by Anton, Shari
“Nay. Among other things, however, he does advise me—” Richard glanced up at Connor, who yet hovered nearby. “Give the messenger food and drink. I will have a message for him anon.”
Miffed, Connor did as bid. Lucinda couldn’t blame Connor for his pique. Once, Richard would have discussed with Connor whatever he was now about to impart to her. Furthering the injury, Richard kept silent until Connor left the manor.
“Lucinda, did Stephen say anything to you about our…liaison?”
So that was what Gerard advised against.
“Stephen must have heard about it shortly after he arrived the first time he was here.” She told him about both conversations, about Stephen’s initial concerns, and then his remarks when giving her the mint.
“It took me a while to sort out what he meant,” she said of Stephen’s last statements. “I’m sure he gave Gerard the impression that I had something to do with your increased confidence as lord of Collinwood. We both know that is not true, but Stephen left before I could tell him that I deserved no credit, that your confidence was there all along and had just come to the fore.”
Richard put the letter aside, knowing she deserved more credit than she knew. He was a better lord because he felt better about himself as a man. His pride no longer required that he prove his worth to the nobles, only to himself.
Stephen had taken one afternoon to see the difference, and correctly place the cause of it squarely on Lucinda’s lovely shoulders.
He’d done a good job in some areas, but an arsepoor one in others, especially with his vassals. He’d let Edric stand as a model for the soldiers, let his other vassals continue to look to Connor for guidance. He’d thought he needed to win their loyalty—the loyalty and respect they might have given him all along if he’d let them.
Not until he’d watched Lucinda struggle to earn simple respect did he realize how much respect he’d already earned.
And therein lay Gerard’s concern. Gerard worried that Richard had fallen too far within the influence of the widow of Basil of Northbryre, hated enemy of Wilmont. Gerard had gone so far as to suggest that Richard should expect treachery from so beautiful and cunning a woman. After all, did not women use the wiles of their sex to bring a man low?
This from a man who so doted on his wife out of pure love and devotion that anyone who didn’t know better would swear Gerard bewitched, under some spell of Ardith’s that didn’t allow him to treat her otherwise.
’Twas Gerard’s warning that Lucinda might somehow be in league with George, in some scheme to steal away everything that Richard had fought so hard to gain, that caused his anger to flare.
Ludicrous. How dare Gerard accuse a woman he didn’t know, didn’t want to know, of such a low purpose? Obviously, something Stephen had told Gerard had planted the seed of suspicion. Richard wished he knew what.
“Why did you not tell me about your talks with Stephen before now?” he asked Lucinda.
“I thought Stephen would surely come to his senses before he reached Wilmont.” She pointed to the letter. “I gather that Stephen overstated the depth of our liaison.”
Stephen couldn’t overstate because he had no idea how deep Richard’s feelings ran. It hurt that Lucinda didn’t either. But she wouldn’t, because he hadn’t told her, and never would. She wanted nothing to do with a permanent relationship with a man again, and he couldn’t blame her. When the time came, he would pay the fee necessary for her to avoid another marriage, and set her free.
If she chose to remain at Collinwood, for Philip’s sake, so be it. If she chose to go, he would help her—and miss her from the depths of his soul.
’Twas the least he could do for the woman who’d given him so much—so much more than a tumble in the furs when his desire for her became unbearable, so much more than a warm smile and sympathetic ear when his spirit needed reviving. She’d shown him how to love, even though she didn’t want his.
“What will you tell Gerard?” she asked.
“That he should send Stephen on his way to the Lady Carolyn.”
Richard rose to fetch quill and parchment.
Lucinda rose to return to her work. She glanced once more at the letter. She didn’t mean to read any of it, but ‘twas impossible not to, given Gerard’s clear script.
Gerard’s suspicions and warnings about the conniving widow of Wilmont’s most hated enemy fairly leaped off the page. Richard had made light of the letter’s contents, but Gerard was his beloved brother and liege lord. How could Richard read Gerard’s words and not give them credence?
If Richard ignored them, or refuted them, Gerard would be angry, and may force Richard into the untenable situation of defending Lucinda. ‘Twould cause a rift between them, no matter who won.
What Gerard had given, could Gerard also take away?
Two days later, Richard stared out over the palisade in disbelief. Within sight marched an army of about fifty men, under George’s command. Villeins from the outlying farms were racing to make the safety of the palisade before the gates closed.
Within the hour, Collinwood would be under siege.
Impossible. Incredible. But George had returned, disobeying the king’s command, obviously intending to take Philip by force. With too few men.
“Mercenaries.” Edric spat out the word, an unnecessary explanation of where George’s army had come from. Men who fought for whatever lord paid their fee. Richard hoped the men had asked a high price, and already spent it, because many of them were about to die.
“The man has lost whatever wits God gave him,” Richard declared, then turned his attention to the defenses. “Have the men fill whatever containers they can get their hands on with water from the moat. I want as much within the palisade as we can get before we are forced to close the gate.”
Edric obeyed immediately. ’Twas no secret that the manor’s greatest enemy was fire, and that George would use the weapon to force a surrender.
