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By King's Decree
Shari Anton


The King Had Granted Them A Year Of LoveGerard of Wilmont wanted nothing more than to make Ardith of Lenvil his cherished bride. But what if he and his Saxon flame were not blessed with the heir that would ensure their union would last forever?Torn Between Joy and Despair, the lady Ardith pondered the royal decree that betrothed her to Gerard, Baron of Wilmont, for though he had forever been the lord of her heart, she knew that cruel fate had made her fit to be no man's wife… !









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#ud6e27be9-a72a-517f-8b76-ad76d00ba1b6)

Praise (#uca86e164-90d7-5f3d-9094-20ae7e5057d2)

Excerpt (#u1de9490c-2970-54ae-a0ae-b85099f59a85)

Dear Reader (#u2138ca2f-0347-56a4-b867-8e84b0da339c)

Title Page (#udb0bd05f-9bd4-5a62-a1dc-49d97cea6f02)

About the Author (#u346445e7-dd81-5384-b3d0-c1ed06c7dad9)

Dedication (#ue5244d21-dca7-5bd2-96f5-ce5f50d6120c)

Prologue (#ue8b0dfc8-9c89-5b55-9793-f14b32368198)

Chapter One (#u404c5a5a-7882-5d84-886a-69cd35b53aa3)

Chapter Two (#u6a6da80c-a6ee-516c-9432-ed78eb3e0d36)

Chapter Three (#u60610639-85b7-5ade-9026-c91692a52f95)

Chapter Four (#u25902a6e-4e73-52a4-9cd8-66a4d0bb6cea)

Chapter Five (#u5b15fc8c-016a-5788-bc7f-8e123c7132ea)

Chapter Six (#ue1cee5ae-0b82-508b-ac80-1d96fc6501c2)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




Critical acclaim for Shari Anton’s first book, Emily’s Captain


“…superb Civil War drama…a nearly perfect heroine…a great male lead…”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Humor, love, deception—it’s all here…A keeper for those who love historicals.”

—Rendezvous

“Keep an eye on this lady, she’s excellent! 4 1/2 bells.”

—Bell, Book and Candle

“K.I.S.S. Award for the hero, Jared Hunter.”

—Romantic Times




Pressed against him, Ardith listened to Gerard’s heartbeat.


The steady thump pounded louder, faster, and a low groan sounded deep in his throat. She smiled at how easily his body responded to her nearness.



Men thought themselves superior to women. Yet in the bedchamber, if a woman was of a mind, she could reduce a haughty baron to a mere male with the paltry weapon of a rightly placed hip.



Ardith was of a mind.



She looked up into Gerard’s face, a smile threatening the corners of her mouth. “Mayhap women should be warriors.”

Confusion showed in his eyes. “Ardith, are you feverish?”



Ardith had never learned women’s wiles, didn’t know if she could seduce. If she had any talent at all, now was the time to find out. She lowered her voice and half closed her eyes. “Aye, Gerard. I burn. Come ease my torment.”



His reaction was most gratifying…


Dear Reader,



Author Shari Anton was first introduced during our 1997 March Madness promotion of new authors with her Civil War period romance, Emily’s Captain. With this month’s By King’s Decree, Ms. Anton has turned her considerable talents toward the telling of a stirring medieval tale in which a Saxon woman must overcome corruption, jealousy and the shadow of barrenness, or be separated forever from the knight who holds her heart.

Devlin, by author Erin Yorke, is the story of an Irish rebel and an Englishwoman, who must battle distrust and betrayal before finding the happiness they both deserve. And Deborah Simmons returns this month with The de Burgh Bride, the sequel to her steamy adventure Taming the Wolf. This book features the scholarly de Burgh brother, Geoffrey, who has drawn the short straw and must marry the “wicked” daughter of a vanquished enemy, a woman who reportedly murdered her first husband in the marriage bed!

A city banker forced to spend a year recuperating in the country goes head-to-head with a practical country widow and learns that some of life’s greatest pleasures are the simple ones in the next book in Theresa Michaels’s new series, The Merry Widows—Catherine.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books this month. Keep an eye out for them, wherever Harlequin Historicals® are sold.



Sincerely,



Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor




By King’s Decree

Shari Anton









www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




SHARI ANTON


prefers to spend her free time at Civil War encampments, medieval fairs or pioneer cemeteries rather than doing housework. Her husband doesn’t mind tagging along to any historical site she wants to visit—if they can take the Harleys to get there! She is also a member of RWA and Wisconsin Romance Writers of America (WisRWA).



The mother of two grown children and one grandchild, Shari lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her husband and a very spoiled golden retriever.



Shari would love to hear from you. You can write to her at: P.O. Box 510611, New Berlin, WI 53151-0611.


To my parents Richard & Ramona Foley Loveya!!




Prologue (#ulink_7657a79d-e0bf-579b-a9ec-7f138413881f)


England, 1101

’Tis not fair! Ardith pouted to herself, for there was no one else in the room to hear her complaint.

From her pallet in the sleeping chamber, she could hear the sounds of a feast coming from the common room, where her family and their guests celebrated the heroism of Corwin, Ardith’s twelve-year-old twin brother. She didn’t begrudge Corwin the tribute. After all, Corwin had saved her life.

For the past week she’d suffered the pain of her wound, lain on her pallet and sipped potions of mead and herbs. She longed for a meal of substance, craving a slice of the boar that had gored her before perishing under Corwin’s sword.

Crossing an arm over the bandage wrapped around her middle, she ignored the pain of rising to her feet. She shuffled across the chamber to fetch a woolen mantle to cover her night rail. Thus clad she couldn’t join the feast, but if she held to the shadows she might secretly hail Corwin to fetch her a piece of that beast.

Ardith stepped lightly over the earthen floor strewed with rushes, passed by the black-iron candle stand until she stood under the arch separating the two rooms of the manor. She hugged the timber wall as she crept between the arch and the tapestry that hung in the corner of the common room.

Safely in her hiding place, she peeked around the dusty tapestry, pinching her nose so she wouldn’t sneeze. Serving wenches were clearing away the used bread trenchers. Soon they would remove the remains of the boar.

At the raised dais beyond the central fire pit, her father, Harold, lord of Lenvil, rose from his stool to signal the end of the feast. Beside Father stood Baron Everart, Lenvil’s Norman liege lord, resplendent in robes of black wool trimmed with glittering gems. A pace apart from the baron stood a black-haired boy, similarly attired. Since the boy seemed near her own age, Ardith assumed he must be Stephen, the baron’s younger son. She knew that somewhere in the crowd was the elder son, Gerard, Baron Everart’s heir.

She supposed she owed the baron a word of thanks. If he hadn’t shown favor to Corwin, and allowed her brother to spend most of the summer at Wilmont, where he’d learned to use a sword with skill, both she and Corwin might be dead now.

Two wenches reached for the meat platter. Ardith glanced about for Corwin, but she didn’t see her brother. Intent on silently hailing the serving girls, Ardith took a step. But before she could sneak from behind the tapestry, she heard male voices that became louder as the men approached her hiding place. She scrunched down into the corner, hoping they would pass by quickly.

“I spoke with King William,” Baron Everart said. “He questioned my decision but approved.”

“You humble me with your offer, Baron,” her father replied. “You could do better for your son than the fifth daughter of a Saxon vassal.”

“So thought the king, but Ardith is my choice. What say you to a betrothal bargain, Harold?”

Father sighed. “I regret, my lord, that I must refuse. The chit has done herself an injury and is…damaged.”

As the men passed out of hearing, Ardith shook with the realization that Baron Everart had offered a betrothal between herself and one of his sons. And Father refused!

Done myself an injury? Damaged?

She lightly touched her sore midsection. She would forever wear a scar across her belly. Did a scar make her damaged, lessen her value in marriage?

Suddenly, candle glow flooded the corner. A male hand had pushed aside the tapestry.

“And who have we here?” came a mellow voice, the English words laced with the fluid accent of Norman French.

Ardith looked up into green eyes, as green and bright as spring leaves. No longer a boy, but not quite a man, the Norman noble was strikingly handsome. His hair, in flaxen waves, hung to his shoulders in Saxon fashion, banded by a circlet of gold.

He stood tall and slender, his form adorned by a white linen sherte covered by a calf-length dalmatica of deep blue. Bands of vine-patterned red and gold embroidery trimmed the tuniclike garment’s neckline and sleeves. A girdle of woven gold circled his trim waist.

Kind, she read his expression, and prayed her judgment sound. Norman nobles were often cruel to Saxon underlings—or so Elva, her father’s sister, professed. This Norman must be Gerard, the heir to Wilmont.

“My lord,” she said. Clutching night rail and mantle, she gingerly rose and attempted a curtsy. Dizziness assailed her as she bowed her head. Gerard’s strong hands gripped her arms and saved her from falling.

He looked her over, from head to toe, and back again. His inspection ended at her face. He stared into her eyes.

“You must be Ardith, Corwin’s twin. Your eyes are the same startling blue.” He frowned. “I was told you were sore wounded and confined to your pallet. Why do you lurk behind the tapestry?”

Embarrassment crept on to her cheeks as she realized the foolishness of her actions. Father would be furious if he heard of the incident. Punishment would be swift and severe.

She tried to push away. Gerard’s fingers tightened.

Holding back tears of frustration, she said, “I wanted a hearty slice of that wretched boar.”

His expression softened. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “The boar that wounded you?” he asked. At her nod, he said, “I will order it so. Now come, back to your pallet with you.”

Deftly swept from her feet, firmly cradled in Gerard’s arms, Ardith protested, “I can walk, my lord.”

“Mayhap, my little lady, but you will not. Your strength begins to desert you.”

As he strode toward the sleeping chamber, Ardith couldn’t help wonder if Gerard might, one day, have been her husband. He was so strong, so handsome, and the heir to a title—the fulfillment of every maiden’s dreams. For which son had the baron asked for the betrothal bargain, Gerard or Stephen? Not that it mattered, now. Father considered her damaged somehow, unfit for either Norman lordling.

“Ardith, you little scamp! What have you been up to?” Elva scolded, following them into the chamber. Hands on ample hips, Elva looked ready for battle. Unable to abide another humiliation, Ardith buried her face in Gerard’s shoulder, praying that Elva would refrain from further scolding until Gerard left the chamber.

“Who is the Harpy?” Gerard asked softly as he lowered her slowly, gently, onto her pallet.

“Elva, my father’s sister.”

“And are you a scamp?”

Chagrined, she admitted, “So I am told.”

He winked and flashed a beguiling smile at her before leaving the chamber, ignoring the glare Elva aimed at him.

After he was gone, Ardith asked, “Elva, did you know Father thought to wed me to one of the baron’s sons?”

Elva spit out the word, “Aye. Harold thought to give you to the young lion. The Normans of Wilmont are vicious beasts, every one. Rejoice that you are spared the ordeal.”

To the young lion.

To Gerard, Ardith realized, and her heart twisted at the loss. Gerard bore the coloring of a proud, regal lion, all tawny-gold hair and glittering green eyes. But she couldn’t envision him as a vicious beast.

Gerard had such a nice smile.

Ardith rolled to her side and let the tears flow.

‘Tis not fair!




Chapter One (#ulink_31505241-f608-5fca-9b8c-fe39ae78a97f)


Wilmont, 1106

Gerard rushed over the ice-crusted mud of the bailey surrounding the keep. An early-winter wind whipped at his cloak. The overcast sky suited his mood.

This morning’s charade had been his idea. Having planned every detail of the mock funeral, Gerard hadn’t expected his gullet to rebel as the empty coffin descended into the earth. Nor would his disquiet ease until he talked with his half brother, Richard, who could too easily lie within that coffin.

Leaping two steps at a time, Gerard climbed the outside stairs leading to the keep’s second floor. He pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the great hall.

He merely glanced at the familiar tapestries hanging beside ancient weapons, hardly noticed the decorative marble carvings hewn into walls of expensive stone. Nor did he acknowledge the peasant women who scurried to prepare the feast he’d ordered to be served after the burial Mass.

The heavy door banged shut. Gerard glanced over his shoulder at Thomas, a young but trusted servant, one of the few people who knew of the ruse necessary to hide and protect Richard. Gerard shrugged out of his beaver cloak and tossed it toward Thomas.

“I will be with the monk. Bring ale,” Gerard ordered, then bounded up the stairway leading to the family quarters.

At the end of the passageway he rapped twice on a door, paused, then rapped twice again. As expected, Corwin opened the door. Smiling ruefully, Corwin executed an exaggerated bow, saying, “At last, reinforcements. Do come in, my lord.”

“Is Richard not behaving?” Gerard asked.

Corwin closed the door and slid the bolt. “As well as one could expect on the day of his own burial, I suppose.”

“In a sullen mood, is he?”

“Peevish, my lord.”

“Richard feels more himself, then.”

“Aye,” Corwin answered on a sigh.

