By King's Decree

by Shari Anton

  “Aye, my lord,” Corwin said, but he wasn’t pleased.

  “Now, tell me about Lenvil’s captain.”

  “Sedrick has captained the guard since before I was born. He is almost Father’s age. ‘Tis odd, I remember him as an unyielding taskmaster, whether in discipline or skills. You think to tell Father to replace him?”

  “Nay!” Ardith protested. Three pairs of stunned eyes swiveled to stare. She knew she meddled in matters outside her realm of authority, but to take the captaincy from Sedrick was unthinkable. Still, she’d bandaged far too many bruises and cuts. Maybe, just maybe, they were right.

  “We shall see,” Gerard said. Again he addressed John. “I thought to leave in two days, but I will not leave until assured…Lenvil is well defended.”

  John slapped Corwin on the shoulder. “Come. Let us see how much work needs to be done.”

  During the ensuing silence, Ardith slowly walked over to the table, picked up the ice packet and gave it to Gerard. His fingers brushed her hand, arousing the warmth that surged through her whenever they touched. His hands, strong and callused and compelling, were larger than most men’s.

  By his hands, milady. You take a look at the baron’s fingers. They be long and thick, so…

  Ardith tore her gaze from Gerard’s hand to look at his face. Bright green eyes had darkened to emerald. His mouth slashed a hard line across his rugged visage.

  “I spoke without thinking,” she said softly. “’Tis not by my say who captains the guard.”

  He dismissed her audacity with a wave of his hand, asking, “Ardith, how ill is Harold?”

  “His leg pains him when he overuses the limb.”

  “There is more.”

  Somehow, Gerard knew of the more serious ailment, though at the moment Harold enjoyed a good spell. She briefly considered denying her father’s affliction, but Gerard was Lenvil’s liege lord, and she hadn’t done as good a job of overseeing the manor as she’d thought.

  “His memory suffers. Some mornings ‘tis a victory for him to find his boots. He becomes better at remembering events of decades past than a happening of the day before.”

  “How long have you been overseeing Lenvil?”

  “Nearly two years.”

  “Why did you not inform Corwin or my father?”

  “The manor has not suffered, nor has the village or any of our people. We sow and harvest crops, earn enough in milling fees to pay our rents to Wilmont. I did not, however, notice the slackening of the guard. For that, I apologize.”

  Gerard shook his head. Ardith saw pain overshadow his anger.

  “Gerard, please,” she whispered. “You must lie down.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You assume I can walk so far.”

  “Will you allow me to aid you?”

  He held out an arm. Ardith grasped him around the waist. He smelled of leather and sweat, of linen stored within oak—and an essence wholly male, wholly Gerard.

  She wanted to run from the tent as much as she wanted to stay snuggled under his arm. The few steps to his pallet took forever, yet were completed too soon.

  He slid down onto his furs. “I will have your word, Ardith, to say nothing of what transpired in this tent, either about the guard or my head.”

  About the guard, she understood. About his head, she failed to comprehend. “Surely everyone already knows of the lump on your head. You were the last man off the field.”

  “Of necessity, because my men expect it, and because I could barely walk a straight line. Only you and Thomas know how big the lump is and how it affected me. Beyond sending you out here, Thomas will say naught to anyone else.”

  She’d protected her father’s dignity and pride for so long that she could do no less for Gerard. “You have my pledge of silence, my lord,” she said. He shifted the ice packet, reminding Ardith of his pain. “I have headache powders in the manor. I will mix one in a tankard of mead and send it out with Thomas.”

  “Ardith! Ardith!” Elva’s shrill call interrupted.

  Ardith smiled slightly. “If I am to keep your secret, my lord, I must waylay Elva.”

  “Interfering old buzzard.”

  She blamed Gerard’s nasty words on his sore head. She slipped through the tent flap, almost bumping into Elva.

  “Oh, Ardith.” Elva sighed, nearly smothering Ardith with an embrace. “Be you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  “Nay, Elva, be at ease,” Ardith soothed, gently pushing away. “The baron has no reason to do me harm.”

  Elva grasped Ardith’s arms. “You must have a care, Ardith. You must beware the beast. He will tear you apart.”

