Lord of the Manor (2 page)

“Go to the king. Petition for Philip’s due.”

Lucinda closed her eyes and bowed her head. She and Hetty had argued over Philip’s inheritance before. In all of the village, only Hetty and Oscar knew her identity. They had explained her presence in their home as that of a niece come to live with them after suffering widowhood. These kind, gentle souls had taken in the widow of a man considered a traitor to the kingdom, the son of a man whose cruelties were well known, and shielded them from those who would shun them.

Hetty insisted that since Philip was noble, he should take his rightful place among the nobility, no matter that his father had been the devil himself.

Basil’s downfall had been almost total. He’d lost his life, and the king had divided Basil’s English holdings between himself and Gerard of Wilmont in restitution for Basil’s treachery. She highly doubted that King Henry would restore those lands to the son of a man who’d tried to convince England’s barons to revolt.

Basil’s holdings in Normandy were now, probably, controlled by his family, who would loathe giving them up. To regain control of the Normandy holdings, Philip would have to become the ward of a noble strong enough to demand their return.

Lucinda couldn’t bear the thought of giving Philip over to someone else to raise, especially not any noble she knew. The thought made her shudder. Her son was all she had left in this world.

Hetty squeezed her hand harder. “You shiver. Are you ill?”

Aye, she was sick, but of heart, not of body. The concern in Hetty’s eyes nearly tore her apart.

“Nay, I am fine. As is Philip.”

Lucinda glanced at the corner of the hut where her son had curled onto his pallet to nap.

Basil’s visits to her bedchamber had been the most horrifying experiences of her life, and Philip’s birth the most painful. Yet, Philip was her one true joy. He no longer remembered his father, or the castle at Northbryre, and truly thought of Hetty and Oscar as relatives. He mourned Oscar as a beloved uncle, and would need comforting when Hetty died.

There. She’d finally admitted the unthinkable.
Hetty was about to die. Probably within the hour. Then what?

Go to the king.

Was she wrong to raise her son as a peasant, forsaking all noble connections? Maybe if she could get back to Normandy, to her own family…no, her father would turn Philip over to Basil’s family without second thought.

So might the king. Henry was not only the King of England but the Duke of Normandy.

Hetty had fallen asleep, a sleep she might not wake from. Lucinda unclasped her hand from Hetty’s and stood up. On her way to the door, craving a breath of fresh air, Lucinda stopped to push a lock of Philip’s black hair back from over his eyes. He’d inherited her hair color, but under his closed eyelids lurked Basil’s gray eyes, so unlike her own unusual violet ones. Hopefully, his eye color was the only thing he’d inherited from his father.

Could disdainful disregard for one’s fellow man be passed along bloodlines? Surely, proper guidance shaped a person’s character more than the blood in his veins. But there were those who would never see past Philip’s heritage, would judge him as tainted because of his sire.

She opened the door to brilliant sunshine and a warm breeze. ’Twas sinful that so much unhappiness could occur on such a beautiful day.

Few people roamed the road. Most everyone had shut themselves away in their hovels, to either avoid or contain the sickness. The church’s bell hadn’t pealed the hours for two days because the priest was ill. How many would die on this glorious day? How many tomorrow?

Lucinda crossed her arms over her midriff and leaned against the oak tree just outside the doorway where she would hear if either Hetty or Philip stirred.

Philip.

Nothing remained for her and Philip here. Once again she would be fleeing for her life. She’d managed to find a haven once. She could find another.

On Whitsunday, only a sennight hence, the king would hold court at Westminster. Passing travelers and peddlers had brought tidings of the princess’s betrothal to Emperor Henry. A celebration would be held. Feasting. Dancing. The nobility would flock to court to pay homage to the king and to witness the royal betrothal. King Henry would hear petitions from all comers, noble and peasant alike. He would be in a generous mood, strive to please each of his subjects if he could.

She looked down at her gray gown of loosely woven linen and tried to imagine standing before the king in peasant garb, begging for favor. Humiliating, considering that she’d once curtsied low to the king in a gown of silk.

Basil had taken her to court only once, but once was enough to know how people dressed there, to learn the proper decorum when in the royal presence. She’d been raised in a noble house, brought up as a lady. She knew how to conduct herself and could teach Philip.

But how did one teach a little boy to ignore the insults that he would surely hear? How did one explain that he must hide his feelings behind a mask of indifference and trust no one?

