The Baron's Quest

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She glanced at the curious women. She wanted nothing at all to do with Robert Chalfront and she writhed inwardly at the thought of being linked to him in any way.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“I am too busy to take any notice of your whereabouts,” she said, her tone cold and brusque in her desperation for him to be gone.

“I want to make sure the baron hasn’t...doesn’t... mistreat you.”

“What?” she cried, disbelief in her voice and expression as she straightened with the wet tunic in her hands. “And what would you do if he had?” she asked. “Heaven forbid that you should criticize your new master, for anything he might do!”

“I would!”

“As you did last night when he ordered me to his bedchamber?” She raised her voice as much for the benefit of the listening women as to lend force to her words. “He did not harm me in any way. He only gave me this to wash.” She thrust the black garment out like a dagger in the hands of an assassin. “And I have done so. Now go away, Robert, and let me finish my work. Won’t the baron need you to wipe his lips or pull out his chair?”

He grabbed her arm. “You must and shall listen to me!” he cried, a flash of anger in his usually cowlike eyes.

“Take your hand off me,” she said fiercely.

“You are not the mistress of this estate anymore, Gabriella,” he proclaimed desperately, his grip tightening, “and you will listen to what I have to say. I want you to pay attention to me. Me! For once in your life!”

She had never seen Robert like this before, and he almost frightened her. Unsure what to do, she forced herself to remain calm. “You are hurting me.”

He became instantly contrite, again the helpless child. “Why won’t you marry me?” he asked mournfully. “I could pay your debt and you would never have to wash a thing!”

“I don’t love you. I could never love you,” she said firmly. She could not believe that he didn’t understand. His unreasonable persistence was beyond annoying. She had certainly made her feelings, or lack thereof, known the first time he had proposed—and the second and the third and every time after that.

“But why?”

She clasped the wet tunic to her chest. “For the last time, Robert, I will never marry you. I would sooner marry the Baron DeGuerre than you!” she replied, citing the most outrageous example she could think of.

Which seemed to be the appropriate means to pierce Chalfront’s self-delusion. The hopeful light went out of his eyes, and although she didn’t enjoy seeing it, she couldn’t help feeling relieved.

Then he sighed and said, “You needn’t have put me in danger with your false accusations.”

“False accusations?”

“The baron does not trust me, and there is no reason he should not.”

“You led my father into ruin and worried him into an early grave!” she charged.

“Do you still believe that?” he asked incredulously.” I did everything I could to help him—but he wouldn’t listen! Why, I even used my own money to try to pay his final debts!”

He had told her that before, when he had first broached the subject of marriage to her. At the time, she had thought he was saying so only to make her consider his suit. Yet now, when he finally appeared to comprehend that he had nothing to gain, he still maintained what had seemed to her to be impossible, and there was a ring of truth in his words that she found hard to deny. “Why would you do that?” she demanded in a low voice, aware that the women’s eyes were still upon them.

“For you,” he said softly, looking at her with pleading eyes like a lonesome dog. “To know that I was helping you by doing so, so that I might have one kind word from you.”

“You... you should have asked my father to raise the rents!” she said.

“I love you, Gabriella! I would do anything for you, for even one kind word from you. I had hoped you would be grateful—”

“Well, well, well, what touching scene is this?”

Gabriella and Robert moved quickly apart as Philippe de Varenne strolled toward them. With his sleek black hair, dark garments and narrow eyes, he reminded Gabriella of a hawk before the falconer let it fly after its prey. She clutched the damp tunic more tightly to her chest. Chalfront, pale and panting, looked as if he were seriously contemplating running away as fast as his legs would carry him.

“What business have you accosting the maidservants, Chalfront?” de Varenne demanded scornfully.

“Sir, I... I...” Chalfront stammered helplessly.

“None, I think, beyond trying to seduce her, eh?”

Gabriella had never wanted to slap a man’s face so much in her life. No, not even the baron’s, for he had not looked at her with such bold, lustful impertinence, even when he held her fast in his arms.

“My...lord! Sir! You misunderstand!” Chalfront spluttered.

“He was not trying to seduce me,” Gabriella said firmly.

“No? It certainly looked as if he were up to something. I suggest you run along, Chalfront. I believe the baron is looking for you.”

Chalfront’s glance darted from Philippe de Varenne to Gabriella, then back to Philippe before he bobbed his head and hurried away.

“If he troubles you, you should let me know,” Philippe said condescendingly.

In truth, this man troubled her far more than Chalfront ever would or could. “If you will excuse me, sir, I have work to do.”

