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“The how of it does not matter. Gerard defended his barony and honor, and we all kept our lands.”
“There is that,” Stephen conceded.
Richard slapped Stephen on the back. “Come. Let us see what wines Gerard has managed to import from France. Mayhap the drink will loosen his tongue.”
The evening repast turned out to be a pleasant affair.
Gerard had placated his beautiful wife, Ardith. She sat next to him at the high table, on the dais in the great hall of Wilmont, serenely sharing his trencher. Stephen shared a trencher with Gerard’s illegitimate son, Daymon, a boy of six. Little Everart, now three and Gerard’s heir, ate with Ursula, his grandmother.
Ursula had once been the bane of Richard’s existence.
Over the years, her sharp tongue had dulled somewhat. Richard knew, however, she still couldn’t look at him without remembering her husband’s infidelity.
Not wishing to cause Ursula more painful memories than his mere presence always did, Richard shunned the high table in favor of a trestle table, on the pretense of visiting with the castle’s older knights.
Later that evening, after most of the folk had taken to their beds or pallets, Richard sat across from Gerard at that same trestle table while Stephen paced around them.
Pouring sweet French wine from a silver pitcher into gold goblets, Gerard said, “On Whitsunday, King Henry holds court at Westminster to settle the conditions of Princess Matilda’s betrothal to the Emperor.”
Stephen sat down beside Gerard, straddling the bench. “You wish us to accompany you to court, to witness the royal betrothal?”
Gerard placed the pitcher on the table within easy reach of them all. “I chose not to go, so I am sending the two of you in my stead.”
While Stephen jumped for joy, Richard winced. He hated attending court, disliked the crowds of nobles and their incessant political maneuvering. And though no one would say so to his face due to their respect for Gerard, the nobles tolerated his presence as the bastard who enjoyed his brother’s goodwill. Never mind that his holdings far exceeded what many men could hope to gain, or that the court accepted King Henry’s multitude of bastards. Those bastards enjoyed favor simply because they were royal bastards.
Richard took a sip of fortifying wine before he asked Gerard, “Why do you not attend?”
“Each time I show my face at court, Henry’s ire flares and he gives me a duty which keeps me from Wilmont for months. Ardith is due in two months and I wish to be home when she gives birth.”
Stephen nodded. “Wise of you, Gerard. Come, Richard. Do not look so glum. We will have a fine time! On the grand occasion of his daughter’s betrothal, the king will spare no expense on food, drink and entertainment.”
Richard ignored Stephen. “Then why not send only Stephen? My face is too like yours, Gerard. Henry’s ire may flare when he sees my face.”
“’Tis possible, but for all the king’s faults, he is usually a fair man, and he is not angry with you as he is with me. Too, I want both of you there, as my eyes and ears.”
Gerard didn’t lack for staunch allies at court. Richard could think of several who would gladly give Gerard detailed reports. While Richard could see the sense in one of them attending court to establish a Wilmont presence, why Gerard would wish to send both of his brothers was beyond him.
“Why? What do you think will happen?” Stephen asked.
Gerard leaned forward. “All know that Henry will be generous at this court. He will hear all petitions, from those for land to requests for heiresses. The balance of power within the kingdom will shift, and ‘tis important I know in whose direction the favor tilts. We can be sure it will not tilt in our favor, and must protect what is ours.”
Richard frowned. “You think Henry might yet have his eye on Wilmont holdings?”
“Possibly.”
Stephen waved a dismissing hand. “I doubt Henry would do anything to test Wilmont’s power. You have too many strong allies, Gerard. Do you know which heiresses are available? Ah, Richard, think! We could both come home rich!”
Richard laughed, at both Stephen’s sudden change of subject and his optimism. “You, mayhap, but me? Doubtful.”
Richard knew the chance of his being granted an heiress was almost nil. The great heiresses of England were given to men of high standing and good name, not to bastards—unless they were royal bastards. Still, if something could be done to soften Henry’s ire against Wilmont, there might be the slimmest chance of gaining favor, and mayhap a less wealthy heiress.
With the wealth that an heiress would bring, he could expand his holdings. In land was power, and the more he controlled, the greater his standing, bastard or no.
“What say you, Richard?” Gerard asked. “What harm could come from looking?”
Richard finally understood Gerard’s maneuvering. Once more, Gerard was opening a door for him. Aye, Gerard might wish to be at Wilmont when Ardith gave birth, but he was staying away from court to give Stephen and Richard the chance to gain favor on their own, without reminding the king of past hard feelings.
No harm could come from looking. While he looked, he also might find a way to help mend the rift between two men who had once been very close—Gerard and King Henry.
“I daresay I should go, if only to keep Stephen out of mischief.”
While Stephen sputtered a protest, Gerard nodded slightly and took a sip of wine from his jewel-encrusted goblet. His failed effort to hide a satisfied smile wasn’t lost on Richard.
On her knees beside Hetty’s pallet, Lucinda bent low to hear the old woman’s whispered words.
“Take the boy away, dear,” she said. “Go now, before the sickness claims you, too.”
