The Baron's Quest

by Margaret Moore

  Frechette slammed his fists onto the table and straightened abruptly. “I’ll kill him if he has touched so much as a hair on her head!” Without waiting for Philippe to say anything more, he marched angrily from the tavern. Outside, he shouted for his horse, and then Philippe heard the rapid clatter of hooves as he galloped away.

  Philippe chuckled, the sound more evil than mirthful. “Here, you!” he called to the proprietor. “Clear this mess away and bring me some more wine. And bread. Not that coarse brown stuff, either. The best you’ve got. I want to celebrate.”

  “Greetings, my lady!” Mary called out as she bustled into the courtyard of the castle. With a happy smile on her face and shifting the basket of apples she carried on her hip, Mary hurried toward Gabriella, who was about to enter the kitchen. The smile changed into a worried frown. “How are you today, my lady?” she asked solicitously. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “I am quite well,” Gabriella said, which was not exactly a he. She was well physically, and if she was troubled because of the recent events in the castle, or her own errant, uncontrollable emotions, that was not something Mary needed to know.

  “Well, you look a little peaked to me. They’re not starving you, are they?” Mary queried as they entered the kitchen.

  Guido overheard the woman’s last remark and drew himself up to his full five feet. “Nobody starves in my kitchen!”

  “No insult intended, I’m sure,” Mary said with a sniff. “I’m having a word with Lady Gabriella,” she announced, her stare daring Guido or anyone else in the kitchen to protest. Wisely they did not, and she drew Gabriella aside. “Is it true, what they’re sayin’? Is Robert Chalfront really marrying the baron’s mistress?”

  “His former mistress, yes,” Gabriella acknowledged.

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re in love.”

  Mary gave another derisive sniff. “In love? Her—with Robert Chalfront? I don’t believe it.”

  Gabriella shrugged her shoulders.

  “A beautiful lady like that, with a fellow like him? Granted he is no pauper, but still!”

  “Don’t you think love can triumph over such differences in rank?” Gabriella asked, trying not to attach too much significance to the skeptical expression on Mary’s face.

  “Maybe,” she replied grudgingly. “But this business of the wedding feast, from the baron, no less Is that true, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “By my mother’s old gray head! The first thing I says to Elsbeth, if that’s true, he’s that anxious to be rid of her. Is he?”

  Gabriella didn’t respond at once. She wondered if Mary’s assumption was correct, then told herself it didn’t matter. There could never be anything between the baron and herself. Indeed, if he had wanted her in his bed at one time, she could not be sure he desired even that now. He never spoke to her, never looked at her, never seemed to notice she was there. She could well believe, unfortunately, that if the baron had harbored any tender feelings for her, he had since subverted them completely.

  And why not, she had asked herself cynically a hundred times. Now he was free to find another mistress. Another beautiful, pliable young woman who was still noble, and who did not value personal honor over the excitement of being deemed worthy by Etienne DeGuerre. Surely there were many such candidates to take Josephine de Chaney’s place.

  “What does it matter why he’s doing it?” she answered at last, with an attempt at casual unconcern. “It’s none of our business, except the feast.”

  Mary clucked her tongue. “None of mine, maybe, but perhaps some of yours. You’re a pretty young woman, and he’s a man used to having whatever, and whoever, he wants. I would take care if I were you, my lady.”

  “The baron will not want me,” she assured Mary.

  “Well, if he does, he’ll have the whole village after him, that I can tell you. I hear that Philippe fellow got sent packing, too, eh? Good riddance!”

  “How do William and the others feel about the baron now?” Gabriella inquired, casually changing the subject. Talk of Philippe inevitably brought back all the feelings she had experienced when the baron had rescued her, feelings that she must repress. “Are they reconciled to him?”

