Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Excerpt

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About the Author

Copyright

10TH ANNIVERSARY
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Lord Of The Manor
Shari Anton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Ray and Jean Antoniewicz, with love.

Richard came toward Lucinda with long strides.

A tall, muscled warrior, strong of body and purpose. His arms swung at his sides in rhythm to his footfalls, and his hands were clenched. Hands that could skim over her with serene tenderness or stroke her with urgent hunger. Either way, guiding her to beyond the heavens.

She’d come to envy his inner tranquillity, admire his calm but firm treatment of his vassals, appreciate his effort to give her son a noble’s education, and cherish the time he spent with her alone.

She couldn’t have selected a better man to act as protector.

Or found a better lover. Or chosen a better man to love.

The realization severely tested her already fractured composure. But there it was. Undeniable. She loved Richard.

And he must never know…

Chapter One

England, 1109

Richard stepped back and sucked in his gut to avoid the whizzing tip of his brother’s broadsword. The gasp of the crowd encircling the castle’s practice yard confirmed how close the sword had come to nicking his navel.

He grinned. As always, Richard had let Gerard, his elder half brother and Baron of Wilmont, set the pace of the session. Allowed Gerard to probe for weakness in his defenses. That mighty stroke, clean and swift—and close—proclaimed Gerard hadn’t found one.

Richard returned the compliment with a stroke that would have disarmed a lesser man. Gerard absorbed the blow like a huge boulder, half buried in earth, not budging a mite.

“Ready to halt?” Gerard asked almost casually.

“Not until you sweat,” Richard answered, having noted the lack of a sheen on Gerard’s bare chest. ’Twas now a matter of pride to make the wavy blond hair at Gerard’s temples curl from dampness, as his own did.

In truth, neither brother would win this contest. He and Gerard were too evenly matched, from their skill at swordplay to the strength in their broad shoulders. From the green of their eyes to the flaxen color of their hair. Each even bore a long, jagged scar across his chest—Gerard’s earned many years ago while defending Everart, their now-dead father, Richard’s earned more recently, when he’d been mistaken for Gerard.

When mounted on war horses and sheathed in chain mail and helmet, ‘twas nearly impossible to distinguish the Baron of Wilmont from the bastard of Wilmont. Usually, the resemblance provided amusement for the brothers—until the fateful day in Normandy when their likeness had spared Gerard the injury that had nearly cost Richard his life.

The man who ordered Gerard’s murder, Basil of Northbryre, had paid for the mistake with his lands and his life. Gerard had then rewarded Richard by granting lordship over part of the lands won as a result of Basil’s downfall.

Richard owed much to Gerard—whose raised sword was about to cleave him in two if he didn’t pay better heed.

The clash of steel on steel reverberated through the yard as Richard met Gerard’s vigorous downstroke. The force of the blow numbed Richard’s hands and sent a wave of shock up his arms. He knew Gerard felt the shock, too. Gerard just didn’t have the decency to show a reaction.

Blade ran along blade. Richard stepped forward to come chest-to-chest with Gerard, and shoved hard to force his brother out of that irritating, rock-solid stance.

Another gasp rose from the crowd, but he paid little heed to the onlookers. Instead, he focused on Gerard’s narrowed eyes and feral grin. Richard knew that look, and prepared for the flurry of sword strokes sure to follow.

He reveled in the power of each blow, in how his muscles responded to the command of his will, in the simple pleasure of pitting his skills and wits against Gerard’s. ’Twas the foremost reason he returned often to Wilmont, where he’d been born of his English peasant mother and raised by his Norman noble father. Where he’d experienced both love and scorn as a child. Where he now commanded respect as a man.

A piercing whistle brought Richard to an immediate halt. As the tip of his sword dropped, he glanced toward the keep. Stephen, his younger half brother, pushed his lean, lank frame through the onlookers and briskly walked toward him and Gerard.

While one could tell at a glance that Richard and Gerard had been sired by the same father, that couldn’t be said of Stephen. Not only was he shorter and more slender, he bore the olive skin and black hair of Ursula, Stephen and Gerard’s mother.

Richard beckoned forth the young soldier who held his and Gerard’s tunics.

“Hellfire,” Gerard said under his breath as they exchanged weapons for tunics.

“Hellfire, indeed,” Stephen said with a teasing grin. “Ardith heard what you and Richard were about, Gerard, and that neither of you used a shield nor wore a hauberk. I fear you are in for a tongue-lashing.“

Gerard’s wife was one of the gentlest women Richard knew. When provoked, however, Ardith had no qualms about expressing her displeasure. This wouldn’t be the first time that Gerard caught hell for engaging in swordplay without protection.

Gerard huffed. “So she sent you out to halt us.”

“A woman in delicate condition should not push her way through crowds or get in the middle of swordplay. So I offered my services. Besides, I hoped you would now explain why you summoned Richard and me to Wilmont.”

Gerard pulled his tunic over his head. “In good time.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “I have been here for two days, waiting for Richard to arrive. He came this morn. ‘Tis now nearly time for evening repast. How much longer must we wait?”

“Until after I calm my wife, wash the sweat and dust from my body, and eat,” Gerard said, then turned and headed for the keep.

“That man is infuriatingly stubborn,” Stephen complained, glaring at Gerard’s back.

Richard eased into his tunic. “Patience, Stephen,” he said, knowing it would do no good. Stephen always wanted to be where he was not, do something other than what he was doing. His rush into adventure often got him into trouble, but that never lessened Stephen’s eagerness for the next exploit.

“I have been patient,” Stephen declared. “Are you not curious about Gerard’s summons?”

“Aye, but I am content to wait until he is ready to explain.”

“Humph. Likely, he will do so two words at a time and drive me insane.”

Richard laughed lightly and chided, “Come now, Stephen. When Gerard chooses to, he can talk endlessly.”

“Truly? When did you last hear him utter more than two sentences at a time?”

Richard well remembered standing beside Ardith in Westminster Hall while Gerard proclaimed innocence concerning the death of Basil of Northbryre. “At court. During Gerard’s trial for murder. He presented his case to King Henry in eloquent fashion.”

Stephen sighed. “I missed the trial, as you know. I was here at Wilmont, preparing for the war that would have followed if Gerard had lost. You are forgetting, Richard, that Gerard did not win against King Henry with words, but through ordeal by combat.”

Gerard had almost lost the ordeal against the king’s champion. If Ardith hadn’t thrown a dagger onto the field of combat, within reach of Gerard’s hand, Gerard might have lost Wilmont and his life.

“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

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.”

She had to shake him to gain his attention.

“Some day I want a horse like that,” he declared, and then obeyed.