  The old woman’s warning of physical danger at Gerard’s hand baffled Ardith. She knew the only danger Gerard presented was to her heart, and the damage was already done.

  “Come,” she said, guiding Elva back to the manor, steeling her resolve against Gerard’s prolonged visit. “Fret not The beast cannot harm what he cannot catch.”

  Gerard looked on as Corwin bullied Lenvil’s guards. After a week of drills, the guards showed progress. But Corwin was still angry. Having found his birthright endangered, he challenged the soldiers to match his mastery. Though he was only ten and seven, Corwin’s skill with weapons had earned him the respect of even Wilmont’s knights.

  After a long talk with Sedrick, who’d admitted a problem with his eyesight, Gerard had reserved the right to choose a new captain. Now, having tested and talked to each Lenvil soldier, Gerard still hadn’t chosen. To his mind, none was ready and he wouldn’t entrust Lenvil’s defense to a man not fully competent.

  Gerard had realized, these past few days, it wasn’t Lenvil he strove to protect. The holding was a fine one and Corwin’s birthright. If the manor and village burned, the peasants and livestock scattered, the crops destroyed, the waste would raise his anger. His demand for justice would be swift against the knave who dared attack the holding.

  But a manor could be rebuilt, people and cattle retrieved, crops replanted. Intolerable was the thought of Ardith’s fate should the manor fall.

  Visions of lovely Ardith hovered at the edge of his mind, ethereal and subtle, but always with him. He caught himself looking for her in the yard or in the manor, listening for the sound of her voice. His enchantment grew with each passing day—and night.

  As did his hunger. He couldn’t look upon Ardith without desire flooding his loins, hardening his manroot.

  On the day she’d come to his tent to tend his head, he’d thought they reached an accord. But still she shunned him, as though she hadn’t gently touched his forehead and stood so close that he could feel her warmth and smell her unique scent.

  Had the desire to bed Ardith been the only source of his vexation, he might have ordered her to his bed. Often he’d thought of winding her plait in his fist, dragging her into his tent and flinging her naked body down onto his furs. None would gainsay him.

  Odd, how he willingly abandoned that right in order to win her favor. Winsome and eager was how he wanted Ardith. Aye, he wanted her passion, but he also wanted her affection. From Ardith he wanted more than the mere joining of bodies. She must be kept safe, because after concluding his business with Basil, Gerard intended to take Ardith as his wife.

  He needed royal consent to marry, but could think of no reason why King Henry should disapprove of Ardith. Though not of noble blood, Ardith hailed from good stock. As fifth daughter she would have no dowry to speak of, but if Gerard didn’t begrudge the lack, Henry shouldn’t care. And she was Saxon, a happenstance likely to sway Henry to approve.

  Gerard yearned to begin the delightful duty of siring a legal heir to Wilmont. Making babes with Ardith would be pure pleasure.

  As for Daymon, Gerard was sure Ardith would lovingly accept his bastard son. Every child in the manor sought her out to soothe bumps and bandage scrapes. He strongly suspected her coddling eased their hurts more than the salves and strips of linen. She adored children, had threatened to whip B
elinda over a bastard’s care.

  But hellfire, why did he so want the one woman in the entire kingdom who refused to respond to the desire that flared whenever their eyes met?

  Gerard turned toward the sound of a horse thundering toward the manor, his hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword. Then he recognized the messenger who rode one of Wilmont’s swiftest coursers. Foam frothed from the horse’s mouth as the courier reined to a halt.

  “Baron Gerard,” the man said panting, holding out a rolled parchment. “From Walter. He bid me await your reply.”

  Gerard untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. Rage blinded him for a moment as he read.

  “When?” he growled at the messenger.

  “Yesterday, my lord.”

  Gerard crushed the message in a white-knuckled fist.

  “What is amiss?” Corwin asked from beside him.

  “Frederick has returned to Wilmont.”

  “Has Milhurst fallen to Basil?”

  “Frederick could not say because he was dead, strapped across his horse like game from the hunt. Someone killed him and led the horse near enough to Wilmont for the horse to find its way home.”

  “Basil?”

