Smoke rose from the smithy in gray wisps and she could easily imagine Old Davy holding court with his fellows, talking about the news of the day, speculating about what the king might do next to try to retrieve his lands in France, and what he might tax to raise the money to do it.
She could see the open space of the green, and the wagons of some peddlers drawn up there, no doubt to the chagrin of those merchants whose stalls bordered the green. In the yard belonging to the widowed alewife, the cooper was unloading barrels. She was likely complaining, albeit in a good-natured way, about the price he’d charged her to make them. When he was finished, they’d probably retire to her brewery and sample her latest, then finish the day in bed together, for it was no secret that their relationship went beyond the bounds of business.
If she were to marry, Gillian reflected, she’d have to leave her home, and her friends, and the people she cherished to go to her husband’s estate. She would be a stranger among strangers, and surely very lonely.
Even when James was alive and they’d talked of a life together, she’d been troubled by that possibility.
To think it had been less than a year since her father’s death and she’d become the chatelaine of Averette, with Adelaide’s blessing and promise that it would always be so. Less than a year since Adelaide had gone to court. Less than a year since Lizette had gone north to visit friends and make more, for as Gillian never wanted to leave Averette, Lizette hated the notion of being tied to one place.
Would a man like Sir Bayard ever understand how she felt about her home and her desire to ensure that everyone here was safe and secure, at least as much as she could? That she would forego the things women were supposed to crave—a husband and even the joy of children—to make it so? And that she didn’t want to be under the power of any man?
Probably not. Indeed, she could easily imagine his disbelief and scorn if he ever learned of her vow never to marry, and that she had taken it willingly—nay, eagerly, since James had died.
“My lady?”
She turned to find Dunstan, dressed as usual in a long, dark tunic, standing on the threshold with a parchment in his hand. He wasn’t alone, however. There was a man standing beside him whom she’d never seen before. He was about the same age as Dunstan, and well dressed. He was well groomed, too, except for his rather unkempt beard.
“My lady, this is Charles de Fenelon,” Dunstan said as he stepped into the room. “He’s a wine merchant from London, with most excellent wares.”
Judging by his clothes, the merchant’s business must be a prosperous one. She guessed from the slight scent of wine about Dunstan that he’d recently tasted samples of some of the aforementioned wares.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” de Fenelon said with a bow and an ingratiating smile. “I’ve heard nothing but praise of you in the town.”
Dunstan, who knew how she felt about flattery, held out a small scroll. “Here’s a list of his prices.”
As she took it, their hands touched for a moment. Trying to ignore the unwelcome sensation, she moved toward the window.
“Our stores are rather low,” Dunstan noted. “Of course, we wouldn’t need so much wine if our guests would take their leave.”
Gillian wasn’t pleased that Dunstan had said such a thing in front of the merchant, but she wasn’t going to chastise her steward, not when she knew that more than concern for the wine stores had prompted his remark. He was jealous of Sir Bayard, although he had no reason to be. She didn’t care about Sir Bayard that way.
But neither did she harbor any desire for Dunstan.
She’d always thought of him as a brother, for his gentle, kindly father had been the steward here before him. Recently, however, and much to her dismay, she’d realized Dunstan’s feelings for her had changed into something more than brotherly affection. Unfortunately, while she could be blunt and direct about many things, she couldn’t bring herself to speak to Dunstan about his feelings for her, or tell him that she did not, and never would, reciprocate them.
Instead, she hoped the difference in their rank would prevent him from speaking to her of love. She was, after all, a lord’s daughter and he the untitled son of a Norman knight’s bastard. Although that difference didn’t influence either her affection or her trust in him, many would tell him to look for love elsewhere because of that alone. There were plenty of young women of lesser rank in and around Averette who would gladly consider marriage to the kind-hearted, competent steward.
But not her.
Focusing on the list, she read it quickly and said to de Fenelon, “Your prices seem a bit high.”
His face fell. “That is the best I can do, if I’m to make any profit at all.”
He probably thought that because she was a woman, he could play on her sympathy and thus charge her more. “We shall either take them at the prices you have written here, or not at all.”
“Very well, my lady,” he agreed, thankfully without trying to haggle.
Because his prices were satisfactory, she said, “If your wine is as good as Dunstan claims, we’ll be happy to do business with you again.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Charles replied, beaming with delight.
“Charles knows Sir Bayard de Boisbaston,” Dunstan said with a significant look.
“Not personally,” Charles added hastily. “I sell wine to many of the nobles who are friends of the king and his court.”
“Then you’ve seen him?” Gillian asked, trying not to betray any overt interest to de Fenelon.
She would also prefer that this wine merchant, whom she’d never met before, not be privy to any suspicions they might have about their supposedly noble guest.
“Many times, most recently when I came through your hall. He’s playing chess with a young man your steward says is his squire.”
So that knight really was who he claimed to be.
Gillian walked to her chair and slowly lowered herself onto it. That made it more likely that the letter she’d received was really from Adelaide, too, and therefore everything in it was true, as well.
If so, Adelaide had broken her vow and married, and Lord Armand de Boisbaston could be the master of Aver-ette. Therefore, and regardless of whatever Adelaide had promised, Gillian had no legal right to govern Averette. Lord Armand did, if he would lay claim to the estate.
God help her, he could take command of Averette and do whatever he liked. He could even send her away.
Dunstan cleared his throat and she realized the wine merchant was still there, watching her. She wanted to tell him to go, and Dunstan, too. She wanted to weep, and rant, and wail, but she managed to control that impulse.
Dunstan took a step closer and clasped his long fingers together, shaking his hands to emphasize his point as he always did when he had something important to say. “Unfortunately, my lady, there’s more. Charles tells me Sir Bayard is notorious for his seductions, and is a coward, as well. He’s reputed to have seduced over fifty women at court, and he surrendered the castle he was charged to hold in Normandy after a siege of less than a week. They also say he seduced his captor’s young wife.”
Gillian’s eyes narrowed. Sir Bayard didn’t appear to be a coward, but how could one tell that except in battle? As for being a lustful rogue…he was handsome enough that she could believe he would be successful at seduction. Her maidservants certainly acted like addle-pated ninnies when he was nearby.
On