Margaret Moore - The Notorious Knight

“Yes,” Gillian replied before she started to wash. She should look her best when she sat in judgment; her gold damask gown was the finest one she possessed.

“At least the silk veil’s light,” Dena noted as she started to make the wide, curtained bed.

Gillian sat on the stool and started to run her comb through her long, straight hair. Sometimes she envied Adelaide her bountiful curls and waves, but not in the summer months. She well remembered the tears that came to Adelaide’s eyes when she tried to get a comb through the thick, curly riot of her hair on a summer’s morn.

Gillian deftly began to braid her hair. After she had done so, Dena would pin the braids around her head.

“I hear Geoffrey and Felton are at it again,” Dena said as she glanced over her shoulder at her mistress.

“Apparently.”

“Do you suppose Sir Bayard will attend the moot?”

“I don’t know why he would,” Gillian replied. “It’s nothing to do with him.”

On the other hand, there was little enough for him to do in Averette, so he might attend, if only to be entertained.

“Are you quite well, my lady?” Dena asked, her brow furrowing as she came to finish Gillian’s hair. “Your hands are shaking.”

“It’s nothing,” she said as she clasped them together. “I’m always a little anxious before a hall moot. You can never be sure how someone will react to a judgment.”

That wasn’t a lie, exactly. But she would not admit her state had anything to do with the possibility of Sir Bayard watching the proceedings.

Besides, even if he did come, she could ignore him.

By the time she was attired in her gown, with its long cuffed sleeves lined with scarlet sarcenet, her veil held in place by a slender gold coronet, and wearing gilded slippers that belonged to Adelaide, Gillian was confident that she would be able to conduct the hall moot with perfect ease even if King John himself appeared to witness it.

As she proceeded to the courtyard where a dais had been erected and one of her father’s chairs placed for her, she felt very much the chatelaine of Averette, as her own mother had never been. Her mother had been a timid creature, terrified of her husband and his rages, and ill from the constant struggle to give him the son he demanded.

Dunstan waited on the dais, likewise dressed in his best—a black tunic that swept the ground. He held the scroll containing the list of all those who sought justice and those against whom they had complaints. It was a long one, in no small part because the Lady of Averette was known to be just, as her father had not.

As she surveyed the crowd, several people exchanged wary glances and shifted uneasily. Even Old Davy, in his usual place by the stable doors, looked far from comfortable.

It was as if her father had returned to rule Averette.

She looked out over the gathering and found a possible explanation for the people’s anxiety. Several soldiers were now stationed around the dais where she would sit in judgment. More lined the wall walk and extra guards manned the gates. Iain stood, feet planted, fully armed, beside the dais.

One would think a trial of the utmost importance was about to take place, not a simple village hall moot.

This was Sir Bayard’s idea of suitable precautions, no doubt, but it seemed far more threatening than comforting.

She was tempted to dismiss the extra soldiers, but what if she was in danger? There were always a few unfamiliar faces at a hall moot—visitors seeking entertainment, petitioners’ relatives from other towns, merchants, and tinkers, and others who traveled to sell their goods. She couldn’t be certain that there were no enemies with other goals among them.

Taking her seat, she nodded at Dunstan, who unrolled the scroll and read out those named in the first case.

Just as he finished, a startled murmur went through the crowd and the people seemed transfixed by something—or someone—coming toward the dais from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder to see Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, dressed in chain-mail hauberk, coif, gauntlet gloves, mail hosen, and surcoat, march toward the dais. Without a word, he stepped onto the platform and stood behind her chair, resting one hand on the hilt of his broadsword as if he intended to remain there the entire day.

Or as if he were the lord of Averette.

She’d accepted that they might need extra guards, but this was too much. Some of her tenants were clearly frightened; all of them looked uncertain and confused. Only little Teddy, holding tight to his father’s hand, smiled with unreserved happiness. He waved at Bayard and as Gillian glanced over her shoulder again, she was surprised to see the knight raise his hand in a small salute. Yet even that gesture couldn’t lessen the impact of his dramatic—and intimidating—arrival.

Dunstan didn’t look pleased at all, nor did Iain. Both men glared at Bayard as she would have liked to. However, dignity, decorum, and a need to appear united was more important than registering her dismay at this particular time. She could wait until they weren’t in full view of everyone in the yard to tell Sir Bayard precisely what she thought of his unnecessary presence.

Instead, she turned to Dunstan. “Summon the first petitioners.”

First was Felton bringing his charge of false measure against the miller. Many a miller was accused of using false weights, but such a charge had never been proven against Geoffrey.

Unfortunately, Geoffrey never ceased to act the gloating victor over the matter of his wife’s choice, even if he and his spouse often quarreled. Perhaps goading the baker was some compensation for his less-than-blissful marriage.

Whatever the cause of their squabbling, Gillian tried to maintain an appearance of impartial serenity as the baker declared his grievances, and the miller, smug as always, defended himself.

“Has anyone else ever complained about my weights?” Geoffrey concluded. “No! Because everyone knows I don’t cheat and never have! I’m an honest, God-fearing fellow.”

“Honest?” Felton sneered, his round belly quivering with indignation. “How honest is it to have hollowed-out weights? To put your finger on the scales? To charge more than—”

“Enough!” Gillian had to say, or they would go on forever. “Dunstan will check the measures again, Felton. If they’re found to be false, Geoffrey will be punished according to the king’s laws.”

“But, my lady,” Felton protested, “that’s what you always say!”

Behind her, she heard the soft clink of metal, as if Sir Bayard had moved. She didn’t want to acknowledge his presence, yet she couldn’t resist the urge to see what had made that sound.

Sir Bayard stood in the same place, but now his arms were crossed and it was quite obvious that beneath his helmet, he was frowning with displeasure.

Felton blanched. “I—I beg your pardon, my lady,” he stammered, backing away. “I meant no harm. I just think Geoffrey’s…I thought that maybe…never mind!” he cried before he rushed away through the crowd.

Leaving an even more smug Geoffrey. And an even more annoyed Gillian. “Geoffrey, you had best hope your measures are utterly accurate, and if I were you, I would cease behaving as if you’ve won a crown, not a wife. Otherwise, I might be tempted to rescind my permission for you to operate the mill and give it to someone more humble.”

Now it was the miller’s turn to blanch. “Yes, my lady.”

“Next, please, Dunstan,” she ordered, once again trying to ignore the presence of the knight behind her.

Which proved impossible.

As the day wore on, Sir Bayard never moved from behind her chair. She didn’t look at him, yet she was always aware of when he frowned, crossed his arms, or shifted his weight, because of the reactions of the people coming forward for judgment and permissions. In spite of the rulings she made, she felt more like a doll dressed up and put on the dais for show than the chatelaine of Averette.