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She and her sisters, Adelaide and Elizabeth—Lizette to those who knew her—were wards of the king. That meant John had complete power over them. He could marry them off as suited his purposes, without any regard at all for their happiness. He also gave guardianships of young male heirs to men who would strip the estates bare before the boys came of age. Indeed, he gave no thought at all to the welfare and safety of those for whom he was responsible, including the people of England.
Who could say what he might have done that could affect her, or the people of Averette?
And why had this knight been chosen to deliver her sister’s message? If Adelaide were ill, a servant would have been dispatched.
Was it possible John had selected a husband for Adelaide, or Lizette, or even her—and this man was to be the groom?
Surely not. Please, God, she hoped not. Not for her, and not a man like this, an arrogant fellow who regarded her, and everyone else, with aggravating condescension.
Over the years she’d met many a man just like him. No doubt this Sir Bayard expected her to be impressed with his rank, his bearing, and his good looks. To be sure, he was handsome, despite the thin scar that went from the corner of his right eye to his chin, but she was no flighty, foolish girl to be so easily impressed.
Only once had she met a knight who had been generous, kind, and humble, and who had, surprisingly, been more interested in her than either of her sisters.
But that had been years ago, and James d’Ardenay was dead.
She glanced at Sir Bayard again. What was he seeing as he approached Averette? Tithes and income? Peasants who should be ready to fight in battles and die for their overlord’s cause?
She saw her home and people who labored to keep it prosperous and safe, secure in times of trouble. She saw men and women with names, faces, families, hopes, and dreams—like Young Davy, who knew more about the history of this village and its folk than anyone else. Old Davy was like a grandfather to her, as his wife had been more of a mother to her than her own poor sickly mother had ever been.
She knew the miller and the baker with their constant conflict, Sam at the tavern and Peg, as well as the morose chandler, who barely said three words to anybody.
She saw people like Hale, the hayward, and father of little Teddy, whom Sir Bayard had nearly run down—not that he seemed troubled by that near accident, and of course he’d assumed a sum of money would be appropriate compensation.
There were many others, each one unique, some more likable than others, but all hers to protect, like this household, castle, and estate.
And she would. To the last breath in her body and regardless of who sat on the throne, she would.
AS THEY NEARED the barbican, ten soldiers of the garrison trotted out and blocked the entrance, their spears tipped forward like a spiked wall. The portcullis had been lowered and the inner gate closed. Several archers also lined the walls, which was no more than Bayard would expect.
“Your men are well trained,” he noted in an attempt to achieve some sort of truce when he and the lady came to a halt.
She couldn’t look prouder if she trained them herself. “They are,” she replied. Then she announced, in a loud, clear voice, “All is well!”
He caught the expression that flashed across the soldiers’ faces. That meant something, and it wasn’t that all was truly well.
Likely it meant she saw no immediate danger but they should be prepared to fight.
The portcullis began to rise, and the soldiers wheeled back so that they lined the road. Bayard dutifully fell into step beside Lady Gillian as they passed through the large gatehouse and across the outer bailey, which contained a practice yard, a garden, a smithy, and a round stone dovecote. He’d been right to suggest to Frederic that the portion of the wall visible from the approaching road was no indication of the actual size of the fortress. This one had been built in a tear shape, with the barbican and gatehouse at the narrow end.
They entered the courtyard through thick, bossed oaken gates. He guessed this fortress was built within the last fifty years, although the round keep behind the long hall was clearly older. Judging by the black marks beneath some of the narrow loopholes in the keep, it had been fired more than once. That it was still standing was a silent testament to its builders’ skill, as well as the quality of their mortar.
The main buildings within the inner wall included the hall, the chapel, storerooms, stables, and the kitchen that was attached to the hall by a corridor. The two-story building to the west of the hall was likely the family apartments and perhaps chambers for their guests. Otherwise, he supposed, he and Frederic would be bedding down in the hall with the soldiers and male servants.
There were no piles of barrels, casks, or baskets outside the buildings; no damaged wagons or other items left where they’d broken down until they could be attended to. Indeed, the courtyard was almost painfully neat, and he could only catch the slightest whiff of dung from the stables, which told him they must be cleaned often.
While the tidiness within the fortress might be impressive, he found the silence and the lack of servants—or at least the last of seeing the servants—unsettling. There wasn’t a single person peering out a window or door, although their arrival had hardly been quiet. Either they were the least curious servants he’d ever encountered or this lady governed her castle with an iron hand.
Half the archers on the inner wall now faced inward, their notched arrows pointing at the cobbled space below. More soldiers stood lining the open area, and in the center stood a tall, barrel-chested man dressed in armor, save for his bare head. His expression was grim, his face clean-shaven, the black hair on his head shot through gray, and he faced the gate as if prepared to hold off an attack all by himself.
The garrison commander, Bayard assumed.
“My lady,” the man said with a Scots accent while running a measuring gaze over Bayard.
