Scoundrel of Dunborough

by Margaret Moore

  There was a soldier standing by the gate in the front yard. He wore chain mail and a surcoat bearing the crest of Dunborough, a boar being strangled by a snake, and he was leaning on his spear as if he’d been there a long time.

  That had to be Gerrard’s doing. No one else would have the authority to send a soldier to stand guard over her house.

  In spite of all that she had said to him, he had sent men to protect her. Perhaps there really were thieves and outlaws about, and perhaps Gerrard was a better man than she gave him credit for.

  Or perhaps he had simply wanted to demonstrate his authority.

  It was likely the latter.

  She dressed quickly, not looking at the scarlet gown that she’d thrown over the chest, before she went below. She hurried into the main room to pick up the candleholder she’d dropped, a little embarrassed that she’d brandished it like some kind of crazed harpy, but only a little. After all, Gerrard might have tried to kiss her again.

  To her surprise, the bronze holder was farther from the door than she expected. Perhaps she’d imagined that Gerrard was standing so close to her last night.

  However far away he’d been, she was sure she’d seen lustful desire flashing in his dark eyes, a need that seemed to call out to—

  Someone knocked on the door.

  If that was Gerrard, what would she say to him?

  Maybe she should pretend she hadn’t heard it.

  Yet if she didn’t answer, he might barge in anyway, as he had last night.

  She went to the door and threw it open, startling Lizabet, who nearly dropped the basket she was carrying. “Oh, Sister! You gave me such a turn!”

  “I’m sorry. Good morning, Lizabet. May I help you?”

  “It’s me been sent to help you, Sister. Gerrard says I’m to do the laundry and meals and anything else you need for the few days that you’re here.”

  How was Celeste going to search the house if Lizabet was there? And who was Gerrard to determine how long she would be in Dunborough?

  The maidservant gave her a friendly smile. “And he’s ordered that there’s to be two men every night to guard the house.” The young woman clutched her basket tighter. “I must say I’m glad of it, Sister! There was a band of outlaws in the wood this past summer, terrible men the lot of them, and while most of them were caught, we can’t be sure they all were and, well, men like that, if they heard about you staying here alone, and with the stories about your father’s money, well...”

  “Yes, I see.” So there might really be thieves in the vicinity.

  Guilt and shame arose within Celeste as she remembered the accusations she’d hurled at Gerrard. Unfortunately, the words couldn’t be called back.

  “I’m grateful that he sent you, Lizabet, and the guards, too,” she said as she opened the door to let the servant enter.

  * * *

  As Lizabet went into the D’Orleau house, Gerrard was sitting on the dais in the castle’s hall, waiting for the middle-aged sergeant at arms to finish his report about the night’s watch. He was also stifling the urge to yawn.

  He’d lain awake most of the night tossing and turning, trying not to think about women, or red silk gowns, or soft lips and harsh retorts. He didn’t regret sending the guards. He only regretted losing his temper. That was a weakness and something he must learn to control.

  “All was quiet here and at the D’Orleau house,” the gray-bearded Ralph said, his muscular body stiffly at attention, as if he were facing Gerrard’s father.

  “Good,” Gerrard replied, hoping it wouldn’t be much longer before the men realized that he aimed to be a different sort of leader from his father or his older brother, or even Roland, who never seemed to relax around anyone.

  “Are the men mustered for patrol?” he asked, getting to his feet. He’d already broken his fast and it was time to be doing something.

  “Yes, sir. The weather’s looking a bit chancy, though, sir. You might want to hold off a day or so.”

  Gerrard inclined his head to acknowledge that he’d heard the sergeant at arms’s concern, then continued toward the door. If it appeared a storm was brewing, the patrol wouldn’t ride out. If it seemed as if rain was merely pending, they would.

  He opened the door and saw the ten men assigned to the patrol waiting by their horses. He was about to check the sky when he spotted a soldier being admitted at the gate, leading his horse rather than riding it.