  “His minions, I suspect.” Gerard exploded. “Devil take him! His audacity is beyond endurance. Tell John to have the men ready to march on the morn. We leave for Westminster.”

  Gerard stalked off to his tent. In quick, angry strokes he penned a message to Stephen, giving his brother permission to take whatever defensive measures he thought necessary.

  After Richard’s wounding, Gerard’s first impulse had been to run a sword through Basil of Northbryre’s gullet. But King Henry’s staying hand had given Gerard time to realize that by seeking redress through the court he might gain title to Basil’s holdings without putting men on the field of battle. And by doing so, Gerard could richly reward Stephen and Richard for their loyalty without giving up any Wilmont lands.

  Gerard almost hoped Basil had been stupid enough to raid Milhurst. The mistake would add weight to Gerard’s case. He shook his head at the notion. Leaving Milhurst open to attack, or not taking it back if Basil had succeeded with a raid, would be seen as weakness. Gerard added another order to Stephen’s letter, to send two knights and ten men-at-arms to Milhurst.

  His mind settled on the matter, Gerard turned his attention to leaving Lenvil. He had yet to choose a captain for Lenvil’s guard. The ideal would be to leave Corwin here to handle the matter, but he needed Corwin at court.

  And Ardith?

  Gerard wondered what Ardith’s reaction would be when informed she was making the trip to Westminster.

  “Elva, Ardith needs your help. You must come up to the manor. We leave on the morn and there is much to be done.”

  “Then you help her, Bronwyn,” Elva called to the closed door of her hovel. She shook out a square of black wool and covered the small table. On the cloth she placed a treasured Celtic cross, a gift from her long-dead mother. Beside the cloth she placed a thick, tallow candle.

  “Ardith wants you to take charge of the manor while she is away. She is upset about this journey. Having you at the manor in her absence would ease her mind. Please, Elva. If you do not come, she will have to place another in charge.”

  Elva didn’t answer, and soon heard Bronwyn’s disgruntled huff and the shuffle of retreating footsteps.

  She lit the candle. From the folds of her gown she retrieved a leather pouch and dumped the contents onto the cloth. She wished they were larger, these bones she’d managed to nab ahead of the dogs. The Norman, blast his hide, tossed his leavings at the dogs instead of flinging them over his shoulder into the rushes.

  The bones weren’t bleached. Slivers of meat and gristle still clung to the surface. She shook her head at the lack of time to prepare them properly. She gathered the bones in her hands.

  Years ago, she’d misjudged the forces of fate. Thinking her precious girl safe, Elva hadn’t bothered to augur the Norman’s future. Now the beast was back and about to spirit Ardith away.

  She’d saved Ardith from the clutches of Wilmont once. Could she do so again? She must.

  Elva closed her eyes, mumbling the words she remembered as her mother’s chant. She knew not the meaning, only remembered the pattern of sounds.

  She tossed the bones onto the black cloth and read their dire message.

  “Demon spawn,” she hissed, and with a sweep of her hand, wiped the offensive prophecy out of her sight.

  Chapter Six

  All of Ardith’s possessions fit into a small trunk. As she spread her yellow veil atop her good gown, she grumbled, “I still do not understand why I must go along.”

  “Ardith, when a baron invites a vassal on a journey, the vassal accepts,” Bronwyn stated from her perch upon her own large trunk. Beside her trunk sat another, as large and as full. Bronwyn, sensibly, was taking advantage of traveling with the company about to depart Lenvil.

  “Baron Gerard invited Father. My accompanying Father, as nursemaid, was an afterthought.”

  “Well, I surely cannot care for Father. He will not listen to me. Besides, I am glad you are coming. We can keep each other company on the road. Oh, Ardith, we will have such a merry time at court.”

  “Are you sure Kester will not mind our unexpected visit?”

  “Not in the least Kester’s position as adviser to the king entitles him to lodgings at Westminster Palace. There is plenty of room for us all. Ardith, do cease looking for an excuse to beg off. All is ready. You are coming.”

  All was ready because Ardith had spent most of the night gathering provisions, with the help of John, whom Gerard had assigned to oversee Lenvil in Ardith’s absence.

  She still couldn’t understand why Elva had refused to take charge of the manor. She’d thought her aunt would enjoy the task, if only for the luxury of sleeping in the bed.

