“And you consider the money wasted?” she demanded, unwilling even now to hear her father criticized.
“I consider any man a fool who spends beyond his income.”
“You did not know him!” she replied swiftly. “He was kind, generous, beloved—everything you will never be!”
The baron said not a word and moved not a muscle, but she saw a brief flicker of pain in his eyes.
Even in the midst of her anger and dismay, she knew that she had wounded him as surely as if she had taken the gold-hilted dagger from his belt and plunged it into his heart.
She did not regret her defense of her father, but she would have given much to understand why her angry charge disturbed him so.
Chalfront appeared in the doorway, his expression tentative and his eyes wide as he looked from the baron to Gabriella and back again. “You wanted me, my lord?” he asked.
The baron turned to face the bailiff. “Yes, I did.”
How could he sound so calm? she marveled. He did have feelings. Deep currents of emotion roiled below that imperturbable face.
She realized that the baron had not spoken after the first, and that he was regarding her steadily. When her gaze met his, he shifted his attention to Chalfront. “You will be pleased to hear, I’m sure, that Jean Luc has exonerated you from any wrongdoing.”
The man’s face broke into a wide smile. Gabriella, watching carefully, saw no triumph there, as if he were proud to have fooled anyone, only a happy and sincere joy.
“I believe Gabriella has something she wishes to say to you.”
Gabnella remembered the baron’s warning that she would have to apologize if Chalfront had been unjustly accused.
She had to decide, here and now, whether to accept the word of the baron and his steward over that of her own beloved brother, who had gone away in a fit of anger like a spoiled child. Who had made an accusation with no proof of any kind. Who was nowhere to be found. Who had abandoned her father, and her.
She rose and faced Chalfront. “It appears I have maligned you unjustly, Robert. I ask your forgiveness.”
“You have it!” Chalfront replied enthusiastically.
“Have I your leave to go, my lord?” she asked, needing to get out of the solar and away from this man she kept trying fruitlessly to comprehend.
“Yes,” he said, his inscrutable gaze on the bailiff.
She went toward the door, then leaned on the frame. She glanced back at him. “I know the villagers exploited my father,” she admitted wearily. “I hope it pleases you, my lord, to be always right.”
She disappeared before he could respond, if Etienne had had a response to make.
Damn the woman! he thought angrily, his body as tense as it had been when he had faced his fiercest opponent. He was right, about Chalfront, about the villagers, about her father, too, and he would make no apologies for that. She had been led astray by her love for her family, and that was not his fault. Chalfront had done his utmost to help her, and she had responded with accusations of duplicity.
The world was a harsh place, and that was not his doing, either. She had to find it out eventually. She should bless her good fortune that she had not been forced to learn the lesson earlier.
Chalfront hovered near the table, his face now returned to its customary anxious, humble expression, and said, “Is there anything else you want of me, my lord?”
“Yes,” Etienne said, locking away his emotions as he had so many times before. “Find Philippe de Varenne and tell him I want to speak with him at once.”
Chapter Twelve
As Philippe approached the solar, he told himself he had nothing to fear from Baron DeGuerre. When he had woken with an incredibly aching head and remembered his confrontation with Gabriella, he had been afraid that the baron would demand an explanation; however, nothing had happened all day. He could not be absolutely certain that Gabriella had not spoken to the baron about their meeting in the storeroom, yet it would seem that if she had, his assumption regarding the baron’s reaction had been correct.
Philippe told himself it didn’t matter if the baron didn’t approve of what he had done. The de Varennes had come to England with the Conqueror, and were wealthy, too. Although he and his father had never seen eye to eye on anything, his father would surely back his son against a man like the Baron DeGuerre.
“I want to speak with you, de Varenne,” the baron said when Philippe entered the room, his deep voice calm and his face as frustratingly inscrutable as always. Sitting behind his huge table in the near-darkness, wearing his habitual black, the baron reminded Philippe of a huge and patient spider waiting for an insect to fly into his web.
“I am at your service, Baron,” Philippe said, trying to rid his mind of that image and affect a nonchalant air in spite of his trembling hands and faint heart. “What do you wish? I have done nothing wrong.”
“I have not said you did,” the baron replied with one eyebrow very slightly elevated. “Tell me what you know about Bryce Frechette.”
Philippe’s eyes widened. The wench had told the baron about the confrontation in the storeroom, or at least part of it. Which parts? And how did she embellish her tale? What would be the best response? From everything he knew about the baron, it would perhaps be better to be truthful for as long as he could. “I know something of his looks, my lord,” he answered.
“So she said. You described his scar, I understand. When did you meet him?”
“I never said I met him myself, Baron,” Philippe lied. “I asked about him at Montmorency Castle, since I had nothing else with which to occupy my time, and discovered a groom who had met him.”
“You did not encounter him in France?”
Philippe forced a genial laugh. “I have never been to France, my lord, as I’m sure you will recall. The groom said he saw Bryce Frechette in France.”
“Where, precisely?”
“Anjou, my lord. About two years ago.”
“And you thought this paltry information worthy of a kiss?”
