by Anton, Shari
“You are not yet a trained soldier. You have no armor, no helm, no sword—”
“I do! Look!” Philip ran to Edric’s cot. From beneath, he pulled out a small, wooden practice sword. He slipped it into his girdle and strutted back toward Richard.
Aghast, Richard asked, “Where did you come by that?”
“Edric made it for me while his knee mended.”
Richard crossed his arms. “Did he also show you how to use it?”
“Some. Want to see?”
Richard nodded.
Philip pulled the sword from his girdle, set his body into a solid stance, and took several swipes at an imaginary foe. The child possessed a natural grace and mastery of movement that astounded Richard.
“Very good,” he said.
Philip tucked the sword away, a satisfied smile on his face. “Then I may come?”
“Nay.”
The smile drooped to a pout.
“I have another duty for you,” Richard said, slipping his sword into the baldric. “Three wagons sit in the bailey. All of those goods need be recorded, carted and stored, and the wagons sent back out to George. Help your mother with the recording. Connor can see to the unloading.”
“But—”
“A good lord needs to know his Latin and numbers as well as how to wield a weapon. ’Twill be good practice for you.”
Philip’s nose scrunched in distaste, but he relented. “Aye, my lord.”
Richard slipped his sword into the baldric, then picked up his conical leather helmet with the silver studs and gleaming noseguard. He doubted he would need it. Truly, he wanted George to see him fullfaced, to see displeasure and resolve.
He plunked the helmet onto Philip’s head. ’Twas too large for the little head. The boy could barely see.
“While you help with the recording, you are also to protect your mother. Should the unforeseen happen, you are to guard her with your life.”
Philip’s shoulders squared. His body puffed up. “A good lord protects the womenfolk and children.”
Richard hid a smile. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. “That he does.”
The bailey swarmed with people. Near the palisade’s gate, Stephen, Edric and his soldiers awaited him, mounted. Odin pranced at the head of the line.
Richard strode toward the wagons. Philip’s little legs pumped fast to keep up.
Lucinda stood at the tail of the head wagon, parchment in hand. Connor stood nearby, directing the men who had already begun the task of unloading the crates, sacks and kegs. Near the head of each wagon stood a guard, keeping each of George’s drivers in his seat. The work stopped as he approached.
Lucinda’s gaze slid from his face, to his mail, on down to her oddly attired son, then back up. He thought to take a moment to utter soft words of reassurance, then decided not to. She didn’t trust words. His actions would better serve his purpose.
He leaped up on the back of the head wagon. He didn’t need to call for his vassals’ attention. All looked to him. ‘Twas his first real test as their lord. They had sworn their fealty to him in return for his protection.
Richard swept a glance though the bailey, noting his soldier’s positions. All were in readiness.
He pitched his voice deep and loud so all could hear.
“The goods in these wagons represent a full year’s worth of tribute from the lands of my ward. I receive them early because George harbors the mistaken belief that I can be easily swayed from my duty as protector of the boy. George is about to learn the error of his thinking. Richard of Wilmont is not swayed from duty toward anyone over whom he holds lordship.”
He swept the crowd again, letting his promise register.
“As soon as the wagons are unloaded, send them out and shut the gate behind them. Do so quickly. I want these wagons close on my heels. Let no one leave the protection of the palisade, and let no one open the gate to any but me or ours.”
Richard jumped down beside Lucinda, signaling one of the guards to come forward. “Should you find anything amiss,” he told her, “send Theo out with a message before you release the wagons.”
“As you wish,” she said. He heard it, a slight waver to her voice. Worry.
He cupped her cheek. “You are not to fear, Lucinda. I will not allow George anywhere near you or Philip.”
“Have a care, Richard,” she said. “George is as dangerous as Basil was.”
His chest fairly swelled. She worried not for herself or her son, but for him. If he didn’t have on chain mail, he’d have pulled her into an embrace. He settled for a touch of his lips to her forehead.
