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“Why are there so many of our soldiers in the hall? It’s not nearly time for the evening meal.”
Dunstan answered quietly. “If that letter should show that the last one supposedly from Adelaide was full of lies—”
“I see,” she interrupted, opening the letter and reading it quickly.
The writing was the same and revealed that Adelaide had indeed written and sent her message in the care of Sir Bayard de Boisbaston. This letter was undoubtedly from Adelaide, for the writer gave answers to Gillian’s questions that only her older sister would know.
In spite of that reassurance, and for the first time since she’d taken charge of Averette, she felt afraid. If everything Adelaide had written was true, she could be in grave danger. Her heart raced, until—and unaccountably—her gaze fell on Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, champion of tournaments, standing on the dais.
As she grew calmer, she forced her attention back to the anxious Dunstan, who was watching her intently. “Everything in the other letter was true,” she whispered. “Adelaide is married, Sir Bayard is her brother-in-law, and there’s a conspiracy against the king that’s put us in danger, too. Dismiss the soldiers. Send them back to their duties.”
His lips thinned, but Dunstan didn’t protest, or say anything to her. He moved away and quietly issued an order to the men, who began to go.
Taking a deep breath and rolling up the scroll, she approached Sir Bayard. “It seems, my lord, that we were wrong to doubt you.”
His shoulders relaxed and a smile slowly blossomed on his face. “So now you believe I am who I claim to be.”
She nodded and took a seat, regarding him gravely. “Which means I must also believe we’re in danger here.”
“Yes,” he agreed, clasping his hands behind his back. “But less than before, now that I am here.”
She tried not to reveal her displeasure at his arrogant remark.
Unsuccessfully, apparently, for he gave her a rueful grin and said, “Not because I’m such a fearsome warrior, my lady. Because I’m an experienced one—and so I still think it would be a mistake to have a hall moot.”
She rose abruptly. “I do not, my lord. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do!”
THE NEXT MORNING, after a very restless night that she ascribed to anticipation of the hall moot, Gillian rose from her bed and wrapped her light bedrobe around herself. She went to the narrow window of her bedchamber and looked out at the eastern sky now lighting with the first pink flush of dawn. There were only wisps of cloud in the sky, their undersides orange and rose and a bevy of tints in between, and promising a fine day for the hall moot.
Which they must and would have today, in spite of Sir Bayard’s disapproval.
Disapproval he’d still harbored at the evening meal, no matter how genially he’d behaved last night. She had seen it in his face and his dark, intense eyes, eyes whose regard made her feel so…so…
She wouldn’t think about Sir Bayard’s eyes, and his notion to cancel the hall moot only offered further proof that he had little experience running an estate. Otherwise, he would understand that disputes between tenants should be settled as quickly as possible, before the conflict worsened.
The door to her chamber opened and Dena came bustling in with a jug of warm water. “Oh, it’s nice and cool in here this morning!” she exclaimed brightly as she poured the warm water from the jug into the basin on the washstand. “I’m thinking it’s going to be a hot day, though, my lady. Are you sure you want to wear the gold gown?”
“Yes,” Gillian replied before she started to wash. She should look her best when she sat in judgment; her gold damask gown was the finest one she possessed.
“At least the silk veil’s light,” Dena noted as she started to make the wide, curtained bed.
Gillian sat on the stool and started to run her comb through her long, straight hair. Sometimes she envied Adelaide her bountiful curls and waves, but not in the summer months. She well remembered the tears that came to Adelaide’s eyes when she tried to get a comb through the thick, curly riot of her hair on a summer’s morn.
Gillian deftly began to braid her hair. After she had done so, Dena would pin the braids around her head.
“I hear Geoffrey and Felton are at it again,” Dena said as she glanced over her shoulder at her mistress.
“Apparently.”
“Do you suppose Sir Bayard will attend the moot?”
“I don’t know why he would,” Gillian replied. “It’s nothing to do with him.”
On the other hand, there was little enough for him to do in Averette, so he might attend, if only to be entertained.
“Are you quite well, my lady?” Dena asked, her brow furrowing as she came to finish Gillian’s hair. “Your hands are shaking.”
“It’s nothing,” she said as she clasped them together. “I’m always a little anxious before a hall moot. You can never be sure how someone will react to a judgment.”
That wasn’t a lie, exactly. But she would not admit her state had anything to do with the possibility of Sir Bayard watching the proceedings.
Besides, even if he did come, she could ignore him.
By the time she was attired in her gown, with its long cuffed sleeves lined with scarlet sarcenet, her veil held in place by a slender gold coronet, and wearing gilded slippers that belonged to Adelaide, Gillian was confident that she would be able to conduct the hall moot with perfect ease even if King John himself appeared to witness it.