  “Better than we ever thought we could be. He seems fair enough, and the raise to the rents wasn’t quite as much as we all feared. Chalfront’s a changed man, I’ll tell you. Goes around singing, true’s I live.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Gabriella replied sincerely. She was pleased to think that Robert was going to be happy, and sorry for the trouble she had caused him. If she had any regrets about him, it was that she hadn’t paid more attention to the business of the estate before her father fell ill. That would have prevented much of the hard feelings she had borne him afterward. “Tell me the news of the village.” Her tone grew slightly stern. “How are Osric and his mother?”

  “Oh, they’re all well enough. His mother, poor old soul, is feeling her age this year. Osric’s asking for help fixing the thatch on his roof before the snow comes.”

  Gabriella recalled the “poor old soul’s” harsh tone and vulgar curse, as well as the many things both her father and the village members had done for Osric and his mother. “Is that really necessary?” she asked. “Osric makes a good wage as a carpenter, as well as the hayward. Surely he can afford to hire men to thatch the roof.”

  Mary looked startled. “I… I suppose so.”

  “I would suggest that to William,” Gabriella said coolly.

  “If you think so,” Mary said somewhat dubiously. “Now, is it true that the baron’s given Lady de Chaney his bed?”

  Gabriella had absolutely no desire to discuss furniture with Mary, even if Mary was right. The baron’s large bed and sumptuous linens were in the storeroom at that very moment, and a new bed had recently been put in the baron’s bedchamber. It was just as large as his other one, but the linens that had arrived with it were very plain. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work,” she said, rather abruptly going on her way.

  Mary watched Lady Gabriella hurry off into the hall and thought things had gotten to a sorry state when a kind, compassionate young woman like her had grown hard and bitter. “I’d like to strangle that baron myself,” she muttered before setting down the apples with a bang in front of a startled Guido and marching from the kitchen.

  The wedding of Lady Josephine de Chaney and Robert Chalfront was not a grand affair. The bride, accompanied by her uncle, who was a regal, elderly man reputed to be a clerk to a minor lord, returned to Castle Frechette the day before the ceremony took place and stayed in one of the guest apartments. If the baron or Josephine or even Robert thought there was anything unusual in this arrangement, they didn’t indicate it, and certainly none of the baron’s men or servants questioned his orders.

  As Gabriella helped Josephine prepare in the baron’s bedchamber, which he had told her she could use on this occasion, she was forced to admit that Josephine de Chaney was a beautiful bride. Her wedding gown was a lovely garment made of the cloth of gold the merchant had given her the day the baron had returned from his journey. On her head, she wore a plain gold circlet and simple white silk veil. Gabriella realized, however, that Josephine’s comeliness was made even more stunning by the beauty of her joy. Gabriella had never seen a woman so delighted to be getting married, and the delight lasted through the ceremony.

  The wedding itself was a short, simple blessing in the chapel attended by the baron and his knights and their ladies, followed by a feast in the decorated hall. The servants were kept busy, for the food was plentiful and elaborate, if not as expensive as that the late earl served. They, too, were to have a feast the next day, and the leftovers of both meals were to be given to the village poor, who were already waiting at the gate in mouth-watering anticipation of the remnants of the noble’s meal.

  Robert Chalfront looked like a man transformed. Perhaps it was his new clothes, or the happy expression on his face. Whatever it was,
he even looked taller and braver and more worthy of respect, until he stood beside Baron DeGuerre when the meal was finished and the music of the minstrels began. Then he was once again the humble man Gabriella had known before.

  As for the baron, Gabriella had wondered what, if anything, his face would reveal on this day. She might have spared herself the time lost in such contemplation, for he simply looked as inscrutable as always. Although it was a special occasion, he wore his customary long black tunic. Nevertheless, he looked more regal and magnificent in his plain garment than Sir George, who wore the latest in men’s finery, including a dark blue and scarlet brocade tunic with slashed sleeves that revealed a purple shirt, purple hose, and scarlet boots.

  The feast was a joyous occasion, with Sir George going out of his way to joke. Later he laughingly took the lead in the dancing. Gabriella watched from the entrance to the kitchen as he flitted from partner to partner like a long-legged butterfly. The women took his apparent fickleness in good stride, for who could be annoyed with such a charming fellow?