Aye, ’twas her son’s right to one day own the trappings of nobility, among them a destrier. That could happen only if she went to court and the king took pity on the widow and son of one of his most treacherous subjects. For every reason that came to mind why she should petition the king, she could think of another why she should not.

She had time yet to decide. For now, getting safely through the next few minutes took precedence.

Lucinda considered leaving the road entirely, but that would mean going into the forest. Not a safe place, not with a stubborn mule, not knowing if one of the men would take her action as an invitation and decide to pursue. Best she stay on the road, as close to the edge as possible, and pray that none of the men took it into his head to harass a poor peasant woman and her little boy.

The earth fair shook as the noble overtook them, passed by on his magnificent steed, giving her a clear view of his back. He was, indeed, a tall and broad-shouldered warrior and, to her relief, no longer a danger.

The men-at-arms, in a double column, marched past. She put her hand to her nose against the dust. The company consisted of twenty armed and likely well-trained soldiers. She let out the breath she’d been holding as she sensed a break in the retinue. All that remained to pass by were the wagons.

Philip wiped his nose with his tunic sleeve. He sneezed hard, kicking the mule. The mule brayed and shifted, nearly knocking Lucinda off balance.

Then Philip sneezed again. The mule bolted, jerking the lead rope from her hand so fast it burned.

“Hold fast, Philip!” she shouted, and began to run with a speed she’d never known she could attain. Sweet Jesu, she’d never seen that mule move so fast. Philip bounced and swayed, but he held on.

One soldier almost snared the lead rope as the mule sped by. Two others dropped their spears and shields to give chase.

Lucinda followed, damning the mule to perdition, praying that Philip could hold tight a while longer. If Philip were injured…no, she couldn’t think of that now, just concentrate on getting to him.

Too late, she saw the bump of a tree root in the road. Her foot caught, sending her tumbling. Gasping for air, ignoring her scraped hands, she tried to rise. Pain shot from her ankle. She swore, a foul word she’d learned from Basil’s mercenaries.

Lucinda flinched when a hand clasped her shoulder.

“Can you get up?” the man said.

Admitting weakness to a man wasn’t wise. A lone woman amid so many men would do well to keep her vulnerability a secret. Unfortunately, her injury would show the moment she put weight on her ankle. She looked up into the face of an old soldier, his warm brown eyes and puggish nose surrounded by a bushy, graying beard.

“Mayhap, with your aid,” she said.

As he helped her to stand, the soldier said, “Worry not about the boy. Even now Lord Richard chases the mule.”

Indeed, the commotion drew the attention of the noble who led the company. Effortlessly, his destrier kept pace with the mule. Lord Richard shouted down to Philip, then reached out and plucked her son from the mule’s back.

A cheer laced with laughter went up from the soldiers. Lucinda sighed with relief, not having the breath to cheer. This lord who had snatched Philip from the threat of harm was due her gratitude.

The lord wheeled his horse around. Philip sat on the man’s lap, safe. The lord said something to his two soldiers who had given chase. They nodded and continued up the road, but at a slower pace. She assumed they’d been ordered to find the mule. If not for the precious packs on the beast’s back, she’d have told them not to bother.

Lord Richard was riding slowly toward her, bearing Philip back to her. Lucinda shook the worst of the dust from her gown and straightened her scarf, hoping she could adequately express her thanks for his rescue of her son.

Her heart stopped when she recognized the man she’d seen but once, at court, lo those many years ago. Basil had pointed out each member of the family he so despised: Everart, Baron of Wilmont, whose lands Basil coveted; the heir Gerard and the youngest son Stephen; and Richard, the middle son—the bastard.

Philip was sitting on the lap of Richard of Wilmont, who had been severely wounded and nearly died because of Basil’s treachery.

Richard ruffled Philip’s hair, talking to him. Philip smiled up at Richard and answered. Lucinda bit her bottom lip. If Richard spoke to Philip in Norman French, the language of the nobility, Philip would answer in his native tongue, which no mere peasant boy would know. It would be a clear sign that she and her son were not who they appeared to be.

Oblivious to the danger, smiling hugely, Philip rattled on and on, his hands gesturing as he spoke. Richard commented occasionally, with only one or two words.

Though she couldn’t hear what they said, one exchange didn’t need to be heard to be understood. Richard’s lips clearly formed Philip’s name, and then hers, Lucinda, drawn out as if he savored the word.

She shivered. Surely, now, Richard knew who she was, realized whose son he held firmly in his grasp. Or did he? True, Everart would have pointed Basil out to each of his sons so they would know their enemy. Had she been with Basil at the time? Would Everart have bothered identifying Basil’s wife? Would Everart even have known her name?

Lucinda took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Whatever was to come next, she had to face it. She couldn’t run, not with her injured ankle, not with a small boy in tow. Nor would she cower. She knew how to face angry, abusive men and retain her inner dignity.

Lucinda allowed herself a small show of a mother’s concern for her son as Richard reined his horse to a halt. She looked Philip over, head to toe, searching for signs of injury. She found none. That done, she smoothed her features into the impenetrable mask that had served her well for so many years.

“Lucinda,” Richard said from the great height of his destrier.

Her name, spoken in his low, rumbling voice, sounded odd, almost beautiful. ’Twas a pleasant sensation, but she refused to allow the feeling to linger or cloud her judgment. Too often she’d seen nobles, no matter how seemingly charming, turn beastly.

As a peasant woman, she should bow low before Richard. But if she tried, her ankle would crumble. She gave him a slight bow and hoped he wouldn’t take offense.

“This boy, Philip, claims to belong to you,” he said before she’d finished the bow. She’d expected haughtiness or derision, not the hint of humor in his voice. And, thank the Lord, he spoke in English.

“He is my son, my lord.”

He grasped Philip around the waist and lifted him. “Then I shall return this outstanding mule rider to your care.”

Lucinda knew that Richard expected her to come forward to claim Philip. To her relief, the old soldier who had helped her to stand walked over to fetch her son. As soon as Philip’s feet hit the road, he ran to the invitation of her open arms. She wanted to bend down and pick him up. Afraid she would fall on her face if she tried, she put her hands on his back and head and held him firmly against her.

“I give you my thanks, my lord, for your timely and gracious rescue,” she said.

He nodded. “Is your mule always so skittish?”

“Nay, my lord. He is usually well-mannered—for a mule.”

Richard glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, even now the beast comes. Having had his run for the day, mayhap he will be calmer now.”

“’Tis hoped for, my lord,” she answered, her fears fading. Surely, if Richard had recognized her he would have said so by now, not rambled on about a skittish mule. Perhaps she and Philip would escape this encounter unscathed.

Deftly, Richard nudged his destrier to the side, allowing the soldier who led the mule to pass by him. With the rope again in her hand, Lucinda gave the soldier a gracious smile, feeling ever more confident that she worried for naught.

