Читать книгу By King's Decree - Shari Anton - Страница 13

The cooking fire had died down to coals, so little light eased through the shuttered windows of the kitchen. Standing within the meager light, Ardith confronted Belinda.

“I will take better care of Kirk, milady,” Belinda said.

Ardith didn’t doubt Belinda would, at least as long as Gerard remained at Lenvil. According to Corwin, Gerard had threatened to strap Belinda to the post the soldiers used for spear practice should any harm come to Kirk.

Gerard’s threat had jolted Belinda. All evening she’d stayed close to Kirk, as if tethered to the babe. Even now Kirk slept against Belinda’s shoulder, wrapped within the folds of his mother’s mantle.

“I believe you will,” Ardith said. “My concern for Kirk goes beyond his safety, however. Belinda, could my father be Kirk’s father?”

“Nay, milady,” Belinda said.

Disappointed, Ardith pressed, “Are you sure? Do you know who Kirk’s father is?”

“Quite sure ‘bout lord Harold, milady. As a man grows old his parts wither. Poor Harold has to work hard to get his manroot stiff.”

“Oh?” Ardith choked.

“Aye, his days of begettin’ wee ones are over. You see milady, for the seed to take root, a man has to plant deep inside a woman. Harold just don’t stay long enough or hard enough for the sowin’ anymore.”

“I see.”

“Now you take a young, strappin’ big man like the baron. Lay enough wenches beneath him and he could sire his own army, he could. Aye, he would furrow deep. Wager he could plant three or four babes before takin’ a rest.”

Blessed Mother! How could Belinda so blithely speak of male private parts and the act that led to conception? Her father’s male private parts…Gerard’s!

Ardith knew how men and women coupled. One had only to walk into the hall at night to see men-at-arms and maids, servants and serfs, bouncing on pallets.

The sight and sounds had so disgusted her sister Edith that she’d fled to a nunnery. Not so her other sisters, who knew they would wed and were resigned to servicing their husbands. Though Bronwyn had never said as much, Ardith suspected her sister enjoyed the experience with Kester.

The one time Ardith had dared broach the subject, while learning midwife skills, Elva had dismissed the act as a needless waste of energy. “‘Tis men who cannot resist the urge to fornicate,” Elva declared. “They measure their worth by the size of their rod. A woman need only lie still and hope he is quick about his business. Be glad you need never endure the demands of a male.”

Ardith had wanted to ask if Elva judged from firsthand knowledge but lacked the courage. She suspected not, because Elva had never married. Nor could Ardith quite believe Elva’s statement. Too many maids smiled brightly on the morn after sharing a man’s pallet. Belinda certainly didn’t show any sign of suffering from male demands.

Had Belinda lain with Gerard? Was that how she knew his size and stamina? No, she hadn’t. Belinda had used a wistful tone as though she would like to, but hadn’t yet shared Gerard’s furs.

Embarrassed, but fascinated, Ardith asked, “How can you judge Baron Gerard’s, or any man’s…without…”

Ardith lost her courage, but Belinda understood.

“By his hands, milady. You take a look at the baron’s fingers. They be long and thick, so his rod be long and thick. Aye, he would be a real handful, mayhap two, that one. Do you want me to describe him for you should he—”

“Nay!” Ardith took a deep breath and regained her composure. “My interest is not personal, you understand. My duties as healer bid me ask. I must know how things work if I am to treat ailments and the like properly.”

“Of course, milady.”

Ardith knew from the smile in Belinda’s voice that she hadn’t fooled the whore.

Gerard pushed aside his empty goblet.

The hall was quiet except for a low crackle from the fire pit and an occasional intruding snore. Corwin had succumbed, lay sprawled across a bench. Harold slept, facedown on his forearms crossed on the table. Men-at-arms and servants had taken to pallets scattered across the floor.

The manor’s door opened and John entered on an icy gust of wind. “The watch is set, my lord,” he said, picking his way among the pallets to reach the table.