As she proceeded to the courtyard where a dais had been erected and one of her father’s chairs placed for her, she felt very much the chatelaine of Averette, as her own mother had never been. Her mother had been a timid creature, terrified of her husband and his rages, and ill from the constant struggle to give him the son he demanded.
Dunstan waited on the dais, likewise dressed in his best—a black tunic that swept the ground. He held the scroll containing the list of all those who sought justice and those against whom they had complaints. It was a long one, in no small part because the Lady of Averette was known to be just, as her father had not.
As she surveyed the crowd, several people exchanged wary glances and shifted uneasily. Even Old Davy, in his usual place by the stable doors, looked far from comfortable.
It was as if her father had returned to rule Averette.
She looked out over the gathering and found a possible explanation for the people’s anxiety. Several soldiers were now stationed around the dais where she would sit in judgment. More lined the wall walk and extra guards manned the gates. Iain stood, feet planted, fully armed, beside the dais.
One would think a trial of the utmost importance was about to take place, not a simple village hall moot.
This was Sir Bayard’s idea of suitable precautions, no doubt, but it seemed far more threatening than comforting.
She was tempted to dismiss the extra soldiers, but what if she was in danger? There were always a few unfamiliar faces at a hall moot—visitors seeking entertainment, petitioners’ relatives from other towns, merchants, and tinkers, and others who traveled to sell their goods. She couldn’t be certain that there were no enemies with other goals among them.
Taking her seat, she nodded at Dunstan, who unrolled the scroll and read out those named in the first case.
Just as he finished, a startled murmur went through the crowd and the people seemed transfixed by something—or someone—coming toward the dais from behind her.
She looked over her shoulder to see Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, dressed in chain-mail hauberk, coif, gauntlet gloves, mail hosen, and surcoat, march toward the dais. Without a word, he stepped onto the platform and stood behind her chair, resting one hand on the hilt of his broadsword as if he intended to remain there the entire day.
Or as if he were the lord of Averette.
She’d accepted that they might need extra guards, but this was too much. Some of her tenants were clearly frightened; all of them looked uncertain and confused. Only little Teddy, holding tight to his father’s hand, smiled with unreserved happiness. He waved at Bayard and as Gillian glanced over her shoulder again, she was surprised to see the knight raise his hand in a small salute. Yet even that gesture couldn’t lessen the impact of his dramatic—and intimidating—arrival.
Dunstan didn’t look pleased at all, nor did Iain. Both men glared at Bayard as she would have liked to. However, dignity, decorum, and a need to appear united was more important than registering her dismay at this particular time. She could wait until they weren’t in full view of everyone in the yard to tell Sir Bayard precisely what she thought of his unnecessary presence.
Instead, she turned to Dunstan. “Summon the first petitioners.”
First was Felton bringing his charge of false measure against the miller. Many a miller was accused of using false weights, but such a charge had never been proven against Geoffrey.
Unfortunately, Geoffrey never ceased to act the gloating victor over the matter of his wife’s choice, even if he and his spouse often quarreled. Perhaps goading the baker was some compensation for his less-than-blissful marriage.
Whatever the cause of their squabbling, Gillian tried to maintain an appearance of impartial serenity as the baker declared his grievances, and the miller, smug as always, defended himself.
“Has anyone else ever complained about my weights?” Geoffrey concluded. “No! Because everyone knows I don’t cheat and never have! I’m an honest, God-fearing fellow.”
“Honest?” Felton sneered, his round belly quivering with indignation. “How honest is it to have hollowed-out weights? To put your finger on the scales? To charge more than—”
“Enough!” Gillian had to say, or they would go on forever. “Dunstan will check the measures again, Felton. If they’re found to be false, Geoffrey will be punished according to the king’s laws.”
“But, my lady,” Felton protested, “that’s what you always say!”
Behind her, she heard the soft clink of metal, as if Sir Bayard had moved. She didn’t want to acknowledge his presence, yet she couldn’t resist the urge to see what had made that sound.
Sir Bayard stood in the same place, but now his arms were crossed and it was quite obvious that beneath his helmet, he was frowning with displeasure.
Felton blanched. “I—I beg your pardon, my lady,” he stammered, backing away. “I meant no harm. I just think Geoffrey’s…I thought that maybe…never mind!” he cried before he rushed away through the crowd.
Leaving an even more smug Geoffrey. And an even more annoyed Gillian. “Geoffrey, you had best hope your measures are utterly accurate, and if I were you, I would cease behaving as if you’ve won a crown, not a wife. Otherwise, I might be tempted to rescind my permission for you to operate the mill and give it to someone more humble.”
Now it was the miller’s turn to blanch. “Yes, my lady.”
“Next, please, Dunstan,” she ordered, once again trying to ignore the presence of the knight behind her.
Which proved impossible.
