Lord of the Manor (17 page)

The farther north they traveled, the fewer trees marked the bank. Tall rushes took their place, until Lucinda had a hard time marking land from marsh. The Fens were uninhabitable to people, but provided a home to countless swans, heron, terns, geese and lapwings—and a myriad of other fowl she couldn’t begin to name.

Richard called a halt to the day at one of the lonely little islands of land that dotted the marsh.

“Is the land like this all the way from Cambridge to Ely?” she asked of Richard.

“Mostly. We will turn onto another river on the morrow, the Ouse, though you will hardly know the difference. One can walk the Granta’s bank from Collinwood to Cambridge, but not much beyond.”

Ely did appear a magical place. On the west bank of the Ouse rose a great hill. Atop it stood the monastery. Richard had taken a jar of wine and a length of fine white linen—most appropriate for an altar cloth—to the bishop.

She, Philip and Edric had spent the past two hours wandering among the merchants’ stalls and viewing the wonders of the cathedral. They now stood outside of the chapel where Saint Etheldreda, a Queen of Northumbria and founder of the community some 400 years ago, rested in peace and glory.

Lucinda listened as the bells rang the canonical hour of terce, echoing over the wildness of the marsh, calling monks—and Bishop Hervey—to prayers. Richard should be coming to fetch them shortly.

She couldn’t wait to see him simply to tell him that Philip didn’t wish to be a merchant or monk. He’d taken one look at the shrine to Saint Etheldreda and decided he wanted to be a saint. Richard would find it humorous, as she had, though she hadn’t said so to Philip.

A simple thing, a shared jest. Sharing it with Richard seemed natural, as though the jest wasn’t complete until she told it to him. As other things weren’t complete until shared with Richard.

She could tell the man almost anything without fear of being brushed aside or laughed at. He didn’t always
agree with her opinions, but he never belittled them.

So why was it so hard to tell Richard that she loved him?

Because she wanted to hear the words back, and doubted that he could honestly give them to her.

Lucinda spotted him coming across the courtyard, paying more heed to the parchment in his hands than where he walked. As he neared the spot where she waited for him, he looked up, and smiled.

“Edric,” Richard called. “Have the men haul all of the goods up from the barge to the bishop’s residence. Leave only the supplies we need for the trip home.” He rolled the parchment and tucked it into his tunic. “The bishop’s men will give you further directions on the evening meal and where to bed down for the night.”

“Talked old Hervey into all of it, did you?” Edric said.

“Aye, told you I would. Be quick, Edric. I passed by the kitchens on my way over here and whatever is roasting over the pit smells like heaven.”

Edric chuckled as he took his leave.

“As for you two,” Richard told her, “I will take you over to the ladies’ court after we eat. Apparently you will have the whole place to yourselves. They do not receive many female visitors here.”

“Must I stay in the
ladies’
court?” Philip asked, disgruntled. “Could I not sleep with the other soldiers?”

Lucinda crossed her arms. “Saints do not whine over where they are asked to sleep. They accept it as God’s will and are thankful for whatever shelter is provided.”

“Truly?”

“Aye, my son. Truly.”

“Oh.”

At Richard’s puzzled look, she briefly told him of Philip’s aspiration to sainthood. To his credit, Richard managed to squelch the laughter that threatened to burst through his smile.

Richard ruffled Philip’s hair. “For tonight, you must be content. Edric and the others will be far too busy to keep an eye on you. I will be with the master of the masons until well after you should be asleep. Come, let us be off to the refectory so we can eat.”

Lucinda grabbed Philip’s hand.

“You had a good day,” Lucinda commented as they walked.

He nodded. “Bishop Hervey decided that he cannot live without everything I brought. Blessed be.”

“Did you happen to tell him that you chose all of those goods with his vices in mind?”

“I did not have to. He knew the moment I began describing what goods awaited him on the barge. ’Twas the linen that caught his interest, and the wine that sealed the bargain.”

“Does he pay you enough to build your stone keep?”

“Nay, but ‘twill make a good start. I will find out more this eve when I speak with the master mason.”

“Then your business will be done here.”

“We can leave for home on the morn with a much lighter load than we came with,” he said, then turned to Philip. “So, you wish to take the path to sainthood do you? Have you considered the hardships necessary to obtain such a high place in heaven?”

