The Baron's Quest Page 12

  The young knights exchanged furtive glances, increasing Philippe’s curiosity. Despite his newfound knowledge, he wondered if he would have done better to refuse to accompany the baron. Obviously he had missed an important development at Castle Frechette. “What is it? Has he absconded?”

  “No,” George said immediately. “He’s still here.”

  “Then what’s happened?” Philippe demanded in hushed tones, aware that whatever it was, George and the others wanted it kept secret, something significant in itself.

  “It’s nothing,” George said with surprising and unexpected sternness, confirming Philippe’s suspicions.

  “He’s done something to anger the baron?”

  “No,” Donald said slowly.

  “Then what?” Philippe asked with irritation. “It’s my sworn duty to protect the baron, too. Or is it that you seek to use your information to your own ends?”

  “I don’t think I like what you’re implying,” George replied. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “But no matter. There’s nothing to get excited about. Chalfront’s done nothing wrong.”

  “So far,” Seldon added significantly.

  Philippe’s gaze darted to the man’s face, then back to George. “Don’t attempt to divert me. I am not the village idiot, George. What do you think he’s planning?”

  George gave an exasperated sigh and looked daggers at Seldon. “I told you, it’s nothing. Lady de Chaney seems to enjoy the bailiff’s company, that’s all.”

  Philippe’s suspicious mind jumped to a fascinating conclusion. “Do you think they’re conspiring against the baron?” he whispered eagerly.

  George looked at him with mild distaste. “No, I do not They are never alone together. We, um, made sure of this.”

  “You’ve been spying on Lady de Chaney?”

  “No!” Donald was quick to deny. Rather too quick, Philippe thought. “They’ve done nothing wrong except spend some time together.”

  “A lot of time,” Seldon added, obviously not nearly so sanguine as the others. “Well, they have,” he protested when Donald shot him another angry glance.

  “George just thought to make certain. I wouldn’t say anything to the baron,” Donald warned.

  “Of course,” Philippe said agreeably. “I mean, the idea of Josephine de Chaney having improper relations—oh, I meant conversations—with a little toad like Chalfront is ridiculous. So is the notion that she would work against the baron.”

  “Yes, it is quite ridiculous,” George confirmed, obviously choosing to overlook Philippe’s purposeful slip of the tongue. Donald and Seldon nodded their heads.

  But perhaps the baron wouldn’t think so, Philippe thought smugly. He scratched his nose so that the others wouldn’t see his satisfied smile. Now he had two very interesting pieces of information that he could use, and use them he would.

  The baron marched down the stairs, his black tunic swinging from the speed of his steps and the length of his strides. “Well, George, you have managed well in my absence,” the baron remarked as he came toward them.

  “In truth, there was little enough for me to do.”

  “Chalfront was helpful?”

  Philippe watched George intently, wondering if the man was going to keep his suspicions to himself.

  “Yes, indeed he was.” George grinned ruefully. “He seemed to think I was rather…how shall I put this? Useless, as the lord of an estate. Wanted me to tax my brain and come up with all kinds of work, I gather.” George sighed heavily, as if Chalfront’s expectations had been completely and utterly unreasonable. “You set too high a standard, Baron.”

  “And you enjoy hunting too much,” the baron replied as he sat on the bench beside the nobleman. It was not a condemnation. It was simply a statement of fact.

  George was not going to tell the baron his suspicions, Philippe thought gleefully. If the man’s implications about Chalfront and Lady de Chaney were true, and the baron found out that George had known before, the nobleman would suffer for keeping the secret.

  On the other hand, if George could offer no proof, perhaps he was wise to keep silent. A false accusation would cause certain enmity between the baron and the accuser. That was not something a wise man would seek.

  Philippe decided to leave Chalfront’s fate in George’s hands. He didn’t particularly care about Chalfront, or the baron’s mistress, either. Gabriella was by far the easier prey, and Philippe always chose the simpler course.

  “You look fatigued, my lord,” George noted.

  “I did not sleep well last night.”

  “You work yourself too hard, my lord,” Philippe said sympathetically.

  “Running several estates is not a simple matter,” Etienne replied, “although it has its rewards.” He was disgusted by the man’s overt flattery nearly as much as the fellow’s inability to hide his greedy curiosity. Nevertheless, it was to Etienne’s advantage that Philippe’s thoughts were so obviously displayed, so it might be best that Philippe never learn the ability to mask them. As he had, so long ago.

  “Such as Josephine de Chaney,” Philippe said with a smile rather too much like a leer. “No wonder you did not sleep well, far from her. We should all enjoy such rewards!”

  He made Josephine sound like some kind of furnishing, say a feather bed or a cushion, and as if any man could expect such a prize.

  While Etienne did not love Josephine, he esteemed her as a woman and a friend, and he would not allow her to be disparaged by anyone. “I would take care you speak of her with respect for, of course, I will interpret any disrespect for her as disrespect for me,” Etienne said, his voice quiet—so quiet that George grew a little paler, Seldon a little redder and Donald even more immobile. A few of the other knights who had entered the hall also fell silent. Even the ubiquitous hounds seemed to be listening.

