Scoundrel Of Dunborough. Margaret Moore
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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.
He clapped a hand on Verdan’s broad shoulder. “So, your mother still won’t come to Yorkshire?”
“Not yet. But Arnhelm and me have hope,” Verdan replied, grinning and revealing unexpectedly good teeth.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gerrard noticed the thin chandler scurrying toward them, his woolen tunic flapping about his ankles, his silk-lined cloak fluttering behind him.
“Sweet Mother Mary, what the devil is he doing here?” he muttered under his breath before he addressed Verdan again. “You go ahead. The chandler must have business to discuss.”
Although what that could possibly be, Gerrard had no idea. He hoped it wouldn’t take long, either. He had never liked the greedy little man who had browbeaten his late wife and treated his son like a lackey.
“Greetings, Norbert,” he said as the panting chandler reached him. “What brings you to the castle?”
“I’ve come to give my condolences to Audrey’s sister. I heard that she had come.”
Gerrard frowned. “Yes, she has, and you wish to speak with Sister Augustine?” he asked as Norbert shifted from foot to foot like a horse nervously awaiting the start of a race.
The last thing Celeste—or anyone—needed was to talk to this fellow, about anything.
“If that’s what Audrey D’Orleau’s sister is called now, yes,” the chandler replied with a hint of defiance.
That was not something to encourage Gerrard to grant his request. “Sister Augustine is resting and cannot be disturbed.”
Norbert frowned and looked far from pleased. His state of mind, however, was not Gerrard’s concern.
“Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell her I was here,” Norbert said.
“Perhaps,” Gerrard replied with a smile that was not meant to be pleasant.
“Now see here, Gerrard—” Norbert began. He fell silent when he saw the look in Gerrard’s eyes. “Oh, very well!”
The chandler turned on his heel and started back to the inner gate just as it opened to admit another man, this one also richly dressed, but plump and darkly bearded. His tunic was shorter and more embellished, with an embroidered hem and neck. His boots were of fine leather, as were his bossed belt and gauntlet gloves.
Ewald. Of course. The dealer in hides and tallow was as broad and boisterous as Norbert was thin and wheedling, but equally as greedy. The two were like vultures come hurrying to the battlefield, and Celeste a corpse.
“Good day, Gerrard! And you, too, Norbert!” Ewald declared. “Why am I not surprised that you’re here already, Norbert? That nosy son of yours should be a spy for the king.”
“I doubt you’ve come to pass the time of day,” Norbert retorted. “You want to see her, too, don’t you?”
Ewald’s cheeks flushed. “Well...” he began, drawing the word out as he rocked back and forth on his heels, his thumbs tucked in his wide leather belt beneath his protruding belly, “as a matter of fact, I do. To give her my sympathy on her sister’s death. A bad business, that, a very bad business.”
Business had nothing to do with it, Gerrard thought sourly. Warped and thwarted love did. “Unfortunately, Sister Augustine is resting and cannot be disturbed,” he said firmly.
Norbert, not surprisingly, continued to scowl, while Ewald, equally not surprisingly, smiled like a man who’d won a bet.
“Tomorrow will do just as well,” the tanner jovially replied. “Tell her I was here, if you will, and I’ll be delighted to speak with her at a time of her convenience. I’ll offer her a very good price for the house.”
“I will do no such thing,” Gerrard said. “You will wait to discuss business with her when she comes to you, and not before. Now I give you good day, gentlemen.”
With a look of sly triumph, Norbert nodded and started toward the gate. Only slightly subdued, Ewald bowed and followed.
Carrion crows, the pair of them, and Gerrard would be damned before he’d tell Celeste that they’d been there. He wasn’t their messenger and she didn’t need to be bothered, he thought as he walked back to the gate.
He came to a startled halt. Celeste—Sister Augustine—was gliding toward him across the grass, the ends of her veil lifting in the breeze. Even in a nun’s habit, she looked like royalty, poised and proud and beautiful.
“I thought you were resting,” he said, baffled by her presence and wondering if he should have let Norbert and Ewald meet her.
“I am rather weary,” she replied, her lips set in a thin line, “so if it’s possible, I’d prefer to have the evening meal in Roland’s chamber. Alone.”
He was glad he’d sent the chandler and the tanner away, yet couldn’t help feeling somewhat dismayed by her manner and that she apparently didn’t want to dine with him, either. Still, that might be for the best. She aroused old memories and some of them were best forgotten.And if she hated him, he could hardly blame her. It was his fault she’d been sent to Saint Agatha’s.
“Since you’re a guest, you’re free to do as you like,” he said. “I’ll have the meal and some wine sent up to the chamber in due course.”
She nodded and her lips curved up into a little smile. A very little smile. “Thank you, Gerrard.”