“If I remember correctly, within one of these carts is a cask of wine. Draw us a flagon, for later. Be aware, woman, that I intend to sip most of it from the cup of you.”
She blushed furiously. “How can you think of…merciful heavens, go. And Godspeed.”
Chuckling, he pushed his hands into gauntlets as he crossed the bailey. He took Odin’s reins from the stable master and mounted the destrier with a flourish. A tug back, a signal of knees, brought the horse up into a rear, his front hooves flailing. The horse came down snorting, pawing at the ground, eager to be off.
“You know, Richard,” Stephen said flatly, “for one who hates being the center of attention, you are giving an outstanding performance.”
“I merely show off Odin’s training.”
“Indeed.”
“Ready?”
“Lead on, oh mighty lord.”
With a tap to Odin’s sides, he did, more sedately than he might have if his brother’s words hadn’t leaned toward sarcasm. Stephen had made his point, and was correct. Still, Richard rode more lightly, smiled more widely, just because Lucinda worried over him. Foolish, but there it was.
Once down the road, out of sight of Collinwood, he turned to Stephen. “Tell me about George.”
“He looks like Basil. Bald. Squinty gray eyes. Big belly. Slick tongue.”
Richard added, “Arrogant. Pompous. Thinks the world should bow to him simply because he is a Norman baron.”
“Just like our brother Gerard.”
“Ah, but Gerard merits those bows, deserves respect. Men of Basil and George’s ilk demand it without earning it, and woe to the man who does not bow down quick or deep enough.”
“You do not intend to bow.”
“I do not intend to get off my horse.”
They rode in silence for the rest of the way to where Stephen had instructed George to await word. As any good escort would, the men who served George hustled to grab shields and weapons the moment they spotted mounted men in chain mail.
From Stephen’s description, George was easy to pick out. Clad in an emerald dalmatica trimmed in an ornate pattern of gold thread, the rotund little man labored to get up from the ground where he’d been sitting under the shade of a tree. ‘Twas a comical, pitiful exhibition.
Richard reined in several yards in front of the forward-most of George’s soldiers. He sat silently atop Odin, forcing George to waddle over to greet him. George examined Richard’s men, frowned slightly, then set his features into a pleasant posture.
“Richard of Wilmont, we finally meet,” he said. “Stephen has told you why I come?”
“He has.”
“Good. Then come share a wine with me, and we can discuss—”
“We have naught to discuss, George. Did not Stephen tell you.that I intend to carry on as Philip’s protector? King Henry entrusted me with the duty until Philip reaches his majority.”
George waved a hand in the air, dismissing the royal edict. “The boy is blood of my blood. His holdings rest on Norman soil. Certes, even Henry will see the wisdom of what we do once ’tis done.”
“’Tis already done! You should not have bothered leaving Dover. Truly, you might have remained in Normandy. Henry is also Duke of Normandy, your sovereign. You are bound to obey his dictates the same as I.”
Richard saw a flash of anger,
quickly smothered.
“Henry holds the title of duke, but his influence is not so far-reaching in Normandy as here in England. We do not fear his wrath as you English-bound landowners do. Give the boy over to me and keep the goods I offer as payment for your trouble. Indeed, if you wish to bargain for more, I am willing to listen.”
Richard leaned forward in the saddle. “I do not accept bribes. I do not bargain away my honor.”
“Honor? Is that why you hesitate? ’Tis no obstacle. Why, should Henry ask how you came to give over the boy, tell him I took Philip from you by force and absconded with him.”
Richard glanced about at the twenty men, led by a man who could barely move. He could almost hear Henry’s reaction if told such an absurd tale. “You jest.”
“I do not. Richard, I know you did not accept the boy willingly. He was forced upon you by a man who cared nothing for your wishes, nor those of Philip’s family. What harm if we set to rights the injustice Henry has inflicted on us both?”
Richard remembered a time when, if George had put the proposition to him in just that fashion, he might have taken the man up on his offer. But no longer.
