Читать книгу By King's Decree - Shari Anton - Страница 11

Ardith knelt on the dirt floor of the sleeping chamber. In front of her swirled the most exquisite cloth she’d ever had the pleasure to pierce with a needle. As her sister Bronwyn turned in a slow circle, the emerald silk flowed past in soft, shimmering waves.

“Halt,” Ardith ordered, then adjusted a holding stitch along the gown’s hem.

“Oh, Ardith, Kester will be so pleased,” Bronwyn stated with a breathless quality in her voice.

Ardith smiled. Bronwyn’s husband, Kester, was besotted with his wife. Knowing how much new gowns pleased Bronwyn, he sought exotic fabrics as gifts. Kester had bought this rare silk from an Italian merchant, right off the ship.

Bronwyn had then rushed to Lenvil. Though she had servants to make her gowns, Bronwyn always returned home to Ardith when she wanted something special. According to Bronwyn, this gown would make its debut at Christmas.

“If you are pleased, Kester will be delighted. Now, turn once more.” She again inspected her handiwork before declaring the session finished.

Ardith stood, flicking pieces of rushes and dirt from her brown, coarse-wool gown. Though she owned two lovely gowns—a yellow wool for winter and a light green linen for summer—she rarely wore them unless visitors were expected. For everyday chores, peasant-woven cloth served best.

She pushed aside Bronwyn’s honey-blond braid to undo the lacing on the gown. “Now, you must finish your story.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Well, as I said, King Henry sent Kester to meet the pope’s envoy. Kester met the ship at Hastings and brought the priest to overnight at our holding before going on to London.” Bronwyn slipped out of the emerald silk and donned a blue wool. She continued, “From what I hear, Pope Paschal is very angry with King Henry, to the point of threatening excommunication.”

Ardith desperately wanted to hear more of the envoy and the king. Having lived her entire ten and seven years at Lenvil, she hungered for news of life beyond the manor. But the jingle of tack and the thud of horses’ hooves cut short the conversation.

“Father has returned earlier than I expected,” Ardith remarked. “No doubt his leg hurts and he cut his inspection short. Would you fetch him a goblet of warm wine? The brew usually eases his pain.”

“How do you bear the grouch?” Bronwyn asked, placing a veil of sheer blue linen over her hair, securing it with a silver circlet.

Ardith shrugged. “’Tis the change of season affecting his mood. Once winter sets in and he stays off his leg, Father’s temper will improve.”

“Why does he bother to inspect the fields once the harvest is in? Heavens, why would anyone want to look at nothing but clots of dirt? You could tell him which fields to plant next spring and which to leave fallow.” Bronwyn suddenly smiled. “Ah, I see. Father thinks he decides on his own, does he?”

“Nor will I have him think otherwise,” Ardith warned.

“As you wish, but do not leave me alone with him overlong. He will ramble on about oats and cabbages.” With a sigh, Bronwyn turned and left the chamber.

Shaking her head in amusement, Ardith gathered up thread and needle and scraps of cloth, thinking of how different her life was from that of her sisters. One by one the girls had left home. Edith had entered the convent; the others had all married. By default, Ardith became the lady of the manor, if not in title, in practice. Someday, Corwin would marry and bring his bride to Lenvil. But since neither Harold nor Corwin appeared eager for that event, her place at Lenvil was secure for a while longer.

For forever, Ardith hoped, and to ensure her place she’d studied Elva’s herb lore. She’d learned which herbs soothed a roiling stomach, which numbed an aching tooth, how to mix powders for headaches and salves for burns. She could poultice a wound and even act as midwife.

Surely Corwin would allow her to stay at Lenvil for those talents alone, as Harold had allowed his sister to remain near the manor. Had Elva not become outlandish with her heathen rituals—tossing animal bones and muttering pagan chants—Harold might have allowed Elva to live in the manor. But the day Elva had slit open a piglet to read the entrails was the day Harold had banished his sister to a hut in the village.

Though Ardith longed for a proper home of her own, she knew it folly to dream. She placed a hand over her belly, over the ugly scar marring her flesh, sealing her future. Elva had explained to a bewildered girl that though the wound wasn’t deep enough to kill, the damage was severe.

