The Baron's Quest

by Margaret Moore

  Josephine stopped adjusting the scarf on her bountiful golden hair. “Are you ill, Gabriella?” she asked solicitously. “You look pale. Have you eaten enough today?”

  Guido and the others in the kitchen had asked her that same thing many times recently, and Gabriella was finding it most annoying. Wasn’t she allowed to feel unhappy, given the circumstances of her…whole life? Nevertheless, she fought to keep her frustration from her voice. “I am well,” she replied as she started to pick up some of the garments scattered about the room.

  Josephine hummed to herself as she adjusted her scarf a little more, the tune so gay and lilting that, in Gabriella’s current state of mind, it seemed calculated to upset her. “You seem very happy, my lady,” she noted as she bent to lay a thin shift in one of Josephine’s large chests.

  “I am,” Josephine responded. She glanced at Gabriella over her shoulder. “I want you to come here first thing in the morning tomorrow. There is a lot of packing to be done.”

  Gabriella turned around very slowly, as if she had been given a sleeping potion. All her limbs seemed unnaturally heavy. Indeed, her mind seemed affected, for she said stupidly, “Packing? Are you…are you leaving?”

  “Yes. I will miss this splendid castle.” Josephine sighed, but it held only the smallest hint of regret.

  “You are not coming back?” Gabriella asked.

  “No.” Josephine eyed her sympathetically. “There is no need to look so upset. I will see to it that you are not given heavier tasks than you have bad as my maid. I’m sure Etienne will agree.”

  Why had she stayed here? Gabriella thought wildly. She should have taken the money the baron had offered her and gone away. She never should have remained after her father’s death, never should have met the baron, never should have kissed him.

  Never should have allowed herself to… yes, to fall in love with him, because he didn’t care for her, and now he was leaving. “Thank you, my lady,” she said, sensing that Josephine was waiting for a response. The words came with an effort, but they came.

  Josephine shifted on her chair and faced Gabriella, a kind, sincere expression on her face. “I’m sorry we didn’t meet under other circumstances, Gabriella,” she said. “If we had known each other before… well, when we were girls, I’m sure we could have been friends.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Gabriella replied woodenly. What else was there to say, after all?

  Josephine looked at her shrewdly. “You are tired,” she said firmly. “You need not come back to help me later. Go early to bed.”

  Gabriella bristled at the woman’s pity. She had been a fool and weak, but she would not be pitied. “I can do my work.”

  Josephine smiled, and Gabriella saw friendship there, and respect, not pity. “I know. Nevertheless, we have much to do tomorrow. Come before mass to help me.”

  Gabriella nodded, reflecting that she had better do as Josephine suggested, for if she came back to the bedchamber after the evening meal, might not the baron be here, too? To see him now would be more than she could tolerate. “Very well, my lady.”

  “You do not have to serve in the hall tonight, either, if you would rather not. Eat a good supper and retire.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Josephine rose and faced her maidservant. “Be of good cheer, Gabriella,” she said kindly, and with fervor. “Never think things cannot become better than they are. For a long time, I thought…but I was so wrong….” She clasped her hands together and smiled brilliantly. “I…I have to tell someone my good news. I am so happy, I could fly. Or burst trying to stay silent. Can I trust to your discretion?”

  With a sick premonition of what Josephine was about to say, Gabriella nodded.

  “I am to be married!”

  For a moment Gabriella felt a very real pain, then her pride sealed the break that had appeared in her heart.

  It could be worse. She might have succumbed to the baron’s lust at the very time he was considering marriage with another. Thank God she had not!

  “My best wishes for your happiness,” she said softly, wondering when and where the marriage ceremony would be. Not here, obviously, if Josephine was preparing to leave. She said a prayer of thanks for not having to be a witness to that.

  “You may go, Gabriella. I can finish here myself,” Josephine said happily. “Tell no one of my secret just yet. It will be common knowledge soon enough, and will make for much gossip, too, I suppose. Well, I don’t care. I simply had to share my good fortune with someone.

