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Nor did she wish to spend two days in the company of Richard of Wilmont. Thus far, he’d been kind to a woman he thought a peasant, but that would change if he learned she was Basil’s widow.
For all Basil had hated every Wilmont male, Lucinda had to admire Richard. Merciful heaven, she was even physically attracted to the man. How very odd. This man who was her enemy had touched her, but her stomach hadn’t churned in revulsion.
Who is she? Richard wondered again, as he had for most of the day and into the evening.
Standing in the open flap of his tent, he could see Lucinda sitting just outside the brightness of the campfire, with her back against a tree and her foot propped on a rolled blanket. Philip sat nearby, as did Edric, the captain of his guard, who seemed to have appointed himself the protector of the woman and boy.
Lucinda and Philip weren’t peasants, though they were garbed in peasant clothing. He’d seen through the ruse within moments of rescuing Philip. Hoping to calm the boy, Richard had spoken comforting words to Philip in peasant English. Philip had responded in kind, but as he’d become more excited while relating his tale, the faint lilt of Norman French became more pronounced. The longer the boy talked, the more Richard became convinced that the boy’s first language wasn’t English.
The names Lucinda and Philip weren’t common names among peasants. If he were right, if these two had ties to Norman nobility, then why were they on the road with no escort, disguised as peasants? Where was her husband, the boy’s father? Or their male guardian?
‘Twas really none of his affair. Lucinda must have her reasons, and he had no wish to become involved in her life. His offer of an escort was simply a kindness extended to a woman in need, no more.
A beautiful woman.
Raven hair, woven into a single plait, hung low and shining against her gray gown. Her features were sharp, but not harsh. The tilt of her chin and cool set of her mouth warned a man to expect no warmth from her, but her husky, honey-warm voice beckoned a man to search for her heat.
He shouldn’t have touched her. Then he wouldn’t know that her lips were warm, her cheek soft, her waist slim, her hands gentle. He’d been on his horse at the head of the company, she in the wagon at the very end of the line, and he’d been achingly aware of her the whole time. He wouldn’t now want her if he hadn’t touched her.
Richard took a deep breath and glanced about the campsite. His men had eaten and would soon make up their sleeping pallets or take their turn at guard duty. Tomorrow would bring another long day on the road. If he hoped to join Stephen at court day after next, his company could waste no time.
In typical fashion, Stephen had rushed from Wilmont with little preparation, leaving Richard to haul chests of clothing, extra food and drink and Wilmont’s gifts to the princess. Likely, Stephen now enjoyed the luxury and freedom of having Wilmont’s chambers in Westminster Palace all to himself. Richard didn’t doubt that Stephen had found a willing wench—or noble lady—to share his bed.
Richard looked at Lucinda. In his place, Stephen wouldn’t hesitate to invite Lucinda into his tent to share his pallet of furs. He wouldn’t care what his men thought, or that she had a small son curled up at her side, or that her ankle pained her. Or that she might have a husband. Stephen would note only that his loins grew heavy with desire, and that the woman seemed to share the pull of physical attraction.
So why do I hesitate?
Lucinda looked at him then. She studied him, her violet eyes drawing him in, inviting him to linger and learn her secrets.
If he learned her secrets, she might learn his.
He acknowledged her with a slight nod, then stepped back and closed the tent flap.
Chapter Three (#ulink_9571dd04-cb15-5a76-83fd-cd947e2b4b8b)
“He is truly wondrous,” Philip said.
“That he is,” Richard agreed, giving a silver disk on the horse’s bridle a last buff with the sleeve of his silver-trimmed, black silk tunic. On this last morning of his journey, he’d made a considerable effort to ensure his entrance into Westminster would be impressive.
Satisfied with the horse’s appearance, and his own, Richard gave the destrier a pat on his gleaming black neck.
“Has he a name?” Philip asked.
“Odin.”
When another question didn’t immediately follow, Richard looked down. Philip stood unusually still for a boy of his age, his hands clasped behind his back, his bottom lip sucked in, pure awe on his face. The boy yearned to touch the horse, just as Richard, as a child of about the same age, had once stood beside his father admiring one of the beasts, wishing the same wish, wary of getting too near the horse’s hooves.
Richard put his hands out in invitation. The boy hesitated but couldn’t resist. Philip put one arm around Richard’s neck and with the other reached out to stroke Odin’s neck. Sheer delight beamed from Philip’s face.
“Odin is an odd name,” Philip said.
“Have you never heard of Odin, the Viking god of war?”.
Philip’s small brow scrunched. “There is another god besides God?”
“So the Vikings believe. They worship many gods.”
“Who are Vikings?”