“Philip,” Richard called out, “have a care not to sneeze loudly again.”

Lucinda held tight to Philip’s shoulders as he turned around to answer, “I shall try, my lord.” Then he tilted his head up to ask her, “Must I get on that beast again? My arse is well sore!”

Richard’s smile widened. The soldiers about her chuckled.

She strove for a light tone. “Mayhap I will ride and let you walk, for a while.”

Richard gathered up his horse’s reins. “I wish you both a pleasant journey,” he said, but before he could turn his horse, the old, grizzled soldier put a hand on Richard’s leg.

“Beg pardon, my lord,” the soldier said.

“What is it, Edric?” Richard asked.

Edric rubbed at his gray beard. “Whilst you chased the boy, the woman took a hard twist to her foot I do not think she can walk. If the boy walks, they will not get to the next village afore nightfall. ’Tain’t room on the beast for the two of them and the packs. Spending the night on the road would be dangerous.”

Richard looked back at her, questioning.

Lucinda quickly said, “’Tis a small hurt, my lord. Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

With a sigh of impatience, the first he’d displayed, Richard dismounted and tossed the reins to Edric.

Lucinda strove to tamp down the panic that threatened to overpower her as Richard of Wilmont came nearer. He halted a few feet away from her and crossed his muscled arms across the wide expanse of his chest.

“Edric is a well-seasoned soldier who has suffered many an injury. If he believes that your ankle will not support you, I will not doubt him. I offer you a seat in a wagon and the protection of our company,” he said.

“A kind gesture, my lord, but not necessary.”

“Can you walk?”

“Well enough,” she lied. Putting weight on her ankle was like dipping it into fire.

Richard tilted his head. “Well enough to reach the safety of the next village before nightfall?”

“That would depend on how many leagues to the village.”

“Too many if you cannot keep the mule moving at a quick pace.” He glanced down at her hands. “Your hands bleed. Can you hold the rope securely?”

She’d forgotten her hands. Not until he’d called her attention to them did she notice the blood smeared on Philip’s tunic.

“Mother?” Philip said, concerned.

“My hands are but lightly scraped. Truly, my lord, there is no need—”

“Walk to me,” he ordered.

His tone brooked no disobedience. About her stood a troop of men, Wilmont soldiers, waiting to see if she would defy their lord. Richard was giving her no choice but to accept his challenge.

Six steps would bring her to within Richard’s reach. Surely she could complete three or four. The sooner done, the sooner Richard of Wilmont would be on his way.

She handed the rope to Philip and gently pushed her son aside. The first steps were tolerable, the third step nearly brought her to her knees. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her leg trembled. She stood still.

Lucinda expected to see triumph in Richard’s expression. To her surprise, she saw admiration.

“A gallant effort, Lucinda,” he said, then signaled the wagon’s driver to come forward.

She couldn’t accept his offer. The longer she stayed in his company, the more risk was involved. She began to utter a protest. He stopped her with a forefinger to her lips. A soft touch. A spark of heat. A devastatingly effective maneuver that stole her words. Shocked, she stood still, unable to move even if she could have.

He frowned, looking intently at his finger on her parted lips. Very slowly, gently, he stroked to the corner of her mouth and across her cheek before he blinked and drew his hand back.

“I understand your reluctance to travel with a troop of men,” he said. “I swear on my honor that you need not fear for yourself or your son while in our company. We will see you safely to wherever it is you wish to go.”

He thought she feared as any woman would fear. Richard didn’t fully understand at all, but she no longer had the strength to argue, didn’t possess the physical ability to fight. Her whole body shook from the effort of having walked three measly steps. It took a fair amount of effort to hold back her tears. She nodded her surrender.

He offered his arm for support. Chain mail met her touch, but beneath the cold metal lay strength and warmth. She was careful to keep her bloody palms from wetting his hauberk.

“Philip, bring that beast over here and we will tie him to the wagon,” Richard ordered.

The wagon driver pulled up within inches of where they stood. Without warning, Richard’s hands encircled her waist. Instinctively, she grasped his shoulders. He lifted her up, effortlessly, until she hovered a few inches from the ground.

She stared straight into his green eyes, his wondrous green eyes. Flecks of gold shimmered within their depths.

He set her down on the wagon bed.

“Such beautiful eyes,” he said. “I do not think I have ever seen their like before. Like violets they are.”

Only a true dolt would respond to such flattery, but she’d been deprived of compliments for so long her vanity got the best of her.

“Not so very uncommon, my lord.”

“Rarer than you might imagine.”

Richard seemed to realize at the same time she did that they hadn’t let go of one another and were staring into each other’s eyes like moonstruck lovers. He let go and backed a step.

He crossed his arms again and looked down at her feet dangling over the wagon bed. “Do you think it broken?”

“Not likely,” she answered truthfully. “Had it broke, I could not walk on it at all.”

“Should we bind it?”

“Nay. My boot holds it fast. If I took my boot off, I might not get it back on my foot again.”

He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Philip and that mule do not get on well.”

Poor Philip. He pulled on the lead rope with all of his might but the mule wouldn’t budge. Lucinda’s frustration bubbled up.

“More than once I have taken a switch to the beast to get him to move.”

“You have come far with him?”

“Too many leagues.”

“How many yet to go?”

She didn’t know, because she didn’t know where she would call her journey to a halt.

“Too many. I thank you for your kindness, my lord. Mayhap you could stop at the next abbey. I could beg hospitality from the monks for a few days while my ankle mends, then Philip and I can be on our way again.”

Richard nodded. “We shall be in Westminster day after next I know the abbot well. You will receive good care there.” Then he turned and headed toward Philip.

The abbey at Westminster? She hadn’t known she was that close!

Granted, she’d thought to go to Westminster, but now that it was close at hand, she must make her decision. The thought of going to court still didn’t fully appeal, but her options were running out.

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

“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.

Instead, he suggested, “Mayhap you should have asked your father if you could keep the frog.”

Philip shook his head. “I have no father. He died when I was so little that I do not remember him.”

Richard noted the lack of sorrow in Philip’s statement, just as Richard felt no sorrow when the subject of his mother, who’d died giving him birth, arose.

Lucinda must be a widow of several years, then.

“This Oscar you spoke of, mayhap he would have let you keep the frog.”

“Not Oscar. He never went against Mother’s wishes. Nor did Hetty. I wish…”

True grief had crept into the boy’s tone. Richard gave Philip a gentle squeeze. “What do you wish?”

“I wish they had not been so old, because then they might have survived the sickness in the village. Mother tried every potion she knew of to help them get well, but none worked.”

“Were you sick, or your mother?”

“Nay.” Philip sighed. “Mother thought it best that we leave the village before we got sick, too. She looks for a new home for us, but has not found one that suits her. I hope she finds one she likes very soon. I tire of riding on that mule.”

