By King's Decree

Chapter Three

Gerard’s spirits soared with the goshawk. The predator flew well within range of sight, her keen eyes searching the earth for whatever quarry the dogs might flush out.

Then she hovered against the pale, midafternoon sky.

“Another hare,” Gerard said quietly, having spotted the hawk’s intended prey.

Harold commented, “Never misses, does that one.”

The hawk stooped silently, deadly, and made the kill. Gerard whistled the signal that Corwin had taught him earlier this morning. The hawk answered with a cry of triumph and flew to the padded leather on Gerard’s outstretched arm. He fed her a reward of raw meat, noting how gently she took the tidbit from his fingers.

Accustomed to flying peregrine falcons, Gerard had selected the goshawk from the mews at Corwin’s suggestion. She’d quickly displayed her strength in the field.

“Nary a mark on the bugger ‘cept where the talons caught the head. That makes four clean kills, milord,” the game bearer said, presenting the hare for inspection.

“Of course ‘tis not marked,” Corwin said. “Gwen never tears a pelt, so Ardith can use the fur for clothing.”

“Gwen?” Gerard asked, eyeing the bird.

Harold snorted. “Aye, Ardith named her Gwen. ‘Tis a wonder the hawk hunts, for all the chit spoils the bird. I swear that hawk would heed Ardith’s fist without the call.”

“She does, at least in the mews and the yard,” Corwin stated to Harold’s disgust. “Ardith trained her, feeds her, never uses another bird when she hunts.”

“Made a ruddy pet out of a hawk,” Harold complained.

Gerard reacted privately, surprised and oddly proud that Ardith had trained the hawk. He knew ladies who liked to fly hawks, but none who would trouble to train her own bird.

“If Ardith likes the hunt, why did she not join us?”

Corwin answered. “Ardith said she wanted to finish stitching a gown that Bronwyn desires for court.”

“About time the chit had a bit of work to do. Lord knows she has few duties about the manor,” Harold huffed.

Corwin turned to hide a frown. Gerard managed to keep an indifferent expression. He’d noticed, yesterday noon and last evening, the efficiency of Lenvil’s people. Ardith’s gentle but firm hand had guided the manor’s servants.

Bronwyn, dressed in fine clothing and delicate slippers, had played hostess. But Ardith, in coarse wool and leather boots, had assured a plentiful table laid, prompted a lad to keep the fire fed, kept ale and wine at the ready, and asked John, captain of Gerard’s guards, if Wilmont’s men-at-arms needed extra blankets.

He’d also noticed a decidedly independent side of her nature. She’d ignored his invitation to share his furs. She might have misunderstood, but Gerard didn’t think so.

“Despite a preference for her mistress, the hawk flew well for me this day.” Gerard deliberately kept his praise light. If he marveled overmuch at the bird, Harold would feel duty bound to offer Gwen as a gift. He didn’t want the bird.

He wanted the bird’s owner.

Harold shifted in the saddle. Gerard guessed the man’s leg hurt, having noticed his limp yesterday. But Harold’s dignity wouldn’t allow him to complain before his liege lord.

“I suggest we return to the manor,” Gerard said, halting the hunt. The party had bagged several hares and a few partridges and pheasants. Gerard supposed Harold’s hunting forays were short and infrequent. Then who hunted fresh meat? Ardith? Perhaps. Gerard didn’t doubt she could, not when flying so magnificent a bird as Gwen.

“Shall I take her, my lord?” the attendant offered.

Gerard looked at the hawk comfortably perched on his arm, grooming her feathers. Gerard wrapped the leather jesses around his arm.

“Nay, she is content and not heavy. I will carry her.”

“As you wish, my lord,” the attendant said, looking askance, but hurrying to take Harold’s bird, then Corwin’s.

“Are you content to ride with me, Gwen?” Gerard softly asked. The hawk simply continued her preening. Gerard chuckled and turned his horse in the direction of the manor.

Gerard looked around for Corwin, who’d been riding at his side. For some reason Corwin lagged a pace behind, studying a copse of trees to his right.

“My son remembers his triumph,” Harold said with pride. He called out, “Proud of you, I was, Corwin. Never was there a finer meal than the boar you slew with your sword, and you a bit of a lad and new to weaponry.”

Corwin rode up beside Gerard. “Killing the boar was no great feat, Father. ‘Twas kill or be killed.”

Addressing Gerard, Harold protested. “Corwin nearly separated the beast from his head. Cook had to piece the boar back together before impaling him on a spit. You should remember the feast, my lord. Baron Everart brought you and Richard to help us celebrate Corwin’s bravery.”

“’Twas Stephen who came, Father, not Richard.”

“Are you sure? I seem to recall…”

“Quite sure. Richard was ill and could not come.”

Harold stared at the horizon for a long moment, then said, “Aye, ‘twas Stephen. No matter. ‘Twas a fine feast to honor Corwin’s prowess.”