“So I see,” Philippe replied, grabbing the tunic from her and holding it out. “He has made you a washerwoman?”

She didn’t answer as she shivered from the dampness of her bodice.

He ran his gaze over her and suddenly she realized that her wet clothes clung to her skin and her nipples had puckered with the cold. She hugged herself, as much to shield her body from his lascivious stare as for warmth. “If you will excuse me, sir,” she said again through clenched teeth.

“Of course, pretty Gabriella.” He held out the garment so that she had to reach for it. She took hold of it, but he would not release it. Instead, he tugged hard, so that she was pulled against his chest. Before she could respond to his impertinent action, he stepped away and started to chuckle smugly. “I must have you do my laundry, too.”

“Philippe!” The baron’s voice rumbled toward them from the drawbridge. She had been so intent first on Chalfront and then Philippe de Varenne that she had not seen the baron approach. He was mounted on his black stallion and accompanied by Sir George, as well as a small armed troop. As always, the baron was dressed in black and wearing no jewelry. His cloak was thrown back over his shoulder, revealing his muscular chest, and his sword brushed against his thigh.

Sir George wore a bright cloak of robin’s egg blue lined with scarlet. His tunic was also red, trimmed with gold, and his hose was blue. He gave her a warm and sympathetic smile, which did little to assuage her embarrassment.

“Adieu, Gabriella,” Philippe said with a parting leer before he sauntered toward his lord, who watched them with an impassive face.

Gabriella, clutching the wet garment again to her chest, glared past Philippe to the man who was responsible for putting her in a position to have to endure Philippe de Varenne’s rudeness, then turned on her heel and marched away.

Two days later, Etienne sat in the solar and rubbed his aching temples as he stared at the pile of documents spread out on the table before him. He was attempting to wade through the last of the lists, charters, receipts and records that pertained to his new estate. He would be a happy man when his steward was able to leave his other estate to come here and take charge of the accounts himself.

It was not just that the late earl had been an overgenerous, lax superintendent and that the bailiff had felt it necessary to record every ha’penny spent or received; reading itself taxed Etienne’s patience, since he was far from skilled at it. He had learned to read when he was a grown man, out of necessity rather than desire, and he would far sooner spend his days in the lists facing the couched lances of aggressive knights than studying these cramped letters and figures.

He had spent several more hours in the past few days examining lists of tenants’ goods and accounts, supervising the arrival and purchase of necessary food and furnishings, as well as riding through the estate looking for livestock conveniently left off such lists, and finding several, all obviously the best beasts their masters owned. He had seen to the repair of the mill and the granary, for it seemed that the late earl, so particular about his castle, had been much less so about other buildings on his estate. He had realized that poaching was going to be a problem, for his men had found several traps and snares in the estate woods. They had no clue who had set them, or if they were the work of one man or a gang. Whoever was breaking the law, when they were caught, they would rue the day they tried to do so on his estate.

Outside, a heavy rain fell, which meant all of his men were cooped up inside instead of out in the woods hunting or practicing their fighting skills in the nearby meadow or the large courtyard. He could discern their voices coming from the great hall. Philippe was teasing Seldon about a rather plump serving wench that Seldon fancied. If Philippe wasn’t careful, he would wind up with a broken nose. It would serve him right, Etienne thought coldly, and might cure the fellow of some of his vanity.

Again Etienne remembered Gabriella and Philippe on the riverbank. How angry she had been, and justifiably so, and how attractive, with her thick, curling hair and blushing cheeks, her gleaming brown eyes and defiant stance, holding his tunic against her perfect breasts. For a moment, he had envied his tunic.

He wondered what Philippe had said to her, although that wasn’t so very difficult to guess. Her response was rather obvious, too. However, the baron didn’t doubt that he could control the young man for some time yet, and hoped that de Varenne’s ambition would soon lead him elsewhere.

It was regrettable, perhaps, that Gabriella Frechette should be in such a tenuous position, but that could not be helped. He had done his best to compel her to leave, and she had refused. She would have to face the consequences.

He sighed, then reminded himself that he should be giving his attention to the documents before him.

Nevertheless, in another moment, Etienne was distracted by Philippe’s scornful voice, Donald’s serious tones and George’s pleasant intercession, no doubt trying to solve a conflict. Before he could figure out what they were talking about, their voices dropped. Apparently George had managed to circumvent trouble again. One day George was going to make some lucky woman a fine husband, if the indifferent fellow could ever be persuaded to make such a decision.

