By King's Decree

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By King's Decree Page 9

by Shari Anton


  Basil paced between his bed and a table stacked with scrolls and the castle steward’s accounts. Edward doubted Basil could read or tally. And since Basil’s young wife had fled to Normandy with their son, the stack had grown. But as long as Basil paid well for the often illegal and usually bloody tasks assigned to the mercenaries, Edward didn’t care how Basil kept his accounts.

  Basil’s ponderous frame finally halted in front of a ring of candles, blocking their light. Edward likened Basil to a black bear, gone old and to seed, but still dangerous. Silverthreaded, thinning hair topped Basil’s head. With his hands clasped behind his back, Basil’s paunch strained against the rich fabric of his robes, proclaiming his love of food and wine without benefit of exercise to keep his body fit.

  But then Basil had no need to hone his body. With a garrison of men-at-arms to defend the keep, and mercenaries to command at will, Basil had never held a weapon in earnest.

  “And now,” Basil was saying, “Baron Gerard does not avenge his knight or strengthen his holding. He is a coward.”

  “Perhaps the baron does not know who killed Richard, or the knight we found snooping about.”

  “He knows, Siefeld.” A smirk crossed Basil’s face. “He knows and does naught. Everart would have mounted a company of knights and challenged me by now. His son sits in his keep and plays with himself.”

  Edward thought otherwise. He’d seen Gerard fight. The man was no coward. And having battled Richard, Edward wanted nothing to do with Gerard.

  “Why is Milhurst so important to you, my lord?”

  Basil of Northbryre wasn’t in the habit of explaining his actions to inferiors. How could a mercenary understand the indignity borne by his family when, by the scratch of a clerk’s quill, ownership of land had been transferred from Northbryre to Wilmont? Only by a quirk of fate had Wilmont held Milhurst at the time of the Domesday recording.

  By all that was holy, the twenty hides of land, the manor and pasture and peasants, rightfully belonged to Northbryre. If he looked out from the north wall, he could see the edge of the demesne. A river flowed sluggishly through fields and forest, except in one spot where the banks narrowed and the water bubbled. At that churning bend stood a mill for grinding grain, an extremely valuable source of wealth.

  Through the reign of three kings, the Barons of Northbryre had fought with both sword and petition to regain the holding. Wilmont never yielded a single hide. The kings ignored pleas for justice.

  Edward’s failure to dispose of Gerard infuriated Basil, but now he deemed Gerard’s murder unnecessary. If Gerard wouldn’t fight, Milhurst was vulnerable to seizure.

  Basil watched the mercenary’s eyes light in understanding as he answered, “One year’s revenue from the mill would keep your band fed, clothed and armed for ten years. After the evening meal, we will discuss the best way to take Milhurst.”

  Gerard closed the Domesday Book. For three days he and Corwin had searched the pages and made lists of the lands belonging to Wilmont or Northbryre. As he had known all along, and had now confirmed, Wilmont rightfully owned Milhurst.

  “I had not realized Basil so land-rich,” Corwin said, putting down the quill and flexing his fingers.

  “Nor I,” Gerard admitted.

  “Do you have everything you need to present your grievance to the king?”

  “I want to know first if Basil has attacked Milhurst.”

  Corwin nodded his understanding. “Then you can claim Basil broke the king’s peace, as well as attempted to murder a member of your family.”

  Gerard sanded the ink, then rolled the parchment. “Siefeld is the key. His shock at seeing Richard may rattle his wits enough to confess all.”

  “What happens if Basil does not come to court? What if he senses a trap?”

  “Henry has summoned all the barons, demanding a pledge of loyalty at Christmas. Any vassal not presenting himself at court endangers his title and lands. Basil will be here, and with him, Edward Siefeld. Basil does not step foot from his castle without heavy guard.” With a slow smile, Gerard added, “If he does not appear, I will petition Henry to let me be the king’s punishing sword.”

  Corwin cocked his head. “I do believe you would prefer to pry Basil from his castle than to seek reprisal from Henry.”

  “An astute observation.”

  Corwin laughed, then stretched. “If we have finished, I think I will visit Ardith and find out what plagues her.”