A Scot. That was interesting. Bayard had developed a great deal of respect for the Scots during the fighting in France when John had tried to regain his lost possessions.
“Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, this is Iain Mac Ken-dren, the garrison commander responsible for my well-trained troops,” Lady Gillian said with the merest hint of a smile.
She must like the Scot, which was also interesting. Many a lady treated the men who protected her as little more than hounds or hawks. “I’m honored.”
The Scot’s response was a dismissive snort—another reaction Bayard de Boisbaston was not accustomed to receiving.
“He brings news from Lady Adelaide,” Lady Gillian announced, while Bayard struggled to control his annoyance.
Armand might have warned him about the garrison commander, too.
Mac Kendren cocked a bushy gray-and-black brow. “Does he, now?”
“I do,” Bayard said, letting his tone convey some of his displeasure at being spoken to so insolently. “Your garrison commander is to be commended for continuing to hold such responsibility in spite of his poor eyesight, my lady.”
“There’s naught wrong with my eyes,” the Scot declared with a slightly puzzled frown.
Bayard cocked a brow. “I thought there must be when I saw rust on the bottom of your hauberk.”
The Scot glanced down, as did the lady. Bayard permitted himself a little smile of satisfaction when the Scot’s face turned scarlet, for there was indeed three spots of rust at the bottom of his hauberk.
More amusement and challenge came of Bayard’s dark eyes. “I also note, my lady, that we haven’t yet exchanged the kiss of greeting.”
Chapter Two
BAYARD WASN’T SURE WHAT to expect when he gently chastised Lady Gillian, but he wasn’t completely surprised when her green eyes flashed with equal challenge and she boldly walked up to him, raised herself on her toes, and bussed him heartily on both cheeks.
There was more than a slight flush coloring her own round cheeks when she stepped back.
“Such enthusiasm,” he remarked. “I may yet find myself delighted I was sent to Averette.”
As her blush deepened and his gaze held hers, the door to the hall opened, and a man appeared. He was of an age with Bayard and wore a long tunic that brushed the ground. He could have been a priest, except he had no tonsure, and the look he gave the lady was not of priestly piety.
That was interesting, too. Between the hearty kiss and the young man’s obvious affection, perhaps his first impression of Lady Gillian had been mistaken.
He’d been assuming she was the sort of noblewoman who would make a good nun.
Not that it mattered. He was here at Armand’s behest, and for a serious purpose, not to amuse himself with defiant young ladies.
“Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, this is Dunstan de Corley, the steward of Averette,” she said, introducing the young man. “Dunstan, Sir Bayard brings news from Adelaide. Please come with us to the solar.”
She started toward the hall, then paused on the steps before turning back to the yard. “Iain,” she called out. “I’d like you to come to the solar, too.”
The Scot joined them, then the lady of Averette led Bayard, her steward, and her garrison commander through a hall that was equally empty of servants, their footfalls muffled by clean, herb-scented rushes on the floor. Hounds lumbered to their feet, as grim and wary as the soldiers in the yard.
One of the dogs started to growl; a brisk word from the lady silenced him.
Finally Bayard saw a servant. A young, red-haired, freckled wench peered out of the door that led to the kitchen. When she realized he’d spotted her, she ducked out of sight. Perhaps she was just shy, but he was beginning to think Lady Gillian’s household was not a very merry place.
At the far end of the hall they went around a screen that hid another door, then up some steps leading to a narrow, covered wooden walkway. It went from the hall to the keep and was about fifteen feet above the ground.
One had only to set fire to the walkway to make the door to the keep unattainable save by ladders, supposing anyone was willing to risk a hail of arrows, or stones, or boiling water. If there was a well and food inside the keep, they could hold out there for weeks.
The lady unlocked the outer door, then waited while the others entered the building.
Once inside, Bayard surveyed the rough, gray stone walls. Stairs went up and around the inner wall to another level above, while others curved downward, probably leading to chambers used for storage and cells for prisoners.
Like the one in which Armand had been held captive for months, while he’d been treated more like a guest than a prisoner by the Duc d’Ormonde.
The room on the next level into which the lady led them wasn’t precisely a solar, for there was no bed or anything else to indicate it was anyone’s private chamber. Perhaps because it was so isolated from the rest of the castle, it appeared to have been turned into a place to keep accounts and the treasury of the estate, as evidenced by the heavy wooden chest bound with iron bands and a stout lock in one corner.
The sun lit the top of a table beneath an arched window. A holder bearing the remains of a candle sat near the right-hand edge of the table, and a few bits of quill littered the top, as if someone had tidied in a hurry. A chair waited beside the table, its cushion the only concession to personal comfort. A cupboard of the sort used to house records of tithes and other scrolls rested opposite the door.
Bayard reached into his belt and produced the letter Armand had entrusted to his care.