Every Norman’s heritage was ripe with Viking ancestry. Before the Normans had conquered England, the Vikings had made many raids on English soil. Every noble or peasant child should have heard of the Vikings.
“The Vikings are warriors who believe the only honorable death is to die in battle, so they can go to Valhalla, their vision of heaven.”
Philip absorbed that piece of information, then asked, “You are a warrior?”
“Aye.”
“Are you a Viking?”
“I have some Viking blood in my veins.”
As do you, probably more than 1, Richard wanted to add, but didn’t
Over the past two days he’d watched Lucinda and Philip closely and become more convinced that both were Norman. For some reason, Lucinda wanted all and sundry to believe that she and her son were English. It seemed foolish to Richard, for anyone who took the time to study them would see through the ruse just as he had.
Lucinda was also overprotective of Philip. She rarely allowed the boy to wander far from her side, and never out of her sight. Richard looked around and, as if his thoughts had called her, Lucinda was walking toward him. Her ankle had improved, though she yet walked gingerly and with a limp.
“Do you wish to die in battle?” Philip asked, his concern over the possibility seeping into the question.
Richard had once come within a gnat’s breath of dying from a battle wound, and preferred not to repeat the experience.
“’Tis my wish to live a very long life and die peacefully in my bed,” he assured the boy.
Philip laid his head on Richard’s shoulder and whispered, “That is how Oscar and Hetty died. They got sick and went to sleep and never woke up.”
A multitude of questions begged answers, but the boy didn’t need questions now. He needed comfort.
Richard wasn’t sure how to react to Philip’s sorrow, how to comfort a hurt of the heart. True, he’d once held Daymon to stop the flow of tears when his nephew had scraped both hands and knees during a nasty fall. Richard knew he would do almost anything for Daymon.
The bond Richard had formed with Daymon was a natural one. Bastards both—English and Norman both—Richard had tried to prepare his nephew to one day cope with the attitudes of people outside of the family circle. Thankfully, Daymon’s life would be less harsh than Richard’s had been, simply because Ardith accepted Daymon as Gerard’s son, and loved and nurtured him as she did her own son.
Philip and Daymon were of an age, and a hurt was a hurt.
Richard tightened his hold on Philip and lowered his head until his cheek touched Philip’s brow.
What could he say to a boy who had obviously lost two people whom he cared about, Hetty and Oscar, to sickness? Recently? Were they friends, perhaps? Or a brother and sister? Maybe that was why Lucinda fairly hovered over the child. Maybe that was why these two were on the road, escaping a sickness that had ravaged their family.
Richard groped for words. “Their death made you sad,” he finally commented.
Philip nodded.
“Does it help to know that Oscar and Hetty are now in a better place, in heaven with God?”
“Nay.”
The boy’s honesty echoed Richard’s beliefs. In truth, he’d never been able to take comfort in religion. Oh, he believed in God and Christ, but Ursula had always made sure that he knew that God had no use for bastards.
Lucinda finally made her way to where he stood.
“Philip, you must not disturb his lordship this morn. He has preparations to see to before we leave,” she said in that lyrical, husky voice that invoked visions of disheveled fur coverlets and the heady scent of coupling.
Philip stiffened at his mother’s rebuke. Richard put a hand on the boy’s back, holding the child still.
“He does not disturb me,” Richard told her. “When Philip came to admire the horse, ‘twas my notion to pick him up so he could touch Odin.”
She glanced at the horse. “I see.”
Lucinda was nervous, upset. Richard saw no outward sign of it. She neither fussed with her clothing nor wrung her hands. Her voice didn’t shake. Somehow, though, he knew without a doubt that she didn’t like Philip’s nearness to the horse, liked even less that Philip was in Richard’s arms.
“You are generous, my lord, with your time and patience for a small boy,” she said. “I imagine Philip asked all manner of questions.”
“Not so many,” Richard said.
“That is good,” she said, her relief clear. “Edric tells me we are almost ready to leave. Philip and I must take our place in the wagon.” Then she took a slightly deeper breath. “I understand your wagon driver will take Philip and me to Westminster Abbey. Since we shall probably not see you again, my lord, I would give you my thanks now for your assistance.”
The arrangement made sense. He simply didn’t like it, though he couldn’t for the life of him explain why.
“I had thought to ask Philip if he wished to ride with me for a while on Odin,” he heard himself say, though he hadn’t thought of asking Philip any such thing. “What say you, lad?”
Philip’s head popped up. “Oh, aye!” he said, then turned to ask Lucinda, “May I, Mother? May I please?”
Sensing that Lucinda was about to withhold permission, Richard tossed Philip up into the saddle.
“Of course, you may,” he said. “Your mother will be glad for some peace this fine morn, will you not, Lucinda?”
