“Yes, my lady,” Robert agreed.
“I will be direct about my fears, Robert.” She leaned forward and fixed her surprisingly shrewd eyes upon him. “Do you believe Gabriella Frechette wants the baron?”
“For what?” Robert replied, momentarily stunned by her question. When the answer came to him without any help from Lady de Chaney, he gasped aloud. “No! Never! I believe she hates the man! He took away her home, you know.”
She nodded but still looked unconvinced.
“You don’t think the baron wants her, do you?” he asked, shocked to the marrow of his bones. “Only a fool would want Gabriella when he could have you! Whatever else the baron is, he is not a fool.”
“No, he’s not a fool,” Josephine conceded. “Nor is he in love with me. If he truly wants Gabriella, he will have her. No woman could resist Etienne for long.”
“I still say he hasn’t got a hope of succeeding,” Robert said firmly. “She would never give herself to a man as if she were…”
“A whore?” Lady de Chaney asked with startling frankness.
Robert reddened with shame that he had forced the comparison, but she didn’t seem particularly troubled by it. She was a most intelligent, practical woman. “No, she makes that very clear,” Josephine de Chaney continued. “But Etienne is … well, he is a very attractive man. She might be swayed—”
“No, my lady. Not her,” Robert interrupted. “Besides, she clings to the hope of her brother’s return.”
“Do you think that likely?”
“No, my lady.”
“I am truly sorry to hear you say so,” Lady de Chaney said, and Robert knew she meant it. How kind she was, to think of Gabriella’s plight with so much sympathy! “You think I have nothing to fear?” she asked. “That the baron doesn’t desire her?”
“Why would he want her when he has you?” Robert repeated, truly mystified by her apparent insecurity. Why, she was without question the most desirable woman in the whole world.
“Because he knows I do not love him, either,” she answered simply and honestly.
“You don’t?” Robert’s heart started to beat with a wild, unfamiliar rhythm.
“I do not. I have never loved any man.”
Robert didn’t know what to say. Indeed, he didn’t believe he could speak, even if he had found the appropriate words, after her unexpected admission. He was too excitedly dumbfounded.
“I suppose you would leave here if he did make Gabriella his mistress?” she asked wistfully.
That was not something Robert had expected her to ask and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Then, suddenly, a vision rose up before him of his home with this lovely woman at his hearthside. Impossible! Even to think such a thing was madness at best, traitorous at worse. She belonged to Baron DeGuerre. Why, despite their pleasant conversation moments ago, she would surely never see him as anything more than a peasant. And—horrible thought!—perhaps the baron had told her of Gabriella’s accusations concerning his honesty.
Nevertheless, despite his thoughts and fears, at that moment, Josephine de Chaney completely, totally and irrevocably captured Robert Chalfront’s lonely heart.
She rose gracefully. “You have given me much to think about, Robert,” she murmured, holding out her hand to him. “I’m sure you have much to do, and I will not keep you from your work any longer.”
She will stay with the baron. She belongs to the baron. He was a simpleton, a dunderhead, a fool, he silently chided as he bent forward to kiss her incredibly soft fingers.
But that was not what Josephine de Chaney was thinking as she watched Robert Chalfront hurry away. She was thinking that it had been many years since she had enjoyed a conversation as she had this one. Robert Chalfront had not tried to seduce her or impress her or flatter her. She had not felt compelled to constantly wonder if she had said the right thing, or what she should say next, or to try to gauge her companion’s mood. He was not as physically attractive as some, but there was a sincerity and kindness to him that more than made up for that lack.
All in all, it had been a very refreshing and enjoyable time.
She went to the glass window, where she could see the round-faced young man—for he was young, a fact somewhat hidden by his constantly worried expression—hurrying across the courtyard. He was also dutiful, clever and, she was sure, honest. He would make some woman a good and loyal husband. Some virginal young woman who had not sold herself to a nobleman.
With a ragged sigh, Josephine straightened her shoulders. What she had done could not be changed. Now she had to think of her future.
Chapter Eight
“ My lady?” Gabriella asked softly as she knocked on the bedchamber door seeking Josephine, who had gone to change her gown after the noon meal. “A cloth merchant has arrived. He would like to speak with you. His wife is a milliner.”
“Indeed?” Josephine answered, coming to the door. “I shall be there directly. Oh, wait one moment.” She turned back inside the room and was gone a short time. She opened the door and Gabriella saw a bundle of cloth in her hands. “Is there someone in the village who could make use of these old clothes?”
“I think so, my lady,” Gabriella answered, her gaze drawn to a plain black garment she did not think had ever belonged to Josephine.
“Good. Here.” She gave them to Gabriella. “You may go to the village now, if you wish. I daresay I will be quite some time with the merchants.” With that, Josephine passed her and went down the stairs.
Gabriella followed and watched her greet the fawning merchant and his less obsequious wife, who had arrived with bundles and baskets of goods to try to sell.
Robert Chalfront entered the hall. He gave Gabriella a curt nod of greeting before his attention went directly to Josephine de Chaney.
