Lord of the Manor

by Anton, Shari

  “’Tis hoped for, my lord,” she answered, her fears fading. Surely, if Richard had recognized her he would have said so by now, not rambled on about a skittish mule. Perhaps she and Philip would escape this encounter unscathed.

  Deftly, Richard nudged his destrier to the side, allowing the soldier who led the mule to pass by him. With the rope again in her hand, Lucinda gave the soldier a gracious smile, feeling ever more confident that she worried for naught.

  “Philip,” Richard called out, “have a care not to sneeze loudly again.”

  Lucinda held tight to Philip’s shoulders as he turned around to answer, “I shall try, my lord.” Then he tilted his head up to ask her, “Must I get on that beast again? My arse is well sore!”

  Richard’s smile widened. The soldiers about her chuckled.

  She strove for a light tone. “Mayhap I will ride and let you walk, for a while.”

  Richard gathered up his horse’s reins. “I wish you both a pleasant journey,” he said, but before he could turn his horse, the old, grizzled soldier put a hand on Richard’s leg.

  “Beg pardon, my lord,” the soldier said.

  “What is it, Edric?” Richard asked.

  Edric rubbed at his gray beard. “Whilst you chased the boy, the woman took a hard twist to her foot I do not think she can walk. If the boy walks, they will not get to the next village afore nightfall. ’Tain’t room on the beast for the two of them and the packs. Spending the night on the road would be dangerous.”

  Richard looked back at her, questioning.

  Lucinda quickly said, “’Tis a small hurt, my lord. Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

  With a sigh of impatience, the first he’d displayed, Richard dismounted and tossed the reins to Edric.

  Lucinda strove to tamp down the panic that threatened to overpower her as Richard of Wilmont came nearer. He halted a few feet away from her and crossed his muscled arms across the wide expanse of his chest.

  “Edric is a well-seasoned soldier who has suffered many an injury. If he believes that your ankle will not support you, I will not doubt him. I offer you a seat in a wagon and the protection of our company,” he said.

  “A kind gesture, my lord, but not necessary.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Well enough,” she lied. Putting weight on her ankle was like dipping it into fire.

  Richard tilted his head. “Well enough to reach the safety of the next village before nightfall?”

  “That would depend on how many leagues to the village.”

  “Too many if you cannot keep the mule moving at a quick pace.” He glanced down at her hands. “Your hands bleed. Can you hold the rope securely?”

  She’d forgotten her hands. Not until he’d called her attention to them did she notice the blood smeared on Philip’s tunic.

  “Mother?” Philip said, concerned.

  “My hands are but lightly scraped. Truly, my lord, there is no need—”

  “Walk to me,” he ordered.

  His tone brooked no disobedience. About her stood a troop of men, Wilmont soldiers, waiting to see if she would defy their lord. Richard was giving her no choice but to accept his challenge.

  Six steps would bring her to within Richard’s reach. Surely she could complete three or four. The sooner done, the sooner Richard of Wilmont would be on his way.

  She handed the rope to Philip and gently pushed her son aside. The first steps were tolerable, the third step nearly brought her to her knees. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her leg trembled. She stood still.

  Lucinda expected to see triumph in Richard’s expression. To her surprise, she saw admiration.

  “A gallant effort, Lucinda,” he said, then signaled the wagon’s driver to come forward.

  She couldn’t accept his offer. The longer she stayed in his company, the more risk was involved. She began to utter a protest. He stopped her with a forefinger to her lips. A soft touch. A spark of heat. A devastatingly effective maneuver that stole her words. Shocked, she stood still, unable to move even if she could have.

  He frowned, looking intently at his finger on her parted lips. Very slowly, gently, he stroked to the corner of her mouth and across her cheek before he blinked and drew his hand back.

  “I understand your reluctance to travel with a troop of men,” he said. “I swear on my honor that you need not fear for yourself or your son while in our company. We will see you safely to wherever it is you wish to go.”

