move the training and practices to the far meadows.

“I also want every soldier and servant told that if they see any suspicious behavior, we are to be informed at once.”

She went to the tall cupboard and searched for an unused piece of parchment. “I shall write to Adelaide, ask her to confirm this letter we received, and put in some questions for her to answer that only she can. That way, we’ll know if the letters are false or are being intercepted.”

“A wise idea, my lady,” Dunstan agreed.

She found a parchment and threw it onto the table, then turned back for a clay vessel holding ink, and a quill. “Until we know for certain that what this letter claims is true, we’ll keep a careful watch on Sir Bayard de Boisbaston and his men.”

“Aye, my lady,” Dunstan said.

“Aye,” Iain grimly seconded.

“SO, WHAT’S YOUR name, then?” Peg coyly asked the merchant whose cartful of barrels and casks of wine stood outside the Stag’s Head later that same day.

Not only was the merchant obviously well-to-do, to judge by his clothes, he was slender, young, and attractive—all qualities to make a girl eager to offer her company and her skills. He was clearly attempting to grow a beard and she didn’t like beards, but she was willing to make an exception, if the price was right.

Also inside the tavern were several farmers and villagers drinking at the end of a busy day harvesting crops and tending livestock. The men liked to discuss the weather, the potential yield of grain and produce, and sometimes John and his laws. Most had their own accustomed places, like Geoffrey, the miller, who sat by the casks, his enemy, Felton the baker, who reclined on a bench on the opposite side of the low-ceilinged room, and Old Davy and his cronies by the hearth.

“I’m Charles de Fenelon,” the wine merchant replied with a friendly smile. “From London.”

“Really?” Peg replied, bending over to give him a good look at her breasts. “Are you coming or going?”

“I’m heading back to London on my way from Bristol,” he replied. “First I hope to sell some of my wine at the castle yonder. How easy is it to meet with the steward?”

A jug of ale on her hip, the serving wench swayed from side to side and bit the end of a lock of hair. “Dun-stan de Corley comes to the village all the time. I could introduce you, if you like.”

“I’d make it worth your while,” Charles said, patting the purse attached to his belt. “What’s your name, lass?”

In view of that purse, she gave him an even broader smile. “Peg.”

“Peg,” he repeated, drawing out the name so that it seemed a promise in itself as he pulled her down onto his lap.

She glanced over her shoulder at the big beefy fellow manning the huge tapped cask.

“Your husband?” Charles asked, thinking that however much he might wish to assuage his cravings, he didn’t want a fight on his hands.

“Not yet, he’s not,” she replied with a giggle, winding her arms around his neck. “Besides, Sam won’t mind. The more I earn, the sooner we can marry.”

“Ah,” Charles murmured, nuzzling her neck, then returning to more important business. “Does the castle steward drive a hard bargain?”

She giggled again. “He can get pretty hard.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She pouted a little when he didn’t appreciate her jest. “He’s a clever fellow, but it ain’t him who finally decides. It’ll be the lady.”

“Lady Adelaide?”

“No, not her. She’s with the king. Her sister, Lady Gillian—and she’s even sharper than Dunstan, I can tell you! But they’ll be needing more wine these days. A knight’s just come and I’ve heard he’s staying awhile.”

The wine merchant’s brows rose with interest. “A knight?”

“Aye, and his squire and a bunch of soldiers.”

“A suitor for the lady? Perhaps they’ll need wine for a wedding.”

“Good luck to him, then, if that’s his plan,” Peg replied with a toss of her nut-brown hair. “Lady Gillian’ll send him packin’, I’ve no doubt—same way her sister did before her. Don’t much like men, those ladies. Unnatural, I calls it.”

Peg licked her lips, her tongue darting out in a very enticing manner. “Don’t that seem unnatural to you, too?”

“Indeed,” Charles replied. “I’ve heard Lady Adelaide is very beautiful. Is her sister, as well?”

“Lord love you, no!” Peg retorted with a snort of laughter. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose, but compared to her sisters? Ugly as a hedgehog.”

Peg gave a little wriggle that seemed very promising. “Are you going to have some of what we’ve got to offer, sir?” she asked, making it clear she wasn’t thinking of ale.

“I certainly will.” Charles moved again, letting her feel the effect she was having on him, while his hand traveled toward her breast. “I’ll have some ale first, though.”

