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.”
The Baron's Quest Page 3