  “And you see, Gabriella, many things are possible. Even things we think are inconceivable may come to pass. You must never give up hope!”

  “Yes, my lady,” Gabriella said dully, wanting to be gone. She hurried to the door and with swift steps she left the room and Josephine de Chaney, who had just taken away a hope Gabriella hadn’t even known she had harbored until it was gone.

  The next morning, the hall was quite empty as Gabriella rushed through it on her way to the baron’s bedchamber. She had to pack for Josephine de Chaney and wanted to accomplish her task as quickly as possible. It would be much easier if she was alone. She knew Josephine had gone to speak with Robert, probably about the transportation of her goods, so the lady would not interfere.

  Most of all, Gabriella didn’t want to see Baron DeGuerre. She could not bear to be near him, knowing he would soon be gone, and would find his impartial scrutiny torture. She had a fervent hope that the empty hall meant the knights, with their lord, had gone out hunting.

  Her feet made no noise as she ran up the stairs, and a quick peek in the solar showed that room unoccupied, too.

  She sighed with genuine relief. If the baron wasn’t in the hall or the solar, he was surely out of the castle; therefore, she didn’t bother to knock when she arrived at the bedchamber.

  The room was not empty. Baron DeGuerre was there, standing by the window.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Before Gabnella could leave as swiftly and silently as she had entered, she realized how dejected he looked. His usually squared shoulders slumped unnaturally, and he hung his head. Her mind told her to go; her heart ordered her to stay.

  He seemed to grow aware of her presence and, as he turned, he straightened, displaying to her his inscrutable visage, and her first thought was actually relief. Perhaps what she had witnessed was nothing more than a pensive attitude.

  “Gabriella,” he said, “what do you want?”

  “Baron,” Gabnella acknowledged awkwardly, bobbing a curtsy. She hadn’t been this close to him since he had saved her in the woods. Her cheeks started to tingle with the remembrance, and her legs seemed turned to jelly.

  “Well?” he asked softly.

  “Excuse me, my lord, I’ve… I’ve come to pack Lady Josephine’s things.”

  “Ah, yes, I would prefer it if you would do so later.” He turned back to the window, apparently contemplating the scenery outside.

  She turned to leave when she glanced at him again. How lonely he looked! He did not seem at all happy, especially for a man about to married.

  Surely it was not wise to attach too much significance to his attitude. Perhaps it was only that his foot was still troubling him. “My lord?” she ventured quietly, taking a step closer.

  “What is it?” he asked, without turning around.

  “Are you… are you quite well?”

  “Yes.” Very slowly he faced her, one dark eyebrow raised questioningly. “Is there something else, Gabriella?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then why do you stay? Are you not afraid to be alone with me again?” How calm his words, as if he were merely commenting on the weather or the season of the year.

  He couldn’t fool her anymore with that unemotional tone. She saw the loneliness in his eyes and the pain, too. “I’m not afraid of you,” she answered truthfully.

  He took one step toward her, then halted as if unseen hands held him back. His mouth twisted into a smile. “Perhaps you should be.�
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  She shook her head, knowing in her heart that she would never be afraid of him again, not after he had protected her in the woods. “Is there much to arrange for the wedding?” she asked, trying to tell herself that if she could speak of his marriage, it would soon hurt less to think about it.

  “Josephine and Chalfront will see to the details.”

  “I, um, wish you joy.” She attempted to infuse some sincerity into her words, although they were a lie.

  “Joy?” he asked quietly. “Why do you think to wish me joy?”

  “Because… because you are marrying Lady de Chaney.”

  He looked startled. “I am not marrying Josephine.”

  “What?” she whispered, surprised and confused and, beneath it all, delighted, something she commanded herself not to feel. “I thought…” Her words trailed off, her mind warning her not to reveal what she felt.

  “She is marrying Robert Chalfront.”

  He watched her closely, and in his eyes, inscrutable no longer, she thought she saw hope. Hope for what? “Chalfront?” she whispered, her heart thundering in her chest.

