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“So you will visit her father?”
Again Alain de Treville’s eyebrow was raised comically. “Nothing so definite. She, I am sure, will come to me.”
“How?”
“Well, I hold her young protеgе in my dungeon, don’t I? His fate is very much in my hands. Unless I am very much mistaken, she will attend my manor court when the boy is arraigned.”
De Tourel’s expression became more grave. “You cannot afford to lose face, my friend, even to please the lady. You must treat this attack upon your person with the gravity it deserves. The boy must be severely punished.”
De Treville’s dark brown eyes met his squarely. “I am well aware of that, Rainald. My hold on this castle and the desmesne must be absolute, and my villeins and serfs made to be aware that I will brook no trace of indiscipline. The question is—how do I accomplish this without further antagonising my neighbour and avoid once more coming into open conflict with his daughter?”
Chapter Two
Gisela shivered as she, her father and Aldith passed under the grim gatehouse arch of Allestone Castle. Here, somewhere in one of the guardrooms, Sigurd had been confined or, possibly, he had been moved to an even less salubrious dungeon below the castle keep. As they cantered into the inner bailey, grooms hastened forward to take their bridle reins and one helped Aldith down, for she had been riding pillion behind Sir Walter.
Another attentive straw-haired young man, more stylishly dressed, with a round, boyish face hurried to lift up two arms offering to assist Gisela down. She allowed him to help her and waited until her father joined them and their horses were led away to the stables. Aldith stared bleakly at the tall keep before them and then at the ground.
Sir Walter identified himself and his daughter and servant and explained the reason for their arrival.
“I understand, the boy, Sigurd, is to be brought before your lord today and, since Aldith, here, is his mother and naturally very concerned for him, we hope your lord will not be offended by our presence at the manor court. My daughter, the Demoiselle Gisela, was present on the unfortunate occasion of the attack and is anxious to hear his fate.”
The young man bowed. “I am Huon, Lord Alain’s squire. Allow me to escort you into the hall. I know he will wish me to afford you every courtesy. I will see to it that chairs or stools are provided for you.”
Gisela thought he looked very young for a squire; indeed his polished manners and boyish intensity suggested he had only recently completed service at some other household as a page. He led them up the steps to the entrance of the castle keep and stood back politely for them to precede him into the great hall.
Aldith padded silently in the rear, looking neither to right nor to left. Gisela cast her a worried glance. She felt Aldith had little or no hope for her son’s survival. After that first day when she had arrived at Brinkhurst and wept hopelessly, they had had hardly one word from her since. She had attended Gisela efficiently as she had formerly when she had been her nurse and, privately, Gisela, who had missed her sorely, was pleased to have her back at Brinkhurst.
As she was escorted to the front of the little knot of villeins and serfs gathered for the manor court to stools brought hastily for their use by servants summoned to attend them, Gisela reached out and placed a comforting arm round Aldith’s shoulders as she seated herself. Sir Walter gently but firmly pressed the woman into a stool by Gisela’s side while he took another brought for him. Gisela took Aldith’s hand and her maid sat listlessly not even gazing round the great hall.
Gisela, for her part, stared round curiously. The hall was circular with a small gallery at one end. There was a central hearth and a lantern trap above it for smoke to escape, but it appeared it was rarely used these days for another, more ornate, hearth had been constructed beneath the gallery near the dais where, presumably, the Baron sat at meat, at the far end.
She gazed up at the huge smoke-blackened roof timbers and round at the solid stone walls. The place had certainly been built primarily for defence only, for there seemed no vestige of comfort to be had here. One arras near the dais looked dirty and torn and would do nothing to keep out draughts, nor did it do anything to soften the uncompromising grimness of the hall’s general appearance.
True, the rushes underfoot had been freshly strewn and the place was swept scrupulously clean. She tightened her lips as she thought how this new lord kept discipline within his desmesne. If his servants feared him, and he was certainly well and efficiently attended, it did not augur well for Sigurd’s chances of mercy.
There was a little stir behind the dais and the group of villagers, awkward and undoubtedly worried about their own summonses to attend this court, stopped whispering together and looked expectantly for their lord to enter. A door beneath the gallery was opened and two men stepped through.
Gisela instantly recognised the tall form of Baron Alain de Treville; behind him came a smaller, grey-haired man who walked with a stoop and advanced uncertainly as if he were short-sighted.
“Sir Clement de Burgh,” her father whispered in her ear. “The Baron’s seneschal. The man served Sir Godfrey before him for many years.”
Gisela found herself staring intently at Allestone’s lord. For the first time she could see his features clearly, for today he was devoid of his military garb and wore a tawny over-tunic over a longer brown one, with a tawny-lined brown mantle over them for the hall was chilly. She noted at once that a border of coarse linen bandaging showed beneath the tight sleeve of one arm and she swallowed uncertainly.
She had known he was tall and carried himself like a prince; now she saw he was broad-shouldered and slim-hipped also, recognising the steel-like strength inherent in that spare, well-muscled body. His hair was cut short in the slightly outdated style Norman knights adopted for convenience beneath the conical helmet. His face was oval, tanned, smooth complexioned, without the roughness she associated with life out of doors on campaign.
