Lord of the Manor (9 page)

Lucinda drew up her legs and hugged her knees, in a vain attempt to still the yearnings that simmered within at the thought of the man who’d awakened them. She burned with deep desire for the strong, handsome, intelligent man who’d, too quickly and thoroughly, besieged her senses.

She would never let him know, of course. He would be horrified to learn that she longed to slip into the shelter of his powerful embrace. Shocked to hear that the widow of the man who’d nearly caused his death yearned for a kind word and tender caress. Appalled
at the knowledge that if he crooked a finger in invitation to his bed, she would go to him.

Richard was aware of her, as a man to a woman. She’d known it the day he’d looked her over, and she’d retorted that she would make a poor bedmate. Damn, ’twas galling to admit that she desperately wanted to prove her statement wrong. With Richard.

She shook her head at her foolishness. ’Twas sheer folly to hope for more than Richard’s tolerance of her presence.

Behind her, she heard voices. A man’s, a woman’s and…children’s giggles?

“Be sensible, Edric,” the woman said. “You cannot bar me from the stream. Look at the boys.
Smell
them!”

“My lady, you should return to the hall. Consider your…condition. Lord Gerard will
not
approve of—”

“Bah! I am merely with child. One would think me on my deathbed the way Gerard hovers. While the boys wash, you can explain to me why you and these men camp here while Richard and the others enjoy the comfort of the hall. Daymon! Everart! Get into the water.”

Several yards downstream, two boys—one blond and as tall as Philip, the other auburn-haired and smaller—broke through the brush and ran for the stream. They stopped short of the water to shed their shoes, then plunged in, garments and all.

Daymon and Everart. Gerard’s children. Which meant the lady who Edric so earnestly tried to dissuade from coming down to the stream must be Ardith. Lucinda guessed at Gerard’s reaction to a chance meeting, and started to call Philip out, intending to leave before being noticed.

Then wondered why the devil she should. No one had given a care for her feelings—not the king, or Richard, especially Gerard. Still, the woman was with child and innocent of any wrongdoing. Lucinda rose from the log, but it was now too late to escape.

Ardith of Wilmont stood at the edge of the brush, gowned in fine yellow linen, clutching dry tunics for her boys against the swell of her belly. She stared at Lucinda for several heartbeats, then noticed Philip. Quite beautiful, with auburn hair and startling blue eyes, she appeared fragile. The look she turned on Edric, however, was anything but frail.

“Edric, explain,” Ardith said, in a unyielding tone.

Lucinda couldn’t hear Edric’s words, but she could guess at what he said from Ardith’s reactions. Poor Edric shouldn’t be the one revealing her and Philip’s identity, of how they’d come to be camped so near Ardith’s home. Her heart went out to Ardith, who shouldn’t have to suffer a reminder of what must have been the most horrifying days of her life.

Squelching the urge to approach Ardith and apologize for whatever harm Basil had inflicted on the woman, Lucinda resumed her seat on the log. Somehow, she had to get over wanting to make amends for every nasty, vile thing Basil had done in his life. It couldn’t be done, not in a lifetime. Nor had she been responsible for, or able to control, Basil’s actions. She and her son were blameless. ’Twould take time and patience, unfortunately, to convince the rest of the kingdom.

Philip stared at the boys, who busily scrubbed at their tunics. He then turned to her, a plea in his eyes. She shook her head and mouthed the words, “Stay where you are.”

Her son’s disappointment broke her heart, but ’twas for the best if he didn’t try to become a playmate to Gerard’s sons. Or she. an acquaintance of Gerard’s wife.

However, Gerard’s wife had other ideas. Ardith’s steps were slow but purposeful. Lucinda braced for the woman’s outpouring of outrage. To her surprise, she saw no hatred in Ardith’s eyes. They’d gone carefully devoid of emotion.

“I did not know you or the boy existed,” Ardith said. “No one spoke of a wife or son, at least not to me.”

The statement didn’t require comment, so Lucinda simply acknowledged it with a slight nod.

“Edric says that Richard is to be Philip’s… protector. If that is so, then we should get to know the boy. ’Tis inevitable that we will be in each other’s company from time to time and—” She turned away, unable to hide a sudden tear. “Sweet Mother, I had not thought this would be so hard!”

Lucinda pursed her lips, unsure of whether to be outraged or sympathize. One thing she knew. If she reached out, Ardith would either back away in revulsion or begin sobbing, and Ardith was trying so damned hard to be civil.

“Then be easy on yourself, Ardith. I have no wish to cause you further hurt.”

Daymon and Everart came running up for their dry tunics. Heedless of Ardith’s upset, they stripped. Everart needed a bit of help from Daymon in getting the clean tunic over his head.

Ardith seemed to rally. “Now find sticks to scrape your shoes clean,” she said in a tone used by mothers when expecting a protest.