How calm and how terrible was the baron’s voice!
“It was just a kiss, my lord,” Philippe protested. “You make it sound as if I raped her.”
“Weren’t you going to?”
Philippe knew quite well how the baron felt about men who abused women, so he quickly answered, “No! Never! I… I wanted to kiss her. She’s a pretty girl.” Then he grew bold in his desperation. “I think I am not alone in that opinion.”
The baron’s hand went to his dagger and he toyed with the handle, but it was the brief flicker of cold anger in the baron’s eyes that truly frightened Philippe. “I know you want her, too!” Philippe blurted, torn between fear, pride and dismay. “Yes, even the great Baron DeGuerre, with his beautiful mistress, wants to have her!” He stabbed his finger at the baron, who did not move, or even blink. “You cannot deny it!”
“Pack your things and leave this castle.”
“What?”
“I will not have you in my retinue any longer. I absolve you from your oath of loyalty and I order you to leave this place at once.”
Philippe stared at him, aghast. “You will disgrace me because of a dispossessed noblewoman?” he cried. “Are you forgetting who I am? I will not permit it!”
The baron remained unperturbed. “It is not a question of what you will permit. I have decided, and so it will be.” The baron drew out his dagger, his voice still calm and terrible. “I will be merciful with you, Philippe,” he said, “because I should have sent you away much sooner. The reason for your going need only be known by you and me.” Then the baron smiled his cold, distant smile. “If you wish to tell people it was your choice to leave my service, I will not say otherwise.”
“I know you want her yourself!” Philippe screeched impetuously. “You are sending me away so that no one stands in your way!”
The baron rose slowly, the dagger shining dully. “Shut your mouth, Philippe, and leave before I kill you.”
“
You wouldn’t dare kill me, Etienne DeGuerre!” Philippe shouted as he backed toward the door. “Or should I say, Etienne the bastard?”
The baron came around the table.
“I know all about you, my fine lord,” Philippe cried. “I know your mother was a whore and your father a worthless, landless knight! You will not touch me, bastard!”
“Say another word, Philippe, and I will gladly slit your disgusting throat.”
“I will say another word, you blind, arrogant fool!” Philippe’s back struck the door and he fumbled for the latch. “I will go and gladly! Why should I stay with a man whose mistress and bailiff are in league together, plotting his downfall? Ah, now you stop!” he cried triumphantly as Etienne halted, watching. “Now you wait to hear me speak.” Philippe turned and finally succeeded in lifting the latch. “It’s too late! I’m going!”
“Then go!” the baron said. With one sudden, fluid motion, he threw his dagger with so much force that it vibrated visibly when it stuck into the wooden door.
An expression of naked terror on his face, Philippe twisted to look at the baron over his shoulder before stumbling from the room.
Etienne took several deep breaths to calm himself as he listened to Philippe clatter down the stairs. God’s wounds, he had come so close to killing him! More, he knew he would have enjoyed it.
But slitting the arrogant fool’s throat would have been a mistake, and Etienne DeGuerre had not achieved his current position by making mistakes.
Nor had he come so far to have his life destroyed by underlings, whether a defiant maidservant with passionate brown eyes or a mistress in league with a bailiff. It could be that Philippe had lied about Josephine and Chalfront; it would be just like the miscreant to blurt out an accusation when he was cornered like the rat he was. On the other hand, Philippe was not an imaginative man, so perhaps he had seen or heard something to create the lie. If that were so, Etienne vowed, he would find it out.
Indeed, it occurred to him as he stood alone in his solar, that he might have missed many things because of his weakness over a woman.
No more. Not when she hated him, as she had made abundantly clear.
Donald and Seldon could hear Philippe preparing to depart well before they actually arrived in the barracks. He was muttering angrily and shoving articles of his clothing into a large leather pouch without much care. Obviously he was departing the castle permanently, and it was not Philippe’s idea.
“Leaving?” Donald inquired unnecessarily as they ambled closer. He gave Seldon a rather smug, secretive look.
“Yes,” Philippe replied brusquely.
Donald rarely felt the need to be petty, but Philippe had caused him so much aggravation over the past year that he had an overwhelming urge to embarrass him. Therefore, he nonchalantly asked, “On an errand for Baron DeGuerre?”
“No,” Philippe snarled, looking at them with blatant hostility. His gaze returned to the boots he was trying to force into the leather bag without much success. “I’ve had enough of him. I’m going to my father’s.”
This time, the glances Donald and Seldon exchanged were surprised, and not a little suspicious. “I thought you were never going to speak to your father again,” Seldon observed.
“I don’t have to speak to him if I go home,” Philippe replied, “but even if I did, I would far rather have to answer his idiotic questions, bear with his stupid advice and listen to his interminable babblings than stay in this place another minute.” He straightened and fixed his angry eyes upon them. “The baron’s getting soft, if you ask me. I thought he was a man to admire and emulate, but I assure you both, I was quite wrong.”
George sauntered into the barracks at that point, and regarded the scene before him with tolerant amusement. “Upset, are we?” he asked calmly.
