The Baron's Bride

by Joanna Makepeace

  Only then did the reeve venture a comment. “Demoiselle Gisela, I think you would be very unwise to make any move to anger the Baron de Treville further. I am sure your father, Sir Walter, would be concerned. Indeed, he might infer from what has occurred that we were instrumental in causing this injury…”

  “Do you suggest that I encouraged Sigurd to do that?” Gisela demanded furiously and the old man stepped hastily backwards, knowing the intensity of his mistress’s feelings when she took it into her head to champion the cause of one or other of the serfs upon the manor.

  “Certainly not, demoiselle,” he said hastily, “but—but had we not been here, the soldiers would have managed and—and…”

  Gisela swallowed the sharp bile rising in her throat. She was beginning to believe that, to some extent, Oswin could be right; yet Sigurd had already been furiously angry when they arrived on the scene. She drew a deep breath. She was going to have a very hard job to save the impetuous young fool. She put a comforting arm round Aldith’s shoulders.

  “Come into the cottage. You can do nothing for the moment. I promise you, Aldith, both I and Father will do our best for Sigurd, whatever Oswin says.” Her blue eyes flashed fire at the hapless reeve, who quailed inwardly and then gave way and prepared to wait outside the cottage stolidly until his mistress was ready to ride back to Brinkhurst.

  Gisela persuaded Aldith that she must come at once to Brinkhurst. She could not leave the distraught woman here alone in this cottage.

  It would not be beyond the bounds of possibility for Baron Alain de Treville to send men immediately to oust her and destroy the cottage immediately. Punishment must be fast and severe if discipline was to be maintained on his desmesne and, from what she had seen of him, he would rule with an iron hand and not encased in a soft leather glove, either!

  Aldith, still weeping, gathered up a bundle of her own clothing and Sigurd’s and one or two items she specially prized as being of her husband Rolf’s fashioning, and Gisela briskly promised that she would send two men with a cart later to convey the one or two pieces of crudely fashioned furniture the two possessed.

  Neither woman dared give voice to the fear that Sigurd would not live to require his belongings. Oswin took up the former nurse pillion behind him and they rode back to Brinkhurst in sombre mood.

  Both disturbed and angered by her encounter in Allestone wood, Gisela rode into the courtyard of the Brinkhurst manor, dismounted hurriedly and handed her reins to a young groom who hastened to serve her.

  She instructed Oswin to see to it that Aldith and her bundles were conveyed to the kitchen quarters, where she must be fed and cosseted until Gisela had had opportunity to explain what had occurred to her father and make arrangements for Aldith’s reception into the household.

  She hastened up the steps before the undercroft and into the hall. Her father was seated by the fire, for the November day was chill and raw, and a man seated opposite rose instantly and came towards her with a delighted cry. She almost ran to meet him, her own anxious expression lighting up with unexpected pleasure.

  “Kenrick, how good it is to see you. I didn’t know you were expected or I would not have gone out this morning to see Aldith.”

  “And how is she?” Her father smiled his welcome as his daughter divested herself of her mantle and came to his side near the fire.

  Kenrick of Arcote, their nearest neighbour, only a few years older than Gisela and her friend from babyhood, caught his breath, as he always did at sight of her these days. Gisela of Brinkhurst was now on the brink of womanhood.

  She was not over-tall for a woman, but stately of poise and already her youthful, budding breasts were thrusting tight against the cloth of her blue woollen gown. He was sure he could have encircled her waist, cinched in tightly with her ornamental leather belt, with one hand, so slight of form was she. Her luxuriant tawny braids caught golden lights from the fire as she moved nearer to her father.

  He thought her heart-shaped face with its small, slightly tip-tilted nose, her luminous blue eyes and generous, sensuous mouth with its slightly fuller lower lip, even the remains of the summer freckling on nose and cheeks—for Gisela rode out in all weathers despite her former nurse’s warnings about the ruination of her fair complexion—quite enchanting. Now he saw, as her father had already noted, that something had disturbed her badly.

