Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | The Baron′s Quest

The Baron's Quest
Margaret Moore
The Baron DeGuerre Had Finally Met His Match Though famed for prowess in tourney and war, Etienne DeGuerre now found himself at odds in the Battle of the Sexes. For his opponent, Gabriella Frechette, was a woman of singular beauty… and single-minded resolve. One who had easily stormed his defenses, and laid siege to his unsuspecting heart.


“If you take me against my will, you will be guilty of a crime,” Gabriella warned. (#u0cccd7ab-31b6-50fe-8292-1535a8b684e2)Letter to Reader (#u8fa29846-fd31-5159-b635-2b010cd26061)Title Page (#ub7b8b8d5-dadf-56dc-954b-15051289c780)About the Author (#ue5acb399-dfd1-53d0-b405-1b4f3b925bb0)Acknowledgments (#udc9a829f-65c3-5bc5-b180-eb159afce463)Chapter One (#u7bde0e70-59d4-5b3f-8fdb-0b79d99561d2)Chapter Two (#u48e3417a-14cd-5feb-b14e-42ed5dbe6a06)Chapter Three (#u0eadcec8-9ea1-518a-a835-f2ced6d61a45)Chapter Four (#u21a4c351-0328-531c-ae8d-cf431b5af5f9)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“If you take me against my will, you will be guilty of a crime,” Gabriella warned.
“I have no intention of taking you against your will,” the baron said truthfully. Then another need that had been so vital for so long arose inside him. He must be in control, of himself, of her, of everyone around him.
“You cannot deny that you want me, Gabriella,” he continued. “I could taste your desire. I could feel the excitement in your body. When you come to my bed—and you will—it shall be of your own free will.”
She stared at him with horrified disbelief. “The only way I shall go voluntarily to any man’s bed will be when I am married, and I can assure you, Baron DeGuerre, that if you were the last man in the kingdom, I would not marry you!”
Dear Reader,
Whether you’re a longtime fan of Margaret Moore, or meeting her for the first time, her new medieval novel, The Baron’s Quest, is sure to please. This captivating story of a rough-edged Saxon who falls in love with the refined gentlewoman whom he has inherited as part of his new holdings is full of the warmth and humor readers have come to expect from this very talented author. We hope you enjoy it
Badlands Bride from Cheryl St.John is the story of a newspaper reporter who goes west pretending to be a mail-order bride, only to find herself stranded in the Dakotas for one long cold winter. Pearl, from Ruth Langan, is the next in her new series, THE JEWELS OF TEXAS, featuring four sisters who are brought together by their father’s murder.
Liz Ireland rounds out the list with Millie and the Fugitive, a lighthearted Western about a spoiled rich girl and an innocent man on the run.
We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.. 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3
The Baron’s Quest
Margaret Moore


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
MARGARET MOORE
confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that it explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.
Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.
To the readers,
my humble and hearty thanks.
And to those who wish to write romance,
for the goal is worthy.
Chapter One
Warwickshire, 1223
The anxious servants of Castle Frechette and the tenants of the surrounding estate should have been about their business this sunny September day, either preparing for the harvest, sowing the winter gram, laying in a store of wood, or any of the other tasks associated with Michaelmas. Instead, the large crowd gathered in the castle’s inner ward stood as silent and subdued as if they awaited a public execution. Considering the true reason for their presence, the comparison was not so farfetched.
The Earl of Westborough had been dead only four weeks, but already the young king had contrived to strip the Frechette family of their land and give it to an upstart noble of no great family, the infamous Baron DeGuerre. He was to arrive after the noon.
Standing motionless in the inner ward of her family’s castle, Lady Gabriella Frechette attempted to convey an aura of calm serenity that was not completely successful, for she had heard many things of Baron DeGuerre, few of them good.
Men called him the devil’s spawn and a host of other unflattering names. He had appeared out of nowhere and risen to prominence by winning every tournament he entered. He had been awarded a title when he allied himself to William Marshal. Two very advantageous marriages to older women of wealth and title had enriched him. His vaulting ambition was no secret, nor was the rigor of the rule he exerted over his many tenants.
It was said women found the combination of Baron DeGuerre’s physical strength and aloof arrogance nearly irresistible. A widower now, he had for his mistress the most beautiful woman in all of England, and he lived openly with her in mortal sin.
Gabriella clasped her hands tightly within the cuffs of her simple homespun gown to still their trembling when a loud cry went up from the battlements. The baron’s entourage had been spotted on the ridge.
What was going to happen to her people with a man like Baron DeGuerre for their lord? she thought as she surveyed the murmuring crowd.
Her lip curled with slight scorn as she watched Robert Chalfront, the bailiff, hurry about excitedly, making sure all was in readiness for the baron’s men, troops and servants. No doubt some would feel no ill effects. Chalfront would surely do whatever was necessary to retain his privileged position here, and she wondered how the baron might respond to Chalfront’s obsequious manner—or if he would see the dishonest rogue lurking beneath the fawning mask.
Unable to bear the sight of the bailiff, she looked at William, the village reeve, who stood with Osric the hayward and Brian the woodward, the men speaking in hushed and wary voices with an occasional glance in her direction.
Her father had always impressed upon her the necessity of taking care of the tenants, and the peasants had appreciated the kindness of their lord and his family. Both her sweet, long-dead mother and her generous father had been truly mourned by everyone on the estate, from the knights in his service to the poorest peasant begging alms at the castle gate.
The knights were gone now, of course. They had taken their leave singly at first, then in greater number after her father had died. They needed to find some other lord to feed and house them, for apparently that was the only basis for their loyalty.
The outer portcullis rattled upward and the large gates swung inward. The crowd looked expectantly toward the entrance as a boisterous cortege rode into the courtyard of Castle Frechette.
Despite her resolution to be strong, Gabriella’s knees started to tremble and her mouth went dry, her attention immediately drawn to the man sitting upon a prancing black stallion at the front of the company. She had heard of the baron’s long hair and handsome face, and this tall, commanding man could be no one else.
His chestnut locks brushed his muscular shoulders, and no beard covered his cleft chin. On another man, such a fashion might have conveyed an aura of effeteness. Not the baron. His hair gave him a savage air, like one of the barbarian Celts who still roamed the far reaches of the land, and he had the broad shoulders and posture of a born warrior.
He wore a cloak completely black, and underneath that she could see an equally long black tunic. His boots were plain leather, as was his sword belt. The only ornament he sported was a simple brooch to fasten the cloak about his throat, although the hilt of the dagger stuck through his sword belt was of finely wrought gold.
All in all, Baron DeGuerre emanated invincibility and complete control.
Behind Baron DeGuerre came his knights, their horses adorned with colorful accoutrements. The metal of their armor and weapons shone in the sun. Numerous banners, carried by mounted squires, floated in the slight autumn breeze. Then the foot soldiers and hounds, and finally several baggage carts entered the inner ward, which was rendered as noisy and overcrowded as a marketplace.
The baron swung down from his prancing horse as if it were the calmest, mildest mare in Christendom and strode to the center of the courtyard. Surprisingly, he did not seem pompous or proud, but removed and aloof from the commotion behind him and the castle servants before him. To Gabriella, he looked completely, utterly alone, even in the midst of this chaos.
Just as she had felt the day her father had died.
The baron slowly turned on his heel, surveying the buildings as if he were a merchant here to offer the cheapest price, and Gabriella remembered exactly why he had come.
As she looked at the buildings around her, her heart filled with pride at this monument to her parents, nearly overpowering the pain that one such as the Baron DeGuerre would be the possessor of it. Surely he would not care about this place beyond its strength as a fortress.
But there were other strongholds as well built. What was unique about Castle Frechette was its beauty. Her father had not been content with Norman utility when it came to his home; he had decorated and embellished wherever possible and insisted upon the finest materials. The stone frames of all the doors and archways were wonderfully carved, and even the simple stone hearth in the kitchen had been decorated with the shapes of fruit and braided loaves of bread. The chapel in the north tower boasted a lovely stained glass window, and her father’s solar in the south tower had three of plain glass. The apartments above the great hall were spacious and paneled with oak. The walls of the hall had been plastered and painted, so that even without tapestries, they were glorious to behold. All of the outer stones of the castle had been whitewashed with lime and today they gleamed in the September sunlight like the lovely marble used to pave her parent’s bedchamber.
Before she could look away, the baron’s gaze fastened upon her. Her breath caught in her throat, and her limbs seemingly turned to stone, although his face betrayed neither pleasure nor displeasure, pride nor scorn—indeed, she had never seen an expression so unreadable. He simply stared, his long hair and ankle-length tunic stirring slightly in the breeze.
She was the daughter of an earl, she reminded herself, so she stared back indignantly even as a heated blush flooded her face and warmed her body.
Without a change in his expression, Baron DeGuerre pivoted and continued his survey of the castle.
She had harbored a hope that the rumors about Baron DeGuerre were exaggerated and that she would be able to ask this man to allow her to stay in the only home she had known. In her most desperate fancies, she had even dared to imagine that he would welcome her superior knowledge of the castle, the land and the tenants.
She knew now, and with more disappointment than she cared to acknowledge, that these hopes had been completely ludicrous.
In a deep, dispassionate voice, the baron began to issue orders to the servants, grooms and squires to stable the horses and unload the wagons As he did so, she forced herself to look at the others in his retinue with the same impartial scrutiny with which he had regarded her home, and her.
There were several knights, some clearly more important than others, and it was to the two pairs riding nearest to the baron that she gave her closest attention. The first twosome was composed of a sleek, dark-haired man who also wore his hair long, but unlike the baron, it was brushed back from his high, pale forehead. He had what could have been a handsome face, except that his eyes were narrow and shifty as a ferret’s, overshadowed by heavy dark brows. As for his smile, it was a scornful, arrogant, sneering slash. His clothing and accoutrements were very fine, and she wondered if his favored position in the retinue meant he had influence with the baron. Woe betide her tenants if he did!
