The Baron's Bride

by Joanna Makepeace

  “Provoked?” The dark, level brows swept upwards and Sir Walter gave a little strangled gasp of annoyance behind her.

  “My lord, Sigurd loves his mother deeply and she was being evicted from the assart cottage that is very dear to both of them.”

  “May I remind you, demoiselle, that the cottage, standing where it did, was unlawfully built.”

  “Yes, my lord, I know that too but, nevertheless, it was home to Sigurd and the loss of it and his mother’s anguish caused him to lose all control. He is so very young. Had he had time to think coherently I am sure he would not have wounded you. He meant to strike out at one whom he believed had injured his mother and himself and…”

  “Demoiselle, you were present, you know well enough that had I not been quick off the mark to turn and defend myself, I might not be seated at this trestle now.”

  She swallowed, feeling the curious gaze of the guards and the short-sighted one of Sir Clement full upon her. Fortunately for Sir Walter’s peace of mind, most of the villagers had now left the hall and the Baron could not consider himself humiliated before his own serfs and villeins.

  “That I must acknowledge, but the blow was awkwardly delivered. Sigurd is no trained warrior. He meant to hurt, not kill, I am sure. There was a struggle for possession of the hunting knife. In that you were injured.” He was silent, gazing back at her sardonically and she pressed on desperately. “You have his life in your hands. Please, I beg of you, be merciful. Forgive his youthful impetuosity.”

  Sigurd had lifted his head now and was looking pleadingly at Gisela, for what she did not know. Was he asking her to beg for him even more earnestly, or was he soundlessly pleading with her to keep a dignified silence for his mother’s sake?

  Aldith said brokenly, “My lord, I beg you, he is my only son…”

  Sir Walter stood and cleared his throat. “While I cannot, nor would I wish to, interfere in your decision, my lord, I would attest to the loyalty of Sigurd’s mother, who has served me faithfully since the birth of my daughter as wet nurse. Indeed, without her care, I doubt Gisela would have survived.

  “She and Sigurd are foster brother and sister and were brought up together in babyhood. I would add my pleas to hers and those of his mother. The boy deserves to be severely dealt with, but if it is within your sense of pity, I ask you to spare his life.”

  Alain de Treville nodded coolly to Sir Walter. “I have sympathy for this boy’s mother, Sir Walter, and acknowledge the debt you owe her. Indeed—” his lips parted in a smile as he gazed at Gisela “—we would all have suffered a great deprivation had your lovely daughter not been present here today.”

  Gisela made a little indignant sound deep in her throat. How dare he choose such a moment for meaningless pleasantries!

  De Treville continued. “What has the boy to say for himself? Do you understand you are like to hang for this? Did you intend to kill me?”

  There was a shocked silence as all eyes now were focussed on Sigurd. Would the young fool doom himself by some stupidly proud outburst?

  Sigurd said roughly, “I don’t know,” then, when prompted to repeat himself as his answer had not reached the Baron’s ears, said, more loudly, “I—I don’t know—what I meant to do. No—I thought to stop you from walking away, make you listen—” His voice broke off and he looked down miserably at the floor again. “I would not have really meant to—hurt you.”

  “And do you now regret the attack?” The voice was merciless in its demand.

  Sigurd said awkwardly, “I—I don’t truly know. I was angry and—”

  “Are still angry?”

  “Yes.” This time the voice was more sure, defiant, and Aldith uttered a choking cry of protest at his foolishness.

  “I see.”

  Gisela was forced down upon her stool by her father and sat utterly still, not taking her eyes from the Baron as he sat tapping his quill lightly against a roll of parchment before him, considering.

  At last he looked down at his prisoner. “Sigurd Rolfson, you are guilty of attacking your liege lord and undoubtedly deserve to die. You tell me that still you deny my right to destroy your cottage for good, military reasons and do not regret your crime. I have little choice but to deal out the sentence required by law.

