looked over her shoulder to see Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, dressed in chain-mail hauberk, coif, gauntlet gloves, mail hosen, and surcoat, march toward the dais. Without a word, he stepped onto the platform and stood behind her chair, resting one hand on the hilt of his broadsword as if he intended to remain there the entire day.
Or as if he were the lord of Averette.
She’d accepted that they might need extra guards, but this was too much. Some of her tenants were clearly frightened; all of them looked uncertain and confused. Only little Teddy, holding tight to his father’s hand, smiled with unreserved happiness. He waved at Bayard and as Gillian glanced over her shoulder again, she was surprised to see the knight raise his hand in a small salute. Yet even that gesture couldn’t lessen the impact of his dramatic—and intimidating—arrival.
Dunstan didn’t look pleased at all, nor did Iain. Both men glared at Bayard as she would have liked to. However, dignity, decorum, and a need to appear united was more important than registering her dismay at this particular time. She could wait until they weren’t in full view of everyone in the yard to tell Sir Bayard precisely what she thought of his unnecessary presence.
Instead, she turned to Dunstan. “Summon the first petitioners.”
First was Felton bringing his charge of false measure against the miller. Many a miller was accused of using false weights, but such a charge had never been proven against Geoffrey.
Unfortunately, Geoffrey never ceased to act the gloating victor over the matter of his wife’s choice, even if he and his spouse often quarreled. Perhaps goading the baker was some compensation for his less-than-blissful marriage.
Whatever the cause of their squabbling, Gillian tried to maintain an appearance of impartial serenity as the baker declared his grievances, and the miller, smug as always, defended himself.
“Has anyone else ever complained about my weights?” Geoffrey concluded. “No! Because everyone knows I don’t cheat and never have! I’m an honest, God-fearing fellow.”
“Honest?” Felton sneered, his round belly quivering with indignation. “How honest is it to have hollowed-out weights? To put your finger on the scales? To charge more than—”
“Enough!” Gillian had to say, or they would go on forever. “Dunstan will check the measures again, Felton. If they’re found to be false, Geoffrey will be punished according to the king’s laws.”
“But, my lady,” Felton protested, “that’s what you always say!”
Behind her, she heard the soft clink of metal, as if Sir Bayard had moved. She didn’t want to acknowledge his presence, yet she couldn’t resist the urge to see what had made that sound.
Sir Bayard stood in the same place, but now his arms were crossed and it was quite obvious that beneath his helmet, he was frowning with displeasure.
Felton blanched. “I—I beg your pardon, my lady,” he stammered, backing away. “I meant no harm. I just think Geoffrey’s…I thought that maybe…never mind!” he cried before he rushed away through the crowd.
Leaving an even more smug Geoffrey. And an even more annoyed Gillian. “Geoffrey, you had best hope your measures are utterly accurate, and if I were you, I would cease behaving as if you’ve won a crown, not a wife. Otherwise, I might be tempted to rescind my permission for you to operate the mill and give it to someone more humble.”
Now it was the miller’s turn to blanch. “Yes, my lady.”
“Next, please, Dunstan,” she ordered, once again trying to ignore the presence of the knight behind her.
Which proved impossible.
As the day wore on, Sir Bayard never moved from behind her chair. She didn’t look at him, yet she was always aware of when he frowned, crossed his arms, or shifted his weight, because of the reactions of the people coming forward for judgment and permissions. In spite of the rulings she made, she felt more like a doll dressed up and put on the dais for show than the chatelaine of Averette.
The moment Dunstan declared the hall moot concluded, she rose and faced Sir Bayard. She didn’t raise her voice, but each word was an icicle, sharp and cold. “Sir Bayard, to the solar. Now!”
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