  He thought she feared as any woman would fear. Richard didn’t fully understand at all, but she no longer had the strength to argue, didn’t possess the physical ability to fight. Her whole body shook from the effort of having walked three measly steps. It took a fair amount of effort to hold back her tears. She nodded her surrender.

  He offered his arm for support. Chain mail met her touch, but beneath the cold metal lay strength and warmth. She was careful to keep her bloody palms from wetting his hauberk.

  “Philip, bring that beast over here and we will tie him to the wagon,” Richard ordered.

  The wagon driver pulled up within inches of where they stood. Without warning, Richard’s hands encircled her waist. Instinctively, she grasped his shoulders. He lifted her up, effortlessly, until she hovered a few inches from the ground.

  She stared straight into his green eyes, his wondrous green eyes. Flecks of gold shimmered within their depths.

  He set her down on the wagon bed.

  “Such beautiful eyes,” he said. “I do not think I have ever seen their like before. Like violets they are.”

  Only a true dolt would respond to such flattery, but she’d been deprived of compliments for so long her vanity got the best of her.

  “Not so very uncommon, my lord.”

  “Rarer than you might imagine.”

  Richard seemed to realize at the same time she did that they hadn’t let go of one another and were staring into each other’s eyes like moonstruck lovers. He let go and backed a step.

  He crossed his arms again and looked down at her feet dangling over the wagon bed. “Do you think it broken?”

  “Not likely,” she answered truthfully. “Had it broke, I could not walk on it at all.”

  “Should we bind it?”

  “Nay. My boot holds it fast. If I took my boot off, I might not get it back on my foot again.”

  He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Philip and that mule do not get on well.”

  Poor Philip. He pulled on the lead rope with all of his might but the mule wouldn’t budge. Lucinda’s frustration bubbled up.

  “More than once I have taken a switch to the beast to get him to move.”

  “You have come far with him?”

  “Too many leagues.”

  “How many yet to go?”

  She didn’t know, because she didn’t know where she would call her journey to a halt.

  “Too many. I thank you for your kindness, my lord. Mayhap you could stop at the next abbey. I could beg hospitality from the monks for a few days while my ankle mends, then Philip and I can be on our way again.”

  Richard nodded. “We shall be in Westminster day after next I know the abbot well. You will receive good care there.” Then he turned and headed toward Philip.

  The abbey at Westminster? She hadn’t known she was that close!

  Granted, she’d thought to go to Westminster, but now that it was close at hand, she must make her decision. The thought of going to court still didn’t fully appeal, but her options were running out.

  Nor did she wish to spend two days in the company of Richard of Wilmont. Thus far, he’d been kind to a woman he thought a peasant, but that would change if he learned she was Basil’s widow.

  For all Basil had hated every Wilmont male, Lucinda had to admire Richard. Merciful heaven, she was even physically attracted to the man. How very odd. This man who was her enemy had touched her, but her stomach hadn’t churned in revulsion.

  Who is she? Richard wondered again, as he
had for most of the day and into the evening.

  Standing in the open flap of his tent, he could see Lucinda sitting just outside the brightness of the campfire, with her back against a tree and her foot propped on a rolled blanket. Philip sat nearby, as did Edric, the captain of his guard, who seemed to have appointed himself the protector of the woman and boy.

  Lucinda and Philip weren’t peasants, though they were garbed in peasant clothing. He’d seen through the ruse within moments of rescuing Philip. Hoping to calm the boy, Richard had spoken comforting words to Philip in peasant English. Philip had responded in kind, but as he’d become more excited while relating his tale, the faint lilt of Norman French became more pronounced. The longer the boy talked, the more Richard became convinced that the boy’s first language wasn’t English.

  The names Lucinda and Philip weren’t common names among peasants. If he were right, if these two had ties to Norman nobility, then why were they on the road with no escort, disguised as peasants? Where was her husband, the boy’s father? Or their male guardian?

  ‘Twas really none of his affair. Lucinda must have her reasons, and he had no wish to become involved in her life. His offer of an escort was simply a kindness extended to a woman in need, no more.