He knew of a suitable home for mother and child. His manor, Collinwood. The people had suffered greatly under the lordship of Basil of Northbryre. Since being awarded the land, Richard had done his best to improve his vassals’ lot. If Lucinda possessed skill at caring for the sick, his vassals would accept her gladly.

He needed to talk to Lucinda about the prospect, but first he must find Stephen and begin his task of gathering information for Gerard. He wouldn’t need to inquire about which heiresses would be granted in marriage. Stephen would already know.

Lucinda’s ankle had healed somewhat, but he suspected the monks at Westminster Abbey would advise her to rest well before resuming her hunt for a home. He could visit her—and Philip, of course—at the abbey on the morrow.

The only problem with this whole plan of taking her home with him lay in his attraction to Lucinda. He had but to look at her to feel a tug on his innards.

However, resisting the temptation of her would be easier if he took a wife. An heiress. A noblewoman to share his bed to assuage his physical needs and bear his children. An heiress who brought with her enough wealth to raise his status and pay for the betterment of his lands.

For those reasons alone, he could resist temptation.

Richard reined Odin to a halt. He lowered Philip to the road with an order to return to his mother.

“’Tis not broken,” the red-faced monk declared.

Lucinda hid her amusement at the monk’s embarrassment. Brother Ambrose had touched her hosecovered ankle as briefly as was possible to confirm the wholeness of her bones.

“You must rest your foot until the swelling is gone,” he prescribed as a cure. “I will have space prepared for you in the ladies’ court.”

“And my son?” Lucinda asked.

The monk glanced over at Philip, who was intrigued by the array of jars neatly arranged on shelves in the abbey’s infirmary.

“He is young enough to stay with you, I would think, if we can arrange for a cell for the two of you. However, sleeping space is dear. The child may have to sleep on a pallet in the dormitory.”

That didn’t surprise her in the least. The streets of Westminster overflowed with people, making passage slow, and therefore dangerous. At Richard’s order, half of his soldiers had surrounded the wagon that carried her and Philip. The escort hadn’t left her until she, Philip and the mule had been safely inside the abbey. A few of the nobles streaming to Westminster would likely take refuge at the abbey until finding other lodgings.

Lucinda struggled to put on her boot.

She’d feared recognition by Richard, but that fear had deepened upon entering Westminster. Now, in close quarters to members of the court and their families, someone was sure to recognize her as Lucinda of Northbryre.

Thus far she hadn’t seen a familiar face. To her knowledge, no one had turned to stare at her, marking her presence. Which shouldn’t surprise her. Few nobles would deign to notice a peasant woman with a small boy in tow. Not even Richard had given them a second glance until that unruly mule took flight with Philip on its back.

Then Richard had taken too much notice. He looked too hard, and too long. She’d taken far too much pleasure in feeling the heat in his gaze. He’d despoiled her belief that she would never again wish to be held, much less touched by a man. After all she’d suffered from Basil, she’d thought herself cured of wanting any man. Richard of Wilmont had proved her wrong with merely a lustful look and a gentle touch.

After the morrow, Richard would not look on her in that way again, for on the morrow he would learn the truth of her identity. On the morrow, she would petition King Henry for a protector for Philip.

By placing Philip within a noble house, under edict from King Henry to safeguard the boy, she could ensure Philip’s safety from not only Basil’s family but his enemies. Most notably Gerard of Wilmont—and his kin.

Her brush with Richard had emphasized the extent of her vulnerability. She possessed neither the physical might nor the power of wealth to protect Philip from anyone who wished him ill. Had some unscrupulous Norman come upon her on the road, she and Philip would have been in deep trouble.

“Brother Ambrose, I am willing to pay for our sleeping space. Would the donation of my mule to the abbey cover lodging and meals for two days?”

The monk rubbed his chin. “I should think the mule more than fair payment. I will ask the abbot.”

After the monk left the infirmary, she patted the bench beside her. “Come sit, Philip.”

Reluctantly, he left his study of the jars.

“Why did you give away Oscar’s mule?” he asked.

“We shall not need the mule any longer. I think Oscar would approve of donating him to the monks.”

“We will stay here, in Westminster?”

She shifted on the bench to better look down into her son’s face. What she would propose affected him most of all, and she wanted to witness his honest opinion.

“You would like to own a destrier.”

With a sharp nod of his head, he said, “Like Odin.”

“What would you say if I told you I might arrange that? Not anytime soon, you understand, but when you are old enough to control such a beast.”

His gray eyes went wide. “Truly? How?”

“By making you a ward of a nobleman.”

Philip expression didn’t change, not understanding. She’d never explained the ways of nobles to him. ’Twas her own fault that her son now had much to learn in a short time.

“The noble would be your protector. He would see to your training in the ways of the court and the skills of a knight. I thought to petition the king for a protector for you.”

He thought that over for a moment, then said, “Then we would have a home. We would live in the lord’s castle, and I could have a horse!”

No, not we—you.

Lucinda realized how little thought she’d given to where she would go if the king granted her petition. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She must see to Philip first without worrying about what would become of her.

Philip jumped up, his eyes shining with excitement. “Mayhap we could ask Lord Richard to be my protector!”

Naturally, Philip would think first of Richard of Wilmont, the only lord he knew, one who’d been kind to him.

“Nay, Philip. Not Richard.”

Philip mustered his courage to argue, “But why not? Is not Richard a noble lord?”

She took her confused son’s hands in hers. “He is, indeed, a noble lord, and was kind to us when we needed his aid,” she said, giving Richard his due. “He is not, however, a suitable protector for you.”

Philip pulled his hands away. He pouted. “I like him and I think he likes me. I do not see the harm in asking.”

How to explain? She took a deep breath, hoping her words would be the right ones.

“Long ago, before you were born, your father made an enemy of Everart of Wilmont, Richard’s father. Both Everart and your father are dead now, but I doubt Richard will ever forget the hatred that existed between the two families, or forgive your father for his treachery. Once Richard knows who your father was, I fear he will not like you anymore.”

“My father fought with Lord Richard?”

Basil had damn near caused Richard’s death. She nodded.

Philip was silent for a moment, then asked, “If I promised not to fight with Richard, would he like me then?”

So simple. So childlike. So impossible a solution.

“You must understand, Philip, your father was not a nice man. He inflicted great suffering on the family of Wilmont, and as fine a man as Richard is, we cannot expect him to ignore that you are his enemy’s son.”

Or that I was his enemy’s wife.

“Never have you told me anything of my father. I do not even know his name,” Philip accused.