  “I agree it is not a flattering notion that I am being passed over for another,” he continued, his eyes lighting with the smile that played about his lips, making him so attractive she could scarcely refrain from smiling back. “But apparently they are in love. I’m quite happy for Josephine, of course. She deserves to be married. I am happy she has found a husband.” His expression grew more somber and he looked away from her. “For I will never marry again.” He said the last almost defiantly, as if she had contradicted him before he spoke. His words had a tone of such adamant conviction that all her former joy disappeared like a drop of water on the cobblestones in high summer.

  Fool! her mind admonished. Stupid, stupid fool to care for him! He will never love you.

  “Now I think it would be better if you left and returned another time.”

  Gabriella did not stand upon the order of her going, but fled. Shame filled her, and her body burned with its heat. She was so weak, with not even pride to give her strength! Even now, she could not ignore him, or the feelings he aroused. All she could think about was that if Josephine de Chaney was no longer his mistress, how long would it be before another took her place? What was worse, she wanted to be the one to share the baron’s bed. To share his life and his days, as well as his nights.

  What kind of base, weak, immoral creature was she becoming? How much longer could she endure this torture?

  She would run away. Now. At once. Leave everything and everyone behind and go away.

  She halted confusedly at the bottom of the steps and laid her forehead against the cool stone wall. How could she do that? How could she forget the debt and abandon her honor?

  Even if she could ignore the sum she owed, to travel alone and impoverished was too dangerous for a woman. Undoubtedly she would be an easy prey for any thief or brigand, and then all her honor would be gone.

  But to stay? To live with this agony of desire, knowing it was wrong. How could she bear it?

  Then she knew she must find a way to endure, because she could not abandon her honor.

  Philippe de Varenne hated the sea. He hated the enormity of it, the power of it, the sight of it and the smell of it. If there had been any other way to get to France, he would have taken it. Unfortunately, there was not, and so he sat in this dim, stinking tavern waiting to sail across the channel, his bandaged leg aching abominably.

  Some of his drink had spilled from the cracked chalice and fell upon his soiled, wrinkled tunic, but Philippe didn’t notice. He rarely noticed much beyond the most basic bodily needs these days, especially his thirst, and if Sir George and the others had come upon him, they would scarcely have recognized the filthy man as Philippe de Varenne.

  It took a lot of wine to subdue the hate burning in Philippe’s breast, as well as to dull the sound of the ships creaking at the Dover dockside, lessen his annoyance at the babble of the seamen chattering away in absurd foreign tongues, overcome the scent of the dead fish and seaweed rotting on the pilings and deaden the anger he carried for Baron DeGuerre.

  He loathed the baron with his whole heart, or at least all save the bit filled with hatred for his own family, who had refused to help him. His father, the fat fool, had ranted and raved for hours, claiming that it must have been Philippe’s fault that the baron had sent him away. Two days of that had been quite enough, and Philippe had gone. Unfortunately, the friends he had sought out did not understand the meaning of hospitality. He had seen their sly looks and heard their parsimonious comments about the price of wine. Greedy dolts, the lot of them! He didn’t need them. A man of his capabilities would be more appreciated in Europe anyway.

  Alone and sullen, Philippe took another gulp of his wine which barely deserved the name, and watched another man enter. He was young, this stranger, and handsome in a rough, uncouth way. Well pleased with himself, too, judging by his manner as he strode in and smiled as if he owned the earth. The stranger called out for ale, then took the proffered mug thankfully and downed it in a gulp.

  Ale, Philippe noted with disdain. The fellow must be a Saxon peasant, for only they drank that disgusting beverage. “Impudent young whelp,” he muttered, too far in his cups to realize he spoke aloud.

  “Did you address me, sir?” the fellow asked, turning around with the mug of ale still in his hand.

  “No, I did not,” Philippe replied with a sneer.

  “I beg your pardon, then,” the stranger replied, and it was then that Philippe saw the scar above his eye—and a distinct resemblance in the features, the wavy brown hair and the fearless brown eyes. What blessing of fortune was this?