“My lord,” Connor said, climbing the bank to the palisade. “The tenants worry for their farms and cattle and possessions. Do you truly intend to fight?”
Richard didn’t need the message that would surely come from George, stating his demands, to know what those demands would be. Turn over Philip and George would desist. Even if Richard handed the boy over, which he wouldn’t do, he doubted that George would simply turn around and go home.
George might be looking for revenge for Richard’s callous treatment, and try to burn them out anyway.
“George will not give us a choice, Connor. Tell the tenants that I will replace any possessions that may be lost.”
And thereby end his plans for a stone keep, for there would surely be losses, and no matter how much he economized, he wouldn’t be able to afford both. Not this year anyway. Such was the price of lordship.
And people would be killed. An inevitability he couldn’t ignore and would have to deal with, and be held accountable for. Such, too, was the responsibility of lordship.
“If you would just hand the woman and boy over—”
“I will not!” Richard shouted. “I will never hand one of my people over to an enemy without a fight, from Lucinda and Philip, down to you, down to the lowest scullery maid! Now, have the bailey cleared of anything that might burn and tell the women and children to take cover.”
Unable to stand the sight of Connor any longer, he turned back to check on the approaching army. They had stopped a good distance off. Soon a rider would come with George’s demands.
He paced the wall-walk, his attention divided between George out in the fields, the men bearing water from the moat back into the bailey, and the women and youngsters who followed Connor’s directions.
Richard looked for Lucinda and Philip, saw neither. Did Lucinda know what was happening? She had to. No one could miss the frenzied activity happening all over the bailey. So where was she?
“A rider, my lord!” came Edric’s cry from near the gate.
Richard saw the man coming,
one he recognized as one of George’s men, riding hard. He bore no weapon that Richard could see.
“Let him approach, but stand ready.”
The man pulled up far enough away from the gate so no one could rush him, then shouted the demand for Philip in return for sparing Collinwood.
“Tell George I have received his demand,” Richard answered. “Then tell him I refuse, and that the next time I meet him face to face, I intend to shove his head up his arse to reunite it with his brain! Also inform him that I will hold his hide responsible for any damage he causes to Collinwood.”
Richard’s soldiers cheered and banged swords against shields as the red-faced rider spun around and galloped back to report to George.
“Well said, my lord,” Edric said. “’Tis a shame your whole message will not be delivered.”
A shame, indeed. The messenger wouldn’t dare repeat the whole of it for fear of reprisal.
“I go for my hauberk. Next will come an arrow or two, to test for range. Get everyone inside and close the gate when the arrows get close. I should be back before the first fire-arrow flies.”
Richard climbed down the inner embankment and headed for the armory, glancing around for some sign of Lucinda or Philip. Not finding them, he quickly donned his chain mail and went in search of them.
He found them both in the manor. Lucinda, apparently, had taken on the job of readying the manor for wounded. Two tables stood ready. On each had been placed a flagon of water and a variety of creams and oils. Some of the women tore linen into strips for bandages. Two others stood over kettles bubbling at the fire pit. Yet another bunched carded wool into pads to use for poultices.
The scene staggered him. Lucinda rushed around, checking the tables, stopping to give an instruction, then hurrying on to recheck the pots, adding an herb to one and leaving the other alone.
She’d taken command as if she were the lady of the manor and had every right to assume control. To his knowledge, the manor had never been attacked before, and the fear in the women’s eyes explained why they’d allowed Lucinda free rein. She knew what to do, they didn’t.
The older girls helped their mothers; the younger ones tended the toddlers and infants—except for five boys, Philip among them, who stood grouped in a corner. Philip held his wooden sword, the rest clutched stout sticks.
Fascinated, Richard walked toward them. Philip was giving the boys instructions on how to wield the sticks should an enemy break through the manor’s defenses.
“Go for the knees,” the boy said, demonstrating with a mighty swing. “When your man is down, bash him over the head.”
He made it sound so simple, as though a boy with a stick could bring down a man with a sword.
Richard crossed his arms. “What the devil are you about?” he asked, drawing the attention of the boys and everyone else in the manor.
In the hush that followed, Philip came forward.
“My lord,” he said in a calm, resolute voice, “since the men need to protect the palisade, and the older boys are needed to douse fires, we—” he indicated the boys with a sweep of his sword “—will protect the women.”
This was his fault, of course, for having given Philip that duty once before when there had been no danger. Now danger had arrived at his gates and these little boys—hellfire—were just little boys, not soldiers. A glance at Lucinda told him that she, too, thought the whole thing his fault and that he had best do something about it.
Richard noted the boys’ eagerness to be of some service. Having some duty would keep their fear at bay, too. He couldn’t disappoint them, but couldn’t let them have their way completely, either.
“Protecting the women is a serious duty,” he told them. Every little head bobbed in swift agreement. “This means you must stay within the manor, close by your mothers in case you are needed. You are not to wander out into the bailey, under any circumstances, to see what is happening.”
“Should not we stand in the doorway, to give warning?” the blacksmith’s son asked.
