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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.”
