Lord of the Manor

by Anton, Shari

  Between the volleys, men drifted into the manor to grab a bite to eat or a drink of honeyed mead before heading back to the walk or to the armory for rest. Soon night would fall.

  Neither Richard nor Edric had appeared as yet.

  Lucinda tied off the bandage and tucked the ends into the folds. “Let your mother fuss over you for a moment before you go back out,” she whispered to the young man.

  “’Tis naught to worry over and I am needed without.”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “I know, but if you do not let her fuss she will continue to fret and be of no use to me in here. ‘Tis a mother’s lot in life to fuss. Give her a moment so we will all have peace.”

  He sighed his resignation and did as she asked.

  She looked around for her own son. Philip and his band had soon wearied of standing guard. They now sat in a circle and played some game.

  Lucinda walked over to the table filled with food and drink. Richard and Edric should eat. If they couldn’t find the time to come into the manor, someone should deliver a meal to them.

  ‘Twas probably a dangerous thing for her to do, and Richard would likely toss a fit. Still, she loaded a clay platter with bread, cheese and dried fruit, filled two cups with mead, and slipped out of the manor.

  Richard was easy to locate. His chain mail glinted, touched with the fire of the setting sun. He stood on the walk near the gate, peering out over the palisade at the enemy beyond. A warrior. The man in command.

  No one stopped her from walking across the bailey or climbing the inner bank to the walk—though Edric spotted her and nudged Richard, who turned and scowled.

  “Woman, I swear—”

  “Do not trouble yourself, Richard. I have heard it all before. Here,” she said, handing over the mead. “If you do not take time to feed yourselves, then someone must feed you.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “Wonderful. Eat anyway, as an example to your men. You would not want them falling faint with hunger, would you?”

  “The men are on shifts, instructed to eat and rest—”

  “Rest. A splendid idea. On which shift do you rest?”

  Richard and Edric exchanged a look that Lucinda couldn’t misread.

  “Neither of you can remain awake during the entire siege,” she scolded. “It could take days, weeks!”

  “Not so long,” Richard said, plucking a piece of cheese from the platter. “He has not the means, I think, for a prolonged siege. The mercenaries will stand with George only as long as he can pay them. He needs to come up with a plan of attack.”

  Lucinda looked out over the palisade at the enemy camp.

  A good number of years had passed since she last saw George, but he was easy to pick out, not by his features—the distance was too great—but by his portly form, garbed in rich robes. He paced along the edge of the camp, behind a line of soldiers whose shields faced the manor.

  The man had a mean streak as wide as Basil’s and deep as the devil’s. Cut from the same cloth as his cousin, George obeyed laws and played the honorable noble only when it suited him. Did he make war on his neighbors as often as Basil had? Did he win as rarely as Basil had?

  “What will he do?” she asked.

  “Build ladders,” Edric said around a bite of bread. “Try to scale the walls.”

  She shivered. “Tonight?”

  “Nay, not tonight,” Richard said, grabbing a handful of fruit. “He has yet to cut trees. Soon he will run out of daylight, then the rain will come and drive him to shelter.”

  Lucinda scanned the sky. No cloud marred the expanse.

  “What rain?”

  “’Twill rain tonight, heavy,” Edric said. He winked at her. “My knee, it never lies.”

  Richard consumed the last of the bread. Edric devoured the chunk of cheese. Both had been hungry as bears but unwilling to leave the wall-walk.

  “Edric, Lucinda has the right of it,” Richard said. “Get a few hours’ sleep, then you can relieve me. I doubt George will try anything fancy tonight.”

  “As you wish, my lord. Mayhap I will have another cup of mead first.”

  Lucinda saw through the ruse. “You may go straight to your pallet, Edric. I managed to come here on my own and can certainly manage to find my way back.”

  “Of course you can, my lady. I never had a doubt.”

  Yet he waited. Edric wasn’t about to budge until she moved. He would escort her to the manor whether she wished him to or not.

  She drank in another draught of Richard’s beloved visage. “Is it over for the day then?”

