The Baron's Bride

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.

Gisela found her voice to let out one long howl of anguish. Instantly she alerted one of the routiers, who was in the act of wrenching a wall hanging from behind her father’s chair. She registered the fact, dully, that she had been told that it was especially prized as her mother’s work when Lady Hildegarde had first come as a bride to Brinkhurst.

The man turned and let fall the hanging. He let out an animal yell and leaped for Gisela and bore her to the ground. She fought him desperately with teeth and claws, crying out curses to the god who had let this disaster overtake them and pleas to the mother of all to protect a virgin, as she was herself.

She was suddenly wrenched free and rolled clear, sobbing, clumsily attempting to hold together the torn parts of her gown, to see Kenrick in mortal combat with her attacker. The two men were rolling over and over, panting hard, scrambling for mastery and thrusting with their daggers in frantic attempts to find vulnerable spots to aim for and finish this fight.

Gisela crouched some feet away, too winded and frightened to even try to rise and run. She was too shocked even to be fearful for Kenrick’s safety. She watched each move with horrified fascination, not even aware that there were other men in the room, men flushed with victory, their hauberks smeared with ominous bloodstains, their faces soot blackened.

They were all laden with pillaged goods, linens, fur pelts, metal drinking cups, weapons. They stood and cheered on the combatants as if this was one special entertainment put on for their amusement, for the moment too engrossed in the fight to take note of the girl crouched some feet from them.

Gisela gave a terrible sob of desperation as she saw Kenrick’s opponent strike down ruthlessly, giving a panting gasp of triumph that was echoed by his fellow routiers.

Alain de Treville saw the betraying plumes of smoke almost at the same moment as Kenrick of Arcote had done so. He reined in his horse abruptly and stared back towards the clearing he had just left. Huon rode up to his side and peered in the same direction.

“A cottage fire, got out of hand, my lord?”

“I doubt it. There’s too much smoke for that. It could be the manor house.”

“My lord?”

“There have been several attacks on property near here, recently. Huon, take the pup. I’m going back. Ride straight for the castle and tell Sir Clement I want a company of men to mount up instantly and follow me to Brinkhurst. Impress on him the urgency of my need.”

He scooped up the wriggling, protesting puppy from the pannier basket and thrust it into the boy’s arms. He could see he needed to say no more to have Huon realising his need and obeying his orders instantly. The boy’s young face was set. He made no attempt to protest that he should accompany Lord Alain. Obviously his lord’s prime need now was to have reinforcements at his back. He nodded and spurred his horse in the direction of Allestone, firmly holding in his squirming burden with one arm.

De Treville cursed inwardly at low-lying branches that impeded his headlong ride down the track. His one thought was for Gisela. As he thundered through the clearing he saw at once that the two horses were gone. Gisela and her youthful swain had left and were, doubtless, heading back to Brinkhurst and certain danger.

He rode on, straight into the smoke blown his way by the wind, gritted his teeth and soothed his courser, which was rearing and squealing in dismay at the obvious signs of fire his master was deliberately aiming him into, through the gate arch into Brinkhurst’s courtyard, where he saw now only three riderless horses. His expression hardened as he jumped down and gave a curt command to his mount. Well-trained, despite his natural fear of fire, the destrier would wait docilely for his master’s return.

De Treville made for the hall steps at a run, his hand on his sword hilt. It would seem that what opposition to this attack there had been, had been easily subdued and most of the marauders had already left. His body went cold as he thought Gisela might have been carried off by one of them. Her one champion would have had little chance to foil any attempt to abduct her. He burst through the screen doors to the scene of destruction.

He’d been right. Most of the looters had departed. One man only, laughing and whooping with delight, was engaged in pulling along a scratching, biting girl, whose gown and head veil were torn, a girl whose wrists had been bound with some cloth, possibly torn from a damaged wall hanging.

At the sudden entrance of a newcomer, her abductor raised a hand in guffawing greeting, as if to a companion, then his eyes narrowed as he recognised a stranger. He let go of the girl, who fell back against an overturned trestle, and, drawing his sword, got ready to defend his prize.

De Treville leaped into the attack, his soldier’s eye taking in the fact that the man appeared to have recently been engaged in conflict. He would be tired. There was no need for haste now. He could be defeated simply enough by being worn down.

De Treville called a curt command to Gisela. “Stand clear. Leave the man to me.”

She was distraught and totally exhausted and was only too glad to obey. She scrambled up from her tumble and moved warily to the side of the hall, her eyes never leaving the combatants. She looked across once at the sprawled form of Kenrick and hastily averted her eyes.

This contest at arms lasted very little time at all. She watched, dry-eyed, as de Treville skilfully fought the man back and back until he was tight against a trestle. One well-aimed move and her erstwhile captor had been thrust headfirst over the fallen trestle and de Treville leaned easily down and dispatched him with one thrust. The fellow gave only one strangled grunt as if utterly surprised.

Alain de Treville rose and moved towards the distraught girl. He sheathed his blood-smeared blade and, after freeing her hands and took one shaking hand within his, his head jerking upwards as two men came thundering down the stair behind the dais. They took in the sight of their fallen comrade and, laden down with valuables, thought it best to take to their heels and flee.

One made it, scrambling through the screen doors, dropping most of his trophies, but de Treville sprang over another fallen trestle and engaged the other swiftly. Taken as much by surprise as Gisela’s former captor, the man took a thrust beneath the arm where his mailed hauberk was weakest and dropped with scarce a murmur and the clatter of metal cups as they fell from his hands.

Gisela had run towards Kenrick’s body. He was lying face down and, frantically, she tried to turn him, the tears she had held back till now streaming down her face.

De Treville reached her and bent down to draw her aside gently. “Let me.”

She sat back on her heels, mutely entreating him to inform her that Kenrick still lived. He turned the young man, noting grimly the gaping chest wound and blood soaking the rushes beneath him. His questing fingers sought the side of the neck for sign of a pulse and he looked up quickly to meet Gisela’s agonised gaze and gently shook his head.

“I am sorry.”

She let out a terrible sob and put one shaking hand to her lips.

“He died protecting you?”

She nodded mutely.

“Then you must be glad for him that he died a true man’s death, fighting for one he cared about.”

“I—I have known him all my life. He…he is Kenrick of Arcote…”

He nodded, rose to his feet and, slipping off his mantle, he covered Kenrick’s form after gently closing the staring eyes.

Gisela gave another great gulp of terror. She looked round wildly at the sprawled bodies. So far she had not been able to recognise individual servants, womenfolk and—and still—still—she had not identified her father.

De Treville put his hands to her shaking shoulders and drew her to her feet, then he led her to a bench, which he righted, and pushed her gently but firmly down upon it.

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