by Shari Anton
Richard raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Father Dominic? You told him?”
“I thought telling the priest prudent, just in case.”
“I will not need the final sacrament,” Richard insisted. “Who all knows I still live?”
“Stephen, Thomas, Corwin, King Henry and his physicians.” Gerard sighed. “I also found it necessary to inform Lady Ursula. I had hoped to avoid involving my mother, but she would plague Stephen with questions about the strange monk in a family bedchamber.”
“I imagine my lying in this chamber instead of in that coffin, underground, vexes Lady Ursula to no end.”
“No doubt, but she will not interfere with your care. Stephen will see to that.”
“Your mother will prick him at every turn for his loyalty, try to turn him against you.”
“He will hold fast. Sparring with Ursula will make a man of him, may even earn Stephen his knighthood.” The brothers chuckled, then Gerard sobered. “You have certainly earned your knighthood, Richard. We will see to the formalities at court.”
Gerard rose from his chair and headed for the door.
“Do you trust King Henry’s promise?” Richard asked.
Gerard’s hand gripped the bolt. “When Henry refused my demand for armed reprisal against. Basil, he promised royal justice. I had no choice, at the time, but to obey.”
“And if we do not get justice?”
Gerard flashed a feral smile. “Then heal well, Richard. I will need your sword arm when I seek revenge.”
Richard returned the smile. “The mercenary captain, Edward Siefeld, is mine.”
“As Basil of Northbryre is mine.”
Sprawled across the bed on his stomach, an arm dangling over the edge, Gerard slowly opened one eye. The light hurt, piercing into a head too heavy to lift from the bolster.
“My lord,” Thomas said softly, though urgently.
“By your life, lad, you best have good reason for waking me so early.”
“I let you sleep as long as I dared, my lord. The household awaits you in the chapel. Father Dominic cannot begin Mass until you arrive.”
Reluctantly, Gerard rolled over. Pieces of last night’s drinking bout floated through his groggy memory. He’d tried to relieve his frustration with ale. A futile attempt.
He tossed back the furs and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. His head swam. Gerard drew deep breaths and compelled his body to function. Muscles rippled to his command as he stood, his warrior’s body unaffected by the muddle in his head.
With a slight nod he approved the garments Thomas placed on the bed. Gerard donned the white soft-woolen sherte and the dalmatica of scarlet silk shot through with gold thread. He wrapped a girdle of gold around his waist. He would gladly have shunned the elegant clothing for less pretentious garb. But today, he must appear and act the baron.
He wasn’t surprised that Lady Ursula stood at the front of the chapel, awaiting his arrival with tight-lipped censure. Within moments of the Mass’s start, Gerard stifled a yawn. His mother glared. Stephen and Corwin exchanged knowing smiles. Father Dominic understood the suggestion and sped through the service.
After breaking fast on porridge and bread, Gerard ordered Lady Ursula and Walter, Wilmont’s steward, to attend him in his chambers.
“As you can see, Baron Gerard, Wilmont fares well,” Walter said, waving a hand at the scroll on the table in Gerard’s bedchamber.
Gerard inspected the records of fees and goods due to Wilmont. Not for the first time, he was grateful for his father’s unusual decision to educate his sons. Never would Gerard be at the mercy of clergy or steward to read messages or records, unlike most of his Norman peers.
He pointed to an empty space in the accounting and asked Walter, “What of these rents?”
“The coinage from Milhurst is overdue. Unfortunately, your father succumbed to the fever before he could visit Milhurst to collect”
Gerard’s temper flashed. Basil of Northbryre, Gerard would wager, had somehow interfered with the delivery of Milhurst’s rents—an easy task since Milhurst bordered Northbryre. He added the suspected crime to the list of grievances he would present to King Henry against Basil.
“Are other monies or goods overdue?”
Walter’s bony finger pointed to another blank space on the parchment. “Aye, my lord, from this manor near Romsey, also in Hampshire. We are owed six sheep on the hoof every winter as tribute. The steward might yet bring them, though he is very late this year.”