From the bed, Richard grumbled, “You speak as though I am not in the room. Why not ask me how I feel?”

Gerard locked his arms behind his back and sauntered to the bedside. He looked into Richard’s scowling face, a face so near a reflection of his own. The resemblance was striking, though they’d been born of different mothers—one a noble bride, one a peasant lover. Though Gerard claimed the advantage of height, when mounted and armored in chain mail and helm, he and Richard were nigh impossible to tell apart.

Because of the resemblance, Richard had almost died—the victim of an ambush meant to either kill or take as prisoner Gerard, the new baron of Wilmont. Basil of Northbryre and his mercenaries would soon pay dearly for their audacity.

“In this, Richard, your word is not reliable,” Gerard finally responded. “You would have me believe you are ready for the practice yard.”

“Mayhap not the practice yard, but able to get out of bed. Did you know that Corwin would not let me out of the chamber to use the garderobe, made me use a piss pot?”

“At my order.”

“Did I not survive crossing the Channel?”

Confined to a pallet below decks, Richard had barely survived the boat trip home from Normandy, even though under the care of one of King Henry’s physicians.

“You slept the whole time,” Gerard countered.

“And I survived the wagon ride from Dover to Wilmont.”

“By a gnat’s breath.”

“Surely I can survive a walk beyond this chamber.”

Gerard crossed his arms and stated firmly, “Basil is sure to have a spy or two sniffing about. After all I’ve done to convince half the kingdom you are dead, you will not expose the ruse by roaming the keep!”

Corwin answered a signal tap on the door. Thomas entered with the ale. The beverage poured and served, Gerard dismissed Corwin and Thomas, bolting the door behind them.

Gerard lowered his relaxing body onto a chair. He stretched his legs toward the heat from the brazier, swirling the ale in his goblet.

“My burial went well?” Richard asked sarcastically.

“Father Dominic gave an impassioned plea for God’s mercy on your soul. Stephen praised your bravery and loyalty to Wilmont. Half the wenches in the castle are overcome with grief. I would say you are well mourned.”

A small smile graced Richard’s face. “The wenches may cry for me, but they would wail for you.”

Gerard raised an eyebrow. “Can they tell us apart in the dark, do you think?”

“One wonders. Since I am confined to bed anyway, mayhap I will call for one or two and find out”

Gerard wagged a warning finger. “You are in hiding and supposed to be an ailing monk. Call for a wench and I will confine you to this chamber for the entire winter!”

Richard squirmed at the notion, then said, “You cannot. You will need me at court. When do we leave?”

“You remain here until I send for you. Probably just before Christmas. Corwin and I leave in two days. He wishes to visit Lenvil before going on to Westminster.”

Richard moaned. “You would leave me here with Stephen as my nursemaid. Have pity, Gerard. I will never be allowed out of this bed.”

“Stephen will let you up when Father Dominic says you are healed, not before then.”

Richard raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Father Dominic? You told him?”

“I thought telling the priest prudent, just in case.”

“I will not need the final sacrament,” Richard insisted. “Who all knows I still live?”

“Stephen, Thomas, Corwin, King Henry and his physicians.” Gerard sighed. “I also found it necessary to inform Lady Ursula. I had hoped to avoid involving my mother, but she would plague Stephen with questions about the strange monk in a family bedchamber.”

“I imagine my lying in this chamber instead of in that coffin, underground, vexes Lady Ursula to no end.”

“No doubt, but she will not interfere with your care. Stephen will see to that.”

“Your mother will prick him at every turn for his loyalty, try to turn him against you.”

“He will hold fast. Sparring with Ursula will make a man of him, may even earn Stephen his knighthood.” The brothers chuckled, then Gerard sobered. “You have certainly earned your knighthood, Richard. We will see to the formalities at court.”

Gerard rose from his chair and headed for the door.

“Do you trust King Henry’s promise?” Richard asked.

Gerard’s hand gripped the bolt. “When Henry refused my demand for armed reprisal against. Basil, he promised royal justice. I had no choice, at the time, but to obey.”

“And if we do not get justice?”

Gerard flashed a feral smile. “Then heal well, Richard. I will need your sword arm when I seek revenge.”

Richard returned the smile. “The mercenary captain, Edward Siefeld, is mine.”

“As Basil of Northbryre is mine.”



Sprawled across the bed on his stomach, an arm dangling over the edge, Gerard slowly opened one eye. The light hurt, piercing into a head too heavy to lift from the bolster.

“My lord,” Thomas said softly, though urgently.

“By your life, lad, you best have good reason for waking me so early.”

“I let you sleep as long as I dared, my lord. The household awaits you in the chapel. Father Dominic cannot begin Mass until you arrive.”

Reluctantly, Gerard rolled over. Pieces of last night’s drinking bout floated through his groggy memory. He’d tried to relieve his frustration with ale. A futile attempt.

He tossed back the furs and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. His head swam. Gerard drew deep breaths and compelled his body to function. Muscles rippled to his command as he stood, his warrior’s body unaffected by the muddle in his head.

With a slight nod he approved the garments Thomas placed on the bed. Gerard donned the white soft-woolen sherte and the dalmatica of scarlet silk shot through with gold thread. He wrapped a girdle of gold around his waist. He would gladly have shunned the elegant clothing for less pretentious garb. But today, he must appear and act the baron.

He wasn’t surprised that Lady Ursula stood at the front of the chapel, awaiting his arrival with tight-lipped censure. Within moments of the Mass’s start, Gerard stifled a yawn. His mother glared. Stephen and Corwin exchanged knowing smiles. Father Dominic understood the suggestion and sped through the service.

After breaking fast on porridge and bread, Gerard ordered Lady Ursula and Walter, Wilmont’s steward, to attend him in his chambers.



“As you can see, Baron Gerard, Wilmont fares well,” Walter said, waving a hand at the scroll on the table in Gerard’s bedchamber.

Gerard inspected the records of fees and goods due to Wilmont. Not for the first time, he was grateful for his father’s unusual decision to educate his sons. Never would Gerard be at the mercy of clergy or steward to read messages or records, unlike most of his Norman peers.

He pointed to an empty space in the accounting and asked Walter, “What of these rents?”

“The coinage from Milhurst is overdue. Unfortunately, your father succumbed to the fever before he could visit Milhurst to collect”

Gerard’s temper flashed. Basil of Northbryre, Gerard would wager, had somehow interfered with the delivery of Milhurst’s rents—an easy task since Milhurst bordered Northbryre. He added the suspected crime to the list of grievances he would present to King Henry against Basil.

“Are other monies or goods overdue?”

Walter’s bony finger pointed to another blank space on the parchment. “Aye, my lord, from this manor near Romsey, also in Hampshire. We are owed six sheep on the hoof every winter as tribute. The steward might yet bring them, though he is very late this year.”

“Will you go to Hampshire to collect the tributes?” Lady Ursula interrupted.

The hope in her voice turned Gerard’s head. Though almost forty, his mother had aged well. She studied him with eyes of silver gray, unfaded by time. Hair as black as a raven’s wing framed her smooth face, pallid from countless hours spent praying in a dark chapel. Had Ursula prayed or mourned for Everart, only two months in his grave? Gerard doubted she’d shed a single tear over his father’s death.

Gerard knew why she wanted him gone. She had suffered the commands of her husband; she would loathe taking orders from her son. Gerard couldn’t summon sympathy.

“All in good time,” he answered, then turned to Walter. “Have Frederick make ready to journey to Hampshire on the morrow. I have no interest in the sheep from Romsey, but I must know if Basil has moved against Milhurst. Tell Frederick I will give him instructions before he leaves.”

Walter bowed his balding head. “As my lord wishes,” he said and left the chamber.

Gerard leaned back in his chair and said to his mother, “You will no doubt be pleased to hear I leave on the morrow, not for Hampshire but for Lenvil, then Westminster.”

Hands clasped tightly in her lap, she said, “Very well.”

He almost laughed at the scheme so easily read on her face, but suppressed the impulse. Gerard leaned forward and rested his crossed arms on the table. He caught his mother’s gaze and held it transfixed.

“Richard will remain at Wilmont. Stephen will oversee our brother’s care with the help of Father Dominic. You will allow Richard to stay in the bedchamber in the family quarters until I send for him.”

With each word, Lady Ursula’s spine stiffened. Gerard braced for the inevitable tirade.

“You would shame me with his presence in the family quarters? Even your father did not insult me so, made the bastard sleep below stairs! Is it not enough I must tolerate him in my household without his being under my very nose?”

“I have done you the courtesy of explaining the need to hide Richard. After Corwin and I leave, only Stephen and Father Dominic, besides you, will know who rests in that chamber. Be aware, madam, that I will be very unhappy if the information spreads further.”

Gerard reached across the table and grasped the jeweled silver cross that hung from his mother’s neck. “Swear, by the cross you hold so dear, you will not interfere with Richard’s care. Swear you will keep secret his whereabouts.”

Livid, his mother snatched the cross from his hand. “What blasphemy is this? You ask me to swear? You who were late for Mass and nearly slept through it? You would ask me to profane the Lord’s teaching by allowing a by-blow, the proof of your father’s sinful lust, to remain succored within these walls?”

Gerard barely held his temper. Ursula would never concede that Everart’s decision to raise Richard as his own had gained Gerard a loyal brother instead of a bitter enemy. Gerard took pride in the loyalty of both Richard and Stephen, an odd but welcome relationship in a land where sons plotted against fathers, and brother fought brother over inheritance.

Like most noble marriages, the arranged union of Ursula and Everart had allied two noble families. No love, or even affection had developed between the pair. Ursula had endured her marriage, and for the most part tolerated her sons. But the middle child, born of Everart’s peasant lover, Ursula hated passionately.

“Wilmont is Richard’s home, by my father’s wish and now mine. Your position is less secure.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

Gerard’s glance flickered to the cross, to the jewels on her fingers, to her fine silken gown. “You are now a widow. Perhaps your God calls you to the religious life. Would that suit you, Mother? Life in an abbey?”

Ursula’s mouth opened, then closed.

“Or perhaps you would prefer to marry again. I have no doubt that there is some male in this kingdom willing to have you to secure an alliance with Wilmont.”

She paled. “You would not dare…”

“I would dare. Are you ready to swear your silence?”

She curled her fingers around the cross. Her voice shook as she said, “I swear.” Then she dropped the cross as though it burned.

“So be it.”

“Beware, Gerard,” she warned as she rose from her chair. “You inherit not only your father’s title and holdings, but his immorality as well. One day you, too, will face the Lord’s judgment. May he have pity on your soul.”

As the door slammed behind his mother, Gerard wondered why she still had the power to affect him. He should be immune to her curses, having heard throughout his life of how he would burn for eternity for one reason or another.

Then he brightened. With estate business resolved, he now had time to do what he’d ached to do since returning from Normandy—spend time with his son.

Gerard found Daymon in the hall, stacking pieces of wood as a nursemaid looked on. Gerard approached slowly, waiting for Daymon to sense his presence and make the first approach. Too often Gerard had returned from a long absence to sweep Daymon up, only to learn from his son’s screams that young children possessed short memories.

When his son didn’t look up, Gerard quietly asked the nursemaid, “How fares my boy?”

“Well, my lord, except he misses Baron Everart terribly. Daymon is too young to understand death. He only knows his favorite playmate no longer comes.”

Gerard smiled sadly, feeling the same pang of loss.

“He seems healthy enough,” he commented, noting chubby cheeks, bright eyes and a sure grip of fingers around wood.

Then Daymon turned to stare upward. Gerard saw the boy’s mother in his face. If she’d lived through childbirth, he’d have given her a hut in the village, might even have found her a husband. Gerard hadn’t loved the peasant girl, only found her winsome and responsive.

But he loved his son.

Gerard scrunched nearly to kneeling as Daymon continued to stare, yearning to reach out to the boy, but he waited. Then a smile touched Daymon’s mouth. Recognition lighted green eyes and little arms reached upward.

Scooping the boy from the floor, Gerard gave Daymon a hug. The boy clung, squeezing tight with both arms and legs. Daymon’s obvious need stung Gerard’s heart. The boy hadn’t known his mother, had recently lost his grandfather, and now his father was about to leave again. Daymon had no one else, besides nursemaids, to whom he could turn for affection.

Gerard inwardly winced, facing the inevitable. He must marry. He should have married years ago, for both Daymon’s sake and Wilmont’s.

His father hadn’t shirked his duty to find a bride for his eldest son. Gerard vaguely remembered talk of a marriage contract to the daughter of another baron, but the girl hadn’t survived childhood. Several years later, Father had bargained for another maiden, but for some reason that betrothal hadn’t come about.

Any number of females would vie for the honor of becoming mistress of Wilmont. The woman he settled on must be of good blood, and able to run a household. She needn’t possess flawless beauty or a large dowry, though he wouldn’t mind a comely wife or additional funds or land.

