By King's Decree

by Shari Anton

  I will not cower. With purpose, Ardith took a deep breath, raised her chin and looked about for friendlier faces. She found Gerard’s.

  Sitting at the high table, Gerard chuckled at some comment of King Henry’s. Though he was less grandly attired, Gerard’s bearing commanded an esteem rivaling the royal personage at his side. That Gerard held the king’s favor was evident, that Gerard liked his monarch was unmistakable.

  Then Gerard turned away from his king. He looked down the long row of tables to where she sat. He held her gaze entrapped for a long moment, then a small smile graced his face. He winked—winked!—then turned back to listen to Henry’s next comment.

  “I hate to leave you on your own like this, but I have duties to attend,” Corwin said. “Will you be all right for a few moments until Gerard comes to fetch you?”

  “Could I come with you?”

  “You could, but Gerard will look for you here when he is ready to leave. Best you stay put. Gerard has had a trying few days and I would not cause him undue worry.”

  Ardith lowered her voice to a whisper. “The audience with the king yesterday—more was discussed than the betrothal, was it not?”

  Corwin smiled and leaned toward her ear. “Aye.” With that cryptic affirmation, he left.

  Ardith forced herself to finish her meal, then looked about for Gerard, more than ready to seek the privacy of Wilmont’s chambers.

  “They say Gerard is bewitched,” a woman behind her accused. Ardith turned on the bench to face the female whose voice dripped with venom. Lady Diane’s gray eyes smoldered with fury. A catlike smile graced her full, sensual mouth. The deep blue of her gown and veil emphasized the silver-blond of her hair and flawless texture of her creamy skin. Diane stood stiff, lovely—and dangerous.

  Ardith stood, dipped into a curtsy and chose her words carefully.

  “I assure you, my lady, I have neither the desire nor power to affect any man’s mind, much less a man of such strength of will as Baron Gerard.”

  Diane’s laugh rang wicked. “He does have a habit of doing what he wishes when the whim strikes him, does he not? The trait heightens his appeal.”

  Ardith withstood Diane’s appraising gaze. Feature for feature the lady compared. As anger melted from Diane’s face, Ardith knew she’d been judged wanting and unworthy. With a dismissing sniff, Diane looked to the high table where Gerard took leave of King Henry.

  “And Gerard could not resist the challenge Henry presented in this betrothal. Ah, men. They will play their games.”

  A game? Was that how Gerard viewed the betrothal? Ardith didn’t think so. Gerard was quite earnest about marriage. But if Diane wished to believe otherwise, why argue?

  Diane spun back, her eyes narrowed. “Can Gerard win?”

  Wanting badly to say aye, to tell the other woman not to plan a future as Gerard’s wife, Ardith answered, “Time will tell, my lady.”

  “A bit lower, Ardith.”

  “Gerard, I cannot—”

  “You can. Now, tighten your hold. There…ah…very good.”

  Ardith wet her lips and tried to concentrate. Only to please Gerard would she suffer this lesson.

  “Let it slide in your fingers, mold to your palm. Feel the warmth, the power,” he whispered urgently.

  To her chagrin, she did. The beautiful, lethal dagger became an extension of her hand. No wonder males liked hefting blades, testing their prowess on the practice field or in the heat of battle. The false sense of immortality could prove addictive, and deadly.

  “Can we halt now?” she pleaded. He stood within her reach, feet spread, his hands motioning her forward. “Not yet. Lunge at me.”

  She gasped. “But you have no shield or armor!”

  “Pretend I am Percival, come to ravish you. Remember the cur’s leering gaze, his outstretched hand. Smite him with your blade, Ardith. Teach him not to trifle with a woman belonging to another man.”

  Ardith basked in his deepening scowl. She tried not to smile, but her mouth twitched. Gerard straightened, put his hands on his hips.

  “The thought of Percival’s hands on your body is amusing?”

  “Nay, Gerard. ‘Tis your attempt to goad me with a dullard such as Percival. You wish to run him through, not I.”

  He pondered for a moment. His scowl eased. “True,” he admitted. With a wry smile, he observed, “’Tis Lady Diane you wish to run through.”

