By King's Decree

by Shari Anton

  The first kiss had caught her off guard. Who’d have guessed Gerard would take so bold an action while standing in the middle of the road, for anyone to see?

  She should have pushed away, but a storm of emotion had hurtled through her defenses and had unleashed with heady fury. When wrapped in Gerard’s embrace, she couldn’t quiet the thunder of her racing heart or subdue the colors whirling in her head.

  For the length of the kiss she’d belonged to Gerard, as though the long-ago betrothal had occurred, the resulting marriage celebrated. She’d reveled in the joy Gerard summoned from her heart, but as the kiss ended, the fantasy shattered.

  The ensuing despair had nearly brought forth tears. He hadn’t explained why he wanted her to make the journey, and Ardith hadn’t cared right then for an explanation. Corwin’s interruption and Elva’s unexpected appearance had helped to push her upheaval aside.

  Then Gerard had refused to allow her to walk. She thought she remembered a slight brush of lips on her forehead before she had fallen asleep, and an arrogant statement that he always got what he wanted. The memory was vague, dreamlike. Not vague in the least had been waking from a deep sleep to Gerard’s soft lips and warm breath on her cheek.

  Bronwyn suddenly laughed. “Oh, Ardith. Now that I think on it, mayhap the abbot protects you from his monks. I would wager he thinks you belong to Gerard, as his leman.”

  Ardith gasped and nearly threw the straightened embroidery at Bronwyn. “Why would he think such a thing?”

  “Why would he not? Look at your arrival at his abbey from the abbot’s view. ‘Twas beyond the ordinary, you must admit.”

  Stunned speechless, Ardith hid her blush with her hands.

  Still chuckling, Bronwyn continued, “Let him think what he will. You will probably never see the abbot again.” Then her laughter ceased. “Oh, Ardith. ‘Tis such a pity you do not belong to some man. You would make such a fine wife.”

  “I do not want your pity,” Ardith said harshly. “What is, is—and cannot be changed.”

  “I disagree. Not only can your lot change, but the sooner done, the better. Father has allowed an injustice, one that benefits him quite well. I have thought hard on the problem and believe I have a solution.”

  Ardith asked warily, “Solution to what problem?”

  “Finding you a husband.”

  “Bronwyn…”

  “Now hear me out, sister. Your inability to bear children is not the barrier to marriage you may believe. Granted, we must ignore the more eligible men in the kingdom. We must strike from our list any man who needs an heir.”

  “List?”

  Bronwyn put aside her embroidery and counted on her fingers. “The man must already have his heir. He must be someone in need of a wife to warm his bed, serve as chatelaine for his manor and nursemaid for his children. I can think of several men who need such a woman. Of course, there is the problem of providing a dowry.”

  “Bronwyn, I have no dowry. Therefore, I have no prospects. This talk of marriage is foolish. Corwin has promised I shall always have a place at Lenvil. Why should I look for a husband?”

  “Corwin may promise you shelter, but his wife may balk at the arrangement. Corwin must one day wed, and his bride may see you as a rival, not only for Corwin’s affection but for control of Lenvil. The peasants and serfs are so accustomed to serving you that they may not welcome a new mistress. Do you not see how divided loyalty could cause misery?”

  Aye, she could.

  “But I have no dowry,” Ardith protested.

  “Remember when Agnes married, how Father nearly beggared Lenvil to give her a fitting dowry?” At Ardith’s nod, Bronwyn continued, “When Elizabeth married, some how Father managed to satisfy the contract through Lenvil’s revenue. And Edith’s entry into the convent did not come cheaply.”

  “You were not dowered.”

  “Nay, but I was fortunate that Kester wanted me for myself, and did not need lands or coin.”

  Ardith looked sharply at her sister. “You are saying that Father might be able to raise funds for a small dowry?”

  “Possibly. You are the fifth daughter of a landed but not wealthy lord. No man who brings suit for your hand will expect much of a dowry. And I do expect you will have suitors. When properly gowned and trained in courtly manners, I suspect you will turn many noble heads. We shall have to turn hordes of males from our door.”

  “Really, Bronwyn!”