A woman’s laugh wafted into the solar, and he recognized it as Josephine’s. She had found plenty of things to do since their arrival, and quite happily had seen to the decorating of the hall and bedchamber. He understood she was busily working on a new tapestry for their bedchamber, which was now as comfortably furnished as any man could wish, a delight for the eyes as well as the succor of the body.

He surveyed the solar, noting with pleasure the carved lintel and the rain splashing against the glass windows. To be sure, such decorative measures were extravagant, yet he was fast coming to believe that the pleasure was worth the price. Within reasonable limits, of course.

Chalfront, looking like a whipped dog, sidled into the solar, yet more parchment scrolls in his hands.

Etienne was beginning to understand why someone would dislike Robert Chalfront. He had all the personality of a limp rag, and was so obsequious, the baron was often tempted to shake him. He never ventured an opinion, but seemed to expect to be told everything. It was a wonder he could find it in his power to decide how to dress each day! On the other hand, he was responsible and meticulous, working as diligently as if this estate was his own.

Nevertheless, Etienne had to subdue the urge to scowl. Really, the fellow had no need to look so browbeaten. Perhaps had the bailiff possessed a more forceful personality, the late earl might not have been so exploited by his tenants.

With a slight sigh, Etienne reached out for his chalice of wine before glancing at the bailiff, who sat on the opposite side of the long trestle table at Etienne’s gestured invitation.

Etienne drank deeply of the delicious wine, thinking that he would have been very pleased if the earl had laid in a larger store of the beverage before his death. “You have certainly documented everything thoroughly,” he remarked, making his words a compliment instead of betraying any hint of his frustration. “Just tell me, how many villeins are ad censum?”

“There are twenty-two who pay rents in cash, my lord,” Chalfront replied eagerly. “David Marchant the miller pays the most, fifty shillings a year, and John the Smith pays the least, two farthings. The rest are listed here.” He indicated another closely but neatly written parchment.

“And these?” Etienne waved at the following group of names on the same parchment.

“Those are the villeins ad opus. Beside their names, you will see that I have noted what work is expected of them per week and per annum, my lord.”

Etienne gave the bailiff a brief nod and the list an even briefer glance. “You seem to enjoy making lists, Robert.”

“I enjoy having things neat and orderly, my lord,” Chalfront replied respectfully. “I would draw your attention to my notes regarding the mill rate and pannage, my lord, and—”

“My head aches,” the baron said truthfully, silencing the bailiff. He picked up a document with an elaborate seal, and another one with a smaller seal. “This is my Charter of Extent,” he said, indicating the former, “detailing the lands, services and rents I am supposed to receive, and this is the Charter of Custumal, the obligations and rights of the tenants, that I found among the late earl’s papers. I want you to examine them and tell me if everything is in order.”

The bailiff’s pale blue eyes widened. “You would trust me with this responsibility, my lord?” he marveled.

“Yes,” Etienne replied, only then considering that perhaps he was not wise to give this fellow such a duty. “For the present. My steward, Jean Luc Ducette, will be arriving in a fortnight. He will examine the records when he arrives. He had better be able to confirm what you have to tell me.”

The bailiff nodded enthusiastically.

“What are all these other lists?” Etienne asked, gesturing vaguely toward another pile of papers.

“I thought you would wish to have certain information before the tenants swear their oaths of loyalty. Here are three new men who have yet to pay their gersum for becoming your tenants,” Chalfront said, pointing to a group of names on the topmost document. “This man needs to pay the merchet before his daughter weds next month. These two men have died since the earl, and no one has collected the heriot. And finally, my lord, I really think you should decide about the pannage.”

“What did the earl usually ask for the privilege of letting pigs roam in his forest?”

Chalfront named sums that would have been appropriate in the last century, and Etienne said as much. “No wonder the earl found himself penniless,” he added. The baron eyed Chalfront shrewdly. “Why did you not inform the earl that he was not demanding nearly enough?”

“I did, my lord,” Chalfront said with great humility. “He refused to listen, even when I made it clear that he had set himself and his family on the road to ruin. He was a man who wanted very much to be liked by his tenants. Too much, perhaps, but it is certain that they all genuinely mourned at his death.”

If Etienne needed any additional confirmation that the late earl was a man of misplaced priorities, Robert Chalfront just provided it. It was not important that one’s tenants liked their lord; it was important that they respect him, obey him and make him a wealthy man. “I see.” Etienne ran his gaze over the unprepossessing man sitting across from him. Would a man like that truly dare to upbraid his master? Would he have the courage to make the consequences of the earl’s misplaced generosity apparent? Or would he mumble and stutter and try to follow the lord’s instructions somehow?