  Ardith’s humor faded. “I have no wish to run anyone through.”

  “You had words with Diane,” he continued. “Words not to your liking. What did she say to you, Ardith?”

  Her hand tightened on the hilt of the dagger. “She seems to think I bewitched you somehow. I assured her I had not the power, nor is your will subject to beguilement.”

  “A serious charge.”

  Ardith shook her head. “I think not. She merely wonders why you would have me over her, as does the rest of the court.” Ardith put the dagger on the table. “As do I. Diane can bring you so much more.”

  “Only land in Normandy I am not sure I want. ‘Tis the devil’s own temptation, I will admit, but defending holdings in lands so far apart spreads men and supplies too thin and stretches loyalties to breaking. I would rather any lands I may gain be here in England.”

  “Then why me, Gerard? I bring you nothing,” she said, the words slipping out before she thought better of asking.

  He crossed his arms, tilted his head. “I could give you many reasons for choosing you, if you like, but looking back, I think I decided on you the day you burned your hair rescuing Kirk. I knew then you possessed that rare quality I hoped to find in a wife but feared I would not—the ability to defend and care for a child not her own, a child of low birth.”

  Ardith remembered snatching Kirk away from the fire and her anger at Belinda, then being doused with a bucket of water and the pungent smell of singed hair. She suddenly understood the odd look on Gerard’s face when he’d fingered her damaged plait She’d surprised him by rescuing the whore’s child, a bastard. And with that understanding came the memory of Corwin’s revelation about Gerard’s bastard son, Daymon.

  “I have such a son,” he continued, running a hand through his hair. “I had hoped to find a wife who would not reject him based on the circumstances of his birth. I was raised in a household where my mother barely tolerated her sons and was physically and verbally cruel to the bastard my father recognized and raised as his own. I intend to bring up Daymon as I would any legitimate child, but I would have less strife in his life than what Richard endured from my mother.” He smiled. “Then I saw you, holding Kirk, spitting fury at a whore for neglecting a bastard child. Heedless of injury to yourself, you saved that child from serious hurt. I knew then I could trust you with my son.”

  Ardith hesitated, not sure if she wanted to know about other women who’d shared intimacy with Gerard. “What of Daymon’s mother?”

  “Died in childbirth. Now, if you are finished stalling, pick up that dagger and we will continue with this lesson.”

  She picked up the dagger, still mulling his bizarre but rather endearing reasoning. “You want your wife to be a mother to Daymon?”

  “If she chose. I ask only for acceptance of his place in my household.”

  “You continually surprise me, Gerard. I know of no other man who would turn aside wealth merely to gain a nursemaid for his son.”

  “I want you for myself too, Ardith. Never doubt that. Besides, within a few days, if all goes as planned, I will gain lands near as rich as Diane’s without having to marry a shrew in the bargain. Now, place your feet as I showed you.”

  His seemingly offhanded statement about gaining lands confirmed Ardith’s suspicions. She’d sensed for days that something was afoot, and Corwin had all but verified it. Would Gerard tell her what was going on if she asked? He might, but something in his stance and expression said he’d not put this silly lesson off any longer.

  She ran her thumb over the dagger’s razor-sharp edge,
set her feet. “Of all your strange notions, Gerard, this is the oddest I know of no other man who wants a warrior for wife.”

  He crouched. “Not a warrior, Ardith, just a wife able to defend herself. Now, whenever you are ready…”

  Ardith adjusted her grip on the dagger. The metal warmed to her palm. A heady feeling of power surged to her head.

  As Ardith lunged, Gerard stepped aside and reached out. A mere twisting of her wrist sent the dagger skittering across the floor. A tug on the same wrist threw her off balance and brought her body up hard against his.

  She could feel his restrained laughter.

  “Before you attacked, you closed your eyes. One cannot hit a target one cannot see.”

  “I have no liking for this, Gerard.”

  “’Tis because you have no skill as yet Try again.”

  As the lesson wore on, Gerard pondered the wisdom of giving Ardith the dagger. She did all he asked. She held the weapon with a natural grip, easily learned the proper flex of wrist and moved with supple grace. He acknowledged her talent but mourned her lack of fervor.