Beside this man, however, and in contrast to him, rode a blond-haired, merry individual in a tunic of very bright scarlet. At first sight, Gabriella thought him little more than a youth. When he dismounted and moved closer, she discerned subtle wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, and guessed that he was nearly of an age with the baron himself.
Gabriella found this man’s presence comforting. If the baron was as evil as men claimed, would such a pleasant-faced man be in his service? Or perhaps any man of Baron DeGuerre’s power and reputation would attract many followers, both good and bad.
Behind these two rode a pair of young knights. One was a slender, thoughtful-looking fellow, the other big and brawny. When they conversed, it was through the simplest of words and gestures, as if they had been friends for so long, nothing else was necessary.
Then Gabnella saw the woman who had to be Lady Josephine de Chaney. She was astonishingly beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and a perfect complexion, her pale, smooth cheeks having a very slight tint of pink; large green eyes fringed with incredibly lengthy lashes; rosy, full lips; delicately arched brows that were slightly darker than her blond hair; and a long, slender neck. She wore a cloak of rich blue and a headdress that sparkled in the sunlight over her bountiful blond hair. It was no wonder songs had been composed celebrating her classic beauty and graceful deportment, and that men had died vying for her love.
Gabriella smoothed down her simple brown homespun gown, and for an instant wished she had not sold all her fine dresses. But that was a vain thought, unworthy of her, and one quickly subdued.
Her self-evaluation was interrupted by the baron’s quiet yet commanding voice, which carried to every corner of the ward. “Where are the late earl’s children?” he demanded.
Now it comes, Gabriella thought. If only Bryce were here beside her instead of somewhere in Europe, ignorant even of their father’s death. Surely her brother would have been able to prevent this terrible situation. Or if not prevent, delay by going to the king himself when the true state of her father’s treasury became known as he lay dying. Instead, there had been no time, and no money to send another to intercede for her.
Gabriella blinked hard to subdue the weakness of tears and raised her chin, gazing upward at the soaring walls and battlements of her family’s home. She alone represented her family now, and she alone stood between her people and the Baron DeGuerre. She would not be afraid of an immoral, ambitious parvenu.
“I am Lady Gabriella Frechette,” she announced, slowly moving toward him and curtsying. “I bid you welcome.”
Etienne DeGuerre had many years of practice in masking his emotions, so now he easily kept the surprise from his face. He had noticed the young woman standing among the servants, of course. He had been struck by her uniqueness immediately: her steadfast gaze, which conveyed an attitude of strength at odds with the softness of her other features that made her pretty, her face surrounded by its dark corona of thick, wavy hair, and the simple gown that did more to emphasize her bountiful natural gifts than the finest garment might have. He had thought her a maidservant, possibly another example of the luxuries the late, profligate Earl of Westborough had enjoyed.
He should have noticed the proud, graceful carriage of a woman raised in wealth, a poise undiminished by the recent unfortunate events. He never should have surmised that since the earl’s daughter was unmarried, she was a child.
Her voice was also curiously intriguing, for it was low for a woman, even husky. No simpering, breathy helpless tone to her words, but an almost masculine forthrightness that was most unusual.
Etienne DeGuerre had met very few members of the female sex who impressed him, and those who did so usually had outstanding physical beauty, like Josephine. In all of the baron’s experience, there had been only two others who seemed to possess such calm determination and confident self-possession as this young woman. One had been his mother. The other was the new wife of his trusted liegeman, Sir Roger de Montmorency.
Nevertheless, Etienne’s expression did not alter as he magnanimously ignored her impertinence and walked toward her. “Where is your brother?”
“I wish I knew,” she retorted bluntly, “for he would not have allowed this to happen.”
Etienne halted. For years no one had had the effrontery to talk to him in such a manner, or use such a tone.
Then Gabriella Frechette made another mistake, for she obviously took the baron’s silence as an opportunity to continue. “Have you not forgotten something, such as the simple courtesy of a greeting or an expression of sympathy for my father’s demise?” she asked with a scornful politeness. “Or perhaps a thanks for how his untimely death has enriched you?”
For a brief instant, indignation raged through Etienne with the speed and fierceness of a summer’s grass fire. His emotional response was quickly quelled, however, and none of that indignation showed on his face. Instead he regarded her impartially with the coldly measuring stare that had made many a brave knight cower before him, a look that came from the knowledge that he had seen, done, experienced and survived more than most men had or ever would.
Gabriella Frechette did not flinch under his scrutiny. She did not start to weep. She did not even lower her eyelids. She simply stood there and faced him.
Etienne was not often confounded, and he did not like the sensation now. Either Gabriella Frechette was a stupid, foolish woman ignorant of the true meaning of her reduced status, or she had the spirit to maintain her personal dignity in spite of it.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Etienne saw the mocking scorn of Philippe de Varenne’s smirk. Sir George de Gramercie, conspicuous in his customary scarlet, was simply and understandably studying the woman and finding her fascinating. Donald Bouchard, whom Etienne always thought of as “the monk,” was patiently waiting to see what would happen next; his friend, the stolid Seldon Vachon, was openly shocked. The castle inhabitants were unabashedly staring.
Suddenly he knew that this one lone woman represented a threat to his authority here. But Gabriella Frechette’s father had lost this estate by spending too freely on frivolities, and by raising a quarrelsome son who had argued and run away. He was not in the wrong to accept his reward. She was in the wrong to stay. She must be made to see that she was no longer the lady of the manor, just as he had to make clear to the rest of the servants that he would brook no disobedience or rebellion of any kind.
He considered his opponent, knowing not every weapon need be held in the hand. For a woman as proud as she, the best attack would surely be humiliation. Strangely and most unusually, he felt a twinge of regret that it must be so. But it was. He had fought and sacrificed too long to have his power corrupted in any way, by anyone.
“What are you doing here?” he asked with the dispassionate calm his enemies had come to fear.
The wary servants and tenants shifted uneasily and exchanged anxious whispers. Etienne noticed that Josephine, standing off to one side waiting patiently, looked at the young woman with sympathy in her lovely eyes. Philippe de Varenne no longer smiled, and Sir George was, for once in his life, looking grave. Donald and Seldon wisely went about their business.
“This is my home,” the late earl’s daughter answered.
“Not anymore,” he replied quietly. Very quietly.
There was a flash of grudging acknowledgment in her eyes, and a deep flush spread over her smooth cheeks. Etienne realized he had achieved a measure of triumph over her, yet did not feel overly triumphant. Well, it was never as enjoyable defeating a woman in a battle of words.
“My lord, if you will excuse me,” Sir George said with very slight reproach in his usually merry eyes, “I will assist your lady with her goods.”
“As you wish,” Etienne replied, telling himself George’s disapproval was nothing, and Josephine should see to making their bedchamber a comfortable haven. With a silent curtsy, Josephine took George’s arm and walked toward the large building that had to be the hall. Others in his retinue took their cue from them and sauntered away, all except Philippe de Varenne.
“Where is the bailiff?” Etienne demanded, momentarily ignoring Gabriella Frechette.
A moon-faced man of short and stocky stature burst out of the remaining crowd like an arrow from a bow, bustling toward the baron with a curious mixture of humility, self-importance and fear. “I am Robert Chalfront, my lord,” he said in a rather high-pitched voice. “I have been the bailiff here for ten years.”
Etienne glanced at Gabriella Frechette. She did not like this man, although she was trying not to show any emotion at all.
Nevertheless, Etienne had spent years gauging reactions, so he was quite certain that she hated the bailiff. Yet he had been in her father’s employ for ten years. That was most interesting, and possibly another tool for him to use. “You may remain bailiff, Chalfront,” the baron announced, his decision made in that instant. “Your continued presence should ease the transition to my rule.”
A subdued murmur ran through the crowd, whether of approval or not, Etienne did not trouble himself to consider.
Chalfront did not stifle the relieved sigh that broke from his lips as he bowed to the baron. “I will serve you well, my lord. I give you my word. The reeve is here, my lord, and the woodward and the—”
“I expect nothing less than my due, from you or any of my people,” Etienne replied. “As for the reeve and the others, I will see them another day. Tell me about the late earl’s son.”
Her brown eyes gleaming with defiance, Gabriella Frechette stepped forward. “Baron, is this not an inappropriate place to discuss such matters?”
Etienne regarded the young woman with the mildest of disdain. “I do not recall addressing you.”
She flushed, and after a moment’s hesitation, looked down at the ground.
Etienne immediately turned back to the bailiff. “Answer my question, Chalfront,” he commanded, his voice still calm and unruffled.
“My lord, the present Earl of Westborough is—”
“There is no longer an Earl of Westborough,” Etienne observed.
“Yes, well, um, my lord, Bryce Frechette is somewhere in Europe at the moment, we think, and—”
“Where in Europe?”
“Nobody knows, my lord. Naturally we tried to locate him when his father fell ill, but to no avail, I’m afraid”
Etienne listened impassively, although he had been informed of this before He wanted to hear how the local people interpreted the childish action of the son of their late lord. It was quite obvious his sister did not condemn him for it—more fool her! “He did not say where he planned to travel before he left?” Etienne asked, already knowing the answer.
Chalfront cleared his throat nervously and gave a sidelong glance at the blushing Gabriella.
“He, um, left home rather abruptly, my lord,” Chalfront said, “after a quarrel with his father. His father claimed he did not care where his son had gone. When it became clear that the earl’s illness was mortal, Lady Gabriella sent men to find him. Unfortunately, by the time they returned with no news of her brother, the earl was dead. Lady Gabriella could not afford to send the men again and, being wiser in her handling of money than her father, she did not.”
Gabriella Frechette stiffened, but said nothing.
“This Bryce Frechette ... what do you think he would do, should he hear of his father’s demise?” Etienne inquired.