  Philippe scowled. “I meant no disrespect, my lord,” he said sullenly.

  “Good. Otherwise, I would have to kill you.” Etienne rose slowly and ambled toward the high table.

  After a short and heavy silence, George and the others began to talk of hunting and the upcoming fall slaughter. The dogs resumed their constant prowl for scraps of food. The other men returned to their interrupted conversations, albeit with several wary glances at the baron.

  Philippe didn’t pay attention to anyone save the tired Baron DeGuerre. Let him threaten as he would, Philippe told himself. The man had better take care of more important things than whether or not his whore had been insulted. He should beware insulting a man from a wealthier family, one that could afford to pay well for a man’s death.

  He should beware conspiracies, too, between a beautiful, neglected woman and the man who had control of even a small portion of his purse.

  A very interesting situation was developing here. Better perhaps, Philippe thought, to save his own money and let others destroy Baron DeGuerre.

  The famous, the powerful Baron Etienne DeGuerre brought low by a woman. That would be something to witness.

  A few nights later, Gabriella lay awake on her cot in the long, narrow room above the storerooms where all the maidservants slept. Around her, others stirred and murmured in their sleep, but rest would not come to Gabriella Frechette.

  To watch the baron during the first meal after his return and during the past few days, one would never guess he was in any pain, unless you happened to catch a fleeting expression in his blue eyes when he moved suddenly. She saw it, of course, because she knew to look for it.

  Apparently, however, she was the only one who did. Josephine de Chaney carried on as if nothing were amiss, and made no effort to persuade the baron to retire early or to lessen his work. Neither did Sir George, or any of his other men.

  Once more she told herself that it should not please her that she seemed to possess knowledge that Etienne DeGuerre had not shared with his mistress, or George, or his steward, or anyone else. After all, he would not have told her had she not surprised him.

  What kind of life had
the baron had, what kind of childhood, to make him so determined to keep even a relatively minor injury so secret? Certainly nothing like her own. She had been loved and had lacked for nothing, whether affection or material possessions. In fact, she had to admit, she had been somewhat spoiled.

  Apparently Etienne DeGuerre had been raised in a bleak and hostile world, a world of mistrust and loneliness, of poverty and need. Perhaps, for him, happiness and an end to loneliness had come only recently, and he was not yet used to the security of his wealth and power, or such security as wealth and power could provide, which he seemed to think was very little indeed. He was not as confident as he pretended to be, nor did she believe that he was happy, or even content. She guessed that it was loneliness she had seen in him that first day when he stood in the courtyard, alone and apart.

  He was right, too, that she truly knew nothing about being poor. Even now, she had food and warmth. And he had been correct, at least partly, about the tenants’ relationship with her father. Perhaps he was also right that she had erred taking Mary’s money, if he knew far better than she how Mary’s gift might cause her to suffer.

  The feelings of guilt she had managed to subdue suddenly seemed overwhelming. Surely she could endure the work better than Mary could spare any extra coins she might have saved. She was far younger than Mary and the other women who were willing to help pay her debt. She should give the money back.

  But Mary had been so keen to offer it! To refuse it would have been an insult to the widow’s good intentions, wouldn’t it? And she would pay Mary and the others back just as soon as she could.

  On the other hand, the baron had raised the rents. He had increased the pannage, too, and who knew what else? Mary and the rest of the peasants would have to pay more if they were to remain in their homes.

  She had been proud of her father’s concern for his people, and she still was, despite what she had heard pass between Osric and his mother. She could not put her own needs before theirs.

  She would work the extra days. Being Josephine de Chaney’s maid wasn’t taxing. She would have to endure the baron’s presence, but she thought she could manage. He was a better man than rumor reported. A little more leniency on his part would even guarantee that everybody saw his good qualities. His manner could be improved upon, certainly. He was always so cool and calm, so distant.

  Except when he had kissed her. Then he had been hot rather than frigid, his passion setting her afire within

  Her attraction for the baron could prove far more dangerous than anything else, including Philippe de Varenne. Only now, as she lay alone in the dark, did she dare to acknowledge its potency. The true danger was not the baron, but her own yearning weakness. The sooner she could get away from the baron, the sooner she would once again be in control of her wayward emotions.

  But must Mary, or anyone else, pay the price of her vulnerability?

  No. She must find a way to be strong. To ignore her growing desire, and his rare moments of revelation, until she could be free.

  She must, and so she would.

  Her decision irreversibly made, Gabriella reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the cloth-wrapped coins. She would return them immediately, while her resolve was at its height, and when there would be few others awake to see her go to the village.

  What if the watchmen at the gate tried to stop her?

  She remembered the secret tunnel her father had planned beneath the altar in the chapel. She had never used it herself, but she knew that she had only to push aside the altar to find the trapdoor entrance.

  Gabriella slipped quietly out of the bed and hurried from the room. Cautiously she made her way toward the steps leading to the storeroom below. She paused near the bottom and Listened carefully. Something was making a rustling noise below.

  One of the castle cats, she guessed, after a mouse who was trying to get into the food. There were several cats. Guido was always complaining about them, although he couldn’t deny that without them, mice would be a problem.