“Will you go to Hampshire to collect the tributes?” Lady Ursula interrupted.
The hope in her voice turned Gerard’s head. Though almost forty, his mother had aged well. She studied him with eyes of silver gray, unfaded by time. Hair as black as a raven’s wing framed her smooth face, pallid from countless hours spent praying in a dark chapel. Had Ursula prayed or mourned for Everart, only two months in his grave? Gerard doubted she’d shed a single tear over his father’s death.
Gerard knew why she wanted him gone. She had suffered the commands of her husband; she would loathe taking orders from her son. Gerard couldn’t summon sympathy.
“All in good time,” he answered, then turned to Walter. “Have Frederick make ready to journey to Hampshire on the morrow. I have no interest in the sheep from Romsey, but I must know if Basil has moved against Milhurst. Tell Frederick I will give him instructions before he leaves.”
Walter bowed his balding head. “As my lord wishes,” he said and left the chamber.
Gerard leaned back in his chair and said to his mother, “You will no doubt be pleased to hear I leave on the morrow, not for Hampshire but for Lenvil, then Westminster.”
Hands clasped tightly in her lap, she said, “Very well.”
He almost laughed at the scheme so easily read on her face, but suppressed the impulse. Gerard leaned forward and rested his crossed arms on the table. He caught his mother’s gaze and held it transfixed.
“Richard will remain at Wilmont. Stephen will oversee our brother’s care with the help of Father Dominic. You will allow Richard to stay in the bedchamber in the family quarters until I send for him.”
With each word, Lady Ursula’s spine stiffened. Gerard braced for the inevitable tirade.
“You would shame me with his presence in the family quarters? Even your father did not insult me so, made the bastard sleep below stairs! Is it not enough I must tolerate him in my household without his being under my very nose?”
“I have done you the courtesy of explaining the need to hide Richard. After Corwin and I leave, only Stephen and Father Dominic, besides you, will know who rests in that chamber. Be aware, madam, that I will be very unhappy if the information spreads further.”
Gerard reached across the table and grasped the jeweled silver cross that hung from his mother’s neck. “Swear, by the cross you hold so dear, you will not interfere with Richard’s care. Swear you will keep secret his whereabouts.”
Livid, his mother snatched the cross from his hand. “What blasphemy is this? You ask me to swear? You who were late for Mass and nearly slept through it? You would ask me to profane the Lord’s teaching by allowing a by-blow, the proof of your father’s sinful lust, to remain succored within these walls?”
Gerard barely held his temper. Ursula would never concede that Everart’s decision to raise Richard as his own had gained Gerard a loyal brother instead of a bitter enemy. Gerard took pride in the loyalty of both Richard and Stephen, an odd but welcome relationship in a land where sons plotted against fathers, and brother fought brother over inheritance.
Like most noble marriages, the arranged union of Ursula and Everart had allied two noble families. No love, or even affection had developed between the pair. Ursula had endured her marriage, and for the most part tolerated her sons. But the middle child, born of Everart’s peasant lover, Ursula hated passionately.
“Wilmont is Richard’s home, by my father’s wish and now mine. Your position is less secure.”
&n
bsp; Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
Gerard’s glance flickered to the cross, to the jewels on her fingers, to her fine silken gown. “You are now a widow. Perhaps your God calls you to the religious life. Would that suit you, Mother? Life in an abbey?”
Ursula’s mouth opened, then closed.
“Or perhaps you would prefer to marry again. I have no doubt that there is some male in this kingdom willing to have you to secure an alliance with Wilmont.”
She paled. “You would not dare…”
“I would dare. Are you ready to swear your silence?”
She curled her fingers around the cross. Her voice shook as she said, “I swear.” Then she dropped the cross as though it burned.
“So be it.”
“Beware, Gerard,” she warned as she rose from her chair. “You inherit not only your father’s title and holdings, but his immorality as well. One day you, too, will face the Lord’s judgment. May he have pity on your soul.”
As the door slammed behind his mother, Gerard wondered why she still had the power to affect him. He should be immune to her curses, having heard throughout his life of how he would burn for eternity for one reason or another.