  Sir Walter urged her down upon a stool beside him and placed a gentle hand upon her bowed head.

  “What is it, Gisela?” His heart thudded against his ribcage as he thought she might well have been accosted, even molested, on this ride into Allestone wood. “You have not encountered masterless men abroad and had to ride hard to safety?”

  “No, nothing like that,” she assured him hastily and turned, a little uncertain smile parting her lips, to face the anxious frown she could see gathering on Kenrick’s brow.

  “No, I have been in no danger. It is Sigurd, Father. He—he attacked the Lord Baron of Allestone Castle and—and he has been arrested and imprisoned there. It is very serious. Aldith is terribly upset and I have brought her here to Brinkhurst. You will give her shelter?”

  “Of course, child. You know we owe so much to Aldith we can never repay her adequately. You say Sigurd dared to attack Alain de Treville? How in the world could that happen with the Baron well guarded? Is he seriously hurt?”

  Gisela choked back tears as she tried to marshal her thoughts to tell of the encounter coherently. She explained the Baron’s determination to oust Aldith and her son from their home and his reason for clearing the land and her own objections and attempts to dissuade him.

  Her eyes clouded with tears as she burst out, “Then—then he refused point blank to reconsider and made to move away. Sigurd—he—sprang at him with a knife—and—and the Baron’s arm was injured. Fortunately he had the presence of mind to turn in time or—or—he might have been killed.”

  She read the dawning horror in both her listeners’ eyes and added, tearfully, “I—I blame myself for what—what happened. I should not have interfered. I think—poor Sigurd took that as encouragement for his cause and—and he lost all control.” She stopped and turned away.

  “Father, I know how terrible a crime this is, to attempt to kill your lord. In spite of everything, Sigurd is still just a boy and—and you will try to save him, won’t you, for Aldith’s sake?”

  Walter of Brinkhurst let out an explosion of breath and leaned back in his chair, considering for a moment.

  “Gisela, as you’ve said, this is a very serious matter indeed. Sigurd may well hang for this, or be maimed, at the very least. The boy is getting past control. I’ve said as much to Aldith many a time recently. Now, child, stop weeping, you will make yourself ill. You cannot blame yourself. The boy could well have done this whether or no you were present.”

  Kenrick gave a hasty nod of agreement to this last statement.

  Walter went on, “Though, I have to say, you were unwise to come to odds with Lord Alain over this. He is quite within his rights to clear his own land for defensive purposes and Aldith’s assart was cut by Rolf unlawfully. It is to be hoped that your disagreement with the Baron has not further prejudiced him against the boy. Such a man is unlikely to countenance any criticism of his orders, especially before his men.

  “I cannot say how I would have reacted to that myself. However,” he added hastily, as he saw his daughter’s eyes begin to brim with tears again, “what’s done is done and we must make the best of it we can. Certainly I will plead for the lad at the manor court, but I have to warn you that my intercession is unlikely to be received well by my neighbour. From what I hear of the man, he makes his own decisions, consulting with no one, and likes to keep himself to himself.”

  Gisela reached up to hug her father. She loved him dearly, this broad-built, heavily muscled, still-active and attractive man, whose brown hair was beginning to recede now from his brow. His round, blunt-featured face with the brown eyes that were often disposed to twinkle when
ever he gazed on his lovely daughter, the apple of his eye, but which now had darkened with concern for her distress and the reason for it, began to take on an expression of very real alarm.

  Baron Alain de Treville had been sent by King Stephen expressly to assist the shire reeve of Oakham to keep the peace in this district and Walter of Brinkhurst felt distinctly uneasy at being the man to oppose him on any matter. He fervently wished his daughter had never met and come into open conflict with his most powerful neighbour.

  He gave another heavy sigh. “We may have need of this man in the future, so be circumspect in your dealings with him. Kenrick has come to inform us of another attack on a nearby manor, this time only five miles on the far side of Oakham, more than likely the work of that devil, Mauger of Offen, or the rabble of unruly routiers he keeps to attend him.”

  Gisela turned a horrified face to Kenrick. “Were people killed?”

