by Shari Anton
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Praise
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Books by Shari Anton
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Copyright
Critical acclaim for Shari Anton’s first book, Emily’s Captain
“…superb Civil War drama…a nearly perfect heroine…a great male lead…”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Humor, love, deception—it’s all here…A keeper for those who love historicals.”
—Rendezvous
“Keep an eye on this lady, she’s excellent! 4 1/2 bells.”
—Bell, Book and Candle
“K.I.S.S. Award for the hero, Jared Hunter.”
—Romantic Times
Pressed against him, Ardith listened to Gerard’s heartbeat.
The steady thump pounded louder, faster, and a low groan sounded deep in his throat. She smiled at how easily his body responded to her nearness.
Men thought themselves superior to women. Yet in the bedchamber, if a woman was of a mind, she could reduce a haughty baron to a mere male with the paltry weapon of a rightly placed hip.
Ardith was of a mind.
She looked up into Gerard’s face, a smile threatening the corners of her mouth. “Mayhap women should be warriors.”
Confusion showed in his eyes. “Ardith, are you feverish?”
Ardith had never learned women’s wiles, didn’t know if she could seduce. If she had any talent at all, now was the time to find out. She lowered her voice and half closed her eyes. “Aye, Gerard. I burn. Come ease my torment.”
His reaction was most gratifying…
Dear Reader,
Author Shari Anton was first introduced during our 1997 March Madness promotion of new authors with her Civil War period romance, Emily’s Captain. With this month’s By King’s Decree, Ms. Anton has turned her considerable talents toward the telling of a stirring medieval tale in which a Saxon woman must overcome corruption, jealousy and the shadow of barrenness, or be separated forever from the knight who holds her heart.
Devlin, by author Erin Yorke, is the story of an Irish rebel and an Englishwoman, who must battle distrust and betrayal before finding the happiness they both deserve. And Deborah Simmons returns this month with The de Burgh Bride, the sequel to her steamy adventure Taming the Wolf. This book features the scholarly de Burgh brother, Geoffrey, who has drawn the short straw and must marry the “wicked” daughter of a vanquished enemy, a woman who reportedly murdered her first husband in the marriage bed!
A city banker forced to spend a year recuperating in the country goes head-to-head with a practical country widow and learns that some of life’s greatest pleasures are the simple ones in the next book in Theresa Michaels’s new series, The Merry Widows—Catherine.
Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books this month. Keep an eye out for them, wherever Harlequin Historicals® are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Shari Anton
By King’s Decree
Books by Shari Anton
Harlequin Historicals
Emily’s Captain #357
By King’s Decree #401
SHARI ANTON
prefers to spend her free time at Civil War encampments, medieval fairs or pioneer cemeteries rather than doing housework. Her husband doesn’t mind tagging along to any historical site she wants to visit—if they can take the Harleys to get there! She is also a member of RWA and Wisconsin Romance Writers of America (WisRWA).
The mother of two grown children and one grandchild, Shari lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her husband and a very spoiled golden retriever.
Shari would love to hear from you. You can write to her at: P.O. Box 510611, New Berlin, WI 53151-0611.
To my parents Richard & Ramona Foley Loveya!!
Prologue
England, 1101
’Tis not fair! Ardith pouted to herself, for there was no one else in the room to hear her complaint.
From her pallet in the sleeping chamber, she could hear the sounds of a feast coming from the common room, where her family and their guests celebrated the heroism of Corwin, Ardith’s twelve-year-old twin brother. She didn’t begrudge Corwin the tribute. After all, Corwin had saved her life.
For the past week she’d suffered the pain of her wound, lain on her pallet and sipped potions of mead and herbs. She longed for a meal of substance, craving a slice of the boar that had gored her before perishing under Corwin’s sword.
Crossing an arm over the bandage wrapped around her middle, she ignored the pain of rising to her feet. She shuffled across the chamber to fetch a woolen mantle to cover her night rail. Thus clad she couldn’t join the feast, but if she held to the shadows she might secretly hail Corwin to fetch her a piece of that beast.
Ardith stepped lightly over the earthen floor strewed with rushes, passed by the black-iron candle stand until she stood under the arch separating the two rooms of the manor. She hugged the timber wall as she crept between the arch and the tapestry that hung in the corner of the common room.
Safely in her hiding place, she peeked around the dusty tapestry, pinching her nose so she wouldn’t sneeze. Serving wenches were clearing away the used bread trenchers. Soon they would remove the remains of the boar.
At the raised dais beyond the central fire pit, her father, Harold, lord of Lenvil, rose from his stool to signal the end of the feast. Beside Father stood Baron Everart, Lenvil’s Norman liege lord, resplendent in robes of black wool trimmed with glittering gems. A pace apart from the baron stood a black-haired boy, similarly attired. Since the boy seemed near her own age, Ardith assumed he must be Stephen, the baron’s younger son. She knew that somewhere in the crowd was the elder son, Gerard, Baron Everart’s heir.