  Gerard heard the note of concern in Corwin’s voice, and became immediately anxious about Ardith. He and Corwin had worked long hours these past days, recording the official land grants, stopping only for the evening meal—Corwin always joining Ardith at the low end of the hall, Gerard forced to observe from the high table.

  More and more he liked what he saw, was sure he’d chosen wisely. Bronwyn had taken Ardith in hand and gowned her in rich cloth, enhancing her natural beauty. She now looked more the noble heiress than Saxon peasant.

  She showed respect to those of higher rank, but without subservience in her posture or expression. Her forthright manner might surprise some of his peers, but none could find fault or take offense. Those of her own rank actually vied for a place near her at table. Her sweet smile and genuine warmth drew people like iron to lodestone.

  “All is not well with Ardith?”

  Corwin shrugged. “She is upset about something. It could be no more than the strangeness of new surroundings. She is unaccustomed to the confinement of indoors.”

  Gerard could sympathize. “Do you think she would like a brisk ride through the countryside?”

  “She would probably love it.”

  Gerard sincerely hoped so as they made their way through the palace. After depositing the lists in Wilmont’s chambers, they discussed a route Ardith might enjoy. His plans vanished when Bronwyn answered the door of her chambers, crying.

  “Oh, Corwin, I am so glad you are here.” She sighed. “You too, Baron Gerard.”

  “Why the tears?” Corwin asked.

  “’Tis Ardith. You must find her and bring her back. She is quite peeved and will not listen to reason. Elva went after her, but I fear Ardith is too swift for Elva’s old legs.”

  “What has happened?”

  “Sir Percival. I told Ardith he was coming to see her and that I was sure he was about to speak to Father. I thought she would be pleased! How was I to know she holds Percival in contempt? And now Percival is angry because Ardith was not here when he came, nor was Father. Then he left in a huff. Sir Baylor will be arriving any moment and I fear he will be angered. Oh, Corwin, this is such a muddle.”

  Gerard listened with growing confusion and alarm. “Bronwyn, where did Ardith go?”

  Bronwyn tossed her arms in the air. “How am I to know?”

  “I will find her. Corwin, stay here should Ardith return.”

  Gerard swept through the passages, setting torches to flickering in his wake. Servants scurried to get out of his way as he sought the elusive scamp. Not finding her in the great hall, he searched the kitchen, then the stable. He found her in a chapel. Much to his annoyance he also found Percival. Neither Ardith nor Percival heard him enter. They were much too involved in the chase.

  Gerard leaned against the doorjamb, crossed his arms and smiled. Hellfire, Ardith was beautiful. Her eyes fairly sparked with anger. In a froth of pale green, from sheer veil to delicate slippers, Ardith resembled a picture he’d once seen of a sea nymph. She hiked up her skirts and dashed from behind a statue of Christ toward the marble altar.

  Percival reached out to snare the fleeing nymph. He missed. Gerard snickered. An ox of a man, Percival lacked grace of footing, though on a battlefield one was glad of the man’s skill with a sword. A berserker by nature, Percival used his sword to fell men as a farmer’s scythe reaped wheat. But unlike the farmer who knows to stop at the end of the row, Percival would fight until overcome with exhaustion, even when the battle was won, unless someone managed to knock the man from his feet and let s
ense return to his head. Only once had Gerard attempted that task, and now bore a scar on his neck from the encounter.

  If Percival’s bloodlust had been running rampant, making coherent thought impossible, Gerard might have worried for Ardith’s safety. But another lust had Percival in its grip, merely tilting his judgment.

  They circled the altar once. Then Ardith, with a burst of speed, put the length of the marble slab between them.

  “Come now, my dove,” Percival cajoled. “You cannot elude me long. I only mean to have a taste of you before we wed.”

  “I am not your dove,” Ardith shot back. “Nor would I accept you if you were the last man in England!”

  Undaunted, Percival persisted. “But you do not have to accept me, my dove. Harold need only give his approval to the match. You should be friendly to me, Ardith.”

  “Father will not force me to marry a man I do not want!”