  “Fortunately not. The family was away attending a wedding in Leicester Town. When the place was attacked the household servants fled into the forest land nearby and only returned when it was all over, but the manor house was sacked and its valuables stolen, then the house was fired. It’s unlikely it will be habitable this winter.

  “Only the sense of preservation of the serfs in the village in running and hiding saved their womenfolk from pillage and rape. As your father says, Gisela, it isn’t safe these days for you to ride far from the desmesne without suitable escort. This unrest has been going on far too long. It is time Mauger was brought to justice. Everyone in the shire knows who is responsible for these depredations.”

  Sir Walter shook his head regretfully. “The wily fellow covers his tracks and disowns those fellows who are caught. The King is too busied with continued insurrection throughout the realm to be concerning himself with our small pocket of land here.

  “In the South, men are suffering far worse. There is talk of merchants being savagely tortured to reveal hidden wealth, nuns ravished and priests murdered while church plate is plundered and no man can trust his neighbours. It is a sorry state of affairs when our King and his cousin, the Empress Matilda, cannot reach an equable solution of their differences.”

  Gisela said fiercely, “Father, you said all men swore allegiance to the Lady Matilda when commanded to by her father, the late King Henry. Why didn’t the barons keep faith—simply because she is a woman?”

  Her father shrugged. “There is no binding law which says in England that the eldest son of the monarch must inherit. Even before King William came to our shores from Normandy he believed he had right of inheritance, but the Witan chose Harold Godwinson to be King and William only succeeded in his claim by his victory at Senlac.

  “William’s oldest son did not succeed him to the English throne. William, called Rufus, became our King and, after him, his brother, King Henry. It is likely that his son would have inherited but, as you know, he was lost in the tragedy of the wreck of the White Ship, a terrible blow to his father. Yet life continued to be unsettled and, on his death, the council almost unanimously decided that his sister Adela’s son, Stephen, should be our King.

  “I cannot help agreeing that they were right. The English barons and earls will not readily accept a woman to rule over them, not even one so strong and formidable as the Lady Matilda.”

  Gisela’s mouth set in a hard line. “Yet many men do support her. Her half-brother, Robert of Gloucester, accepts her as sovereign lady.”

  Walter nodded, pursing his lips. “Aye, and so battle has been waged these many years. I cannot believe now Matilda will ever ascend the throne. Unfortunately, I cannot place much hope for peace in the King’s eldest son, Eustace, who has proven himself feckless and unstable. I wish it were otherwise.

  “Stephen is a fine soldier, too chivalrous for his own good. A King needs to be ruthless to prosper. The Conqueror proved that. Men are tired of war and the barons must make soon an acceptable treaty with Matilda’s supporters for the good of the realm. Rumours abound that the King is ailing. Meanwhile, we continue to suffer from the unspeakable behaviour of men like Mauger, who thrive on unrest.”

  “And you think this man, de Treville, will be able to bring order to the shire?” Kenrick asked.

  “He is the younger son of a knightly family in Normandy who came here to make his way in the world. He has served the King well, they say, and has a reputation as an efficient and ruthless commander.”

  “He doesn’t appear old enough to have achieved such a reputation,” Gisela said, “though I could not see his features clearly. He was armoured and wore his helmet.”

  “He must be in his middle twenties,” Walter mused, “possibly close to thirty. He’s said to be a hard man, but just.”

  “Which does not augur well for Sigurd’s chances,” Gisela said gloomily.

  Kenrick rose, nodding courteously at his host. “I should be returning to Arcote. My mother worries herself almost into a panic these days if I am even a fraction late returning.”

  “Understandable,” Sir Walter grunted.

  Gisela scrambled to her feet. “I will go with you to the stables. My palfrey seemed a trifle lame this morning and I want to make sure the grooms are examining her properly and tending to her if necessary. I was in too much of a hurry to tell Father of Sigurd’s plight when I arrived home to give instructions properly.” She slipped her discarded mantle round her shoulders as Kenrick drew on his own which had been draped over a stool.