  Then Sir George flitted toward Gabriella. She smiled, waiting for him to pass her, until he unexpectedly halted and bowed. “I would be delighted if you would join me in a round dance,” he said with a pleasant and gracious smile, as if she were again a woman of nobility.

  “I’m sorry, Sir George,” she said with real regret. “I cannot dance with you.”

  “Why not?” Sir George said, his voice loud over the trilling music of the pipes, fithele and tabor. “I’m sure the baron won’t mind. A woman as light on her feet as you are will surely be a fine dancer—and it will take a superb dancer to make me look like anything but an ox on two legs!” He was flattering her, of course, and she knew it, but it had been a long time since any man had talked to her like this, and she could not suppress an answering smile, even though she knew she must refuse.

  Before she could do so, she glanced at the baron, who had not danced at all.

  George saw where she looked. “Baron DeGuerre!” he called, and she wished she could sink through the floor and disappear. She knew her place! A servant would not, and could not, join in the celebrations with the nobility. She never should have let herself pay attention to Sir George.

  “Baron DeGuerre,” George repeated when the baron looked their way with his cold blue eyes, “do your servants have permission to join in the dancing?”

  “No,” the baron responded impassively.

  Gabriella felt a hot blush flood her face as she looked down at the rush-covered floor and unreasonably blamed Sir George for her embarrassment, even though she knew she was being absurd.

  “However, I will make an exception in this servant’s case,” the baron said. “If she wishes to dance with you, George, she may.”

  Gabriella had thought she wanted to dance, and that it didn’t particularly matter who her partner was. Now she knew she didn’t want to dance with any man here except one, just as there was only one man whose hand she wished to touch and whose smile she wished to see.

  Nevertheless, it was Sir George who had asked her, and Sir George who held out his hand to escort her to the cleared space, so Gabriella put her hand in his and let him lead her forth.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As Etienne watched Gabriella dance with George, as graceful and supple as he knew she would be, he tried to turn his mind to other things.

  Would Philippe. de Varenne make trouble? The scoundrel had been gone a fortnight and he had heard nothing thus far. Or what of the young fool’s family? He could well imagine Gerhard de Varenne’s reception of a disgraced son, so Philippe had probably kept the reason for his return to himself. On the other hand, Philippe might seek revenge, and ask their help by claiming that Etienne posed some kind of threat to the family. Despite their animosity to one another, the de Varennes were clannish and might agree with Philippe. Unfortunately, there was little he could do until Philippe or his father made a move.

  Poaching continued to be troublesome. His men had found more snares and traps but, so far, had no suspects. He had doubled the foot patrols in the forest, and given orders that they were to investigate any clue, no matter how insignificant.

  Gabriella’s hair swirled around her flushed, smiling face as she went by the high table. Despite his efforts not to, Etienne watched her pass. How lovely she was! How that simple gown suited her, but how easy it was to envision her in something more befitting her regal nature, something in a deep blue, with gold and silver trim, made of velvet, or another soft fabric that begged to be caressed. Blue ribbons braided in her thick hair. Dainty silver slippers on her dancing feet.

  He must not look at her again.

  He wondered if Donald and Seldon had achieved any success in their quest to find Bryce Frechette. Apparently not, for they had not returned. Or perhaps they had found some clue and decided to follow it. He had given them plenty of money and a free hand to search until they either found the young man, or the trail went completely cold.

  Donald Bouchard was a fine young man. Etienne decided it was time to think about giving him a manor. He deserved it. Then Donald could marry.

  George should marry, too. Etienne’s hand tightened on his chalice as the couple whirled past him again. George was smiling far too pleasantly at Gabriella, who was but a servant, after all.

  Suddenly the hall seemed stiflingly hot and unbearably stuffy.

  Etienne stood swiftly, and the music immediately ceased.

  “My lord?” one of the minstrels asked humbly.

