Lord of the Manor (4 page)

However, resisting the temptation of her would be easier if he took a wife. An heiress. A noblewoman to share his bed to assuage his physical needs and bear his children. An heiress who brought with her enough wealth to raise his status and pay for the betterment of his lands.

For those reasons alone, he could resist temptation.

Richard reined Odin to a halt. He lowered Philip to the road with an order to return to his mother.

“’Tis not broken,” the red-faced monk declared.

Lucinda hid her amusement at the monk’s embarrassment.
Brother Ambrose had touched her hosecovered ankle as briefly as was possible to confirm the wholeness of her bones.

“You must rest your foot until the swelling is gone,” he prescribed as a cure. “I will have space prepared for you in the ladies’ court.”

“And my son?” Lucinda asked.

The monk glanced over at Philip, who was intrigued by the array of jars neatly arranged on shelves in the abbey’s infirmary.

“He is young enough to stay with you, I would think, if we can arrange for a cell for the two of you. However, sleeping space is dear. The child may have to sleep on a pallet in the dormitory.”

That didn’t surprise her in the least. The streets of Westminster overflowed with people, making passage slow, and therefore dangerous. At Richard’s order, half of his soldiers had surrounded the wagon that carried her and Philip. The escort hadn’t left her until she, Philip and the mule had been safely inside the abbey. A few of the nobles streaming to Westminster would likely take refuge at the abbey until finding other lodgings.

Lucinda struggled to put on her boot.

She’d feared recognition by Richard, but that fear had deepened upon entering Westminster. Now, in close quarters to members of the court and their families, someone was sure to recognize her as Lucinda of Northbryre.

Thus far she hadn’t seen a familiar face. To her knowledge, no one had turned to stare at her, marking her presence. Which shouldn’t surprise her. Few nobles would deign to notice a peasant woman with a small boy in tow. Not even Richard had given them
a second glance until that unruly mule took flight with Philip on its back.

Then Richard had taken too much notice. He looked too hard, and too long. She’d taken far too much pleasure in feeling the heat in his gaze. He’d despoiled her belief that she would never again wish to be held, much less touched by a man. After all she’d suffered from Basil, she’d thought herself cured of wanting any man. Richard of Wilmont had proved her wrong with merely a lustful look and a gentle touch.

After the morrow, Richard would not look on her in that way again, for on the morrow he would learn the truth of her identity. On the morrow, she would petition King Henry for a protector for Philip.

By placing Philip within a noble house, under edict from King Henry to safeguard the boy, she could ensure Philip’s safety from not only Basil’s family but his enemies. Most notably Gerard of Wilmont—and his kin.

Her brush with Richard had emphasized the extent of her vulnerability. She possessed neither the physical might nor the power of wealth to protect Philip from anyone who wished him ill. Had some unscrupulous Norman come upon her on the road, she and Philip would have been in deep trouble.

“Brother Ambrose, I am willing to pay for our sleeping space. Would the donation of my mule to the abbey cover lodging and meals for two days?”

The monk rubbed his chin. “I should think the mule more than fair payment. I will ask the abbot.”

After the monk left the infirmary, she patted the bench beside her. “Come sit, Philip.”

Reluctantly, he left his study of the jars.

“Why did you give away Oscar’s mule?” he asked.

“We shall not need the mule any longer. I think Oscar would approve of donating him to the monks.”

“We will stay here, in Westminster?”

She shifted on the bench to better look down into her son’s face. What she would propose affected him most of all, and she wanted to witness his honest opinion.

“You would like to own a destrier.”

With a sharp nod of his head, he said, “Like Odin.”

“What would you say if I told you I might arrange that? Not anytime soon, you understand, but when you are old enough to control such a beast.”

His gray eyes went wide. “Truly? How?”

“By making you a ward of a nobleman.”

Philip expression didn’t change, not understanding. She’d never explained the ways of nobles to him. ’Twas her own fault that her son now had much to learn in a short time.

