The Baron's Bride. Joanna Makepeace

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      “He’s quite beautiful.”

      De Treville was thinking the same about the pup’s rescuer as she stood, trembling slightly from her recent fright, her hood fallen back, revealing her smooth fair braids beneath her fluttering head veil. Her mantle was slipping back from her shoulders and he had a tantalising glimpse of her tight, hip-hugging woollen gown beneath as the wind swirled its folds against her legs.

      Her bosom was heaving from her recent exertion and her cheeks were tinged with pink, her eyes sparkling. He thought he would have given much to bring that tender glow to her face as she gazed down, smiling, at her still-wriggling burden.

      “He will dirty your gown,” he said quietly and gently took the hound from her, handing it to Huon. “Return him to his mother, she’ll be fretting.”

      Gisela stood watching as the boy ducked his head beneath the stable door and went inside with the still-agitated stable boy.

      “I came to escort you back to the hall. You must be getting very chilled out here.”

      “No, no,” she said hastily. “I was waiting for Aldith. She’s—she’s with Sigurd.”

      “Yes.”

      “It was good of you to allow her to see him.”

      “I promised I would.”

      “Not all men keep their promises,” she responded.

      He smiled. “Forgive me, demoiselle, but I would have thought your extreme youth would have prevented you from finding out that sad truth so soon.”

      “I am almost seventeen.”

      She bridled as she saw his long lips curve into a smile again and added hurriedly, “It is just that I have heard Aldith and the serving wenches say that…”

      She broke off in confusion, then her eyes caught sight of the bandaging on his left arm and widened. “Oh, my lord, I hope you did not hurt your arm again in helping me.”

      “No, but had I done so it would have been damaged in a worthy cause.”

      “You are making fun of me,” she said reproachfully. “I regret that I have not yet asked you how serious it was. I would not have believed that the knife could have pierced through the rings of your mail.”

      He grimaced. “A sharp blade can pierce through anything if wielded with sufficient force, as can the iron tip of a good arrow. No, it is but a long scratch. The blade grated on the bone of the forearm and was deflected. It is sore and needs to be kept covered to keep clean, but it pains me little now.”

      Her expression had become sweetly grave. “I must thank you, my lord, for listening to our pleas and granting Sigurd his life. I know he was in grave peril. Many lords would not have shown such mercy.”

      He shrugged in that Gallic way she had noticed before.

      “Do not trouble yourself unduly about the boy. He will do well enough. He will resent the loss of his status. Freemen guard their rights with pride, but a hard winter can cause many of them to starve, while serfs fill their bellies at their lords’ expense.”

      “Not always. Compassionate lords will deal with their serfs responsibly but some are neglectful and some are worse—they treat them less kindly than they would their horses.”

      “Demoiselle Gisela, if you know how costly a good courser is to buy and maintain, you would understand the possible reason for that,” he said, smiling again.

      She turned away, her cheeks burning, as she resented his teasing once more.

      “Sigurd can be—difficult,” she said stiffly. “As you have said, he will resent his loss of freedom.”

      He shrugged again. “We shall manage him, never fear. He lacks a father, I understand, and has needed a firm hand for some time. Your former nurse must have worried about him constantly.”

      “Will he be beaten?”

      “If he proves—difficult, as you put it. A sore back will teach him obedience and will do him no permanent harm, as it has done no harm to Huon, nor did to me when I was undergoing my training as page and squire.”

      She looked at him thoughtfully, trying to imagine this tall, authoritative man as recalcitrant page and squire and finding it hard.

      “Shall we go back into the hall? Your father will be concerned about you. Huon will wait for your nurse and escort her back to you.”

      He held out a lean brown hand and she reluctantly placed her fingers within his grasp and allowed him to lead her back towards the keep steps.

      Sir Walter was palpably relieved to have his daughter return to the hall and smiled his pleasure. A panting Aldith, breathing hard as if she had been running, hurried through the screen doors and made for her mistress. There were visible marks of tear stains on her roughened cheeks and she curtsied dutifully to the Baron to show her gratitude.

      Gisela seized her by the hand and dragged her to the far end of the table to question her about her interview with Sigurd. De Treville followed her progress regretfully and signalled to Huon, who had entered with Aldith, to carry the wine jug, sweetmeats and goblets to the two women.

      He took a long pull at his own wine cup and then looked steadily at his guest.

      “You have a very beautiful and spirited daughter, Sir Walter.”

      “Aye.” Sir Walter followed his gaze fondly. “Too spirited for her own good sometimes. She can be headstrong. I put that down to a lack of a mother. My beloved Hildegarde died soon after her birth and Gisela is as lovely as she was.” He sighed a trifle lugubriously. “I fear I spoil her outrageously.”

      “I imagine you will be looking soon for a suitable husband and protector for her. In these difficult times that can be a worrying business.”

      Sir Walter shook his head. “The truth is, my lord, I cannot face the prospect of life at Brinkhurst without her.”

      “I can understand that.” De Treville sat thoughtfully silent for a moment, then he leaned forward in his seat slightly towards his guest. “Demoiselle Gisela has Saxon blood, I understand.”

      “Her great-grandmother was Saxon. Her husband was killed at Senlac and she married a Norman knight. My wife, Hildegarde, also had Saxon blood.” His lips twitched. “Many men in the shire are proud of their Saxon inheritance, my lord.”

      “Of course. I am equally proud to know my Norman ancestors came from Viking stock.” De Treville twirled the wine round in his goblet, watching the firelight behind them glimmer in its red depths.

      “You will see, Sir Walter—” he looked up and gestured towards the stark bare stone walls of the hall “—that my castle lacks a chatelaine.” He gave a short laugh. “My friend Rainald de Tourel, who visited some days ago and has now left to return to the King’s court, took me to task over this matter and brought a message from the King himself that I should be thinking soon of taking a wife.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