скачать книгу бесплатно
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.”