Ardith could never marry because she could bear no man an heir.

Ardith shook her head. Why was she thinking of her barrenness now? Why did she let Bronwyn’s visits, witnessing her sister’s happiness, bring on these bouts of self-pity?

She could hear Bronwyn’s light laughter and the sound of low, male voices coming from the hall. As she passed under the arch separating the two rooms of the manor, she saw not her father, but Corwin.

Her delight wiped away the dark mood. Without thinking, seeing only her beloved twin, Ardith squealed his name and ran across the room. Corwin barely had time to brace his feet before Ardith flung her arms around his neck.

From several yards away, Gerard watched Ardith gleefully sprint into Corwin’s open arms. He recognized her at once, though he hadn’t seen her for several years. There was no mistaking her deep auburn hair and vivid blue eyes.

Corwin lifted his sister and swung her around. Gerard barely heard the soft laughter of those around him as he watched the twins embrace. He was remembering the one time he had swept. Ardith from her feet, held an adorable bundle of little girl in his arms.

Ardith had blossomed into a beautiful young woman.

She was gowned in coarse wool that hugged her ripe bosom and tiny waist before flaring over the curve of rounded hips.

Her smile alone could lift a man’s spirits. Ardith’s smile for Corwin caught not only her mouth and eyes, but lighted her entire face.

The tug in the area of his heart he attributed to envy. Of all the women in his life, from court ladies to peasant wenches, no woman had ever greeted him with such abandon.

Corwin put Ardith down. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Corwin, you inconsiderate beast, I could hit you,” she said, and did, lightly on the shoulder.

“What have I done now?”

“What you have not done is answer my letters! Did you not teach me to read and write so we could exchange messages?”

Corwin smiled. “As I recall, I taught you the skill because someone pleaded with me to do so, not trusting old Father Hugh’s eyesight.”

“True, but did you not tell me to practice my writing by sending you messages, which you promised to answer? Fie on you, Corwin. How could you let me worry so?” Ardith backed away and looked him up and down. “You seem in one piece.”

“Hale and hardy,” Corwin affirmed. With a mocking bow, he added, “And most repentant. You must understand, however, that I had little time to take quill in hand. And believe me, Ardith, you would not wish to read of the war.”

Gerard’s envy increased as Ardith brushed a comforting hand along Corwin’s arm.

“Was it horrible?” she asked.

“Aye. But I am home now, and in need of food and drink. Can you provide a keg of ale to help us celebrate?”

Ardith hesitated before answering, clearly dissatisfied with Corwin’s short answer and change of subject. Then she nodded and smiled. “I believe I can. Tell me, how long can you stay?”

Corwin looked to Gerard.

Gerard answered, “For only a few days.”

Ardith froze, though her cheeks grew hot. With her complete attention on greeting Corwin, she hadn’t noticed the other people in the hall. Corwin hadn’t made the trip from Wilmont alone. A goodly number of Wilmont soldiers mingled with Lenvil’s men-at-arms and Bronwyn’s escort.

And the niggling feeling grew that she knew that voice. Ardith prayed, a futile prayer, that the disembodied voice belonged to an unknown knight. She prayed that, just this once, the fates would be kind. But only one other man of her acquaintance could sound so much like Baron Everart. Gerard. Gathering her poise, she turned.

Her heart leaped as she beheld Gerard. Gerard—no longer the young man who’d carried her from hall to pallet and spoken comforting words to a distraught maiden, but a man full grown. The man whom, but for a cruel twist of fate, she might have married.

The young lion, Elva had christened the heir to Wilmont. The image had suited Gerard perfectly as a young man, but the cub had matured.

His eyes hadn’t changed, but for the scant deepening of the lines in the corners. Green eyes, set wide of a noble nose, were still as bright as spring leaves. Over his eyes fanned thick lashes and heavy brows, matching his flaxen, shoulder-length hair.

The wavy lengths were damp and slightly matted against his head from the pressure of a recently worn helm. Her fingers itched to slide through the locks, to fluff his hair into a mane worthy to frame his high, proud forehead and square, tenacious jaw.

Over a simple black tunic he wore a hauberk of chain mail. His massive shoulders easily bore the weight of the armor as well as the baldric from which hung a scabbard and ponderous broadsword, tilted within easy reach of his right hand.

