Margaret Moore - The Baron's Quest

“Except this person,” the baron replied, his gaze still fastened upon her. “Whether you accept my gift or not, you will leave this castle and the village at once.”

“No, I will not. This is my home and—”

“If I order you to go, you will go.” The baron said the words quietly, but the menace was unmistakable. Then he smiled again. “You may stay in the castle if the tenants’ feelings are so vital to you. As a servant.”

It took a mighty effort, but Gabriella straightened her shoulders and said, “The tenants will be most upset if you make such an order.”

“The tenants?” he asked with a very slight hint of incredulity. “What care I for the feelings of the tenants?”

At his arrogant words, the mood of the crowd changed from one of dread to defiance.

“If they wish to remain on my land, they would do well to try to please me, not the late earl’s daughter,” Baron DeGuerre said. Then he slowly surveyed them, his impartial, chilling scrutiny resting for a brief moment on every person there.

They all fell silent and averted their eyes from his, their insolence gone as if he had physically taken it from them. One by one they silently went out the gate. “I will speak with you later, Chalfront,” the baron said, and Chalfront, obviously dismissed, joined the departing crowd.

“Goodbye, Gabriella Frechette,” Baron DeGuerre said before he turned on his heel and strode toward the hall, clearly convinced by her stunned silence he had won this skirmish. The other knight who had remained smiled cruelly and followed his master into the hall like a dog on a lead.

Gabriella stood in the courtyard all alone, feeling more abandoned than she had by her father’s death and even Bryce’s absence.

If she stayed, she would have to be a maid, humbled before the servants and tenants she had known all her life, the very people she had been raised to believe she had a duty to protect.

Was it so humiliating to be a servant? Had her father not praised many times the labor of his people and the worth of his hirelings who had built this place? Was it worse than being driven from her home?

The Frechettes were not cowards. This was her family’s home and had been for generations; Baron DeGuerre could not force her to leave, however he tried. Besides, there was the very real chance that Bryce would return one day, and who could say what might happen if she were not there? She could not count on Baron DeGuerre or Robert Chalfront to tell her brother where she had gone.

Also, as the baron surely knew—to his discredit—it would be too dangerous for a woman with no money and no escort to travel. She would quickly find herself in a worse predicament, and at the mercy of villains even more loathsome than the baron.

If she remained, she might yet be able to help her people. Clearly the tenants would need any and all assistance she might render.

If she fled, that would allow the baron to think he had triumphed over her.

Therefore, there really was only one thing she could do. She must stay.

With the fierce pride in her family name to sustain her, Gabriella turned on her heel and marched to the kitchen.

Despite what had passed in the courtyard, the room was abustle with preparations for the evening meal, a feast she herself had ordered and that would use the last of the stores her father had purchased. Both she and the cook had wanted this meal to make them proud, if for slightly different reasons. She had thought of her family’s honor; Guido wanted to retain his position by impressing his new master.

One of the maids spotted Gabriella and gasped, her mouth an “O” of surprise as she colored Then the others realized who was in their midst and there was an awkward pause before Guido came toward her with outstretched, floury hands.

“My lady!” he cried, his Italian accent strong because of his indignation. “This is a terrible business! The baron is no gentleman! Sit here.” He indicated a pile of bags filled with flour.

Gabnella smiled, sure again of their affection and that she had made the right decision. “No, Guido,” she said, “if I am to be a servant, I had better begin to work.”

The other servants exchanged shocked glances. “My lady!” James the baker began. “Your sainted mother—”

“Is mercifully in her grave,” Gabriella said, subduing a pang of sorrow. “The baron has given his ultimatum and I have made my choice, with no regrets. Now,” she continued briskly, “have the flowers been spread upon the tables yet?”

“No, my lady,” a girl named Alda replied quietly, nodding toward cut stems of late-blooming campion.

“Very well,” Gabriella said. “I will do that.” She picked up the flowers and headed toward the corridor leading to the great hall.

“Alda, you help her,” Guido ordered, and Gabriella heard the respect in his voice.

It made her feel...good. Before, they had always deferred to her, but never had she been so aware of their respect. This time, too, it was not because she was her parents’ daughter, but for herself alone.

As she waited for Alda to gather together more flowers and join her, Guido went back to peering into a bubbling pot, like an alchemist waiting for lead to turn to gold, and the spit boy turned an enormous boar as if the fate of the kingdom rested on the performance of his duty. James fussed over the exact shape of the sweetmeats, but paused to give her a genial smile.

And the baron thought she would leave!

During the evening meal, Etienne DeGuerre permitted himself a very small and very rare smile of satisfaction. The king had not lied when he said that while the Earl of Westborough was not a fighting man, he was no fool when it came to the building of defenses. This castle was as strong as any fortress Etienne had ever seen. The outer curtain wall was nearly twenty feet tall, and over two yards wide. The inner wall was even taller and wider, built to allow archers to protect or defeat any soldiers caught between the two. The gate house was nearly as large as the stables, and well fortified with an oak portcullis tipped with iron in front of a heavier solid oak door strengthened by iron straps. Above and behind the portcullis was the murder hole, through which stones or boiling oil could be poured, the bane of any enemy trapped between the portcullis and the outer door.

The late earl also had a canny eye for picking a good location. The castle had been built on a low rise at the meeting of two rivers, a spot of unmistakable strategic significance. If the decorations were rather lavish, that was something new in Etienne’s experience, and he found them not unpleasant. For so many years he had survived with the barest of necessities; the external beauty of this fortress seemed to say that all those years of struggle were finally behind him. Not that he could rest content even now, he thought, watching Philippe de Varenne talk to George.

The young knight was an ambitious braggart and a bully, but he was from a wealthy family of great rank, and Etienne didn’t doubt that the man would soon leave his company for a lord with more to give. That being so, he was willing to tolerate Philippe’s presence—especially since Philippe was free with his money and often paid for meals in taverns for himself and his friends, thereby sparing the baron’s larder.

George was a good and loyal knight, if a trifle indifferent to everything except his clothing and being the wittiest man in any hall. He could be counted on in a fight, if necessary; however, more often than not he prevented the others from expressing their disagreements physically.

In contrast, Donald Bouchard, from a poor but ancient family, was rather too serious. That surely came from his training under the strict eye of Urien Fitzroy, a teacher becoming famous from his students’ skills and moral rectitude.