by Anton, Shari
“Oh, I think I understand perfectly well the sacrifice you made for me.”
“I knew you would.” Stephen moved on to another sack. “Taste the raisins. Sweeter than honey,” he declared, handing Richard a handful. “And the almonds. Ah, Richard, wait until you taste the almonds. Magnificent!”
“Truly?” Richard asked dryly.
“Truly. Do you think we might have the pheasant for noon meal? Rare pleasant fowl, they are.”
Stephen had made his way to where she sat. She waited for him to move on, but he stood still, looking down at her.
“Lucinda, I would propose a trade,” he said gently. “My apricots for your wine.”
’Twas the first time Stephen had spoken to her without derision. His voice carried no malice. His green eyes reflected no ridicule. Shock held her tongue.
“Come, Lucinda,” he chided. “’Tis a treat I warrant you have not tasted for a very long time.”
He held out his hand, open palmed, offering the fruit.
Did he offer a truce, or at least an easing of the animosity between them? Whatever Stephen’s reasons, if only for Richard’s sake, she would accept.
“How could I refuse food from the gods?” she said, holding out the flagon and taking the apricots.
Stephen’s smile and slight nod acknowledged the exchange. The encounter left her shaken, yet in better spirits.
Stephen turned to Richard, waving the flagon. “Here is the finest of the fine, the true prize. A bold nectar to sweeten the sharpest tongue. I swear to you, Richard, if you give a flask of this wine to a priest, he will absolve you of not only your past sins but those for the remainder of your life.”
“You ask for a miracle,” Richard chided, watching Lucinda eat the apricots. He didn’t fully understand what had happened between her and Stephen, but the bemused smile on her face was due to more than tasty dried fruit.
Richard wanted nothing more than to take the wine and the woman and hie off to her hut. But Stephen’s comment about priests had nudged forth an idea, one that blossomed with the possibility of solving several problems.
“The market fair at Ely is next week, and I have not been up to see Bishop Hervey for some time. Mayhap I should pack up some of these goods and sell them. Better to turn them into coins than let them go to waste.” He took the flagon of fine wine from Stephen’s hand, glanced about the manor, noting improvements he wanted to make. “I could then hire carpenters to make repairs to the manor, and mayhap build another shed.”
“Carpenters?” Stephen asked, incredulous. “Why not masons? If you choose to make Collinwood your home, expand the palisade and build a proper stone keep. You are a man of great means now, Richard. Why not live like one?”
“A stone keep,” he said, almost to himself, envisioning the structure—an armory on the lowest level, topped by a great hall, with private quarters above the hall.
’Twould be practical. Buildings of stone lessened the threat of a devastating fire and provided greater defense against attack. A man could hold out for months against a besieging enemy in a stone keep. Not that he expected an attack in these times of peace, but one never knew when that would change.
Home. The word had always meant Wilmont, the castle where he’d been born and raised. During the past three years he’d traveled extensively among his holdings, but always stayed the longest and made the most improvements at Collinwood. Mayhap ’twas time to make Collinwood his true home.
A cry from the wall-walk interrupted his musings.
“Our men return! Open the gate!”
Within minutes, his soldiers stood before him, smiling.
“The vermin are gone, my lord,” one reported. “George moved fast, he did, like ’twas urgent he make time.”
“You followed all the way to the border?”
“Aye, my lord.”
He waved his men off. George was gone, beating a quick path on the road south, which passed through London and then on to Dover. Would George stop or keep going?
Stephen put a hand on his shoulder. “If it helps, I believe you might be right in what you told George. Henry has an extremely long memory and a hearty appetite for vengeance. I could go to London and let King Henry know your wishes on the matter. Mayhap tease his appetite by telling him in what low esteem George holds the Duke of Normandy. George will be lucky to leave England with all his limbs.”
“Mayhap I should go myself.”
“Richard?” Lucinda asked. She’d risen from the crate. He saw her confusion, sensed her fear.