  He shook his head. “Another volley or two, perhaps.”

  Another volley or two to worry over him, to still her shaking hands whenever the call to take cover thundered through the bailey. When the arrows flew, Richard would be here atop the walk, too easy a target.

  She forced herself down the inner bank, Edric at her heels. At midbailey, Richard’s call rang out. “Volley! No fire! ‘Ware the bailey! Run, Lucinda!”

  Lucinda dropped the platter, hiked up her skirts, and sprinted for the manor door with Edric right beside her. They ran so hard her lungs burned. Overhead she heard the whiz of a downward-arced arrow—too close. The door was too far away.

  Edric slammed into her and knocked her to the ground. She landed facedown in the dirt, Edric atop her. All around her she heard screams and men shouting. And the heavy thumps of her own laboring, but beating heart. Then silence.

  Edric eased off. “Are you all right?”

  She felt no pain except the scrapes on her hands. She lifted her head. Two feet in front of her an arrow quivered, the tip stuck in the dirt.

  She blew out a relieved breath. “I am fine. You?”

  “Unharmed.”

  He held out his hand to help her up. She no more than made her feet when Richard swept her off them. She flung her arms around his neck, ignoring the bite of his chain mail.

  “Dear, sweet Lord,” he uttered the prayer into her neck.

  Aye, she silently agreed. Someone besides Edric had been watching over her. Another step or two and…merciful heaven, that arrow had come far too close.

  She’d heard screams. Someone must be hurt. She should find out who and go back into the manor and treat the wound.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. So she tarried within Richard’s comforting embrace, as if by some magic he could infuse some vigor into her suddenly weak body and tired mind.

  “She goes pale as cream,” she heard Edric say before the world went dark.

  Lucinda’s body went limp. Richard’s first terrified thought was that she’d died, but she breathed. She’d fainted.

  He gathered her in his arms and carried her into the manor. All eyes turned to watch as he carefully laid her on a table.

  “Mother?” Philip’s small voice trembled.

  Philip’s eyes, huge and round, glistened. Richard understood the boy’s terror.

  “She lives, Philip. See, she breathes.”

  “Then why does she not wake?”

  “Your mother had a bad scare and fainted, is all,” he said, trying to keep his tone light for Philip’s sake. “She will wake when ready.”

  “’Twas my duty to watch her.”

  Sensing the direction of the child’s misguided thoughts, Richard scrunched down and grasped Philip’s shoulders. “You did your duty. You were to guard her while in the manor. If there is any blame here, ‘tis mine. I did not guard her well enough while she was outside the manor.”

  Edric huffed. “As captain of the guard, ‘twas my duty. And I think I did a damn good job of it!”

  Richard rose and faced Edric. He would never be able to thank the man enough. “That you did, Edric. A damn fine job. If you hadn’t knocked her over…”

  Hellfire, he couldn’t say it aloud. The scene replayed over and over in his head. Lucinda and Edric running toward the manor, directly into the path of a downward spiraling arrow. His heart had lodged
in his throat, watching death descend on one he held dear.

  On the woman he loved.

  He’d never prayed so hard, so fast, so earnestly in his entire life. If God truly held him to every promise he’d made in those terrifying moments, he would qualify for sainthood at his life’s end.

  Of all the promises he’d made, he would keep one promise above all others. If Lucinda would have him.

  Richard picked up Philip, hugged him, then set him on the table next to his mother. This woman, this boy, meant the world to him. No stone keep, no holding, no riches would fill the lonely, empty hole in his life if he lost them. He picked up Lucinda’s hand and placed it in her son’s.

  “Watch over her for me for a moment, will you?”

  “Aye, my lord. She is back in the manor. ‘Tis my turn to watch over her.”

  Richard ruffled Philip’s hair. “It is at that.”

  He took a deep breath and brought himself back to the task at hand. In order to have a future with Lucinda and Philip, first he had to secure that future. George was still without, threatening everything Richard held dear.