As the day wore on, Sir Bayard never moved from behind her chair. She didn’t look at him, yet she was always aware of when he frowned, crossed his arms, or shifted his weight, because of the reactions of the people coming forward for judgment and permissions. In spite of the rulings she made, she felt more like a doll dressed up and put on the dais for show than the chatelaine of Averette.
The moment Dunstan declared the hall moot concluded, she rose and faced Sir Bayard. She didn’t raise her voice, but each word was an icicle, sharp and cold. “Sir Bayard, to the solar. Now!”
Chapter Six
WHEN THEY REACHED the chamber in the keep, Gillian splayed her hands on her hips and her whole body quivered with the rage she’d been fighting to suppress. “Just who the devil do you think you are?”
“I am Sir Bayard de Boisbaston,” he answered with aggravating calm as he removed his helmet. He set it on the table and untied the ventail, the flap of mail that protected his throat. He just as calmly shoved his coif back, baring his head and revealing his tousled hair.
“Are you the lord and master of Averette?”
“No,” he replied.
He actually had the gall to smile at her! “I have no wish to try to command you, my lady.”
“Then by what right did you stand on that dais and act the part?”
He slowly and deliberately took off his gauntleted gloves. “I have no wish to be the master of Averette,” he replied, regarding her steadily with those deep brown eyes of his. “I was doing what I was sent here to do. I was protecting you.”
“Iain and the men of my garrison can do that,” she retorted, barely resisting the urge to knock his helmet from the table and send it crashing to the floor. “I thought I’d made that very clear. But no! The bold, the mighty, the notorious Sir Bayard de Boisbaston must come and stand behind me like a one-man praetorian guard, to frighten and intimidate my tenants, or to grant his august approval of my judgments!”
“I did no such thing. I simply stood there, keeping watch.”
Still glaring, she crossed her arms over her heaving chest. “Oh, yes, keeping watch, as if I’m a little girl who needs a great big man to help me!”
His lips thinned and she could see anger in his eyes. Let him be enraged. He’d enraged her. He’d treated her like a weak and helpless child!
“I played no part at all in your decisions, nor did I try to,” he said.
“Oh, no,” she scornfully replied. “You didn’t terrify Felton into silence with your stares or make the alewife start to cry, or frighten the chandler’s daughter half to death.”
“I was on guard, my lady, but I’m not a statue, nor deaf nor blind. I’m sorry if my reactions offended you, but I was not attempting to influence the proceedings.”
“Nevertheless, you did—by your very presence and especially in your armor with your sword at your side!”
“Then that could not be helped.”
She went to stand nose-to-chin with him. “Never, ever, presume to do that again!”
He regarded her quizzically and, to her further aggravation, she saw amusement lurking in those brown eyes. “What, stand behind you?”
“You know full well what I mean!” she charged, more annoyed than ever because he didn’t appreciate the enormity of what he’d done, the humiliation he’d caused her, the embarrassment she felt. “Don’t ever try to act the lord here!”
“I assure you again, my lady, that is not in my plans.”
“Don’t smirk at me, you…you man!” she exclaimed, her hands balling into fists. “With your chain mail, and your sword, and your handsome face! Don’t think I’m like every other foolish woman who’s fallen under your spell. That I’ll simply bow down before you and let you do what you will. I will never let any man rule me—or Averette!”
“Including the king?”
He was purposefully goading her, the cur. “You know I don’t include the king. But I won’t let you tell me what to do, or order me or my men about, or try to take control of what is mine to rule! I’ve waited years for this chance, to stand in my own light and not in the shadow of Adelaide’s beauty or Lizette’s charm. To show everyone what I can do. To be seen at last. But no, you must come here and take that away from me, too.”
“I watched as Armand vied for recognition from our father,” he answered slowly, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Attention that should have been Armand’s, but that came to me instead. I won’t do that to you.”
“So you say, but words are cheap!” she retorted. “You’re just like all men. I hate what you did today! I hate you!”
She raised her hand, wanting to hit something…anything…perhaps him. He grabbed her wrist, his long, strong fingers wrapping around her arm and holding her still. His gaze held hers just as strongly, as if challenging her to try to look away.
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She would stand there forever with his hand holding her, standing so close, his broad chest rising and falling as he breathed heavily, his face close.
His lips close, too. His whole body near, closer to her than she’d been to a man in a very long time.
Touching her. His eyes looking into hers as if seeking…what?
Her breathing quickened and grew shallow. She felt the pressure of his grasp and much more now. A desire, a need, long suppressed, almost forgotten.
Almost. Until now.
And he…what was he feeling, as he looked at her that way?
His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. His breathing, too, had grown shallow and fast. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go.
He didn’t let go.
He started to draw her forward. Pulling her toward him, as if he wanted to…was going to…
