Lord of the Manor

by Anton, Shari

  These days it seemed that no matter what she told Philip he could or couldn’t do, Richard took an opposing stance. ’Twas irritating to the extreme. She’d managed to raise Philip to his sixth year all on her own. What did Richard know of when to allow a child’s wishes and when to say nay? Just being Philip’s protector did not make him an expert on how to raise a child.

  Adding to her vexation, Philip had declared yesterday that he wished to grow up to be just like Richard. While Richard might be a decent model, the man did have faults.

  The trouble was, she had a hard time recalling those faults whenever he stood close enough for her to take him to task. Damn the man, with just a smile he could muddle her thoughts, with a look he could tie up her tongue. With a few smooth words he could sway her into agreeing that his way might be best.

  For the past two days, Philip had ridden either in the cart with her or on Odin with Richard—both dangerous places for a small child. Thankfully, they were near journey’s end and she need no longer worry about Philip falling off one or the other and breaking open his head.

  According to Edric, Collinwood was but another hour’s march away. As much as she wanted this journey over, she dreaded the final destination.

  She knew of Collinwood from Basil’s ledgers and the steward’s reports. The holding was land-rich, capable of producing hundreds of bushels of grain. Basil had claimed the bulk of the harvest, leaving little for his vassals for their own use or to trade at market for other goods.

  The reports from Collinwood’s steward had always been bleak. Indeed, each spring report had contained an overlong list of those who had died over the winter. She’d always suspected that most of those had either starved or frozen to death.

  Basil hadn’t cared. So long as he received his due, he saw no reason to feed people more than necessary, or ensure that they were adequately sheltered.

  Philip scooted down to where he could just see over the top of the cart’s side. “Look, Mother, pigs!” he cried, pointing toward the woods.

  Two sows, ripe to give birth, dug their snouts into the earth, foraging for whatever acorns might be left over from last fall’s droppings. Not far off a young boy, a bit older than Philip, watched over them.

  A grin washed over the boy’s face. He waved vigorously, and one of the soldiers near the end of the company raised an answering arm.

  From that brief signal, Lucinda knew they must now be on Richard’s land. Curiosity piqued, she began to take note of other signs of how the holding fared.

  Wattle and daub huts dotted the countryside. Most seemed in good repair, a few boasted freshly thatched roofs. Oxen and cows grazed near the huts. Most were bony about the haunches, but that was to be expected after the winter months.

  The tenant farmers, too, looked healthy—and happy. Most of the people smiled and waved at the company. Not one of them appeared disheartened or fearful at Richard’s return.

  Lucinda slipped out of the wagon to walk alongside, the better to see what lay ahead.

  She nearly gasped when Collinwood came into view. Richard had raised a palisade out of tall, stout trees to surround the manor, a defensive measure Basil had deemed an unnecessary expense. A moat ringed the palisade. She couldn’t tell where the water came from or where it went to, but the water flowed like a stream.

  Anticipation heightened as they crossed the plank bridge that spanned the moat. She was eager to see if Richard had made as many improvements within the palisade as without.

  Huts lined the inner palisade, one a smithy’s that stood next to the stables. From another hut she caught the pungent smell of dyes, and from yet another, the aroma of leather.

  The manor stood at the far end of the bailey, and while it wasn’t about to fall down, it showed the least improvement. He hadn’t added space to what she knew was a one-room hall, where Richard would eat, sleep, hold court and rule his fief, attended by whatever soldiers and servants he deemed necessary. The thatched roof needed repair and, in places, drafts would whistle through the timbers where they needed mortaring.

  Richard had taken care of his people, placing their needs over his comforts.

  The entourage came to a halt near the manor’s door. Richard dismounted. A man came running from the stable to fetch Odin and lead the destrier off to the stable. The rest of the men began to drift off.

  “This is not a castle, like Wilmont,” Philip said, dismayed.

  She took his hand to help him jump out of the cart.

  “Not a castle, but a fair manor, and our home now.”