“His name was Basil of Northbryre. I did not tell you of him because…” She faltered. She’d been about to tell her son a lie. She hadn’t spoken to Philip about Basil, not to spare her son pain, but to spare herself. “…because I wished to forget that he existed. That was wrong of me. I should have told you of him, and I will. You have my promise.”

Brother Ambrose returned. “You will be pleased to hear that private lodgings are available. The abbot sends his thanks for your kind gift. He will keep you in his prayers.”

A fine sentiment. Likely she would need all of the divine intervention she could get over the next few days.

“Philip, see to your pack,” she said, picking up her own bundle that contained her one unstained gown and a few coins.

The monk turned to lead them out of the room. Lucinda stopped him.

“Brother Ambrose, I have but one more request. I should like to have a message sent to the palace.”

The monk’s eyes widened. “A message?”

She ignored his incredulity. “To King Henry.”

His eyes widened farther. “What is the message?”

“Lucinda of Northbryre wishes an audience with His Majesty.”

The monk’s jaw dropped. “Indeed.”

“Can the message be delivered within the hour?”

He regained his poise. “Aye, my lady, I will see it done. Now, if you will follow me, I will show you to your lodgings.”

Taking Philip’s hand, Lucinda followed as bid, wondering if she’d given away the mule too soon. All of her plans depended upon the king’s willingness to hear her petition, and upon how much, after three years, Henry still detested Basil.

If the king refused to see her or denied her petition, within two days she and Philip would again be searching for a hiding place, a refuge to call home.

Chapter Four

Richard leaned against one of the many marble pillars that supported the great arches of Westminster Hall. A large crowd had gathered with the vast room; voices and footsteps echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

He’d chosen this spot to best watch the comings and goings of nobles and peasants alike, noting in particular which men of power had arrived. Most notably absent was Emperor Henry V, to whom Princess Matilda would soon be betrothed. The emperor’s delegation would seal the bargain and fetch the princess who, at the age of seven, was having a grand time flaunting her impending title of empress.

If King Henry of England took offense at the emperor’s absence, Richard had no notion. He just hoped the king didn’t take offense that Gerard had sent his own delegation—him and Stephen—in his stead.

Richard looked toward the dais where the king presided from his throne, searching for Stephen, who was supposed to be listening to the petitions presented to Henry. With so many people crowding the hall, however, ’twas impossible to detect Stephen’s position.

Boredom had set in long ago. He’d seen those nobles whom he expected to see and exchanged greetings with the most staunch of Wilmont’s allies. Likely, tongues were wagging among England’s and Normandy’s nobility about Gerard’s absence—a situation Richard had already explained far too often this morning for comfort. He had yet to give Gerard’s greetings and regrets to the king—a task he was hoping Stephen would fulfill.

While he observed the crowd, Richard’s thoughts wandered to Lucinda and Philip, wondering how they fared at the abbey and if Lucinda could now walk without pain. He almost hoped not, for then she wouldn’t leave the abbey before he spoke to her about settling at Collinwood.

But before he asked Lucinda to become a part of his world, for his own protection, and that of his people he needed to know the secret she harbored behind her startling violet eyes. He needed to know why a Norman noblewoman trekked the road garbed as an English peasant Surely, she answered to some male relative—a father or brother, or other male head of her family or her dead husband’s. Every woman did.

Was she running away? Had she been exiled? And why?

Richard was about to bolt the hall in favor of the abbey when he saw Stephen coming toward him, perturbed.

“’Tis not a good day to ask the king for favor,” Stephen declared. “He hears petition after petition and grants few.”

“Not a good day, then, to ask for the hand of a fair heiress. Have you decided on one?”

“I have three I would consider. You?”

Richard shrugged a shoulder. Though he knew he should probably court at least one woman on Stephen’s list of heiresses, not one name struck the mildest note of interest.

Stephen chided. “Richard, if you wish to better your holdings, you had best make yourself known to at least a few of the heiresses. Mayhap one will take a liking to your ugly face and ask for you!”

Richard smiled. “Mayhap I should let you choose for me. Judging from your notes on the list, you have studied all of their qualities, from fairness of face to the coin they bring.”

“Ha! And have you blame me if her temperament is sour? Nay, brother, choose for yourself.”

Richard chuckled, then asked, “Did you happen to tell Henry of Gerard’s absence.”

“Aye.” Stephen sighed. “Another reason to delay asking for favors today. Henry accepted my explanation with little grace. He says he understands, but ’twas quite clear he is displeased.”

An unhappy Henry was also a dangerous Henry. Today was not the day to begin an attempt to heal the rift between Gerard and the king, a cause near to Richard’s heart. He disliked seeing the two men at odds with each other when they had been such great companions. For now, ’twas best to stay out of the king’s sight and beyond his reach until his spirits lightened.

Richard decided he’d had enough of noblewatching for the day. “I am off for the abbey. Do try to stay out of trouble.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “The abbey? Whatever for?”

“Mayhap I wish to confess my sins,” Richard suggested.

“Hardly likely.” Stephen knew him too well.

“I go to visit the woman and boy who traveled with us. I wish to see if they are well cared for.”

Stephen crossed his arms. “How can they be less than well cared for in Westminster Abbey? This is the third time you have mentioned this woman since you arrived yesterday. I begin to suspect that something happened between the two of you during your journey.”

“Nothing happened.”

’Twas a small lie he told. In truth, nothing had happened beyond her riding in the wagon and a few, brief moments of conversation. That something might have happened if he’d given in to the attraction that simmered whenever he looked at Lucinda was none of Stephen’s affair.

Stephen studied Richard for several moments before saying, “If you wish to bring the woman to Wilmont’s chambers to warm your bed while we are here, I have no objection.”

Richard felt a twinge of ire rise. “Not that I intend to do so, Stephen, but should I invite a woman to share my furs, I will not seek your permission!”

Stephen didn’t comment. Someone or something near the door had captured his attention.

A woman. She stood inside the door, glancing about the hall as if confused, almost frightened of entering. Lucinda.

Her simple gown of green wool hugged her curves as softly and becomingly as silk. Under a sheer white veil, held in place by a silver circlet, her raven hair shimmered almost blue in the light of a nearby torch.

She held herself erect and poised. One had to look into her eyes to see her anxiety. She might be noble, but perhaps not accustomed to attending court. Mayhap he could ease her anxiety. Perhaps he could explain the protocol or help her find whatever or whomever she looked for.

Stephen said angrily, “Mayhap you should stay awhile, Richard. I fear we are about to witness some excitement. ’Tis good that Gerard is not here. He would roar the arches down.”

“Why is that?”

“The woman in the green gown, coming into the hall. Do you recognize her?”

He’d just spent the past two days in Lucinda’s company and had thought of her far too often since. Was thinking far too much of her now. But, alerted by Stephen’s tone, Richard held his counsel.

“Should I know her?”

