Joanna Makepeace - The Baron's Bride

“You are sure? I would not press you. It is just that—we have always dealt well together and—and this has come so suddenly…”

“Aye,” he said bitterly, “and this man de Treville is far more noble than I. Your father will take some persuading.”

“Oh, Kenrick, what shall we do if he will not listen to reason? He has never been so adamant before, about anything.”

Kenrick’s brows drew together. “Let us meet this squarely first, Gisela. If your father refuses me outright, we must think again.” He paused and looked down at her steadily. “Would you—would you be prepared to defy him and—and run from Brinkhurst?”

She caught her breath in a great gasp, her gaze directed from him now, looking wildly about the little clearing, at the trees almost denuded of leaves now and the short grass where the pigs had grazed. “I don’t know, I—” Then she turned fully back to him. “Yes, if it is necessary. I will escape this forced marriage by any means but, Kenrick, where could we go, what could we do if my father refuses his consent to our betrothal?”

His mouth set in a stubborn line. “Why, then we must wed without his consent. I will take you before a priest in Leicester Town. There we are not known and any priest will wed us, given the right inducements. Afterwards—” he gave a click of the tongue indicating distaste for his next words “—afterwards your father will not wish to have the marriage annulled, not if—if you are truly mine. Do you understand, Gisela?”

She nodded, but her eyes were misting with tears. “Yes, but I pray the Virgin that it will not be necessary. I love him so, Kenrick. I would not wish to live in enmity with my own father, nor will you wish to be at odds with a neighbour.”

Alain de Treville rode at ease through Allestone wood. He was accompanied only by his squire, Huon. Today he expected no displays of hostility from his own people. He had proved to them who was master and he hoped they would recognise the degree of mercy he had shown. True, he was leaving the desmesne of Allestone but only for a short time; he intended calling on his neighbour, Walter of Brinkhurst, so he rode without mail.

The reason, or was it excuse, for his visit was curled up in a rush basket within a pannier secured to one side of his saddle. He smiled down at the hound pup fondly. He had been assured that it was correctly weaned and would make a suitable gift for Gisela of Brinkhurst. Had she not said he was beautiful? He was humming an old Norman folksong sung to him in childhood by his own wet nurse, which he had not remembered in years. The air was cold but the day was bright and his hopes were high.

Huon, keeping a respectful distance behind him, watched the jaunty set of his master’s shoulders and wondered. Alain de Treville had proved himself a good and fair master but, so far, Huon had seen little sign of jollity in his character. Throughout these past months the Baron’s one abiding desire had been to ensure the defences of Allestone Castle. He had not ventured into Oakham or Leicester Town to seek feminine company and since he kept no leman at Allestone, he had apparently lived like a monk throughout the time Huon had been assigned to him as squire.

Now, without warning, his master’s mood had lightened and he had gone about the castle joyfully. Huon gave a little secretive smile. He had glimpsed the light in his master’s eye when he had spied the Demoiselle Gisela within the manor court assembly and knew their destination now was Brinkhurst. If Lord Alain was not yet in love, Huon believed he could soon arrive at that delectable state. Huon was in favour of whatever it took to keep Lord Alain permanently in this pleasant mood which eased the lives of all in service at Allestone.

As they entered the clearing that led to the track to Brinkhurst Lord Alain checked, drew rein and Huon drew up close. Two horses were tethered in the clearing, one a sorrel hack, the other a lady’s palfrey. Huon believed he had seen that dapple mare once before. He made a little sound deep in his throat that was checked by his master’s upraised hand.

De Treville’s eyes gazed warily round the clearing. The two horses paid him little attention and seemed intent on grazing quietly. Neither appeared to be soldiers’ mounts and would pose no threat. He made to move on again, then stared hard once more at the palfrey. His throat tightened as he realised he had seen it before in the assart by Aldith’s cottage. It was Gisela’s palfrey.

Some movement to his right alerted him and he put one hand to his sword hilt, swinging round in the saddle and motioning silently for Huon to move back and keep quiet. His watchful eyes swept the clearing until he saw the two people half hidden by coppiced beeches. The man, young by his stance, unknown to de Treville, was bending low to kiss the girl held close in his arms.

De Treville drew a harsh breath as he knew, without even glimpsing her features properly, for she was half-hidden from him by the man who held her, that Gisela of Brinkhurst was in the arms of a lover. How could he be mistaken in the poise of that head, the slim perfection of the youthful form?

He kept his mount perfectly still, one hand gentling the animal, so it made no sound, not even a whickered greeting to the other horses in the clearing. Skilfully he turned the horse and motioned for Huon, who was waiting warily by an oak nearby, to do the same.

Keeping his courser to the softer ground where its passing would not be heard by the two lovers, de Treville headed back to Allestone, Huon falling in behind. He looked down at the puppy who woke suddenly and began to wriggle, wag its tail and make little squeaks demanding attention. His lips curved into a rueful smile.

“Not the right moment, my boy,” he said regretfully. “Perhaps one day soon you can meet your new mistress again.”