  Gerrard turned back to Ralph, who had taken his seat at one of the trestle tables and started to slather some butter on a thick piece of brown bread. “Where’s Verdan?”

  “Here, sir!” the soldier declared from the door to the kitchen. He had a mouth full of bread and held the heel of a loaf in his hand. There were crumbs in his beard and down the front of his hauberk.

  Gerrard decided to be lenient and not comment on the crumbs. “Your brother’s come from DeLac.”

  Wiping his buttery lips with the back of his hand and tossing the loaf to the hounds, the stocky soldier hurried to stand beside Gerrard at the door.

  “Just in time to avoid a good soaking,” Verdan noted with a laugh as they watched his brother dash across the yard toward the hall, his mail jingling, while rain began to fall.

  “No patrol unless the rain stops!” Gerrard called out to the men in the yard, repeating the order to Ralph, behind him. Wet mail and weapons got rusty, but it didn’t look to be a heavy or a lasting rain.

  “Greetings, sir!” the bearded, wiry Arnhelm said as Gerrard and Verdan moved aside to let him enter. “And you, too, brother.” He slapped the pouch at his belt and addressed Gerrard. “I’ve brought a letter from Sir Roland.”

  Another one. In spite of his dismay, Gerrard put a smile on his face. “How fares my brother?”

  “He’s well,” Arnhelm replied. “He’s still got some pain, but the apothecary says he should be good as new in no time.”

  “And his wife? Glowing, no doubt.”

  “Aye, indeed, sir! Beautiful as ever and happy as a lark.”

  Of course she was. Gerrard had never seen a more happily married woman than Mavis, although only a few short months ago he would have wagered a goodly sum that no woman could ever be happily married to Roland. “Something wrong with your horse?”

  “Aye, sire, had a pebble in the hoof. Seems to be coming along, though.”

  Arnhelm reached into the pouch on his belt and pulled out a parchment sealed with wax and the imprint of Roland’s ring, the ring that had been their father’s and all the lords of Dunborough back to the Conqueror’s day. He handed it to Gerrard.

  “This time I, um, I’m to stay until you’ve got an answer to send him,” Arnhelm said, his face reddening.

  That was something new, although perhaps to be expected. Roland had been waiting days to learn his decision about the estate.

  Nevertheless, Gerrard acted as if this order didn’t disturb him in the slightest. “Not much of a hardship for you to wait a day or two, eh?”

  Arnhelm tried to look as if he didn’t understand what Gerrard was referring to. His efforts were all for naught when Peg appeared at the entrance to the kitchen, the smile on her face making her look five years younger and even more attractive.

  It was no secret that Arnhelm had asked Roland for permission to marry Peg at the same time Verdan had sought Lizabet’s hand.

  Gerrard tucked the letter into his belt. “Now be off with you, man!” he genially ordered. “You, too, Verdan.”

  As the brothers hurried away, Gerrard called for Ralph to join him. They would go to the armory and see how many new swords might be needed. Or lances or pikes or arrows. Roland’s letter and his answer could wait until later.

  Or possibly tomorrow. Or the day after.

  * * *

  A short time later, Arnhelm an
d Verdan settled themselves comfortably in an out-of-the-way corner of the kitchen. Arnhelm had a little smile on his face as he watched Peg bustle about among the other servants busy at their various tasks. She, in turn, occasionally cast a blatantly fraudulent look of annoyance his way. Otherwise, Arnhelm and Verdan might have been alone in a cell in the dungeon for all the attention anyone paid them.

  “Ma’s well, then?” Verdan asked, leaning back against the wall.

  “Fine as ever,” Arnhelm answered, his smile dwindling. “Still won’t come to Yorkshire, though.”

  Verdan frowned. “She ain’t even met the girls!”

  “Aye, and that’s got me thinking. Maybe when I go back, you should come with me—all three of you. Once Ma meets ’em, she’ll love ’em, and I’m sure she’ll leave DeLac.”

  “Gerrard’ll have to agree to the journey,” Verdan said grimly.

