Scoundrel of Dunborough

by Margaret Moore

  A filthy, bony hand appeared. “Alms?” the beggar repeated in a weak, quavering voice.

  Celeste took out her leather drawstring purse. She hadn’t much money left, but she would give something to the poor soul to buy a bit of bread.

  She fished out a ha’penny and, bending down, put it in the outstretched palm.

  “Bless you, Sister, bless you!” the old woman murmured, drawing her hand back.

  Celeste got a good look at the old woman’s filthy face and nearly dropped her purse. “Eua?”

  Clutching the coin, Gerrard’s old nurse scuttled back against the wall like a crab. “No, no, I ain’t!”

  “You are!” Celeste cried, moving toward the woman who had been like a mother to Gerrard. “What happened? How have you come to this?”

  “Go ’way!” she cried. “You ain’t seen me!”

  Celeste reached down to take Eua’s arm and help her to her feet. The stench was nearly overpowering. Even so, she couldn’t leave her there like that.

  With unexpected strength Eua tried to push her away. “Don’t tell nobody you seen me! Don’t tell him!”

  Celeste didn’t have to ask who she meant. “You must let me get you some food.”

  And a bath. And clean clothes.

  “No, no, let me go!” Eua cried frantically, hobbling into the street just as Gerrard and his men rode through the market.

  “Look out there!” Gerrard cried, reining in abruptly.

  As his horse neighed in protest and the rest of the patrol behind him brought their mounts to a halt, Eua screeched and fell to her knees. She threw her hands over her head and started to sob, her whole body shaking.

  Celeste knelt beside the distraught old woman, trying to see if she was hurt or ill or simply frightened.

  “Don’t tell him who I am!” Eua wailed, writhing as if someone had set her on fire.

  “S’blood!” Gerrard cried in disbelief as he dismounted. “Eua?”

  The old woman covered her face and twisted away. “No, no, I ain’t, I ain’t!”

  Gerrard didn’t move. “Get up, Eua.”

  “No, no!”

  “You must. You shouldn’t have come back here.”

  “Why shouldn’t she be here?” Celeste asked, appalled by his harsh tone. “This is her home.”

  “She has forfeited that right.”

  Celeste regarded him with bafflement. “What has she done that you should say that? This woman was like a mother to you.”

  “This woman enabled the former steward of Dunborough to steal from the estate while he blamed me for the loss.”

  That gave Celeste a moment’s pause. Stealing was a very serious offense. But the woman was still in dire need, whatever she had done. “Even so, for mercy’s sake—”

  “Verdan!” Gerrard called out.

  A soldier rode forward.

  “Take charge of the patrol.”

  “Aye!” Verdan raised his hand and led the group of mounted men past them.

  With more gentleness than she expected, and no hint that he found Eua repulsive, Gerrard reached down to help the sobbing old woman to her feet.

  “For mercy’s sake and Sister Augustine’s, you can stay one night in the castle,” he said to the trembling Eua, “but then you must be on your way.”

  “Gerrard, surely—” Celeste started to protest.

  The look he gave her silenced her, at least on that one point. But she had something else to say to him and might never have another chance. “Thank you for the guards, Gerrard, and Lizabet, too. I feel safer for their presence.”

  His eyes lit up in a way that made her blush, and his lips curved in a grin that wasn’t mocking or insolent. It was as if time had not wrought so very great a change, and he was again the Gerrard she’d admired so long ago.

  Until he muttered a quiet curse, for Eua was sidling down the alley away from them. He darted after her and once more gently gripped her arm. “Come along, Eua, and be a good woman, as I was your good boy once. You can have something to eat and a warm bed for the night.”

  She made no further protest.

  “Good day, Sister,” Gerrard said with great politeness before they started toward the castle.

  “Good day, Gerrard,” she murmured as she watched him lead the old woman and his snow-white horse away.

  Leaving her to wonder what else had changed while she was far from home.

  * * *

  “Oh, that’s lovely, that is!” Lizabet said when Celeste returned with the meat for the stew. “Ben must like you.”

  Celeste doubted that very much, yet didn’t say so. “Have you ever heard tell of a servant called Eua at the castle?” she asked while Lizabet fetched a bowl and some flour.

  Lizabet started to cut the meat into smaller pieces. “She was here when Lady Mavis come, but not for long.”

  “Lady Mavis sent her away?”

  “Aye. She didn’t have much choice, really. Eua was disrespectful and made it no secret that she thought Gerrard ought to have Dunborough, not Roland, no matter who was born first or what their father wanted. We was all glad to see the back of Eua. What a tongue that woman had!

  “And then it turns out she was helping Dalfrid—he was the steward—to steal. Gerrard found her in York with Dalfrid and his mistress and realized what she’d done.”

  “So he brought her back here to face justice?”

  “Lord love you, no,” Lizabet said as she put some fat into one of the pots and swung it over the fire. When it began to sizzle, she dropped the flour-coated meat into it. “He let her stay in York with the mistress.”

  “I met her in the village today. She’s in a wretched state, starving and in rags.”