  A beautiful woman.

  Raven hair, woven into a single plait, hung low and shining against her gray gown. Her features were sharp, but not harsh. The tilt of her chin and cool set of her mouth warned a man to expect no warmth from her, but her husky, honey-warm voice beckoned a man to search for her heat.

  He shouldn’t have touched her. Then he wouldn’t know that her lips were warm, her cheek soft, her waist slim, her hands gentle. He’d been on his horse at the head of the company, she in the wagon at the very end of the line, and he’d been achingly aware of her the whole time. He wouldn’t now want her if he hadn’t touched her.

  Richard took a deep breath and glanced about the campsite. His men had eaten and would soon make up their sleeping pallets or take their turn at guard duty. Tomorrow would bring another long day on the road. If he hoped to join Stephen at court day after next, his company could waste no time.

  In typical fashion, Stephen had rushed from Wilmont with little preparation, leaving Richard to haul chests of clothing, extra food and drink and Wilmont’s gifts to the princess. Likely, Stephen now enjoyed the luxury and freedom of having Wilmont’s chambers in Westminster Palace all to himself. Richard didn’t doubt that Stephen had found a willing wench—or noble lady—to share his bed.

  Richard looked at Lucinda. In his place, Stephen wouldn’t hesitate to invite Lucinda into his tent to share his pallet of furs. He wouldn’t care what his men thought, or that she had a small son curled up at her side, or that her ankle pained her. Or that she might have a husband. Stephen would note only that his loins grew heavy with desire, and that the woman seemed to share the pull of physical attraction.

  So why do I hesitate?

  Lucinda looked at him then. She studied him, her violet eyes drawing him in, inviting him to linger and learn her secrets.

  If he learned her secrets, she might learn his.

  He acknowledged her with a slight nod, then stepped back and closed the tent flap.

  Chapter Three

  “He is truly wondrous,” Philip said.

  “That he is,” Richard agreed, giving a silver disk on the horse’s bridle a last buff with the sleeve of his silver-trimmed, black silk tunic. On this last morning of his journey, he’d made a considerable effort to ensure his entrance into Westminster would be impressive.

  Satisfied with the horse’s appearance, and his own, Richard gave the destrier a pat on his gleaming black neck.

  “Has he a name?” Philip asked.

  “Odin.”

  When another question didn’t immediately follow, Richard looked down. Philip stood unusually still for a boy of his age, his hands clasped behind his back, his bottom lip sucked in, pure awe on his face. The boy yearned to touch the horse, just as Richard, as a child of about the same age, had once stood beside his father admiring one of the beasts, wishing the same wish, wary of getting too near the horse’s hooves.

  Richard put his hands out in invitation. The boy hesitated but couldn’t resist. Philip put one arm around Richard’s neck and with the other reached out to stroke Odin’s neck. Sheer delight beamed from Philip’s face.

  “Odin is an odd name,” Philip said.

  “Have you never heard of Odin, the Viking god of war?”.

  Philip’s small brow scrunched. “There is another god besides God?”

  “So the Vikings believe. They worship many gods.”

  “Who are Vikings?”

  Every Norman’s heritage was ripe with Viking ancestry. Before the Normans had conquered England, the Vikings had made many raids on English soil. Every noble or peasant child should have heard of the Vikings.

  “The Vikings are warriors who believe the only honorable death is to die in battle, so they can go to Valhalla, their vision of heaven.”

  Philip absorbed that piece of information, then asked, “You are a warrior?”

  “Aye.”

  “Are you a Viking?”

  “I have some Viking blood in my veins.”

  As do you, probably more than 1, Richard wanted to add, but didn’t

  Over the past two days he’d watched Lucinda and Philip closely and become more convinced that both were Norman. For some reason, Lucinda wanted all and sundry to believe that she and her son were English. It seemed foolish to Richard, for anyone who took the time to study them would see through the ruse just as he had.