Not that there was anything so unusual in that. All men watched Josephine, especially when she smiled and wore a lovely gown of sumptuous velvet that emphasized her shapely body. Today her dress was made of burgundy fabric trimmed with gold thread, and cut low in the bodice to expose both her dark green shift and soft white flesh, while accentuating her swanlike neck.
Gabriella was about to hurry away on her errand, but there was something about Chalfront’s expression that made her hesitate.
He was looking at Josephine de Chaney in the same way he had regarded Gabriella in the days before he had asked to marry her. Was it possible that he no longer pursued her because he had transferred his affection to the baron’s mistress? Quite possible, she surmised, and extremely dangerous if the baron suspected him of—what? Trying to seduce Josephine de Chaney?
Gabriella chided herself for a fool as she went on her way. What woman would consider another man when she had Baron DeGuerre for a lover? She flushed at the turn her thoughts had taken and told herself the baron’s relationship with anyone was none of her business.
Nevertheless, she waited near the door as Robert spoke to Josephine, watching the woman’s reaction carefully. It was polite and friendly, but that was all, which was to be expected.
Determined to keep her mind on her errand, she left the hall quickly. Mary would see that those who had need of the clothing would receive it.
She enjoyed her walk to Mary’s cottage, after a fashion. The air was damp and cold and threatened rain, but at least she was away from the castle and its inhabitants.
A group of peasant children were busily gathering the dark, ripe elderberries that dotted several of the hedges. Among them were the orange-red berries of bittersweet. Many of the leaves of the taller trees on the outskirts of the village had already turned brown and different shades of yellow, from the lighter yellow of the elm through the gold of the chestnuts and maples, to the deeper red-gold of the beech, heralding the approach of winter.
Gabriella arrived at Mary’s cottage on the far side of the village to find Mary busy dying her wool. The process was messy, complicated by Mary’s penchant for trying new combinations of tints. It was the woman’s hop
e that one day she would hit upon a new color that everyone would want, and she would become rich producing the dye, which naturally she would keep as her own, closely guarded secret.
Therefore, Gabriella felt rather like an unwelcome intruder in an alchemist’s shop, which Mary’s cottage resembled with its collection of plants, herbs and clay vessels stained in a range of colors. Mary, witchlike, bent over the pot boiling on the hearth, and the smell of damp wool was nearly overpowering.
Gabriella had no wish to linger there, so she set down the clothes and briefly told Mary where they had come from and what they were intended for, all of which was received with a distracted nod.
Gabriella tried not to feel insulted by Mary’s inattention, even though she had never had such a rude reception from the woman before. Well, she reasoned as she left the cottage, she had never interrupted Mary at her dying before.
She shouldn’t tarry in the village, either. Josephine might have need of her maid if she purchased new clothes or accoutrements.
As she walked back toward the village, Gabriella sighed wistfully. It would be a long time before she had a new gown, or even a ribbon for her hair.
Then she spotted Osric, the hayward, hurrying toward his cottage by the river. He should have been supervising the sowing of the winter wheat in the far pastures. He looked red faced and anxious, and she thought she saw blood on his clothes. Perhaps he had injured himself.
She decided to follow him, for his aged mother might need assistance if his injury was a serious one.
She hurried toward his cottage, his reluctance to help her momentarily forgotten in her concern. She paused outside the slatted door to knock when she heard Osric’s harsh voice. “He nearly saw me,” the hayward gasped.
“Who?” his mother demanded querulously, and Gabriella was too stunned to move, either to knock or go away. She had never heard grandmotherly Alice speak in any but a gentle, humble voice. Now she sounded like the most brusque, shrewish alewife in England.
“The baron—and then I would have been as good as dead,” Osric said in an unpleasant whine. “Maybe it’s time to move on.”
“And leave these woods?” Alice replied after an astoundingly obscene curse. “Don’t be daft, Osric. The rabbits hereabouts have the best fur I’ve ever seen. You’ll just have to watch yourself, that’s all.”
“I tell you, it’s too dangerous now,” her son complained. “The baron’s a different kettle of fish from the stupid old earl. The easy days are over!”
“They are if you act like a fool!” his mother barked. “We’ll just lay low for a while, that’s all. These bones are too old to be jostled about the countryside. Get me some ale and stop your moaning. Then hide them clothes.”
Gabriella moved away from the cottage like one in a dream. Her poor dear father had indeed been exploited. Who else had thought him stupid and made sport of him? Who else among the villagers had stolen from him?
She had tried so hard to justify their reluctance to help her, only to discover that the baron was right, or at least partly.
She didn’t know what to do. Should she tell Baron DeGuerre what she had learned? Or go to William, who had looked at her with barely disguised lust the last time she had seen him in the baron’s solar?
Just where did her loyalty lie now? she thought mournfully as the first heavy drops of rain fell on her while she made her way back to the castle.
The cold rain pelted against the barren branches of the trees that crowded the road leading to Castle Frechette and turned it into a muddy morass. The gray and cloudy sky seemed like the smoke-stained ceiling in the vault of an old and mildewed tomb. No bird song disturbed the silence, only the raindrops and the slow, heavy thud of the horses in the baron’s cortege as they reached the ridge that overlooked the river valley.