  Sweet heaven, what he wouldn’t give to have Gerard make a surprise visit right now. Come up on George’s backside and mow his forces down the middle like a scythe through a field of wheat. Of course, then when Richard told Gerard of his intentions toward Lucinda, Gerard would toss a fit. Best that Gerard remained at Wilmont.

  Richard knew his best plan of defense was to sit tight and let George expend his supplies. But, hellfire, the sitting irritated since he would rather take an aggressive offensive.

  “My lord, with your permission, I will return to the wall,” Edric offered. “There are other wounded you may wish to attend before you return.”

  Other wounded? He’d focused so hard on Lucinda he hadn’t noticed.

  Richard cuffed Edric on the shoulder. “My thanks, my friend. I will return shortly. And Edric, that arrow. I want it so I can send it back to George.”

  Edric left. Richard gave a last glance at Philip, who clutched Lucinda’s hand and watched her intently, then moved off to where Lyle, one of the older boys who manned the water, sat on a nearby stool. He sported a large, nastily colored bruise on his head. The boy would have a headache, but seemed fine otherwise.

  “Tripped over my own big feet, my lord,” Lyle said, chagrined. “’Tain’t nothing. How is the lady?”

  “Lucinda had a scare and fainted.” The more he said it, the more he would believe it. Her brush with death had frightened her into fainting. She would be fine.

  Lyle held up his linen-wrapped hand. “She bandaged my burn earlier, right and tight. I am glad the arrow missed her. I saw it coming down, right in her path.” Lyle glanced over to where Lucinda lay. “I tried to get to her, but…”

  Lyle had tripped trying to run to Lucinda. At least one person of all his tenants thought her worthy, and that gave him hope. If one could, mayhap the rest could too, someday.

  Richard clasped Lyle’s shoulder. “You have done me good service this day. You are now off duty until the morn.”

  “But my lord—”

  “Until morn. I catch you outside of this manor before then and I will take a strap to your backside.”

  Richard didn’t give Lyle a chance to argue further. He moved on to where one of his soldiers lay on the rushes. The man had taken an arrow to the gullet—and died. The first death, and probably not the last.

  A farmer’s wife covered the soldier’s face with a bandage and crossed herself.

  “Has he family here?” Richard asked, unable to remember.

  “Nay, I believe not.”

  “I will have to ask Connor. He will know.”

  “Then you had best ask quick, my lord,” she said, pointing to a table. “He bleeds heavily.”

  Hellfire. Richard strode over to where Connor lay on his left side, very still. An arrow pierced him completely through the right side of his body, under the ribs. The women had packed wads of bandaging around both wounds, yet the blood seeped through.

  Connor opened his eyes. “Too old to run fast, my lord,” he said weakly.

  “You had best not die, Connor. Collinwood needs you.”

  The light touch on his arm could only be Lucinda’s. Her face had regained some color, but not enough. Philip stood at her side, clutching his mother’s hand.

  “The arrow needs to come out,” she said.

  Connor’s eyes widened. “Nay, do not let her touch me. I would rather die in peace.”

  Lucinda’s eyes flashed with anger. She bent over until her face hovered mere inches from Connor’s. “I bear you no great love either, Connor. But by all that is holy, I will not let you die, if only because Richard wishes you to live. Say a prayer for courage, old man, because what I am about to do will hurt like hell.”

  She rose. “Richard, can you snap off the arrowhead? I do not think I have the strength.”

  “Not enough protrudes to allow a good grip,” he said, willing to do whatever she asked of him. “Will breaking off the fletched end do?”

  “Aye,” she said, and turned to one of the women. “Prepare two pads, heavily coated with alum. If he stops bleeding, I can stitch him shut. If not, we will need a hot iron to cauterize the wounds.”

  “She will kill me for sure, my lord. I beg of you—”

  Richard wrapped his hands around the shaft and snapped the arrow in two, just ahead of the feathers. Connor’s body jerked and he passed out. A blessing.

  “Trim the end,” Lucinda said, handing him a large knife from the supplies at the head of the table. “We do not wish to leave any stray pieces within him.”