“Aye, I believe you should. I saw her only the once, and do not remember her name, but I believe she is the widow of Basil of Northbryre.”

The kick to Richard’s gut threatened to send bile up his throat. Richard swallowed hard. Hellfire! Was it possible he’d been strongly attracted to the widow of Wilmont’s worst enemy?

“Lucinda.” He supplied her name to Stephen. This time, the sound of it didn’t seem musical.

Stephen nodded. “That is it. I heard that she and her son had escaped to Basil’s lands in Normandy. I wonder what brings her back after all this time?”

Richard didn’t care. He was too busy wondering where he should have known her from, if they had met before. Wondering how his character could be so flawed that he’d wished to couple with a woman who’d rutted with Basil of Northbryre.

On the road, if he’d known. who she was, he’d have let the mule run off with Philip, let Lucinda cope on her own.

She took a small step forward, then another. She didn’t limp. Had she faked the injury to her ankle? Had she laughed behind her hand at his offer of assistance, at his gullibility?

Did she know his identity? Possibly. ’Twould explain much of her nervousness, her wish to keep Philip so close to her side.

Hellfire, he’d been such a fool!

“Come,” Stephen said. “She heads for Henry.”

Lucinda’s first thought upon entering Westminster Hall was to bring Philip here to see the arched ceiling, the marble pillars and the elaborate throne. He would think the hall grand.

She’d left Philip at the abbey under the care of Brother Ambrose. The monk had relented to her son’s plea to once again explore the infirmary, and wouldn’t be content until he learned the name of each medicinal herb, the purpose of every balm, and the use of all the tonics in the place.

Philip knew that she’d left the abbey to see the king, and why, though he didn’t yet realize the full extent of how her petition, if granted, would change his life. Lucinda had decided not to explain too fully, for now.

The king’s anger at Basil’s treachery must have cooled somewhat or he wouldn’t have granted her an audience. That didn’t mean he would also grant her petition.

Lucinda glanced about the hall, recognizing few faces. Her hopes that she could go unrecognized and without comment faded when a woman’s eyes widened and she turned to a companion to whisper behind her hand. ’Twas too much to hope that the woman only commented on the shabby state of Lucinda’s garments when compared to the rest of the silk-clad, jewel-bedecked nobles.

Lucinda focused on Henry during her long walk from the door to the dais. She wanted to get this over with. Only Henry’s opinion and mood mattered, not the rest of the court’s. With the words she would say to the king tumbling around in her head, she threaded her way through the crowd.

As she neared the dais she took slow, steady breaths to calm a sudden tremor, which she hoped no one noticed. For as much as she feared facing Henry, she also dreaded running into Richard.

Was he here in the hall? He would be angry when he learned her identity, of that she was sure. What form would his anger take?

She would deal with him when the time came. Now she must present herself to the king and hope his anger at her late husband’s betrayal didn’t overflow onto her son.

The crowd thickened as she neared the throne. Her nose wrinkled at the stench of too many bodies in too little space. Were these all petitioners, or merely listeners?

“We will grant your request, Gaylord,” the king was saying. “You may hunt the woodland to the east of Hawkland for small game. You may not, however, take the king’s deer. In return for the privilege, you will keep the forest free of poachers.”

“My thanks, Sire,” a man answered, bending into a low bow. “I will enforce the Forest Law with vigor.”

As Gaylord turned to leave, a man approached the king and leaned down to whisper into Henry’s ear. Henry nodded, then turned to motion to someone in the crowd.

“John,” the king said. “Kester informs us that you wish judgment on a land dispute.”

Kester. Though Lucinda had never met the man, she knew his place at court—advisor to the king. He held a sheet of parchment, which he consulted, then glanced about the room. Seeking the next petitioner?

She watched as the procedure was repeated, then, sure of her conjecture, approached Kester. He looked up from his list.

“I am Lucinda of…Northbryre,” she said. “The king granted my request for an audience today.”

Kester frowned. She could almost feel his spine stiffen. “The king has many to see today. Stand aside and wait your turn.”

Lucinda bristled at his obvious disdain. But, watching him add her name to his list, she moved away, toward one of the hall’s many supporting pillars. At the edge of her awareness she realized some people stared at her, some pointed fingers. She ignored them. She had a higher purpose than providing entertainment for the court.

Was Richard among those assembled? Would he come forward and make a spectacle of them both? She prayed not, and resisted looking for him. ’Twould be tempting fate.

She concentrated on the proceedings. As petitioner after petitioner presented his grievance or request to Henry, she noticed that several people had been placed ahead of her, and Henry was granting fewer and fewer requests.

Lucinda was about to remind Kester that she’d been waiting overlong when he moved to the king’s side, whispered in Henry’s ear, then looked straight at her. She took a deep breath, prayed for the strength to remain calm, and presented herself to King Henry before he could call out her name.

The king studied her with an unreadable expression on his face. She endured it, waiting for him to speak, as protocol demanded.

“Lucinda of Northbryre,” he finally said, his voice flat. “We thought you had fled to Normandy.”

A natural assumption for him to make. Most women in her situation—short of funds and with her husband in disgrace—would have fled to family.

“Nay, Majesty,” she said, surprised at the steadiness in her voice. “I had no desire to return to either my family or Basil’s. For my son’s sake, I never left England.”

“Who sheltered you?”

She heard a faint hint of anger in the king’s voice, and was suddenly glad that Oscar and Hetty were beyond Henry’s reach.

“An old peasant couple, who have recently gone to their heavenly reward,” she answered.

“You ask us to believe that you have lived as a peasant these past three years?” His incredulity rang clear. The rest of the court doubted, too, judging from the twitter she heard around her.

“Aye, Majesty, I have.”

He leaned back in his throne, obviously contemplating her revelation. “We must say we are displeased that you waited so long to come before us and beg our forgiveness.”

Lucinda tamped down a flash of anger. Neither she nor Philip had done anything wrong. Basil had plotted treason, not she. Saying so to Henry, however, would do her no good. She swallowed her pride—somewhat.

“Basil’s disloyalty to his king was a difficult burden for me to bear. Given his treasonous actions, I realize you make a magnanimous gesture by allowing me into your royal presence to hear my petition. I humbly and gratefully thank you for your kindness, Majesty.”

She hadn’t begged forgiveness, but the king seemed pleased with her flattery. How odd that she had Basil to thank for telling her of the king’s susceptibility.

“What petition?”

A bit more sure of how to go about asking favor from Henry, she chose her words with care.

“I seek a protector for Philip. I would have him raised in a noble house whose loyalty to the crown is unquestioned, that he might learn the ways of the court and earn his knighthood. Someday, God willing, Philip might then serve his king as a loyal and true subject.”