Peg made absolutely no move to stop his wandering hand, or to pour his drink. “Not wine?”

“Ale is cheaper.”

“Ale now, something else later…for two silver pennies,” Peg replied as she leaned across his arm and refilled his mug, pressing her breasts against him while he boldly caressed her some more.

God’s blood, he could have anything he liked in London for half that. “That’s expensive.”

Her smile grew, exposing fine white teeth, and she squirmed a little more. “I’m worth it.”

He slipped a hand into her loose bodice while simultaneously giving the big fellow by the cask a surreptitious look. Sure enough, the oaf grinned and looked as pleased as if his wife-to-be had given him a bag of gold. “All right. So, who’s this knight come visiting, then?”

“A handsome fellow, although he’s got a scar on his face. Bayard something.”

“Bayard de Boisbaston?” Charles asked sharply.

“Why? What if he is this Bayard Boise—batton? What’s he done?”

Charles shook his head and his expression grew grim. “Your lady had best have a care, if what I’ve heard of him is true. The women at court call him the ’Gyptian lover, saying he travels from bed to bed stealing hearts, just like those vagabonds who claim to be able to tell fortunes. They say he’s had at least fifty lovers and that’s just among the wives and daughters of the men at court.”

“Fifty?” Peg breathed, her eyes wide. “How come he ain’t been killed by some husband or father?”

“Because nobody dares to challenge him. He’s won every tournament that he’s ever been in, and they say he’s so fierce when he fights, even the devil himself would flee his blade—if he chooses to use it. He doesn’t always. Last year, he had charge of a castle in Normandy and surrendered after only three days. He was captured by the Duc d’Ormonde, whose wife was reputed to be a great beauty. Some at court say he surrendered just to have the chance to seduce her—and he did.”

Peg drew in her breath. “He surrendered a castle just to be able to seduce a woman?”

The wine merchant nodded. “That’s what they say, and now he’s come here.”

“If he’s got any foul intentions toward Lady Gillian, she’ll set him straight,” Young Davy staunchly declared, interrupting their conversation as he handed his grandfather a piece of thick brown bread to go with his ale and cheese. “She’s as fierce as the devil, too.”

“Blasphemy!” the chandler muttered in the corner where he nursed his ale.

“You women are always thinking about marriage,” Young Davy continued, ignoring him. “You had her married off to James d’Ardenay after the poor lad’d only been here a week.”

“Well, he died,” Peg said defensively.

“We wouldn’t have to worry if she’d take a husband,” Felton, the baker, noted from his place near the door.

“Would you have her take the first man who asked her?” the miller countered from across the room, as far from his enemy as he could get. “Would you want any of those fools who’ve come courting her to become the new lord? I wouldn’t. God save us from arrogant idiots!”

“She probably don’t want to marry ’cause o’ that father o’ hers,” Old Davy piped up from beside the hearth. “Cruel, vicious villain. He’d make any woman think death might be better than marriage.”

The wine merchant shifted again, this time with impatience. “Perhaps if all you want to do is talk about the lady, I should retire alone.”

Peg jumped to her feet and took his hand to lead him up to the second level of the tavern, where travelers slept and she plied her other trade. “Don’t be angry, Charlie. We have to care about what goes on up at the castle, same as you have to worry about the king’s taxes. Lady Gillian’s a good woman, even if she is a lady, so nobody wants any harm to come to her.”

Old Davy looked anxiously at the others after the merchant and Peg had disappeared up the stairs. “D’you suppose there’s any truth in what that fellow said?”

“Not a bit,” Young Davy said confidently. “Lady Gillian’s too honorable and too clever to be fooled by any smooth-talking knight, no matter how good-looking he is. Why, remember that one knight that come, Sir Wa-tersticks or whatever his name was? Didn’t she send him packing quick enough?”

The men in the tap room chuckled and nodded.

“Set his hair on fire,” Old Davy said between wheezes as he laughed. “She had to say it was an accident o’course, but it probably took a year for it to grow back. And oh, didn’t he curse?”

“Ah, love! It’s a grand thing,” the miller said with a smirk in the baker’s direction. Then he started to sing a ballad about a long-lost love, while the baker slammed down his mug and stormed out of the tavern.