Then he brightened. With estate business resolved, he now had time to do what he’d ached to do since returning from Normandy—spend time with his son.
Gerard found Daymon in the hall, stacking pieces of wood as a nursemaid looked on. Gerard approached slowly, waiting for Daymon to sense his presence and make the first approach. Too often Gerard had returned from a long absence to sweep Daymon up, only to learn from his son’s screams that young children possessed short memories.
When his son didn’t look up, Gerard quietly asked the nursemaid, “How fares my boy?”
“Well, my lord, except he misses Baron Everart terribly. Daymon is too young to understand death. He only knows his favorite playmate no longer comes.”
Gerard smiled sadly, feeling the same pang of loss.
“He seems healthy enough,” he commented, noting chubby cheeks, bright eyes and a sure grip of fingers around wood.
Then Daymon turned to stare upward. Gerard saw the boy’s mother in his face. If she’d lived through childbirth, he’d have given her a hut in the village, might even have found her a husband. Gerard hadn’t loved the peasant girl, only found her winsome and responsive.
But he loved his son.
Gerard scrunched nearly to kneeling as Daymon continued to stare, yearning to reach out to the boy, but he waited. Then a smile touched Daymon’s mouth. Recognition lighted green eyes and little arms reached upward.
Scooping the boy from the floor, Gerard gave Daymon a hug. The boy clung, squeezing tight with both arms and legs. Daymon’s obvious need stung Gerard’s heart. The boy hadn’t known his mother, had recently lost his grandfather, and now his father was about to leave again. Daymon had no one else, besides nursemaids, to whom he could turn for affection.
Gerard inwardly winced, facing the inevitable. He must marry. He should have married years ago, for both Daymon’s sake and Wilmont’s.
His father hadn’t shirked his duty to find a bride for his eldest son. Gerard vaguely remembered talk of a marriage contract to the daughter of another baron, but the girl hadn’t survived childhood. Several years later, Father had bargained for another maiden, but for some reason that betrothal hadn’t come about.
Any number of females would vie for the honor of becoming mistress of Wilmont. The woman he settled on must be of good blood, and able to run a household. She needn’t possess flawless beauty or a large dowry, though he wouldn’t mind a comely wife or additional funds or land.
More important to him than wealth or beauty was that his wife be capable of affection. He most definitely wanted a mate who wouldn’t balk at sharing the marriage bed and producing heirs. He didn’t need love—the emotion having no place in a good marriage contract—merely the woman’s acceptance of her place in his life.
Gerard raised Daymon to arm’s length into the air and smiled at the boy’s delighted squeal.
Acceptance. Was there a woman in all of England or Normandy who would willingly open her heart to Daymon, despite his bastard birth?
As Gerard lowered his son back into his arms, he saw Lady Ursula across the hall. Her glower set his resolve.
Such a woman must exist. He need only find her.
But first he would deal with Basil of Northbryre. Nothing must interfere with bringing that whoreson to his knees.
Chapter Two
Ardith knelt on the dirt floor of the sleeping chamber. In front of her swirled the most exquisite cloth she’d ever had the pleasure to pierce with a needle. As her sister Bronwyn turned in a slow circle, the emerald silk flowed past in soft, shimmering waves.
“Halt,” Ardith ordered, then adjusted a holding stitch along the gown’s hem.
“Oh, Ardith, Kester will be so pleased,” Bronwyn stated with a breathless quality in her voice.
Ardith smiled. Bronwyn’s husband, Kester, was besotted with his wife. Knowing how much new gowns pleased Bronwyn, he sought exotic fabrics as gifts. Kester had bought this rare silk from an Italian merchant, right off the ship.
Bronwyn had then rushed to Lenvil. Though she had servants to make her gowns, Bronwyn always returned home to Ardith when she wanted something special. According to Bronwyn, this gown would make its debut at Christmas.
“If you are pleased, Kester will be delighted. Now, turn once more.” She again inspected her handiwork before declaring the session finished.