  “Enough for now,” he relented.

  She slumped with relief.

  “Ardith,” he said gravely, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You must swear me an oath. Never, no matter the provocation, draw the dagger against an enemy unless you are prepared to spill blood.”

  Her head tilted, azure-blue eyes widened in question.

  “Your distaste for the weapon shows in your face, a fault you must either overcome or learn to mask. Any hesitancy on your part to put the blade to proper use gives an enemy the advantage. Now swear.”

  “Have no fear on that score. I do most heartily swear,” she stated firmly, thrusting the blade into her boot sheath.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ardith put the last of Ursula’s religious statues in the crate. Thomas would take them away; Ardith cared not to where.

  Now that she was done, she would need some new task to fill her hours, to allow her to remain in Wilmont’s chambers, away from the prying eyes that stared at her whenever she ventured out. Christmas was only a week away. Each day more people milled about the palace. Nobles from the farthest reaches of the kingdom were arriving at court to swear oaths of fealty to King Henry. Where they gathered, they talked, and watched. Some even dared to look pointedly at her belly, revealing ignorance as well as lack of delicacy.

  Well, the watchers would be disappointed a while longer. Her flow had begun this morning.

  Boisterous voices from the sitting room disturbed the peace. Ardith smiled, knowing Gerard must have returned.

  A shrill scream rent the air. Elva ran into the chamber and bolted the door.

  “We must hide,” Elva said, her eyes wide with fear. “Nay, we must flee. Quickly, gather your possessions. Nay, we will leave without them.”

  “Calm yourself, Elva. What has frightened you so?”

  “’Tis the devil’s work, I tell you. Did I not warn you of Wilmont’s evil? He is dead, but he walks, he speaks.”

  Ardith’s heart slammed into her throat. Something had happened to Gerard. But even as she panicked, she heard hearty laughter echoing down the passage. Had evil befallen Gerard, the sounds would be quite different.

  “Elva, you do not make sense.”

  “The bastard, Ardith. Oh, heaven protect us, the bastard has come back from the dead!”

  Ignoring Elva’s protest, Ardith answered the knock at the door, throwing back the bolt to admit Thomas.

  “My lady, we have guests. My lord Gerard wishes your attendance.”

  Elva’s eyes bulged. Gnarled fingers clamped Ardith’s arm. “Nay! Dear one, my only child, I beg you not to venture out.”

  Elva’s terror and Thomas’s amusement pricked Ardith’s curiosity. Thomas certainly wasn’t afraid of whoever Elva declared a spirit Ardith pried Elva’s fingers loose.

  “You may remain here, if you wish,” Ardith said. “But I cannot disobey Gerard’s summons.”

  “If you will not listen to reason, then I must protect you.” Elva waddled over to her bag, rummaged about and pulled out a small sack attached to a string. “Put this around your neck so the spirit cannot draw your soul from your body.”

  “My lady, no spirit haunts these chambers,” Thomas said.

  His statement bolstered Ardith’s decision to refuse the charm. “I have no need of your charm, Elva. Come, Thomas, we have kept the baron waiting.”

  As she neared the sitting room, Ardith recognized Gerard’s voice. An answering voice sounded familiar.

  Passing under the arch, she smiled at Stephen, Gerard’s younger brother. Stephen had matured since she’d last seen him. His shoulders seemed wider. He stood taller than she remembered. His raven-black hair, in stark contrast to Gerard’s, gleamed nearly blue in the candlelight. Only in the color of Stephen’s green eyes and the square set of his jaw did the relationship to Gerard manifest.

  Strong and fit, Stephen was certainly no spirit, and as he turned to greet her, she told him so. He laughed, but with little humor.

  “Nay, Ardith. ‘Tis not I who sends Elva screaming,” he commented, then moved aside to allow Ardith to see the last man in the room. “’Tis Richard who put the old woman to flight. His ugly visage would frighten the most stouthearted knight.”

  Richard? But Richard had…died, struck down in Normandy! Yet before her stood a man of height and breadth to rival Gerard. His hair was the same color of spun gold and his eyes the same bright green…

  Ardith felt herself pale.