Chalfront looked down at his hands, then glanced at Gabriella Frechette. Her expression was murderous, and Chalfront’s tone changed to one of angry defiance, aimed not at the baron to whom he spoke, Etienne guessed, but at the woman beside him. “I cannot say, my lord. He was something of a wild youth, if truth be told, impetuous and spoiled. Some—nay, most—felt it was better that he had gone, although of course it is regrettable that any son should quarrel so with his father.”
“You felt it was better he was gone!” Gabriella Frechette cried impetuously, her hands drawing into fists at her side. “You were glad that there was no one to watch over you except my sick father! No one who might see your dishonesty!”
“Dishonesty?” Chalfront squeaked, growing red in the face.
“My steward has examined the account rolls of Castle Frechette and found nothing amiss,” Etienne said, believing Gabriella Frechette’s accusation was made of haste and hate. He had every confidence that Jean Luc, his steward of many years, would have noticed had anything been amiss with the castle’s financial records. “And I should not have to remind you again that you will speak only when you have been addressed,” the baron said to the young woman. He spoke not loudly, but with unmistakable firmness
Rather impressively and contrary to the reaction he had anticipated, she quickly regained her self-control. Her eyes still flashed with angry fire and she did not look at the bailiff, but it was clear she was capable of subduing her emotions when it was necessary. A most rare quality in a woman, and one completely unexpected.
“Why are you not married?” he asked suddenly, trying to confound her. When she did not answer, he said, “Well?”
“Excuse me, my lord, I did not realize you were addressing me.”
She was playing a dangerous game, this pretty woman with the defiant eyes standing before him in wounded pride and unbowed majesty. But she would lose. He would win this first test of his authority, because he must always win. “Why are you not married?” he repeated, and no one who heard the stern tone of his voice would have dared refuse to answer.
“Because I did not wish to be,” Gabriella Frechette said, some of her defiance replaced by obvious fear.
“My lord, if I may say so, Lady Gabriella tended to her parents most devotedly,” Chalfront stuttered, clearly terrified. “She said she would entertain no suitors while she did her duty to them.”
“I did not ask you for your opinion, bailiff,” the baron noted dispassionately. The man looked about to collapse, but that was of no concern to Etienne. He spoke only to the young woman. “Apparently your father was more shortsighted than I had been told, since his lack of concern for your future has left you on my hands. Is there no other family to whom you could go?”
“No.”
“You will address me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Baron,”’ he said.
“No, my lord,” she replied with undeniable scorn in her dark brown eyes.
What kind of creature was this? The boldest knights in England were more easily dominated than this wench. “Who fostered you?” he demanded.
“No one, my lord. My parents wished to raise us.”
“If you are as devoted to God as you were to your parents, you should go to a convent.”
“Excuse me, my lord?” Chalfront interrupted again, his voice like the squeak of a mouse.
The baron turned his impartial gaze onto the bailiff. “What is it?”
Chalfront cleared his throat nervously. “Lady Gabriella is penniless, my lord. It would cost some money for her to be accepted into a convent, and there is nothing left.”
“There are debts still unpaid, too,” Baron DeGuerre noted.
Suddenly Gabriella realized he had known more of her family history than he had indicated.
Obviously his questions, embarrassingly posed in front of the assembled servants and tenants, had but one purpose: to reveal her penniless state to everyone and shame her in public. He was a cruel and heartless man, worse than even the rumors had led her to believe!
She must have been mad not to see immediately the unfeeling creature he was. How could she have been so impressed with his strength and commanding presence when he did not temper those qualities with mercy? How could she have thought there was a hint of vulnerability in his aloofness? How could she ever have found him attractive, unless she had felt the same fascination for him that Eve had experienced for the snake in the Garden of Eden?
They were engaged in a battle, and Gabriella would not admit defeat, especially when Baron DeGuerre took a step toward her and made what she supposed was his idea of a smile. “However, I can be generous.”
The look in his eyes assured her that his idea of generosity was not one she would share.
Chapter Two
The baron reached into the wide, plain brown leather belt about his waist and produced a leather purse.
Gabriella had very little doubt what he might expect in the way of recompense for his “generosity,” this vain, arrogant bully who had tried to humiliate her in the courtyard of her own home. What kind of woman did he think he was dealing with? One like Josephine de Chaney, who had abandoned her morals for the sake of money? “I want nothing from you, my lord,” she said contemptuously.
Not a muscle moved in the baron’s handsome, impassive face.
“You...you have been most munificent, my lord,” Chalfront said anxiously, reminding Gabriella of his odious presence. “Surely everyone understands that.”
“Except this person,” the baron replied, his gaze still fastened upon her. “Whether you accept my gift or not, you will leave this castle and the village at once.”
“No, I will not. This is my home and—”
“If I order you to go, you will go.” The baron said the words quietly, but the menace was unmistakable. Then he smiled again. “You may stay in the castle if the tenants’ feelings are so vital to you. As a servant.”
It took a mighty effort, but Gabriella straightened her shoulders and said, “The tenants will be most upset if you make such an order.”
“The tenants?” he asked with a very slight hint of incredulity. “What care I for the feelings of the tenants?”
At his arrogant words, the mood of the crowd changed from one of dread to defiance.
“If they wish to remain on my land, they would do well to try to please me, not the late earl’s daughter,” Baron DeGuerre said. Then he slowly surveyed them, his impartial, chilling scrutiny resting for a brief moment on every person there.
They all fell silent and averted their eyes from his, their insolence gone as if he had physically taken it from them. One by one they silently went out the gate. “I will speak with you later, Chalfront,” the baron said, and Chalfront, obviously dismissed, joined the departing crowd.
“Goodbye, Gabriella Frechette,” Baron DeGuerre said before he turned on his heel and strode toward the hall, clearly convinced by her stunned silence he had won this skirmish. The other knight who had remained smiled cruelly and followed his master into the hall like a dog on a lead.
Gabriella stood in the courtyard all alone, feeling more abandoned than she had by her father’s death and even Bryce’s absence.
If she stayed, she would have to be a maid, humbled before the servants and tenants she had known all her life, the very people she had been raised to believe she had a duty to protect.
Was it so humiliating to be a servant? Had her father not praised many times the labor of his people and the worth of his hirelings who had built this place? Was it worse than being driven from her home?
The Frechettes were not cowards. This was her family’s home and had been for generations; Baron DeGuerre could not force her to leave, however he tried. Besides, there was the very real chance that Bryce would return one day, and who could say what might happen if she were not there? She could not count on Baron DeGuerre or Robert Chalfront to tell her brother where she had gone.
Also, as the baron surely knew—to his discredit—it would be too dangerous for a woman with no money and no escort to travel. She would quickly find herself in a worse predicament, and at the mercy of villains even more loathsome than the baron.
If she remained, she might yet be able to help her people. Clearly the tenants would need any and all assistance she might render.
If she fled, that would allow the baron to think he had triumphed over her.
Therefore, there really was only one thing she could do. She must stay.
With the fierce pride in her family name to sustain her, Gabriella turned on her heel and marched to the kitchen.
Despite what had passed in the courtyard, the room was abustle with preparations for the evening meal, a feast she herself had ordered and that would use the last of the stores her father had purchased. Both she and the cook had wanted this meal to make them proud, if for slightly different reasons. She had thought of her family’s honor; Guido wanted to retain his position by impressing his new master.
One of the maids spotted Gabriella and gasped, her mouth an “O” of surprise as she colored Then the others realized who was in their midst and there was an awkward pause before Guido came toward her with outstretched, floury hands.
“My lady!” he cried, his Italian accent strong because of his indignation. “This is a terrible business! The baron is no gentleman! Sit here.” He indicated a pile of bags filled with flour.
Gabnella smiled, sure again of their affection and that she had made the right decision. “No, Guido,” she said, “if I am to be a servant, I had better begin to work.”
The other servants exchanged shocked glances. “My lady!” James the baker began. “Your sainted mother—”
“Is mercifully in her grave,” Gabriella said, subduing a pang of sorrow. “The baron has given his ultimatum and I have made my choice, with no regrets. Now,” she continued briskly, “have the flowers been spread upon the tables yet?”
“No, my lady,” a girl named Alda replied quietly, nodding toward cut stems of late-blooming campion.
“Very well,” Gabriella said. “I will do that.” She picked up the flowers and headed toward the corridor leading to the great hall.
“Alda, you help her,” Guido ordered, and Gabriella heard the respect in his voice.
It made her feel...good. Before, they had always deferred to her, but never had she been so aware of their respect. This time, too, it was not because she was her parents’ daughter, but for herself alone.
As she waited for Alda to gather together more flowers and join her, Guido went back to peering into a bubbling pot, like an alchemist waiting for lead to turn to gold, and the spit boy turned an enormous boar as if the fate of the kingdom rested on the performance of his duty. James fussed over the exact shape of the sweetmeats, but paused to give her a genial smile.
And the baron thought she would leave!
During the evening meal, Etienne DeGuerre permitted himself a very small and very rare smile of satisfaction. The king had not lied when he said that while the Earl of Westborough was not a fighting man, he was no fool when it came to the building of defenses. This castle was as strong as any fortress Etienne had ever seen. The outer curtain wall was nearly twenty feet tall, and over two yards wide. The inner wall was even taller and wider, built to allow archers to protect or defeat any soldiers caught between the two. The gate house was nearly as large as the stables, and well fortified with an oak portcullis tipped with iron in front of a heavier solid oak door strengthened by iron straps. Above and behind the portcullis was the murder hole, through which stones or boiling oil could be poured, the bane of any enemy trapped between the portcullis and the outer door.
