reading it quickly.
The writing was the same and revealed that Adelaide had indeed written and sent her message in the care of Sir Bayard de Boisbaston. This letter was undoubtedly from Adelaide, for the writer gave answers to Gillian’s questions that only her older sister would know.
In spite of that reassurance, and for the first time since she’d taken charge of Averette, she felt afraid. If everything Adelaide had written was true, she could be in grave danger. Her heart raced, until—and unaccountably—her gaze fell on Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, champion of tournaments, standing on the dais.
As she grew calmer, she forced her attention back to the anxious Dunstan, who was watching her intently. “Everything in the other letter was true,” she whispered. “Adelaide is married, Sir Bayard is her brother-in-law, and there’s a conspiracy against the king that’s put us in danger, too. Dismiss the soldiers. Send them back to their duties.”
His lips thinned, but Dunstan didn’t protest, or say anything to her. He moved away and quietly issued an order to the men, who began to go.
Taking a deep breath and rolling up the scroll, she approached Sir Bayard. “It seems, my lord, that we were wrong to doubt you.”
His shoulders relaxed and a smile slowly blossomed on his face. “So now you believe I am who I claim to be.”
She nodded and took a seat, regarding him gravely. “Which means I must also believe we’re in danger here.”
“Yes,” he agreed, clasping his hands behind his back. “But less than before, now that I am here.”
She tried not to reveal her displeasure at his arrogant remark.
Unsuccessfully, apparently, for he gave her a rueful grin and said, “Not because I’m such a fearsome warrior, my lady. Because I’m an experienced one—and so I still think it would be a mistake to have a hall moot.”
She rose abruptly. “I do not, my lord. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do!”
THE NEXT MORNING, after a very restless night that she ascribed to anticipation of the hall moot, Gillian rose from her bed and wrapped her light bedrobe around herself. She went to the narrow window of her bedchamber and looked out at the eastern sky now lighting with the first pink flush of dawn. There were only wisps of cloud in the sky, their undersides orange and rose and a bevy of tints in between, and promising a fine day for the hall moot.
Which they must and would have today, in spite of Sir Bayard’s disapproval.
Disapproval he’d still harbored at the evening meal, no matter how genially he’d behaved last night. She had seen it in his face and his dark, intense eyes, eyes whose regard made her feel so…so…
She wouldn’t think about Sir Bayard’s eyes, and his notion to cancel the hall moot only offered further proof that he had little experience running an estate. Otherwise, he would understand that disputes between tenants should be settled as quickly as possible, before the conflict worsened.
The door to her chamber opened and Dena came bustling in with a jug of warm water. “Oh, it’s nice and cool in here this morning!” she exclaimed brightly as she poured the warm water from the jug into the basin on the washstand. “I’m thinking it’s going to be a hot day, though, my lady. Are you sure you want to wear the gold gown?”
“Yes,” Gillian replied before she started to wash. She should look her best when she sat in judgment; her gold damask gown was the finest one she possessed.
“At least the silk veil’s light,” Dena noted as she started to make the wide, curtained bed.
Gillian sat on the stool and started to run her comb through her long, straight hair. Sometimes she envied Adelaide her bountiful curls and waves, but not in the summer months. She well remembered the tears that came to Adelaide’s eyes when she tried to get a comb through the thick, curly riot of her hair on a summer’s morn.
Gillian deftly began to braid her hair. After she had done so, Dena would pin the braids around her head.
“I hear Geoffrey and Felton are at it again,” Dena said as she glanced over her shoulder at her mistress.
“Apparently.”
“Do you suppose Sir Bayard will attend the moot?”
“I don’t know why he would,” Gillian replied. “It’s nothing to do with him.”
On the other hand, there was little enough for him to do in Averette, so he might attend, if only to be entertained.
“Are you quite well, my lady?” Dena asked, her brow furrowing as she came to finish Gillian’s hair. “Your hands are shaking.”
“It’s nothing,” she said as she clasped them together. “I’m always a little anxious before a hall moot. You can never be sure how someone will react to a judgment.”
That wasn’t a lie, exactly. But she would not admit her state had anything to do with the possibility of Sir Bayard watching the proceedings.
Besides, even if he did come, she could ignore him.
By the time she was attired in her gown, with its long cuffed sleeves lined with scarlet sarcenet, her veil held in place by a slender gold coronet, and wearing gilded slippers that belonged to Adelaide, Gillian was confident that she would be able to conduct the hall moot with perfect ease even if King John himself appeared to witness it.
As she proceeded to the courtyard where a dais had been erected and one of her father’s chairs placed for her, she felt very much the chatelaine of Averette, as her own mother had never been. Her mother had been a timid creature, terrified of her husband and his rages, and ill from the constant struggle to give him the son he demanded.
Dunstan waited on the dais, likewise dressed in his best—a black tunic that swept the ground. He held the scroll containing the list of all those who sought justice and those against whom they had complaints. It was a long one, in no small part because the Lady of Averette was known to be just, as her father had not.
As she surveyed the crowd, several people exchanged wary glances and shifted uneasily. Even Old Davy, in his usual place by the stable doors, looked far from comfortable.
It was as if her father had returned to rule Averette.
She looked out over the gathering and found a possible explanation for the people’s anxiety. Several soldiers were now stationed around the dais where she would sit in judgment. More lined the wall walk and extra guards manned the gates. Iain stood, feet planted, fully armed, beside the dais.
One would think a trial of the utmost importance was about to take place, not a simple village hall moot.
This was Sir Bayard’s idea of suitable precautions, no doubt, but it seemed far more threatening than comforting.
She was tempted to dismiss the extra soldiers, but what if she was in danger? There were always a few unfamiliar faces at a hall moot—visitors seeking entertainment, petitioners’ relatives from other towns, merchants, and tinkers, and others who traveled to sell their goods. She couldn’t be certain that there were no enemies with other goals among them.
Taking