  Arnhelm gave his brother a puzzled look. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “’Cause he’s been like a bear with a toothache since Sister Augustine came.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Audrey D’Orleau’s sister, that’s who.”

  “Didn’t know she had one.”

  “No more did I, but so she does. Or did. Anyway, Sister Augustine’s come here to deal with the house and furnishings and such, and accordin’ to Lizabet, she and Gerrard hate each other.” He briefly told his brother about the cut hair and broken collarbone.

  Arnhelm whistled. “That explains it, then.”

  “What?”

  “Why Sir Roland’s been lookin’ so worried. I thought he was anxious to get an answer to the letters he’s been sendin’ Gerrard, but maybe he’s heard she’s come and he’s afraid of what’s goin’ to happen between ’em.”

  Verdan snorted a laugh. “What? Come to blows? Gerrard might not be the most chivalrous man in England, yet I’ve never heard he’s ever hit a woman.”

  “It’s not that I’m thinkin’ about. Gerrard’s handsome and charmin’, too, and has a way with women. And she’s a woman.”

  Verdan rapidly shook his head. “No. Not them two. He was pretty angry when she wouldn’t come back to the castle.”

  Arnhelm frowned. “What happened?”

  Verdan shrugged. “I dunno, but he was madder’n a wet hen, and she won’t come back.”

  “Have they ever been alone together?”

  “What, like in the solar or somewhere?”

  “Aye. Where they could have had a quarrel without anybody else hearin’.”

  Scratching his beard, Verdan mused a moment. “That first night they were in the courtyard together, over by the big tree.”

  “Doin’ what?”

  “Talkin’, far as I could see.”

  “What about?”

  “I wasn’t listenin’, nor near enough to hear, and they wasn’t shoutin’. They was way over by the kitchen, where it was pretty dark.”

  Arnhelm raised a brow. “They were talkin’ together in the dark where no one else could hear?”

  “It was night,” Verdan replied, “so o’course it was dark.”

  “And that’s all they did, just talk?”

  “What else? She’s a nun, for God’s sake!”

  Arnhelm crossed his arms. “Wouldn’t be the first time anger turned into something else just as strong. One kind of powerful feelin’ leads to another, I always say.”

  “You do not!”

  “Maybe I don’t, but it’s true enough for all that.”

  “Since when are you an expert?”

  Arnhelm gave his brother the sort of condescending look an older sibling gives a younger one. “Doesn’t take an expert to figure out a man like Gerrard can get just about anything he wants from a woman.”

  Verdan regarded his older brother with equal condescension. “You ain’t met Sister Augustine.”

  Chapter Eight

  Two days later, the early-morning sun was barely lighting the horizon as Celeste raised her head from the pillow of her arms. Sometime after midnight, she’d rested her forehead on the table in the kitchen and fallen asleep.

  She’d spent most of the previous evening examining various bits of parchment she’d found in a wooden box in her old bedchamber. Letters, receipts, bills of lading, bills of sale, lists, figures and notations were now in various piles on the table. She’d also found a few pennies in the box beneath the papers. That was a pleasant surprise. She could use the money in the market.

  As for the documents, they had been jumbled together without any apparent rhyme or reason, as if Audrey had simply thrown them into the box. Celeste had tried to make sense of them, sorting them into piles, and hoping that one might be a clue about the location of her father’s money.

  She’d found nothing of any use in that regard. All her efforts seemed to show was that Audrey had indeed spent freely on credit, and with apparently no attempts to repay her debts.

  Rubbing her neck, Celeste rotated her head, trying to work out a dull ache. Noticing a shaft of light across the flagstone floor, she went to the window and discovered a narrow gap between the shutters, which were held closed by a hook and eye. The wood must have shrunk over the years, leaving a space. She likely hadn’t noticed it before because she hadn’t been in the kitchen when the sun rose.

  A thief could slip a knife through that gap and raise the hook and thus open the shutters.