Sweet heaven, was she really considering going to court?

“Mother?”

Lucinda spun around to the sound of Philip’s voice. He stood in the doorway, tears streaming down his face. She held out a hand, inviting him outside. He didn’t move, except to look over his shoulder—back to where Hetty lay.

Lucinda took a deep breath, knowing what she would find when she went back into the hut. She could no longer do anything for Hetty, but she could for her son. Was she going to court? She wasn’t sure, but knew she must leave the village or risk her son’s life.

Slowly, she approached Philip and put her hand on his small shoulder. “I want you to stuff all of your garments into a sack,” she told him, amazed that her voice didn’t tremble. “I’ll see to Hetty, then we must leave.”

He stared up at her for a few moments, then nodded. The trust shining in his eyes was nearly her undoing.

L
ucinda tugged on the rope to coax the mule along. After four days of travel, she hadn’t decided if the beast was more a bother or a blessing. The mule carried all her possessions, including Philip, who thought the ride great sport. The mule thought it great sport to impede their progress. Without him, however, she might not have made it this far.

Leaving the village had been hard. She’d made sure that Oscar and Hetty would be buried, ensured their sheep and oxen would be cared for, packed what little food lay about the hut, then set out on the road.

“Mother? I thought that last village nice.”

Philip had thought “nice” each village that they’d passed through. He was right about the one they’d visited this morn. The people smiled as they went about their work. The condition of their homes said they prospered. However, the village’s overlord happened to be Gerard of Wilmont. While the baron might never learn of her presence there, she couldn’t risk that he might hear of it and take exception.

“The people were pleasant enough, but no one had room for us to abide there permanently,” she said.

“Could we not build our own hut?”

If he hadn’t been so serious, she might have laughed at the suggestion. Philip desperately wanted a new home. He hadn’t taken well to traveling without a fixed destination. She also suspected he very much wanted off the mule, despite his initial exuberance.

“I fear you must grow first before we attempt such a feat. Neither you nor I possess the strength or the skill. Our hut would likely fall down about our heads.” She patted his knee. “Be patient for a while longer, Philip. The Lord will provide.”

She hoped, and soon.

Philip looked over his shoulder. “Someone comes.”

Lucinda turned as the jingle of a horse’s tack and the thud of heavy hoofbeats grew louder. A large party approached, judging from the size of the dust cloud hovering over it. She wrapped her woolen scarf around her head to cover her hair and the lower portion of her face, to block the road dust from her mouth and nose and to conceal her features.

The chance of recognition was slim. She’d spent her entire married life buried at Northbryre—save for a single visit to court—then hidden away in a small village after her husband’s downfall. Few would remember her as Basil’s wife, but those who would were of the same nasty disposition as Basil. She had no wish to acknowledge their acquaintance.

Lucinda pulled the mule to the edge of the road to let the oncoming party pass by.

“Remember what I told you,” she said to Philip.

“I will not stare or speak,” he said, then drew a long, awed breath. “Oh, is he not wondrous!”

Lucinda knew he meant the destrier that led the company. Shiny black, his head held high and proud, his tack studded with silver that glinted in the sunlight, the war horse was indeed magnificent.

To her chagrin, she noted the destrier’s master was also a wondrous sight to behold. He guided his horse with reins held loosely in his right hand—the left rested on his hip—as though he commanded the road.

Even at this distance she could judge him tall. Beneath a black cloak he wore a chain mail hauberk, the mark of a warrior noble. No coif covered his shoulder-length, flaxen blond hair. He carried no shield, but a huge broadsword hung at his side.

He seemed oblivious to the troop of men-at-arms who followed in his wake—some mounted, some walking—each carrying a shield and spear. Behind them lumbered two wagons.

Nowhere did Lucinda spy a woman, a lady who might object if her lord’s men became unruly. Remembering her husband’s favored guards, she scoffed. Those rough, uncouth mercenaries had treated her no better than a mere woman who happened to share their lord’s table and bed. Any objection she might have made to their behavior would have fallen on deaf ears.

“Philip, face forward. Pay them no heed.”

She had to shake him to gain his attention.

“Some day I want a horse like that,” he declared, and then obeyed.

Aye, ’twas her son’s right to one day own the trappings of nobility, among them a destrier. That could happen only if she went to court and the king took pity on the widow and son of one of his most treacherous subjects. For every reason that came to mind
why she should petition the king, she could think of another why she should not.

