Joanna Makepeace - The Baron's Bride

Gisela, for her part, stared round curiously. The hall was circular with a small gallery at one end. There was a central hearth and a lantern trap above it for smoke to escape, but it appeared it was rarely used these days for another, more ornate, hearth had been constructed beneath the gallery near the dais where, presumably, the Baron sat at meat, at the far end.

She gazed up at the huge smoke-blackened roof timbers and round at the solid stone walls. The place had certainly been built primarily for defence only, for there seemed no vestige of comfort to be had here. One arras near the dais looked dirty and torn and would do nothing to keep out draughts, nor did it do anything to soften the uncompromising grimness of the hall’s general appearance.

True, the rushes underfoot had been freshly strewn and the place was swept scrupulously clean. She tightened her lips as she thought how this new lord kept discipline within his desmesne. If his servants feared him, and he was certainly well and efficiently attended, it did not augur well for Sigurd’s chances of mercy.

There was a little stir behind the dais and the group of villagers, awkward and undoubtedly worried about their own summonses to attend this court, stopped whispering together and looked expectantly for their lord to enter. A door beneath the gallery was opened and two men stepped through.

Gisela instantly recognised the tall form of Baron Alain de Treville; behind him came a smaller, grey-haired man who walked with a stoop and advanced uncertainly as if he were short-sighted.

“Sir Clement de Burgh,” her father whispered in her ear. “The Baron’s seneschal. The man served Sir Godfrey before him for many years.”

Gisela found herself staring intently at Allestone’s lord. For the first time she could see his features clearly, for today he was devoid of his military garb and wore a tawny over-tunic over a longer brown one, with a tawny-lined brown mantle over them for the hall was chilly. She noted at once that a border of coarse linen bandaging showed beneath the tight sleeve of one arm and she swallowed uncertainly.

She had known he was tall and carried himself like a prince; now she saw he was broad-shouldered and slim-hipped also, recognising the steel-like strength inherent in that spare, well-muscled body. His hair was cut short in the slightly outdated style Norman knights adopted for convenience beneath the conical helmet. His face was oval, tanned, smooth complexioned, without the roughness she associated with life out of doors on campaign.

The features were arresting, the nose slightly over-long and very straight beneath dark level brows, which were drawn together now as he stood in the doorway and surveyed the company. His eyes were very dark brown, almost black, and she felt the chilling quality of their steady gaze and pitied those poor creatures who were trembling as they stood before him now, awaiting judgement in the body of the hall.

His mouth was held in a hard line, as if in concentration, but was long-lipped and without the trap-like rigidity she had noted in men of her father’s company whom she suspected of harshness or even cruelty to their subordinates.

His eyes, roving the hall, found and recognised his neighbours. He bowed his head courteously to Sir Walter and his daughter and smiled approval as he saw they had been given stools.

“Sir Walter, you are very welcome to Allestone. I confess I rather expected you would take an active interest in the proceedings this morning.” The mouth relaxed in a slight smile. “I bid you good day, Demoiselle Gisela. As a witness to the attack on my person, I am grateful that you have placed yourself at the disposal of the court.”

Gisela’s lips parted in her shock at the sheer effrontery of his statement—and in public. Did he expect her to add more damaging testimony than his own to the evidence which would doom Sigurd?

He was continuing to speak in that low, quiet voice that she was sure brooked no argument from underlings.

“I hope, Sir Walter, that, at the conclusion of these proceedings, you and your daughter will stay and take refreshment with me? There are one or two matters, sir, on which I would value your opinion.”

Sir Walter inclined his head. “I shall be delighted to do so, lord Baron.”

Angered by her father’s apparent subservience, Gisela cast him an outraged glance, which he merely met with a smile. Before she could pass comment, there was a noise of rattling chains from the screen doors and all turned to see Sigurd Rolfson hustled between two sturdy guards into the hall.

He was manacled at wrists and ankles and shambled awkwardly forward, his head lowered to the rush-strewn floor so that, for the moment, he did not catch sight of his mother, but at her sharp, heartbroken cry of “Sigurd”, he lifted his head and looked at her dully.

Gisela could discern no signs of mistreatment upon his person and could only put down that uninterested slow gaze to sheer bewilderment at his predicament. She moved to rise and go after Aldith, who had gone to him and sobbed on his shoulder, despite the efforts of one of the grizzled-haired guards, who tried to prevent her, but in an embarrassed fashion as if he misliked the necessity.

“Leave her.” The Baron’s voice arrested him in the act of physically pulling her from the prisoner. The Baron said quietly, “Will you please sit down, mother? You will have a chance to see your son again after this trial. That I promise you.”

Aldith lifted a tortured face to his and then went, unresisting, back to her stool. The guards led Sigurd to a place in the centre of the hall near the other villagers, but far enough away from them as to make it impossible for any of his erstwhile companions to talk to him.

He noted Gisela in passing and, for the first time since his entry into the hall, she saw a misting of tears in his blue eyes as he nodded to her in gratitude. Then he resumed his posture of despair, standing docilely between his guards and gazing stolidly down at the floor. Not once did he cast an appealing glance at his lord.

Gisela was too distracted by conflicting thoughts to pay much attention to the minor matters brought before the Baron for judgement. For the most part they concerned quarrels and disagreements between neighbours which were listened to attentively and judgement pronounced unequivocally and swiftly. Two men were accused of failing to do desmesne work which was their duty and each was fined and dismissed.

One youngster stood, like Sigurd, head down, while the desmesne reeve told of his being caught red-handed, poaching in Allestone wood. There was a little hush when the Baron’s steel-like tones asked the boy if he had anything to say in his own defence. The youngster shook his head miserably after being nudged by his father, who stood next to him.

All knew this could be a hanging matter; though many guessed the Baron would not go so far, the boy could certainly be condemned to maiming, possibly to the loss of a hand. There was a silence while the Baron conferred with both reeve and seneschal. He looked up and ordered the boy to come forward.

“You have been warned before, I understand,” he said coldly and the boy nodded. “You realise this is a serious matter for which I could punish you severely, so severely that a maimed son could become totally dependent upon his family. I am informed that your parents have served Sir Godfrey and now me faithfully and for that reason I will show mercy.

“You will be handed over to my marshal for physical punishment. A sore back should teach you to keep to your own preserves in future. A fine could also fall hard upon your parents and so I will not impose one. Be brought before me again and I shall not be so easy on you.”

The youngster looked anxiously towards his father, who was gesturing to him to respond to the sentence. He was not sure what his fate would be, having been too terrified to hear properly. He stammered out some sort of apology and expression of gratitude and was pulled away by one of the attendant guards.