Decisions and strategies would have to wait.
“Come, Lucinda, I have much to tell you,” he said, then headed for her hut, knowing she would follow. He secured the door behind them and put the wine and list on the table.
He tugged off his gauntlets. “George is a vile creature.”
“I know.”
Richard sat on the stool, his back toward Lucinda. She snapped open a fastening on his chain mail.
“George was not content with my refusal to turn Philip over to him,” Richard began his tale.
She said nothing at all while he related, nearly word for word, the heated exchange with George. Her only reactions came by way of how she undid the fastenings—slowly or quickly, or when she paused.
“You place a great deal of trust in the king,” she said, her tone questioning that trust.
“’Tis Henry’s edict. He will not revoke the wardship,” he said, getting up to shrug out of his armor.
“Mayhap I should go to London to plead Philip’s case.”
Over his dead body. He wouldn’t allow Lucinda within a hundred leagues of George!
“You will not, nor will I. There are others who can do the task with more finesse than we.” Richard opened the flagon and poured the ruby liquid into two cups. “Do you remember Kester, the advisor to whom you appealed for an audience with the king?”
She crossed her arms, her face skewed in thought. “The man who kept the list of supplicants? He made me wait beyond my turn. I was about to take him to task when he finally informed King Henry that I waited.”
“One and the same,” Richard confirmed her memory. “Kester is well versed in the ways of court, and is a great favorite of Henry’s. He is also married to Ardith’s sister, so is family. At word from Gerard, Kester will aid our cause.”
Richard took a sip of the wine. Ambrosia! His thought must have shown on his face.
“I would imagine George cried when he ordered that wine loaded onto the wagon,” she said, then took a sip from her cup, her eyes closing. “Ah, I had forgotten how truly excellent it is. ’Twould bring a grand indulgence, as Stephen said.”
“Or influence.” Richard swirled the elixir in his cup. “Bishop Hervey is an old friend of my father’s and a clergyman Henry respects. For a flask or two of this wine, he might be persuaded to write to Henry and aid our cause as well.”
“I dislike having my fate in the hands of others.”
Including him.
“Sometimes ’tis best to give a task to those best suited.” He shrugged. “Besides, George may change his mind on the matter before he reaches London.”
“I would not depend on George changing his mind.”
“Stubborn, is he?”
“As stubborn, obstinate, bullheaded and unyielding as any other man who wants something he cannot have.”
Including me? He abstained from comment on her low opinion of males. She might give him an appraisal of himself that he would rather not hear. Better to change the subject.
Richard drained his cup. When he reached for the flagon, Lucinda held out hers to be refilled, too.
“These goods that George sent,” he said, pointing to the parchment, noting the healthy swig of wine she took. “Sit and help me decide which to keep and which to take to market.”
She plopped down onto the stool. “How large a city is Ely? Are there people there who can afford luxuries?”
“A few. I should give the bishop firs
t choice of the goods, then take to the streets whatever he does not want.”
She picked up the parchment, studied the list, sipped her wine. “You should surely sell whatever spices you can do without. They will bring a pretty profit.”
And on down the list she went. Keep the pheasants, sell the chickens. Divide the barrels of salted meats or fish among his holdings. Mill the grain into flour first—because it would bring a better price—then either sell or distribute. Do not, under any circumstances, sell the wine. Give some to the bishop and his brothers if he must, but keep the rest.
By the time he’d decided what to take to market, Lucinda’s eyes had gone dreamily glazed. She removed her circlet and veil, remarking on how warm the day had become.
The woman was fluttered, pleasantly so.
“Does Ely have a large market? With tradesmen and street merchants and entertainers?” she asked wistfully.
“Aye. I think you and Philip will enjoy it.”
Surprise rounded her eyes wide. “Philip and me? Truly?”
He chuckled. “Truly. How long has it been since you have been to a market fair?”