’Twas Richard’s greatest fear that they would be drawn into the bailey, and likely the fear of their mothers, too.
“Nay. Should the enemy breach the palisade, I will send warning. You must stay clear of the doorway to allow the wounded passage—and to best protect our women. Those are my orders and I expect you to obey them.”
Their heads didn’t bob in agreement so quickly this time.
“You will also heed your mothers’ commands. Should any one of them give you an order, and I hear that you did not obey straightaway, ‘twill vex me sorely. Understood?”
The boys looked from one to the other.
“Understood?” Richard said more forcefully.
Several weak “aye, my lords” followed.
He looked to the one mother who might yet give argument. Lucinda seemed satisfied.
“Good,” he told the boys. “Take care that you bash no one with those sticks but the enemy.”
With that last warning, he left the boys and beckoned to Lucinda. She wore the old peasant-weave gown in which she’d arrived at Collinwood. Her raven hair was tightly plaited, then wound around her head like a crown. She wore no veil or circlet—or smile.
Still, Lucinda was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The most courageous.
“You have done a good job here,” he told her.
“The women thank me now for giving them something to do with their hands and minds. That will change when the first husband or son comes in bleeding. Then they will hate me again for being the cause of their loved one’s pain, or death.”
“You are not to blame, George is.”
“When one’s loved one is in pain, ‘tis easiest to blame someone close at hand. Go, you must be with your men. I will be all right.”
Richard knew she would get through the day in whatever way she could. She would see that the wounded were cared for no matter if the women helped her or railed at her.
From outside he heard the creak of the gates. Edric must have ordered them closed because arrows were getting close. Soon would come the test of his leadership and resolve.
He tucked a finger under her chin and raised her face. “Since you have assumed command, I now give it to you. Do whatever you must without fear of reprisal from me. Scream, bully, beat heads together if you must.”
“Have a care, Richard. We need you,” she whispered.
In the manor, the women chattered in soft voices, peppered with an occasional nervous laugh. Outside Connor shouted orders to the older boys who placed water near buildings.
Lucinda’s eyes sparkled. Her lips parted, beckoning. He bent to her silent plea, to the need encompassing his own soul. The kiss was light, and warm, and not enough. When she broke away, a tear trickled down her cheek.
“Down in the bailey!” Edric cried from the wall-walk.
Richard heard the whiz of the single arrow, which thudded into the earth in front of the manor door.
He grasped the back of Lucinda’s neck, kissed her soundly, then fled the manor. On his way to the palisade, he snatched up the enemy’s arrow.
George’s army formed a long line along the edge of a field, the men down on one knee behind kite-shaped shields. George and two other men sat on horseback behind them. They couldn’t possibly overtake the manor. Not with a mere fifty men. But they could harass, and do damage, and take lives.
Richard took a bow from one of his archers. “’Tis time to let them know who is truly vulnerable here, hey Edric?”
Edric chuckled. “Have at it, my lord.”
Richard notched the arrow and chose his target ‘Twas too much to hope that he could knock George off his horse, end it all now. The distance was too great. But he could get close. He drew back and let the bolt fly. The arrow flew true, in a high arc. It bit into the earth behind the wall of shields, so near to George that his horse reared and skittered backward.
The wall of shields backed up several yards. The farther back the archers, t
he fewer arrows would fly over the palisade, and even fewer of the heavier fire-tipped arrows.
Richard handed the bow back to its owner.
The enemy line stood up as one.
“Volley!” Edric shouted. “Shields up! ‘Ware the bailey!”
Most of the arrows landed in the moat, a few bounced off the palisade, two stuck.
“Answer, my lord?” Edric asked.
“Aye, we must,” he said, then turned to shout, “Put some muscle into it, men. Send them back!”
The return volley sent the enemy back, finding three human targets. So it went for the next hour, the testing of strength and distance, taking each other’s measure.
Richard strode the walk, talking to each of his defenders, encouraging them, preparing them as the enemy built a fire.
The volley, when it came, was a sight to behold and deadly in its beauty. Balls of fire streaked through the sky. Again, most fell into the moat. Several hit the palisade and were quickly extinguished by the men on the walk. Three flew over the palisade. Two fell to the dirt, but one found the roof of the blacksmith’s hut.
Boys scrambled to put it out, drowning the threat with two buckets of water. ‘Twas quickly out, the thatch barely singed, but had the effect of sobering all.
“’Twill be a long day,” Edric commented.
An understatement. Edric knew as well as Richard did that the siege had just begun, and only God, or mayhap George, knew when it would end.
Chapter Eighteen
Luanda wrapped the young man’s burned hand while his mother hovered nearby. The mother fretted, but not her son. He smiled at the bandage as if it was a sign of his courage and usefulness to his lord.
They’d been lucky thus far. Two burns. One arrow wound—a mere scratch. No deaths, not yet, but they would come.
The tension in the manor rose with each shout of “volley” from the walk. Then came the endless minutes of waiting for the arrows to fall, the shouts for water, the fear that someone would suffer serious hurt.