The Notorious Knight. Margaret Moore
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neck and stretched his arms over his head. He untied his mail hosen that protected his legs and gave them to Frederic to put away, then removed his padded gambeson and likewise handed it to his squire.
Clad in his loose shirt, breeches, and boots, he went to wash. There was a lump of soap that smelled of lavender beside the linen, as well as plenty of water in the ewer. He poured some into the basin until it was half full and felt his face, deciding he need not scrape the whiskers away until tomorrow.
“Did you see that pretty serving wench?” Frederic asked as he started to close the lid of the chest. “The one with red hair and freckles?”
“Yes,” Bayard replied, recalling the one female servant who’d been bold enough to show herself while he was on the way to the keep with Lady Gillian. She was pretty, he supposed, and slender, and about fifteen years old.
His squire got a look on his face that Bayard easily recognized. He’d encountered many jealous or envious men in his life, starting when he was younger even than Frederic, and including the Duc d’Ormonde—although that had actually proven to be a beneficial thing, or he might be in Normandy yet. The duke had feared that his captive was far too attractive to his wife and so had let him go on the payment of a very small ransom.
He’d seen it earlier today, too, on the steward’s face.
Unfortunately, he inspired jealousy wherever there were women, and whether there was cause or not.
In this instance, definitely not, and aside from the fact that Lady Gillian was Armand’s sister-in-law. She might be spirited—and a woman without spirit was like food without spice—but otherwise? Not at all appealing.
Her hair was a dull brown, straight, and drawn back tightly from her heart-shaped face. There were no charming little curls, no cunning little wisps escaping to give a man the opportunity for a surreptitious caress under the guise of tucking in a stray one. Lady Gillian’s nose was a pert little button, and a splash of freckles crossed the bridge and dotted her cheeks, marring her complexion. To be sure, her green eyes were bright and vibrant, but they weren’t particularly alluring. She was too thin, too, even though her breasts were full and round and her hips had a certain seductive sway when she walked…far too quickly.
“My conquests have been greatly exaggerated,” he reminded his squire. “And I assure you, that servant’s too young for me.”
His lips curved up into a wry little smile. “I’m not particularly fond of red hair, either.”
As his squire grinned with relief and set to work unpacking, Bayard inwardly, and sourly, added, “Nor am I fond of shrews.”
BAYARD WAS PLEASED TO NOTE that despite Lady Gillian’s less-than-enthusiastic reception, she’d had the courtesy to give him the seat to her right at the evening meal.
The jealous steward sat on her left-hand side. Frederic was on Bayard’s right, as was the priest, a Father Matthew who ate as if he’d been fasting for days. His own soldiers were seated immediately below the dais with the garrison commander and more of Averette’s men.
The food was good, thank God. Since he had to stay here, he was grateful for that as he speared another piece of veal dressed with vinegar with his eating knife. Meanwhile, his hostess continued to ignore him and talk to the steward.
Lady Gillian had rather nice hands, he noticed, although they were browned by the sun. Ladies were supposed to sit inside doing nothing more strenuous than sewing or, if they were particularly active, engaging in a hunt, wearing gloves. If they went outside, they were supposed to sit demurely in the shade. Clearly she did little that other ladies did, or in the way they did it.
Determined to concentrate on something other than the chatelaine of Averette, Bayard studied the hall and the soldiers gathered there. The garrison appeared well trained, as far as mustering in the yard went, anyway. It remained to be seen how good they’d be in battle or during a siege.
“Oh, not again!” Lady Gillian suddenly—and loudly—exclaimed.
When Bayard turned to look at her, she was regarding the steward with dismay, although there was laughter lurking in her eyes.
“It’s true, I’m afraid,” Dunstan replied, shaking his head and smiling. “He’s charged Geoffrey with false measuring again. I truly think Felton would rise from his death bed if he thought he could shame Geoffrey.”
Lady Gillian laughed—an amazing, throaty, hearty laugh completely unlike the decorous little titters most ladies made in company. It was the sort of laugh one might hear in bed after a joyous bout of lovemaking, a laugh to make a man want to laugh, too, and he was astonished at the difference it made to Lady Gillian’s appearance. She looked years younger, and prettier.
Her full lips were very appealing, he realized, especially the charming dent in the top of her upper lip, and he was suddenly tempted to touch it. With his tongue.
Which was ridiculous. The journey here, so soon after his return from Normandy, must have been more taxing than he thought.
“Will there never be an end to this squabbling?” Lady Gillian asked when she stopped laughing. “Father Matthew, can you not speak to them? This feuding must cease!”
“Alas, my lady, I have tried,” the priest replied, “but they will not turn the other cheek.”
“There’s a feud?” Frederic asked eagerly, despite the arrival of baked apples—his favorite—for the final course.
“It’s a conflict of long, long standing,” she said, smiling at the lad.
Bayard wished she’d smiled that way at him when they’d first arrived. If she had, he would have been slower to take offense at her manner and swifter to forgive and forget the lack of a kiss of greeting.
Not that he regretted reminding her about that. Although at the time she’d held no great attraction for him, he’d been acutely aware of the sensation of her warm breath on his cheek and the knowledge that her body was a hair’s breadth from his own. Now, after hearing her delightful laugh and seeing her lovely smile—
“How did the feud start? An insult?” Frederic asked interrupting Bayard’s musing as the red-haired serving maid set down the spiced apple before him.
“A woman,” Lady Gillian replied. “The miller and the baker both wanted to marry the same one, and she chose the miller.”
“Ahh!” Frederic cried, giving Bayard a knowing grin.
Bayard clenched his jaw and stayed silent. He wasn’t going to say a word about jealous men, or women making choices, or anything to do with marriage.
“The baker brings a charge of false measure against the miller every hall moot, or so it seems,” the steward explained. “In two days’ time, they’ll stand before us again, arguing.”
That got Bayard’s full attention. “You’re having a hall moot?”
“Yes, in two days,” the lady answered as if he were dim.
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
Her brows lowered. “Why not?”
“Because it’s too public, and puts you in danger.”
“It’s to be held in my courtyard,” she protested. “Surely I’ll be perfectly safe there.”
“I don’t think so,” Bayard firmly replied. “An assassin could easily slip in with the villagers. It only takes one well-aimed arrow or knife throw to kill.”
Lady Gillian shook her head and spoke with most unfeminine certainty. “The hall moot cannot be delayed. The people have been expecting it. There are several quarrels to be decided and fines to be assessed.”
“I can appreciate that you require income, but your safety must come first.”
Her green eyes flashed with stubborn determination. “Hall moots are necessary for the