  He watched her as she spoke anxiously with the head groom, who reassured her about her palfrey’s condition and promised to keep the animal under surveillance for any signs of further discomfort.

  Kenrick’s desires were quickened by her nearness as they moved together outside the stable while he waited for his own mount to be brought out. He would have declared himself to her father long ago had it not been for his doubts about his mother’s declining health.

  She had seemed to ail continually since the death of his father two years ago and, more and more, clung to her sturdy, handsome young son for comfort, so much so that her constant demands for attention were becoming irksome. He looked now at Gisela’s radiantly healthy countenance and mentally compared it with that of the sickly, pale creature awaiting him at Arcote.

  He longed to wed Gisela and take her to be mistress there, but knew there would be constant conflicts of wills between the two women and was not sure if he could honourably request Gisela’s hand of her father. He was aware also that she was now ripe for marriage and if he did not do so soon, he might well lose her. He must tackle his mother on the delicate subject of his marriage, tonight if possible or tomorrow if she had insisted on retiring early to her chamber.

  Gisela watched him as he rode off, a smile lingering round her lips. Kenrick was a kindly man. He would never have uprooted Aldith so ruthlessly and so precipitously brought about this terrible trouble to Sigurd.

  She had been considering recently that perhaps Kenrick, who came so often to Brinkhurst on some excuse or other, would ask for her hand in marriage. She had also allowed herself to consider that life at Arcote with so considerate and admiring a young husband could be very pleasant indeed.

  She liked the openness of Kenrick’s expression, his curling brown hair and wide-spaced grey eyes. At twenty he was not over-tall, but well set up, hard-muscled, an attractive man who could handle himself well with weapons and in the wrestling ring. Despite his prowess he was not boastful and she perceived no hint of cruelty in his make-up.

  In fact, secretly, she thought Kenrick too easy on those who served him and much too compliant with Lady Eadgyth, his demanding mother. Were she to become his wife, she would lead him gently in the way he should rule at Arcote.

  Alain de Treville strode purposefully into the hall of Allestone Castle and bawled for his squire, Huon. He stopped as he entered through the screen doors to see he had a visitor, who rose from his seat by the fire to meet his host.

  “Rainald,” Alain said delightedly, “how good it is to
see you. Do you come on the King’s business?”

  The two friends clasped arms and Rainald de Tourel stepped back in some alarm when his friendly squeeze of the arms was met with a sharp, hastily suppressed gasp of pain.

  “By all the saints, Alain, you are hurt? Have you been ambushed?”

  Alain de Treville sank down wearily into the opposite armchair and looked up as Huon came running.

  “Not exactly.” He grimaced. “I was involved in an altercation about the clearance of land in the wood when one of my tenants took strong objection and decided to end me.”

  “God in Heaven!” De Tourel snapped at the boy, who was staring in dawning horror at the blood welling up on his master’s sleeve through the improvised bandage, “Get that Jewish physician here at once and bring warmed water and towels. Your master has been wounded.”

  The boy scuttled off and de Treville leaned back, grimacing as the pain of the wound was beginning to make itself felt.

  “Stand up,” Rainald de Tourel ordered. “Let me help you off with your hauberk. The boy will be back soon with your physician. How in the name of the Virgin could this happen and you well guarded, I hope?”

  De Treville did as his friend commanded and gave only the slightest of grunts as the painful business of divesting him of his mailed hauberk was concluded. He explained briefly what had occurred.

  “I cannot, in justice, blame the men for being off guard. My back was turned and I had no expectation of the attack. God be thanked I heard the boy approach over the fallen leaves, though he moved like a cat, and was in time to prevent him stabbing me in the back or, more likely, the neck.” He grinned faintly. “I have the lad securely locked in the guardhouse.”

  “You should have hanged him out of hand,” de Tourel commented tersely, “and left the body dangling from the keep to show the rest of the villagers you mean business.”

  “Yes, I might well do that after he’s been brought before me in the manor court, but the lady will not like that. Already she considers me a Norman barbarian and a tyrant to boot.”