  “You think I jest? You underestimate your beauty and grace, Ardith. Too, you will be a fresh face, an innocent in a court of jaded and conniving women. Make no mistake, sister dear, you will be pursued. As I said, we shall just be careful of who we allow to gain your favor.”

  “Those men having an heir and not needing money.”

  “Exactly.”

  Ardith shook her head in disbelief. What man would want a barren wife who could bring him little added wealth? The idea was absurd, and yet…

  What was she thinking? How could she possibly marry another man, feeling as she did about Gerard? But then affection was rarely a consideration when choosing a mate. Marriage contracts hinged on alliance and wealth. Fondness between husband and wife developed later, if at all.

  She’d put aside the hope of marriage so many years ago. When the forsaken dream occasionally plagued her, she hadn’t considered any man but Gerard as her husband.

  Given time and distance, could she like, even love a man other than Gerard? Could some other man’s kisses ignite the fire in her very core, muddle her thoughts, sap her strength? She knew only one man’s kisses, the feel of one man’s arms. Had she let her girlish fantasy of belonging to Gerard cloud her common sense?

  Bronwyn said gently, “You need not marry any man who does not appeal to you. If some special man does appeal, and Father balks at providing a dowry, we could petition Gerard for the funds.”

  Ardith groaned at the suggestion. “We will not petition Gerard for a dowry.”

  “Why ever not? He is Lenvil’s liege lord. ‘Tis not uncommon for an overlord to dower a vassal’s daughter.”

  Ardith distrusted the merry spark that suddenly brightened Bronwyn’s eyes.

  “You must admit Gerard likes you, Ardith. He did show you marked favor today. Most knights would shudder at the thought of a female even touching their precious warhorses. Yet, Gerard invited you to ride.” Bronwyn giggled. “You should have seen the horrified look on Father’s face.”

  The hinges on the door squealed as Elva entered the room. Relieved by the distraction, Ardith asked, “How is Father?”

  “Same as always after too long a ride,” Elva said. “His mood is surly and his leg pains. You would think, at his age, Harold would have more sense than to undertake such a journey.”

  “Elva, you are older than Father, yet you thought to walk the whole of the journey. Pray tell, who is the bigger fool?”

  “The signs say I must stay close to you, that you will have need of me. I had little choice but to follow. Ah, compline,” Elva said as the bells called the monks to prayer.

  Soon, a chorus of male voices blended in song. The chant rose and fell, the Latin words muffled, the prayer haunting in the crisp night air.

  “Think on it,” Bronwyn whispered to Ardith. “We will talk more when we reach Westminster.”

  On the third day out of Lenvil, the weather ceased to cooperate. Ardith urged her palfrey through the dusting of snow. She didn’t mind the snowfall, so long as the flakes fell soft and light without the company of a bitter wind.

  Ardith found she was enjoying the journey. Gerard set a quick but not grueling pace. Corwin was attentive, stopping occasionally during one of his frequent trips up and down the line. When the road was wide enough, she rode beside the litter and conversed with Bronwyn and Elva.

  Most of the time she rode ahead of the litter, behind several of Wilmont’s men-at-arms. Over their heads she could watch Gerard and Father in the lead.

  Never far from the surface of her thoughts was Br
onwyn’s wild suggestion of marriage, though Bronwyn hadn’t mentioned the scheme again after that night in the abbey.

  Corwin came up from behind. “After we stop at midday, you are to ride at the head of the line. Gerard wishes you at his side when we ride through London.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I did not question his order, but I believe he has your safety in mind.”

  “How can I be less than safe when riding into the city behind a troop of men-at-arms?”

  “I am sure he has his reasons. He always does.”

  After a light nooning, the company assembled for the last leg of the journey. Ardith found her mare waiting at the front of the line. Gerard helped her mount.

  “After we pass through the gates, stay close,” he said, then swung up on his destrier. The warhorse pranced and snorted at the presence of a mare. With strong hands and powerful thighs Gerard brought the beast under control.

  Through the afternoon she noticed changes in the countryside. The company passed through several villages. Throngs of people crowded the road, trudging through the mud to reach London’s gates before nightfall.