The late earl also had a canny eye for picking a good location. The castle had been built on a low rise at the meeting of two rivers, a spot of unmistakable strategic significance. If the decorations were rather lavish, that was something new in Etienne’s experience, and he found them not unpleasant. For so many years he had survived with the barest of necessities; the external beauty of this fortress seemed to say that all those years of struggle were finally behind him. Not that he could rest content even now, he thought, watching Philippe de Varenne talk to George.
The young knight was an ambitious braggart and a bully, but he was from a wealthy family of great rank, and Etienne didn’t doubt that the man would soon leave his company for a lord with more to give. That being so, he was willing to tolerate Philippe’s presence—especially since Philippe was free with his money and often paid for meals in taverns for himself and his friends, thereby sparing the baron’s larder.
George was a good and loyal knight, if a trifle indifferent to everything except his clothing and being the wittiest man in any hall. He could be counted on in a fight, if necessary; however, more often than not he prevented the others from expressing their disagreements physically.
In contrast, Donald Bouchard, from a poor but ancient family, was rather too serious. That surely came from his training under the strict eye of Urien Fitzroy, a teacher becoming famous from his students’ skills and moral rectitude.
Seldon Vachon had profited immensely from Fitzroy’s guidance. Etienne knew the young man’s family, a bunch of brawling braggarts. Thanks to Donald’s steadfast friendship and Fitzroy’s example, Seldon was a fine exception to his family’s reputation.
The other knights and squires were all rather similar, each ambitious and anxious to please their overlord by distinguishing themselves. Some were rich, some were poor, but all wanted more, whether it was wealth, power or fame. All expected to achieve those ends by associating with Etienne DeGuerre.
He did not begrudge them their aspirations, for he, too, had harbored similar ones himself—as long as they did not try to succeed to his detriment.
As his gaze returned to the interior of the great hall, Etienne noticed at once the discrepancy between the beautiful carving on the door frame and hearth, the polished paneling and painted walls, and the meager nature of the furnishings. Surely other, more lavish trappings had been sold to pay off the bulk of the earl’s several debts. However, with some initial expenditure and Josephine’s exquisite taste, this hall would soon be a showplace for his wealth and power.
Already he detected Josephine’s touch in the flowers upon the table. He turned to her, pleased as always to think this beautiful creature was his and that men envied him all the more because of her. “Wherever did you find the flowers?”
His mistress gave him a surprised look. “That was none of my doing, Etienne,” she replied in her soft, dulcet tones. “I was too busy seeing to our baggage. Some of the servants must have done it.”
“Ah. No matter.” Etienne reached forward to take another piece of bread and allowed himself to enjoy the extravagant feast. It would be quite some time before he would authorize such a meal, so he might as well indulge at the late earl’s expense.
The bread was excellent, the meat spiced to perfection, the fruit fresh and the pastries light, proving that the late earl had an excellent cook, and that the victualing of this castle had not been done with an eye to expense. The servants did their jobs quickly and competently; obviously, they had been well trained.
What a place this must have been when the earl and his wife were still alive and wealthy! It was easy to imagine the luxury, the bustle, the many guests, the music and laughter. Easy, too, to envision a spoiled daughter unaware of the change about to befall her. But that was not his concern.
How different from the wattle and daub building that had been his lonely childhood home, presided over by his bitter, domineering mother, the only guest being the memories of his father.
That didn’t matter now. He had risen above his past and the earl had died impoverished.
Etienne turned his mind to the other things the king had told him: the depletion of the stores caused by the late Earl of Westborough’s generosity to anyone who arrived at his gates, whether noble or the poorest of beggars; the earl’s careless treatment of illegal activity, especially poaching; the astonishing amounts of money—indeed, all that he had left in his coffers—that the earl had given to the church for masses and prayers. Not that there was much to give, after the disastrous harvest last autumn.
If Castle Frechette was a masterpiece, it was because the earl had promised his masons and carpenters lavish wages, and they had worked with a will. Unfortunately, when the true state of the earl’s debts became clear at his death, all the furnishings had been sold to pay these wages, for the work could not be taken away.
Etienne had also noted the fine state of most of the peasants’ dwellings as he had ridden toward the castle. The injustice of it had struck him immediately, that the earl should have lost his land while his tenants prospered.
He had heard, too, of the earl’s wastrel son who had left the country in a fit of pique. Perhaps the young man had not known of the sorry state of his father’s affairs, or the man’s ill health, but he should have ensured that they knew how to reach him.
Because of Bryce Frechette’s selfishness, his sister was in serious difficulty and completely alone. Yet, apparently, she did not condemn her brother for such childish behavior. Outside in the courtyard, she had been upset to hear the truth discussed in the open, in front of the tenants.
He leaned back thoughtfully, watching his men enjoy their meal. He supposed Gabriella Frechette would say, in her defiant, husky and compelling voice, that she loved her brother. It was distressing to think an otherwise formidable woman could be so blinded by an emotion.
Gabriella Frechette’s predicament was already a thing of the past. She was surely already gone, and he would be left in possession of this, his tenth estate, the number he had set himself so many years ago when he was poor, and starving and freezing in the winter’s snow. At last he had reached the end of the quest.
Etienne DeGuerre permitted himself another small, satisfied smile as he reached out to grasp his goblet. When it was halfway to his lips, he halted for a barely perceptible moment. Gabriella Frechette had just entered from the kitchen carrying a platter of meat, which she proceeded to serve to a delighted George de Gramercie.
God’s teeth! He had thought she would gather her things and be gone before an hour had passed after her public humiliation. What would possess a woman to remain after that?
A new sensation tore through Etienne, one he had not felt in years upon years. He was suddenly ashamed that he had tried to humiliate this bold and fiercely proud woman.
He quickly subdued his reaction. Obviously she was not easily humbled, nor did she fully appreciate how precarious her new position was.
His gaze flashed around the hall. The other servants were guarded and watchful, but clearly just as proud of their former lord’s daughter’s defiance as she surely was of herself.
Philippe de Varenne was watching her, too, with a greedy look in his snake’s eyes and a hungry smile on his thin lips. Even the usually jovial George was eyeing the wench with serious speculation.
Fortunately, Donald Bouchard could be counted on not to — but the young man was staring at Gabriella Frechette as if an angel were serving his dinner! The only man who seemed oblivious to Gabriella’s presence was Seldon, who gave all his attention to his food.
Etienne’s scrutiny returned to the provocative movement of Gabriella Frechette’s shapely hips. Was it deliberately done or was it simply a gift of nature? Either way, if she stayed, she was going to cause trouble.
This situation could not continue. She must be made to leave before his men started quarreling over her and the other servants began to believe they could defy him with impunity.
“Gabriella!” he called, his voice slightly louder than usual.
She turned and walked toward him, a questioning look in her eyes, her dark, shapely brows lifted just a little, her pale, smooth cheeks tinged with a hint of a blush.
He could not go back on his ultimatum. That would be a sign of weakness that he simply would not permit. When he considered the state of his men, it occurred to him that she might be engaging in a different sort of battle, one that started with covert rebellion.
The little fool! He had seen campaigns of many kinds, including those waged by women, and he knew different attacks and defenses. He always got what he wanted. She should have heard enough about him to know that.
What did he want from her? To caress that shapely body? To crush those ruby lips against his own? To have her yield, willingly, fervently, with all the passion of her hate turned to burning desire...
His glance darted to Josephine, who was wiping her rosebud lips daintily with a napkin. God’s wounds, he must be going to mad to even think of kissing this wench when he had Josephine de Chaney to share his bed. What kind of spell was this dispossessed noblewoman beginning to exert over him?
Gabriella halted, her full lips pulled into a thin line of strength and she bowed her head in acknowledgment.
He must and would control this estate, this castle, this hall and most of all, this woman. “Fill my goblet,” he ordered.
Gabriella did as she was told, trying not to look at Baron DeGuerre’s lean, handsome face illuminated by the many flambeaux set in sconces in the walls Despite her self-confidence in the kitchen, she had dreaded meeting him again, and with good reason. His pale blue eyes were so intimidating in their inscrutability! The man was like a statue, betraying nothing of his feelings. Indeed, it was as if he were not quite human, but some kind of supernatural warrior put on earth to remind others that they were weak, frail vessels of humanity.
While she bent to fill his goblet with hands that must tremble, he moved not at all.
No, not a statue, she thought as she poured his wine slowly to avoid a spill. He was more like a cat sitting before a mouse’s hole. She was aware of the others in the hall, but all her attention was focused on the man in front of her although she did not look directly at his face.
She had already seen enough of it. The baron’s features, lean and battle-hardened, presided over by his cold, unrevealing eyes, might have belonged to a martyr. She doubted even being burned at the stake would make the man flinch. But he was no holy man. It was not hard to envision the baron’s slender, strong fingers, grasping the goblet before her, around a man’s throat, squeezing the breath from his body.
Gabriella forced herself to concentrate on her task so that she could finish and be gone, away from his intense eyes and unreadable face.
At last the baron moved, to lean back leisurely in his straight-backed chair with a motion of sinuous grace.
She tipped the vessel of wine up and backed away. Before she could leave, however, the baron smiled slowly, slyly, seductively, and said, “Go to my bedchamber.”
“Etienne!” Josephine de Chaney gasped. Suspicion and pain appeared in her lovely green eyes, her reaction giving Gabriella a confirmation she did not want.
“Being a servant is new to you, so this once I will repeat myself,” he said deliberately, ignoring his mistress. “Go to my bedchamber.”
Gabriella could only stare at him, shocked, aghast and horrified. Surely he didn‘t—couldn’t—mean it! She felt as if she had been stripped naked in front of everyone. A wave of hot shame washed over her as she hoped against hope that he would rescind his order. She may be no more than a servant now, but she was a free woman. If he took her against her will, it would be rape. He would be committing a crime. She would go to... whom? Who would stand up for her against the powerful Baron DeGuerre, favorite of the king, the terror of tournaments, a man who had once fought for ten straight hours simply to win a bag of silver coins?