“The noble would be your protector. He would see to your training in the ways of the court and the skills of a knight. I thought to petition the king for a protector for you.”

He thought that over for a moment, then said, “Then we would have a home. We would live in the lord’s castle, and I could have a horse!”

No, not we—you.

Lucinda realized how little thought she’d given to where she would go if the king granted her petition. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She must see to Philip first without worrying about what would become of her.

Philip jumped up, his eyes shining with excitement. “Mayhap we could ask Lord Richard to be my protector!”

Naturally, Philip would think first of Richard of Wilmont, the only lord he knew, one who’d been kind to him.

“Nay, Philip. Not Richard.”

Philip mustered his courage to argue, “But why not? Is not Richard a noble lord?”

She took her confused son’s hands in hers. “He is, indeed, a noble lord, and was kind to us when we needed his aid,” she said, giving Richard his due. “He is not, however, a suitable protector for you.”

Philip pulled his hands away. He pouted. “I like him and I think he likes me. I do not see the harm in asking.”

How to explain? She took a deep breath, hoping her words would be the right ones.

“Long ago, before you were born, your father made an enemy of Everart of Wilmont, Richard’s father. Both Everart and your father are dead now, but I doubt Richard will ever forget the hatred that existed between the two families, or forgive your father for his treachery. Once Richard knows who your father was, I fear he will not like you anymore.”

“My father fought with Lord Richard?”

Basil had damn near caused Richard’s death. She nodded.

Philip was silent for a moment, then asked, “If I promised not to fight with Richard, would he like me then?”

So simple. So childlike. So impossible a solution.

“You must understand, Philip, your father was not a nice man. He inflicted great suffering on the family
of Wilmont, and as fine a man as Richard is, we cannot expect him to ignore that you are his enemy’s son.”

Or that I was his enemy’s wife.

“Never have you told me anything of my father. I do not even know his name,” Philip accused.

“His name was Basil of Northbryre. I did not tell you of him because…” She faltered. She’d been about to tell her son a lie. She hadn’t spoken to Philip about Basil, not to spare her son pain, but to spare herself. “…because I wished to forget that he existed. That was wrong of me. I should have told you of him, and I will. You have my promise.”

Brother Ambrose returned. “You will be pleased to hear that private lodgings are available. The abbot sends his thanks for your kind gift. He will keep you in his prayers.”

A fine sentiment. Likely she would need all of the divine intervention she could get over the next few days.

“Philip, see to your pack,” she said, picking up her own bundle that contained her one unstained gown and a few coins.

The monk turned to lead them out of the room. Lucinda stopped him.

“Brother Ambrose, I have but one more request. I should like to have a message sent to the palace.”

The monk’s eyes widened. “A message?”

She ignored his incredulity. “To King Henry.”

His eyes widened farther. “What is the message?”

“Lucinda of Northbryre wishes an audience with His Majesty.”

The monk’s jaw dropped. “Indeed.”

“Can the message be delivered within the hour?”

He regained his poise. “Aye, my lady, I will see it done. Now, if you will follow me, I will show you to your lodgings.”

Taking Philip’s hand, Lucinda followed as bid, wondering if she’d given away the mule too soon. All of her plans depended upon the king’s willingness to hear her petition, and upon how much, after three years, Henry still detested Basil.

If the king refused to see her or denied her petition, within two days she and Philip would again be searching for a hiding place, a refuge to call home.

R
ichard leaned against one of the many marble pillars that supported the great arches of Westminster Hall. A large crowd had gathered with the vast room; voices and footsteps echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

He’d chosen this spot to best watch the comings and goings of nobles and peasants alike, noting in particular which men of power had arrived. Most notably absent was Emperor Henry V, to whom Princess Matilda would soon be betrothed. The emperor’s delegation would seal the bargain and fetch the princess who, at the age of seven, was having a grand time flaunting her impending title of empress.

