had been—and apparently he’d been a terrible man—he’d also been a man of some intelligence, at least when it came to defense, Bayard reflected as he and his men rode in silence along the river toward what looked to be a prosperous village. They passed a millpond and the mill, its wheel turning with a slow, steady motion. Cattle lowed from a nearby field, a few sheep scattered as they went past a meadow, and they could hear geese honking and chickens clucking in farmyards along the road.
The village itself was not large, but the buildings were in good repair and the people appeared well fed. A few ragged children, with mongrel dogs yapping at their heels, ran out of an alley between a chandler’s stall and an inn sporting a sign depicting a stag’s head to stare at them, openmouthed. At the inn’s door stood an ample-bosomed wench who eyed Bayard and his men with avaricious calculation. If she thought she’d get any custom from him, however, she was sorely mistaken.
Around the green, merchants at their stalls, as well as their customers, stopped to watch them go by. So did the group of elderly men seated beneath the large oak by the smithy that belched smoke even on this summer day, and the girls and women standing by the well.
No doubt there would be the usual comments after he was gone, Bayard thought, about his body, and his bearing, and the scar that ran from his right eye to his chin. They’d wonder where he got it, and how, and who had done it. Some would say it marred his face; a few would declare they liked it.
He’d heard it all before. Too many times.
Soon enough somebody would remember they’d heard of the notorious Sir Bayard de Boisbaston and recall the nickname he’d earned when he’d first arrived at court. He’d been sixteen, as well as spoiled, vain, and determined to make a name for himself.
He’d certainly done the latter.
Bayard slid a glance at fifteen-year-old Frederic, who was now sitting his horse with more lordly dignity and looking straight ahead as if completely unaware of the feminine attention directed their way.
Undoubtedly he was really enjoying every moment of that attention. The pride and folly of youth! One day he, too, would likely learn that not all attention was good, and not every woman who admired him was worthy of pursuit, or that winning his way into her bed such a great triumph.
A shout of warning came from the castle.
The sentries were alert, then. Given the news he had to deliver, Bayard decided it would be better to get the initial meeting over. He ordered his men to quicken their pace and lightly kicked his own horse into a canter.
As they neared the castle gates, a boy suddenly darted out from behind a farmer’s cart filled with empty baskets, running toward the rickety gate in the fence opposite like a pheasant flushed from the underbrush.
Cursing, Bayard reined in his mount so hard, Danceur went back on his haunches and whinnied in protest. At nearly the same time, a woman appeared as if out of thin air in the cottage yard. She wrenched open the gate with such force she tore the top leather hinge clear off, scooped the child into her arms, and fled back to the well-kept yard. Clutching the child to her, she glared at Bayard as though he’d deliberately tried to murder the boy.
His heart pounding as if he’d been attacked, Bayard glared right back. He hadn’t harmed the child, and it wouldn’t have been his fault if he had. The boy had run directly into his path.
He was about to remind this ungrateful peasant of that fact when he recalled his mission here. He was to offer help, not enmity, so he stifled his temper. Thinking a few coins would soothe any ill will caused by this near accident, he dismounted and walked through the broken gate toward the mother and her child.
The boy, who couldn’t be more than six years old, stared at him with wide-eyed awe. His mother continued to glower.
She wore a simple peasant’s gown of light-brown wool and her honey-brown hair was covered by a linen veil. She was no great beauty, however, and although she might be spirited—and Bayard usually liked women with spirit, at least in his bed—he didn’t appreciate such vitality when it was directed against him.
A heavyset man clad in the rough homespun of a peasant appeared from behind the cottage. His stunned gaze went from Bayard to Frederic and the mounted soldiers on the road, then back to his wife, as if he’d never seen a nobleman with an escort before.
Or perhaps he was wondering why there was a knight standing in his yard.
The woman passed the little boy to her husband, crossed her arms—incidentally revealing that she had very fine breasts—and addressed Bayard without a particle of deference or respect. “What is your business here, sir knight?”
“Who are you to speak to a nobleman in that insolent fashion?” Frederic demanded.
“Easy, lad,” Bayard warned, glancing over his shoulder at the disdainful youth.
Those had been no peasant’s dulcet tones or accent; the woman had betrayed herself with the first word that passed those full and frowning lips.
Bayard removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and bowed. “Greetings, my lady. I am Sir Bayard de Boisbaston and I bring you news from your sister.”
Not unexpectedly, there was a flash of surprise in the woman’s bright green eyes, but it was quickly gone. Nor did she try to deny who she was.
“What news might this be? And from which one of my sisters?” Lady Gillian d’Averette inquired as coolly as if she met knights in a farmer’s yard every day while attired in peasant’s garb.
Maybe she did, and maybe that was her usual mode of dress; Armand had warned him his bride’s sister was rather unusual, although he hadn’t gone into detail.
Maybe she discussed important news out in the open where anyone might hear, too, but he did not. “I don’t think this is an appropriate place for you to read the letter I bring you, my lady.”
She pursed her lips, and for a moment he thought she might actually refuse.
Fortunately, she didn’t.
“Very well,” she said as she marched past him with unladylike strides. “Come with me, if you will be so kind,” she added over her shoulder.
Armand might also have mentioned that not only did his sister-in-law dress like a peasant, she issued orders like an empress, stomped like an irate merchant, and was nowhere near as beautiful as her sister, Adelaide. She hadn’t given him a kiss of greeting, either.
God’s blood, he’d had a friendlier welcome from the man who’d held him prisoner in France, Bayard thought as he followed her.
In spite of her discourtesy, however, he would say nothing and try to ignore her rudeness.
After all, he hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms, so it shouldn’t matter that she was less than thrilled by his arrival. Armand had asked him to bring a message to her, as well as stay to protect his wife’s sister, and that he fully intended to do.
WHAT NEWS COULD this arrogant fellow be bringing from Adelaide and the king’s court? Gillian wondered as she hurried toward the castle and the privacy of the solar.
She doubted it was good.
She and her sisters, Adelaide and Elizabeth—Lizette to those