While he continued to regard her with those implacable blue eyes, she began to understand that she had engaged an enemy whose power and influence she had never fully considered.
But she had power and strength on her side, too. He would be a criminal if he touched her, and all would know it. And if he thought it necessary to stoop to such tactics, who had the upper hand then?
With her back as straight as an arrow’s shaft, her carriage as regal as any queen, Gabriella turned and headed toward the wide staircase leading upward, toward the north tower and the bedchamber.
“Well, well, well, what are we to make of that?” Philippe de Varenne asked, gesturing with his head toward Gabriella as she disappeared inside the tower and those assembled in the hall broke the silence with a flurry of murmurs and whispers.
Sir George de Gramercie, usually so quick with a witty remark, could only raise his shapely, patrician brows and shake his head.
“I mean, I think we can all understand his intentions,” Philippe went on before taking a large gulp of his wine. “I know what I’d do if I had a wench like that at my service.”
“He’s not going to hurt her,” Donald said, both shocked and defensive.
“Oh, no, I never said he would hurt her,” Philippe replied with a wink. “I’d give a purse of gold to know what Josephine is thinking at this particular moment.”
The men glanced at her. Both the baron and Josephine de Chaney were eating as if nothing at all unusual had happened, which was very far from the truth.
“She’ll never question him,” George said with absolute certainty. “She’s far too clever for that.”
“Which makes her the perfect mistress, eh?” Philippe noted. “That and other talents.”
“You are speaking of a lady,” Donald said severely.
“A soiled dove of a lady,” Seldon observed with more honesty than tact before shoving a large morsel of beef into his mouth.
“But a lady nonetheless,” Donald answered. “Nor do I think it fitting to bandy about the name of the baron’s lady, or to make such jests.”
Seldon, who usually agreed with Donald and followed his lead, shrugged his shoulders George grinned and Philippe clicked his tongue in disgust.
“Pardon me for offending your delicate sensibilities,” Philippe said, “but no matter how beautiful she is, Josephine de Chaney is still a—”
George held up his hand. “Not exactly, and I believe the distinction is worth noting,” he warned the impetuous young man beside him. “And she is a noblewoman.”
“Yes, she is,” Donald said firmly.
“Aye!” Seldon seconded, wiping his lips with his large hand.
“Oh, very well,” Philippe grudgingly conceded. “However, that Gabriella, she’s not anymore.” He smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. “Let us drink to the impertinent Gabriella,” he said, raising his goblet. “I daresay she’ll be taught a lesson she won’t soon forget, eh?”
Donald-looked appalled. Seldon did, too, but it was George who was the first to speak. “Philippe,” he said with a touch of anger in his usually mildly amused voice, “you know the baron will not harm her.”
“Then why did he order her upstairs?” Philippe demanded.
George chuckled ruefully- “He probably has something he wants her to do.”
“That’s precisely my point,” Philippe said as he sullenly surveyed the others.
“I meant work,” George chided. “Maybe something to do with his boots or his cloak. He has no body servant, you will recall.”
“So you think he’s planning on having a female body servant? A most fascinating concept, I grant you.”
“All I’m saying is,” George replied, “the baron has never dishonored a woman in his life to my knowledge, and I see no reason for him to start now.”
“You don’t? Are you blind, man? She’s got the roundest, most detectable—”
“We noticed,” Donald interrupted, blushing like a boy.
“Did you?” Philippe asked Donald. “I thought you concerned yourself solely with the life to come.”
“And my duty here on earth,” Donald said stoutly. “It is our duty, as knights of the realm, to protect women.”
“Besides, why would the baron risk a charge of rape when she’s so skinny?” Seldon asked solemnly.
“You would dare to fight the baron over a serving wench?” Philippe demanded, ignoring Seldon.
“Yes, I would,” Donald replied with conviction.
“God’s holy heaven!” Philippe chided as he looked at Donald. “You should have been a monk.”
“That little bailiff didn’t look at all happy, poor fellow,” George remarked, obviously attempting to defuse the tense situation. “He ran out of the hall like he was pursued by one of the hounds.”
“What’s he got to be upset about?” Philippe said as he filled his goblet again. “He’s still the bailiff. For now.”
“I daresay he’s been harboring a tender feeling for his late lord’s daughter, if I’m any judge, and I think I am. He’s probably been pining in secret. Poor fellow, I don’t think he’d stand a chance with a woman of such spirit.”
“He didn’t defend her,” Donald said. “If he truly cared for her, he would.”
“Come now, Donald,” George replied. “He isn’t a knight. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s completely terrified of Baron DeGuerre. She wasn’t, though. Whoever would have imagined a woman standing up to Baron DeGuerre?”
“He’s not a god, you know,” Philippe said scornfully. “You all treat Baron DeGuerre like he’s the second coming!”
“You say that because you’re new to his service,” George said affably. “You’ve never seen him fight By God, you’d change your tune fast enough then.”
“Perhaps,” Philippe said, clearly unconvinced.
“Our Donald’s still suffering the effects of being trained by Fitzroy,” George said with a sad smile and laughing eyes. “That man’s notions concerning the fairer sex are even more strict than the baron’s.”
“Ah, yes, the famous Fitzroy,” Philippe said. “I wouldn’t mind facing him in a tournament someday. You fought him once, didn’t you, Seldon?”
Seldon looked away. “Yes.”
“And you lost?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t quite a fair fight, I believe?”
“Shut your mouth and leave it,” Donald snarled, rising. “That was a long time ago, and he’s made up for it since.”
“Of course, of course, calm yourself!” Philippe declared. “I simply asked.”
“Come now, we are getting far too worked up. It must be the fine wine,” George said. “We are all friends here.”
Donald was not appeased. “I’ve had quite enough of you for one night,” he said to Philippe, his teeth clenched. “Good night!”
He marched from the hall, followed a moment later by Seldon. “That wasn’t very nice, Philippe,” George said coldly. “Seldon was a boy when he did that unwise thing.”
“He’s still a dullard,” Philippe replied, reaching out for more wine.
George raised his wine in a salute. “Let us drink to women in general, eh, Philippe? Will that satisfy you?”
They raised their goblets and drank, then lowered them as Baron DeGuerre rose from the table. They watched silently as he spoke a few quiet words to Josephine de Chaney, whose face betrayed no emotion, before he went to the tower stairs and disappeared from view.
“One of us is going to be satisfied tonight,” Philippe said nastily.
“I think I’ll go, too. You’re getting drunk, and you’re rather poor company when you’re in that state.”
Philippe took a large gulp of wine and watched George saunter away. He didn’t care what they thought. They were all cowards, bowing and scraping before Baron DeGuerre.
He took a few more gulps. He didn’t care what the baron thought, either. The man was mortal, like all the rest, and he lacked breeding, too.
Why didn’t women see that? Why did they always pass over him, so much more deserving, and try to entice the baron? No matter what the others thought, he was sure that was what Gabriella Frechette was trying to do. She was a mere woman, after all.
A pretty, shapely woman with no male relative to protect her. God’s wounds, what he wouldn’t give to be in the baron’s place at this particular moment.
Well, let the baron tame her first. He, Philippe, could wait.
Chapter Three
Gabriella wiped her sweating palms on the skirt of her gown as she paced the length of her parents’ bedchamber and struggled to stay calm. It was a losing battle, every moment seeming an hour while she waited for the baron to appear, trying desperately to convince herself that he would not dare to hurt her.
Her eyes caught sight of the narrow bed, the replacement she had provided for her parents’ ornate one. Her gaze quickly returned to the marble beneath her feet.
Oh, if only Bryce were here! He would save her. He wouldn’t shrink from fighting the baron himself, if he had to. He was always ready for an altercation, with his father, with Chalfront, with the reeve, the miller, the cloth merchants. How many times had she acted as mediator? Too many to count. She had come to pride herself on her diplomacy.
What had happened to her skill when she had confronted Baron DeGuerre? Had pride made her foolish? Had she felt so secure in her place and in the servants’ regard that she had stupidly risked speaking without deference to Baron DeGuerre? Or had she been too upset to think with necessary clarity?
Whatever she had thought, she would never have guessed he would assert his authority by vile means.
She still could not quite believe it. She had never heard his reputation sullied with such an accusation, or any other abuse of women. He was said to be ruthless with his opponents in tournaments, but not vengeful. His ambition was considerable, yet many men wanted power and wealth. Women vied for his attention. Would they, if he was a rough and violent man?
Or was she desperately seeking succor where there could be none?
Once again she cursed herself for a stubborn fool. Would it have been so hard to bow her head, to act afraid, to cower before him? To at least remain silent in his presence?
Perhaps if she did so when he finally came here, he would let her go. She would kneel before him and beg forgiveness. Anything to let her retain her honor. After all, her personal honor was all she had left.
Yet what kind of honor was it that begged? If he harmed her, he would be in the wrong. She would know it, and the people would know it. Her family was not totally friendless. She could tell others what he had done. She would dishonor him.
What was she thinking? This was a man who lived openly with his mistress, and Josephine de Chaney was but one of a long line. He refused to give the proper tithes to the Church, and he was harsh in his punishment of those he perceived to have broken the law. It was said the only thing Baron DeGuerre respected was power, and she had none.
Gabriella pressed her frigid hands to her hot cheeks. Why did he not come? Was this part of her torture, this agony of waiting?
She went to the window and looked out in the faint light of the slender moon. Once this land had belonged to her family, until her father had let Chalfront take charge.
Chalfront! Her hands balled into fists. She hated the bailiff as much as the baron, with his talk of help and assistance, when she knew—knew!—that her father’s financial difficulties were his fault.
What was Chalfront thinking now? Was he pleased to see her humbled and humiliated by Baron DeGuerre?
The door burst open and crashed against the wall as the baron strode in, looking like the very devil in his long black robe, his chestnut hair brushing his shoulders in that heathen fashion, his eyes gleaming demonically in the flickering light of the flambeaux he carried and set in a socket on the wall.