Gerard’s eyes narrowed as he waved John to a stool. “Why do you report instead of Lenvil’s captain?”

John removed his helmet to reveal midnight-black hair and a full, though neatly trimmed beard.

“I may have overstepped my authority, my lord,” John said with no apology in his voice, though he glanced at the sleeping Harold. “Since Lenvil has no defensive palisade or earthworks around the manor, I thought the most effective defense was to station extra sentries. I do not mind telling you, my lord, I feel naked in this place.”

“’Tis within your authority to assign guards as you deem necessary.”

“Aye, my lord, Wilmont’s men. But if you walk the perimeter tonight, you will find a few of Lady Bronwyn’s escort among the men of Wilmont and Lenvil. The lady’s men asked for duty. They have been here for a fortnight and grow restless, as duty-conscious soldiers will.”

John lowered his voice to a near whisper. “There is a lack of discipline among Lenvil’s guard I find disturbing. The watch is haphazard. I had to rouse several of Lenvil’s men for the night watch. They grumbled, expecting Wilmont soldiers to assume the duty.”

Gerard frowned. “The guard grows soft.”

“I fear so. They have no regular weapon practice, no sport or heavy work to build muscle or strength. Should an enemy attack, I fear the manor would be overrun before a rider could reach Wilmont for aid. Lenvil is vulnerable.”

Gerard felt his anger pulse, at Harold for allowing his guard to become lax, at himself for not seeing the situation immediately. As baron, final responsibility for Lenvil’s defense rested on Gerard’s shoulders.

That any of his holdings could be vulnerable irked Gerard. That Lenvil was easy prey made him furious.

He’d found ease at Lenvil.

The war in Normandy had been long and harsh, the death of his father a bitter blow. Fury at Basil ate at his innards. Frustration at King Henry’s order to deal with Basil in court grated against Gerard’s warrior nature.

At Lenvil, he’d found a haven.

Near the arch separating the manor’s two rooms, Gerard saw a flash of yellow. Why was Ardith awake and flitting about at this hour? Certainly not to speak with him. Ardith avoided him as though he were diseased.

He told John, “Tomorrow we shall measure the seriousness of the problem. Arrange some sport to test their mettle.”

John’s smile spread. “Perhaps a ball game, my lord?”

Gerard’s smile matched John’s. “You lead one team and I shall lead the other. Agreed?”

“With pleasure.”

“Good. Turn in, John. I will make the last round of the guard and ferret out our laggards.”

“Then I will see you next on the playing field, my lord. Prepare for a thrashing.”

Gerard laughed lightly as John picked up his helmet and strode from the manor to seek his tent and bedroll. Gerard glanced toward the arch. Ardith remained hidden.

He sighed inwardly. This obsession of hers to avoid his company was annoying—and presented a challenge. In many ways, it was to Ardith’s credit he felt content at Lenvil. Yet, it was also her fault he sometimes felt the leper, an outcast.

Ardith unbalanced his mind.

After his lecture to Belinda on the care of her son, Gerard had returned to the manor to see Ardith by the fire, her drying hair flowing about her shoulders. As she shook her head and combed her hair, the fire’s light had danced off reddish strands, highlighting her auburn tresses.

She’d changed her gown. The saffron wool hugged her body like a sheath from shoulders to hips where the skirt flared to swirl about her ankles. His loins had stirred when she arched backward toward the fire, closing her eyes, reaching to run her fingers through her hair.

The sensuous pose had ignited his desire. His manroot urged him to close the distance, to press his growing need against the woman’s place so enticingly presented. The thought of lifting her skirts and driving himself deep within her had made him shudder.

Then Ardith had opened her eyes and noticed him standing inside the doorway. She’d declared her hair dry and scurried off to the other chamber. She’d returned a short while later, her hair plaited and veiled, but she stayed as far away from him as was possible and still complete her duties.

And still she shunned him, hiding on the other side of the arch, unwilling to enter the hall while he was present His patience snapped.

“Ardith, come out,” he said brusquely.