If King Henry of England took offense at the emperor’s absence, Richard had no notion. He just hoped the king didn’t take offense that Gerard had sent his own delegation—him and Stephen—in his stead.

Richard looked toward the dais where the king presided from his throne, searching for Stephen, who was supposed to be listening to the petitions presented to Henry. With so many people crowding the hall, however, ’twas impossible to detect Stephen’s position.

Boredom had set in long ago. He’d seen those nobles
whom he expected to see and exchanged greetings with the most staunch of Wilmont’s allies. Likely, tongues were wagging among England’s and Normandy’s nobility about Gerard’s absence—a situation Richard had already explained far too often this morning for comfort. He had yet to give Gerard’s greetings and regrets to the king—a task he was hoping Stephen would fulfill.

While he observed the crowd, Richard’s thoughts wandered to Lucinda and Philip, wondering how they fared at the abbey and if Lucinda could now walk without pain. He almost hoped not, for then she wouldn’t leave the abbey before he spoke to her about settling at Collinwood.

But before he asked Lucinda to become a part of his world, for his own protection, and that of his people he needed to know the secret she harbored behind her startling violet eyes. He needed to know why a Norman noblewoman trekked the road garbed as an English peasant Surely, she answered to some male relative—a father or brother, or other male head of her family or her dead husband’s. Every woman did.

Was she running away? Had she been exiled? And why?

Richard was about to bolt the hall in favor of the abbey when he saw Stephen coming toward him, perturbed.

“’Tis not a good day to ask the king for favor,” Stephen declared. “He hears petition after petition and grants few.”

“Not a good day, then, to ask for the hand of a fair heiress. Have you decided on one?”

“I have three I would consider. You?”

Richard shrugged a shoulder. Though he knew he
should probably court at least one woman on Stephen’s list of heiresses, not one name struck the mildest note of interest.

Stephen chided. “Richard, if you wish to better your holdings, you had best make yourself known to at least a few of the heiresses. Mayhap one will take a liking to your ugly face and ask for you!”

Richard smiled. “Mayhap I should let you choose for me. Judging from your notes on the list, you have studied all of their qualities, from fairness of face to the coin they bring.”

“Ha! And have you blame me if her temperament is sour? Nay, brother, choose for yourself.”

Richard chuckled, then asked, “Did you happen to tell Henry of Gerard’s absence.”

“Aye.” Stephen sighed. “Another reason to delay asking for favors today. Henry accepted my explanation with little grace. He says he understands, but ’twas quite clear he is displeased.”

An unhappy Henry was also a dangerous Henry. Today was not the day to begin an attempt to heal the rift between Gerard and the king, a cause near to Richard’s heart. He disliked seeing the two men at odds with each other when they had been such great companions. For now, ’twas best to stay out of the king’s sight and beyond his reach until his spirits lightened.

Richard decided he’d had enough of noblewatching for the day. “I am off for the abbey. Do try to stay out of trouble.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “The abbey? Whatever for?”

“Mayhap I wish to confess my sins,” Richard suggested.

“Hardly likely.” Stephen knew him too well.

“I go to visit the woman and boy who traveled with us. I wish to see if they are well cared for.”

Stephen crossed his arms. “How can they be less than well cared for in Westminster Abbey? This is the third time you have mentioned this woman since you arrived yesterday. I begin to suspect that something happened between the two of you during your journey.”

“Nothing happened.”

’Twas a small lie he told. In truth, nothing had happened beyond her riding in the wagon and a few, brief moments of conversation. That something
might
have happened if he’d given in to the attraction that simmered whenever he looked at Lucinda was none of Stephen’s affair.

Stephen studied Richard for several moments before saying, “If you wish to bring the woman to Wilmont’s chambers to warm your bed while we are here, I have no objection.”

Richard felt a twinge of ire rise. “Not that I intend to do so, Stephen, but should I invite a woman to share my furs, I will not seek your permission!”