She supposed she owed the baron a word of thanks. If he hadn’t shown favor to Corwin, and allowed her brother to spend most of the summer at Wilmont, where he’d learned to use a sword with skill, both she and Corwin might be dead now.
Two wenches reached for the meat platter. Ardith glanced about for Corwin, but she didn’t see her brother. Intent on silently hailing the serving girls, Ardith took a step. But before she could sneak from behind the tapestry, she heard male voices that became louder as the men approached her hiding place. She scrunched down into the corner, hoping they would pass by quickly.
“I spoke with King William,” Baron Everart said. “He questioned my decision but approved.”
“You humble me with your offer, Baron,” her father replied. “You could do better for your son than the fifth daughter of a Saxon vassal.”
“So thought the king, but Ardith is my choice. What say you to a betrothal bargain, Harold?”
Father sighed. “I regret, my lord, that I must refuse. The chit has done herself an injury and is…da
maged.”
As the men passed out of hearing, Ardith shook with the realization that Baron Everart had offered a betrothal between herself and one of his sons. And Father refused!
Done myself an injury? Damaged?
She lightly touched her sore midsection. She would forever wear a scar across her belly. Did a scar make her damaged, lessen her value in marriage?
Suddenly, candle glow flooded the corner. A male hand had pushed aside the tapestry.
“And who have we here?” came a mellow voice, the English words laced with the fluid accent of Norman French.
Ardith looked up into green eyes, as green and bright as spring leaves. No longer a boy, but not quite a man, the Norman noble was strikingly handsome. His hair, in flaxen waves, hung to his shoulders in Saxon fashion, banded by a circlet of gold.
He stood tall and slender, his form adorned by a white linen sherte covered by a calf-length dalmatica of deep blue. Bands of vine-patterned red and gold embroidery trimmed the tuniclike garment’s neckline and sleeves. A girdle of woven gold circled his trim waist.
Kind, she read his expression, and prayed her judgment sound. Norman nobles were often cruel to Saxon underlings—or so Elva, her father’s sister, professed. This Norman must be Gerard, the heir to Wilmont.
“My lord,” she said. Clutching night rail and mantle, she gingerly rose and attempted a curtsy. Dizziness assailed her as she bowed her head. Gerard’s strong hands gripped her arms and saved her from falling.
He looked her over, from head to toe, and back again. His inspection ended at her face. He stared into her eyes.
“You must be Ardith, Corwin’s twin. Your eyes are the same startling blue.” He frowned. “I was told you were sore wounded and confined to your pallet. Why do you lurk behind the tapestry?”
Embarrassment crept on to her cheeks as she realized the foolishness of her actions. Father would be furious if he heard of the incident. Punishment would be swift and severe.
She tried to push away. Gerard’s fingers tightened.
Holding back tears of frustration, she said, “I wanted a hearty slice of that wretched boar.”
His expression softened. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “The boar that wounded you?” he asked. At her nod, he said, “I will order it so. Now come, back to your pallet with you.”
Deftly swept from her feet, firmly cradled in Gerard’s arms, Ardith protested, “I can walk, my lord.”
“Mayhap, my little lady, but you will not. Your strength begins to desert you.”
As he strode toward the sleeping chamber, Ardith couldn’t help wonder if Gerard might, one day, have been her husband. He was so strong, so handsome, and the heir to a title—the fulfillment of every maiden’s dreams. For which son had the baron asked for the betrothal bargain, Gerard or Stephen? Not that it mattered, now. Father considered her damaged somehow, unfit for either Norman lordling.
“Ardith, you little scamp! What have you been up to?” Elva scolded, following them into the chamber. Hands on ample hips, Elva looked ready for battle. Unable to abide another humiliation, Ardith buried her face in Gerard’s shoulder, praying that Elva would refrain from further scolding until Gerard left the chamber.
“Who is the Harpy?” Gerard asked softly as he lowered her slowly, gently, onto her pallet.
“Elva, my father’s sister.”
“And are you a scamp?”
Chagrined, she admitted, “So I am told.”
He winked and flashed a beguiling smile at her before leaving the chamber, ignoring the glare Elva aimed at him.
After he was gone, Ardith asked, “Elva, did you know Father thought to wed me to one of the baron’s sons?”
Elva spit out the word, “Aye. Harold thought to give you to the young lion. The Normans of Wilmont are vicious beasts, every one. Rejoice that you are spared the ordeal.”
To the young lion.
To Gerard, Ardith realized, and her heart twisted at the loss. Gerard bore the coloring of a proud, regal lion, all tawny-gold hair and glittering green eyes. But she couldn’t envision him as a vicious beast.