More important to him than wealth or beauty was that his wife be capable of affection. He most definitely wanted a mate who wouldn’t balk at sharing the marriage bed and producing heirs. He didn’t need love—the emotion having no place in a good marriage contract—merely the woman’s acceptance of her place in his life.

Gerard raised Daymon to arm’s length into the air and smiled at the boy’s delighted squeal.

Acceptance. Was there a woman in all of England or Normandy who would willingly open her heart to Daymon, despite his bastard birth?

As Gerard lowered his son back into his arms, he saw Lady Ursula across the hall. Her glower set his resolve.

Such a woman must exist. He need only find her.

But first he would deal with Basil of Northbryre. Nothing must interfere with bringing that whoreson to his knees.




Chapter Two (#ulink_c975b9ec-56f0-5d3a-b341-4a58d38876d4)


Ardith knelt on the dirt floor of the sleeping chamber. In front of her swirled the most exquisite cloth she’d ever had the pleasure to pierce with a needle. As her sister Bronwyn turned in a slow circle, the emerald silk flowed past in soft, shimmering waves.

“Halt,” Ardith ordered, then adjusted a holding stitch along the gown’s hem.

“Oh, Ardith, Kester will be so pleased,” Bronwyn stated with a breathless quality in her voice.

Ardith smiled. Bronwyn’s husband, Kester, was besotted with his wife. Knowing how much new gowns pleased Bronwyn, he sought exotic fabrics as gifts. Kester had bought this rare silk from an Italian merchant, right off the ship.

Bronwyn had then rushed to Lenvil. Though she had servants to make her gowns, Bronwyn always returned home to Ardith when she wanted something special. According to Bronwyn, this gown would make its debut at Christmas.

“If you are pleased, Kester will be delighted. Now, turn once more.” She again inspected her handiwork before declaring the session finished.

Ardith stood, flicking pieces of rushes and dirt from her brown, coarse-wool gown. Though she owned two lovely gowns—a yellow wool for winter and a light green linen for summer—she rarely wore them unless visitors were expected. For everyday chores, peasant-woven cloth served best.

She pushed aside Bronwyn’s honey-blond braid to undo the lacing on the gown. “Now, you must finish your story.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Well, as I said, King Henry sent Kester to meet the pope’s envoy. Kester met the ship at Hastings and brought the priest to overnight at our holding before going on to London.” Bronwyn slipped out of the emerald silk and donned a blue wool. She continued, “From what I hear, Pope Paschal is very angry with King Henry, to the point of threatening excommunication.”

Ardith desperately wanted to hear more of the envoy and the king. Having lived her entire ten and seven years at Lenvil, she hungered for news of life beyond the manor. But the jingle of tack and the thud of horses’ hooves cut short the conversation.

“Father has returned earlier than I expected,” Ardith remarked. “No doubt his leg hurts and he cut his inspection short. Would you fetch him a goblet of warm wine? The brew usually eases his pain.”

“How do you bear the grouch?” Bronwyn asked, placing a veil of sheer blue linen over her hair, securing it with a silver circlet.

Ardith shrugged. “’Tis the change of season affecting his mood. Once winter sets in and he stays off his leg, Father’s temper will improve.”

“Why does he bother to inspect the fields once the harvest is in? Heavens, why would anyone want to look at nothing but clots of dirt? You could tell him which fields to plant next spring and which to leave fallow.” Bronwyn suddenly smiled. “Ah, I see. Father thinks he decides on his own, does he?”

“Nor will I have him think otherwise,” Ardith warned.

“As you wish, but do not leave me alone with him overlong. He will ramble on about oats and cabbages.” With a sigh, Bronwyn turned and left the chamber.

Shaking her head in amusement, Ardith gathered up thread and needle and scraps of cloth, thinking of how different her life was from that of her sisters. One by one the girls had left home. Edith had entered the convent; the others had all married. By default, Ardith became the lady of the manor, if not in title, in practice. Someday, Corwin would marry and bring his bride to Lenvil. But since neither Harold nor Corwin appeared eager for that event, her place at Lenvil was secure for a while longer.

For forever, Ardith hoped, and to ensure her place she’d studied Elva’s herb lore. She’d learned which herbs soothed a roiling stomach, which numbed an aching tooth, how to mix powders for headaches and salves for burns. She could poultice a wound and even act as midwife.

Surely Corwin would allow her to stay at Lenvil for those talents alone, as Harold had allowed his sister to remain near the manor. Had Elva not become outlandish with her heathen rituals—tossing animal bones and muttering pagan chants—Harold might have allowed Elva to live in the manor. But the day Elva had slit open a piglet to read the entrails was the day Harold had banished his sister to a hut in the village.

Though Ardith longed for a proper home of her own, she knew it folly to dream. She placed a hand over her belly, over the ugly scar marring her flesh, sealing her future. Elva had explained to a bewildered girl that though the wound wasn’t deep enough to kill, the damage was severe.

Ardith could never marry because she could bear no man an heir.

Ardith shook her head. Why was she thinking of her barrenness now? Why did she let Bronwyn’s visits, witnessing her sister’s happiness, bring on these bouts of self-pity?

She could hear Bronwyn’s light laughter and the sound of low, male voices coming from the hall. As she passed under the arch separating the two rooms of the manor, she saw not her father, but Corwin.

Her delight wiped away the dark mood. Without thinking, seeing only her beloved twin, Ardith squealed his name and ran across the room. Corwin barely had time to brace his feet before Ardith flung her arms around his neck.



From several yards away, Gerard watched Ardith gleefully sprint into Corwin’s open arms. He recognized her at once, though he hadn’t seen her for several years. There was no mistaking her deep auburn hair and vivid blue eyes.

Corwin lifted his sister and swung her around. Gerard barely heard the soft laughter of those around him as he watched the twins embrace. He was remembering the one time he had swept. Ardith from her feet, held an adorable bundle of little girl in his arms.

Ardith had blossomed into a beautiful young woman.

She was gowned in coarse wool that hugged her ripe bosom and tiny waist before flaring over the curve of rounded hips.

Her smile alone could lift a man’s spirits. Ardith’s smile for Corwin caught not only her mouth and eyes, but lighted her entire face.

The tug in the area of his heart he attributed to envy. Of all the women in his life, from court ladies to peasant wenches, no woman had ever greeted him with such abandon.

Corwin put Ardith down. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Corwin, you inconsiderate beast, I could hit you,” she said, and did, lightly on the shoulder.

“What have I done now?”

“What you have not done is answer my letters! Did you not teach me to read and write so we could exchange messages?”

Corwin smiled. “As I recall, I taught you the skill because someone pleaded with me to do so, not trusting old Father Hugh’s eyesight.”

“True, but did you not tell me to practice my writing by sending you messages, which you promised to answer? Fie on you, Corwin. How could you let me worry so?” Ardith backed away and looked him up and down. “You seem in one piece.”

“Hale and hardy,” Corwin affirmed. With a mocking bow, he added, “And most repentant. You must understand, however, that I had little time to take quill in hand. And believe me, Ardith, you would not wish to read of the war.”

Gerard’s envy increased as Ardith brushed a comforting hand along Corwin’s arm.

“Was it horrible?” she asked.

“Aye. But I am home now, and in need of food and drink. Can you provide a keg of ale to help us celebrate?”

Ardith hesitated before answering, clearly dissatisfied with Corwin’s short answer and change of subject. Then she nodded and smiled. “I believe I can. Tell me, how long can you stay?”

Corwin looked to Gerard.

Gerard answered, “For only a few days.”

Ardith froze, though her cheeks grew hot. With her complete attention on greeting Corwin, she hadn’t noticed the other people in the hall. Corwin hadn’t made the trip from Wilmont alone. A goodly number of Wilmont soldiers mingled with Lenvil’s men-at-arms and Bronwyn’s escort.

And the niggling feeling grew that she knew that voice. Ardith prayed, a futile prayer, that the disembodied voice belonged to an unknown knight. She prayed that, just this once, the fates would be kind. But only one other man of her acquaintance could sound so much like Baron Everart. Gerard. Gathering her poise, she turned.

Her heart leaped as she beheld Gerard. Gerard—no longer the young man who’d carried her from hall to pallet and spoken comforting words to a distraught maiden, but a man full grown. The man whom, but for a cruel twist of fate, she might have married.

The young lion, Elva had christened the heir to Wilmont. The image had suited Gerard perfectly as a young man, but the cub had matured.

His eyes hadn’t changed, but for the scant deepening of the lines in the corners. Green eyes, set wide of a noble nose, were still as bright as spring leaves. Over his eyes fanned thick lashes and heavy brows, matching his flaxen, shoulder-length hair.

The wavy lengths were damp and slightly matted against his head from the pressure of a recently worn helm. Her fingers itched to slide through the locks, to fluff his hair into a mane worthy to frame his high, proud forehead and square, tenacious jaw.

Over a simple black tunic he wore a hauberk of chain mail. His massive shoulders easily bore the weight of the armor as well as the baldric from which hung a scabbard and ponderous broadsword, tilted within easy reach of his right hand.

Gerard stood with regal ease. His very stance conveyed an aplomb that only a man sure of his position and power could attain.

He must have found her scrutiny amusing for he cocked his head and the corners of his mouth rose in a small smile.

“Greetings, Ardith. Had I known of your concern for Corwin, I would have ordered him to write, I assure you.”

His words snapped Ardith from her trance. Blessed Mother! She was staring at Gerard as if he were a curiosity from a distant land. Controlling the tremble of her hands and knees, she dipped into a low curtsy. She closed her eyes as she lowered her head, striving for composure.

She mustn’t allow Gerard to see the turmoil of her thoughts or the ache in her heart. He must never know how his kind words and thoughtful gesture had captured the fancy of a young maiden. He must never know how she cherished the memory in night dreams and unguarded lonely moments.

“Baron Gerard,” she honored him, just above a whisper.

Gerard uncrossed his arms. The last time Ardith had curtsied to him, she’d tumbled forward, and for some perverse reason he was wishing she would do so again, just so he could catch her.

This time, however, Ardith had her body under control.

And her thoughts, he realized, as Ardith looked up and met his gaze squarely. Gone was the apprehension, the brief glint of anxiety he’d seen in her azure eyes.

He held out his hand. Ardith hesitated, then placed her fingers across his palm and rose as bidden. Her hand wasn’t fragile, like Bronwyn’s, but sturdy. No callus marred the pads nor redness blemished the palm, but neither was her grasp flaccid from idleness.

Gerard yielded to an impulse. He raised her fingers to his mouth, brushing his lips across blunt-cut nails. She didn’t jerk away. Instead, she squeezed his hand.

He must have misread the anxiety he’d seen in her eyes. She assuredly didn’t fear him, or shy from his touch, for which he felt inordinately grateful.

“Still the scamp, I see,” he teased, nudging her memory of their first meeting.

She blinked in surprise, then blushed, a wonderful rose shade that complemented her unveiled auburn hair. “I am truly sorry, my lord, for not greeting you first as is proper. And you must think me a hamdan for chastising Corwin in the presence of others.”

“Shall we say you are spirited? Besides, I believe Corwin may deserve the rebuke.”

She cast a guilty glance toward Corwin. “Actually, my lord, I always knew how Corwin fared. Baron Everart, God rest his soul, thought it important to keep my father aware of Corwin’s whereabouts and health. Your steward, Walter, continued the practice.”

Gerard nodded in approval. He must remember to commend Walter. Then her expression changed, and Gerard stood transfixed as she continued.

“I know my father will speak formally for Lenvil, but until he does, I offer our condolences on the death of your father…and Richard. From what Corwin has told me, you were fond of them both.”

Ardith’s genuine compassion tugged at his heart. He’d almost mistaken her words of sympathy for mere platitudes, but then the mistake would have been natural. Rarely did any of his acquaintances or peers show true emotion.

“My thanks,” he said quietly. Stating how deeply her words touched him proved impossible. Nor would he do so before so many people.

“Ardith,” Bronwyn prompted, “you did promise the men a keg of ale.”

Ardith looked at Bronwyn, confused for a moment, then she blushed and pulled her hand from his grasp.’“Of course. Bronwyn, would you see Baron Gerard seated? Corwin, come with me to carry the keg. By your leave, my lord?”

Walking across the short span of yard to the storage room attached to the kitchen, Ardith scolded Corwin. “You could have warned me the baron watched.”

“Truth to tell, I forgot Gerard was standing there.”

Ardith wondered how anyone could forget that a baron of Gerard’s stature stood within the same room.

“You could have written from Normandy, let us know you were well,” she stated as they entered the storage room.

“Come now, Ardith. If I had taken a fatal injury, you would have known.”

Alone amid only sacks of grain and barrels of salted meat, Ardith felt safe to speak of the bond she shared with her twin. They had been warned by Elva, as children, to never speak of it lest someone declare them witches. “Do you truly believe so? Normandy is very far away.”

Corwin put a hand on her shoulder. “What do you think?”