  “Pray, do not faint, my lady,” Richard said, holding out a hand. “I am no spirit, though Stephen has wished me into the netherworld more than once these past weeks.”

  Hesitantly, Ardith touched Richard’s hand, finding it warm and strong. Ardith looked to Gerard for an explanation.

  “We contrived Richard’s demise for good purpose, Ardith, and his robust health must remain secret a while longer.”

  She heard the command and though she didn’t understand the need, with a mere glance Ardith gave Gerard a pledge of silence.

  Stephen made a mocking bow. “Having delivered this insufferable monk to your hands, Gerard, I take my leave. I intend to find Corwin, then an agreeable wench or two, and get blindingly drunk.”

  Gerard’s brow furrowed, but before he could speak, Richard put a cautioning hand on Gerard’s forearm. The half brothers stared at each other for a moment, then Gerard nodded his head in permission. Stephen strode hurriedly out of the chambers.

  “He may blather while in his cups,” Gerard commented.

  “I think not,” Richard countered. “Stephen may be young, and angry, but he is not foolish. And he well deserves to raise some hell.”

  Gerard lifted a questioning eyebrow. “My mother?”

  “Lady Ursula tried hard to sway Stephen’s loyalty. They fought often, sometimes viciously. Stephen bent, but did not break.” Then Richard frowned and scratched his chest. “God’s bones. This robe eats at a man’s flesh.”

  “You tire of monk’s trappings?”

  “I am weary of this robe and hiding my face with this infernal cowl. How much longer must we continue this charade?”

  “Only a few days. My informants tell me Basil is expected on the morrow, or the day after.”

  Still scratching, Richard let out a satisfied grunt.

  Gerard motioned to Thomas. “Go into my trunks and find something for Richard to wear before he rubs his hide raw.”

  Richard needed no urging to follow Thomas. Ardith watched Gerard’s half brother disappear into the lord’s bedchamber, still a bit awed by his resemblance to Gerard, and that for mysterious reasons, Gerard had gone so far as to feign Richard’s death.

  Gerard watched the questions flicker in Ardith’s eyes and decided to tell her enough of the story to ease her mind.

  He began with Richard’s wounding in Normandy, told her of his desire to strike against the man responsible, then of Henry’s command to settle the
score at court. Within the space of a few minutes, the story poured out. Gerard wondered at his candor. He hadn’t planned to tell her the whole. Men didn’t unburden ordeals to women.

  But it felt good, the telling. The great weight on his mind had eased, and Ardith not only understood his plans, but seemed to approve.

  With a sigh, Ardith rose from her chair. “I should go to Elva, assure her Richard is not a specter.” Then she tilted her head, an endearing little habit of hers when she meant to argue or question. “I assume your brothers will sleep here. Must we arrange for pallets?”

  “I doubt we will see Stephen again tonight. Richard can have my bed. I will share yours.”

  Ardith flushed. How did one tell a baron he must find another place to sleep? He misunderstood the reddened cheeks.

  “My brothers know of our betrothal, Ardith. Neither will be surprised nor care if I sleep in your bed.”

  “’Tis not your brothers’ opinions that concern me, Gerard. There is another…I cannot…oh, dear.”

  “Cannot what?”

  Ardith’s words came forth weakly. “You should not share my bed tonight. My woman’s time…”

  “Ah,” he uttered, a wealth of disappointment in the tone. Whether because they couldn’t share intimacy, or because the bleeding meant no babe abode within her body, Ardith didn’t ask, only accepted the comfort of his open arms.

  “Then we will lie quietly, keep each other warm. I have grown used to having you near when I sleep.”

  The confession eased her qualms. After a light pat on her rump, he withdrew, saying, “I must see to Richard.”

  “And I to Elva.”

  He frowned slightly. “I trust you, Ardith, but not Elva. Order her to remain in these chambers until I say otherwise.”

  Thomas burst through the doorway into the sitting room, panting, “Basil is here, my lord.”

  Gerard exchanged a brief glance with Richard before asking, “Is Edward Siefeld with him?”

  “Aye. Stephen said to tell you Basil looks harried. No doubt riding through the storm taxed him.”