  Lizabet didn’t look particularly sympathetic. “Why she’d come back here, I don’t know. Maybe Dalfrid’s leman got tired of her nasty tongue, too.”

  “I thought she might have come back to seek help from Gerrard. She was always good to him and he was generous to her.”

  “Until that Dalfrid made out it was Gerrard costing the estate, when it was him stealing, and Eua knew it. Dalfrid paid her to keep quiet.”

  No wonder Gerrard had been so stiff and cold toward Eua. How it must have hurt him to find out the woman he loved like a mother was willing to betray him for money. Yet he had offered Eua food and shelter. “He’s letting her stay the night in the castle.”

  Stirring the beef, Lizabet didn’t appear surprised. “All the beggars that come to the village can stay a night in the castle stables, but only one, and they get a loaf of bread to take with them when they go.”

  Sir Blane or Broderick would never have done that. “Sir Roland has a generous nature.”

  “Oh, that isn’t his doing,” Lizabet said, adding water to the pot. “It’s Gerrard’s. Some say he’s trying to atone for all the sins he’s committed.”

  Joseph came out of the shadows in the corner and pushed his head against Celeste’s leg. She picked up the cat and stroked his back and listened to his purring.

  If Gerrard was trying to atone, she thought, he was starting well.

  She hoped she would be successful at atonement when her time came, for it surely must.

  * * *

  As the patrol continued on its way, Verdan addressed his brother. “Told you Sister Augustine was something, didn’t I? Did you hear how she spoke to Gerrard?”

  “Aye,” Arnhelm replied. He mused for a moment, his hips swaying with his horse’s ambling walk. “She don’t seem much like a nun.”

  “Too pretty, aye.”

  “Not just that. I thought nuns were supposed to be meek and mild.”

  “Aye, there’s that.”

  “Reckon Gerrard’ll be glad when she’s gone. No man likes to be dressed down by a wom
an, and in the market, too.”

  Arnhelm grinned. “You mind the time Ma chased you all around the green when you’d stepped on the sheets she’d laid out on the verge to dry?”

  “If Gerrard feels half as shamed as I did that day,” Verdan said with certainty, “he’ll be having a celebration when she’s gone.”

  * * *

  Florian, the cook, looked decidedly less than pleased to have Eua back in his kitchen. No doubt he would have been just as unhappy about it even if she didn’t smell and likely harbor fleas. Peg glanced at the former servant with a combination of disgust and dismay, and Tom the spit boy stared as if she were a witch come to gobble him up for dinner.

  “Thank you, Gerrard,” Eua mumbled as he handed her a loaf of bread. “You always were a good boy.”

  A good boy she had never really loved, he thought, trying to keep his expression stoic.

  “You can stay one night, Eua,” he reminded her, setting down a wooden bowl of stew.

  Celeste no doubt thought him cruel, but she didn’t know what Eua had done. The harm she’d caused, the way she’d hurt him, and not only when the truth about Dalfrid had been revealed.

  Gerrard would never forget the day he’d realized that Eua’s affection was his so long as he paid for it with compliments and little gifts. He had been six years old when she’d threatened to tell his father that he’d chased the chickens until one dropped dead. He’d begged her not to and she had stood there hard as stone until he’d promised to give her a copper-and-enamel bracelet that had been his mother’s. He’d found it in the grass in the garden, glistening near a rock, and she had discovered it in his little box of treasures. Most were worthless to anyone save him: an interesting stone, a bit of colored glass, the shed skin of a snake, a brass buckle. Nothing except the bracelet had any value.

  From that day on, he was aware he had to buy the love he craved.

  Eua took a bite from the loaf, then reached out and grasped his hand in her cold, dirty ones. “Thank you, my precious boy.”

  He didn’t want her thanks. He wanted her gone, the same way he’d thought he’d wanted Celeste gone, until she’d looked at him with sincere gratitude and thanked him for his help.

  She was not a woman he should have anything to do with. She wanted the church, not a man.

  “One night,” he repeated firmly, heading for the door. “One night in the stable, Eua, and then you must go.”

  Chapter Nine

  The next day the garrison commander of Dunborough stood at the window high in the castle keep, in an upper room his father and brothers used as a solar, and where the records of the estate were kept. From here, he could see over the roofs of the village, all the way to the big house of the D’Orleaus—or he could have if it wasn’t raining, a cold, chill rain that felt like needles on the skin.

  So here he was, shut up in the solar like a prisoner, trying to start a letter to his brother.

  As well as finally decide what he would do about Roland’s offer.

  There were other obstacles besides his own reluctance to be beholden to his brother. King John would have to agree, for one thing. Roland was confident the king would be quick to approve the gift, for it would mean less land and power in one man’s hands.

  But how could Gerrard govern a place where his reputation was against him? Where he was still viewed as a wastrel, a sot and a gamester? To be sure, the soldiers liked him—he seemed like one of them and, indeed, felt that way most of the time.

  Commanding soldiers was different from running an estate, though, as these few weeks had made clear. Perhaps it would be better to be a simple soldier and start afresh somewhere else, to make his own way in the world and be beholden to no one.