He sounded so sure and Ardith wanted to believe. “You may be right,” she said, then turned to the task at hand. “Now, I believe the brewer’s finest is in that corner. Are you strong enough to heft the keg?”

“Chit,” Corwin chided, hoisting the keg to his shoulder. “I could toss you over my shoulder and not feel the weight.”

Ardith didn’t challenge him. Corwin would feel compelled to prove his boast. Instead, she asked, “How many men are in the Wilmont company?”

“Twenty, besides Baron Gerard and myself.”

She mentally sorted through available supplies. “I will inform the cook. Evening meal will be a test of her skills. There is little fresh meat to work with.”

“The men will not care, so long as the food is hot and plentiful. You may want to send someone to the village to get help with the carting and serving, though.”

Ardith nodded. “And for extra pallets for the Wilmont men-at-arms. The hall will be crowded tonight”

“You need not fret over sleeping space for Gerard, or most of Wilmont’s men. Even now they raise the tents.”

“Tents? In this cold?”

Corwin smiled. “These are true soldiers, Ardith, not pampered companions. Come, look at the field.”

Ardith followed Corwin out of the storage room. In the field nearest the manor, Wilmont’s men-at-arms erected small tents around a mammoth tent of scarlet and gold.

“Gerard likes his privacy,” Corwin said. “Nor would he ask anything of his men that he is not willing to do himself. Granted, his tent is more opulent, but a tent nonetheless.”

The scarlet tent appeared sturdy, capable of blocking chilly winds. Yet, why would Gerard forgo the comfort of a bed? With relief Ardith realized she wouldn’t need to try to sleep in the same room with Gerard. Sleep would be hard enough to come by this night.

“Well, that solves that dilemma,” she said. “Now all I must do is find someone to send to the village.”

Corwin glanced around. “Ah, there is a lad who looks like he needs something to do. Thomas! Over here!”

A brown-haired lad crossed the yard at a brisk walk.

“Thomas, this is my sister Ardith. She has an errand for you. Be quick about it and she might feed you tonight.”

“Corwin! What a cruel thing to say! Mayhap I will not feed you tonight.”

Corwin shifted the keg and headed for the manor. “I have the ale. ’Tis all I need.”

Ardith smiled and looked back at Thomas—just in time to see the uncertainty leave his eyes. And not, she realized, about being fed, but about her identity.

She couldn’t blame the lad. Ardith knew she looked more peasant than lady in her coarse gown and uncovered hair. Which meant Gerard had probably noticed as well.

Ardith gave Thomas directions and instructions, then helped the cook until a group of women arrived from the village. When she finally returned to the manor, she found Harold had come home and, much to her chagrin, saw Elva seated in the shadowed corner near the tapestry.

Wary, Ardith approached her aunt. “I did not expect you to come up from the village.”

Elva’s gray, piercing eyes scanned the room and landed squarely on Gerard. Her thin mouth turned grim, and Ardith felt a twinge of panic. Elva’s tongue had grown less cautious as she aged. Though she’d never voiced her hatred of Normans in front of Lenvil’s liege lord, Ardith feared that, one day, Elva’s restraint would dissolve and evoke punishment.

The old woman taunted, “Afraid I may anger Harold? Fret not, dear. He is too busy groveling before the Norman to notice me. Go, be about your duties.”

Ardith shot a worried glance toward where Harold was relating an account of his day’s ride, claiming Gerard’s complete attention.

Well, not complete. Occasionally, as she oversaw the serving of the meal, she could feel Gerard watching. She firmly ignored the ripple in her midsection whenever their gaze happened to meet, or the flutter in her heart whenever his deep, rich voice drifted into her range of hearing.

After the meal, she waited until Harold had convinced Gerard and Corwin to hunt on the morrow before asking Corwin where he intended to sleep.

“Lay me a pallet in the sleeping chamber,” he answered. “I have had enough of wet and cold. Gerard may prefer a tent, but not me.”

“What? Sleep in a tent!” Harold blustered. “My lord, surely Ardith told you that you are welcome to the bed. If she did not, she neglects her duties. ‘Tis your due!”

Ardith held her breath, fearing Gerard might agree to both sleeping in the bed and her neglect of duty.

“Nay, Harold, keep your bed,” he said. Then Gerard looked straight into her eyes. “I will be quite comfortable…alone…on my pallet of furs.”




Chapter Three (#ulink_29eb4a7c-dd2b-5337-8b85-f0e91abd6c78)


Gerard’s spirits soared with the goshawk. The predator flew well within range of sight, her keen eyes searching the earth for whatever quarry the dogs might flush out.

Then she hovered against the pale, midafternoon sky.

“Another hare,” Gerard said quietly, having spotted the hawk’s intended prey.

Harold commented, “Never misses, does that one.”

The hawk stooped silently, deadly, and made the kill. Gerard whistled the signal that Corwin had taught him earlier this morning. The hawk answered with a cry of triumph and flew to the padded leather on Gerard’s outstretched arm. He fed her a reward of raw meat, noting how gently she took the tidbit from his fingers.

Accustomed to flying peregrine falcons, Gerard had selected the goshawk from the mews at Corwin’s suggestion. She’d quickly displayed her strength in the field.

“Nary a mark on the bugger ‘cept where the talons caught the head. That makes four clean kills, milord,” the game bearer said, presenting the hare for inspection.

“Of course ‘tis not marked,” Corwin said. “Gwen never tears a pelt, so Ardith can use the fur for clothing.”

“Gwen?” Gerard asked, eyeing the bird.

Harold snorted. “Aye, Ardith named her Gwen. ‘Tis a wonder the hawk hunts, for all the chit spoils the bird. I swear that hawk would heed Ardith’s fist without the call.”

“She does, at least in the mews and the yard,” Corwin stated to Harold’s disgust. “Ardith trained her, feeds her, never uses another bird when she hunts.”

“Made a ruddy pet out of a hawk,” Harold complained.

Gerard reacted privately, surprised and oddly proud that Ardith had trained the hawk. He knew ladies who liked to fly hawks, but none who would trouble to train her own bird.

“If Ardith likes the hunt, why did she not join us?”

Corwin answered. “Ardith said she wanted to finish stitching a gown that Bronwyn desires for court.”

“About time the chit had a bit of work to do. Lord knows she has few duties about the manor,” Harold huffed.

Corwin turned to hide a frown. Gerard managed to keep an indifferent expression. He’d noticed, yesterday noon and last evening, the efficiency of Lenvil’s people. Ardith’s gentle but firm hand had guided the manor’s servants.

Bronwyn, dressed in fine clothing and delicate slippers, had played hostess. But Ardith, in coarse wool and leather boots, had assured a plentiful table laid, prompted a lad to keep the fire fed, kept ale and wine at the ready, and asked John, captain of Gerard’s guards, if Wilmont’s men-at-arms needed extra blankets.

He’d also noticed a decidedly independent side of her nature. She’d ignored his invitation to share his furs. She might have misunderstood, but Gerard didn’t think so.

“Despite a preference for her mistress, the hawk flew well for me this day.” Gerard deliberately kept his praise light. If he marveled overmuch at the bird, Harold would feel duty bound to offer Gwen as a gift. He didn’t want the bird.

He wanted the bird’s owner.

Harold shifted in the saddle. Gerard guessed the man’s leg hurt, having noticed his limp yesterday. But Harold’s dignity wouldn’t allow him to complain before his liege lord.

“I suggest we return to the manor,” Gerard said, halting the hunt. The party had bagged several hares and a few partridges and pheasants. Gerard supposed Harold’s hunting forays were short and infrequent. Then who hunted fresh meat? Ardith? Perhaps. Gerard didn’t doubt she could, not when flying so magnificent a bird as Gwen.

“Shall I take her, my lord?” the attendant offered.

Gerard looked at the hawk comfortably perched on his arm, grooming her feathers. Gerard wrapped the leather jesses around his arm.

“Nay, she is content and not heavy. I will carry her.”

“As you wish, my lord,” the attendant said, looking askance, but hurrying to take Harold’s bird, then Corwin’s.

“Are you content to ride with me, Gwen?” Gerard softly asked. The hawk simply continued her preening. Gerard chuckled and turned his horse in the direction of the manor.

Gerard looked around for Corwin, who’d been riding at his side. For some reason Corwin lagged a pace behind, studying a copse of trees to his right.

“My son remembers his triumph,” Harold said with pride. He called out, “Proud of you, I was, Corwin. Never was there a finer meal than the boar you slew with your sword, and you a bit of a lad and new to weaponry.”

Corwin rode up beside Gerard. “Killing the boar was no great feat, Father. ‘Twas kill or be killed.”

Addressing Gerard, Harold protested. “Corwin nearly separated the beast from his head. Cook had to piece the boar back together before impaling him on a spit. You should remember the feast, my lord. Baron Everart brought you and Richard to help us celebrate Corwin’s bravery.”

“’Twas Stephen who came, Father, not Richard.”

“Are you sure? I seem to recall…”

“Quite sure. Richard was ill and could not come.”

Harold stared at the horizon for a long moment, then said, “Aye, ‘twas Stephen. No matter. ‘Twas a fine feast to honor Corwin’s prowess.”

Gerard remembered the feast. He’d been seated between Bronwyn and Edith, nodding at Bronwyn’s endless chatter and wondering if Edith would ever end her prayer so he could eat. In his boredom his gaze had wandered the hall, finally resting on a head peeking from behind the corner tapestry.

After the meal, he’d circled the hall to investigate and found Ardith crouched in the corner. The discovery had been the one bright moment of an otherwise dreary day.

“Harold has the right of it, Corwin. You saved not only your life, but Ardith’s. ‘Twas a feat to warrant pride.”

Gerard saw Corwin’s pallor, but before he could remark on it, Corwin pulled ahead and grabbed the game bag from the bearer.

“If we are to feast on this meat tonight, I best get it back to the manor.”

“Tell Ardith not to stew the hares,” Harold ordered. “I want them roasted.”

“Aye, Father.” Corwin wheeled and rode off.



Ardith shooed a goat from the manor doorway. Since the weather had turned cold, the animals relentlessly sought the warmth of indoors. The peasants might share their huts with sheep and oxen, but Ardith was firm in herding the manor’s animals toward their outdoor pens—except the hunting hounds, one of which loped past on his way to a spot by the fire.

She glanced beyond where Corwin now dismounted, looking for the rest of the hunting party. Gerard hadn’t yet returned. She fought the disappointment, and lost.

Ardith had always known that someday she would again see Gerard. She hadn’t known how much the meeting would hurt.

Last night, awake on her pallet, she’d relived their first meeting. She’d again felt Gerard’s tender concern for an injured maiden, heard those words he’d uttered to put her at ease. But mostly she remembered the comfort of curling in Gerard’s arms as he’d carried her from hall to pallet.

Just before falling asleep in the wee hours before dawn, she’d convinced herself she was glorifying a childhood fancy. Then had come the dream, of the man Gerard, standing in the glen where the boar had attacked, his arms reaching out to her, beseeching. She’d tried to run to him, but no matter how fast she ran she couldn’t reach Gerard.

Forced to admit a continued enchantment with Gerard, she resolved to stay as far away from him as possible. Later, after Gerard left Lenvil, she would mourn the penalty imposed by her wounding but once more, then put aside for all time the folly of longing for a husband and children.

Corwin handed over the game bag. She almost dropped the heavy pouch.

“A fine hunt,” she commented, inspecting the contents.

“Father says—”

“He wants the hares roasted,” she finished for him, shaking her head. “He will risk his few remaining teeth for the sake of his pride. Who took the hares?”

“Gerard and Gwen.”

“She flew well for him, then?”

“Very.”

By his clipped answers, Ardith knew some problem chewed at Corwin’s vitals. His next words confirmed her belief.

“Ardith, could we speak in private?”

Ardith waylaid a servant as they entered the manor. She gave him the game bag and instructions for the cook. After filling two cups with mead, she sat on a stool across the table from Corwin.

Corwin took a long pull of mead. His blue eyes locked on her own, then he looked away, as though he’d glimpsed her deepest thoughts and recoiled.

“Corwin?”

He leaned forward, his arms crossed on the table. “Ardith, are you happy here at Lenvil?”

The question was so unexpected it took her a moment to answer. “I am content,” she said, keeping near to the truth. “I have duties to keep me occupied, people to talk to. My hawk. My horse.”

Corwin’s tone turned sarcastic. “And Father. He believes you waste away your days doing nothing. Were you to vanish for a time, he would realize who truly runs the manor. He thinks Mother trained the servants so well that they merely carried on with their duties after her death. God’s wounds, he—”

“Corwin, stop,” Ardith said firmly, putting a hand on his arm. “Father is as he has always been. He has never put any store by his daughters. He judges us all witless and useless. Watch tonight how he treats Bronwyn. Do you know he has not said a kind word to her since she came to visit?”

“Bronwyn has a home of her own to return to, a husband who treats her like a princess. But you, you must stay and bear his ill-treatment.”

