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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.”