Everart didn’t disappoint. “But they are…rank!”

“And whose fault is that, I ask you?” his mother rejoined. “If you had not seen fit to jump into the manure, Daymon would not have gone in to pull you out. By right, you should clean Daymon’s shoes, too.”

Everart stuck out his lower lip.

“I will help him,” Daymon said.

“You have your own shoes to clean. Everart needs to learn that he cannot depend on you to pull him out of every scrape he gets into and clean up his messes.”

Daymon shrugged a shoulder. “He is little yet.”

Ardith smiled, transforming her face. She wasn’t lovely; she was exquisite. And the warmth in that smile revealed her true character.

“Little, aye. But not too little to learn.”

“Might I help him, my lady?” Philip asked.

He’d come out of the stream, unable to resist the pull of companionship any longer, even if it meant cleaning manure from a littler boy’s shoes.

To Lucinda’s relief, Ardith’s smile faded but didn’t disappear. “If you wish,” she said softly.

Everart looked at Philip with open admiration and thanks.

“Who are you?” Daymon asked, in protective older brother fashion.

“My name is Philip.”

They studied each other for a moment, then Daymon declared that he knew where to find sticks and all three raced off.

Ardith took a long breath. “As I was about to say, I would like you and Philip to come to Wilmont for evening meal.”

Lucinda cringed. “Gerard will most surely object.”

Before Ardith could say more, a roar echoed through the woods. “Arr-dith!”

Ardith sighed. “That would be Gerard. Richard is likely right behind him. I promise you, no harm will come to you or your son from Gerard or Wilmont’s people. Will you come?”

Lucinda looked downstream to where the three boys bent over two pair of shoes, then into Ardith’s utterly guileless eyes. The thought of entering Wilmont terrified her, but she sensed that if anyone could aid Philip’s acceptance within Richard’s family circle, it would be Ardith.

“If your husband and Richard agree, Philip and I would be pleased to share your meal.”

A
t Gerard’s insistence, Richard sat with his family at the table on the raised dais, though he would rather be at the far end of the trestle tables with Lucinda and Philip.

Richard had always felt uncomfortable up on the dais, could never get over the feeling of being on display. He’d agreed to the placement tonight only to keep Gerard calm. So he sat beside Daymon, sharing his nephew’s trencher, waiting for the meal to be over so he could relax.

Richard could have spared them all the unease of this meal by forbidding his charges to leave camp. But Ardith had insisted that she would be upset if not allowed to extend some form of basic hospitality. Gerard’s agreement hadn’t come easily, but when it did, Richard deferred to Gerard’s judgment.

Philip ate as if the food were manna from heaven, and looked about him in awe at the splendor of Wilmont’s great hall. He seemed not to notice that nobody except his mother sat near him or talked to him.

Lucinda was a Norman noblewoman, her rank higher than any other woman’s in the hall save for
Ardith and Ursula. Yet she sat at the far end of the tables—Gerard’s doing—pretending not to notice the insult. With a stiff spine and uptilted chin, she shared a trencher with Philip with the same dignity and grace as if she sat among her true peers.

“Father says Philip is the son of Basil of Northbryre, the man who kidnapped me and Ardith when I was little,” Daymon said.

“Aye, that he is,” Richard confirmed, smiling at Daymon’s opinion that he was now all grown-up. In some ways, he was. His position here at Wilmont, as the lord’s acknowledged but bastard son, had matured the boy beyond his physical age. Richard well knew how Daymon felt.

Even now, some of Wilmont’s people thought it fitting that the two bastards shared a trencher so no one else would suffer their taint. Others didn’t understand why their lord allowed the bastards at the high table. A few were horrified at how lavishly Gerard had gifted Richard with land, raising him high above what should be his proper station, as Gerard would one day also do for Daymon.

The people tolerated Daymon and gave their loyalty and love to Everart, the heir.

“I do not remember much of the kidnapping, just being frightened—and the dogs,” Daymon stated. “Father says I need not remember all of it, but to never forget that ’twas Basil who meant to take my life, and Ardith’s.”

Richard wasn’t surprised that Daymon’s memory of the kidnapping had faded. The boy had been only three at the time. Richard, however, well remembered Basil’s vile nature. While he hadn’t witnessed the kidnapping, Richard participated in the rescue. If they
hadn’t stormed Northbryre when they did, neither Ardith nor Daymon would be alive.

“One must always ’ware one’s enemies.”

“Is Philip like his father? Is he my enemy?”

Northbryre had been Wilmont’s enemy for decades, going back to before Richard’s father had been born, fighting over land that Wilmont held and Northbryre wanted. No one of Northbryre, except Philip, now remained to contest ownership.

“You met him, Daymon. What think you?”