Gerard had such a nice smile.
Ardith rolled to her side and let the tears flow.
‘Tis not fair!
Chapter One
Wilmont, 1106
Gerard rushed over the ice-crusted mud of the bailey surrounding the keep. An early-winter wind whipped at his cloak. The overcast sky suited his mood.
This morning’s charade had been his idea. Having planned every detail of the mock funeral, Gerard hadn’t expected his gullet to rebel as the empty coffin descended into the earth. Nor would his disquiet ease until he talked with his half brother, Richard, who could too easily lie within that coffin.
Leaping two steps at a time, Gerard climbed the outside stairs leading to the keep’s second floor. He pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the great hall.
He merely glanced at the familiar tapestries hanging beside ancient weapons, hardly noticed the decorative marble carvings hewn into walls of expensive stone. Nor did he acknowledge the peasant women who scurried to prepare the feast he’d ordered to be served after the burial Mass.
The heavy door banged shut. Gerard glanced over his shoulder at Thomas, a young but trusted servant, one of the few people who knew of the ruse necessary to hide and protect Richard. Gerard shrugged out of his beaver cloak and tossed it toward Thomas.
“I will be with the monk. Bring ale,” Gerard ordered, then bounded up the stairway leading to the family quarters.
At the end of the passageway he rapped twice on a door, paused, then rapped twice again. As expected, Corwin opened the door. Smiling ruefully, Corwin executed an exaggerated bow, saying, “At last, reinforcements. Do come in, my lord.”
“Is Richard not behaving?” Gerard asked.
Corwin closed the door and slid the bolt. “As well as one could expect on the day of his own burial, I suppose.”
“In a sullen mood, is he?”
“Peevish, my lord.”
“Richard feels more himself, then.”
“Aye,” Corwin answered on a sigh.
From the bed, Richard grumbled, “You speak as though I am not in the room. Why not ask me how I feel?”
Gerard locked his arms behind his back and sauntered to the bedside. He looked into Richard’s scowling face, a face so near a reflection of his own. The resemblance was striking, though they’d been born of different mothers—one a noble bride, one a peasant lover. Though Gerard claimed the advantage of height, when mounted and armored in chain mail and helm, he and Richard were nigh impossible to tell apart.
Because of the resemblance, Richard had almost died—the victim of an ambush meant to either kill or take as prisoner Gerard, the new baron of Wilmont. Basil of Northbryre and his mercenaries would soon pay dearly for their audacity.
“In this, Richard, your word is not reliable,” Gerard finally responded. “You would have me believe you are ready for the practice yard.”
“Mayhap not the practice yard, but able to get out of bed. Did you know that Corwin would not let me out of the chamber to use the garderobe, made me use a piss pot?”
“At my order.”
“Did I not survive crossing the Channel?”
Confined to a pallet below decks, Richard had barely survived the boat trip home from Normandy, even though under the care of one of King Henry’s physicians.
“You slept the whole time,” Gerard countered.
“And I survived the wagon ride from Dover to Wilmont.”
“By a gnat’s breath.”
“Surely I can survive a walk beyond this chamber.”
Gerard crossed his arms and stated firmly, “Basil is sure to have a spy or two sniffing about. After all I’ve done to convince half the kingdom you are dead, you will not expose the ruse by roaming the keep!”
Corwin answered a signal tap on the door. Thomas entered with the ale. The beverage poured and served, Gerard dismissed Corwin
and Thomas, bolting the door behind them.
Gerard lowered his relaxing body onto a chair. He stretched his legs toward the heat from the brazier, swirling the ale in his goblet.
“My burial went well?” Richard asked sarcastically.
“Father Dominic gave an impassioned plea for God’s mercy on your soul. Stephen praised your bravery and loyalty to Wilmont. Half the wenches in the castle are overcome with grief. I would say you are well mourned.”
A small smile graced Richard’s face. “The wenches may cry for me, but they would wail for you.”
Gerard raised an eyebrow. “Can they tell us apart in the dark, do you think?”
“One wonders. Since I am confined to bed anyway, mayhap I will call for one or two and find out”
Gerard wagged a warning finger. “You are in hiding and supposed to be an ailing monk. Call for a wench and I will confine you to this chamber for the entire winter!”
Richard squirmed at the notion, then said, “You cannot. You will need me at court. When do we leave?”
“You remain here until I send for you. Probably just before Christmas. Corwin and I leave in two days. He wishes to visit Lenvil before going on to Westminster.”
Richard moaned. “You would leave me here with Stephen as my nursemaid. Have pity, Gerard. I will never be allowed out of this bed.”
“Stephen will let you up when Father Dominic says you are healed, not before then.”