Gabriella stepped back into the shadows, trying somehow to hide.
Baron DeGuerre looked around until he saw her. With a leering smile made grotesque by the shadows cast by the torch’s flame, he closed the door, shutting her inside the room with him. “Come here, Gabriella,” he said, his deep voice low but the command clear.
Now was the time to beg for mercy, Gabriella thought desperately. She told herself she should throw herself on her knees. Implore. Plead.
Instead, all the proud heritage of her noble blood asserted itself within her, and she simply could not be the instrument of her own further humiliation.
The baron’s brown brows lowered as his hands went to the lacing at the neck of his robe. With slow movements his long fingers untied the knot there, and as she watched, speechless, he drew the heavy garment over his head and let it fall in a heap on the floor.
His chest was muscular, covered with several small scars of battle, his broad shoulders powerful, his arms lean and sinewy beside his narrow waist. His hips, encased in taut chausses, were slender, but muscular, too.
Not taking his eyes from her, he went to the bed and sat on it. “Come here and take off my boots, Gabnella.”
He had the strength to defeat her. She could fight all she wanted, and he would triumph at last. Struggling against him would be useless.
Slowly Gabriella raised her eyes to his face. What was he, really, but a man, and one completely in the wrong? She had righteousness on her side, and surely God would help her. She would not let this man defeat her. There must be some way, some weakness, if only she could find it....
“Take off my boots, Gabriella.” He held up a booted foot and waited as if he had no expectation of refusal.
With watchful eyes, still searching for an opportunity, Gabriella moved slowly toward him. She reached out to take his boot in her hands—and then she thrust his leg up as far as she could and made a dash for the door.
Not fast enough. He was off the bed in an instant. He grabbed her arm before she could reach the latch, yanking her around and pulling her against him. His icy blue eyes stared down into hers as she struggled in his strong, encircling arms.
All her efforts to disengage herself from his grasp seemed to be no more than a petty inconvenience to him. Aware of his arms around her, his naked chest against her rapidly rising and falling breasts, the proximity of his mouth, she stopped struggling. “You can’t do this!” she cried desperately.
“I can’t prevent a servant from leaving my bedchamber before she has finished her work?” he asked coolly, not attempting to tighten his embrace.
“Work?” she gasped incredulously. “Is that what you call it? You have a mistress for that!”
“I don’t need an unwilling wench to excite me,” he said, letting go of her and stepping away toward a table bearing a goblet of wine, “although you might consider Josephine’s example as a way of achieving your former level of prosperity. She, too, comes from an impoverished noble family.”
Freed from his grasp and convinced that he did not mean to rape her, Gabriella frowned at his insult. “I will never be any man’s whore!” she said, tossing her head.
The baron arched one eyebrow as he turned to look at her. “I would not be so quick to condemn Josephine de Chaney,” he said as he picked up the goblet. “What do you know of her life, or the choices she has been forced to make?”
“I would rather die than take such a course!”
He took a sip of the wine. “Really? I wonder.” He sauntered toward the bed, then faced her, running his gaze over her in a way that brought a blush to her face. “Josephine needs a maidservant. I think you would do well in that capacity. Now take my tunic and wash it.”
She tried to decide if he meant what he said, or if he was toying with her.
“I assume you know how to wash a simple tunic?” the baron asked sarcastically when she did not move at once.
She did not, but she nodded anyway.
“Then take it and go.” His tone was dismissive, and she knew she was indeed free to leave.
She quickly gathered up the discarded garment in her arms. It smelled of leather and horse and smoke... and him.
As she started to rise, she realized a woman was standing on the threshold.
“Ah, Josephine,” the baron drawled. “Why the delay, my dear?”
Josephine de Chaney’s look was sweetly venomous as Gabriella hesitated, not wishing to push past the lady whose voluminous skirts filled the doorway, but anxious to be gone.
“You’re not jealous of this serving wench, surely?” the baron said with a deep, throaty chuckle that contained no true joy. He came toward his mistress and pulled her into his arms, out of the doorway.
The way clear, a relieved Gabriella hurried out of the room. Once in the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder to see Josephine de Chaney bent back over the baron’s powerful arm while he kissed her with fierce, unbridled lust. Before she could go on her way, Baron DeGuerre raised his eyes and looked at her over Josephine’s head, his lips still upon his paramour’s and the expression in his eyes mocking.
As Etienne continued to kiss Josephine, he subdued a smile that had nothing to do with the beautiful woman he held in his arms.
Now Gabriella Frechette should finally understand her place, he thought. It crossed his mind that he might have thought of a better means of education; however, he had not, and he never wasted time with useless regrets.
Not that he would ever have taken Gabriella against her will. He truly despised men who violated women of any status, and he would certainly never stoop to such a loathsome tactic.
How much better and easier it would have been if the wench had been born a servant in this castle. Then he would have given her a small present, she would have been thankful, he would have given her another and made a proposition, which she would surely have accepted, and then she would be in his arms, returning his kiss with passionate intensity....
“A moment!” Josephine protested softly as she reached up to grasp her stiffened crown and scarf that he had pushed askew. “You are going to strangle me, my love!” Josephine gently extricated herself from his embrace, watching him shrewdly as she walked past him, carefully folding the expensive scarf and placing the jeweled headdress on the table.
He realized she often looked at him thus, like a master attempting to gauge a pupil’s response. When had he ever seen Josephine truly passionate, whether with desire or hate? Never before had it occurred to him how cool and remote she often was; or perhaps, if he had noticed, he would have considered that a blessing, for he had no wish to be tied to a woman in any way. His two marriages, both of them advantageous alliances, had not been pleasant experiences. When each of his wives had died, he had been more relieved than sorry. Fortunately, he no longer had any need to increase his personal wealth or power by such a method.
What was the matter with him? He had the most beautiful woman in the kingdom to share his bed. More than that, she was also a wise and perceptive woman. Even if she was desperate to know what had passed between himself and Gabriella, she would never ask.
He had the perfect arrangement with Josephine. He gave her gifts, fed and housed her and even allowed her to act as hostess in return for the pleasures of her body and the reward of her beauty. She was like a tournament prize, a living, breathing illustration to all men that he could have the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.
“What happened to your tunic?” Josephine asked as she sat down before her mirror.
It struck Etienne that since he had entered this room, he had not observed its state at all. His attention had been drawn to Gabriella immediately.
The chamber was distinctly barren, except for the items that had been unloaded immediately from the baggage carts. No tapestries, only one chair, Josephine’s own table where she kept her perfumes, another bearing wine, the mirror, their chests of clothing and a bed that was much too narrow. He would have that remedied tomorrow. As for the rest, Josephine would see to it.
“I thought Gabriella needed to learn who was in command here,” Etienne replied, answering her unspoken question.
Josephine’s reflection revealed a mildly surprised and pensive reaction. “Half-naked?” she inquired. “Still, if you wished to impress her, I can think of no better way.”
Etienne turned away to hide the sudden flush of a blush, something he had not felt since he was a youth. At that moment, Etienne DeGuerre would have died before admitting that Josephine, the wise, the shrewd, had guessed something even he had not dared to confess to himself. Deep in his heart, he had expected Gabriella to be overwhelmed by his physical presence, as so many women were. He had more than half expected her to fall into his arms, or at least respond to the sensation of his embrace. When she had not, only then had he concocted the excuse that she should wash his tunic.
“What is it?” Josephine asked, genuine distress in her voice.
“It is too cold in here.” He went toward the battered chest he had used all his life. He opened the lid and drew out his fur-lined robe.
Josephine gave him a glorious smile, reminding him of her beauty. “This castle is a fine one, Etienne. A worthy gift from the king. With some proper furnishings, this room will be quite comfortable.” She hesitated a moment. “I am not surprised she refused to leave it.”
Etienne did not insult Josephine’s intelligence by asking who she meant. “I didn’t expect her to stay. She seems an overly proud woman.” He wrapped himself in the robe, the fur soft against his naked skin.
“But one with limited alternatives,” Josephine noted. “She is not unattractive. Perhaps someone will offer to marry her. Will you allow that?”
“Of course,” he answered brusquely, then told himself he was simply annoyed as always when Josephine spoke of marriage. From the beginning, he had made it very clear that he had no intention of marrying again. For him, marriage had been terrible, his wives demanding his attention when he had more important business to attend to than what he would like on the table for the evening meal or if he liked her latest gown bought at great expense. And as for the alleged pleasures of the nuptial bed—he would rather spend ten hours in the saddle than make love to a woman raised only to be a nobleman’s wife, taught that what took place in the marriage bed was merely a disagreeable duty to be endured.
“The bailiff seems most anxious about her,” Josephine remarked with another smile.
“Why do you say that? He did little enough to defend her below.”
“I saw his face when you ordered her to this room,” Josephine said. “He was most upset and actually ran out of the hall.”
“If he wants her, he can have her,” Etienne replied. “For the present, I ordered her to wash my tunic.”
Josephine’s brow furrowed with a frown. “It is not her fault that her father was a wastrel,” she said softly.
“I know, and that is why I gave her money to leave. She chose not to take it.”
“But a laundress!” Josephine looked at him with mild reproof. Still, even that much condemnation was rare for her.
He went to Josephine and took hold of her slender shoulders. “I do not mean for her to be that permanently. You need a maid, and she will know what you need done.”
Josephine did not meet his gaze. “Yes, I need a maid.”
He pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “There is no need for you to be jealous,” he assured her, and leaned down to kiss her lightly.
“She is a pretty creature.”
“I had not noticed,” Etienne lied. “Gabriella Frechette means nothing to me. You seem to be seeing jealousy everywhere.”
An obviously relieved Josephine flashed him a brilliant smile. “Since I have no maid for the time being, Etienne,” she murmured huskily, presenting her back to him, “will you help me with my gown?”