  Once, when she was a very small child, Bryce had enticed her to go on a midnight raid to the storeroom for some leftover sweetmeats, and while sneaking through the room, she had stepped on a live mouse. She remembered her terror vividly, so now she moved very slowly, feeling her way with her toes as she went around the corner.

  She halted and blinked in the unexpected light of a tallow candle, for it was not a cat making that noise, and certainly not a mouse.

  Chapter Ten

  Philippe de Varenne turned to face Gabriella, his lips twisting into a pleased smile. “Well, well, well,” he said softly, the candle he held tipping precariously as he swayed slightly.

  He was drunk, Gabnella thought, anxious to return to the upper chamber. Mary’s restitution would have to wait, for her way was blocked by Philippe as effectively as if he were a stone wall.

  Then she saw the burlap bags, brooms and kindling behind him. If the candle fell on them, the room would be on fire in an instant.

  She started forward, determined to snatch the candle from Philippe, but he straightened and gripped it tighter, lifting the candle higher so that the flickering flame cast sharp shadows over his angular face.

  “What have we here?” he slurred with a feral grin, yet not so drunkenly that she didn’t realize her danger. Even intoxicated, he could do her serious harm. “Is it a watch wench? Are you going to demand a password? What, speechless, pretty Gabriella? Not you, who can find plenty to say to Baron DeGuerre.”

  She began to back away. “I heard a noise and came to see if a rat had gotten into the food,” she said with seeming deference.

  “Ah,” he breathed. “How commendable.”

  “Apparently I was quite wrong, so if you will excuse me, sir, I shall go—”

  “There is no rush, my dear.” Philippe sat on a pile of flour bags and blew out the candle.

  Gabriella gasped as the room plunged into complete darkness. She couldn’t see anything. She could only hear the sound of breathing, her own short pants and Philippe de Varenne’s deeper exhalations. Keeping her lips tightly together to still even that small sound, she continued to inch backward.

  Then it occurred to her that if she couldn’t see Philippe, he couldn’t see her, and she moved with more confidence, anticipating the feel of the wall against her back. Once she found the wall, she could find the stairs.

  Philippe spoke, and it was as if he were a disembodied spirit. “Your brother’s name is Bryce, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, all her energy focused on finding the stairs leading upward.

  “I met him once, in France, you know. Not so very long ago.”

  She hesitated. “When?” she asked, curiosity mingling with her dread. Then she began moving again. Anyone in the castle could have told him her brother’s name, and France would have been a logical destination. That was where she had sent her messengers first.

  “So many questions—and you forgot to say ‘sir.’ That’s no way to talk to someone who knows where your brother is.”

  Gabriella peered across the room. Her eyes were more accustomed to the darkness now, and she could see the shape of the man sitting on the bags. She felt an instinctive urge to flee, but what if Philippe de Varenne did know something about Bryce? If she left, he might never tell her. “Where exactly did you see my brother, sir, and when?”

  “What will you give me for the answer?”

  “I … I beg your pardon?”

  “How much is my knowledge worth, pretty Gabriella?”

  She chewed her lip and wondered if he had indeed seen Bryce, or if this was some ploy. “I have some coins here, sir.”

  Philippe de Varenne put both hands on the bags and hoisted himself upright. “Oh, but it is not cold coins I want, my dear.” He took a few tentative steps in her direction, and he seemed less than steady on his feet. “Just a kiss—that’s all I ask. Not much, is it, when I can tell you how to find your brother?”

  She didn’t want P
hilippe to touch her in any way, let alone kiss her. “How do I know you’re speaking the truth?” she demanded suspiciously as she continued to retreat, her back finally contacting the frigid stone wall.

  “Because I am a knight. Besides, I would hardly dishonor myself by lying for a kiss,” he replied, and she heard the tinge of anger in his voice- “However, since you do not give your favors easily, I will give you proof Your brother has a small scar above his right eye. He told me that you gave it to him when you pushed him into a water trough.”

  “That is common knowledge hereabouts,” she replied, her hand feeling for the gap that would indicate the stairway.

  “You pushed him in the water because he said you were fat.”

  Gabriella sucked in her breath sharply, for that was perfectly true. She had been rather plump as a girl, and sensitive about it. Bryce teased her continuously and unmercifully, despite their parents’ admonitions, until the day she exploded with rage and indignation and shoved him into the trough with all her might

  Her action precipitated quite a scene. She was wailing, the servants came running, Bryce’s head bled copiously all over his new tunic, and then her parents arrived and demanded to know the cause of the uproar.

  Bryce had been lightly punished before for teasing her. Nevertheless, he saw—as did she—that their father, usually loath to physically discipline his children, looked angry enough this time to seriously contemplate it.

  Gabnella, immediately contrite, swiftly decided that Bryce had been punished enough. She told her parents they had been playing a game and she had accidentally tripped Bryce, sending him headlong into the trough. Bryce hadn’t said a word then, but the grateful look in his eyes was her reward. Later he promised he would never tease her again, and they both solemnly vowed to keep the cause of his dunking a secret between them. To the best of her knowledge, he had kept his word.