“Ah, but will he, Sire?” came a male voice. “Basil’s tainted blood flows in the boy, and surely blood will tell.”

Lucinda glanced in the speaker’s direction. A raven-haired man broke through the crowd. Immediately behind him strode Richard. Beyond all reason, she wanted to reach out to Richard, to give him some explanation of her actions on the road. To him she would have apologized for what he and his family had suffered at Basil’s hand.

The raven-haired speaker was likely Stephen of Wilmont, the youngest of the three brothers. Now, not only must she convince the king of her plan’s validity, but do so over Wilmont’s objection.

“We do not recall asking your opinion,” the king admonished Stephen.

Stephen bowed to Henry. “I beg your indulgence if I overstep, Sire, but I feel obligated to speak out. Wilmont endured much due to Basil’s treachery. Richard is fortunate to have survived Basil’s attempt to do murder. And even now, three years after their kidnapping, Gerard’s wife and son suffer nightmares of their mistreatment at Basil’s hands. Surely, Sire, you can understand my concern.”

What kidnapping? What other horrors had Basil inflicted on those of Wilmont which she knew nothing about? What obscenities had he committed upon an innocent woman he deemed an enemy?

Was Stephen right? Would blood tell? Would Philip grow up to be just like his father, viciously cruel, simply because Basil had fathered him?

She refused to believe it.

“Majesty,” she said, drawing the king’s attention. “I know that those of Wilmont have sound reasons to hate Basil. Philip, however, was but three summers old when his father died, too young for Basil to have had a lasting influence on the boy. And my son also carries my blood, both noble and untainted. Would not the proper counsel of a stalwart protector prove the stronger influence on how Philip grows to manhood? Majesty,” she continued, hating the plea in her voice but unable to help it, “must the sins of the father be held against the son?”

“Trust a woman to think so unsoundly,” Stephen said. “Bad seed is bad seed, passed through the male line. Sire, if you will allow, I will arrange for Basil’s widow and son to sail to Normandy. If she has not the coin to pay, I will.”

Lucinda strongly objected. “If I return to my family, my father will send Philip to Basil’s family to be raised. Philip will but learn the same lessons as Basil learned, those of cruelty and deceit. Majesty, I beg you not to sentence my son to the fate of his father.”

“My offer stands, Sire,” Stephen said.

Silence reigned. Henry hadn’t said a word during her argument with Stephen. She had no idea to which side he leaned. The king looked hard at Stephen and Richard, then turned to Lucinda.

“If our memory serves us,” the king said, “we recall that Basil had lands in Normandy, which should rightfully now belong to your son. Who would now control those lands?”

“I assume Basil’s cousin, George.”

“Ah…another noble of questionable loyalty and judgment. You did well to keep the boy from his influence.” The king shifted on his throne. “So whoever we name protector must have the means to fight George, if necessary, to collect the rents due from the boy’s lands, and thus the protector’s reward for accepting Philip until the boy is of age.”

She nodded, her hopes for a favorable judgment rising. The king seemed to understand her position and was leaning in her favor.

“We know of several men capable,” the king continued. “Our concern is that given the added wealth, those men might also challenge Wilmont for control of Basil’s former English lands, on the child’s behalf. We want peace among our nobles, not petty wars. To our mind, the perfect protector would be Gerard of Wilmont.”

The king couldn’t give Philip over to Gerard of Wilmont! Before she could protest, Stephen spoke.

“Sire,” he said softly. “’Twould be most unfair to inflict the boy on Gerard’s family. Have they not suffered enough at the hands of Northbryre?”

The king leaned forward. “Who better to ensure that no war is waged against Wilmont than those of Wilmont? Frankly, Stephen, our next choice would be to give the pair to you! We will not, however, because you would likely abandon them.”

The pair? Merciful heaven. The king meant to make both her and her son wards of Wilmont.

“Majesty,” she said, “would you deliver us into the hands of a man whose hatred for Basil runs so very deep?”

“You brought your petition before us, Lucinda, and will now trust us to do what is best for not only you and your son, but for the kingdom.”

Henry then turned to Richard. “You and this boy are both the victims of Basil’s treachery. Through no fault of yours, you nearly lost your life. Through no fault of his, Philip is deprived of a great portion of his inheritance and is in need of guidance. He requires a protector, Richard. What say you?”

Richard stood as impenetrable and cold-faced as a stone wall. Richard, the bastard of Wilmont. She could think of few men less suitable—except Gerard.

“Sire,” Richard said, his tone even, “I would suggest that you do the child a disservice, not because I am of Wilmont, but because of my mixed heritage and bastard birth.”

The king frowned. “Come now, Richard. Surely you do not imply that a man of bastard birth is less worthy. Look to my own offspring. Do you deem them inferior due to their birth?”

“Of course not, Sire. Although I am sure that when the lady requested a protector, she had in mind a man of at least equal rank and birth as her son, if not higher.”

The king stood, a sure sign that his patience was at an end. “The fate of this child rests with your decision, Richard of Wilmont. Either the boy and mother go with you, or they go to Gerard. I will have your answer in the morn.” He turned to Kester. “Dismiss the other petitioners until after nooning on the morrow.”

With a sweep of his royal robe, King Henry left the hall.

In complete shock, Lucinda voiced her thought aloud. “There must be another solution.”

“Aye, there must,” Richard said, his fists clenched at his sides, disdain etched onto his face. “When you return to the abbey, you might pray that we find one before morn!”

Chapter Five

“I am sorry, Richard,” Stephen apologized again, as he had all during the long walk from the hall up to Wilmont’s chambers in the palace. As well he should apologize. If only Stephen had kept his peace, and not drawn the king’s attention to them…Now they were in a sorry mess.

The long walk had shaved the sharpness from Richard’s anger, but it hadn’t yet cooled completely. He poured himself a goblet of wine and sank down in a chair.

“Stop apologizing for getting us into this fix and think of how to get us out,” he told Stephen. “There must be some way to convince Henry of the folly he commits.”

Richard glanced about the sitting room of Wilmont’s chambers, remembering the turmoil during the last time he’d occupied these palace rooms. So much had happened in the three years since. They had thought themselves done with Basil and his ilk. Now the widow and boy were throwing his life into upheaval once more—as if Basil were reaching back from the grave to do further mischief.

Just as the king had forced Gerard into a strange betrothal with Ardith, now Henry wanted to toss Richard into an unholy relationship with Lucinda. The difference was Gerard had wanted Ardith; Richard did not want Lucinda.

He no longer struggled with desire for the woman. It had vanished the moment Stephen had revealed her identity.

“Mayhap we could find another noble to take the boy as his ward,” Stephen suggested. “Someone acceptable to both the king and Gerard.”