  Yet she’d never seen it before and Lizabet hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe the maidservant hadn’t seen it, either, because as the sun moved, that gap would be in shadow. Celeste doubted it would be any more visible outside, even if she had a candle lit. Nevertheless, it was troubling and made her more grateful for the guards. When she sold the house, she would tell the new owner to obtain a more secure fastener.

  She heard a cat’s meow and went to the door. Joseph, as she’d decided to name the ginger cat because of his bright coat, was waiting outside. She let him in and closed the door, then began to gather up the papers and put them back into the box.

  She would take them to her room and try to get a little more sleep before Lizabet arrived.

  * * *

  “Watch what you’re doing, you oaf!” Norbert cried as the wax dripped from the form onto the table beneath. “I can’t afford to have beeswax wasted!”

  Lewis quickly scraped up the overflow and put it back into the small cauldron of melted wax that sat in a holder over a low flame on the worktable.

  “What’s the matter with you, anyway?” his father demanded, swatting him on the back of the head. “You can’t put it back! It’s dirty. Now the whole lot’s ruined.” He grabbed the hot container, gasped and let it fall.

  “Idiot!” he shouted, as if it was his son’s fault he’d burned himself, and raised his hand again.

  Trying to avoid another blow, Lewis jumped up from his stool, knocking it over and into his father’s way, so that the older man nearly tripped.

  Clutching his burning fingers, Norbert shouted, “Get out!”

  Lewis didn’t hesitate to obey. He ran out of the workroom and into the alley, then slipped into the tavern. It was busy and crowded on market day, and nobody noticed him in a dark corner.

  He sat and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. God, he was tired! It was no wonder he’d made that mistake in the shop. Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to tell his father he’d spent most of the past night up in the garret watching the D’Orleau house, wondering what Sister Augustine was doing and why there’d been a light in the kitchen.

  At least she hadn’t been with Gerrard. Lewis was sure about that, or he would have seen him. He wished Gerrard would catch a chill and die. Or better yet, some lingering, wasting, disfiguring disease. It would serve that arrogant lout right. Unfortunately, the men who most deserved to be punished for their sins
all too often weren’t. It had been Gerrard’s equally sinful friends who’d died. To be sure, they’d gone outside the law after Roland had sent them from Dunborough, but still, it wasn’t fair. Men like Gerrard never suffered enough.

  “What’ll you have, Lewis? Buttermilk?”

  He opened his eyes to find Matheus smirking at him.

  “Nothing from you,” he retorted, getting to his feet.

  He’d find another place to keep warm, such as the empty stable in the D’Orleau yard. That way, he’d be near Sister Augustine, too.

  * * *

  “Well, now, Sister, see something you like?” the butcher asked. His lips were smiling, but not his eyes. No doubt he was thinking of the five marks Audrey owed him, and wondering if and when he might be repaid.

  Giving the big man in a bloody apron a pleasant smile to hide the shame she felt, Celeste reached into her cuff and pulled out her nearly empty purse. “I need a bit of meat for a stew, if you please.”

  The butcher nodded and bundled a few pieces of the cheapest cut in a cabbage leaf, handing it over to her after she gave him the price he asked for. “So you’re not leaving for a bit, eh, Sister?”

  “Not until the house is sold and all of Audrey’s debts are paid,” she assured him before she left his shop, not lingering in case she saw a skeptical expression on his face.

  She went past the well and the women gathered there. She smiled at them, too, and they nodded a greeting in return. Despite their apparent friendliness, she was sure she would be the subject of their conversation when they began talking again. Being the sister of a murdered woman would be more than enough to kindle a lot of gossip and speculation.

  It would be worse if she wasn’t garbed in the habit of a nun. She didn’t regret taking it, and she suspected the mother superior probably considered the loss of a habit a small price to pay for being rid of a troublesome novice whom no amount of punishment would render completely obedient.

  “Alms, good Sister, alms!”

  Celeste halted abruptly. She hadn’t noticed the old woman sitting on the ground inside the entrance to an alley. If she had, she’d more than likely have thought it was a bundle of rags, not a person. The woman was small in stature and her face barely visible beneath the cloth wrapped around her head.