parchment. “I shall write to Adelaide, ask her to confirm this letter we received, and put in some questions for her to answer that only she can. That way, we’ll know if the letters are false or are being intercepted.”
“A wise idea, my lady,” Dunstan agreed.
She found a parchment and threw it onto the table, then turned back for a clay vessel holding ink, and a quill. “Until we know for certain that what this letter claims is true, we’ll keep a careful watch on Sir Bayard de Boisbaston and his men.”
“Aye, my lady,” Dunstan said.
“Aye,” Iain grimly seconded.
“SO, WHAT’S YOUR name, then?” Peg coyly asked the merchant whose cartful of barrels and casks of wine stood outside the Stag’s Head later that same day.
Not only was the merchant obviously well-to-do, to judge by his clothes, he was slender, young, and attractive—all qualities to make a girl eager to offer her company and her skills. He was clearly attempting to grow a beard and she didn’t like beards, but she was willing to make an exception, if the price was right.
Also inside the tavern were several farmers and villagers drinking at the end of a busy day harvesting crops and tending livestock. The men liked to discuss the weather, the potential yield of grain and produce, and sometimes John and his laws. Most had their own accustomed places, like Geoffrey, the miller, who sat by the casks, his enemy, Felton the baker, who reclined on a bench on the opposite side of the low-ceilinged room, and Old Davy and his cronies by the hearth.
“I’m Charles de Fenelon,” the wine merchant replied with a friendly smile. “From London.”
“Really?” Peg replied, bending over to give him a good look at her breasts. “Are you coming or going?”
“I’m heading back to London on my way from Bristol,” he replied. “First I hope to sell some of my wine at the castle yonder. How easy is it to meet with the steward?”
A jug of ale on her hip, the serving wench swayed from side to side and bit the end of a lock of hair. “Dun-stan de Corley comes to the village all the time. I could introduce you, if you like.”
“I’d make it worth your while,” Charles said, patting the purse attached to his belt. “What’s your name, lass?”
In view of that purse, she gave him an even broader smile. “Peg.”
“Peg,” he repeated, drawing out the name so that it seemed a promise in itself as he pulled her down onto his lap.
She glanced over her shoulder at the big beefy fellow manning the huge tapped cask.
“Your husband?” Charles asked, thinking that however much he might wish to assuage his cravings, he didn’t want a fight on his hands.
“Not yet, he’s not,” she replied with a giggle, winding her arms around his neck. “Besides, Sam won’t mind. The more I earn, the sooner we can marry.”
“Ah,” Charles murmured, nuzzling her neck, then returning to more important business. “Does the castle steward drive a hard bargain?”
She giggled again. “He can get pretty hard.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She pouted a little when he didn’t appreciate her jest. “He’s a clever fellow, but it ain’t him who finally decides. It’ll be the lady.”
“Lady Adelaide?”
“No, not her. She’s with the king. Her sister, Lady Gillian—and she’s even sharper than Dunstan, I can tell you! But they’ll be needing more wine these days. A knight’s just come and I’ve heard he’s staying awhile.”
The wine merchant’s brows rose with interest. “A knight?”
“Aye, and his squire and a bunch of soldiers.”
“A suitor for the lady? Perhaps they’ll need wine for a wedding.”
“Good luck to him, then, if that’s his plan,” Peg replied with a toss of her nut-brown hair. “Lady Gillian’ll send him packin’, I’ve no doubt—same way her sister did before her. Don’t much like men, those ladies. Unnatural, I calls it.”
Peg licked her lips, her tongue darting out in a very enticing manner. “Don’t that seem unnatural to you, too?”
“Indeed,” Charles replied. “I’ve heard Lady Adelaide is very beautiful. Is her sister, as well?”
“Lord love you, no!” Peg retorted with a snort of laughter. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose, but compared to her sisters? Ugly as a hedgehog.”
Peg gave a little wriggle that seemed very promising. “Are you going to have some of what we’ve got to offer, sir?” she asked, making it clear she wasn’t thinking of ale.
“I certainly will.” Charles moved again, letting her feel the effect she was having on him, while his hand traveled toward her breast. “I’ll have some ale first, though.”
Peg made absolutely no move to stop his wandering hand, or to pour his drink. “Not wine?”
“Ale is cheaper.”
“Ale now, something else later…for two silver pennies,” Peg replied as she leaned across his arm and refilled his mug, pressing her breasts against him while he boldly caressed her some more.
God’s blood, he could have anything he liked in London for half that. “That’s expensive.”
Her smile grew, exposing fine white teeth, and she squirmed a little more. “I’m worth it.”
He slipped a hand into her loose bodice while simultaneously giving the big fellow by the cask a surreptitious look. Sure enough, the oaf grinned and looked as pleased as if his wife-to-be had given him a bag of gold. “All right. So, who’s this knight come visiting, then?”
“A handsome fellow, although he’s got a scar on his face. Bayard something.”
“Bayard de Boisbaston?” Charles asked sharply.
“Why? What if he is this Bayard Boise—batton? What’s he done?”
Charles shook his head and his expression grew grim. “Your lady had best have a care, if what I’ve heard of him is true. The women at court call him the ’Gyptian lover, saying he travels from bed to bed stealing hearts, just like those vagabonds who claim to be able to tell fortunes. They say he’s had at least fifty lovers and that’s just among the wives and daughters of the men at court.”
“Fifty?” Peg breathed, her eyes wide. “How come he ain’t been killed by some husband or father?”
“Because nobody dares to challenge him. He’s won every tournament that he’s ever been in, and they say he’s so fierce when he fights, even the devil himself would flee his blade—if he chooses to use it. He doesn’t always. Last year, he had charge of a castle in Normandy and surrendered after only three days. He was captured by the Duc d’Ormonde, whose wife was reputed
