only in the lord’s daughters while chasing every serving wench who crossed their paths.
If the merchant was merely repeating gossip, she knew how little faith she should have in his information. Adelaide had once told her some of the stories being spread about the ladies of Averette. “Is that so, Charles?”
“I’m sorry to say it is, my lady,” the wine merchant reluctantly replied. “At court, they call him the ’Gyp-tian lover because he travels from bed to bed, stealing women’s hearts.”
That shouldn’t surprise or disappoint her; what did she know of Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, after all? But she was disappointed nonetheless—perhaps because there was a chance she was related to him by marriage.
“His squire’s also putting it about that Sir Bayard once came upon a troubador entertaining some ladies before a tourney,” Dunstan said. “The troubador, aware of Sir Bayard’s alleged prowess in the melee, asked him to reward his song with a horse. Sir Bayard agreed, spotted an approaching knight, immediately unhorsed the fellow and returned to present the singer with the horse before his song was done.”
Gillian had heard this story before, but not about Sir Bayard de Boisbaston. “The Earl of Pembroke did that.”
“So at the very least, the man takes credit he doesn’t deserve,” Dunstan averred.
If this was true, Sir Bayard did not sound like a man she wished to be related to. She wondered if Adelaide knew what he was like—or if she really knew the man she’d married, either. The wedding had apparently happened with rather remarkable haste.
“Are you likewise familiar with his brother, Lord Armand de Boisbaston?” she asked Charles.
“Indeed, my lady,” he replied with more confidence. “What happened to him at Marchant was a bad business. The king should have sent reinforcements.”
Instantly wondering why Charles felt he could criticize the king to her, she said, “It’s not for us to question the king’s actions.”
“No, no, certainly not,” Charles quickly replied. “I was only thinking of Lord Armand’s unfortunate capture.”
He gave her another obsequious smile. “His luck has certainly changed since he returned. The very day he arrived at court, he won your sister’s heart.”
Had it really happened as quickly as that? Or was this another tale embellished in the repeating?
“I see that beauty runs in your family, my lady.”
It was all Gillian could do not to roll her eyes. She was no beauty and never would be. Adelaide and Lizette took after their poor, pretty mother. She looked like her father’s late sister. “The image of that ugly sow Ermentrude,” he would shout at her.
Dunstan shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, drawing her attention. “Perhaps, my lady, you should—”
She rose before he could offer her advice, or try to tell her what to do. She already knew what that would be—that Sir Bayard should go.
But if everything in Adelaide’s letter was true, then Averette was in danger from unknown enemies and she should not be keen to rid herself of a man who could help protect them. “I wish you a safe journey back to London, Charles.”
The wine merchant bowed. “It’s been a pleasure, my lady. I hope this is adieu and not farewell.”
She gave him a smile for an answer as she started for the door. “Dunstan, pay Charles and see to the unloading of the wine. I am going to the kitchen to talk to Umbert about the evening meal.”
“Yes, my lady,” Dunstan replied.
When she was gone, Charles regarded the steward with raised brows. “What do you think she’ll do? About Sir Bayard, I mean?”
Dunstan shook his head as he pulled the key to the strongbox from his belt. “I don’t know.”
He wished he did, almost as much as he wished Sir Bayard on the far side of the world.
Or dead, like James d’Ardenay.
AFTER LEAVING THE SOLAR, Gillian entered the hall, heading for the corridor leading to the kitchen. As the wine merchant had noted, Sir Bayard and his squire were seated at the trestle table on the dais, the chessboard between them. Several of his soldiers were in other parts of the hall. One with close-cropped hair was talking to Dena and saying something that made her laugh. Others were cleaning their mail with sand and vinegar, or sharpening their weapons. A few of her own men were doing the same, as well as keeping an eye on Bayard’s men. Two servants replaced torches in the sconces and they, too, watched the visitors with wary eyes.
Twisting a lock of his brown hair around his finger, Sir Bayard’s squire frowned as he studied the board, the few pieces no longer in play at his elbow. Sir Bayard leaned back in his chair, one leg casually thrown over the arm, as if this were his hall. Clearly he was used to making himself comfortable wherever he happened to be.
Although that annoyed her, she noticed a tension in his body that was distinctly at odds with his seemingly negligent attitude. She realized he was really paying close attention to his squire and the board, as if calculating every possible move, and every repercussion of every possible move, his squire might make.
No doubt there lurked a sharp intelligence in that man’s mind, and she wondered if his lovers had appreciated that about him, or if they thought only of his handsome face and powerfully built body.
His squire made a move, and even from where she stood, she could tell it was the wrong one.
“Checkmate,” Sir Bayard said matter-of-factly.
She got the impression that he was consciously making light of his victory, perhaps to spare his squire embarrassment.
Frederic swore and scowled anyway. “How could I not have seen that? I’ll do better next time. Another game?”
“I think not,” Sir Bayard replied, glancing away from the board—to her. “My lady!”
It would be too obviously rude to ignore him now, when he was also getting to his feet. “Yes, my lord? Is there anything you require?”
“I was wondering if you’d care to indulge in a game of chess?”
She suspected he was merely being polite and she had much to do; even so, she was tempted to accept. She and Adelaide had played chess often, for it was something they could do that wouldn’t disturb their father.
Lizette never played chess; she had not the patience.
“Thank you, my lord, but no,” she said. “I have too many other demands upon my time.”
“I’m not very good. You can probably beat me,” he cajoled with a smile that reminded her of a man who’d once tried to sell her bogus jewels, and she wondered if he thought her that stupid or vain.
“I probably could,” she agreed, hiding her annoyance, “but not today.”
Aggravation flashed in his eyes, yet it was gone nearly at once. “Another time, then.”
“Perhaps,”