Richard began describing a life of haircloth, and callused knees, and continuous prayers.

While Lucinda thought of returning home.

Home. Collinwood. Richard’s home. Philip’s home until he reached his majority, the place he would always think on fondly.

Lucinda wished it were hers, but knew it could never be. Her place at Collinwood was temporary. In less than two years she would be free of the king’s restriction that she remain with Philip, and would be expected to move on.

She glanced at Richard. At some time in the past weeks she’d stopped thinking of home as a place, but as a state of being. As peace. A peace she’d found with only one man, a man she could never call her own, to whom she would never belong.

L
ucinda picked up a spindle and distaff, took a seat near the pile of carded wool that lay on the far side of the manor, and began the deft twirling motions that would turn the wool into yarn. In the two days since returning to Collinwood, she’d worked as hard as any of the women to turn the spring fleece into cloth.

She hadn’t asked permission, simply done it. The women had watched to see if she did the task correctly, until the oldest and best of them nodded her approval. Though none spoke to her, none had sent her away.

Spinning required little concentration, the movements ingrained and habitual. ’Twas also a task she performed well. The yarn she made would weave into smooth cloth with no nubs or weak threads.

Richard sat at a table with a wax tablet and stylus. The master mason had given Richard the costs of both stone and labor to build his keep. Wanting to get the most for his coin, Richard labored over alternate designs and reworked costs.

A commotion in the bailey drew Richard’s head
up. He put down the stylus. Before he could rise, Connor came into the manor.

“A messenger from Wilmont, my lord,” Connor said, walking hurriedly across the floor. He handed Richard a rolled parchment. “The messenger is asked to bring a reply immediately.”

Lucinda’s stomach clenched. She’d tried not to worry about George contesting Philip’s wardship, but couldn’t think of a more urgent matter. Gerard probably didn’t think her worries urgent, however. Too, word of the king’s decision would likely come by royal messenger, not Wilmont’s.

Even as she told herself that the baron’s missive had nothing to do with her or her son, was merely an important message from brother to brother, she couldn’t dismiss the foreboding feeling that the message brought ill tidings.

Richard unrolled the parchment and leafed through the pages before starting to read. A missive indeed, of four pages. Richard read without revealing any reaction, until he reached the third page. His visage skewed into a harsh scowl.

Unable to sit still anymore, Lucinda put down her work and walked over to the table. She sat across from Richard and waited impatiently for him to finish reading. When he finally did, his scowl had faded, but not vanished.

“Is there news of George?” she blurted out.

“Henry told him to return to Normandy and leave the boy with me, as I believed all along would happen.”

So great was her relief that she closed her eyes and blew out the breath she hadn’t realized she held. “Thank the Lord.”

“Aye,” he said, with an edge to his voice that brought her up short. Something else in that letter upset Richard.

“All is not well at Wilmont?”

“’Twould appear not. They seem overly concerned over what is happening here. Apparently Stephen’s tales caused some alarm.”

“I cannot say that I am surprised, Richard. Had Stephen had his way, you would have given Philip and me over to George. I imagine Gerard feels the same. Does he advise you to do so?”

“Nay. Among other things, however, he does advise me—” Richard glanced up at Connor, who yet hovered nearby. “Give the messenger food and drink. I will have a message for him anon.”

Miffed, Connor did as bid. Lucinda couldn’t blame Connor for his pique. Once, Richard would have discussed with Connor whatever he was now about to impart to her. Furthering the injury, Richard kept silent until Connor left the manor.

“Lucinda, did Stephen say anything to you about our…liaison?”

So that was what Gerard advised against.

“Stephen must have heard about it shortly after he arrived the first time he was here.” She told him about both conversations, about Stephen’s initial concerns, and then his remarks when giving her the mint.

“It took me a while to sort out what he meant,” she said of Stephen’s last statements. “I’m sure he gave Gerard the impression that I had something to do with your increased confidence as lord of Collinwood. We both know that is not true, but Stephen left before I could tell him that I deserved no credit, that
your confidence was there all along and had just come to the fore.”