Huon noted with some concern that the humming had stopped. He had not emerged into the clearing to see what de Treville had seen, but he was convinced that, whatever it was, it had disturbed his master’s peace. He gave a heavy sigh of disappointment.

Gisela rode in silence by Kenrick’s side as they made for Brinkhurst, watching him covertly. His brows were drawn together and his lips compressed. She knew he did not relish the coming interview with her father, neither did she. She was not sure why she did not feel as comforted by Kenrick’s nearness as she had expected to be.

He had greeted her as warmly as she had hoped, had promised immediately to do what she asked, indeed, had drawn her into a tender embrace. Everything had gone as she had planned it in her dreams, yet she was neither as sanguine nor as happy as she had thought she would be.

Kenrick’s kiss had been warm, tender, caring, but had not drawn forth in her the passionate response she had dreamed of and heard about in the troubadours’ tales. She castigated herself for her own doubts. Those tales were foolish, for entertainment only, not intended to be taken seriously by any sensible maid. Aldith would have said as much. Kenrick was like a brother to her; she held him in high esteem, trusted him utterly.

It was unlikely that at their first proper kiss—for on other occasions he had kissed her lightly in her father’s presence on cheek and forehead many times, in greeting and in taking farewell—her heart would pound madly or her bones melt or strange tingles run through her body as the troubadors declared. It would take time for such love to come to fruition, when they were wed and he held her close on their marriage night.

She had not managed to convince herself either that her father would so readily consent to their betrothal as Kenrick predicted. And what if he did not? Although she had promised Kenrick she would, Gisela was not sure she wished to steal from Brinkhurst secretly and shamefully wed in direct disobedience to her father’s wishes. She stirred uneasily in the saddle and, catching Kenrick’s eye, managed a weak smile in response to his own assured one.

It was in the action of turning and, once more, giving his attention to the track that Kenrick suddenly froze in the saddle, pulled up his hack sharply and seized Gisela’s bridle rein. She stared at him in astonishment as she saw that his usually ruddy features drained of all colour and his lips tightened in alarm.

“Kenrick, what is it?”

His eyes were focussed dead ahead in the direction of Brinkhurst manor and she followed his gaze in utter bewilderment. Then she saw it, black smoke curling up above the trees, oily, thick smoke that could not be mistaken for the normal emissions from hearth fires and cookhouse and bakehouse. She gave one frightened cry.

“Kenrick, it cannot be Brinkhurst!”

“I’m afraid it is.” His tone was grim. “You must wait here, Gisela, while I ride forward to reconnoitre.”

She dragged his hand free of her bridle rein and, putting spurs to her mount, flew on ahead of him. She heard his quick curse of surprise and anger faintly on the wind. Her mount was docile but powerful and she was soon well ahead of Kenrick on the track. If something had happened at Brinkhurst nothing and no one was going to prevent her reaching her father.

As she pounded along, Kenrick riding hard in pursuit, she tried to tell herself that whatever had occurred, her father could not be involved. He had been away from home when she left and that had not been so long ago, yet—she knew in her innermost heart that her father must have seen the smoke just as she and Kenrick had and must, even now, either be on route for the manor or had already arrived.

The gate was unguarded as she thundered through and the courtyard deserted, though horses were milling about, confused, bridles trailing. She was breathing in the smoke now, coughing and retching as she rode. There was no mistaking the sounds of conflict assailing her ears from the hall as she kicked her feet free of the stirrups and sprang down.

She neither knew nor cared now if Kenrick were following. Her one desperate need was to get to her father. Her riding gown was hindering her headlong dash and, impatiently, she bent and tore her feet free of it as she ran on. A serving lad, coughing as she was, and crying at the same time, blundered past her near the screen door and she shouldered him aside and rushed on.

The noise of men shouting and women screaming was almost deafening now as she burst into the hall then stopped dead, stricken to stone momentarily by the sights that met her eyes.

Trestles had been overturned, bodies lay still or twitched in pain where they had fallen. Men clad in mail whooped their triumph as they rushed about the hall seizing anything of value they could find. She stared round blindly for sight of her father, but the brief fight appeared to be over. The manor had been taken completely by surprise by this band of marauding routiers and now all that was left was for them to loot the place, see to it that no man could pursue them and get away from the scene of destruction without being captured.

A girl’s sharp scream of utter terror froze Gisela once more to the spot. Try as she might she could not turn and run. It seemed that her feet would not carry her away, for she realised instantly that there was nothing to gain by remaining. Her only chance was to follow that boy who had fled from the chaos. In their wild lust for destruction, the attackers had thrown torches up to the roof timbers, which were already engulfed in flames and giving out the thick, lung-wrenching smoke that had alerted her and Kenrick to the scene.

Her eyes roved the hall while, for a blessed moment, no man appeared to notice her entrance for the intruders were too intent on enriching themselves, taking in the smaller signs which she found so touchingly horrifying: the spilt wine, the wooden mazers and platters that had been hacked about in the acts of senseless destruction, all marks of the dread scene, and her father’s favourite elderly hound lay slain, horribly blood-smirched.