Scoundrel Of Dunborough. Margaret Moore

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      The spit boy hurried back to his duty, the chickens only slightly charred.

      “We had all best get back to work,” the cook added.

      Peg returned to shelling the peas and, with a heart full of sympathy, Lizabet took the hot water back to Sir Roland’s chamber.

      * * *

      Celeste realized something had changed the moment Lizabet returned. She was like a candle that had been snuffed, and Celeste could guess why.

      She didn’t want to talk about Audrey, but she had other questions, ones she hoped Lizabet could answer. “I grew up in Dunborough, but I don’t think we’ve ever met. Are you from here, too?” she asked as Lizabet poured warm water from the ewer into the basin on the washstand.

      “Aye. My father’s a woodcutter. I came to work in the castle after Sir Blane and Broderick died. Peg and me both. My father wouldn’t let us come before that because of them, although we could have used the wages.”

      “Yet he had no such reservations about Sir Roland and Gerrard?”

      Lizabet shook her head. “Not once Sir Roland was named the lord. My father was sure he’d see that the servants were safe. And ever since Sir Roland got wounded, Gerrard’s been like a new man. It’s as if he’s seen the error of his ways. O’course, it could be Sir Roland’s wife helped him see that. She wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from Gerrard, that’s for certain.”

      “Were you here when Sir Roland came home with his bride?”

      “Indeed I was, Sister. We were all that surprised, I must say! Rumor was Sir Roland was going to DeLac to end any talk of an alliance with the lord there, and then he comes home with the man’s daughter as his bride. Verdan—he come with her from DeLac, one of the escort—he said they was all surprised Lady Mavis agreed to the match and didn’t run off. Spirited, she is, Sister. And beautiful, so maybe no wonder Sir Roland wanted her.”

      “I remember Sir Roland as a boy, and he didn’t seem the sort of fellow to make a very pleasant husband. If it was a contracted marriage, perhaps his wife felt she had no choice. Indeed, I can find it in my heart to pity her.”

      Lizabet’s eyes widened. “Oh, there’s no need for that, Sister! It might have been arranged at the start, but it was a love match, too, for all that. She looks at him like he’s the most wonderful man in the world and he looks at her like she’s an angel come to earth. She’s expecting already.”

      That might not be a surprise to Lizabet, but it seemed miraculous to Celeste.

      “Verdan says...” Lizabet flushed and looked at her toes. “I’m sorry, Sister, I forgot you were a nun.”

      “Can’t you pretend I’m not? And it’s not as if I haven’t heard things in the convent from the other women. Some of them are widows.”

      The maidservant looked around furtively, as if about to divulge a state secret. “Verdan says they go at it like rabbits, even in the woods one time where anybody might have seen them.”

      Now it was Celeste’s turn to blush, and blush she did as she envisioned not Roland, but Gerrard, making love with a woman in the woods to assuage their carnal desires. Yet when desire died, what was left?

      Celeste decided she’d asked enough questions. “I’m rather tired, Lizabet, and fear I’ll be very poor company tonight. I’d rather take my meal here. Please convey my regrets to Gerrard.”

      Lizabet bit her lip and her brows contracted.

      “If you’d rather not tell Gerrard—”

      “No, no, it’s no trouble, Sister,” Lizabet replied, although her attitude implied otherwise.

      Celeste gave the nervous maidservant a reassuring smile. “I shall tell him myself. Is he still in the hall?”

      “I think he’s in the outer ward with some of the men, Sister.”

      “Then I shall go to him there.”

       Chapter Three

      Stripped to the waist and crouching, Gerrard circled his opponent. Gerrard was fast and clever, while Verdan, likewise wearing only breeches and boots despite the chilly air, was big and slow and sometimes clumsy. Nevertheless, Gerrard knew it would be a mistake to think Verdan was too slow to beat him or too stupid to guess his next move.

      Other soldiers had formed a ring around the wrestlers, shouting encouragement and advice to both. Gerrard could also hear the wagers being made, albeit in quieter tones, especially from those who were betting against him.

      “Now then, Verdan,” he said, not taking his eyes from the man’s bearded face, “it’s time we put an end to this, don’t you think? Concede and we can all go have an ale.”

      “Aye, give up!” one of the younger, thinner soldiers called out, stamping his feet. “I’m getting bloody cold!”

      “Ah, shut yer gob,” another, with darker hair and clean-shaven, retorted. “Verdan can take him. Show him, Verdan!”

      “A southern man beat a Yorkshireman born and bred?” a third demanded, scowling as he crossed thick and powerful arms. “Not likely!”

      “He’s got half a head on Gerrard.”

      “Half a brain, too. Come on, Gerrard, take him down!”

      “Show ’im what a good soldier’s made of, Verdan!”

      “Show ’im what a Yorkshireman’s made of!”

      Gerrard suddenly feinted left, then dived right, grabbing Verdan around the legs and pulling him down. In the next instant, more cheers went up as Gerrard flipped the big man onto his stomach and sat on his back. Verdan flailed about, trying to grab him, but Gerrard got his arms under his opponent’s and his hands clasped behind Verdan’s neck. The bigger man was helpless.

      “I had somethin’ in me eye!” Verdan declared, spitting out bits of grass as he continued to shift from side to side as well as up and down, trying to buck Gerrard off.

      “Come, man, you’ve lost,” Gerrard said. “Admit it and let’s go get some ale. I think we’ve both worked up a mighty thirst. And since you’re no doubt exhausted, I’ll excuse you from guard duty tonight.”

      “Well, since you put it that way...” Verdan stopped moving and let Gerrard climb off him.

      Grinning, Gerrard reached down to help the soldier to his feet. Bets were paid off, some grudgingly, while the two combatants wiped the perspiration from their faces, put on their shirts and tunics, Gerrard’s of wool and Verdan’s of boiled leather. Before the contest, Gerrard had taken a loose bit of thread from the hem of his tunic and tied back his hair to keep it off his face, and he didn’t bother to undo it. “As for the rest of you men, I expect to find all your weapons clean and sharp tomorrow,” he said. “And nobody the worse for drink, myself included,” he added ruefully, earning chuckles from the men, who began to move toward the castle gate.

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