Slowly, Ardith appeared from behind the timber. Though she still wore the saffron gown, she’d dispensed with the veil. Her plait fell forward across her chest, snuggled into the valley between her breasts.

“Well, what brings you from your pallet, my lady?” he asked when she didn’t move or speak.

“I came to fetch my father. He should sleep in his bed.”

Ah yes, the dutiful daughter, concerned for Harold’s needs. Harold—who spoke to Ardith only to complain, who noted her existence only when something disturbed his comfort. Such loyalty was commendable, but at the moment her devotion rubbed a raw spot on his temper.

“’Tis his own foolishness leaves him sprawled drunk across the table. Leave him sleep where he lies.”

Ardith’s chin came up. “’Tis you who bear blame for his drunkenness, my lord. He could not leave until you called a halt to the revelry and retired to your tent.”

A valid accusation, one he ignored.

She’d called him “my lord” with a touch of censure in her voice. What would his given name sound like coming from her lips, in her sweet voice that chimed melodious when she smiled, or better, in a breathless whisper hovering on the fulfillment of passion?

He looked down at Harold. The old man was too far gone with drink to wake easily. If Ardith insisted that her father sleep in his bed, then Harold need be carried.

Gerard stood, too quickly. Lenvil’s brewer made strong ale. He waited for the slight dizziness to fade, then commanded, “Take his feet.”

As Ardith chose her path among the pallets, Gerard hooked his arms under Harold’s, gripping him firmly about the chest. Ardith tugged at Harold’s legs, dragging them from beneath the table. Then she turned around and bent over, hooking her hands under Harold’s knees, presenting a prettily rounded bottom for Gerard to admire as she wiggled to secure her grip.

With a slight grunt, she straightened. “Ready, my lord?”

“Aye, my lady. Lead on.”

None too steadily they moved, Ardith laboring with the weight, Gerard battling the effects of drink mixed with lust.

Gerard was sweating by the time they dumped Harold onto the bed. He plopped down to sit on the bed, elbows on knees, chin on an upraised fist. The chamber hadn’t changed much over the years. Harold’s bed dominated the room. Coals in a small brazier reduced the chill. Three pallets dotted the floor. Bronwyn slept on one, the other two remained empty; one meant for Corwin, the other Ardith’s.

Ardith removed Harold’s boots and stood them near the brazier. Gerard felt a tug on the blanket beneath his rump. He didn’t move.

She came around to face him. “My lord, if you would stand a moment…” she said.

He reached out to capture her hand. She didn’t pull away. “Do you dislike me, Ardith? Am I so loathsome you must keep your distance?”

“Nay, my lord. I meant no offense. But I have duties to perform and…you came to visit with my father, and Bronwyn is the one skilled in courtly ways and conversation and—”

“You lie badly, Ardith.”

She bit her bottom lip and looked away. Gerard frowned and stood, slowly and carefully this time. He needed to get outside, into the cold air to banish the effect of the ale.

Still holding her hand, he felt the slight tremor that shook her. With his other hand he reached out and tilted her chin, forcing her gaze back to his face.

“Say my name, Ardith.”

She hesitated, then said musically, “Gerard.”

His fingertips moved from chin to cheek.

Harold stirred. “Ardith, a cup of water.”

Ardith retreated a step.

Gerard knew he was on the brink of acting the tyrant, of ordering Harold to get his own damned water, then hauling Ardith off to the privacy of his tent.

“’Till the morrow, Ardith,” he said, and left the chamber.

“Have they lost their wits?” Ardith exclaimed.

“Nay, Ardith, ‘tis but a game,” Bronwyn said, patting the frosted grass beside her on the hillside. “Come sit and watch. We should be safe at this distance.”

Ardith wasn’t so sure, though Bronwyn had chosen a viewing site at least an arrow-shot away from the men on the field.

“When Corwin said sport I thought he meant footraces, or wrestling. I never imagined—” Ardith indicated the field and tangle of men with a sweep of her hand “—this madness.”