Richard put the letter aside, knowing she deserved more credit than she knew. He was a better lord because he felt better about himself as a man. His pride no longer required that he prove his worth to the nobles, only to himself.

Stephen had taken one afternoon to see the difference, and correctly place the cause of it squarely on Lucinda’s lovely shoulders.

He’d done a good job in some areas, but an arsepoor one in others, especially with his vassals. He’d let Edric stand as a model for the soldiers, let his other vassals continue to look to Connor for guidance. He’d thought he needed to win their loyalty—the loyalty and respect they might have given him all along if he’d let them.

Not until he’d watched Lucinda struggle to earn simple respect did he realize how much respect he’d already earned.

And therein lay Gerard’s concern. Gerard worried that Richard had fallen too far within the influence of the widow of Basil of Northbryre, hated enemy of Wilmont. Gerard had gone so far as to suggest that Richard should expect treachery from so beautiful and cunning a woman. After all, did not women use the wiles of their sex to bring a man low?

This from a man who so doted on his wife out of pure love and devotion that anyone who didn’t know better would swear Gerard bewitched, under some spell of Ardith’s that didn’t allow him to treat her otherwise.

’Twas Gerard’s warning that Lucinda might somehow be in league with George, in some scheme to
steal away everything that Richard had fought so hard to gain, that caused his anger to flare.

Ludicrous. How dare Gerard accuse a woman he didn’t know, didn’t
want
to know, of such a low purpose? Obviously, something Stephen had told Gerard had planted the seed of suspicion. Richard wished he knew what.

“Why did you not tell me about your talks with Stephen before now?” he asked Lucinda.

“I thought Stephen would surely come to his senses before he reached Wilmont.” She pointed to the letter. “I gather that Stephen overstated the depth of our liaison.”

Stephen couldn’t overstate because he had no idea how deep Richard’s feelings ran. It hurt that Lucinda didn’t either. But she wouldn’t, because he hadn’t told her, and never would. She wanted nothing to do with a permanent relationship with a man again, and he couldn’t blame her. When the time came, he would pay the fee necessary for her to avoid another marriage, and set her free.

If she chose to remain at Collinwood, for Philip’s sake, so be it. If she chose to go, he would help her—and miss her from the depths of his soul.

’Twas the least he could do for the woman who’d given him so much—so much more than a tumble in the furs when his desire for her became unbearable, so much more than a warm smile and sympathetic ear when his spirit needed reviving. She’d shown him how to love, even though she didn’t want his.

“What will you tell Gerard?” she asked.

“That he should send Stephen on his way to the Lady Carolyn.”

Richard rose to fetch quill and parchment.

Lucinda rose to return to her work. She glanced once more at the letter. She didn’t mean to read any of it, but ‘twas impossible not to, given Gerard’s clear script.

Gerard’s suspicions and warnings about the conniving widow of Wilmont’s most hated enemy fairly leaped off the page. Richard had made light of the letter’s contents, but Gerard was his beloved brother and liege lord. How could Richard read Gerard’s words and not give them credence?

If Richard ignored them, or refuted them, Gerard would be angry, and may force Richard into the untenable situation of defending Lucinda. ‘Twould cause a rift between them, no matter who won.

What Gerard had given, could Gerard also take away?

Two days later, Richard stared out over the palisade in disbelief. Within sight marched an army of about fifty men, under George’s command. Villeins from the outlying farms were racing to make the safety of the palisade before the gates closed.

Within the hour, Collinwood would be under siege.

Impossible. Incredible. But George had returned, disobeying the king’s command, obviously intending to take Philip by force. With too few men.

“Mercenaries.” Edric spat out the word, an unnecessary explanation of where George’s army had come from. Men who fought for whatever lord paid their fee. Richard hoped the men had asked a high price, and already spent it, because many of them were about to die.

“The man has lost whatever wits God gave him,” Richard declared, then turned his attention to the defenses.
“Have the men fill whatever containers they can get their hands on with water from the moat. I want as much within the palisade as we can get before we are forced to close the gate.”

Edric obeyed immediately. ’Twas no secret that the manor’s greatest enemy was fire, and that George would use the weapon to force a surrender.

“My lord,” Connor said, climbing the bank to the palisade. “The tenants worry for their farms and cattle and possessions. Do you truly intend to fight?”