She had time yet to decide. For now, getting safely through the next few minutes took precedence.

Lucinda considered leaving the road entirely, but that would mean going into the forest. Not a safe place, not with a stubborn mule, not knowing if one of the men would take her action as an invitation and decide to pursue. Best she stay on the road, as close to the edge as possible, and pray that none of the men took it into his head to harass a poor peasant woman and her little boy.

The earth fair shook as the noble overtook them, passed by on his magnificent steed, giving her a clear view of his back. He was, indeed, a tall and broad-shouldered warrior and, to her relief, no longer a danger.

The men-at-arms, in a double column, marched past. She put her hand to her nose against the dust. The company consisted of twenty armed and likely well-trained soldiers. She let out the breath she’d been holding as she sensed a break in the retinue. All that remained to pass by were the wagons.

Philip wiped his nose with his tunic sleeve. He sneezed hard, kicking the mule. The mule brayed and shifted, nearly knocking Lucinda off balance.

Then Philip sneezed again. The mule bolted, jerking the lead rope from her hand so fast it burned.

“Hold fast, Philip!” she shouted, and began to run with a speed she’d never known she could attain. Sweet Jesu, she’d never seen that mule move so fast. Philip bounced and swayed, but he held on.

One soldier almost snared the lead rope as the mule
sped by. Two others dropped their spears and shields to give chase.

Lucinda followed, damning the mule to perdition, praying that Philip could hold tight a while longer. If Philip were injured…no, she couldn’t think of that now, just concentrate on getting to him.

Too late, she saw the bump of a tree root in the road. Her foot caught, sending her tumbling. Gasping for air, ignoring her scraped hands, she tried to rise. Pain shot from her ankle. She swore, a foul word she’d learned from Basil’s mercenaries.

Lucinda flinched when a hand clasped her shoulder.

“Can you get up?” the man said.

Admitting weakness to a man wasn’t wise. A lone woman amid so many men would do well to keep her vulnerability a secret. Unfortunately, her injury would show the moment she put weight on her ankle. She looked up into the face of an old soldier, his warm brown eyes and puggish nose surrounded by a bushy, graying beard.

“Mayhap, with your aid,” she said.

As he helped her to stand, the soldier said, “Worry not about the boy. Even now Lord Richard chases the mule.”

Indeed, the commotion drew the attention of the noble who led the company. Effortlessly, his destrier kept pace with the mule. Lord Richard shouted down to Philip, then reached out and plucked her son from the mule’s back.

A cheer laced with laughter went up from the soldiers. Lucinda sighed with relief, not having the breath to cheer. This lord who had snatched Philip from the threat of harm was due her gratitude.

The lord wheeled his horse around. Philip sat on
the man’s lap, safe. The lord said something to his two soldiers who had given chase. They nodded and continued up the road, but at a slower pace. She assumed they’d been ordered to find the mule. If not for the precious packs on the beast’s back, she’d have told them not to bother.

Lord Richard was riding slowly toward her, bearing Philip back to her. Lucinda shook the worst of the dust from her gown and straightened her scarf, hoping she could adequately express her thanks for his rescue of her son.

Her heart stopped when she recognized the man she’d seen but once, at court, lo those many years ago. Basil had pointed out each member of the family he so despised: Everart, Baron of Wilmont, whose lands Basil coveted; the heir Gerard and the youngest son Stephen; and Richard, the middle son—the bastard.

Philip was sitting on the lap of Richard of Wilmont, who had been severely wounded and nearly died because of Basil’s treachery.

Richard ruffled Philip’s hair, talking to him. Philip smiled up at Richard and answered. Lucinda bit her bottom lip. If Richard spoke to Philip in Norman French, the language of the nobility, Philip would answer in his native tongue, which no mere peasant boy would know. It would be a clear sign that she and her son were not who they appeared to be.

Oblivious to the danger, smiling hugely, Philip rattled on and on, his hands gesturing as he spoke. Richard commented occasionally, with only one or two words.

Though she couldn’t hear what they said, one exchange didn’t need to be heard to be understood.
Richard’s lips clearly formed Philip’s name, and then hers, Lucinda, drawn out as if he savored the word.

She shivered. Surely, now, Richard knew who she was, realized whose son he held firmly in his grasp. Or did he? True, Everart would have pointed Basil out to each of his sons so they would know their enemy. Had she been with Basil at the time? Would Everart have bothered identifying Basil’s wife? Would Everart even have known her name?