Gerard remembered the feast. He’d been seated between Bronwyn and Edith, nodding at Bronwyn’s endless chatter and wondering if Edith would ever end her prayer so he could eat. In his boredom his gaze had wandered the hall, finally resting on a head peeking from behind the corner tapestry.

After the meal, he’d circled the hall to investigate and found Ardith crouched in the corner. The discovery had been the one bright moment of an otherwise dreary day.

“Harold has the right of it, Corwin. You saved not only your life, but Ardith’s. ‘Twas a feat to warrant pride.”

Gerard saw Corwin’s pallor, but before he could remark on it, Corwin pulled ahead and grabbed the game bag from the bearer.

“If we are to feast on this meat tonight, I best get it back to the manor.”

“Tell Ardith not to stew the hares,” Harold ordered. “I want them roasted.”

“Aye, Father.” Corwin wheeled and rode off.

Ardith shooed a goat from the manor doorway. Since the weather had turned cold, the animals relentlessly sought the warmth of indoors. The peasants might share their huts with sheep and oxen, but Ardith was firm in herding the manor’s animals toward their outdoor pens—except the hunting hounds, one of which loped past on his way to a spot by the fire.

She glanced beyond where Corwin now dismounted, looking for the rest of the hunting party. Gerard hadn’t yet returned. She fought the disappointment, and lost.

Ardith had always known that someday she would again see Gerard. She hadn’t known how much the meeting would hurt.

Last night, awake on her pallet, she’d relived their first meeting. She’d again felt Gerard’s tender concern for an injured maiden, heard those words he’d uttered to put her at ease. But mostly she remembered the comfort of curling in Gerard’s arms as he’d carried her from hall to pallet.

Just before falling asleep in the wee hours before dawn, she’d convinced herself she was glorifying a childhood fancy. Then had come the dream, of the man Gerard, standing in the glen where the boar had attacked, his arms reaching out to her, beseeching. She’d tried to run to him, but no matter how fast she ran she couldn’t reach Gerard.

Forced to admit a continued enchantment with Gerard, she resolved to stay as far away from him as possible. Later, after Gerard left Lenvil, she would mourn the penalty imposed by her wounding but once more, then put aside for all time the folly of longing for a husband and children.

Corwin handed over the game bag. She almost dropped the heavy pouch.

“A fine hunt,” she commented, inspecting the contents.

“Father says—”

“He wants the hares roasted,” she finished for him, shaking her head. “He will risk his few remaining teeth for the sake of his pride. Who took the hares?”

“Gerard and Gwen.”

“She flew well for him, then?”

“Very.”

By his clipped answers, Ardith knew some problem chewed at Corwin’s vitals. His next words confirmed her belief.

“Ardith, could we speak in private?”

Ardith waylaid a servant as they entered the manor. She gave him the game bag and instructions for the cook. After filling two cups with mead, she sat on a stool across the table from Corwin.

Corwin took a long pull of mead. His blue eyes locked on her own, then he looked away, as though he’d glimpsed her deepest thoughts and recoiled.

“Corwin?”

He leaned forward, his arms crossed on the table. “Ardith, are you happy here at Lenvil?”

The question was so unexpected it took her a moment to answer. “I am content,” she said, keeping near to the truth. “I have duties to keep me occupied, people to talk to. My hawk. My horse.”

Corwin’s tone turned sarcastic. “And Father. He believes you waste away your days doing nothing. Were you to vanish for a time, he would realize who truly runs the manor. He thinks Mother trained the servants so well that they merely carried on with their duties after her death. God’s wounds, he—”

“Corwin, stop,” Ardith said firmly, putting a hand on his arm. “Father is as he has always been. He has never put any store by his daughters. He judges us all witless and useless. Watch tonight how he treats Bronwyn. Do you know he has not said a kind word to her since she came to visit?”

“Bronwyn has a home of her own to return to, a husband who treats her like a princess. But you, you must stay and bear his ill-treatment.”

“You are kind to think of my feelings. But if you must know, I learned long ago to ignore Father’s attitude. The more harsh and loud he grows with the onset of age, the more I close my ears.”

“’Twas not just Father who ignored you, but Mother, right up to the day she died. Then he left you to the mercy of Elva, especially after…”

Corwin took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Amazed by her brother’s distress, she asked, “What happened to rile you so?”

Corwin cleared his throat. “Father complained about you to Gerard, and when we passed the glen where you were…hurt, Father started in again. Not once did he say he had almost lost a daughter that day, only bragged of how his son had provided meat for a feast. Then Gerard said…said I should be proud of how I saved you.”

“Well, you should. Corwin, had you not killed the boar, he might have attacked me again. I could have died.”

“Had I protected you as I should, you would not have been hurt. Had you not suffered the wound, you might have married and escaped Father’s scorn.”