Nevertheless, Etienne was pleased to be returning. It had taken the contrast with his other, lesser estates to enable him to truly appreciate the astonishing beauty of Castle Frechette, even on this damp and dreary October day.
He also told himself he was pleased because the decision he had reached on his journey was a wise one.
Gabriella Frechette had to leave his estate. Her mere presence encouraged disrespect among his servants and impertinence in the tenants. It must have been taking over the estate that had temporarily blinded him to the obvious.
So, go she must. He had thought of granting Gabriella her freedom immediately upon his return, until he realized that might look like weakness to the other tenants. Spring would be better. He had not specified her term of servitude to the day, so he would be magnanimous at Easter.
He shifted in his saddle and glanced around. Jean Luc Ducette, tall and lean as a cadaver, rode stiffly beside him. Philippe was riding behind, probably scowling because he was not in the favored position, but his mood was of little concern to Etienne. They would soon be in his hall, with a good meal and a warm hearth—and Josephine, too, of course.
God’s wounds, he should be more content. He had a beautiful mistress, ten prosperous estates, a fine castle. Jean Luc had told him that his manors had made even more money than expected and there was a sense of peace in the land, so no need to dread that he might be called upon to go to war during the harsh winter months. Indeed, he should be very happy.
Perhaps it was the petulant presence of Philippe that lessened his joy. Philippe was born to be discontented and always blaming someone else for it. If only the scoundrel would feel indignant enough to leave his service, but there seemed small hope of that easy solution.
Philippe had only himself to blame if he felt neglected lately. It was not the baron’s task to seek out Philippe, but for Philippe to be at his lord’s disposal. Instead, the few times the baron had gone hunting, Philippe had been otherwise occupied, usually getting drunk at the nearest tavern or the baron’s own kitchen.
In the spring, Etienne decided, he would send Philippe away, too, if the man was not already gone.
Then Etienne spotted something off to the side of the road and pulled his mount to an abrupt halt. He jumped from his horse, twisting his ankle in the process, but he straightened without a sound and ignored the pain as he strode toward the dead animal.
It was a deer, a large female, and it had been in the process of being butchered when the poacher had obviously heard the approaching men and run off.
Etienne frowned grimly and muttered a quiet curse. So, someone had dared to ignore his warning.
If he had not found it necessary to remove himself from the temptation of Gabriella Frechette, he might have been able to enforce his edicts more effectively. It had been a mistake leaving the more careless George in command.
By now Philippe, Jean Luc and most of the foot soldiers had joined their lord, staring silently at the bloody carcass.
“Have it brought to the hall,” Etienne ordered. “I will give ten gold coins to any man who brings me a poacher, with his catch for proof.”
Etienne marched back to his horse, his teeth clenched tightly together in frustration and to subdue the pain from his ankle. When he mounted and his foot hit the side of the horse, he was very glad no one was nearby to hear him gasp at the agonizing contact.
He couldn’t afford to let anyone know he was hurt. He despised weakness in others, although not as much as in himself. With luck, he would be able to hide any sign of injury until he could be alone.
He punched the side of his stallion with his good heel and rode ahead, leaving the others behind.
Etienne tried not to grimace as he went up the few steps to the entrance of the hall, although his ankle was swollen and painful. He had managed to hide his condition from the grooms and stable boys, but he would be relieved to get to his bedchamber, where he could be alone. He would have to think of something to send Josephine out of the room, of course … and then it occurred to him that she had not been in the courtyard to greet him. Usually she left strict orders with the watchmen to summon her immediately when he was seen from the battlements. It
was raining; perhaps that was why she was not there.
He shoved open the door and entered, pausing on the threshold as he removed his dripping cloak and trying not to wonder where Gabriella might be.
No wonder Josephine had not come to the door. She was enthroned on a chair near the blazing hearth, surrounded by the wares of a cloth merchant and millinear as if she had been transported to an Eastern bazaar. The merchant, a man of sturdy build and anxious mien, hovered nearby, holding out a bolt of what even Etienne recognized as very costly cloth of gold. The female milliner, more patient perhaps, stood silently amid an array of caps, crowns, coronets, scarves, snoods, netting, dried flowers and feathers, blocking the way to the stairs. Chalfront was there, too, his back against the wall and watching with a comical mixture of awe and worry. No doubt the fellow was upset by the amount of money Josephine was spending.
The baron put a pleasant expression on his face and strode forward. “What is this, Josephine?” he asked. “Another opportunity to give away my money?”
Chalfront started as if the baron had sent an arrow whizzing toward him, while Josephine smiled calmly. She well knew that he didn’t begrudge her buying fine clothes. So attired, she only increased her value to him.
The merchant blanched. “Oh, my lord!” he cried, bowing so low his bulbous nose almost touched the rushes. “Greetings! Welcome to our village! We are fortunate to have you here!”
“You mean you are fortunate to have my money here,” Etienne replied, crossing his arms and casually leaning his weight on his uninjured foot.
“Baron DeGuerre!” the merchant said, aghast. “Naturally, I welcome your patronage, but as I was just telling Lady de Chaney, I would be most gratified and delighted if she would accept this cloth as a gift.”
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