Gerard stood with regal ease. His very stance conveyed an aplomb that only a man sure of his position and power could attain.

He must have found her scrutiny amusing for he cocked his head and the corners of his mouth rose in a small smile.

“Greetings, Ardith. Had I known of your concern for Corwin, I would have ordered him to write, I assure you.”

His words snapped Ardith from her trance. Blessed Mother! She was staring at Gerard as if he were a curiosity from a distant land. Controlling the tremble of her hands and knees, she dipped into a low curtsy. She closed her eyes as she lowered her head, striving for composure.

She mustn’t allow Gerard to see the turmoil of her thoughts or the ache in her heart. He must never know how his kind words and thoughtful gesture had captured the fancy of a young maiden. He must never know how she cherished the memory in night dreams and unguarded lonely moments.

“Baron Gerard,” she honored him, just above a whisper.

Gerard uncrossed his arms. The last time Ardith had curtsied to him, she’d tumbled forward, and for some perverse reason he was wishing she would do so again, just so he could catch her.

This time, however, Ardith had her body under control.

And her thoughts, he realized, as Ardith looked up and met his gaze squarely. Gone was the apprehension, the brief glint of anxiety he’d seen in her azure eyes.

He held out his hand. Ardith hesitated, then placed her fingers across his palm and rose as bidden. Her hand wasn’t fragile, like Bronwyn’s, but sturdy. No callus marred the pads nor redness blemished the palm, but neither was her grasp flaccid from idleness.

Gerard yielded to an impulse. He raised her fingers to his mouth, brushing his lips across blunt-cut nails. She didn’t jerk away. Instead, she squeezed his hand.

He must have misread the anxiety he’d seen in her eyes. She assuredly didn’t fear him, or shy from his touch, for which he felt inordinately grateful.

“Still the scamp, I see,” he teased, nudging her memory of their first meeting.

She blinked in surprise, then blushed, a wonderful rose shade that complemented her unveiled auburn hair. “I am truly sorry, my lord, for not greeting you first as is proper. And you must think me a hamdan for chastising Corwin in the presence of others.”

“Shall we say you are spirited? Besides, I believe Corwin may deserve the rebuke.”

She cast a guilty glance toward Corwin. “Actually, my lord, I always knew how Corwin fared. Baron Everart, God rest his soul, thought it important to keep my father aware of Corwin’s whereabouts and health. Your steward, Walter, continued the practice.”

Gerard nodded in approval. He must remember to commend Walter. Then her expression changed, and Gerard stood transfixed as she continued.

“I know my father will speak formally for Lenvil, but until he does, I offer our condolences on the death of your father…and Richard. From what Corwin has told me, you were fond of them both.”

Ardith’s genuine compassion tugged at his heart. He’d almost mistaken her words of sympathy for mere platitudes, but then the mistake would have been natural. Rarely did any of his acquaintances or peers show true emotion.

“My thanks,” he said quietly. Stating how deeply her words touched him proved impossible. Nor would he do so before so many people.

“Ardith,” Bronwyn prompted, “you did promise the men a keg of ale.”

Ardith looked at Bronwyn, confused for a moment, then she blushed and pulled her hand from his grasp.’“Of course. Bronwyn, would you see Baron Gerard seated? Corwin, come with me to carry the keg. By your leave, my lord?”

Walking across the short span of yard to the storage room attached to the kitchen, Ardith scolded Corwin. “You could have warned me the baron watched.”

“Truth to tell, I forgot Gerard was standing there.”

Ardith wondered how anyone could forget that a baron of Gerard’s stature stood within the same room.

“You could have written from Normandy, let us know you were well,” she stated as they entered the storage room.

“Come now, Ardith. If I had taken a fatal injury, you would have known.”

Alone amid only sacks of grain and barrels of salted meat, Ardith felt safe to speak of the bond she shared with her twin. They had been warned by Elva, as children, to never speak of it lest someone declare them witches. “Do you truly believe so? Normandy is very far away.”

Corwin put a hand on her shoulder. “What do you think?”

He sounded so sure and Ardith wanted to believe. “You may be right,” she said, then turned to the task at hand. “Now, I believe the brewer’s finest is in that corner. Are you strong enough to heft the keg?”