Lucinda placed a cold, wet rag on Hetty’s fevered brow. This sickness had swept through the village at a frightening pace. Infants and the elders seemed particularly vulnerable. Few survived.
Lucinda knew Hetty spoke wisely. Philip was but six. She should remove her son from harm’s way, but she couldn’t leave Hetty alone to battle the illness.
Hetty and her husband had taken Lucinda and Philip into their home and cared for them for the past three years. Leaving would be a betrayal of their kindness. Even if she did flee, there was no surety that she and Philip wouldn’t succumb while on the road.
“Hush, Hetty, save your strength,” Lucinda said.
Hetty grasped Lucinda’s hand and squeezed. “I know I am dying, and would go quickly to join my Oscar. Have they buried him yet?”
Lucinda shook her head. Oscar had died yesterday, but too few of the village men were well enough to dig graves for those poor souls who had already departed this mortal life.
“Good,” Hetty said on a relieved sigh. “Then they will put us in the same grave. ’Tis fitting I should spend eternity with my husband.”
Hetty and Oscar’s devotion to each other had always amazed Lucinda. Their marriage had been a joy to them, so unlike the horror of her marriage to Basil. The only thing Basil had done right in his whole miserable life had been to warn her to flee the castle at Northbryre, to go to his family in Normandy, before his downfall. Of course, he hadn’t been concerned with her safety, but with that of Philip, his son and heir.
She’d fled Northbryre, but hadn’t gone to Normandy.
Lucinda glanced about the one-room hut built of wattle and daub. It had become her refuge, a place to hide from both Basil’s enemies and his family.
If she did flee, where would she go? She yet possessed a few of the coins she’d taken from North-bryre’s coffers. Were they enough to get her and Philip to another village, enough to entice some other kindly couple to shelter a woman and her son?
“We will stay here with you, Hetty,” Lucinda said. “When you are well—”
“Go to the king. Petition for Philip’s due.”
Lucinda closed her eyes and bowed her head. She and Hetty had argued over Philip’s inheritance before. In all of the village, only Hetty and Oscar knew her identity. They had explained her presence in their home as that of a niece come to live with them after suffering widowhood. These kind, gentle souls had taken in the widow of a man considered a traitor to the kingdom, the son of a man whose cruelties were well known, and shielded them from those who would shun them.
Hetty insisted that since Philip was noble, he should take his rightful place among the nobility, no matter that his father had been the devil himself.
Basil’s downfall had been almost total. He’d lost his life, and the king had divided Basil’s English holdings between himself and Gerard of Wilmont in restitution for Basil’s treachery. She highly doubted that King Henry would restore those lands to the son of a man who’d tried to convince England’s barons to revolt.
Basil’s holdings in Normandy were now, probably, controlled by his family, who would loathe giving them up. To regain control of the Normandy holdings, Philip would have to become the ward of a noble strong enough to demand their return.
Lucinda couldn’t bear the thought of giving Philip over to someone else to raise, especially not any noble she knew. The thought made her shudder. Her son was all she had left in this world.
Hetty squeezed her hand harder. “You shiver. Are you ill?”
Aye, she was sick, but of heart, not of body. The concern in Hetty’s eyes nearly tore her apart.
“Nay, I am fine. As is Philip.”
Lucinda glanced at the corner of the hut where her son had curled onto his pallet to nap.
Basil’s visits to her bedchamber had been the most horrifying experiences of her life, and Philip’s birth the most painful. Yet, Philip was her one true joy. He no longer remembered his father, or the castle at Northbryre, and truly thought of Hetty and Oscar as relatives. He mourned Oscar as a beloved uncle, and would need comforting when Hetty died.
There. She’d finally admitted the unthinkable. Hetty was about to die. Probably within the hour. Then what?
Go to the king.
Was she wrong to raise her son as a peasant, forsaking all noble connections? Maybe if she could get back to Normandy, to her own family…no, her father would turn Philip over to Basil’s family without second thought.
So might the king. Henry was not only the King of England but the Duke of Normandy.
Hetty had fallen asleep, a sleep she might not wake from. Lucinda unclasped her hand from Hetty’s and stood up. On her way to the door, craving a breath of fresh air, Lucinda stopped to push a lock of Philip’s black hair back from over his eyes. He’d inherited her hair color, but under his closed eyelids lurked Basil’s gray eyes, so unlike her own unusual violet ones. Hopefully, his eye color was the only thing he’d inherited from his father.
Could disdainful disregard for one’s fellow man be passed along bloodlines? Surely, proper guidance shaped a person’s character more than the blood in his veins. But there were those who would never see past Philip’s heritage, would judge him as tainted because of his sire.
She opened the door to brilliant sunshine and a warm breeze. ’Twas sinful that so much unhappiness could occur on such a beautiful day.
Few people roamed the road. Most everyone had shut themselves away in their hovels, to either avoid or contain the sickness. The church’s bell hadn’t pealed the hours for two days because the priest was ill. How many would die on this glorious day? How many tomorrow?
Lucinda crossed her arms over her midriff and leaned against the oak tree just outside the doorway where she would hear if either Hetty or Philip stirred.
Philip.
Nothing remained for her and Philip here. Once again she would be fleeing for her life. She’d managed to find a haven once. She could find another.
