By King's Decree

скачать книгу бесплатно


“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.