“Philip seemed nice enough. He scraped Everart’s mucked up shoes, and he did not have to.”

Basil would turn over in his grave if he knew.

“Not the actions of an enemy,” Richard said, wondering when he’d come to see Philip as merely a little boy and not so much the son of Basil.

Stephen maintained that blood would tell. Gerard probably held the same opinion. Once, Richard would have spouted the same sentiment, but something about the boy made him doubt. Did Lucinda have the right of it? Would upbringing win out?

“He looks lonely down there,” Daymon said.

“Mayhap Father will allow him to stay and play after meal.”

Richard felt a familiar pang. Both he and Daymon knew what it was like to feel the outcast. Philip and Lucinda must, too.

“Best not push your father too hard, Daymon. Leave it be, for now. Mayhap another time.”

Gerard rose, signaling the serving wenches to begin clearing away the remains of the meal, and the lads to start folding up the trestle tables. He then walked down to greet his knights, would give them each the
attention due from their lord, then ensure that Wilmont’s guards were properly assigned for the night.

Ardith and Ursula headed for chairs near the brightly glowing hearth, where they would spend the evening hours spinning or doing needlework, attended by the castle’s womenfolk.

The hunting dogs snuffled about in the rushes, hoping for scraps. Daymon and Everart joined a group of children, and would likely find some loud, exuberant activity to engage in.

Richard headed for Lucinda and Philip, who stood alone and apprehensive in the middle of the hall.

Gerard stopped him. “I do not want them back in my hall, Richard,” he said quietly. “Take them away before Ardith becomes more involved with them.”

Briefly, Richard felt as if he were being sent away as punishment for having the temerity to do his duty. But he understood the reason behind Gerard’s order. Gerard protected those he loved most dearly in the best way he knew how.

Richard smiled, unable to resist teasing. “You could always say no to your wife, Gerard.”

Gerard rolled his eyes. “Some day I may learn how, but until then…”

“When I take them back to camp, I will order Edric to be ready at first light Do not give away my bed. I intend to enjoy it tonight.”

“When you return, we should talk more.”

About Lucinda and Philip. About the lands in Normandy. About the king. All subjects Richard wished to forget about for a while.

Richard shook his head. “Why not wait until Stephen returns? We truly will not know how things stand until then.”

Gerard smiled wryly. “If you do not wish to talk, then mayhap we could have a practice bout.”

That appealed. “’Twill be dark soon. We will have to ring the yard with torches and wear hauberks.”

“Which will please Ardith to no end.”

“Then prepare to sweat, Gerard.”

Lucinda and Philip hadn’t moved. They waited for him in the middle of the hall, Lucinda’s hands resting on Philip’s shoulders.

“My lord,” Philip said, “might I say farewell to Daymon?”

Before Richard could answer, Lucinda said, “Nay, Philip. Daymon is busy with—”

“I have no objection. Do so quickly,” Richard said, overriding her denial.

Lucinda glared her displeasure. Richard stared back, willing her to let the boy go. Reluctantly, she let Philip loose. She watched her son go, anxious.

“We leave for Collinwood at first light,” he said.

“As you wish,” she said flatly.

Richard cupped her elbow and gently pushed her toward the door. “Come. Philip will be along.”

The now familiar shock when touching her raced up his arm. The sweet scent of her engulfed his senses. He hung on despite the effect of her nearness, knowing that if he let her go she would stop. As it was, she walked slowly, waiting for Philip.

Nor did her steps quicken until she heard her son’s youthful footsteps racing to catch her.

“Philip, come down from that crate. Another hard bump will toss you right out of the cart,” Lucinda warned.

“Lord Richard would let me ride up here,” the boy said from his unstable perch.

“That might very well be, but Richard is not here, and I say come down!”

Reluctantly, Philip obeyed, grumbling. Lucinda rejoiced that Richard rode at the head of the company so he hadn’t overheard her. ’Twould have been just like the man to counter her order.

These days it seemed that no matter what she told Philip he could or couldn’t do, Richard took an opposing stance. ’Twas irritating to the extreme. She’d managed to raise Philip to his sixth year all on her own. What did Richard know of when to allow a child’s wishes and when to say nay? Just being Philip’s protector did not make him an expert on how to raise a child.

Adding to her vexation, Philip had declared yesterday that he wished to grow up to be just like Richard. While Richard might be a decent model, the man
did
have faults.

The trouble was, she had a hard time recalling those faults whenever he stood close enough for her to take him to task. Damn the man, with just a smile he could muddle her thoughts, with a look he could tie up her tongue. With a few smooth words he could sway her into agreeing that his way might be best.

For the past two days, Philip had ridden either in the cart with her or on Odin with Richard—both dangerous places for a small child. Thankfully, they were near journey’s end and she need no longer worry about Philip falling off one or the other and breaking open his head.