“I have been falsely accused,” Philippe announced. “That stupid wench has lied about me. I won’t stay where justice is not done!”
“What wench?” George inquired.
Philippe didn’t answer as George came closer. “Let me guess,” George said, his usually jovial manner replaced by one far more serious. “Gabriella Frechette.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Philippe muttered. “I think the baron’s getting weak and foolish in his old age.”
“Because the baron doesn’t approve of men who take advantage of women?”
“I never did.”
“I confess, my dear Philippe, that I am inclined to believe that if you did not, it was not for lack of trying. Otherwise, why go?”
Donald crossed his slender arms. “Yes, Philippe,” he said. “I find it easier to believe that you tried to hurt her than to believe Baron DeGuerre is getting soft.”
“I barely touched the wench!” Philippe snarled. “God’s blood, if I had wanted to take her, I would have!”
“Yes,” George said slowly. “That’s the point. You would have.”
“I’m leaving of my own free will. Baron DeGuerre isn’t worthy of my loyalty.” Philippe tugged on the lacing of the leather pouch, pulling it closed. “I don’t have to explain myself to a bunch of fools!” He slung the bag over his shoulder and stomped toward the door.
“Farewell,” Donald said quietly.
“Goodbye,” Seldon said.
“I hope you all rot in hell!” Philippe snapped his final farewell as he went out the door, slamming it behind him with so much force the frame splintered.
“Good riddance,” George muttered with unusual vehemence.
Donald grew pensive. “I must confess that although I’m quite sure the baron has his reasons for compelling Philippe to leave his service, I do not see the wisdom of enraging him. Who knows what mischief he might do in his present state? Do you suppose we’ve seen the last of him, after all?”
“Oh, who cares?” Seldon said jovially “Let him try to make trouble. We’re more than a match for him!”
“And his family?” Donald asked gravely.
That made Seldon’s face fall. “Well…let’s not borrow trouble, eh? Philippe doesn’t get along with most of them, either, does he?”
“True enough,” George said. “I don’t recall the baron ever making an error of judgment before. I think we can assume he hasn’t in this case, either.”
George grinned, yet his eyes looked anything but merry.
Her head lowered to avoid meeting anybody’s gaze, Gabriella hurried along the main road leading through the village. She didn’t care that Josephine didn’t know she was gone, or that she might soon be missed. Confused, upset, uncertain after what had passed in the solar, she simply wanted, and needed, to be alone.
She was almost through the village when she heard Mary call out, “My lady!”
Gabriella hesitated. She was in no mood to talk to anyone. On the other hand, she had not been in the village since she had made her decision to return Mary’s money. She could do so now, and then she would go into the woods.
She put her hand to her belt, feeling the coins there as she turned to meet the woman walking toward her. “I’m glad to see you, Mary,” she said. “I want to return your money.”
“But my lady—” Mary stopped, surprised.
“Please, I’ve had some time to think, and I cannot take it,” Gabriella said firmly. “I was going to give it back to you before but… something prevented me.” She produced the coins. “Here, please take it.”
“My lady!” Mary cried in genuine distress. “I won’t have it back! You have to get your freedom.”
“You need it more than I do,” Gabriella insisted. “The baron may raise the rents again,” she continued grimly, thinking of him sitting in the solar like a cold, unfeeling effigy of a man, rather than one of flesh and blood. Always right. Always so inscrutable, even when he was trying to destroy the cherished memory of her family. “The winter may be long and hard, too.” She clasped Mary’s hand, pressing the coins into her palm. “I truly appreciate your gift, Mary, but I simply cannot rest easy knowing I have taken what little you
possess.”
Mary did not look convinced. Fortunately, at that moment a biting east wind blew along the road and seemed to remind the woman that worse was yet to come. “All right,” she said grudgingly, shoving the coins into her bodice. “But if I don’t need it come spring, you’ll get it back, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Very well,” Gabriella said, knowing that might be the only condition under which Mary would agree. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m…I’m going to find some late-blooming wildflowers. Lady de Chaney wants some for her chamber.”
Mary sniffed derisively. “That’s the nobility for you! What a waste of time!”
“Well, waste of time or not,” Gabriella said, “I had better not linger.” With that, she continued quickly on her way.
The cold wind made her shiver and wish she had brought a warmer shawl. Her skirt blew against her bare legs and she hugged herself for warmth, her head low against the wind.
Once she was beyond the village, the road was more sheltered by the trees. Although they were nearly bare, she was a little warmer. Her brisk pace soon relieved the bite of the cold.
She avoided the fields where boys watched the cattle feeding on the stubble left after the haymaking. In other fields, she could see a few men planting their winter crops.
She spied a path leading into the woods and took it. It was even warmer here, and quieter. Nothing disturbed the solitude as she hurried along.
When she reached the edge of a clear, babbling stream, she sat down and wrapped her arms around her knees, then laid her head upon them.
Had everything in her past been based upon a misconception? Was her father a spendthrift who had let the tenants exploit him? Was her brother a quarrelsome wastrel who had acted like a child and abandoned her? Had love blinded her?
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