  Corwin called out for the company to close ranks. For the first time since leaving Lenvil, Gerard turned to look back. With a motion of his hand, he beckoned Ardith to pull up. She obeyed, urging the mare into the destrier’s shadow.

  The thick, stone wall surrounding London loomed nearly as high as treetop level. After passing through the open gate made of oak and iron, Ardith gaped at the city.

  Wood houses lined the road, one butted against the other to form a solid line. Here and there a building of stone, usually a merchant’s shop with residence on the upper floor, interrupted the row.

  Wilmont’s men-at-arms shouted warnings to clear the way. If someone didn’t move fast enough, the soldiers enforced the command with a shove. Ardith had never seen so many people in so small an area. Mingling with the aroma of bakery and tannery, the sharp tang of refuse and body waste rose from slimy puddles in the muddy road.

  Everywhere swarmed the beggars.

  Ardith kept her eyes forward until they passed through the rabble. She noted churches with squared steeples and stone houses with three stories or more. Gerard slowed the pace as they rode past St. Paul’s Cathedral, then Baynard’s Castle, giving Ardith time to gawk at the massive structures. As they passed through the western gate, leaving London behind to continue on to Westminster, Gerard again spurred the company forward.

  Ardith had little time to absorb the sights and sounds of London before they rode into Westminster. Where the Tyburn flowed into the Thames stood the imposing Westminster Hall, behind it the abbey, and off to the side the palace.

  After entrusting her mare to a stable boy, Ardith looked back toward Bronwyn. Somehow Kester had learned of their arrival. Small of stature, but big of heart, Kester greeted Bronwyn with subdued but genuine affection.

  Bronwyn immediately launched into an explanation of how her family now happened to be in Westminster.

  Ardith looked around for the instigator of the hastily wrought plan. Gerard had disappeared, and with him, Corwin.

  Later that evening, awaiting the evening meal, Ardith wondered how anyone could become indifferent to the splendor of the royal palace. Richly garbed nobles filtered into the hall from entrances guarded by soldiers from the royal garrison. Flickering light from torches and rings of candles brightened alcoves and reflected off pillars of marble.

  A table sat on the dais that stretched the breadth of the hall, awaiting the king and the high nobility. Rows of tables extended down the length. Ardith sat on a bench toward the very end of one of these tables, as befitted her lack of rank.

  “There you are. Would you like company?” Corwin asked.

  “Aye, my thanks,” Ardith said with relief. “Bronwyn told me to sit here, then went with Kester to take a higher place at the table. Can you stay with me for the meal?”

  “Aye,” Corwin replied. “Have you seen much of the palace yet?”

  “Only Bronwyn’s chambers and the passages leading here. Bronwyn promised to take me round tomorrow.”

  “I would take you myself, if I had the time. But the baron has some business to attend to and we won’t be about much.”

  At the mention of the baron, Ardith looked to the high table. Gerard stood there, his weight shifted on to one hip, arms crossed, talking to another nobly attired man.

  A woman walked up to Gerard, interrupting the discourse, laying a hand on Gerard’s forearm. She was stunning. Gowned and veiled in a wispy fabric of pale blue, she gave Gerard a blinding smile. Twin plaits of silver-blond hair hung over her breasts, ribbons of blue interwoven, in the braids. From this distance Ardith couldn’t see the color of the woman’s eyes, knew only they were light. The woman’s lips, however, were so vibrant that Ardith wondered if she used berry juice to darken their natural color.

  Ardith leaned toward Corwin. “Who speaks with Gerard?”

  “That is Charles, the earl of Warwick. He is a staunch ally of Wilmont.”

  “I was referring to the woman.”

  “Lady Diane?”

  “She is very beautiful,” Ardith prompted.

  “Very wealthy, too. Lady Diane is King Henry’s ward.”

  Corwin proceeded to name and give a brief account of those who gathered in the upper reaches of the hall. Earls and barons mingled with knights and officers of the court. Though Ardith knew that tomorrow she wouldn’t remember most of the names, she could fairly judge rank.

  “Finally, we eat,” Corwin commented.

  “Do we not wait for the king and queen?”