  Home. A lump formed in her throat. ’Twas not truly her home, but Philip’s, since he would remain here until coming of age. Her future was far less certain.

  A gray-haired, frail-bodied man came out of the manor, followed by two dogs who loped over to Richard, tails wagging fiercely, begging for the petting that Richard gladly gave them.

  It struck her as odd, then, that only the dogs greeted Richard with any enthusiasm. Save for smiles and the wave of a few hands—amid many curious looks at her and Philip—no one paid much heed to his arrival.

  ’Twas dreadfully wrong. After all Richard had done to improve their lot, these people should greet him with waving banners and full cheers.

  “Hail, Connor,” Richard said to the man, who smiled and answered too softly for Lucinda to understand the words.

  She recognized the name from the reports from Collinwood to Northbryre. Connor the steward, who’d served the holding since long before she’d married Basil. He’d been old even then, and she hadn’t expected him to have survived.

  The two men talked, their voices low. Then Richard looked over his shoulder at her and Philip. She knew the moment when Richard told Connor who they were. Connor gave a sharp gasp. The face he turned toward her reflected his horror.

  Richard waved her forward. She held tight to Philip’s hand, feeling like the biblical Daniel entering the lion’s den.

  “Lucinda, this is Connor, steward of Collinwood,” he said.

  She nodded at Connor. “I remember you, from your reports. “Tis nice to put a face to a name.”

  Connor’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “’Twas no pleasure of mine to write them, Lady Northbryre.” He glanced down at Philip. “And this would be the devil’s whelp.”

  Lucinda’s hand tightened on Philip’s.

  “His name is Philip,” Richard said, the hint of a reprimand in his tone.

  “What would you be wantin’ me to do with them, my lord?”

  Lucinda shivered. If Richard told Connor to take them behind the manor and slit their throats, the steward would have done so, gladly.

  “For now, they will reside in the manor.”

  “O’course. We must keep a close watch on them.”

  Then Connor turned heel and stamped off toward the manor.

  “Give him time and patience,” Richard said. “He is old and sore used, and will be the last to come around.”

  Time and patience. The phrase rang empty. She might as well hope for a miracle.

  The last soul in the manor still awake, Richard sat on a stool near the banked central fire pit, a mug of ale in hand and a keg not far off.

  A loud snap from the pit brought one of the dogs’ heads up, and from on a beam above, the flap of his falcon’s wings. Connor snored on his pallet. Edric, not yet ready to give up his duty as their personal guard, slept within reach of Lucinda and Philip.

  The boy had curled up on the wolf pelt he now considered his. Lucinda slept near him, stretched out on a bear pelt.

  The day could have been worse. So far, no one had thrown anything at Lucinda and Philip, or threatened to do them bodily harm. For the most part, his vassals had simply steered clear of Collinwood’s newest residents.

  Philip’s normal exuberance had lasted throughout the tour of the bailey, and flared bright in the stables. Richard now knew what to do if the boy’s spirits ever needed a lift—sit him on a horse. Any horse.

  Lucinda. The woman was a fight
er, he would give her that. The spark in her eyes had faded, but she would rally, and he hoped she would do it soon. He didn’t think he could bear to watch her for too many days, hide behind the indifferent, aloof mask she’d donned after her first meeting with Connor.

  As if his thoughts had called out to her, she stirred. Her delicate hand pushed aside the wool coverlet Slowly, she rose on her elbow, looking around, disoriented.

  Sleep-sheened eyes spotted him.

  He thought she would lie back down and go back to sleep. She wrapped the coverlet around herself and gingerly rose, then padded toward him, her night rail brushing the tops of her bare feet.

  ’Twas more beauty and sensual grace than a man should have to look upon late at night after drinking too much ale—unless the woman was his and available for the taking.

  Lucinda belonged to no man, and more and more, Richard was beginning to forget to whom she had once belonged. It didn’t seem right that a woman of Lucinda’s beauty should not belong to someone, or that a man who’d been dead for three years should affect his feelings now.