Etienne went to stand behind her, untying the laces below her pale, smooth neck, a thoughtful frown on his face.
He should be extremely happy. He was rich, powerful and respected, and he had done it all on his own, with no help from influential friends or family. He had achieved every one of his cherished ambitions: wealth, fame and power. More, he had fulfilled the destiny his mother had always claimed for him, the destiny the death of his father before he was born had seemed to circumvent. He was very happy.
“Thank you, Etienne,” Josephine whispered. “I can finish by myself.”
“As you wish.” He went to the bed and began to pull off his boots, recalling for a moment the astounded look on Gabriella’s face when he had requested her assistance. Clearly she had expected him to drag her onto the bed and overpower her, and he marveled at the defiant pride she maintained in the presence of such a belief.
She really was unlike any woman he had ever met. It was a pity the circumstances of their lives were as they were.
As he straightened and looked at Josephine while she brushed her hair, her body wrapped in a velvet robe, an overwhelming feeling of loneliness swamped him. Theirs was little more than a business arrangement. He did not love her, and he was quite certain she did not love him.
Which was of no consequence. They were pleased with each other, and understood the boundaries of their relationship. If he was lacking anything, it was only a son and heir, and that was not important. He had worked and fought not to acquire goods to bequeath to some unknown offspring who might squander them away, but for himself alone.
With renewed resolution to put the late earl’s daughter from his thoughts, he went to stand behind Josephine. He took the brush from her hand and set it down, then ran his fingers through the golden cascade. She sighed and leaned back against him, the contact increasing his arousal.
His hands slipped down her slender neck to her shoulders, and into the bodice of her gown toward her breasts. Gently he caressed her, her nipples pebbling beneath his palms, until she moaned with unabashed pleasure.
He removed his hands and she rose without speaking, turning toward him, a gleam of unmistakable lust in her limpid green eyes as she brushed her fingers over his hardened manhood.
As he closed his eyes, he was determined to lose himself in the delight of Josephine’s talent, to enjoy her exquisite body and to marvel at her particular skills.
Gabriella was surely a virgin.
Etienne pulled Josephine impatiently into his arms and pushed his tongue between her lips tinted with red wine while he gripped her buttocks and pressed her to him. This was the woman who shared his body and his bed. He would think of no other.
With a low moan, Josephine responded, her hips moving seductively and her expert fingers caressing the muscles of his back. Her tongue flicked against his nipples, adding to the exquisite sensations.
“I was indeed a fool to be jealous,” she murmured as she arched against him.
“Yes, you were,” Etienne replied, kissing her passionately and effectively stopping any additional discussion. He had no wish to further examine the state of his emotions, and he knew of one very good way to quiet his thoughts.
Chapter Four
Perched precariously on her haunches on the bank of the river where the townsfolk did their washing, Gabriella lifted the wet, heavy tunic and began to wring it out. It was an arduous process, complicated by the sheer size and weight of the garment, as well as the fact that her freezing hands ached with the unfamiliar task. Cold water ran down her arms, dampening her bodice and soaking her skirt so that it clung to her uncomfortably.
A group of women from the town were doing their laundry a short distance away, occasionally glancing at her so woefully that Gabriella wanted to scream that she had done nothing wrong, that the baron had not attacked her, that she did not need or want their pity or their sorrowful looks. What she wanted was their friendship, or some sense that she had not erred in doing whatever was necessary to remain here.
She let her gaze pass over them down the river toward the mill. A group of laborers were busy there, replacing the grindstone, or so Guido had said, and the huge wheel was still. The cook had been delighted to tell her about it, for apparently he had been complaining to her father for weeks about the quality of flour and blaming it on the old and worn grindstone. It seemed the baron, on his first full day as master of the estate, had seen that for himself, among other things, and given orders that it was to be replaced immediately. Several of the outbuildings were to be rethatched, more hay had been purchased for the livestock that would be allowed to overwinter, and the castle stores were to be replenished, albeit not with the luxurious foodstuffs the earl had preferred, but more common fare such as peas and lentils.
Word had also flown through the castle that the baron was asking about poaching. The baron possessed the right of infangenethef, to punish poachers caught within the bounds of his estate, and woe betide the man who would be judged by him!
Although her father had also been granted that right, he had turned a blind eye to poaching, claiming the peasants worked better with a full stomach. She didn’t doubt his wisdom; however, in the case of a man like Osric, who had been brought before her father three times for the offense and who was yet the hayward, she wondered if he had been too kind.
Her father had also been indifferent when it came to collecting the gersum, which was the fee a man would pay for taking possession of a tenancy, as well as the tenants’ tax, and the heriot, the payment to the lord of the best beast a villein possessed on his death.
The baron would certainly demand everything that was his due. He had even gone into tenants’ byres and outbuildings personally, seeking livestock not registered on the estate lists.
Gabriella cursed softly as the hem of the weighty, wet tunic dragged in the mud. Whoever would have guessed simply washing one garment could be so difficult? She had not, and had refused Alda’s offer of assistance. Now she felt an increased respect for the castle maidservants. Nevertheless, she had been given this job to do, and she would do it with the same thoroughness that the baron was giving to the running of his estate.
In truth, she welcomed the chance to wash the garment. All night, it had laid at the end of her bed, a constant reminder of her confrontation with the baron, and the frightening moment he had removed it. The sooner she washed it and returned it to the bedchamber, the better.
Getting a good grip on the tunic, she pressed her teeth together tightly as she wrung another portion with all her strength. If only this was the baron’s neck she held and not his clothes...
“My lady!”
She looked over her shoulder as Chalfront approached. He ran his hand over his jowls nervously and looked about him as if he expected some disaster to befall him. However, he often wore that expression, and he had escaped unscathed thus far, so she turned back to her work. “What do you want?” she asked, hearing him stop behind her.
“I... I wanted to say that I’m glad he didn’t hurt you,” the man said.
“You’ve said it, so you may leave me alone.”
“Gabriella!” he protested, squatting down beside her.
How much she wanted to tell him that he had no right to call her by her first name, except that she was now merely a servant and he outranked her. That realization was nearly as galling as anything the baron had said or done. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I must speak with you!” he whined. “I’ve been looking for you since dawn.”
She glanced at the curious women. She wanted nothing at all to do with Robert Chalfront and she writhed inwardly at the thought of being linked to him in any way.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
“I am too busy to take any notice of your whereabouts,” she said, her tone cold and brusque in her desperation for him to be gone.
“I want to make sure the baron hasn’t...doesn’t... mistreat you.”
“What?” she cried, disbelief in her voice and expression as she straightened with the wet tunic in her hands. “And what would you do if he had?” she asked. “Heaven forbid that you should criticize your new master, for anything he might do!”
“I would!”
“As you did last night when he ordered me to his bedchamber?” She raised her voice as much for the benefit of the listening women as to lend force to her words. “He did not harm me in any way. He only gave me this to wash.” She thrust the black garment out like a dagger in the hands of an assassin. “And I have done so. Now go away, Robert, and let me finish my work. Won’t the baron need you to wipe his lips or pull out his chair?”
He grabbed her arm. “You must and shall listen to me!” he cried, a flash of anger in his usually cowlike eyes.
“Take your hand off me,” she said fiercely.
“You are not the mistress of this estate anymore, Gabriella,” he proclaimed desperately, his grip tightening, “and you will listen to what I have to say. I want you to pay attention to me. Me! For once in your life!”
She had never seen Robert like this before, and he almost frightened her. Unsure what to do, she forced herself to remain calm. “You are hurting me.”
He became instantly contrite, again the helpless child. “Why won’t you marry me?” he asked mournfully. “I could pay your debt and you would never have to wash a thing!”
“I don’t love you. I could never love you,” she said firmly. She could not believe that he didn’t understand. His unreasonable persistence was beyond annoying. She had certainly made her feelings, or lack thereof, known the first time he had proposed—and the second and the third and every time after that.
“But why?”
She clasped the wet tunic to her chest. “For the last time, Robert, I will never marry you. I would sooner marry the Baron DeGuerre than you!” she replied, citing the most outrageous example she could think of.
Which seemed to be the appropriate means to pierce Chalfront’s self-delusion. The hopeful light went out of his eyes, and although she didn’t enjoy seeing it, she couldn’t help feeling relieved.
Then he sighed and said, “You needn’t have put me in danger with your false accusations.”
“False accusations?”
“The baron does not trust me, and there is no reason he should not.”
“You led my father into ruin and worried him into an early grave!” she charged.
“Do you still believe that?” he asked incredulously.” I did everything I could to help him—but he wouldn’t listen! Why, I even used my own money to try to pay his final debts!”
He had told her that before, when he had first broached the subject of marriage to her. At the time, she had thought he was saying so only to make her consider his suit. Yet now, when he finally appeared to comprehend that he had nothing to gain, he still maintained what had seemed to her to be impossible, and there was a ring of truth in his words that she found hard to deny. “Why would you do that?” she demanded in a low voice, aware that the women’s eyes were still upon them.
“For you,” he said softly, looking at her with pleading eyes like a lonesome dog. “To know that I was helping you by doing so, so that I might have one kind word from you.”
“You... you should have asked my father to raise the rents!” she said.
“I love you, Gabriella! I would do anything for you, for even one kind word from you. I had hoped you would be grateful—”
“Well, well, well, what touching scene is this?”
Gabriella and Robert moved quickly apart as Philippe de Varenne strolled toward them. With his sleek black hair, dark garments and narrow eyes, he reminded Gabriella of a hawk before the falconer let it fly after its prey. She clutched the damp tunic more tightly to her chest. Chalfront, pale and panting, looked as if he were seriously contemplating running away as fast as his legs would carry him.
“What business have you accosting the maidservants, Chalfront?” de Varenne demanded scornfully.