According to Edric, Collinwood was but another
hour’s march away. As much as she wanted this journey over, she dreaded the final destination.

She knew of Collinwood from Basil’s ledgers and the steward’s reports. The holding was land-rich, capable of producing hundreds of bushels of grain. Basil had claimed the bulk of the harvest, leaving little for his vassals for their own use or to trade at market for other goods.

The reports from Collinwood’s steward had always been bleak. Indeed, each spring report had contained an overlong list of those who had died over the winter. She’d always suspected that most of those had either starved or frozen to death.

Basil hadn’t cared. So long as he received his due, he saw no reason to feed people more than necessary, or ensure that they were adequately sheltered.

Philip scooted down to where he could just see over the top of the cart’s side. “Look, Mother, pigs!” he cried, pointing toward the woods.

Two sows, ripe to give birth, dug their snouts into the earth, foraging for whatever acorns might be left over from last fall’s droppings. Not far off a young boy, a bit older than Philip, watched over them.

A grin washed over the boy’s face. He waved vigorously, and one of the soldiers near the end of the company raised an answering arm.

From that brief signal, Lucinda knew they must now be on Richard’s land. Curiosity piqued, she began to take note of other signs of how the holding fared.

Wattle and daub huts dotted the countryside. Most seemed in good repair, a few boasted freshly thatched roofs. Oxen and cows grazed near the huts. Most were
bony about the haunches, but that was to be expected after the winter months.

The tenant farmers, too, looked healthy—and happy. Most of the people smiled and waved at the company. Not one of them appeared disheartened or fearful at Richard’s return.

Lucinda slipped out of the wagon to walk alongside, the better to see what lay ahead.

She nearly gasped when Collinwood came into view. Richard had raised a palisade out of tall, stout trees to surround the manor, a defensive measure Basil had deemed an unnecessary expense. A moat ringed the palisade. She couldn’t tell where the water came from or where it went to, but the water
flowed
like a stream.

Anticipation heightened as they crossed the plank bridge that spanned the moat. She was eager to see if Richard had made as many improvements within the palisade as without.

Huts lined the inner palisade, one a smithy’s that stood next to the stables. From another hut she caught the pungent smell of dyes, and from yet another, the aroma of leather.

The manor stood at the far end of the bailey, and while it wasn’t about to fall down, it showed the least improvement. He hadn’t added space to what she knew was a one-room hall, where Richard would eat, sleep, hold court and rule his fief, attended by whatever soldiers and servants he deemed necessary. The thatched roof needed repair and, in places, drafts would whistle through the timbers where they needed mortaring.

Richard had taken care of his people, placing their needs over his comforts.

The entourage came to a halt near the manor’s door. Richard dismounted. A man came running from the stable to fetch Odin and lead the destrier off to the stable. The rest of the men began to drift off.

“This is not a castle, like Wilmont,” Philip said, dismayed.

She took his hand to help him jump out of the cart.

“Not a castle, but a fair manor, and our home now.”

Home. A lump formed in her throat. ’Twas not truly her home, but Philip’s, since he would remain here until coming of age. Her future was far less certain.

A gray-haired, frail-bodied man came out of the manor, followed by two dogs who loped over to Richard, tails wagging fiercely, begging for the petting that Richard gladly gave them.

It struck her as odd, then, that only the dogs greeted Richard with any enthusiasm. Save for smiles and the wave of a few hands—amid many curious looks at her and Philip—no one paid much heed to his arrival.

’Twas dreadfully wrong. After all Richard had done to improve their lot, these people should greet him with waving banners and full cheers.

“Hail, Connor,” Richard said to the man, who smiled and answered too softly for Lucinda to understand the words.

She recognized the name from the reports from Collinwood to Northbryre. Connor the steward, who’d served the holding since long before she’d married Basil. He’d been old even then, and she hadn’t expected him to have survived.

The two men talked, their voices low. Then Richard looked over his shoulder at her and Philip. She knew the moment when Richard told Connor who
they were. Connor gave a sharp gasp. The face he turned toward her reflected his horror.

Richard waved her forward. She held tight to Philip’s hand, feeling like the biblical Daniel entering the lion’s den.

“Lucinda, this is Connor, steward of Collinwood,” he said.

She nodded at Connor. “I remember you, from your reports. “Tis nice to put a face to a name.”

Connor’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “’Twas no pleasure of mine to write them, Lady Northbryre.” He glanced down at Philip. “And this would be the devil’s whelp.”

Lucinda’s hand tightened on Philip’s.

“His name is Philip,” Richard said, the hint of a reprimand in his tone.

“What would you be wantin’ me to do with them, my lord?”

Lucinda shivered. If Richard told Connor to take them behind the manor and slit their throats, the steward would have done so, gladly.