  “I beg yours, if you be Bryce Frechette,” Philippe said with true joy, a delightful plan forming in his wine-soaked mind as he rose unsteadily.

  “I am he,” the fellow replied with surprise. “How do you know my name?”

  “Your sister speaks of you often,” Philippe answered. “Are you on your way home?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  Philippe made a sorrowful face. “Too late, I fear.”

  “Too late!” Frechette cried with alarm. “What do you mean? Explain yourself, sir!”

  “Your father is dead—”

  Frechette’s face grew pale and his hand that held the mug started to tremble. “Dead?” he whispered. “When? How?”

  “An illness, or so I understand. He has been dead for many weeks.”

  Frechette stared at the ground, wrapped in his own thoughts, and Philippe was glad to see that the impertinent smile had been wiped from his face.

  “Your sister has suffered much,” Philippe went on sorrowfully. “Apparently your father was much in debt when he died.”

  Frechette glanced up at him sharply. “In debt?”

  “Yes, indeed. Chalfront—”

  “Chalfront!” Frechette snarled as he brought the mug crashing to the table, where it shattered into several pieces.

  “Here now, sir!” the tavern keeper cried. He fell silent and went back to wiping tables when Frechette turned a murderous eye onto him.

  “I should have known better than to leave when he was still in charge of Father’s money,” Frechette said. “I never trusted him, never!”

  “He is still the bailiff there. Baron DeGuerre confirmed his position.”

  “Who the devil is Baron DeGuerre to be making such decisions? That should have been for Gabriella to settle, until I came home.”

  “Ah, but there’s the trouble,” Philippe said. “It seems nobody knew what had become of you.”

  A guilty look flashed across the man’s face, pleasing Philippe enormously, although he tried to hide his delight. “The king gave your family’s estate to Baron Etienne DeGuerre. Your sister has lived to regret that decision,” Philippe finished mournfully.

  “Gabriella! Why?”

  “Well, she was left in a very dubious position, although there were those who sought to help her.
Chalfront, for one. He offered to marry her.”

  Frechette reached for the hilt of his sword. “That little weasel!”

  “No need for that,” Philippe said slyly. “Chalfront was rebuffed. Now there is another man who wants her, except he will never offer marriage.”

  “Who?” Frechette demanded, splaying his hands on the scarred tabletop and leaning forward. “Who would dare to make such a base proposition to my sister? Explain yourself.”

  Philippe couldn’t help but notice that Gabriella was more important to him than the loss of his home. Interesting. Stupid, of course, but interesting, because Philippe realized he was going to be able to play this fool like a trout caught on his line.

  “Alas,” Philippe said with a sigh that seemed to represent the sorrow of the ages, and incidentally increased the delay before he answered, thereby adding to the young man’s torture. “Though your sister is currently quite well in body, it is her body, I fear, that will also be her ruin.”

  Frechette’s eyes narrowed. “Baron DeGuerre. I have heard of him. Does he think a noblewoman like my sister would ever lower herself to consider a profane liaison with any man, let alone a man of his reputation? I assure you, sir, my sister is made of stronger stuff!”

  “Much as I dislike being the bearer of additional bad tidings, I must regretfully tell you she is no longer noble. Nor are you.”

  “What?” Frechette demanded.

  “Your family has lost its title, as well as its estate. Baron DeGuerre forced your sister to become a servant.”

  “He had no right—!”

  “Oh, he did. The king gave the baron that right when he gave him the estate. Baron DeGuerre wanted her to leave, but she wouldn’t, so that was the alternative.” Philippe lowered his voice. “Of course, she was alone and unprotected, so she had little choice….” He let his words hang in the air suggestively.

  How absolutely wonderful it was to watch Bryce Frechette’s growing anger and dismay, to rub salt in this arrogant fellow’s guilty wounds! “She’s a very pretty woman,” Philippe. continued sorrowfully, “so while she may have resisted him at the beginning, I fear…”