  Hellfire. He’d met her less than a fortnight ago, and she’d already managed to turn his mind upside down and sideways.

  “May I?” she asked, waving a hand at the ale keg.

  “You need not ask for food or drink. Whatever is here is yours for the taking.”

  She took hold of the dipper and pulled it upward, then sipped from the bowl. “Even your ale has a fine taste, Richard. After all I saw today, I wonder if anything or anyone at Collinwood is not exemplary.”

  Collinwood’s lord was far from perfect.

  “You approve of what I have done here?”

  “I had never seen Collinwood, but I know what life must have been like for these people. You have lifted them up out of hell. How could I not approve?”

  Richard remembered the first time he’d seen the holding, the buildings in shambles, the people near skeletons. “This is one of the finest fiefs in the kingdom. I never understood how Basil could let it—bah, I have no wish to dredge up the past tonight.”

  She let the dipper sink back into the keg. “The holding flourishes because its present lord has scruples, which its former lord did not possess. You should be very proud that your vassals are both healthy and happy.”

  “All but one or two.”

  She raised a surprised eyebrow. “Truly?”

  “You and Philip. Life will not be easy for you here.”

  “We will survive.”

  She would, but that wasn’t satisfactory. Richard put his mug down on the rush-covered floor, disturbing the rosemary sprinkled within to keep the rushes sweet-smelling. The aroma of the herb, however, couldn’t overcome the heady scent of the woman who stood sleepily before him.

  He got up, fully aware that he might regret his actions on the morn. Mayhap she’d cast a spell over him, or more likely he’d drunk just enough ale to muddle his mind. But he could no more keep his hands off Lucinda than he could stop breathing.

  Richard cupped her face in his hands. To his amazement, she didn’t pull back, just looked confused.

  “Smile, Lucinda.”

  “Smile? Whatever for?”

  “Because I have not seen you smile today and I wish to see it again.”

  “’Tis the ale speaking.”

  “Mayhap, but ’tis still my wish.”

  The corners of her mouth tilted upward, slightly.

  “You can do better,” he said.

  Her full, lush mouth widened. She might even be laughing at him, but damn, he didn’t care. Kissing Lucinda was a compulsion he chose not to fight.

  His lips met hers gently, urging a response he didn’t think he would get. Her hands came up to clutch his wrists, but not to push him away.

  Then she was in his arms, pressed fully against him, fire burning in her deepening, demanding kiss.

  The desire he’d doused with calm reason since the day they’d met flared into an inferno that burned hot and bright.

  Too hot, too long, for a woman whom he sensed would tumble down onto the rushes with him with little urging.

  Too fast. Too soon.

  He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his thoughts still muddled but becoming clearer.

  “Mayhap the ale speaks too loudly,” he said. “’Twould be wise if we refrained.”

  Her violet eyes glittered. And for just a moment, he thought he saw regret.

  “Mayhap,” she said softly, and padded back to her pallet.

  Chapter Ten

  Lucinda bent down and tugged at Philip’s coverlet “Up with you or we will be late, and you know how Connor blusters when anyone is late for meals.”

  Philip groaned but stirred, rustling the straw mat beneath his wolf pelt.

  Satisfied that he woke, Lucinda looked around what must be the tidiest hut in the kingdom; she’d cleaned it often enough for lack of other chores to fill her days. Timber framing supported walls of wattle and daub, covered by a thatched roof. The hut had been her home for the past four days.

  Between her and Philip’s pallets stood a chest, old but sturdy, which now held their garments. A small table and stool took up much of the remaining space. The hut was small but, according to Connor, the largest that could be built with materials currently on hand.

  Connor, who’d become the bane of her existence, had balked at building her hut, had even voiced the opinion that she and Philip could find sleeping space in the stable. Thankfully, Richard hadn’t felt the same way. Aye, Richard wanted her out of the manor at night, but not so badly that he would make her bed down with the horses.