  “Nothing, it’s nothing,” Etienne said. “Keep playing.”

  He left the hall without looking back at the whirling, laughing dancers. He needed some fresh air. He had to get his wayward emotions under control. He had to remember that he was never going to marry again. He was all alone in the world and always would be. That was simply the way it was.

  Once he was m the courtyard, he became aware of a commotion at the castle gates on the other side of the lowered portcullis. At first he thought some of the paupers waiting there for the remains of the feast had gotten into an argument, then he realized that several of his foot soldiers were trying to push their way toward the portcullis through the crowd while keeping hold of a man in their midst.

  He quickly marched toward them, halting with his legs apart and his arms akimbo. “Fetch some torches,” he commanded one of the gatekeepers. He glared at the fearful soldiers at the gatehouse. “Why is the portcullis down?” he demanded.

  “Well, my lord,” one of them said shakily, “you can hear the ruckus on the other side. It’s not safe, I don’t think—”

  “Open it,” Etienne ordered.

  The portcullis slowly rattled upward. Those at the front of the crowd of peasants, catching sight of Etienne, fell back at once. The soldiers outside forced the rest of the mob out of their way.

  Pushing through the unruly crowd with the tips of their swords, his soldiers came inside, bearing the peasant in custody with them. Other men from inside the castle appeared with torches, and the crowd fell further back.

  The man in the midst of the soldiers stumbled and fell. The sergeant at arms, who held an incriminating bundle of pelts in his left hand, roughly lifted the fellow by his collar, and the malefactor’s face became visible in the flickering flames.

  It was the hayward, Osric.

  By now, the wedding guests and the servants had heard the tumult in the courtyard and come outside. Etienne paid them no heed. All except one. A quick glance had shown him Gabriella standing off to one side, watching.

  Etienne ignored the man and turned to those who had come from the hall. “Please, return to the feast. I will deal with this.”

  They did as he requested. All except one, who stood off to one side, watching.

  “It’s Osric, is it not?” Etienne asked, turning his attention to the matter at hand. He spoke calmly despite his anger, for he could well guess what the sergeant’s booty meant.

  “My lord, it’s a mistake,” Osric spluttered,
his eyes wide with fright. “I was walkin’ in the woods and I—”

  “Sergeant, tell me what happened,” Etienne said, realizing that the hayward stupidly planned to lie.

  “We were searching the forest for signs of poachers, as you ordered, my lord,” the sergeant explained, “and we found a hut hidden in the woods. It was covered with branches, disguised like, and full of racks with skins dryin’ on ’em. So we decided to set a watch on it and sure enough, this fellow comes sneaking along. So we grabbed him.”

  “My lord, please, it’s all a terrible mistake,” Osric pleaded. “I found the hut the same as your men. They… they didn’t let me explain.”

  “I see. Now you may have your chance to explain,” Etienne said. “Explain to me what you were doing in the woods at this late hour of the night. Explain to me why you were ‘sneaking along.’ Tell me where these pelts come from.”

  “I was… in the woods because…”

  “Yes?” Etienne inquired coolly as the man struggled to think of a plausible lie.

  Osric looked about wildly. “Lady Gabriella, help me!”

  Etienne steeled himself to resist her pleas on behalf of this thief. “She has no standing here,” Etienne said firmly. “I am the law and the justice. I know about you, Osric. I know from the earl’s records that you have been brought before him three times for poaching, and each time he let you go with a warning

  “I am not as lenient as the earl. I believe the evidence of my sergeant, and the pelts in his hand.”

  “My lady, for your good father’s sake, help me!” Osric pleaded, falling to his knees. “Oh, have mercy, my lord! Think of my poor old mother!”

  Gabriella took one hesitant step forward.

  “Do you know the penalty for poaching?” Etienne demanded of the criminal, willing Gabriella to leave the courtyard, determined to uphold the law, as was his sworn duty. “The first time, a man loses his thumb and bow fingers. The second, his sight. The third, his life.”