Stephen didn’t comment. Someone or something near the door had captured his attention.

A woman. She stood inside the door, glancing about the hall as if confused, almost frightened of entering. Lucinda.

Her simple gown of green wool hugged her curves as softly and becomingly as silk. Under a sheer white veil, held in place by a silver circlet, her raven hair shimmered almost blue in the light of a nearby torch.

She held herself erect and poised. One had to look into her eyes to see her anxiety. She might be noble,
but perhaps not accustomed to attending court. Mayhap he could ease her anxiety. Perhaps he could explain the protocol or help her find whatever or whomever she looked for.

Stephen said angrily, “Mayhap you should stay awhile, Richard. I fear we are about to witness some excitement. ’Tis good that Gerard is not here. He would roar the arches down.”

“Why is that?”

“The woman in the green gown, coming into the hall. Do you recognize her?”

He’d just spent the past two days in Lucinda’s company and had thought of her far too often since. Was thinking far too much of her now. But, alerted by Stephen’s tone, Richard held his counsel.

“Should I know her?”

“Aye, I believe you should. I saw her only the once, and do not remember her name, but I believe she is the widow of Basil of Northbryre.”

The kick to Richard’s gut threatened to send bile up his throat. Richard swallowed hard. Hellfire! Was it possible he’d been strongly attracted to the widow of Wilmont’s worst enemy?

“Lucinda.” He supplied her name to Stephen. This time, the sound of it didn’t seem musical.

Stephen nodded. “That is it. I heard that she and her son had escaped to Basil’s lands in Normandy. I wonder what brings her back after all this time?”

Richard didn’t care. He was too busy wondering where he should have known her from, if they had met before. Wondering how his character could be so flawed that he’d wished to couple with a woman who’d rutted with Basil of Northbryre.

On the road, if he’d known. who she was, he’d have
let the mule run off with Philip, let Lucinda cope on her own.

She took a small step forward, then another. She didn’t limp. Had she faked the injury to her ankle? Had she laughed behind her hand at his offer of assistance, at his gullibility?

Did she know his identity? Possibly. ’Twould explain much of her nervousness, her wish to keep Philip so close to her side.

Hellfire, he’d been such a fool!

“Come,” Stephen said. “She heads for Henry.”

Lucinda’s first thought upon entering Westminster Hall was to bring Philip here to see the arched ceiling, the marble pillars and the elaborate throne. He would think the hall grand.

She’d left Philip at the abbey under the care of Brother Ambrose. The monk had relented to her son’s plea to once again explore the infirmary, and wouldn’t be content until he learned the name of each medicinal herb, the purpose of every balm, and the use of all the tonics in the place.

Philip knew that she’d left the abbey to see the king, and why, though he didn’t yet realize the full extent of how her petition, if granted, would change his life. Lucinda had decided not to explain too fully, for now.

The king’s anger at Basil’s treachery must have cooled somewhat or he wouldn’t have granted her an audience. That didn’t mean he would also grant her petition.

Lucinda glanced about the hall, recognizing few faces. Her hopes that she could go unrecognized and without comment faded when a woman’s eyes widened
and she turned to a companion to whisper behind her hand. ’Twas too much to hope that the woman only commented on the shabby state of Lucinda’s garments when compared to the rest of the silk-clad, jewel-bedecked nobles.

Lucinda focused on Henry during her long walk from the door to the dais. She wanted to get this over with. Only Henry’s opinion and mood mattered, not the rest of the court’s. With the words she would say to the king tumbling around in her head, she threaded her way through the crowd.

As she neared the dais she took slow, steady breaths to calm a sudden tremor, which she hoped no one noticed. For as much as she feared facing Henry, she also dreaded running into Richard.

Was he here in the hall? He would be angry when he learned her identity, of that she was sure. What form would his anger take?

She would deal with him when the time came. Now she must present herself to the king and hope his anger at her late husband’s betrayal didn’t overflow onto her son.