Behind him, Richard could hear the rattle of oxen-drawn wagons. A quick check over his shoulder showed him three wagons, all driven by George’s men. The account was paid in full, and he could be rid of this irritating little man.
Richard urged Odin forward a few steps, forcing George to crane his neck to look up. “I refuse your offer, George. Take your wagons and go back to Normandy. I will expect a like tribute next year. If it does not arrive, you can expect to see me again, at the threshold to your castle, with a force of Wilmont knights in my wake.”
George turned livid. “A warning, Richard of Wilmont. I do not like threats.”
“I do not threaten, George. I merely state my intentions should you decide to withhold the goods due. Not only would Gerard back me, but so would the king. I am sure Henry would be interested to know that you feel he has no influence in the dukedom.”
George waited until the wagons rolled by before saying, “Then we must see who holds the greater influence with the king—a bastard who owes all to the whim of a brother, or a Norman baron whose heritage goes back far before the Conquest.”
Richard let the insult roll off as he’d done so many times before over so many years. He may be the bastard, but he was the better man.
George intended to contest the wardship, did he?
“You would do well to take great care, George. One look at you and Henry may see Basil, remember the treachery which he lost the chance to punish. Challenge the wardship if you wish, but do so at your own peril. You may end up in the same dank room where your cousin once resided, deep in the subcrypt of White Tower.”
“Henry would not dare!”
“Would that I shared your confidence. I have known Henry to pluck a man’s eyes out for the merest offense.” Richard backed Odin. “So long as you are off my land within the hour, I care not where you go. London. Normandy. Hell. All are the same to me.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lucinda stood among the goods scattered about the bailey. The men had carried off and stored most of them, but not all. The manor was crowded, the armory squeezed tight, and the storage shed stuffed. Where Connor would put the remaining articles she didn’t know.
George had sent every item due, and each of good quality. She’d been surprised, then realized that George would send only the best from his stores. He would expect Richard to inspect the goods before handing over Philip. And her. But she knew she didn’t count in George’s plans. Only Philip.
A flagon of wine stood near her feet. She blushed each time she looked at it—wondering where from her body Richard intended to sip—so she tried not to look down.
“Philip, come down off those crates,” she said, having seen her son’s antics on the edge of her vision.
“’Tis a good vantage point, Mother. The better to see the enemy.”
“You can barely see at all with that helmet on your head. I think it time to remove it.”
“A true soldier must be prepared. I cannot be a true soldier without a helmet!”
Or a sword, or so Philip had informed her earlier when she’d suggested he lay the wooden sword aside before he tripped over it. He’d vowed to protect her with his life should the enemy attack and breach the palisade. A noble vow. But Philip was much too young to take an aggressive stance should the unthinkable transpire.
The longer Richard was gone, the more she fretted. Her stomach ached with worry, her head hurt with visions of what could happen if six men fought twenty. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if George tried some devilish tactic to capture Philip and take back his goods.
She glanced up at the wall-walk. Richard had thought of the possibility, too, or he wouldn’t have assigned so many soldiers to walk the palisade. Richard wore chain mail, as did all of the men who accompanied him. But chain mail could be pierced if done aright.
Horrible visions of wounds and blood swam through her head, yet mingled with them flashed erotic scenes of how Richard intended to drink his wine when he returned.
A cry of “Open the gates!” came as music to her ears.
Philip scrambled down from his imaginary tower, drew his sword, and took his stance not a foot in front of her.
“Philip, if the gates open, that means Richard returns.”
“But what if the enemy sneaks in right behind him? Richard entrusted me with your care, Mother. I must do my duty.”
Richard rode in at the head of the column, in the same high spirits with which he’d ridden out. He pulled Odin up short and spun the horse in a circle, scattering dust. Stephen shook his head at his brother’s antics. The men-at-arms laughed.
The people cheered. All about her they waved their arms in the air and shouted Richard’s name.