“An eternity. Well, nearly forever. Since my youth, anyway.”
“You speak as if that were so very long ago. You are not old, Lucinda.”
She shook her head. “In years, mayhap not. But in other ways I am ancient. You see, I lost my youth the day I became Basil’s wife.”
Lucinda had said very little about her marriage. Richard knew he waded in dangerous waters and wasn’t sure he wanted to hear more. Still, he splashed more wine into her cup.
“How old were you when you married?” he asked.
“Ten and six, a proper age to wed. I thought it the most horrible day of my life. I learned soon enough that there were more horrible days to come.” She rubbed the cup between her hands, and frowned. “Basil lied to my father, you know. He told Father that he thought me lovely and lively, then he spent the weeks following our wedding beating the liveliness out of me because he thought high spirits unsuitable in a wife.”
Richard’s hand tightened on his cup, and he cursed himself for prodding her into revealing what he had no right nor wish to hear.
“Do you know what it is like to live in fear?” she asked, very softly, and not really of him. “To continually watch what you say or do because the person who holds sway over your very existence may take offense?”
Under scorn, aye, but not fear.
“Not only my words, but those of others. Once, one of the mercenaries remarked that Basil must surely enjoy bedding such a comely wench as his wife. Basil killed the mercenary, then beat me so no one else would think me comely. I lived through it just to spite him.”
By law, a man could beat his wife for whatever offense. Indeed, many thought it a man’s duty to strictly discipline both wife and children. Richard knew how a switch felt when applied to a backside. His father hadn’t spared the rod when called for. But he’d never been severely beaten, and never due to someone else’s heedless comment.
’Twas not hard to imagine why Lucinda never wanted to marry again, why she’d asked him to pay her bride price.
He reached out to touch her.
She drew back, her eyes gone hard, like violet gems. “I have caused you naught but trouble. At court, with your family, with your tenants. Now with George. How can you stand the sight of me?”
’Twas the wine talking. The old fears had come out in the open and she quailed at them, and at the touch of him. He wouldn’t have it. He wasn’t Basil. She had to know that. Richard cupped her cheeks in his hands, held her still when she tried to turn away.
“I crave the sight, the scent, the taste of you, woman. I see your raven hair and violet eyes in my dreams. The scent of you spins my senses around, but always leads me straight to you. And your taste, ah Lucinda, your taste. ’Tis of the most exotic spice or hardiest wine.”
“Stop,” she whispered. Tears threatened. She closed her eyes, but otherwise stood rigid.
“Deep inside you hides the lively girl that few have been privileged to see and fewer have appreciated. ’Tis that lively one who wraps me in her warmth and soothes me. ’Tis her summons I will always answer.”
She blinked away her tears. Her eyes shone with a deep inner light—her fire. “Words, mere words.”
If his words couldn’t soothe her, mayhap his body could. A light kiss on her brow led to a longer kiss on her temple. With gentle but firm pressure he kneaded her shoulders and stroked her back. Slowly, Lucinda relaxed. Briefly, he wondered if she responded to him or succumbed to the wine, then decided not to question.
He gathered Lucinda in his arms and held her tightly. He couldn’t change the life she’d known, or purge her memories. But he could help her make new ones, better ones, gentler ones.
Hellfire. How pompous of him to think anything that he might do to Lucinda could help. He might even do more harm than good. But damn, he had to try, or never forgive himself.
Richard lowered Lucinda to the furs and, with all that was in him, tried.
Chapter Sixteen
Her brain had swollen and threatened to burst her skull open. The sharp odor of smoke from the cooking fire mingled with the aroma of grease from the goose and churned in her stomach. Everyone spoke too loudly. A yip from one of the dogs sounded like a scream.
She probably should have stayed in her hut, on her pallet.
Lucinda took another small bite of the bread she’d torn from the trencher before shoving the rest toward Philip. The pretense wasn’t fooling Richard, or Stephen, though both had the good manners to hold their tongues.
