The Baron's Quest. Margaret Moore

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