“Chit,” Corwin chided, hoisting the keg to his shoulder. “I could toss you over my shoulder and not feel the weight.”

Ardith didn’t challenge him. Corwin would feel compelled to prove his boast. Instead, she asked, “How many men are in the Wilmont company?”

“Twenty, besides Baron Gerard and myself.”

She mentally sorted through available supplies. “I will inform the cook. Evening meal will be a test of her skills. There is little fresh meat to work with.”

“The men will not care, so long as the food is hot and plentiful. You may want to send someone to the village to get help with the carting and serving, though.”

Ardith nodded. “And for extra pallets for the Wilmont men-at-arms. The hall will be crowded tonight”

“You need not fret over sleeping space for Gerard, or most of Wilmont’s men. Even now they raise the tents.”

“Tents? In this cold?”

Corwin smiled. “These are true soldiers, Ardith, not pampered companions. Come, look at the field.”

Ardith followed Corwin out of the storage room. In the field nearest the manor, Wilmont’s men-at-arms erected small tents around a mammoth tent of scarlet and gold.

“Gerard likes his privacy,” Corwin said. “Nor would he ask anything of his men that he is not willing to do himself. Granted, his tent is more opulent, but a tent nonetheless.”

The scarlet tent appeared sturdy, capable of blocking chilly winds. Yet, why would Gerard forgo the comfort of a bed? With relief Ardith realized she wouldn’t need to try to sleep in the same room with Gerard. Sleep would be hard enough to come by this night.

“Well, that solves that dilemma,” she said. “Now all I must do is find someone to send to the village.”

Corwin glanced around. “Ah, there is a lad who looks like he needs something to do. Thomas! Over here!”

A brown-haired lad crossed the yard at a brisk walk.

“Thomas, this is my sister Ardith. She has an errand for you. Be quick about it and she might feed you tonight.”

“Corwin! What a cruel thing to say! Mayhap I will not feed you tonight.”

Corwin shifted the keg and headed for the manor. “I have the ale. ’Tis all I need.”

Ardith smiled and looked back at Thomas—just in time to see the uncertainty leave his eyes. And not, she realized, about being fed, but about her identity.

She couldn’t blame the lad. Ardith knew she looked more peasant than lady in her coarse gown and uncovered hair. Which meant Gerard had probably noticed as well.

Ardith gave Thomas directions and instructions, then helped the cook until a group of women arrived from the village. When she finally returned to the manor, she found Harold had come home and, much to her chagrin, saw Elva seated in the shadowed corner near the tapestry.

Wary, Ardith approached her aunt. “I did not expect you to come up from the village.”

Elva’s gray, piercing eyes scanned the room and landed squarely on Gerard. Her thin mouth turned grim, and Ardith felt a twinge of panic. Elva’s tongue had grown less cautious as she aged. Though she’d never voiced her hatred of Normans in front of Lenvil’s liege lord, Ardith feared that, one day, Elva’s restraint would dissolve and evoke punishment.

The old woman taunted, “Afraid I may anger Harold? Fret not, dear. He is too busy groveling before the Norman to notice me. Go, be about your duties.”

Ardith shot a worried glance toward where Harold was relating an account of his day’s ride, claiming Gerard’s complete attention.

Well, not complete. Occasionally, as she oversaw the serving of the meal, she could feel Gerard watching. She firmly ignored the ripple in her midsection whenever their gaze happened to meet, or the flutter in her heart whenever his deep, rich voice drifted into her range of hearing.

After the meal, she waited until Harold had convinced Gerard and Corwin to hunt on the morrow before asking Corwin where he intended to sleep.

“Lay me a pallet in the sleeping chamber,” he answered. “I have had enough of wet and cold. Gerard may prefer a tent, but not me.”

“What? Sleep in a tent!” Harold blustered. “My lord, surely Ardith told you that you are welcome to the bed. If she did not, she neglects her duties. ‘Tis your due!”

Ardith held her breath, fearing Gerard might agree to both sleeping in the bed and her neglect of duty.

“Nay, Harold, keep your bed,” he said. Then Gerard looked straight into her eyes. “I will be quite comfortable…alone…on my pallet of furs.”