Ardith stood, flicking pieces of rushes and dirt from her brown, coarse-wool gown. Though she owned two lovely gowns—a yellow wool for winter and a light green linen for summer—she rarely wore them unless visitors were expected. For everyday chores, peasant-woven cloth served best.
She pushed aside Bronwyn’s honey-blond braid to undo the lacing on the gown. “Now, you must finish your story.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Well, as I said, King Henry sent Kester to meet the pope’s envoy. Kester met the ship at Hastings and brought the priest to overnight at our holding before going on to London.” Bronwyn slipped out of the emerald silk and donned a blue wool. She continued, “From what I hear, Pope Paschal is very angry with King Henry, to the point of threatening excommunication.”
Ardith desperately wanted to hear more of the envoy and the king. Having lived her entire ten and seven years at Lenvil, she hungered for news of life beyond the manor. But the jingle of tack and the thud of horses’ hooves cut short the conversation.
“Father has returned earlier than I expected,” Ardith remarked. “No doubt his leg hurts and he cut his inspection short. Would you fetch him a goblet of warm wine? The brew usually eases his pain.”
“How do you bear the grouch?” Bronwyn asked, placing a veil of sheer blue linen over her hair, securing it with a silver circlet.
Ardith shrugged. “’Tis the change of season affecting his mood. Once winter sets in and he stays off his leg, Father’s temper will improve.”
“Why does he bother to inspect the fields once the harvest is in? Heavens, why would anyone want to look at nothing but clots of dirt? You could tell him which fields to plant next spring and which to leave fallow.” Bronwyn suddenly smiled. “Ah, I see. Father thinks he decides on his own, does he?”
“Nor will I have him think otherwise,” Ardith warned.
“As you wish, but do not leave me alone with him overlong. He will ramble on about oats and cabbages.” With a sigh, Bronwyn turned and left the chamber.
Shaking her head in amusement, Ardith gathered up thread and needle and scraps of cloth, thinking of how different her life was from that of her sisters. One by one the girls had left home. Edith had entered the convent; the others had all married. By default, Ardith became the lady of the manor, if not in title, in practice. Someday, Corwin would marry and bring his bride to Lenvil. But since neither Harold nor Corwin appeared eager for that event, her place at Lenvil was
secure for a while longer.
For forever, Ardith hoped, and to ensure her place she’d studied Elva’s herb lore. She’d learned which herbs soothed a roiling stomach, which numbed an aching tooth, how to mix powders for headaches and salves for burns. She could poultice a wound and even act as midwife.
Surely Corwin would allow her to stay at Lenvil for those talents alone, as Harold had allowed his sister to remain near the manor. Had Elva not become outlandish with her heathen rituals—tossing animal bones and muttering pagan chants—Harold might have allowed Elva to live in the manor. But the day Elva had slit open a piglet to read the entrails was the day Harold had banished his sister to a hut in the village.
Though Ardith longed for a proper home of her own, she knew it folly to dream. She placed a hand over her belly, over the ugly scar marring her flesh, sealing her future. Elva had explained to a bewildered girl that though the wound wasn’t deep enough to kill, the damage was severe.
Ardith could never marry because she could bear no man an heir.
Ardith shook her head. Why was she thinking of her barrenness now? Why did she let Bronwyn’s visits, witnessing her sister’s happiness, bring on these bouts of self-pity?
She could hear Bronwyn’s light laughter and the sound of low, male voices coming from the hall. As she passed under the arch separating the two rooms of the manor, she saw not her father, but Corwin.
Her delight wiped away the dark mood. Without thinking, seeing only her beloved twin, Ardith squealed his name and ran across the room. Corwin barely had time to brace his feet before Ardith flung her arms around his neck.
From several yards away, Gerard watched Ardith gleefully sprint into Corwin’s open arms. He recognized her at once, though he hadn’t seen her for several years. There was no mistaking her deep auburn hair and vivid blue eyes.
Corwin lifted his sister and swung her around. Gerard barely heard the soft laughter of those around him as he watched the twins embrace. He was remembering the one time he had swept. Ardith from her feet, held an adorable bundle of little girl in his arms.