  Ardith was of two minds about the journey.

  Granted, Father hadn’t been to court for many years to pay homage to the king. But Harold wasn’t a well man, as Gerard knew. Why now? Why with such haste? Could they not have had more time than one night to prepare? And starting out on a journey under the threat of inclement weather was ill-advised.

  Yet Ardith had never seen London, never traveled farther than the market at Bury Saint Edmunds, a mere two hours’ ride to the west. Bronwyn made court sound exciting, full of interesting people and wondrous sights.

  “You will need several new gowns,” Bronwyn observed. “I have a few that might suit you with a bit of altering. If you do not care for them, I have stacks of cloth from which you can make your own.”

  “Surely, I will not need so many.”

  “Oh, three or four, at least. Ah, they have come for our trunks.” Bronwyn slid off her perch to allow the men of her escort to lift the trunk. “Be careful, now. This one goes on the right of the cart. And make sure the tarp is secure. The sky looks ready to burst. You know how the snow sticks to the top and makes it hard to…” Bronwyn’s voice trailed out of hearing as she followed the bearers out of the chamber.

  Ardith looked about the room. All of her life she’d slept within Lenvil’s walls, within this chamber.

  “Ardith? Are you ready?” Corwin asked as he strode in.

  Ardith tried to return the smile but found she couldn’t.

  “Why so glum, Ardith? Ah, I understand. ‘Tis always hardest the first time, leaving home.”

  “Did your heart ache the first time you left Lenvil?”

  Corwin shook his head. “I thought it a grand adventure, going off with Baron Everart to Wilmont. Of course, I had Stephen for company. The two of us became fast friends on that journey. Where is your mantle? Here, put it on.”

  Corwin held up Ardith’s warmest mantle, lined with rabbit fur, and draped it over her shoulders. Ardith wrapped a long piece of wool about her head and neck.

  Her brother grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the chamber. “Come, Bronwyn is waiting for you
in her litter. You two can gossip all the way to Westminster.”

  Ardith scampered to match Corwin’s stride. “I thought to ride my horse.”

  “Your palfrey carries provisions.”

  Corwin didn’t give her time for a last look about the manor; instead, he hustled her out of doors. “What a grand procession we will make,” he declared, waving a hand at the long line of men, animals and wagons.

  At the head of the line stood Thomas, holding the reins of Gerard’s destrier and Father’s stallion. Behind them would march several of Wilmont’s soldiers, followed by Bronwyn’s litter and her escort. The remaining men-at-arms and the wagons and pack animals completed the company.

  Ardith eyed Bronwyn’s odd conveyance. The litter looked like the bottom half of a sawed-off wooden box attached to long poles, which fitted on to specially made harnesses on horses. A roof of canvas, held up by spindles at the corners, would keep off rain and snow. She thought it must be safe to ride in because Bronwyn would travel no other way.

  “Come, Ardith. In you go or we shall leave you behind,” Corwin teased as he handed her into the seat opposite Bronwyn.

  Ardith smiled wanly. “Promise?”

  “Promise what?” Gerard asked as he came up to the litter.

  “Ardith is being difficult.” Corwin sighed. “It seems, my lord, she would rather not ride in such comfort. She would rather ride her palfrey, which we loaded down with food.”

  Gerard looked at her strangely for a moment, then said, “Well, perhaps we can make other arrangements later. If everyone is ready, let us away.”

  By midday, Ardith was willing to walk to London. Somehow, Bronwyn had managed to fall asleep. So much for keeping each other company! Not that Ardith really minded her sister’s desertion. This way Bronwyn wouldn’t see and remark upon Ardith’s distress.

  Her stomach churned from the lurch and sway of the litter. The unnatural sensation of riding backward, seeing where she had been and not where she was going, added to her discomfort.

  Her backside pained from bouncing on the thinly padded seat. Though she’d thought of pulling up the hem of her mantle to form extra cushioning, she couldn’t do so while in motion. Her fingers had frozen into claws, gripping the sides of the litter. Corwin rode by often during the morning, waving as he passed. Ardith refused to loosen her hold, even to respond to her brother.