“You are kind to think of my feelings. But if you must know, I learned long ago to ignore Father’s attitude. The more harsh and loud he grows with the onset of age, the more I close my ears.”

“’Twas not just Father who ignored you, but Mother, right up to the day she died. Then he left you to the mercy of Elva, especially after…”

Corwin took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Amazed by her brother’s distress, she asked, “What happened to rile you so?”

Corwin cleared his throat. “Father complained about you to Gerard, and when we passed the glen where you were…hurt, Father started in again. Not once did he say he had almost lost a daughter that day, only bragged of how his son had provided meat for a feast. Then Gerard said…said I should be proud of how I saved you.”

“Well, you should. Corwin, had you not killed the boar, he might have attacked me again. I could have died.”

“Had I protected you as I should, you would not have been hurt. Had you not suffered the wound, you might have married and escaped Father’s scorn.”

Corwin’s pained scowl and sharp words drove deep into Ardith’s heart. Never had she imagined the horrible guilt he bore, and she knew that if she tried to ease that guilt now, he wouldn’t listen.

Soon Harold would be home. If he found Corwin sulking, Father would surely find her at fault.

If Corwin refused comfort on events past, maybe she could ease his mind about the present and future.

“The past is past and cannot be undone no matter who claims fault. What matters is this day and the morrows to come. I am content, Corwin. I have a roof above my head and meat on my trencher. Someday Father will no longer be lord of Lenvil, you will. Then you will decide my place in the manor, judge if I still warrant sheltering.”

Corwin looked horrified. “Ardith, I would never turn you out. You will always have a place at Lenvil.”

Ardith smiled. “Then I have no regrets,” she lied. There was but one regret, and his name was Gerard.

“I wish…” Corwin began, but didn’t finish.

Ardith could hear the hunting party returning, ending her attempt to battle Corwin’s demons. “Corwin, would you do me the favor of keeping Gerard out of the manor for a while?”

Distracted, Corwin’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“I have a hot compress prepared to ease the pain in Father’s leg. If he does not use it, he will growl at everyone for the remainder of the day, and he will not use it if Gerard is anywhere in sight.”

“How do you know his leg pains him?”

“It always does after he rides.”

Corwin nodded as they pushed away from the table. Ardith turned toward the door. At the edge of her vision she caught movement. Little Kirk, just learning to walk, reached out a tiny hand toward the rocks encircling the central fire pit. Skirt and braid flying, Ardith sped toward the babe and reached him just as he put his hand on the hot stone.

The boy howled. Ardith bent and scooped him into her arms, oblivious to all but the anger pounding in her head. She quickly checked the boy’s hand, found the fingertips lightly burned, and looked around for Belinda, Kirk’s mother, who was nowhere in sight.

“Belinda!” she shouted.

“Cease your caterwauling, girl,” Harold ordered as he entered, Gerard at his heels. “What vexes you this time?”

“Kirk burned his hand because Belinda left him on his own again,” Ardith complained. “I swear, I will take a switch to the wench when I find her! If she chooses not to watch after her son, she should ask another to do so.”

Ardith tenderly brushed away the large tears that streamed down the boy’s cheeks as he sucked his fingers.

“Utter waste of time, worrying over the whelp of a whore,” Harold murmured.

His words didn’t surprise Ardith, but his next action mortared her feet to the floor. Harold plucked the tiny hand from the babe’s mouth and examined the fingers. “I wager the brat has learned to beware the fire.” Harold released Kirk’s hand and limped toward the dais.

Harold had never shown the least interest in any child about the manor, save one—his son, Corwin. An utterly absurd notion struck and refused dismissal. Even while chastising herself for such foolishness, Ardith studied Kirk’s face for likeness to Harold’s. But Kirk favored Belinda, had no obvious feature from which to identify his sire.

Ardith gasped as a stream of warm water hit her backside, soaking her gown and hair, droplets flying forward onto her cheeks. She spun and saw Corwin put down a bucket.

“Blast you, Corwin! Have you lost your wits?”

“Would you rather I let you burn?”

She felt a tug on her plait. Gerard held up the end of her braid for her to see. She’d lost all but an inch of hair below the leather thong.

Gerard’s tone was pensive as he fingered the singed braid. “Your hair must have brushed the flames when you reached for the child.”

“Oh,” was all she could say, watching Gerard’s large hand twist and play with the burned strands. Had she known him better, she might have understood the odd look that crossed his face, then vanished.

Gerard reached for the babe and barked orders. “Corwin, find the boy’s mother. Ardith, change your gown before you catch a chill. Bronwyn, help her.”

“I will see to Ardith,” Elva announced.

Ardith hadn’t noticed Bronwyn and Elva enter the manor. Nor did she pay them much heed now, watching how easily Gerard handled Kirk, flipping the babe up and around to ride atop massive shoulders. Gerard didn’t even seem to mind when Kirk grabbed fists full of golden locks to secure his perch.

Gerard gave Elva a chilling look. “Are you not Lenvil’s herbswoman?”

Elva’s glare was colder. “I am, my lord.”

“Then be about your duties, woman. Harold needs care.”

Before Elva could retort, Ardith intervened. “There is a hot compress in the cauldron,” she told Elva, then turned to Gerard. “My lord, Father will refuse treatment if you remain in the hall.”

Gerard stared at her for a moment, then said, “The lad and I will be in my tent until Corwin finds the mother.”

He headed for the door, stopping only to grab a blanket from a servant’s pallet to toss over Kirk.

“He misses Daymon,” Corwin said in a low voice.

“Daymon?”

“Gerard’s son is about a year older than Kirk.”

Ardith’s heart fell. “I did not know Gerard had wed.”

“He has not wed. Daymon is his by-blow, but you would never know from Gerard’s treatment of the boy.” Corwin sighed. “I had best find Belinda. If Gerard has taken a liking to Kirk, I fear she is in for a scolding worse than you could hope to match.”

Corwin strode off to find Belinda. Seething, Elva stomped toward the cauldron. With a sigh, Ardith walked toward the sleeping chamber. Bronwyn followed.

“Oh, dear,” Bronwyn moaned, picking up the scissors.

“Be quick,” Ardith said quietly.

With a few snips, Bronwyn trimmed the frazzled ends from Ardith’s braid, hair never before touched by scissors.

“Your gown is scorched beyond repair. ’Tis a miracle you were not burned,” Bronwyn said.

Ardith shook out her hair. “Since my hair is wet, I may as well wash it.”

“You will catch your death,” Bronwyn protested.

“I must dry it by the fire anyway.”

Bronwyn fetched a bucket of warm water and bar of rose-scented soap. Together they washed Ardith’s auburn tresses and wrapped her head in a length of linen.

Ardith changed into the dry clothing that Bronwyn had laid out—a chemise of ivory, and a wool gown of saffron yellow.

With bone combs in hand, they sought the heat of the fire and untangled the mass atop Ardith’s head. She bemoaned the loss of hair as she combed. No longer did the tresses reach down over her rump. When properly plaited, the braid would only hang to her waist.

But what import had the loss of a few inches of hair when measured against the possible disaster to Kirk? She hoped Gerard would truly throw the fear of God into Belinda for neglecting the babe. If not, Ardith planned to take Belinda to task after the evening meal.

Duty demanded she speak with Belinda to ensure Kirk’s safety. And there was one particular question she needed to ask of the woman. Belinda had never named Kirk’s sire. If Ardith’s hunch was correct, if Kirk was indeed her half brother, Belinda need never worry about the babe ever again.

Ardith wondered if her father would object to the plans forming in her head. Would Harold acknowledge a bastard son? She could cite Gerard as an example—and Baron Everart. She could also praise the king’s acknowledgment of his bastard children. According to Bronwyn, at last count the king had ten children, only two of them legitimate.

Would Belinda protest, refuse to relinquish the boy? No. Not having to care for her son would leave Belinda free to flit about as she chose.

The whore certainly had her place in the manor, keeping Harold’s few men-at-arms from molesting the village maidens. But there were times when Belinda’s chosen trade grated on Ardith’s nerves.

Like now, as Ardith wondered if the meeting in the tent would end with Belinda offering her body to Gerard—and Gerard accepting. Maybe, tonight, Gerard would have company in his tent, on his fur pallet.




Chapter Four (#ulink_e33ea12d-db29-543c-a4f2-c80d4a582fa2)


The cooking fire had died down to coals, so little light eased through the shuttered windows of the kitchen. Standing within the meager light, Ardith confronted Belinda.

“I will take better care of Kirk, milady,” Belinda said.

Ardith didn’t doubt Belinda would, at least as long as Gerard remained at Lenvil. According to Corwin, Gerard had threatened to strap Belinda to the post the soldiers used for spear practice should any harm come to Kirk.

Gerard’s threat had jolted Belinda. All evening she’d stayed close to Kirk, as if tethered to the babe. Even now Kirk slept against Belinda’s shoulder, wrapped within the folds of his mother’s mantle.

“I believe you will,” Ardith said. “My concern for Kirk goes beyond his safety, however. Belinda, could my father be Kirk’s father?”

“Nay, milady,” Belinda said.

Disappointed, Ardith pressed, “Are you sure? Do you know who Kirk’s father is?”

“Quite sure ‘bout lord Harold, milady. As a man grows old his parts wither. Poor Harold has to work hard to get his manroot stiff.”

“Oh?” Ardith choked.

“Aye, his days of begettin’ wee ones are over. You see milady, for the seed to take root, a man has to plant deep inside a woman. Harold just don’t stay long enough or hard enough for the sowin’ anymore.”

“I see.”

“Now you take a young, strappin’ big man like the baron. Lay enough wenches beneath him and he could sire his own army, he could. Aye, he would furrow deep. Wager he could plant three or four babes before takin’ a rest.”

Blessed Mother! How could Belinda so blithely speak of male private parts and the act that led to conception? Her father’s male private parts…Gerard’s!

Ardith knew how men and women coupled. One had only to walk into the hall at night to see men-at-arms and maids, servants and serfs, bouncing on pallets.

The sight and sounds had so disgusted her sister Edith that she’d fled to a nunnery. Not so her other sisters, who knew they would wed and were resigned to servicing their husbands. Though Bronwyn had never said as much, Ardith suspected her sister enjoyed the experience with Kester.

The one time Ardith had dared broach the subject, while learning midwife skills, Elva had dismissed the act as a needless waste of energy. “‘Tis men who cannot resist the urge to fornicate,” Elva declared. “They measure their worth by the size of their rod. A woman need only lie still and hope he is quick about his business. Be glad you need never endure the demands of a male.”

Ardith had wanted to ask if Elva judged from firsthand knowledge but lacked the courage. She suspected not, because Elva had never married. Nor could Ardith quite believe Elva’s statement. Too many maids smiled brightly on the morn after sharing a man’s pallet. Belinda certainly didn’t show any sign of suffering from male demands.

Had Belinda lain with Gerard? Was that how she knew his size and stamina? No, she hadn’t. Belinda had used a wistful tone as though she would like to, but hadn’t yet shared Gerard’s furs.

Embarrassed, but fascinated, Ardith asked, “How can you judge Baron Gerard’s, or any man’s…without…”

Ardith lost her courage, but Belinda understood.

“By his hands, milady. You take a look at the baron’s fingers. They be long and thick, so his rod be long and thick. Aye, he would be a real handful, mayhap two, that one. Do you want me to describe him for you should he—”

“Nay!” Ardith took a deep breath and regained her composure. “My interest is not personal, you understand. My duties as healer bid me ask. I must know how things work if I am to treat ailments and the like properly.”

“Of course, milady.”

Ardith knew from the smile in Belinda’s voice that she hadn’t fooled the whore.



Gerard pushed aside his empty goblet.

The hall was quiet except for a low crackle from the fire pit and an occasional intruding snore. Corwin had succumbed, lay sprawled across a bench. Harold slept, facedown on his forearms crossed on the table. Men-at-arms and servants had taken to pallets scattered across the floor.

The manor’s door opened and John entered on an icy gust of wind. “The watch is set, my lord,” he said, picking his way among the pallets to reach the table.

Gerard’s eyes narrowed as he waved John to a stool. “Why do you report instead of Lenvil’s captain?”

John removed his helmet to reveal midnight-black hair and a full, though neatly trimmed beard.

“I may have overstepped my authority, my lord,” John said with no apology in his voice, though he glanced at the sleeping Harold. “Since Lenvil has no defensive palisade or earthworks around the manor, I thought the most effective defense was to station extra sentries. I do not mind telling you, my lord, I feel naked in this place.”

“’Tis within your authority to assign guards as you deem necessary.”

“Aye, my lord, Wilmont’s men. But if you walk the perimeter tonight, you will find a few of Lady Bronwyn’s escort among the men of Wilmont and Lenvil. The lady’s men asked for duty. They have been here for a fortnight and grow restless, as duty-conscious soldiers will.”