On Whitsunday, only a sennight hence, the king would hold court at Westminster. Passing travelers and peddlers had brought tidings of the princess’s betrothal to Emperor Henry. A celebration would be held. Feasting. Dancing. The nobility would flock to court to pay homage to the king and to witness the royal betrothal. King Henry would hear petitions from all comers, noble and peasant alike. He would be in a generous mood, strive to please each of his subjects if he could.
She looked down at her gray gown of loosely woven linen and tried to imagine standing before the king in peasant garb, begging for favor. Humiliating, considering that she’d once curtsied low to the king in a gown of silk.
Basil had taken her to court only once, but once was enough to know how people dressed there, to learn the proper decorum when in the royal presence. She’d been raised in a noble house, brought up as a lady. She knew how to conduct herself and could teach Philip.
But how did one teach a little boy to ignore the insults that he would surely hear? How did one explain that he must hide his feelings behind a mask of indifference and trust no one?
Sweet heaven, was she really considering going to court?
“Mother?”
Lucinda spun around to the sound of Philip’s voice. He stood in the doorway, tears streaming down his face. She held out a hand, inviting him outside. He didn’t move, except to look over his shoulder—back to where Hetty lay.
Lucinda took a deep breath, knowing what she would find when she went back into the hut. She could no longer do anything for Hetty, but she could for her son. Was she going to court? She wasn’t sure, but knew she must leave the village or risk her son’s life.
Slowly, she approached Philip and put her hand on his small shoulder. “I want you to stuff all of your garments into a sack,” she told him, amazed that her voice didn’t tremble. “I’ll see to Hetty, then we must leave.”
He stared up at her for a few moments, then nodded. The trust shining in his eyes was nearly her undoing.
Chapter Two (#ulink_e3533789-006e-5e6b-8ac2-fd29739f6576)
Lucinda tugged on the rope to coax the mule along. After four days of travel, she hadn’t decided if the beast was more a bother or a blessing. The mule carried all her possessions, including Philip, who thought the ride great sport. The mule thought it great sport to impede their progress. Without him, however, she might not have made it this far.
Leaving the village had been hard. She’d made sure that Oscar and Hetty would be buried, ensured their sheep and oxen would be cared for, packed what little food lay about the hut, then set out on the road.
“Mother? I thought that last village nice.”
Philip had thought “nice” each village that they’d passed through. He was right about the one they’d visited this morn. The people smiled as they went about their work. The condition of their homes said they prospered. However, the village’s overlord happened to be Gerard of Wilmont. While the baron might never learn of her presence there, she couldn’t risk that he might hear of it and take exception.
“The people were pleasant enough, but no one had room for us to abide there permanently,” she said.
“Could we not build our own hut?”
If he hadn’t been so serious, she might have laughed at the suggestion. Philip desperately wanted a new home. He hadn’t taken well to traveling without a fixed destination. She also suspected he very much wanted off the mule, despite his initial exuberance.
“I fear you must grow first before we attempt such a feat. Neither you nor I possess the strength or the skill. Our hut would likely fall down about our heads.” She patted his knee. “Be patient for a while longer, Philip. The Lord will provide.”
She hoped, and soon.
Philip looked over his shoulder. “Someone comes.”
Lucinda turned as the jingle of a horse’s tack and the thud of heavy hoofbeats grew louder. A large party approached, judging from the size of the dust cloud hovering over it. She wrapped her woolen scarf around her head to cover her hair and the lower portion of her face, to block the road dust from her mouth and nose and to conceal her features.
The chance of recognition was slim. She’d spent her entire married life buried at Northbryre—save for a single visit to court—then hidden away in a small village after her husband’s downfall. Few would remember her as Basil’s wife, but those who would were of the same nasty disposition as Basil. She had no wish to acknowledge their acquaintance.
Lucinda pulled the mule to the edge of the road to let the oncoming party pass by.
“Remember what I told you,” she said to Philip.
“I will not stare or speak,” he said, then drew a long, awed breath. “Oh, is he not wondrous!”
Lucinda knew he meant the destrier that led the company. Shiny black, his head held high and proud, his tack studded with silver that glinted in the sunlight, the war horse was indeed magnificent.
To her chagrin, she noted the destrier’s master was also a wondrous sight to behold. He guided his horse with reins held loosely in his right hand—the left rested on his hip—as though he commanded the road.
Even at this distance she could judge him tall. Beneath a black cloak he wore a chain mail hauberk, the mark of a warrior noble. No coif covered his shoulder-length, flaxen blond hair. He carried no shield, but a huge broadsword hung at his side.
He seemed oblivious to the troop of men-at-arms who followed in his wake—some mounted, some walking—each carrying a shield and spear. Behind them lumbered two wagons.
Nowhere did Lucinda spy a woman, a lady who might object if her lord’s men became unruly. Remembering her husband’s favored guards, she scoffed. Those rough, uncouth mercenaries had treated her no better than a mere woman who happened to share their lord’s table and bed. Any objection she might have made to their behavior would have fallen on deaf ears.
“Philip, face forward. Pay them no heed.”