Lucinda took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Whatever was to come next, she had to face it. She couldn’t run, not with her injured ankle, not with a small boy in tow. Nor would she cower. She knew how to face angry, abusive men and retain her inner dignity.

Lucinda allowed herself a small show of a mother’s concern for her son as Richard reined his horse to a halt. She looked Philip over, head to toe, searching for signs of injury. She found none. That done, she smoothed her features into the impenetrable mask that had served her well for so many years.

“Lucinda,” Richard said from the great height of his destrier.

Her name, spoken in his low, rumbling voice, sounded odd, almost beautiful. ’Twas a pleasant sensation, but she refused to allow the feeling to linger or cloud her judgment. Too often she’d seen nobles, no matter how seemingly charming, turn beastly.

As a peasant woman, she should bow low before Richard. But if she tried, her ankle would crumble. She gave him a slight bow and hoped he wouldn’t take offense.

“This boy, Philip, claims to belong to you,” he said before she’d finished the bow. She’d expected
haughtiness or derision, not the hint of humor in his voice. And, thank the Lord, he spoke in English.

“He is my son, my lord.”

He grasped Philip around the waist and lifted him. “Then I shall return this outstanding mule rider to your care.”

Lucinda knew that Richard expected her to come forward to claim Philip. To her relief, the old soldier who had helped her to stand walked over to fetch her son. As soon as Philip’s feet hit the road, he ran to the invitation of her open arms. She wanted to bend down and pick him up. Afraid she would fall on her face if she tried, she put her hands on his back and head and held him firmly against her.

“I give you my thanks, my lord, for your timely and gracious rescue,” she said.

He nodded. “Is your mule always so skittish?”

“Nay, my lord. He is usually well-mannered—for a mule.”

Richard glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, even now the beast comes. Having had his run for the day, mayhap he will be calmer now.”

“’Tis hoped for, my lord,” she answered, her fears fading. Surely, if Richard had recognized her he would have said so by now, not rambled on about a skittish mule. Perhaps she and Philip would escape this encounter unscathed.

Deftly, Richard nudged his destrier to the side, allowing the soldier who led the mule to pass by him. With the rope again in her hand, Lucinda gave the soldier a gracious smile, feeling ever more confident that she worried for naught.

“Philip,” Richard called out, “have a care not to sneeze loudly again.”

Lucinda held tight to Philip’s shoulders as he turned around to answer, “I shall try, my lord.” Then he tilted his head up to ask her, “Must I get on that beast again? My arse is well sore!”

Richard’s smile widened. The soldiers about her chuckled.

She strove for a light tone. “Mayhap I will ride and let you walk, for a while.”

Richard gathered up his horse’s reins. “I wish you both a pleasant journey,” he said, but before he could turn his horse, the old, grizzled soldier put a hand on Richard’s leg.

“Beg pardon, my lord,” the soldier said.

“What is it, Edric?” Richard asked.

Edric rubbed at his gray beard. “Whilst you chased the boy, the woman took a hard twist to her foot I do not think she can walk. If the boy walks, they will not get to the next village afore nightfall. ’Tain’t room on the beast for the two of them and the packs. Spending the night on the road would be dangerous.”

Richard looked back at her, questioning.

Lucinda quickly said, “’Tis a small hurt, my lord. Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

With a sigh of impatience, the first he’d displayed, Richard dismounted and tossed the reins to Edric.

Lucinda strove to tamp down the panic that threatened to overpower her as Richard of Wilmont came nearer. He halted a few feet away from her and crossed his muscled arms across the wide expanse of his chest.

“Edric is a well-seasoned soldier who has suffered many an injury. If he believes that your ankle will not support you, I will not doubt him. I offer you a
seat in a wagon and the protection of our company,” he said.

“A kind gesture, my lord, but not necessary.”

“Can you walk?”

“Well enough,” she lied. Putting weight on her ankle was like dipping it into fire.

Richard tilted his head. “Well enough to reach the safety of the next village before nightfall?”

“That would depend on how many leagues to the village.”

“Too many if you cannot keep the mule moving at a quick pace.” He glanced down at her hands. “Your hands bleed. Can you hold the rope securely?”

She’d forgotten her hands. Not until he’d called her attention to them did she notice the blood smeared on Philip’s tunic.