  Corwin shrugged. “The king must be eating elsewhere. As for the queen, she is not in residence. Several years ago she retired to Romsey Abbey and does not attend court often.”

  Ardith glanced at her father, who sat near to but below Bronwyn, and wondered what he thought of the placement.

  Then a long line of servants carried platters of food into the hall, presenting the delicacies first to the high table. Ardith noted boar and mutton, pullets and dove, many of the same meats she served at Lenvil. There were loaves of brown bread, freshly baked. She thoroughly enjoyed a confection of raisins and almonds and rare fruits.

  The hall was noisy and merry, the voices echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling. Ardith began to relax and enjoy the company of those around her. One young man, Robert of Bath, seemed determined to make her laugh.

  “Corwin, have you finished?”

  Ardith’s fingers tightened on her goblet as she recognized Gerard’s voice. The others around her stood, leaving her no choice but to acknowledge Gerard’s presence.

  Gerard’s garb denied the pattern Ardith had worked out to distinguish rank. She recognized the simple gold circlet banding his tawny hair. He wore only two rings, both of gold and rubies, finely worked but not pretentious. His dalmatica of forest-green wool was girdled with woven strips of leather.

  “Aye, my lord,” Corwin answered. “May I escort Ardith to Bronwyn before we leave?”

  Robert of Bath bowed slightly. “I would be happy to see Ardith to her sister if you are in a hurry.”

  Gerard looked Robert over as if assessing his worthiness. “If the lady will allow, I would seek the pleasure of doing so myself. Ardith?”

  As Ardith opened her mouth to say she needed no escort, Gerard held out his hand and raised an eyebrow. As he had once before, he allowed her no option but to comply or give insult.

  She placed her fingers across Gerard’s palm. The contact caused a tingle that snaked up her arm and writhed down to her toes. Gerard tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and guided her through the crowd.

  People moved aside, creating a path. Ardith noticed the deference only on the edge of awareness, her senses focused on Gerard. Not only did he look good, he smelled good. Bathed and shaved, Gerard no longer carried the odor of horse and leather. An elusive, wholly male aroma teased her nostrils, lured her to breathe deeper to savor the f
ragrance.

  Gerard didn’t linger to chat. He greeted Kester with a quick jerk of his head. Then he turned and strode away, leaving the hall at a swift pace, Corwin following.

  Bronwyn frowned,

  “Come now, dearest,” Kester chided. “You must admit it neatly done. The tongues will wag for a week.”

  “Had he chosen anyone but Ardith, I would applaud.”

  “I doubt he has done your sister any harm.”

  Ardith crossed her arms. “Would one of you tell me what you are talking about?”

  “Baron Gerard’s motive for his unusual behavior,” Bronwyn explained. “Never has he invited a woman to take his arm before the entire court. There are women in this hall who would give fortunes to be the object of the baron’s regard.”

  Ardith immediately conjured the memory of the beautiful blonde in wispy blue, a delicate hand poised on Gerard’s forearm. She bit back the jealousy.

  “Baron Gerard was performing a simple courtesy, Bronwyn. He came to the back of the hall to fetch Corwin, not me.”

  “That may be, but the court will speculate otherwise. Most will believe he has purposely rebuffed Lady Diane. Her advances tonight were quite blatant. Well, whatever Gerard’s motives, we must make use of the moment. Come, I want you to meet Sir Percival.”

  Chapter Eight

  Edward Siefeld’s mind wandered as Basil of Northbryre restated his displeasure over the bungled assassination plot.

  The events in Normandy were best forgotten. Edward had realized he’d waylaid the wrong man the instant the warrior had turned to fight. Out of the victim’s mouth spewed, not the war-cry roar for which Gerard was renowned, but the pompous, taunting slurs of Richard.

  With sword flashing, the bastard of Wilmont had dared to question Edward’s parentage, to comment on the shape and whereabouts of his sex organ, to proclaim Wilmont’s superiority over the chicken dung of the earth. Two of Edward’s men had died. Others nursed wounds. But even Richard, with his enviable prowess, couldn’t withstand the onslaught of ten men. Richard had fallen under Edward’s own sword.