John lowered his voice to a near whisper. “There is a lack of discipline among Lenvil’s guard I find disturbing. The watch is haphazard. I had to rouse several of Lenvil’s men for the night watch. They grumbled, expecting Wilmont soldiers to assume the duty.”

Gerard frowned. “The guard grows soft.”

“I fear so. They have no regular weapon practice, no sport or heavy work to build muscle or strength. Should an enemy attack, I fear the manor would be overrun before a rider could reach Wilmont for aid. Lenvil is vulnerable.”

Gerard felt his anger pulse, at Harold for allowing his guard to become lax, at himself for not seeing the situation immediately. As baron, final responsibility for Lenvil’s defense rested on Gerard’s shoulders.

That any of his holdings could be vulnerable irked Gerard. That Lenvil was easy prey made him furious.

He’d found ease at Lenvil.

The war in Normandy had been long and harsh, the death of his father a bitter blow. Fury at Basil ate at his innards. Frustration at King Henry’s order to deal with Basil in court grated against Gerard’s warrior nature.

At Lenvil, he’d found a haven.

Near the arch separating the manor’s two rooms, Gerard saw a flash of yellow. Why was Ardith awake and flitting about at this hour? Certainly not to speak with him. Ardith avoided him as though he were diseased.

He told John, “Tomorrow we shall measure the seriousness of the problem. Arrange some sport to test their mettle.”

John’s smile spread. “Perhaps a ball game, my lord?”

Gerard’s smile matched John’s. “You lead one team and I shall lead the other. Agreed?”

“With pleasure.”

“Good. Turn in, John. I will make the last round of the guard and ferret out our laggards.”

“Then I will see you next on the playing field, my lord. Prepare for a thrashing.”

Gerard laughed lightly as John picked up his helmet and strode from the manor to seek his tent and bedroll. Gerard glanced toward the arch. Ardith remained hidden.

He sighed inwardly. This obsession of hers to avoid his company was annoying—and presented a challenge. In many ways, it was to Ardith’s credit he felt content at Lenvil. Yet, it was also her fault he sometimes felt the leper, an outcast.

Ardith unbalanced his mind.

After his lecture to Belinda on the care of her son, Gerard had returned to the manor to see Ardith by the fire, her drying hair flowing about her shoulders. As she shook her head and combed her hair, the fire’s light had danced off reddish strands, highlighting her auburn tresses.

She’d changed her gown. The saffron wool hugged her body like a sheath from shoulders to hips where the skirt flared to swirl about her ankles. His loins had stirred when she arched backward toward the fire, closing her eyes, reaching to run her fingers through her hair.

The sensuous pose had ignited his desire. His manroot urged him to close the distance, to press his growing need against the woman’s place so enticingly presented. The thought of lifting her skirts and driving himself deep within her had made him shudder.

Then Ardith had opened her eyes and noticed him standing inside the doorway. She’d declared her hair dry and scurried off to the other chamber. She’d returned a short while later, her hair plaited and veiled, but she stayed as far away from him as was possible and still complete her duties.

And still she shunned him, hiding on the other side of the arch, unwilling to enter the hall while he was present His patience snapped.

“Ardith, come out,” he said brusquely.

Slowly, Ardith appeared from behind the timber. Though she still wore the saffron gown, she’d dispensed with the veil. Her plait fell forward across her chest, snuggled into the valley between her breasts.

“Well, what brings you from your pallet, my lady?” he asked when she didn’t move or speak.

“I came to fetch my father. He should sleep in his bed.”

Ah yes, the dutiful daughter, concerned for Harold’s needs. Harold—who spoke to Ardith only to complain, who noted her existence only when something disturbed his comfort. Such loyalty was commendable, but at the moment her devotion rubbed a raw spot on his temper.

“’Tis his own foolishness leaves him sprawled drunk across the table. Leave him sleep where he lies.”

Ardith’s chin came up. “’Tis you who bear blame for his drunkenness, my lord. He could not leave until you called a halt to the revelry and retired to your tent.”

A valid accusation, one he ignored.

She’d called him “my lord” with a touch of censure in her voice. What would his given name sound like coming from her lips, in her sweet voice that chimed melodious when she smiled, or better, in a breathless whisper hovering on the fulfillment of passion?

He looked down at Harold. The old man was too far gone with drink to wake easily. If Ardith insisted that her father sleep in his bed, then Harold need be carried.

Gerard stood, too quickly. Lenvil’s brewer made strong ale. He waited for the slight dizziness to fade, then commanded, “Take his feet.”

As Ardith chose her path among the pallets, Gerard hooked his arms under Harold’s, gripping him firmly about the chest. Ardith tugged at Harold’s legs, dragging them from beneath the table. Then she turned around and bent over, hooking her hands under Harold’s knees, presenting a prettily rounded bottom for Gerard to admire as she wiggled to secure her grip.

With a slight grunt, she straightened. “Ready, my lord?”

“Aye, my lady. Lead on.”

None too steadily they moved, Ardith laboring with the weight, Gerard battling the effects of drink mixed with lust.

Gerard was sweating by the time they dumped Harold onto the bed. He plopped down to sit on the bed, elbows on knees, chin on an upraised fist. The chamber hadn’t changed much over the years. Harold’s bed dominated the room. Coals in a small brazier reduced the chill. Three pallets dotted the floor. Bronwyn slept on one, the other two remained empty; one meant for Corwin, the other Ardith’s.

Ardith removed Harold’s boots and stood them near the brazier. Gerard felt a tug on the blanket beneath his rump. He didn’t move.

She came around to face him. “My lord, if you would stand a moment…” she said.

He reached out to capture her hand. She didn’t pull away. “Do you dislike me, Ardith? Am I so loathsome you must keep your distance?”

“Nay, my lord. I meant no offense. But I have duties to perform and…you came to visit with my father, and Bronwyn is the one skilled in courtly ways and conversation and—”

“You lie badly, Ardith.”

She bit her bottom lip and looked away. Gerard frowned and stood, slowly and carefully this time. He needed to get outside, into the cold air to banish the effect of the ale.

Still holding her hand, he felt the slight tremor that shook her. With his other hand he reached out and tilted her chin, forcing her gaze back to his face.

“Say my name, Ardith.”

She hesitated, then said musically, “Gerard.”

His fingertips moved from chin to cheek.

Harold stirred. “Ardith, a cup of water.”

Ardith retreated a step.

Gerard knew he was on the brink of acting the tyrant, of ordering Harold to get his own damned water, then hauling Ardith off to the privacy of his tent.

“’Till the morrow, Ardith,” he said, and left the chamber.



“Have they lost their wits?” Ardith exclaimed.

“Nay, Ardith, ‘tis but a game,” Bronwyn said, patting the frosted grass beside her on the hillside. “Come sit and watch. We should be safe at this distance.”

Ardith wasn’t so sure, though Bronwyn had chosen a viewing site at least an arrow-shot away from the men on the field.

“When Corwin said sport I thought he meant footraces, or wrestling. I never imagined—” Ardith indicated the field and tangle of men with a sweep of her hand “—this madness.”

“Have you never seen a ball game?” Bronwyn asked.

Ardith shook her head, then watched in horror as a man tossed a leather sphere to, she assumed, a teammate. Ball in hand, the man went down under a barrage of opponents. “They will kill each other.”

“Oh, you may have a bit of bleeding to stop and a few bones to straighten, but I doubt the blows will kill.”

“When does the sport end?”

“When the team with the ball crosses the goal, in this case the end of the field. Whichever team accomplishes the feat, wins. Baron Gerard’s team is getting close.”

Though the day was cold, some men played barechested, among them Corwin and Gerard. From what she could see, so far they had escaped injury. Others weren’t so fortunate. Blood ran from men’s noses and from deep scratches down their arms and across their chests. She tried to assess injuries, but her gaze kept drifting back to Gerard.

When not buried under a pile of men, Gerard was easy to pick out. He stood a head taller than the others, his golden hair a beacon on the gray day.

Bits of mud clung to the hair on his muscled, sculptured chest. His thighs bulged against his breeches, threatening to rip open the seams as he struggled. Black leather boots hugged his calves.

Where other men lumbered, Gerard moved with grace. Like a large cat, she thought. The young lion.

He reached down with splayed fingers and dug the ball out of the writhing mass at his feet. With a roar heard above the shouts and grunts of the other players, Gerard turned and tried to run. He bounded over one fallen man, but another caught his ankle, stopping his flight long enough for an opponent to leap on his back. Gerard dislodged the man with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

Gerard continued to shake off opponents. Caught up in the excitement of watching the display of raw strength, Ardith wanted to scream his name to cheer him onward. Then the tide turned.

Gerard’s challengers kept rising and attacking until he finally succumbed. It took four men, hanging on him like leeches, to bring him down.

Ardith’s stomach tightened as she watched for him to reappear. A clamor rose from the crowd. Whether the cheer was for Gerard’s prowess, or because he’d managed to toss the ball to Corwin, Ardith wasn’t sure.

She scanned the field. When she finally saw Gerard getting to his feet, she exhaled shakily and stood. “’Tis barbaric,” she complained to Bronwyn. “I will return to the manor and ready water and bandages.”

Bronwyn’s gaze never left the field as she delicately lifted a shoulder. “As you wish.”

Ardith tossed her hands in the air and turned toward the manor. Along the way she snared three serving girls, who protested having to leave the display of sweat-glistened male flesh.

“You will see their attributes up close shortly,” she told them. “If this idiocy continues, they will drop from wounds and exhaustion and need tending. I fear we may not get water heated before they drag the first of the fallen back to the manor.”

Ardith’s prediction proved true. As she cleaned scrapes and poulticed bruises, she noticed that Lenvil’s men-at-arms had taken the worst beating. Nearly all had returned battered and bruised. From the men’s talk, she knew the teams had been evenly divided, with men of all three loyalties on each side. Lenvil’s soldiers had succumbed early and hard, leaving the men of Wilmont and Bronwyn’s escort to play out the game.

As she glanced about the hall for another man to bandage, she saw Thomas standing in the doorway. He made a slight, beckoning hand motion. Thomas was dirty and a bit scratched, but otherwise seemed sound.

“My lady,” he said quietly as she reached him, “when you have a spare moment, would you attend Baron Gerard?”

Ardith’s apprehension blossomed. She pictured Gerard lying broken, bleeding profusely, dying on the playing field. “Where is he? How badly is he hurt?”

“In his tent, nursing a lump on his head.”

“Why did he not come into the manor?”

Thomas looked sincerely shocked. “Oh, no, my lady, he could not. He would never show any weakness before the men.”

Ardith looked around the hall. “Has the game ended?”

“Baron Gerard was the last man off the field.”

She thought to ask who won, then decided she didn’t care. She fetched a bowl and some rags, then gave the bowl to Thomas.

“The pond has frozen over. Go fetch ice and bring it to the baron’s tent”




Chapter Five (#ulink_f0f1421d-477c-5442-929b-9cd3a759612c)


Ardith pushed open the tent flap. Gerard sat on a stool near a small table, his booted feet spread for balance. With elbows on knees, he held his face in his hands.

“Did you get a cold rag?” he muttered.

“I sent Thomas for ice.”

Gerard slowly raised his head. “What do you here?”

“Thomas said you need tending.”

“I do not need tending. I need but a cold rag.”

“Apparently Thomas thought someone should look at your head. Since I am here, may I?”

He hesitated, then nodded. The motion made him sway. Her bottom lip between her teeth, Ardith crossed the exotic rug spread as a floor for the tent. Her fingers trembled as she pushed aside his sweat-wetted hair. The lump was as large as a goose’s egg and colored a nasty shade of blue.

Incredulous, she gasped, “You walked off the field?”

“Of course.”

Ardith shook her head. “Men and their cursed pride. I thought my father the most stubborn man in England. Next you will try to persuade me you have no headache.”

“Ardith, ‘tis but a little bump on the head. I have survived much worse.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She chose not to ask how he’d come by the scar below his right ear, or what weapon had carved the jagged line across his left ribs.

Thomas burst into the tent and put the bowl of ice on the table. “Will you need aught else, my lady?”

“Nay,” Ardith said, wrapping a chunk of ice in a rag. “Go into the manor and have those scratches cleansed.”

The young man had almost made his exit when Gerard growled, “Thomas.”

With a resigned sigh, Thomas turned. “My lord?”

Silence loomed as Gerard glared at the boy, silently expressing his displeasure. Then he said quietly, “Find John and Corwin and send them to me.”

Thomas nodded and fled.

Ardith set the ice packet on the table and looked around for a heavy object with which to break the ice. Her gaze traveled quickly over Gerard’s fur-piled pallet to a large oak trunk banded with black iron. Draped over the lid lay Gerard’s chain mail, upon which rested a conical helmet of leather and iron with a gleaming nose guard.

His sword stood sheathed in the corner, the hilt jewelencrusted and polished to brilliance. Ardith doubted she could lift the sword, much less use it to crush the ice.