The crowd thickened as she neared the throne. Her nose wrinkled at the stench of too many bodies in too little space. Were these all petitioners, or merely listeners?

“We will grant your request, Gaylord,” the king was saying. “You may hunt the woodland to the east of Hawkland for small game. You may not, however, take the king’s deer. In return for the privilege, you will keep the forest free of poachers.”

“My thanks, Sire,” a man answered, bending into a low bow. “I will enforce the Forest Law with vigor.”

As Gaylord turned to leave, a man approached the king and leaned down to whisper into Henry’s ear. Henry nodded, then turned to motion to someone in the crowd.

“John,” the king said. “Kester informs us that you wish judgment on a land dispute.”

Kester. Though Lucinda had never met the man, she knew his place at court—advisor to the king. He held a sheet of parchment, which he consulted, then glanced about the room. Seeking the next petitioner?

She watched as the procedure was repeated, then, sure of her conjecture, approached Kester. He looked up from his list.

“I am Lucinda of…Northbryre,” she said. “The king granted my request for an audience today.”

Kester frowned. She could almost feel his spine stiffen. “The king has many to see today. Stand aside and wait your turn.”

Lucinda bristled at his obvious disdain. But, watching him add her name to his list, she moved away, toward one of the hall’s many supporting pillars. At the edge of her awareness she realized some people stared at her, some pointed fingers. She ignored them. She had a higher purpose than providing entertainment for the court.

Was Richard among those assembled? Would he come forward and make a spectacle of them both? She prayed not, and resisted looking for him. ’Twould be tempting fate.

She concentrated on the proceedings. As petitioner after petitioner presented his grievance or request to Henry, she noticed that several people had been placed ahead of her, and Henry was granting fewer and fewer requests.

Lucinda was about to remind Kester that she’d been waiting overlong when he moved to the king’s side, whispered in Henry’s ear, then looked straight at her. She took a deep breath, prayed for the strength to remain calm, and presented herself to King Henry before he could call out her name.

The king studied her with an unreadable expression on his face. She endured it, waiting for him to speak, as protocol demanded.

“Lucinda of Northbryre,” he finally said, his voice flat. “We thought you had fled to Normandy.”

A natural assumption for him to make. Most women in her situation—short of funds and with her husband in disgrace—would have fled to family.

“Nay, Majesty,” she said, surprised at the steadiness in her voice. “I had no desire to return to either my family or Basil’s. For my son’s sake, I never left England.”

“Who sheltered you?”

She heard a faint hint of anger in the king’s voice, and was suddenly glad that Oscar and Hetty were beyond Henry’s reach.

“An old peasant couple, who have recently gone to their heavenly reward,” she answered.

“You ask us to believe that you have lived as a peasant these past three years?” His incredulity rang clear. The rest of the court doubted, too, judging from the twitter she heard around her.

“Aye, Majesty, I have.”

He leaned back in his throne, obviously contemplating her revelation. “We must say we are displeased that you waited so long to come before us and beg our forgiveness.”

Lucinda tamped down a flash of anger. Neither she
nor Philip had done anything wrong. Basil had plotted treason, not she. Saying so to Henry, however, would do her no good. She swallowed her pride—somewhat.

“Basil’s disloyalty to his king was a difficult burden for me to bear. Given his treasonous actions, I realize you make a magnanimous gesture by allowing me into your royal presence to hear my petition. I humbly and gratefully thank you for your kindness, Majesty.”

She hadn’t begged forgiveness, but the king seemed pleased with her flattery. How odd that she had Basil to thank for telling her of the king’s susceptibility.

“What petition?”

A bit more sure of how to go about asking favor from Henry, she chose her words with care.

“I seek a protector for Philip. I would have him raised in a noble house whose loyalty to the crown is unquestioned, that he might learn the ways of the court and earn his knighthood. Someday, God willing, Philip might then serve his king as a loyal and true subject.”