“Have you never seen a ball game?” Bronwyn asked.

Ardith shook her head, then watched in horror as a man tossed a leather sphere to, she assumed, a teammate. Ball in hand, the man went down under a barrage of opponents. “They will kill each other.”

“Oh, you may have a bit of bleeding to stop and a few bones to straighten, but I doubt the blows will kill.”

“When does the sport end?”

“When the team with the ball crosses the goal, in this case the end of the field. Whichever team accomplishes the feat, wins. Baron Gerard’s team is getting close.”

Though the day was cold, some men played barechested, among them Corwin and Gerard. From what she could see, so far they had escaped injury. Others weren’t so fortunate. Blood ran from men’s noses and from deep scratches down their arms and across their chests. She tried to assess injuries, but her gaze kept drifting back to Gerard.

When not buried under a pile of men, Gerard was easy to pick out. He stood a head taller than the others, his golden hair a beacon on the gray day.

Bits of mud clung to the hair on his muscled, sculptured chest. His thighs bulged against his breeches, threatening to rip open the seams as he struggled. Black leather boots hugged his calves.

Where other men lumbered, Gerard moved with grace. Like a large cat, she thought. The young lion.

He reached down with splayed fingers and dug the ball out of the writhing mass at his feet. With a roar heard above the shouts and grunts of the other players, Gerard turned and tried to run. He bounded over one fallen man, but another caught his ankle, stopping his flight long enough for an opponent to leap on his back. Gerard dislodged the man with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

Gerard continued to shake off opponents. Caught up in the excitement of watching the display of raw strength, Ardith wanted to scream his name to cheer him onward. Then the tide turned.

Gerard’s challengers kept rising and attacking until he finally succumbed. It took four men, hanging on him like leeches, to bring him down.

Ardith’s stomach tightened as she watched for him to reappear. A clamor rose from the crowd. Whether the cheer was for Gerard’s prowess, or because he’d managed to toss the ball to Corwin, Ardith wasn’t sure.

She scanned the field. When she finally saw Gerard getting to his feet, she exhaled shakily and stood. “’Tis barbaric,” she complained to Bronwyn. “I will return to the manor and ready water and bandages.”

Bronwyn’s gaze never left the field as she delicately lifted a shoulder. “As you wish.”

Ardith tossed her hands in the air and turned toward the manor. Along the way she snared three serving girls, who protested having to leave the display of sweat-glistened male flesh.

“You will see their attributes up close shortly,” she told them. “If this idiocy continues, they will drop from wounds and exhaustion and need tending. I fear we may not get water heated before they drag the first of the fallen back to the manor.”

Ardith’s prediction proved true. As she cleaned scrapes and poulticed bruises, she noticed that Lenvil’s men-at-arms had taken the worst beating. Nearly all had returned battered and bruised. From the men’s talk, she knew the teams had been evenly divided, with men of all three loyalties on each side. Lenvil’s soldiers had succumbed early and hard, leaving the men of Wilmont and Bronwyn’s escort to play out the game.

As she glanced about the hall for another man to bandage, she saw Thomas standing in the doorway. He made a slight, beckoning hand motion. Thomas was dirty and a bit scratched, but otherwise seemed sound.

“My lady,” he said quietly as she reached him, “when you have a spare moment, would you attend Baron Gerard?”

Ardith’s apprehension blossomed. She pictured Gerard lying broken, bleeding profusely, dying on the playing field. “Where is he? How badly is he hurt?”

“In his tent, nursing a lump on his head.”

“Why did he not come into the manor?”

Thomas looked sincerely shocked. “Oh, no, my lady, he could not. He would never show any weakness before the men.”

Ardith looked around the hall. “Has the game ended?”

“Baron Gerard was the last man off the field.”

She thought to ask who won, then decided she didn’t care. She fetched a bowl and some rags, then gave the bowl to Thomas.

“The pond has frozen over. Go fetch ice and bring it to the baron’s tent”