Richard didn’t need the message that would surely come from George, stating his demands, to know what those demands would be. Turn over Philip and George would desist. Even if Richard handed the boy over, which he wouldn’t do, he doubted that George would simply turn around and go home.

George might be looking for revenge for Richard’s callous treatment, and try to burn them out anyway.

“George will not give us a choice, Connor. Tell the tenants that I will replace any possessions that may be lost.”

And thereby end his plans for a stone keep, for there would surely be losses, and no matter how much he economized, he wouldn’t be able to afford both. Not this year anyway. Such was the price of lordship.

And people would be killed. An inevitability he couldn’t ignore and would have to deal with, and be held accountable for. Such, too, was the responsibility of lordship.

“If you would just hand the woman and boy over—”

“I will not!” Richard shouted. “I will never hand
one
of my people over to an enemy without a fight, from Lucinda and Philip, down to you, down to the
lowest scullery maid! Now, have the bailey cleared of anything that might burn and tell the women and children to take cover.”

Unable to stand the sight of Connor any longer, he turned back to check on the approaching army. They had stopped a good distance off. Soon a rider would come with George’s demands.

He paced the wall-walk, his attention divided between George out in the fields, the men bearing water from the moat back into the bailey, and the women and youngsters who followed Connor’s directions.

Richard looked for Lucinda and Philip, saw neither. Did Lucinda know what was happening? She had to. No one could miss the frenzied activity happening all over the bailey. So where was she?

“A rider, my lord!” came Edric’s cry from near the gate.

Richard saw the man coming, one he recognized as one of George’s men, riding hard. He bore no weapon that Richard could see.

“Let him approach, but stand ready.”

The man pulled up far enough away from the gate so no one could rush him, then shouted the demand for Philip in return for sparing Collinwood.

“Tell George I have received his demand,” Richard answered. “Then tell him I refuse, and that the next time I meet him face to face, I intend to shove his head up his arse to reunite it with his brain! Also inform him that I will hold his hide responsible for any damage he causes to Collinwood.”

Richard’s soldiers cheered and banged swords against shields as the red-faced rider spun around and galloped back to report to George.

“Well said, my lord,” Edric said. “’Tis a shame your whole message will not be delivered.”

A shame, indeed. The messenger wouldn’t dare repeat the whole of it for fear of reprisal.

“I go for my hauberk. Next will come an arrow or two, to test for range. Get everyone inside and close the gate when the arrows get close. I should be back before the first fire-arrow flies.”

Richard climbed down the inner embankment and headed for the armory, glancing around for some sign of Lucinda or Philip. Not finding them, he quickly donned his chain mail and went in search of them.

He found them both in the manor. Lucinda, apparently, had taken on the job of readying the manor for wounded. Two tables stood ready. On each had been placed a flagon of water and a variety of creams and oils. Some of the women tore linen into strips for bandages. Two others stood over kettles bubbling at the fire pit. Yet another bunched carded wool into pads to use for poultices.

The scene staggered him. Lucinda rushed around, checking the tables, stopping to give an instruction, then hurrying on to recheck the pots, adding an herb to one and leaving the other alone.

She’d taken command as if she were the lady of the manor and had every right to assume control. To his knowledge, the manor had never been attacked before, and the fear in the women’s eyes explained why they’d allowed Lucinda free rein. She knew what to do, they didn’t.

The older girls helped their mothers; the younger ones tended the toddlers and infants—except for five boys, Philip among them, who stood grouped in a
corner. Philip held his wooden sword, the rest clutched stout sticks.

Fascinated, Richard walked toward them. Philip was giving the boys instructions on how to wield the sticks should an enemy break through the manor’s defenses.

“Go for the knees,” the boy said, demonstrating with a mighty swing. “When your man is down, bash him over the head.”

He made it sound so simple, as though a boy with a stick could bring down a man with a sword.

Richard crossed his arms. “What the devil are you about?” he asked, drawing the attention of the boys and everyone else in the manor.

In the hush that followed, Philip came forward.

“My lord,” he said in a calm, resolute voice, “since the men need to protect the palisade, and the older boys are needed to douse fires, we—” he indicated the boys with a sweep of his sword “—will protect the women.”