  “Fine,” he said. “You sit on that bench behind you before you fall down. You direct, we will do the work.” Philip reinforced his order by pulling Lucinda backward. “When was the last time you ate?”

  She shrugged a shoulder.

  “Philip,” he said, tossing his head toward the food table. The boy scurried off.

  Richard trimmed the arrow to a clean point, then cut away the tunic surrounding the wounds. A woman stood by with the treated pads.

  “Pull slow, steady and straight,” Lucinda said.

  “You do not ask much, woman,” he said of her dictates.

  “Want me to do it?”

  “Sit.”

  She turned to the woman with the pads. “Flush the wounds with water, then press the pads on tight. Do so quickly. He has already lost more blood than he can afford to lose.”

  Richard braced a hand on Connor’s back and grasped the arrow’s shaft with the other. He pulled it out, steady and straight, just as he would pull his sword from its scabbard. Holding the bloody arrow, he stepped out of the women’s way.

  Blood oozed from the holes in Connor’s already too-frail body. The women worked quickly and soon had the pads in place.

  They waited. Lucinda nibbled on bread. Richard washed the blood from his hands. Still they waited, but no more blood seeped through the pads.

  Lucinda got up and very gently eased away the pad from Connor’s back. “’Tis ready for stitching. I will need needle and thread.”

  “Let another do it,” Richard ordered. “You are to rest”

  “Volley! Fire!”

  “Hellfire,” Richard swore and headed for the door.

  Lucinda grabbed his arm. Her eyes held no fear, only concern. “You can do naught until the arrows fall. Wait. Please.”

  She had the right of it. No sense going out until the worst had passed. But he could watch.

  “Come,” he said. Richard took Lucinda’s hand and led them to the manor door.

  Night had fallen. Against the black sky, the flaming arrows streaked though the night like falling stars. As always, because of the distance, most of the arrows drowned in the moat. Only two arrows flew over the palisade, both landing in the dirt in the bailey, where no one wasted water to douse them. He watched them burn out, hoping George would burn out soon as well.

  “Mayhap now we will have a
peaceful night,” Lucinda said.

  “Mayhap,” he said, hoping Lucinda was right.

  “Then again on the morn, we will dodge arrows and fire, and treat burns and wounds, and more people will die.”

  “’Tis the way of a siege, as you well know. We are safer within the palisade than without on the field. If George had not so many men, or if I had more…”

  She squeezed his hand. “It irks you to wait and do nothing to hasten the outcome.”

  “True. I give George a sennight. If he does not leave by then, I will take action. I do not know what as yet, but I refuse to let him sit out there overlong.” He kissed her forehead. “Rest.”

  “You go back to the walk?”

  “Aye. I intend to find the stoutest bow in the place and send the arrow that almost hit you into the very center of George’s camp. If I do not find fortune and hit George, then pray I hit one of the men whose strength sends fire over our walls.”

  On the third day of the siege, George changed his tactics. He burned the home of a tenant farmer. Thick, pungent smoke curled up into the wind and drifted high over the manor.

  Lucinda tried not to listen to the sobs of the woman whose home burned to ashes, but each sob struck like a knife in her heart. Though Richard assured the family that the hut would be rebuilt, they mourned the loss of the old.

  The grumbling had also begun. Too many people

  in too little space, beset by too much strain, made for short tempers. Two fresh graves reminded all that more was at stake than loss of a home.

  They blamed Lucinda and Philip for their misfortune. Not outright, and not to Richard—at least not that she knew of. Among themselves, in corners and whispers, with sidelong glances from angry faces, they pointed out and cursed the source of the troubles.

  Two men lay cold in the ground. A family had lost its home. If George didn’t desist soon, more would die, more would suffer losses. The longer the siege lasted, the more they would question Richard’s reasons for holding on to the outsiders. And the greater the chance they would rebel, or a group of them would take matters into their own hands and give her and Philip over to George.

  Richard’s vassals were good people, but even good people could be pushed to rebellion. Though Basil had mistreated them, they’d never had their lives directly threatened, never seen death come at the point of an arrow or a spark of fire.