  “However, you are still very young and I must take into consideration that you, at least, believed you were provoked. You are a free man and I could declare you outlaw, but I believe you would not survive long in the coming winter. That might be a more prolonged agony than the one decreed at the rope’s end.

  “Therefore…” he paused and looked straight at Gisela as if she were directly challenging his authority by the very intensity of her fixed gaze “…I formally deprive you of your freeman’s rights and declare you serf. You will remain within my dungeon at Allestone until I consider you can be trusted to walk the castle precincts without posing a threat to myself and to others. You will continue to serve me and whoever succeeds me to the desmesne of Allestone.”

  Aldith gave a great sob and Gisela drew her former nurse hard against her heart, patting her shoulder in a clumsy attempt to comfort. She heard the rattle of chains as Sigurd was led off towards the screen doors, presumably to his prison once more in the gatehouse.

  She gave a terrible sigh of relief. The boy’s life had been saved and she had not dared hope for that. He would suffer the indignity of serfdom throughout his life and, knowing Sigurd, he would find that hard to bear, but though servitude would be galling, in time, surely, he would recognise the measure of mercy that had been dealt him and be duly grateful for it.

  Gisela now saw that the young squire, Huon, had entered the hall and that the Baron had summoned him to the table and was talking to him. The boy turned and looked where they were still sitting and came towards them. He bowed politely.

  “My Lord Alain has sent me to request you join him at table, Sir Walter. He has also instructed me to take Dame Aldith to the gatehouse where she will be allowed to speak with her son.”

  Aldith rose at once, her face working. “Thank the Virgin, I thought the Baron would have forgotten…”

  “My Lord Alain is not in the habit of forgetting—anything,” the boy said with a grin.

  Gisela said quickly, “I will go with you, Aldith, at least as far as the gatehouse,” and the boy nodded again.

  Gisela’s father was frowning slightly and then, as he realised his daughter would be escorted by the Baron’s squire, nodded his agreement. He rose to make his own way to join his host where already servants were laying out jugs of wine, goblets and sweetmeats upon a fine damask cloth which now covered the table.

  Huon led the two women out of the main door of the hall and down the steps to the courtyard. Aldith was visibly trembling with excitement and Gisela deliberately slowed their pace. She was afraid that Aldith would collapse in her agitated state. She put an arm around the older woman’s waist as they went and could see that tears were glimmering now on Aldith’s lids.

  At the gatehouse she did not insist on entering with her maid. She was sure Aldith and Sigurd would wish to be alone together at this moment, and she turned back into the courtyard itself to wait for Aldith to return to her. Huon conducted the maid into the guardroom and then returned dutifully to Gisela’s side.

  The place was a hive of industry. From the stables nearby Gisela could hear the whickering of horses and the cheerful whistling of grooms as at Brinkhurst. The Baron’s servants appeared to be happy enough about their labours. A shrill screeching and hectic fluttering of wings from the mews informed her of the Baron’s love of hawking. Her own father rode out occasionally; Gisela hardly at all. She had confessed to Kenrick once that, though she admired the deadly skill of her father’s hawks, she did not like to see them stoop to their prey and make their kill.

  From wooden sheds adjoining the inner bailey wall she heard the sound of hammer on metal as the armourer went about his work and the blacksmith’s blowing up of his fires and his hammers, too, beati
ng upon the anvil. Serving men and women scuttled about from keep to bakehouse on various errands and Gisela began to understand just how many people this great fortress kept employed and protected.

  A sudden commotion from the stable doorway caused her to turn hurriedly as a small hound puppy skittered across her path with a young stable boy in hot pursuit. Both she and Huon dived for it at the same moment, but it managed to evade them and dashed off towards the entrance to the outer bailey. Just then, a young man-at-arms appeared through the entrance pushing a small handcart containing an assortment of swords, battle axes and arrows.

  Huon shouted a warning as the puppy raced across his path almost under the cart wheels. Gisela was before him. She launched herself forward and grabbed the young dog by the scruff of the neck, but she almost overbalanced and fell beneath the heavy iron wheels herself as she stumbled over the skirt of her gown.