“Sir, I... I...” Chalfront stammered helplessly.
“None, I think, beyond trying to seduce her, eh?”
Gabriella had never wanted to slap a man’s face so much in her life. No, not even the baron’s, for he had not looked at her with such bold, lustful impertinence, even when he held her fast in his arms.
“My...lord! Sir! You misunderstand!” Chalfront spluttered.
“He was not trying to seduce me,” Gabriella said firmly.
“No? It certainly looked as if he were up to something. I suggest you run along, Chalfront. I believe the baron is looking for you.”
Chalfront’s glance darted from Philippe de Varenne to Gabriella, then back to Philippe before he bobbed his head and hurried away.
“If he troubles you, you should let me know,” Philippe said condescendingly.
In truth, this man troubled her far more than Chalfront ever would or could. “If you will excuse me, sir, I have work to do.”
“So I see,” Philippe replied, grabbing the tunic from her and holding it out. “He has made you a washerwoman?”
She didn’t answer as she shivered from the dampness of her bodice.
He ran his gaze over her and suddenly she realized that her wet clothes clung to her skin and her nipples had puckered with the cold. She hugged herself, as much to shield her body from his lascivious stare as for warmth. “If you will excuse me, sir,” she said again through clenched teeth.
“Of course, pretty Gabriella.” He held out the garment so that she had to reach for it. She took hold of it, but he would not release it. Instead, he tugged hard, so that she was pulled against his chest. Before she could respond to his impertinent action, he stepped away and started to chuckle smugly. “I must have you do my laundry, too.”
“Philippe!” The baron’s voice rumbled toward them from the drawbridge. She had been so intent first on Chalfront and then Philippe de Varenne that she had not seen the baron approach. He was mounted on his black stallion and accompanied by Sir George, as well as a small armed troop. As always, the baron was dressed in black and wearing no jewelry. His cloak was thrown back over his shoulder, revealing his muscular chest, and his sword brushed against his thigh.
Sir George wore a bright cloak of robin’s egg blue lined with scarlet. His tunic was also red, trimmed with gold, and his hose was blue. He gave her a warm and sympathetic smile, which did little to assuage her embarrassment.
“Adieu, Gabriella,” Philippe said with a parting leer before he sauntered toward his lord, who watched them with an impassive face.
Gabriella, clutching the wet garment again to her chest, glared past Philippe to the man who was responsible for putting her in a position to have to endure Philippe de Varenne’s rudeness, then turned on her heel and marched away.
Two days later, Etienne sat in the solar and rubbed his aching temples as he stared at the pile of documents spread out on the table before him. He was attempting to wade through the last of the lists, charters, receipts and records that pertained to his new estate. He would be a happy man when his steward was able to leave his other estate to come here and take charge of the accounts himself.
It was not just that the late earl had been an overgenerous, lax superintendent and that the bailiff had felt it necessary to record every ha’penny spent or received; reading itself taxed Etienne’s patience, since he was far from skilled at it. He had learned to read when he was a grown man, out of necessity rather than desire, and he would far sooner spend his days in the lists facing the couched lances of aggressive knights than studying these cramped letters and figures.
He had spent several more hours in the past few days examining lists of tenants’ goods and accounts, supervising the arrival and purchase of necessary food and furnishings, as well as riding through the estate looking for livestock conveniently left off such lists, and finding several, all obviously the best beasts their masters owned. He had seen to the repair of the mill and the granary, for it seemed that the late earl, so particular about his castle, had been much less so about other buildings on his estate. He had realized that poaching was going to be a problem, for his men had found several traps and snares in the estate woods. They had no clue who had set them, or if they were the work of one man or a gang. Whoever was breaking the law, when they were caught, they would rue the day they tried to do so on his estate.
Outside, a heavy rain fell, which meant all of his men were cooped up inside instead of out in the woods hunting or practicing their fighting skills in the nearby meadow or the large courtyard. He could discern their voices coming from the great hall. Philippe was teasing Seldon about a rather plump serving wench that Seldon fancied. If Philippe wasn’t careful, he would wind up with a broken nose. It would serve him right, Etienne thought coldly, and might cure the fellow of some of his vanity.
Again Etienne remembered Gabriella and Philippe on the riverbank. How angry she had been, and justifiably so, and how attractive, with her thick, curling hair and blushing cheeks, her gleaming brown eyes and defiant stance, holding his tunic against her perfect breasts. For a moment, he had envied his tunic.
He wondered what Philippe had said to her, although that wasn’t so very difficult to guess. Her response was rather obvious, too. However, the baron didn’t doubt that he could control the young man for some time yet, and hoped that de Varenne’s ambition would soon lead him elsewhere.
It was regrettable, perhaps, that Gabriella Frechette should be in such a tenuous position, but that could not be helped. He had done his best to compel her to leave, and she had refused. She would have to face the consequences.
He sighed, then reminded himself that he should be giving his attention to the documents before him.
Nevertheless, in another moment, Etienne was distracted by Philippe’s scornful voice, Donald’s serious tones and George’s pleasant intercession, no doubt trying to solve a conflict. Before he could figure out what they were talking about, their voices dropped. Apparently George had managed to circumvent trouble again. One day George was going to make some lucky woman a fine husband, if the indifferent fellow could ever be persuaded to make such a decision.
A woman’s laugh wafted into the solar, and he recognized it as Josephine’s. She had found plenty of things to do since their arrival, and quite happily had seen to the decorating of the hall and bedchamber. He understood she was busily working on a new tapestry for their bedchamber, which was now as comfortably furnished as any man could wish, a delight for the eyes as well as the succor of the body.
He surveyed the solar, noting with pleasure the carved lintel and the rain splashing against the glass windows. To be sure, such decorative measures were extravagant, yet he was fast coming to believe that the pleasure was worth the price. Within reasonable limits, of course.
Chalfront, looking like a whipped dog, sidled into the solar, yet more parchment scrolls in his hands.
Etienne was beginning to understand why someone would dislike Robert Chalfront. He had all the personality of a limp rag, and was so obsequious, the baron was often tempted to shake him. He never ventured an opinion, but seemed to expect to be told everything. It was a wonder he could find it in his power to decide how to dress each day! On the other hand, he was responsible and meticulous, working as diligently as if this estate was his own.
Nevertheless, Etienne had to subdue the urge to scowl. Really, the fellow had no need to look so browbeaten. Perhaps had the bailiff possessed a more forceful personality, the late earl might not have been so exploited by his tenants.
With a slight sigh, Etienne reached out for his chalice of wine before glancing at the bailiff, who sat on the opposite side of the long trestle table at Etienne’s gestured invitation.
Etienne drank deeply of the delicious wine, thinking that he would have been very pleased if the earl had laid in a larger store of the beverage before his death. “You have certainly documented everything thoroughly,” he remarked, making his words a compliment instead of betraying any hint of his frustration. “Just tell me, how many villeins are ad censum?”
“There are twenty-two who pay rents in cash, my lord,” Chalfront replied eagerly. “David Marchant the miller pays the most, fifty shillings a year, and John the Smith pays the least, two farthings. The rest are listed here.” He indicated another closely but neatly written parchment.
“And these?” Etienne waved at the following group of names on the same parchment.
“Those are the villeins ad opus. Beside their names, you will see that I have noted what work is expected of them per week and per annum, my lord.”
Etienne gave the bailiff a brief nod and the list an even briefer glance. “You seem to enjoy making lists, Robert.”
“I enjoy having things neat and orderly, my lord,” Chalfront replied respectfully. “I would draw your attention to my notes regarding the mill rate and pannage, my lord, and—”
“My head aches,” the baron said truthfully, silencing the bailiff. He picked up a document with an elaborate seal, and another one with a smaller seal. “This is my Charter of Extent,” he said, indicating the former, “detailing the lands, services and rents I am supposed to receive, and this is the Charter of Custumal, the obligations and rights of the tenants, that I found among the late earl’s papers. I want you to examine them and tell me if everything is in order.”
The bailiff’s pale blue eyes widened. “You would trust me with this responsibility, my lord?” he marveled.
“Yes,” Etienne replied, only then considering that perhaps he was not wise to give this fellow such a duty. “For the present. My steward, Jean Luc Ducette, will be arriving in a fortnight. He will examine the records when he arrives. He had better be able to confirm what you have to tell me.”
The bailiff nodded enthusiastically.
“What are all these other lists?” Etienne asked, gesturing vaguely toward another pile of papers.
“I thought you would wish to have certain information before the tenants swear their oaths of loyalty. Here are three new men who have yet to pay their gersum for becoming your tenants,” Chalfront said, pointing to a group of names on the topmost document. “This man needs to pay the merchet before his daughter weds next month. These two men have died since the earl, and no one has collected the heriot. And finally, my lord, I really think you should decide about the pannage.”
“What did the earl usually ask for the privilege of letting pigs roam in his forest?”
Chalfront named sums that would have been appropriate in the last century, and Etienne said as much. “No wonder the earl found himself penniless,” he added. The baron eyed Chalfront shrewdly. “Why did you not inform the earl that he was not demanding nearly enough?”
“I did, my lord,” Chalfront said with great humility. “He refused to listen, even when I made it clear that he had set himself and his family on the road to ruin. He was a man who wanted very much to be liked by his tenants. Too much, perhaps, but it is certain that they all genuinely mourned at his death.”
If Etienne needed any additional confirmation that the late earl was a man of misplaced priorities, Robert Chalfront just provided it. It was not important that one’s tenants liked their lord; it was important that they respect him, obey him and make him a wealthy man. “I see.” Etienne ran his gaze over the unprepossessing man sitting across from him. Would a man like that truly dare to upbraid his master? Would he have the courage to make the consequences of the earl’s misplaced generosity apparent? Or would he mumble and stutter and try to follow the lord’s instructions somehow?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/margaret-moore/the-baron-s-quest/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.