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“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.”