Lucinda knew she would have no peace for the entire ride into Westminster, not if Philip rode and talked with Richard of Wilmont.
For the past two days she’d lived in fear that Philip would say something to alert Richard to his identity. She’d kept Philip close, cautioned him to say nothing to Richard or his soldiers of where they had come from or where they were going. Philip didn’t understand why, but she couldn’t explain without either lying or telling him about his father and the hatred that existed between Northbryre and Wilmont. She’d succeeded in keeping Philip within earshot until this morning when his awe of the destrier had drawn him from her side.
She nearly panicked when Richard had hefted Philip into his arms. Seeing her son in Richard’s grasp caused her stomach to churn and her heart to constrict. Thus far, Richard had been friendly and gentle with Philip, to the point of giving him a brief hug. If Richard learned that Philip was the son of Basil, the man who’d caused Wilmont no end of suffering, surely his gentleness would vanish.
Richard already suspected that she and Philip weren’t who they pretended to be. Time and again she’d caught him staring intently at either her or Philip, a puzzled look on his face, as if he’d seen them before and was trying to place where.
At other times Richard’s scrutiny had been for her alone, as a man looks at a woman. It always sent a tingle up her spine. Thankfully, he’d never acted on his obvious interest.
Right now he stood stoic, waiting for her to capitulate over the matter of where Philip would complete the final leagues of their journey.
Philip looked utterly joyous sitting atop the destrier. She couldn’t very well deny a lord’s wishes without his questioning a peasant’s audacity. Resigned, she put a hand on Philip’s leg.
“You must behave for his lordship,” she said. “Do nothing to startle the horse. Nor will you bore Lord Richard with your chatter. Understood?”
Philip looked down at her from the great height—too high, in a mother’s opinion, for a little boy to be off the ground. His joyous expression faded to thoughtfulness.
“Aye, Mother,” he said, then glanced at Richard. “Mayhap his lordship will do all the talking. I would like to know more of the Vikings.”
Richard chuckled. “Viking tales it is, lad.”
Lucinda thought it a safe subject of conversation, with one reservation. “A mother would hope that the tales are not too gruesome.”
Richard looked comically offended. “One cannot tell a proper Viking tale without some blood and gore.”
She crossed her arms. “Mayhap not, but one could tell the tales without ensuring bad dreams.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “One could try, but one gives no assurances, my lady.” With a grace that belied his size, Richard swung up into the saddle behind Philip.
My lady.
Had the honorific been a slip of the tongue, or a warning that her disguise hadn’t fooled him for long?
Having related every Viking tale in his memory, Richard considered returning Philip to his mother. The boy made for fine company, but Richard didn’t want to enter Westminster with a peasant-clad boy on his lap. This visit to court was too important to risk that some noble would notice his unusual riding companion and start speculation on the boy’s identity.
Too, Richard hadn’t found a natural opportunity to explore the child’s past. ‘Twas likely knavish to wrest the tale from an unsuspecting child, but Richard knew he would get no answers from the mother.
“I have told you many a tale of Vikings, Philip,” Richard said. “’Tis now your turn to tell me a tale.”
Philip laughed. “All the tales I know of Vikings are those you have just told me! I know no others.”
“Have you a tale of adventures, then? I know you had an adventure on your mule two days past. Surely, you have had others.”
Philip was silent for several heartbeats, then said, “I caught a frog once.”
“Did you? A big frog?” he asked, having a good idea of the tale’s outcome. He’d caught a frog or two during his childhood, and done his utmost to frighten at least one kitchen wench with the slimy creature before being forced to release it back into the pond.
Philip didn’t disappoint. He exaggerated the size of his prey, told of soaking his shoes and tunic in the pond and, upon successful stalk and capture, carrying the frog home.
“I would wager your mother forbade the beast in the hut.”
“She did,” Philip said on a sigh. “Mother did not think Hetty and Oscar would like a frog hopping about their feet. She told me to take the frog back to the pond.”
“Of course, you obeyed her,” Richard said, his tone conveying that he knew Philip probably hadn’t. He smiled when Philip squirmed. “Never tell me you took it into the hut!”
Philip leaned over and looked back at the men-at-arms and wagons following them.
Richard chided. “Your mother cannot hear you, Philip. She is too far away.”
Philip straightened, but tilted his head back so he could look up at Richard. “I did!” he said, grinning. “For the whole of an afternoon I kept the frog hidden in a bucket.” He giggled. “Then Mother grabbed the bucket to fetch water and the frog jumped out. She screeched like a banshee!”
He couldn’t imagine the cool-headed, reserved Lucinda screeching even if frightened, but kept the thought to himself.
