Читать книгу Lord Of The Manor - Shari Anton - Страница 8

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.