Ardith picked up the packet and whacked it against the table. The ice cracked but didn’t break.

“Ardith, put it down,” Gerard wearily ordered.

She obeyed, then flinched when his fist hammered the packet, pummeling the ice into shards. He picked up the packet and put it to his head.

“You should lie down,” Ardith said.

“Not yet,” he replied, closing his eyes. “Mayhap after I speak with John and Corwin.”

“You should don a sherte.”

“Does my nakedness offend you?”

Ardith felt a blush rise. “Nay, my lord. I merely thought that given the cold air and the ice a sherte might provide some measure of comfort.”

“In the trunk.”

The helmet moved easily, but she struggled under the weight of the chain mail. From inside the trunk she drew an ivory linen sherte.

She held it out to him. “Brush the mud off first.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Any other orders, scamp?”

Ardith couldn’t resist. “Not as yet, my lord. Give me but a moment and I could surely think of another one or two.”

He sighed, put the packet on the table and brushed the mud from the profusion of hair on his chest. Was the hair as silky as it looked, as fine textured as that on his head?

As he pulled the sherte on, John entered, followed by Corwin.

“Well?” Gerard asked of John.

“’Tis as we feared, my lord,” John replied. He gave a sidelong glance at Corwin before continuing. “To almost a man, the Lenvil guards lack agility and stamina. Had they fought a battle, I fear most would have fallen within moments of attack. Of course, I have not seen them wield weapons.”

Though John tried to soften the report, Ardith realized instantly the reason for this morning’s game—a test of Lenvil’s guard, and they’d failed.

“Last night, I found two Lenvil soldiers asleep at their posts,” Gerard said. “Another did not hear me until I was close enough to slit his throat. Only one challenged my presence in time to raise an alarm.”

“I will have their heads,” Corwin said angrily.

Gerard smiled wryly. “They will need their heads, indeed all their wits, for what we are about to do to them. John, inform the men of arms practice tomorrow for both Wilmont and Lenvil. Bronwyn’s men may join us if they wish.

“Corwin, inspect Lenvil’s weapons. If needed, you may borrow arms from Wilmont stores. No man finds excuse to beg off due to lack of a weapon. And Corwin, ‘tis my place to speak of Lenvil’s weakness with Harold.”

“Aye, my lord,” Corwin said, but he wasn’t pleased.

“Now, tell me about Lenvil’s captain.”

“Sedrick has captained the guard since before I was born. He is almost Father’s age. ‘Tis odd, I remember him as an unyielding taskmaster, whether in discipline or skills. You think to tell Father to replace him?”

“Nay!” Ardith protested. Three pairs of stunned eyes swiveled to stare. She knew she meddled in matters outside her realm of authority, but to take the captaincy from Sedrick was unthinkable. Still, she’d bandaged far too many bruises and cuts. Maybe, just maybe, they were right.

“We shall see,” Gerard said. Again he addressed John. “I thought to leave in two days, but I will not leave until assured…Lenvil is well defended.”

John slapped Corwin on the shoulder. “Come. Let us see how much work needs to be done.”

During the ensuing silence, Ardith slowly walked over to the table, picked up the ice packet and gave it to Gerard. His fingers brushed her hand, arousing the warmth that surged through her whenever they touched. His hands, strong and callused and compelling, were larger than most men’s.

By his hands, milady. You take a look at the baron’s fingers. They be long and thick, so…

Ardith tore her gaze from Gerard’s hand to look at his face. Bright green eyes had darkened to emerald. His mouth slashed a hard line across his rugged visage.

“I spoke without thinking,” she said softly. “’Tis not by my say who captains the guard.”

He dismissed her audacity with a wave of his hand, asking, “Ardith, how ill is Harold?”

“His leg pains him when he overuses the limb.”

“There is more.”

Somehow, Gerard knew of the more serious ailment, though at the moment Harold enjoyed a good spell. She briefly considered denying her father’s affliction, but Gerard was Lenvil’s liege lord, and she hadn’t done as good a job of overseeing the manor as she’d thought.

“His memory suffers. Some mornings ‘tis a victory for him to find his boots. He becomes better at remembering events of decades past than a happening of the day before.”

“How long have you been overseeing Lenvil?”

“Nearly two years.”

“Why did you not inform Corwin or my father?”

“The manor has not suffered, nor has the village or any of our people. We sow and harvest crops, earn enough in milling fees to pay our rents to Wilmont. I did not, however, notice the slackening of the guard. For that, I apologize.”

Gerard shook his head. Ardith saw pain overshadow his anger.

“Gerard, please,” she whispered. “You must lie down.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You assume I can walk so far.”

“Will you allow me to aid you?”

He held out an arm. Ardith grasped him around the waist. He smelled of leather and sweat, of linen stored within oak—and an essence wholly male, wholly Gerard.

She wanted to run from the tent as much as she wanted to stay snuggled under his arm. The few steps to his pallet took forever, yet were completed too soon.

He slid down onto his furs. “I will have your word, Ardith, to say nothing of what transpired in this tent, either about the guard or my head.”

About the guard, she understood. About his head, she failed to comprehend. “Surely everyone already knows of the lump on your head. You were the last man off the field.”

“Of necessity, because my men expect it, and because I could barely walk a straight line. Only you and Thomas know how big the lump is and how it affected me. Beyond sending you out here, Thomas will say naught to anyone else.”

She’d protected her father’s dignity and pride for so long that she could do no less for Gerard. “You have my pledge of silence, my lord,” she said. He shifted the ice packet, reminding Ardith of his pain. “I have headache powders in the manor. I will mix one in a tankard of mead and send it out with Thomas.”

“Ardith! Ardith!” Elva’s shrill call interrupted.

Ardith smiled slightly. “If I am to keep your secret, my lord, I must waylay Elva.”

“Interfering old buzzard.”

She blamed Gerard’s nasty words on his sore head. She slipped through the tent flap, almost bumping into Elva.

“Oh, Ardith.” Elva sighed, nearly smothering Ardith with an embrace. “Be you all right? Did he hurt you?”

“Nay, Elva, be at ease,” Ardith soothed, gently pushing away. “The baron has no reason to do me harm.”

Elva grasped Ardith’s arms. “You must have a care, Ardith. You must beware the beast. He will tear you apart.”

The old woman’s warning of physical danger at Gerard’s hand baffled Ardith. She knew the only danger Gerard presented was to her heart, and the damage was already done.

“Come,” she said, guiding Elva back to the manor, steeling her resolve against Gerard’s prolonged visit. “Fret not The beast cannot harm what he cannot catch.”



Gerard looked on as Corwin bullied Lenvil’s guards. After a week of drills, the guards showed progress. But Corwin was still angry. Having found his birthright endangered, he challenged the soldiers to match his mastery. Though he was only ten and seven, Corwin’s skill with weapons had earned him the respect of even Wilmont’s knights.

After a long talk with Sedrick, who’d admitted a problem with his eyesight, Gerard had reserved the right to choose a new captain. Now, having tested and talked to each Lenvil soldier, Gerard still hadn’t chosen. To his mind, none was ready and he wouldn’t entrust Lenvil’s defense to a man not fully competent.

Gerard had realized, these past few days, it wasn’t Lenvil he strove to protect. The holding was a fine one and Corwin’s birthright. If the manor and village burned, the peasants and livestock scattered, the crops destroyed, the waste would raise his anger. His demand for justice would be swift against the knave who dared attack the holding.

But a manor could be rebuilt, people and cattle retrieved, crops replanted. Intolerable was the thought of Ardith’s fate should the manor fall.

Visions of lovely Ardith hovered at the edge of his mind, ethereal and subtle, but always with him. He caught himself looking for her in the yard or in the manor, listening for the sound of her voice. His enchantment grew with each passing day—and night.

As did his hunger. He couldn’t look upon Ardith without desire flooding his loins, hardening his manroot.

On the day she’d come to his tent to tend his head, he’d thought they reached an accord. But still she shunned him, as though she hadn’t gently touched his forehead and stood so close that he could feel her warmth and smell her unique scent.

Had the desire to bed Ardith been the only source of his vexation, he might have ordered her to his bed. Often he’d thought of winding her plait in his fist, dragging her into his tent and flinging her naked body down onto his furs. None would gainsay him.

Odd, how he willingly abandoned that right in order to win her favor. Winsome and eager was how he wanted Ardith. Aye, he wanted her passion, but he also wanted her affection. From Ardith he wanted more than the mere joining of bodies. She must be kept safe, because after concluding his business with Basil, Gerard intended to take Ardith as his wife.

He needed royal consent to marry, but could think of no reason why King Henry should disapprove of Ardith. Though not of noble blood, Ardith hailed from good stock. As fifth daughter she would have no dowry to speak of, but if Gerard didn’t begrudge the lack, Henry shouldn’t care. And she was Saxon, a happenstance likely to sway Henry to approve.

Gerard yearned to begin the delightful duty of siring a legal heir to Wilmont. Making babes with Ardith would be pure pleasure.

As for Daymon, Gerard was sure Ardith would lovingly accept his bastard son. Every child in the manor sought her out to soothe bumps and bandage scrapes. He strongly suspected her coddling eased their hurts more than the salves and strips of linen. She adored children, had threatened to whip Belinda over a bastard’s care.

But hellfire, why did he so want the one woman in the entire kingdom who refused to respond to the desire that flared whenever their eyes met?

Gerard turned toward the sound of a horse thundering toward the manor, his hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword. Then he recognized the messenger who rode one of Wilmont’s swiftest coursers. Foam frothed from the horse’s mouth as the courier reined to a halt.

“Baron Gerard,” the man said panting, holding out a rolled parchment. “From Walter. He bid me await your reply.”

Gerard untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. Rage blinded him for a moment as he read.

“When?” he growled at the messenger.

“Yesterday, my lord.”

Gerard crushed the message in a white-knuckled fist.

“What is amiss?” Corwin asked from beside him.

“Frederick has returned to Wilmont.”

“Has Milhurst fallen to Basil?”

“Frederick could not say because he was dead, strapped across his horse like game from the hunt. Someone killed him and led the horse near enough to Wilmont for the horse to find its way home.”

“Basil?”

“His minions, I suspect.” Gerard exploded. “Devil take him! His audacity is beyond endurance. Tell John to have the men ready to march on the morn. We leave for Westminster.”

Gerard stalked off to his tent. In quick, angry strokes he penned a message to Stephen, giving his brother permission to take whatever defensive measures he thought necessary.

After Richard’s wounding, Gerard’s first impulse had been to run a sword through Basil of Northbryre’s gullet. But King Henry’s staying hand had given Gerard time to realize that by seeking redress through the court he might gain title to Basil’s holdings without putting men on the field of battle. And by doing so, Gerard could richly reward Stephen and Richard for their loyalty without giving up any Wilmont lands.

Gerard almost hoped Basil had been stupid enough to raid Milhurst. The mistake would add weight to Gerard’s case. He shook his head at the notion. Leaving Milhurst open to attack, or not taking it back if Basil had succeeded with a raid, would be seen as weakness. Gerard added another order to Stephen’s letter, to send two knights and ten men-at-arms to Milhurst.

His mind settled on the matter, Gerard turned his attention to leaving Lenvil. He had yet to choose a captain for Lenvil’s guard. The ideal would be to leave Corwin here to handle the matter, but he needed Corwin at court.

And Ardith?

Gerard wondered what Ardith’s reaction would be when informed she was making the trip to Westminster.



“Elva, Ardith needs your help. You must come up to the manor. We leave on the morn and there is much to be done.”

“Then you help her, Bronwyn,” Elva called to the closed door of her hovel. She shook out a square of black wool and covered the small table. On the cloth she placed a treasured Celtic cross, a gift from her long-dead mother. Beside the cloth she placed a thick, tallow candle.

“Ardith wants you to take charge of the manor while she is away. She is upset about this journey. Having you at the manor in her absence would ease her mind. Please, Elva. If you do not come, she will have to place another in charge.”

Elva didn’t answer, and soon heard Bronwyn’s disgruntled huff and the shuffle of retreating footsteps.

She lit the candle. From the folds of her gown she retrieved a leather pouch and dumped the contents onto the cloth. She wished they were larger, these bones she’d managed to nab ahead of the dogs. The Norman, blast his hide, tossed his leavings at the dogs instead of flinging them over his shoulder into the rushes.

The bones weren’t bleached. Slivers of meat and gristle still clung to the surface. She shook her head at the lack of time to prepare them properly. She gathered the bones in her hands.

Years ago, she’d misjudged the forces of fate. Thinking her precious girl safe, Elva hadn’t bothered to augur the Norman’s future. Now the beast was back and about to spirit Ardith away.

She’d saved Ardith from the clutches of Wilmont once. Could she do so again? She must.

Elva closed her eyes, mumbling the words she remembered as her mother’s chant. She knew not the meaning, only remembered the pattern of sounds.