  Still trying to hold on to the squirming puppy, she was unable to fling out her arms to steady herself and gave a cry of alarm, but found herself caught and pulled back as the cart rumbled harmlessly past of its own volition as the startled soldier let go the handle.

  Baron Alain de Treville’s voice sounded in her ear as his arm tightened around her waist.

  “What a good thing I came in search of you, Demoiselle Gisela. I would hardly have dared to return and inform your father you had suffered injury in my castle.”

  She scrambled frantically to free herself as the horrified man-at-arms stammered out an apology.

  “My lord, I am sorry. I did not see the little dog. I’d my head down and then—then I saw the lady and…”

  “It was not your fault,” Gisela said breathlessly. “You could not be expected to see the pup. It is so small.”

  The Baron nodded to his man to proceed and as the cart trundled by them, he looked down, eyebrows raised, at the squirming hound pup in Gisela’s arms.

  “One of Freya’s litter. I hear there is one constantly escaping. It’s probably this one. I see you are fond of dogs.”

  Gisela dropped a kiss on the smooth fawn-coloured head as the puppy was struggling to reach up and cover her face with kisses.

  “He’s quite beautiful.”

  De Treville was thinking the same about the pup’s rescuer as she stood, trembling slightly from her recent fright, her hood fallen back, revealing her smooth fair braids beneath her fluttering head veil. Her mantle was slipping back from her shoulders and he had a tantalising glimpse of her tight, hip-hugging woollen gown beneath as the wind swirled its folds against her legs.

  Her bosom was heaving from her recent exertion and her cheeks were tinged with pink, her eyes sparkling. He thought he would have given much to bring that tender glow to her face as she gazed down, smiling, at her still-wriggling burden.

  “He will dirty your gown,” he said quietly and gently took the hound from her, handing it to Huon. “Return him to his mother, she’ll be fretting.”

  Gisela stood watching as the boy ducked his head beneath the stable door and went inside with the still-agitated stable boy.

  “I came to escort you back to the hall. You must be getting very chilled out here.”

  “No, no,” she said hastily. “I was waiting for Aldith. She’s—she’s with Sigurd.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was good of you to allow her to see him.”

  “I promised I would.”

  “Not all men keep their promises,” she responded.

  He smiled. “Forgive me, demoiselle, but I would have thought your extreme youth would have prevented you from finding out that sad truth so soon.”

  “I am almost seventeen.”

  She bridled as she saw his long lips curve into a smile again and added hurriedly, “It is just that I have heard Aldith and the serving wenches say that…”

  She broke off in confusion, then her eyes caught sight of the bandaging on his left arm and widened. “Oh, my lord, I hope you did not hurt your arm again in helping me.”

  “No, but had I done so it would have been damaged in a worthy cause.”

  “You are making fun of me,” she said reproachfully. “I regret that I have not yet asked you how serious it was. I would not have believed that the knife could have pierced through the rings of your mail.”

  He grimaced. “A sharp blade can pierce through anything if wielded with sufficient force, as can the iron tip of a good arrow. No, it is but a long scratch. The blade grated on the bone of the forearm and was deflected. It is sore and needs to be kept covered to keep clean, but it pains me little now.”

  Her expression had become sweetly grave. “I must thank you, my lord, for listening to our pleas and granting Sigurd his life. I know he was in grave peril. Many lords would not have shown such mercy.”

  He shrugged in that Gallic way she had noticed before.

  “Do not trouble yourself unduly about the boy. He will do well enough. He will resent the loss of his status. Freemen guard their rights with pride, but a hard winter can cause many of them to starve, while serfs fill their bellies at their lords’ expense.”

  “Not always. Compassionate lords will deal with their serfs responsibly but some are neglectful and some are worse—they treat them less kindly than they would their horses.”

  “Demoiselle Gisela, if you know how costly a good courser is to buy and maintain, you would understand the possible reason for that,” he said, smiling again.

  She turned away, her cheeks burning, as she resented his teasing once more.