“Are you ill?” Philip asked.
“Nay, just not hungry,” she lied, unwilling to tell Philip how far she’d succumbed to the wine’s effects.
Never again would she drink more than two cups of wine at a time. Not because of the pain or the sickness, but because her mouth ran loose. She’d told Richard things about her marriage to Basil that she’d never told anyone, horrors she’d intended to take to her grave.
The degradation, the shame, the self-loathing. She’d told him too much, let him see too deep. Merciful heaven, she’d been on the verge of telling Richard that she loved him. Even in her muddled state she’d had the good sense to hold it back.
He’d soothed her with poetic words and tender caresses. Already the man held too much sway over her senses. If ever he mocked her love for him, ’twould destroy her as no fist to her face or insult to her pride ever could.
For all he’d tried, Basil had never broken her spirit. Richard could if he knew how she yearned for his words and caresses. All he would have to do is withhold them.
Richard picked up his goblet and quaffed down his wine. The potent drink seemed to have had no effect on him. “True ambrosia,” he said.
“Agreed,” Stephen said. “Far better than what Gerard manages to obtain, and I always thought his good. Our brother will be jealous when he tastes yours. Did you get everything you wished to take to Ely loaded on the barge?”
“Aye. All is ready. All we need do on the morn is get on and shove off.”
She’d missed the loading of the barge. Richard had slipped out of her hut and handled the sorting and loading while she slept the afternoon away.
Lucinda prayed that her stomach calmed by morn, or she would suffer a miserable voyage. A misery she would gladly endure for the sake of the adventure up the river Granta. Through the marshy Fens, to Ely, to market. Far from Connor’s harsh disapproval and farther yet from George.
She didn’t take the time to identify the pungent odor that wafted under her nose and coiled in her innards. She rose gingerly.
“Your pardon,” she said quietly to Richard, then walked slowly to the manor’s door, seeking the fresh air necessary to keep down the little food she’d eaten.
Once outside, she continued to walk while the breeze of a gentle spring evening worked its magic. The sun had already dipped below treetop level, leaving in its wake
a glow of brilliant orange. A sign of a good day on the morrow.
Feeling better, her head clearing somewhat, she climbed the steep earthwork to the wall-walk. She stopped at the V between two of the spike-pointed timbers of the palisade and absorbed the beauty of the flowing, sparkling moat. The road arrowed between newly plowed fields and the tenant farmers’ thatched huts. Beyond them the forest loomed tall and thick.
She heard soft footfalls. Expecting to see one of the guards whose turn it was to walk the palisade, she glanced left to see Stephen come up beside her. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I brought you a mint leaf,” he said, holding it out. “’Twill not cure what ails you, but may give relief. Bite off a small piece and let it lie under your tongue.”
Chagrined, but grateful for any remedy, she followed his instructions. “My thanks. I gather you have fallen victim to this malady.”
He laughed lightly. “Too many times, I fear.” He glanced out over the scene she’d been admiring. “The sky promises nice weather for the first day of your journey. You should have smooth sailing—good tidings for your stomach.”
The mint washed the sourness from her mouth. What effect it would have on her stomach she had yet to find out.
Lucinda twirled the leaf in her fingers, searching for further words. She hadn’t been prepared for Stephen’s kind words earlier, and wasn’t sure how to converse with him now. “You, too, leave on the morrow.”
He nodded. “At first light. I hope to reach Bury St. Edmunds by nightfall.”
“A long journey for one day.”
“Aye, but that will allow me to reach Wilmont early on the following day. I have much to report to Gerard. So, I will say farewell to you now and make for my pallet. Have a pleasant trip, Lucinda.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait,” she said, gathering her courage. If she didn’t ask him now, she might never have another chance. She held up the leaf. “Why bring me the mint, Stephen? Up until today, you would not have given it to me, but let me suffer and hoped I suffered greatly. Today you offer me apricots and mint.”