She tossed the bones onto the black cloth and read their dire message.

“Demon spawn,” she hissed, and with a sweep of her hand, wiped the offensive prophecy out of her sight.




Chapter Six (#ulink_d22e1cf5-8871-56e1-a34d-4df8870406fe)


All of Ardith’s possessions fit into a small trunk. As she spread her yellow veil atop her good gown, she grumbled, “I still do not understand why I must go along.”

“Ardith, when a baron invites a vassal on a journey, the vassal accepts,” Bronwyn stated from her perch upon her own large trunk. Beside her trunk sat another, as large and as full. Bronwyn, sensibly, was taking advantage of traveling with the company about to depart Lenvil.

“Baron Gerard invited Father. My accompanying Father, as nursemaid, was an afterthought.”

“Well, I surely cannot care for Father. He will not listen to me. Besides, I am glad you are coming. We can keep each other company on the road. Oh, Ardith, we will have such a merry time at court.”

“Are you sure Kester will not mind our unexpected visit?”

“Not in the least Kester’s position as adviser to the king entitles him to lodgings at Westminster Palace. There is plenty of room for us all. Ardith, do cease looking for an excuse to beg off. All is ready. You are coming.”

All was ready because Ardith had spent most of the night gathering provisions, with the help of John, whom Gerard had assigned to oversee Lenvil in Ardith’s absence.

She still couldn’t understand why Elva had refused to take charge of the manor. She’d thought her aunt would enjoy the task, if only for the luxury of sleeping in the bed.

Ardith was of two minds about the journey.

Granted, Father hadn’t been to court for many years to pay homage to the king. But Harold wasn’t a well man, as Gerard knew. Why now? Why with such haste? Could they not have had more time than one night to prepare? And starting out on a journey under the threat of inclement weather was ill-advised.

Yet Ardith had never seen London, never traveled farther than the market at Bury Saint Edmunds, a mere two hours’ ride to the west. Bronwyn made court sound exciting, full of interesting people and wondrous sights.

“You will need several new gowns,” Bronwyn observed. “I have a few that might suit you with a bit of altering. If you do not care for them, I have stacks of cloth from which you can make your own.”

“Surely, I will not need so many.”

“Oh, three or four, at least. Ah, they have come for our trunks.” Bronwyn slid off her perch to allow the men of her escort to lift the trunk. “Be careful, now. This one goes on the right of the cart. And make sure the tarp is secure. The sky looks ready to burst. You know how the snow sticks to the top and makes it hard to…” Bronwyn’s voice trailed out of hearing as she followed the bearers out of the chamber.

Ardith looked about the room. All of her life she’d slept within Lenvil’s walls, within this chamber.

“Ardith? Are you ready?” Corwin asked as he strode in.

Ardith tried to return the smile but found she couldn’t.

“Why so glum, Ardith? Ah, I understand. ‘Tis always hardest the first time, leaving home.”

“Did your heart ache the first time you left Lenvil?”

Corwin shook his head. “I thought it a grand adventure, going off with Baron Everart to Wilmont. Of course, I had Stephen for company. The two of us became fast friends on that journey. Where is your mantle? Here, put it on.”

Corwin held up Ardith’s warmest mantle, lined with rabbit fur, and draped it over her shoulders. Ardith wrapped a long piece of wool about her head and neck.

Her brother grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the chamber. “Come, Bronwyn is waiting for you in her litter. You two can gossip all the way to Westminster.”

Ardith scampered to match Corwin’s stride. “I thought to ride my horse.”

“Your palfrey carries provisions.”

Corwin didn’t give her time for a last look about the manor; instead, he hustled her out of doors. “What a grand procession we will make,” he declared, waving a hand at the long line of men, animals and wagons.

At the head of the line stood Thomas, holding the reins of Gerard’s destrier and Father’s stallion. Behind them would march several of Wilmont’s soldiers, followed by Bronwyn’s litter and her escort. The remaining men-at-arms and the wagons and pack animals completed the company.

Ardith eyed Bronwyn’s odd conveyance. The litter looked like the bottom half of a sawed-off wooden box attached to long poles, which fitted on to specially made harnesses on horses. A roof of canvas, held up by spindles at the corners, would keep off rain and snow. She thought it must be safe to ride in because Bronwyn would travel no other way.

“Come, Ardith. In you go or we shall leave you behind,” Corwin teased as he handed her into the seat opposite Bronwyn.

Ardith smiled wanly. “Promise?”

“Promise what?” Gerard asked as he came up to the litter.

“Ardith is being difficult.” Corwin sighed. “It seems, my lord, she would rather not ride in such comfort. She would rather ride her palfrey, which we loaded down with food.”

Gerard looked at her strangely for a moment, then said, “Well, perhaps we can make other arrangements later. If everyone is ready, let us away.”



By midday, Ardith was willing to walk to London. Somehow, Bronwyn had managed to fall asleep. So much for keeping each other company! Not that Ardith really minded her sister’s desertion. This way Bronwyn wouldn’t see and remark upon Ardith’s distress.

Her stomach churned from the lurch and sway of the litter. The unnatural sensation of riding backward, seeing where she had been and not where she was going, added to her discomfort.

Her backside pained from bouncing on the thinly padded seat. Though she’d thought of pulling up the hem of her mantle to form extra cushioning, she couldn’t do so while in motion. Her fingers had frozen into claws, gripping the sides of the litter. Corwin rode by often during the morning, waving as he passed. Ardith refused to loosen her hold, even to respond to her brother.

Finally, upon hearing Corwin’s cry for the company to halt, she said a silent prayer of thanks to God—Father, Son, and Spirit—and every saint who came immediately to mind.

Bronwyn jolted awake as the litter came to a halt. “Goodness,” she said, stretching delicately. “I have slept most of the morn away. I see the weather holds. Good, that means we can travel many miles yet before seeking shelter. Ah, Baron Gerard. How nice of you to assist us.”

Gerard held the panel open. Bronwyn fairly bounded out of the litter, resting her fingertips briefly on Gerard’s arm.

“How fare you, ladies?”

“Oh, quite nicely, my lord. I am, however, faint with hunger. Shall I bring you some cheese and bread, Ardith? Would you prefer wine or mead?”

“N-nothing, Bronwyn. I will eat later.”

Bronwyn tilted her head. “Are you all right? You do look a bit peaked.”

Ardith drew a calming breath. “I am fine. Do go and have your meal.”

With a slight shrug of her shoulders, Bronwyn went in search of nourishment. Gerard stood at the opening, waiting.

“Have you ever ridden in one of these, my lord?”

“Nay,” he said, inspecting the litter front to back. “From the way it moves, I would imagine the motion feels much the same as a ship in gentle seas.”

“Gentle seas?”

“Aye.”

“Have you traveled on many ships?”

“I have crossed the Channel several times between England and Normandy.”

“And your opinion, my lord?”

Ardith gave him credit for trying to hide his smile. He knew she was stalling, unable to move.

“I would rather my feet on solid ground, or at least a good, steady horse beneath me.”

Then he reached inside the litter, pushed her mantle aside and took a firm hold around her waist. His encircling hands were warm and reassuring.

“Come, Ardith. We shall walk a bit and you will feel better. Now, put your hands on my shoulders. Both hands, my lady. Very good. Move toward me a bit. A bit more.”

“I feel such a dolt.”

“Do you trust me, Ardith?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Then lean toward me and I will lift you out.”

She did trust him, but as she leaned forward and Gerard tugged, Ardith flung her arms around Gerard’s neck and clung. He grew very still, then his hands squeezed her waist. Ardith floated out of the litter, supported by strong arms and warm hands and her death grip on Gerard’s neck.

She hung suspended for a moment before he lowered her to the ground. Her feet on firm earth, Ardith loosened her hold to allow Gerard to stand upright. Expecting to see amusement, prepared to laugh at her own cowardice, Ardith looked up.

He smiled, but didn’t mock. “Come, scamp,” he said. “Let us see if you can walk.”

Her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, they walked in silence up the road, past men and horses, until Ardith’s legs no longer wobbled.

“I hope I need never board a ship,” she stated firmly.

“’Tis not so bad once accustomed to the sway.”

Her body and mind again in harmony, she thought to ask, “How fares my father?”

“Well enough.” He stopped walking. “You worry overmuch.”

“Is that not why I came, to look after my father?”

“Partly.”

Gerard realized his mistake as soon as the word passed his lips. Ardith withdrew her hand and faced him squarely.

“Then you must enlighten me, my lord. I heard of no other reason why I had to leave Lenvil.”

Now wasn’t the time to tell her the whole of his plans. Gerard wanted first to speak with King Henry, ensure no objection would come from royal quarters before bargaining with Harold on betrothal and marriage to Ardith.

But she was so damned adorable, her pert face tilted upward, her blue eyes flashing with irritation. Wasn’t now a good time to hint at the joys to come?

He hadn’t intended to kiss her, hadn’t even intended to stray so far ahead of the rest of the company. But they were alone and the temptation was just too sweet.

He cupped her cheeks with his hands. “I wished you to come,” he told her, then gently touched her mouth with his own.

Gerard felt her surprise in the slight tremble of her lips. He pressed through her hesitation, coaxed her honeyed mouth with featherlight brushes of lips. Finally, delightfully, she responded.

He cursed his chain mail, designed to deflect sword blows and spear points. He couldn’t feel her hands where she placed them on his chest, twining her fingers in the metal rings. Nor could he feel the warmth of her body as he gathered her into his embrace.

The flash of her passionate nature, hidden under a thin veil of innocence, nearly shattered his resolve to be content with a kiss. With rigid control he kept his hand from straying to her breast, the gentle swell he longed to cup and fondle.

Knowing his limits, Gerard broke the kiss. Her eyes remained closed. Her lips, reddened and slightly swollen, stayed pursed for an instant, then relaxed.

When at last she opened her eyes, it was Gerard’s turn to feel surprise. He saw sadness of unfathomable depth. A tear glistened in the corner of her eye.

“Oh, Gerard,” she whispered. “Sometimes we may not have what we wish.”

No, not right now, but soon. Gerard knew well the ways of seduction—a kiss here, a touch and sweet words there. When he was ready to claim her, she wouldn’t deny him. Her response to his kiss told him as much. But why had the kiss brought on such sadness?

Before he could ask, Ardith pushed away, glancing back toward the company and the sound of an approaching horse.

“We have a problem, my lord,” Corwin said as he reined in, his face all smiles. “We are being followed.”

Gerard frowned. “By whom?”

“Elva.”

“Elva?” Ardith exclaimed.

“Aye. I bade her return to Lenvil, but she refuses. She says that when Father banished her to the village, she became a peasant. Therefore, she claims the right of a freeman to go anywhere she damn well pleases.”

“Where does she go?”

Corwin dismounted. “She follows you, Ardith. She says you will have need of her counsel at court.”

Ardith crossed her arms, her expression stern. “I would wager she has read those blasted bones again. Every time she casts them, she sees some dire event.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” Gerard muttered, and began walking back to the main body of the company.

“Aye,” Ardith agreed, falling into step. “But Elva believes in the old rites.”

Corwin asked, “Do we let her join us? She is older than Father and the walk will be arduous.”

Gerard shrugged the matter off as unimportant. Having one more person in the party made little difference. “Ardith?”

“If Bronwyn agrees, put Elva in the litter. I will walk.”

Gerard waved Corwin off to tend to the old woman. “Why give up your seat?”

“I would give up my seat to anyone who would take it. I refuse to ride any farther in that device of torture.”

Gerard’s ire rose. No future mistress of Wilmont would trek the road like a common peasant.

“Thomas,” he shouted. “Fetch my cloak.”

Thomas dropped the destrier’s reins and sprinted toward the cart bearing Gerard’s tent and belongings. To Ardith’s amazement, the warhorse stood still.

From the middle of the line came voices raised in argument. Harold lectured Elva on insolence. Elva shouted back from beside Bronwyn’s litter.

“Oh, dear,” Ardith said and took a step.

Gerard reached out and stopped her. “Leave them to their spat. Neither is helpless.”

Thomas came running back, cloak in hand. Gerard whipped the beaver-lined mantle around his shoulders and fastened the gold brooch. He grabbed the reins, put his boot in the stirrup and in one fluid movement mounted the warhorse. He scowled down at Ardith. “Are you still determined to walk?”

“Aye, my lord.”

He gave a long, resigned sigh, then held out his hands. “Come, Ardith. Ride with me.”

The thought of riding on a warhorse gave her pause. Black as coal, sleek as silk, the destrier stood several hands taller than her palfrey. Warhorses were said to be mean as jackals, fierce fighters, protective of their masters.

“I thought ‘twas bad luck for a destrier to carry a woman,” she argued.

“Superstitious nonsense.”

Ardith looked back. Everyone waited. Riding pillion was little better than riding in the litter. But if she refused Gerard’s invitation, all would consider the rejection an insult to the baron.




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