“Pray tell, who?” Richard asked, thinking of the king’s strongest reason for giving Philip to one of Wilmont. “To which noble do we entrust the boy without fear of strife when the boy comes of age? Alliances change from day to day in this kingdom. Years hence, the protector might use the excuse of reclaiming Philip’s heritage to come after our lands!”

Stephen sighed. “Mayhap we should send to Gerard for counsel.”

Richard took a long swig of wine from his goblet. “There is not a horse in this kingdom with the speed and stamina necessary to travel from Westminster to Wilmont and back again before the morn. I fear, Stephen, we are on our own.”

At the moment, he saw no other choice but to accept Philip’s wardship. Compelling Gerard to take the boy would be like putting a knife in his brother’s gullet and twisting it.

Gerard would be furious if forced to submit to the king’s edict, to the point where his relationship with Henry might suffer permanent severance. Gerard wouldn’t be pleased if Richard submitted either, but it would be the more palatable arrangement, especially if Henry truly intended to include the mother in the bargain.

Hellfire. What would he do with the pair? He’d once planned to take them home to Collinwood. Unfortunately, Collinwood had once belonged to Basil and the people vividly remembered their former lord’s heavy oppression. They wouldn’t look kindly on their new lord for bringing Basil’s widow and child among them.

His tenants’ trust had been hard earned. Many were still wary, as if waiting for the day when he would become as harsh and cruel as Basil. Bringing Lucinda and Philip to Collinwood might jeopardize their budding loyalty.

Mayhap he could take them to another of his holdings and just leave them there, visit occasionally to see how they fared. But then, could he fulfill his obligations to the boy from a distance?

“Mayhap not all is as bad as it now seems,” Stephen said. “Depending upon how much in fees and rents the boy’s lands in Normandy bring you, this wardship could be a boon.”

Richard almost laughed. “And how do you suggest I go about collecting the fees from Basil’s family without taking an army to Normandy?”

Stephen shrugged a shoulder. “If Henry signs an order instructing this George to pay the rents to you, the man really has little choice. Henry is also the Duke of Normandy, George’s liege lord.”

“His very absent, very faraway liege lord.”

Stephen tossed his hands in the air. “Very well, Richard. I gave you the benefit of my counsel and you reject all of my ideas. ’Tis your turn to suggest an option.”

Richard wished he could.

“I suppose I should seek out Lucinda, see if she has any ideas. I am sure she is thinking hard on the matter, too. She likes this edict no more than you or I.”

Lucinda tossed her good gown into the sack, drew the rope and tied the knot.

“Are you ready, Philip?”

“I do not want to leave,” he complained, again. “Brother Ambrose promised me a tour of the stables on the morn. Please, Mother, can we not stay until then?”

She would like to indulge the boy, and if she could think of a way to sway the king from his edict, she would. She’d asked for a protector and Henry had granted one, but he’d ignored Philip’s best interests, or hers, in favor of his own.

“Nay, we cannot stay. Now hurry.”

“Do we go to my protector’s castle, with the horses?”

“The noble whom the king would give you to is not suitable, so we must continue our search for a nice village in which to settle.”

How Henry could justify making Gerard of Wilmont Philip’s protector astonished her. Gerard would surely hate the very idea of caring for the son of the man who’d kidnapped and abused his wife and son. As for Richard, the expression on his face upon hearing the king’s edict had left no doubt of his feelings.

Abiding by Henry’s decision was the least palatable of her options, especially if Henry truly intended to give Philip’s protector authority over her, too. Running away might be the coward’s way out, but rather a free coward than Wilmont’s prisoner.

Philip groaned and pulled a long face, but he picked up his pack. “You gave away Oscar’s mule. How will we carry everything? Where are we going?”

She had no notion of where they would go. For now, beyond the city limits and into the countryside would suffice. By the time anyone realized they were gone, she and Philip would be well out of reach.

“We will find somewhere to stay the night, mayhap another abbey,” she said, then pulled, pushed, and cajoled Philip through the abbey’s passageways.

She broke into the sunshine of the yard, turned the corner of the building nearest the road—and came chest-to-chest with Richard of Wilmont.

Lucinda stumbled and almost dropped her pack. Richard grabbed her upper arms to steady her.

His hands were large and warm, his grip firm but not hurtful. Even as she cursed her ill luck, her body heated to Richard’s touch as it had on the road. ’Twas disconcerting, this thrill along her spine at the touch of a man, especially a man as large and powerful as Richard. She should be repulsed, as she’d been every time Basil had touched her. She should tremble with fear, not attraction!

He glanced down at her pack, then over at Philip. He didn’t say anything, just raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I thought it best if Philip and I left,” she said, hoping he would understand. She expected him to let her go and allow them to leave. He didn’t.

“Where would you go?” he asked.

“Away. Far away.”

“’Twould do no good to leave. Henry would order me to find you and bring you back.”

“You could say you could not find us,” she offered.

“Henry would know better.”

She couldn’t think while this close to Richard. She took a step back; he released his grip.

“Certes, you do not want us,” she said, her thoughts becoming clearer. “I should think you would be relieved that we go our separate ways.”

He crossed his arms. “You are correct, Lucinda. I do not like Henry’s edict, but neither can I let you leave.”

Lucinda felt a tug on her skirt. “Mother?”

She was certainly making a mess of her escape. Of course, if Richard hadn’t happened along to waylay her, she and Philip would be well away by now. Or had he just happened along? Had he been coming to see her?

Richard bent down and grabbed Philip’s pack. “Come,” he said, placing a hand at her elbow. He gave a slight push in the direction of the palace. She stood firmly in place.

“Where do we go?”

“To Wilmont chambers. ’Tis private there so we can talk. There must be some way to solve this dilemma without putting any of us at risk.”

“Such as?”

“I do not know yet, but putting you and the boy in jeopardy is not an answer.”

Richard watched Lucinda’s ire melt into resignation. If forced to, he’d have dragged her kicking and screaming to the palace. He couldn’t let her flee, no matter how much she wanted to leave and he wanted to let her go. Henry would be furious, and Wilmont’s standing at court couldn’t sustain another blow without suffering severe damage.

When next Richard pushed at her elbow, Lucinda turned and started toward the palace. Philip silently followed in their wake.

Richard really couldn’t blame Lucinda for attempting an escape. In her position, about to be placed under control of one whom she considered an enemy, he might have tried the same thing. Then why was he angry that she tried to leave? It made no sense, but then all his reactions to Lucinda made no sense.

He’d thought all desire for her dead—until the moment he touched her again, until he’d stared into the depths of her violet eyes and found determination mixed with fear.

Richard ushered them into Wilmont’s chambers and tossed Philip’s pack in the corner near the brazier. Stephen had left for who knew where. Lucinda and Philip stood in the doorway, but neither seemed sure of what to do next.

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