HIDING HER TREPIDATION, Gillian took the rolled parchment and went to the window. She trusted Dunstan and Iain, but she feared her face might betray too much emotion if she was close to them.
Mentally girding her loins, preparing for the worst, she broke the blue wax seal and began to read.
Adelaide hoped Gillian and everyone at Averette was well, as she was. Indeed, she was very happy, but she would explain more about that later. First, she had to warn Gillian.
Reading more quickly, Gillian discovered that Adelaide had helped to thwart a plot against the king that could have led to rebellion and civil war. Unfortunately, one of the conspirators had escaped and Adelaide feared her sisters were now in danger. Adelaide had written to Lizette, too, asking her to return to Averette at once.
Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, to whom Adelaide had entrusted this message, was a skilled knight and a champion of tournaments who had recently returned from the king’s campaign in Normandy. He would be staying at Aver-ette until all the traitors had been caught, imprisoned, or killed.
Gillian cut her eyes to Sir Bayard, who now stood with his hands clasped behind his back, calmly regarding them all like a conquering hero they should be glad to serve.
If he thought to overrule her here, in her home and among her people, he was sorely mistaken!
Grasping the letter tighter, Gillian read more quickly.
Sir Bayard was also the half brother of Lord Armand de Boisbaston, the finest, most honorable, bravest, best man in the world.
And Adelaide’s husband.
Gillian stared, aghast, at the words on the parchment before her. Adelaide married? It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be.
Adelaide would never give herself to a husband, never let a man rule her and treat her as his chattel, with no rights or say in anything. Lizette, perhaps, would break their vow, but not Adelaide, who had proposed their vow in the first place and pointed out all the reasons a woman shouldn’t marry.
Armand has agreed that Averette will still be your home and your responsibility, Adelaide had written. He has estates of his own in the north and says they are more than enough for him. Truly, Gillian, he is the best of men.
Gillian didn’t believe her. She knew the strength of infatuation, the power of love, and Adelaide sounded completely smitten. This Lord Armand de Boisbaston might merely be biding his time before swooping down upon Averette like a vulture—especially if he had his half brother already there to support him.
His features full of concern, Dunstan came a few steps closer. “What is it? Is Adelaide ill?”
She shook her head. “No, she’s well.” Or at least she wasn’t sick the way he meant. Sick with love, perhaps.
Yet surely if the unthinkable were true and Adelaide had married, she would come here herself to tell them. She wouldn’t send some stranger to do the deed, or to help protect Averette, either.
She thrust the letter at Dunstan. “Do you think this was written by my sister?”
“It looks like Adelaide’s hand,” he murmured as he started to read.
She knew the instant he saw the thing that had shocked her most, too. “She’s married?” He stared at Sir Bayard. “To your brother?”
“Half brother.”
Half or full, what did it matter?
“Who’s married?” Iain demanded.
Sir Bayard’s jaw clenched before he answered, but his voice was calm when he spoke. “Lady Adelaide has recently wed my half brother, Lord Armand de Boisbas-ton, a knight of the realm.”
“When? How?”
“Four days ago,” Sir Bayard replied with that same damnable composure. “In the usual fashion. I myself was not a witness to the nuptials, being newly returned from France, but I assure you, they are wed and very much in love—so much so that Armand has refused all rights to Averette.”
Something Sir Bayard obviously couldn’t fathom, Gillian realized, and neither could she. “Whoever heard of a lord who refuses more land?”
“Whatever you or I might think of it, that’s the agreement he made with his wife,” Sir Bayard replied. “As a man of honor, he will abide by it. And I give you my word as a knight of the realm that this letter is from your sister and you are in danger.”
“Danger?” Iain repeated. “What danger?”
Gillian quickly described what Adelaide had said about a conspiracy, including the news that Sir Bayard was expected to remain at Averette, something that clearly upset Dunstan and Iain as much as it did her.
“For how long?” Iain demanded.
“Until my brother and his wife deem it safe for me to go,” Sir Bayard replied.
“Am I to have no say in this matter?” Gillian angrily inquired.
“Rest assured, my lady, you’re still in command of Averette,” Sir Bayard said. “I am to provide such advice and assistance as you may require, and nothing more.”
“We’re more than capable of defending ourselves,” Dunstan said, his hand on the hilt of the sword he’d only ever wielded on a practice field.
Sir Bayard raised a brow and crossed his powerful arms. “You’ve had experience commanding men in battle? Or under siege?”
Iain threw back his shoulders. “I was in battle before you left your mother’s teat.”
“That is not what I asked,” the knight returned. “Have you commanded in battle, or under siege?”
Iain’s answer was a stony silence. He’d been in battles, Gillian knew, but his appointment to garrison commander was recent, awarded by her father shortly before he died of apoplexy during yet another drunken rant about his lack of sons and abusing God for cursing him with useless daughters.
Dunstan had no battle experience of any kind. His skill was arithmetic and keeping accurate accounts.