The features were arresting, the nose slightly over-long and very straight beneath dark level brows, which were drawn together now as he stood in the doorway and surveyed the company. His eyes were very dark brown, almost black, and she felt the chilling quality of their steady gaze and pitied those poor creatures who were trembling as they stood before him now, awaiting judgement in the body of the hall.
His mouth was held in a hard line, as if in concentration, but was long-lipped and without the trap-like rigidity she had noted in men of her father’s company whom she suspected of harshness or even cruelty to their subordinates.
His eyes, roving the hall, found and recognised his neighbours. He bowed his head courteously to Sir Walter and his daughter and smiled approval as he saw they had been given stools.
“Sir Walter, you are very welcome to Allestone. I confess I rather expected you would take an active interest in the proceedings this morning.” The mouth relaxed in a slight smile. “I bid you good day, Demoiselle Gisela. As a witness to the attack on my person, I am grateful that you have placed yourself at the disposal of the court.”
Gisela’s lips parted in her shock at the sheer effrontery of his statement—and in public. Did he expect her to add more damaging testimony than his own to the evidence which would doom Sigurd?
He was continuing to speak in that low, quiet voice that she was sure brooked no argument from underlings.
“I hope, Sir Walter, that, at the conclusion of these proceedings, you and your daughter will stay and take refreshment with me? There are one or two matters, sir, on which I would value your opinion.”
Sir Walter inclined his head. “I shall be delighted to do so, lord Baron.”
Angered by her father’s apparent subservience, Gisela cast him an outraged glance, which he merely met with a smile. Before she could pass comment, there was a noise of rattling chains from the screen doors and all turned to see Sigurd Rolfson hustled between two sturdy guards into the hall.
He was manacled at wrists and ankles and shambled awkwardly forward, his head lowered to the rush-strewn floor so that, for the moment, he did not catch sight of his mother, but at her sharp, heartbroken cry of “Sigurd”, he lifted his head and looked at her dully.
Gisela could discern no signs of mistreatment upon his person and could only put down that uninterested slow gaze to sheer bewilderment at his predicament. She moved to rise and go after Aldith, who had gone to him and sobbed on his shoulder, despite the efforts of one of the grizzled-haired guards, who tried to prevent her, but in an embarrassed fashion as if he misliked the necessity.
“Leave her.” The Baron’s voice arrested him in the act of physically pulling her from the prisoner. The Baron said quietly, “Will you please sit down, mother? You will have a chance to see your son again after this trial. That I promise you.”
Aldith lifted a tortured face to his and then went, unresisting, back to her stool. The guards led Sigurd to a place in the centre of the hall near the other villagers, but far enough away from them as to make it impossible for any of his erstwhile companions to talk to him.
He noted Gisela in passing and, for the first time since his entry into the hall, she saw a misting of tears in his blue eyes as he nodded to her in gratitude. Then he resumed his posture of despair, standing docilely between his guards and gazing stolidly down at the floor. Not once did he cast an appealing glance at his lord.
Gisela was too distracted by conflicting thoughts to pay much attention to the minor matters brought before the Baron for judgement. For the most part they concerned quarrels and disagreements between neighbours which were listened to attentively and judgement pronounced unequivocally and swiftly. Two men were accused of failing to do desmesne work which was their duty and each was fined and dismissed.
One youngster stood, like Sigurd, head down, while the desmesne reeve told of his being caught red-handed, poaching in Allestone wood. There was a little hush when the Baron’s steel-like tones asked the boy if he had anything to say in his own defence. The youngster shook his head miserably after being nudged by his father, who stood next to him.
All knew this could be a hanging matter; though many guessed the Baron would not go so far, the boy could certainly be condemned to maiming, possibly to the loss of a hand. There was a silence while the Baron conferred with both reeve and seneschal. He looked up and ordered the boy to come forward.
“You have been warned before, I understand,” he said coldly and the boy nodded. “You realise this is a serious matter for which I could punish you severely, so severely that a maimed son could become totally dependent upon his family. I am informed that your parents have served Sir Godfrey and now me faithfully and for that reason I will show mercy.
“You will be handed over to my marshal for physical punishment. A sore back should teach you to keep to your own preserves in future. A fine could also fall hard upon your parents and so I will not impose one. Be brought before me again and I shall not be so easy on you.”
The youngster looked anxiously towards his father, who was gesturing to him to respond to the sentence. He was not sure what his fate would be, having been too terrified to hear properly. He stammered out some sort of apology and expression of gratitude and was pulled away by one of the attendant guards.
Gisela bit her lip hard now as she saw Sigurd being brought forward to stand before the dais. One of his guards poked him sharply and he looked up at last and faced the Baron. Gisela could not see his expression, but judged from the set of his shoulders that it was still sulky. Aldith gave a little anguished gasp at her side.
“Well—” de Treville’s voice was silkily cold now as he eyed the prisoner “—there is little need for me to ask for evidence in this matter since I, myself, was the victim of a deliberate attack. Your guilt cannot be denied as witnesses will attest.” He looked beyond Sigurd’s bowed head to where Gisela sat and she started up agitatedly, ignoring her father’s urgent pull upon her skirt to try to force her back onto her seat.
“My lord.” Her voice rang out in the raftered hall and she stepped slightly forward, facing the man who sat at the trestle table upon the dais. “Sigurd cannot deny the charge and, as I was present, I cannot deny the truth of it either, but I came today to plead with you to take into consideration that he was provoked.”
“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, beating 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.”