  Lucinda was also overprotective of Philip. She rarely allowed the boy to wander far from her side, and never out of her sight. Richard looked around and, as if his thoughts had called her, Lucinda was walking toward him. Her ankle had improved, though she yet walked gingerly and with a limp.

  “Do you wish to die in battle?” Philip asked, his concern over the possibility seeping into the question.

  Richard had once come within a gnat’s breath of dying from a battle wound, and preferred not to repeat the experience.

  “’Tis my wish to live a very long life and die peacefully in my bed,” he assured the boy.

  Philip laid his head on Richard’s shoulder and whispered, “That is how Oscar and Hetty died. They got sick and went to sleep and never woke up.”

  A multitude of questions begged answers, but the boy didn’t need questions now. He needed comfort.

  Richard wasn’t sure how to react to Philip’s sorrow, how to comfort a hurt of the heart. True, he’d once held Daymon to stop the flow of tears when his nephew had scraped both hands and knees during a nasty fall. Richard knew he would do almost anything for Daymon.

  The bond Richard had formed with Daymon was a natural one. Bastards both—English and Norman both—Richard had tried to prepare his nephew to one day cope with the attitudes of people outside of the family circle. Thankfully, Daymon’s life would be less harsh than Richard’s had been, simply because Ardith accepted Daymon as Gerard’s son, and loved and nurtured him as she did her own son.

  Philip and Daymon were of an age, and a hurt was a hurt.

  Richard tightened his hold on Philip and lowered his head until his cheek touched Philip’s brow.

  What could he say to a boy who had obviously lost two people whom he cared about, Hetty and Oscar, to sickness? Recently? Were they friends, perhaps? Or a brother and sister? Maybe that was why Lucinda fairly hovered over the child. Maybe that was why these two were on the road, escaping a sickness that had ravaged their family.

  Richard groped for words. “Their death made you sad,” he finally commented.

  Philip nodded.

  “Does it help to know that Oscar and Hetty are now in a better place, in heaven with God?”

  “Nay.”

  The boy’s honesty echoed Richard’s beliefs. In truth, he’d never been able to take comfort in religion. Oh, he believed in God and Christ, but Ursu
la had always made sure that he knew that God had no use for bastards.

  Lucinda finally made her way to where he stood.

  “Philip, you must not disturb his lordship this morn. He has preparations to see to before we leave,” she said in that lyrical, husky voice that invoked visions of disheveled fur coverlets and the heady scent of coupling.

  Philip stiffened at his mother’s rebuke. Richard put a hand on the boy’s back, holding the child still.

  “He does not disturb me,” Richard told her. “When Philip came to admire the horse, ‘twas my notion to pick him up so he could touch Odin.”

  She glanced at the horse. “I see.”

  Lucinda was nervous, upset. Richard saw no outward sign of it. She neither fussed with her clothing nor wrung her hands. Her voice didn’t shake. Somehow, though, he knew without a doubt that she didn’t like Philip’s nearness to the horse, liked even less that Philip was in Richard’s arms.

  “You are generous, my lord, with your time and patience for a small boy,” she said. “I imagine Philip asked all manner of questions.”

  “Not so many,” Richard said.

  “That is good,” she said, her relief clear. “Edric tells me we are almost ready to leave. Philip and I must take our place in the wagon.” Then she took a slightly deeper breath. “I understand your wagon driver will take Philip and me to Westminster Abbey. Since we shall probably not see you again, my lord, I would give you my thanks now for your assistance.”

  The arrangement made sense. He simply didn’t like it, though he couldn’t for the life of him explain why.

  “I had thought to ask Philip if he wished to ride with me for a while on Odin,” he heard himself say, though he hadn’t thought of asking Philip any such thing. “What say you, lad?”

  Philip’s head popped up. “Oh, aye!” he said, then turned to ask Lucinda, “May I, Mother? May I please?”

  Sensing that Lucinda was about to withhold permission, Richard tossed Philip up into the saddle.

  “Of course, you may,” he said. “Your mother will be glad for some peace this fine morn, will you not, Lucinda?”