  “Sigurd can be—difficult,” she said stiffly. “As you have said, he will resent his loss of freedom.”

  He shrugged again. “We shall manage him, never fear. He lacks a father, I understand, and has needed a firm hand for some time. Your former nurse must have worried about him constantly.”

  “Will he be beaten?”

  “If he proves—difficult, as you put it. A sore back will teach him obedience and will do him no permanent harm, as it has done no harm to Huon, nor did to me when I was undergoing my training as page and squire.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully, trying to imagine this tall, authoritative man as recalcitrant page and squire and finding it hard.

  “Shall we go back into the hall? Your father will be concerned about you. Huon will wait for your nurse and escort her back to you.”

  He held out a lean brown hand and she reluctantly placed her fingers within his grasp and allowed him to lead her back towards the keep steps.

  Sir Walter was palpably relieved to have his daughter return to the hall and smiled his pleasure. A panting Aldith, breathing hard as if she had been running, hurried through the screen doors and made for her mistress. There were visible marks of tear stains on her roughened cheeks and she curtsied dutifully to the Baron to show her gratitude.

  Gisela seized her by the hand and dragged her to the far end of the table to question her about her interview with Sigurd. De Treville followed her progress regretfully and signalled to Huon, who had entered with Aldith, to carry the wine jug, sweetmeats and goblets to the two women.

  He took a long pull at his own wine cup and then looked steadily at his guest.

  “You have a very beautiful and spirited daughter, Sir Walter.”

  “Aye.” Sir Walter followed his gaze fondly. “Too spirited for her own good sometimes. She can be headstrong. I put that down to a lack of a mother. My beloved Hildegarde died soon after her birth and Gisela is as lovely as she was.” He sighed a trifle lugubriously. “I fear I spoil her outrageously.”

  “I imagine you will be looking soon for a suitable husband and protector for her. In these difficult times that can be a worrying business.”

  Sir Walter shook his head. “The truth is, my lord, I cannot face the prospect of life at Brinkhurst without her.”

  “I can understand that.” De Treville sat thoughtfully silent for a moment, then he leaned forward in his seat slightly towards his guest. “Demoiselle Gisela has Saxon blood, I understand.”

 
“Her great-grandmother was Saxon. Her husband was killed at Senlac and she married a Norman knight. My wife, Hildegarde, also had Saxon blood.” His lips twitched. “Many men in the shire are proud of their Saxon inheritance, my lord.”

  “Of course. I am equally proud to know my Norman ancestors came from Viking stock.” De Treville twirled the wine round in his goblet, watching the firelight behind them glimmer in its red depths.

  “You will see, Sir Walter—” he looked up and gestured towards the stark bare stone walls of the hall “—that my castle lacks a chatelaine.” He gave a short laugh. “My friend Rainald de Tourel, who visited some days ago and has now left to return to the King’s court, took me to task over this matter and brought a message from the King himself that I should be thinking soon of taking a wife.

  “I am twenty-six years old and my hectic life on campaign at the King’s side left me little time to consider that possibility, nor had I sufficient means to do so. Now that I have obtained the castle and desmesne of Allestone, my bachelor state begins to gall me.”

  He saw his guest’s body become rigid in his chair and his eyes wary. De Treville looked pointedly at Gisela, who was talking excitedly to Aldith. Her lovely eyes were flashing and she moved her hands expressively as she was obviously engaged in attempting to comfort her maid for the loss of Sigurd’s company.

  “Your daughter tells me she is nearly seventeen, Sir Walter, an age when she is ripe for the marriage bed. In our short acquaintance, I have come to have a healthy regard for her unequivocal honesty. She is not only beautiful but brave, and kind to both people and animals. I find both qualities admirable. I take it there is no prior arrangement for her betrothal or you would have mentioned it. I could keep her safe at Allestone. I ask you now, formally, for the honour of her hand in marriage.”

  Sir Walter blinked rapidly and, in order to give himself time to think, he helped himself to more wine and drained his cup.