  “Come, my sweet, let me show you how well we will deal together.”

  Percival lunged, landing atop the altar, sliding forward. Ardith cried out and stepped back, right into a pillar of marble.

  “Touch one hair on Ardith’s head, Percival, and you lose a hand.” Gerard’s voice rang menacingly through the chapel.

  Ardith said a short prayer of thanks for Gerard’s timely appearance.

  Percival slid off the altar, his eyes narrowed. “Baron Gerard. What concern is this of yours?”

  “As Ardith’s liege lord, I have a say in whom she will marry. I fear, Percival, your suit is doomed to failure.”

  Percival frowned. “I was led to believe otherwise. Lady Bronwyn said—”

  Gerard waved a dismissing hand. “Do not fault Bronwyn. She did not know my mind in this. She did not know I have other plans for Ardith.”

  What other plans? Before Ardith could ask, Percival appealed. “Can we not come to some bargain, Gerard? Surely my position is equal to anyone you may choose, and we would make glorious allies, you and I.”

  Ardith suddenly realized Gerard’s reason for wanting her nearby. He had an alliance he wished to make and intended to use her as part of the bargain. Appalled, Ardith held her head high as she stepped toward the door.

  Gerard grabbed her arm as she tried to brush past “Where do you think you are going?”

  She refused to look at Gerard, but knew she must answer. “I will return to Bronwyn’s chambers.”

  “And deal with Baylor?”

  Ardith’s shoulders slumped a bit.

  “I thought not,” he commented. “Abide a moment while I rid us of Percival.”

  She didn’t want to stay; she wanted to flee. But Gerard had this annoying habit of giving orders while other people were about.

  Ardith turned to face Gerard. “As you wish, my lord.”

  His arrogant smile told her Gerard was pleased with her compliance. He released her arm.

  “Ardith’s future is decided, Percival,” Gerard stated. “Further pursuit on your part wastes your time and taxes my goodwill.”

  “’Tis as you say, Gerard. But should your plans change, I would ask that you reconsider my suit.”

  Much to Ardith’s dismay, Gerard nodded slightly.

  Percival bowed to Gerard. “Then I bid you good day,” he said, and quit the chapel.

  Gerard placed a hand on her shoulder and with the other tilted her chin. His eyes were soft with concern.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  “But he frightened you. You are trembling.”

  Ardith let him believe his false assumption. She wouldn’t tell Gerard that his touch caused the tremors. She tried very hard to remember that Gerard intended to give her to another man.

  “Should we not return, my lord? Bronwyn will be worried.”

  The pad of his thumb rubbed across her cheekbone. Ardith stepped back and Gerard’s hands fell away. He clasped his hands behind his back and his expression hardened.

  “Bronwyn has been busy. Just how many suitors has she gathered for you?”

  “Five.”

  “Five!” Gerard’s surprise and displeasure echoed through the small chapel. “Who?”

  Gerard paced as she rattled off the names. She wondered if any of the five was also Gerard’s choice. She hoped not, though Gaylord wasn’t a bad sort. At least Gaylord could make her laugh.

  “All suitable men,” Gerard commented.

  “Bronwyn chose carefully.”

  “Has any of them sought out Harold to ask for you?”

  “Not that I know of, my lord. Father is difficult to locate these days. He is so busy renewing old friendships that we rarely see him. We have not even had time to…”

  Ardith bit down on her rambling tongue.

  Gerard stopped pacing. “To what, Ardith?”

  Sensing his likely censure, Ardith thought to evade the truth until later, until Bronwyn stood by her side to share the lecture. But Gerard’s stern expression brooked no deceit “To seek his approval for Bronwyn’s scheme, ask if he could put forth a small dowry.”

  Gerard stood quietly for a moment. “You and Bronwyn set out to find a husband for you without consulting your father, without any male guidance?”

  “Kester knows.”

  “Kester! Kester allows Bronwyn too much freedom. He is an excellent knight, an intelligent adviser, but is much too lenient toward his wife!” Gerard turned on his heel and headed out of the chapel. Ardith scampered to follow.

  “Women arranging marriages,” he grumbled, and shook his head in disbelief.