Richard cut the cheers short. Though he’d refused George’s offer and sent him on his way, he informed everyone, he wanted to ensure the man had gone before relaxing guard. With Odin held to a walk, he rode through the bailey and shouted orders to close the gates and commanded the soldiers on the wall-walk to yet keep watch.
He halted the huge destrier near a stack of crates and looked down at Philip. “Still on guard?”
“Aye, my lord, as you commanded.”
Richard dismounted. “You may stand down. Put my helmet away and help Edric out of his mail.”
“What about yours, my lord?”
Richard’s eyes wandered up to peer into hers. She could swear her heart missed a beat. “I will have another remove mine. Go.”
Philip did, without argument.
Richard handed Odin’s reins to the waiting stable master, then wandered around the piles of goods, peeking into crates, poking at sacks. A warrior inspecting his loot. His chain mail glinted with each movement, hugged his body, encased him in protective metal rings. She’d seen him so garbed on the day they’d first met, thought then that he looked the consummate warrior. He still did. Tall, strong, commanding. Lord of the manor and all he surveyed.
A hint of smug victory teased the corners of his mouth, as if he’d fought some great battle and won. Mayhap he had. Had the battle with George been fought with words, or with swords? If swords had crossed, he wore no sign of it. No blood stained his chain mail or hands.
Beneath the chain mail beat the heart of a mortal man. Along his lower ribs slashed a brutal scar, proving he wasn’t invincible.
Ten men, Stephen had said. Richard had held off ten men in the attack in Normandy, and killed or wounded several before Basil’s mercenary captain snuck under Richard’s guard. Someday, someone might get under that guard again, and she could lose him. ‘Twas what she’d dreaded all the while he’d faced George.
He stood before her, whole and unharmed. She should feel relief, but her innards refused to uncoil. Mayhap once she had him out of his armor, stripped down to bare skin, the tightness would ease.
Too, she wanted to hear
exactly what George had said, how Richard answered, and what would happen next. His people might believe the danger had passed so easily. She didn’t—she knew George.
“I gather all is in order,” he said.
“Aye.” She gave him the list.
He glanced over it, then asked, “Did you find the wine?”
Lucinda picked up the flagon for him to see.
“Is it any good?” he asked.
“One would need to taste it.”
“Oh, aye, one would surely need to taste,” he said, his voice low and suggestive, making her blush once more.
“We have a problem with storage,” she said, bringing them back to the task at hand. “Every nook within the manor, armory and shed is full.”
“Have we tarp to cover what cannot be put under roof?”
“Some, but I doubt enough.”
From across the bailey, Lucinda spotted Stephen, his chain mail disposed of, making his way toward Richard. She sat on a crate, cradling the wine. ’Twould be some time yet before she and Richard could escape to her hut.
Richard studied the list. “Mayhap there are items we could send to my other holdings,” he mused as Stephen reached his side.
“Deciding what to do with the bounty?” Stephen asked.
Richard smiled widely at his brother. “I may send you off to Wilmont so I can fill the stall your horse occupies.”
Stephen gave Richard a mock aggrieved look. “I am wounded to the core, Richard, that you would rid yourself of my good company so soon.”
They both laughed, and Lucinda couldn’t help but smile. The two brothers got along so well that they could tease in outrageous fashion. She’d never seen the like among the noble siblings she knew, who more often squabbled than shared humor.
“Actually,” Stephen said, “I plan to leave for Wilmont on the morrow. ‘Twill give you the space you crave, but not solve your problem.” Stephen wandered over to a sack and untied the rope. From within he drew several dried apricots and popped one into his mouth. “I would be willing to take a few of these off your hands. Food of the gods.”
Richard crossed his arms. “Been sampling, have you?”
“Naturally. I could not, in good conscience, allow George to send my esteemed brother inferior goods, could I? Nay, I told myself. Only the best for Richard. So I examined the contents of several sacks and crates before we left Normandy, then again when we reached England—just to ensure no spoilage had occurred during the voyage, you understand.”