  With a sigh, he went back to the table where he’d set out a pot of ink covered with waxed cloth and a piece of clean parchment in preparation for composing an answer to Roland’s letter. Gerrard selected three quills and picked up the small knife to strip off the lower feathers and sharpen the point of the shaft. Once that was done, he sat down and studied again the message he’d received from his brother.

  As always, the written letters often looked backward and in the wrong order, as if someone was writing in code, and it took him a long time to decipher every word. Only once had he ventured to tell anyone about his difficulties reading. Roland had regarded him as if he were completely stupid, and so, Gerrard reckoned, he must be when it came to reading—and writing, which was worse.

  Thank God he was good at other things, such as getting people to like him.

  In that he was alone among his family. Broderick had wanted everyone to fear him, as had their father. Roland didn’t seem to care what people thought about him. Only Gerrard wanted everybody to like him, and it pained him when they didn’t.

  He studied the scroll again and the words slowly started to make sense. Roland began with a greeting and the assumption that all was well at Dunborough, despite whatever doubts he might secretly harbor.

  Gerrard couldn’t fault Roland if he did have doubts. He was too well aware that his cautious brother had taken a leap of faith leaving him in command.

  Even a month ago, no one, including himself, would have anticipated that. He, like most of the inhabitants of the estate, had expected Roland to send him away.

  Instead, Roland had decided to go to DeLac to tell Lord Simon there would be no alliance between them, either by marriage or by treaty, and had left Gerrard temporarily in command.

  Nobody had been more surprised than he when Roland returned with DeLac’s daughter as his bride, and no one was more surprised than he that Mavis genuinely loved and admired Roland and condemned him—Gerrard—for acting like a spoiled brat.

  He would never forget how she’d upbraided him and pointed out that his insolent treatment of his brother undermined people’s respect for both of them. Her words had stung more when he’d realized she was right.

  Then he’d found out about Dalfrid, and Roland had been attacked by Duncan MacHeath and nearly died.

  Gerrard ran his hand through his hair. If he accepted Roland’s offer, perhaps he could learn to rule in time. Maybe he could become patient and thoughtful and grow to understand all the financial business attendant on that task, or else find a clerk to help him.

  Freedom from his reputation and any expectations had its own appeal, though. He could leave behind his past and all the bitter pain and unhappy memories, as well. There weren’t many good ones here.

  There would be even fewer when Celeste returned to the convent.

  What the devil did she have to do with his decision?

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Stay and be beholden, or go and be free, yet without lands and title. How could he decide?

  He couldn’t. Not today.

  He looked out the window and realized the rain had stopped. Water dripped from the roof and the ground would be soaked, but Roland could wait another day or two. Arnhelm would undoubtedly be happy to stay in Dunborough awhile longer and he had better things to do.

  Or if not better, at least more entertaining.

  * * *

  Celeste put the salted cod she had purchased from the fishmonger into her basket and, making her way around a puddle, hurried past the chandler’s shop. She didn’t want to see Norbert, or for him to see her. He’d come to the house once already to ask when she was going to sell it and—

  “Sister Augustine!”

  Too late.

  She turned toward the chandler. “Good day, Norbert. It turned into a fine day, did it not? And warm for November.”

  “We won’t have many good days left for traveling.”

  The man likely couldn’t be subtle if he was offered the king of England’s crown to be so. “No, I daresay you’re right,” she replied, keeping a placid smile on her face.r />
  “What are you up to now, Norbert?” Ewald boomed from behind her. “Harassing the good sister, I don’t doubt!”

  “I’m doing nothing of the kind. We’re talking about the weather,” Norbert retorted, his narrow face looking longer with his frown.

  “It’ll be cold and snowing before much longer. And wet. All the signs point to a wet winter. The roads’ll be a muddy mess.”

  Apparently Ewald was no more subtle than his enemy.

  “I hope to be on my way in a few days,” Celeste said, trying not to sigh with impatience, weariness and dismay.

  She didn’t need them to remind her that she would have to sell the house soon if she was to leave Dunborough before the harsh winter weather arrived. She would have sold the house, paid the debts and been gone already if she’d found her father’s hidden wealth.

  Unfortunately for them all, she had not, and she was beginning to fear she never would. She was also beginning to doubt that it had ever existed. It might have been a lie her father had told to torment their unhappy mother.

  Celeste had started to wonder if she should accept that she would never find the treasure. She’d spent so much of her nights searching fruitlessly, she was near exhaustion.

  At least nobody from the convent had come looking for her.

  “As I’ve said, I’ll make you a good offer.” Ewald spoke so loudly, half the people in the market turned to look at them.

  “I’ll make a better one,” Norbert declared, “and I won’t rush you from the premises. You can leave whenever it suits you.”

  “You make it sound as if I’ll throw her out the door,” Ewald grumbled.

  “Won’t you?”

  “Sweet Jesu, no, you little—”

  “Please don’t squabble,” Celeste pleaded, her patience nearly at an end. “I will sell when I am ready, and not before.”

  She hurried past them, although not fast enough that she didn’t hear them continue to argue and call each other names. She’d had her fill of childish quarrels when she was young, and at least Gerrard and Roland had been children then.