  She still flushed whenever she remembered how wantonly she’d kissed Richard, which no doubt led to his ordering her hut built. He’d initiated the kiss, a gentle touching of lips. Engulfed in bliss so foreign to her experience, she’d lost her head and pressed for more. If Richard hadn’t come to his senses, she’d have given herself to him right there on the manor floor.

  Lord help her, she wished Richard possessed less sense. For all the problems between them, she wished to know Richard as a woman knows a man. Unfortunately, their kiss must have told him so, because now he avoided her.

  As it was, they still saw each other several times a day, mostly at meals. Everyone who dwelled within the palisade took their meals in the manor, for Richard allowed no fires other than the manor’s pit, except for the blacksmith’s forge. A wise move. A stray spark could burn the whole place down.

  Philip crawled out of his pallet and donned a new tunic—a gift from Richard.

  “The sun is barely up,” Philip grumbled.

  “’Twill be a fine spring day,” she said, pushing aside useless romantic thoughts about Richard to concentrate on the task at hand. She possessed two strong arms, deft hands, and an agile brain. Today she would demand that Connor assign her some chore, to help earn her keep—and to keep from going witless.

  Philip hadn’t known a moment’s boredom. He spent his days with Edric, or with Richard, learning about soldiering and the proper running of a manor. Her inactivity, however, would shortly drive her to distraction. But trying to convince Connor was like arguing with a dead tree. Once more, she would try, but if Connor turned his back on her again, she would take the problem to Richard.

  She hurried her sleepy-eyed son out of the hut and across the bailey. In the manor, she took her place at the high end of the row of trestle tables where everyone ate together, including Richard. No dais graced the hall at Collinwood. Richard sat on a stool at the end of the table, with everyone else, in order of rank, on benches stretched down the sides.

  Lucinda sat immediately to his left hand, across from Connor at Richard’s right Richard’s acknowledgement of her Norman heritage and noble rank irked Connor to no end.

  The placement sometimes irked her, too. Far too often her food went neglected while she noticed little things about Richard. Like the way his fingers wrapped around a goblet. Or when he licked gravy from a corner of his mouth. Or watching his lips
move as he spoke, and longing for another kiss.

  The subject of her musings took his seat and broke a large chunk of bread from the loaf sitting in front of him. Lucinda waited for Connor to take his portion before breaking the rest in half for herself and Philip. No priest resided at Collinwood, and no one seemed inclined to say grace, so they ate without a blessing.

  As usual, Connor launched into a list of the happenings about the manor that day. The rushes needed changing. The squeaking hinge on the door would be replaced. Edric intended to begin teaching Philip the art of polishing chain mail. The noon’s main course—fish.

  “We are also in need of firewood, my lord,” Connor said. “I assigned a few of the soldiers the task of gathering it from the forest to the south.”

  Richard took a sip of ale from his cup, washing down the bread. “I thought we had an ample supply last I looked.”

  “We did, but we are now short. We used some of the bigger logs to build the frame for Lady Northbryre’s hut.”

  Lucinda hated the name Connor had branded her with upon her arrival. Not only was it improper, but served to remind everyone of her past. As Connor well knew.

  She’d planned to challenge Connor today, not quite this way, but took the opportunity presented.

  “I am not Lady Northbryre, Connor,” she said, causing his head to turn sharply to look at her. “Since Gerard of Wilmont now holds the property, only his wife may use the title, if she chooses. Properly, you should call me ‘my lady’ or, since I give my consent, you may use my name. Lucinda.”

  He nearly choked on his rising anger, and she carefully masked any reaction. She’d coped with the explosive temper of a man far more dangerous than Connor. Inside she might quake, but she refused to show Connor any sign of anxiety.

  She turned her attention from Connor to Richard. Seeing no anger, only mild surprise that she took Connor to task, she forged ahead.

  “Since Connor seems to feel that building my hut has caused a lack of firewood, I offer to help gather more.”