  “And why not?” Ardith countered, nearly running to match his stride. “You just admitted that Bronwyn chose suitably. There would be more happy unions if women arranged marriages.”

  “Happy unions? You mean based on sentiment? Ardith, sentiment has no place in a good marriage contract.”

  “Well, maybe it should.”

  Gerard didn’t answer.

  Ardith suddenly realized they were in a section of the palace she’d never seen. “This is not the way to Bronwyn’s chambers. Where are we going?”

  “To the shoemaker. You need a new pair of boots.”

  Ardith didn’t argue, indeed, couldn’t argue. By the time they reached the shoemaker she was out of breath. Gerard ushered her inside and waved her to a stool.

  The aroma of fresh hides in the small, dark shop was almost overpowering. All manner of footwear, from rugged leather boots to dainty cloth slippers, lay strewn on the bench and overflowed onto the floor.

  While the shoemaker measured Ardith’s foot, Gerard dug through a stack of leather. He tugged a piece from the stack and held it out.

  “Do you like this?” he asked.

  Ardith reached out and stroked the soft, supple piece of doeskin. Though she didn’t understand his reason for the purchase, she knew arguing with Gerard over a pair of boots would be a waste of breath. Besides, these boots would be the most comfortable she’d ever owned.

  “Aye, my lord,” she answered honestly.

  The shoemaker rose from his kneeling position, studying the outline of her foot drawn with a stylus on a wax tablet. “A wise choice, milord,” he commented. “The hide will keep your lady’s feet warm and dry.”

  Gerard didn’t disavow the relationship as he followed the shoemaker to the bench. In low tones and with slight hand gestures, Gerard gave instructions. The shoemaker grabbed a fresh slate and made a sketch.

  “Will this do, milord?” he asked, presenting the design.

  Gerard took the stylus and made another mark. “Like this,” he said, and returned the slate.

  “Very well, milord. They should be ready tomorrow eve.”

  Gerard spun on his heel and left the shop. Ardith’s ire began to rise. The insufferable man hadn’t even looked to see if she had her slipper back on, which, she did, but still…

  “Ardith!” Gerard bellowed.

  She held her temper, thanked the shoemaker, then perversely took her time to obey the summons. She followed in Gerard�
�s wake again, as he strode through unfamiliar passages and climbed stairs. Finally, he came to a door and pushed it open. He entered the chamber, crossing to a table stacked with scrolls and holding a pitcher and goblets. He poured a draft and guzzled it down.

  Ardith warily followed, closing the door.

  She marveled at the simplicity and comfort of Gerard’s chambers. Within the sitting room stood an oak table and two high-backed chairs. She recognized the exotic rug on the floor as the rug from Gerard’s tent. A large brazier, coals glowing, kept the chill at bay. An arch to the right of the room hinted at chambers beyond.

  “Thomas?” Gerard called.

  The lad appeared from under the arch. He looked first at Ardith, then at Gerard. “My lord?”

  “Corwin is with Lady Bronwyn. Go tell them Ardith is with me and will remain here for the evening meal. Inform Corwin that he and Harold are to join us after they eat. Then make yourself scarce. I do not wish to see your face until you bring us our food.”

  Thomas quickly left.

  Gerard refilled his goblet, then poured another and set it on the table. He plopped down in one chair, motioning at Ardith to take the other.

  The wine was potent, the fire warm, but Ardith couldn’t relax, not until she had some answers.

  “You told Percival my future was decided. I should like to hear those plans, my lord.”

  “In due time. I will discuss my plans first with Harold.”

  She couldn’t help chide. “You, too, have made plans without consulting my father?”

  He smiled, set his goblet on the table. “Aye, but then, unlike Percival, I do not need Harold’s consent or permission for any action I might decide upon, do I?”

  Chagrined, Ardith silently conceded.

  “Why were you in the chapel?” he suddenly asked.

  “I sought a quiet place to think and pray for guidance.”

  “Did you find it?” he scoffed.

  “Nay. Percival interrupted too quickly.”

  “You should not have been alone. Had I not found you when I did, Percival might have harmed you.”

 

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