Corwin’s pained scowl and sharp words drove deep into Ardith’s heart. Never had she imagined the horrible guilt he bore, and she knew that if she tried to ease that guilt now, he wouldn’t listen.

Soon Harold would be home. If he found Corwin sulking, Father would surely find her at fault.

If Corwin refused comfort on events past, maybe she could ease his mind about the present and future.

“The past is past and cannot be undone no matter who claims fault. What matters is this day and the morrows to come. I am content, Corwin. I have a roof above my head and meat on my trencher. Someday Father will no longer be lord of Lenvil, you will. Then you will decide my place in the manor, judge if I still warrant sheltering.”

Corwin looked horrified. “Ardith, I would never turn you out. You will always have a place at Lenvil.”

Ardith smiled. “Then I have no regrets,” she lied. There was but one regret, and his name was Gerard.

“I wish…” Corwin began, but didn’t finish.

Ardith could hear the hunting party returning, ending her attempt to battle Corwin’s demons. “Corwin, would you do me the favor of keeping Gerard out of the manor for a while?”

Distracted, Corwin’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“I have a hot compress prepared to ease the pain in Father’s leg. If he does not use it, he will growl at everyone for the remainder of the day, and he will not use it if Gerard is anywhere in sight.”

“How do you know his leg pains him?”

“It always does after he rides.”

Corwin nodded as they pushed away from the table. Ardith turned toward the door. At the edge of her vision she caught movement. Little Kirk, just learning to walk, reached out a tiny hand toward the rocks encircling the central fire pit. Skirt and braid flying, Ardith sped toward the babe and reached him just as he put his hand on the hot stone.

The boy howled. Ardith bent and scooped him into her arms, oblivious to all but the anger pounding in her head. She quickly checked the boy’s hand, found the fingertips lightly burned, and looked around for Belinda, Kirk’s mother, who was nowhere in sight.

“Belinda!” she shouted.

“Cease your caterwauling, girl,” Harold ordered as he entered, Gerard at his heels. “What vexes you this time?”

“Kirk burned his hand because Belinda left him on his own again,” Ardith complained. “I swear, I will take a switch to the wench when I find her! If she chooses not to watch after her son, she should ask another to do so.”

Ardith tenderly brushed away the large tears that streamed down the boy’s cheeks as he sucked his fingers.

“Utter waste of time, worrying over the whelp of a whore,” Harold murmured.

His words didn’t surprise Ardith, but his next action mortared her feet to the floor. Harold plucked the tiny hand from the babe’s mouth and examined the fingers. “I wager the brat has learned to beware the fire.” Harold released Kirk’s hand and limped toward the dais.

Harold had never shown the least interest in any child about the manor, save one—his son, Corwin. An utterly absurd notion struck and refused dismissal. Even while chastising herself for such foolishness, Ardith studied Kirk’s face for likeness to Harold’s. But Kirk favored Belinda, had no obvious feature from which to identify his sire.

Ardith gasped as a stream of warm water hit her backside, soaking her gown and hair, droplets flying forward onto her cheeks. She spun and saw Corwin put down a bucket.

“Blast you, Corwin! Have you lost your wits?”

“Would you rather I let you burn?”

She felt a tug on her plait. Gerard held up the end of her braid for her to see. She’d lost all but an inch of hair below the leather thong.

Gerard’s tone was pensive as he fingered the singed braid. “Your hair must have brushed the flames when you reached for the child.”

“Oh,” was all she could say, watching Gerard’s large hand twist and play with the burned strands. Had she known him better, she might have understood the odd look that crossed his face, then vanished.

Gerard reached for the babe and barked orders. “Corwin, find the boy’s mother. Ardith, change your gown before you catch a chill. Bronwyn, help her.”

“I will see to Ardith,” Elva announced.

Ardith hadn’t noticed Bronwyn and Elva enter the manor. Nor did she pay them much heed now, watching how easily Gerard handled Kirk, flipping the babe up and around to ride atop massive shoulders. Gerard didn’t even seem to mind when Kirk grabbed fists full of golden locks to secure his perch.

Gerard gave Elva a chilling look. “Are you not Lenvil’s herbswoman?”

Elva’s glare was colder. “I am, my lord.”

“Then be about your duties, woman. Harold needs care.”

Before Elva could retort, Ardith intervened. “There is a hot compress in the cauldron,” she told Elva, then turned to Gerard. “My lord, Father will refuse treatment if you remain in the hall.”

Gerard stared at her for a moment, then said, “The lad and I will be in my tent until Corwin finds the mother.”

He headed for the door, stopping only to grab a blanket from a servant’s pallet to toss over Kirk.

“He misses Daymon,” Corwin said in a low voice.

“Daymon?”

“Gerard’s son is about a year older than Kirk.”

Ardith’s heart fell. “I did not know Gerard had wed.”

“He has not wed. Daymon is his by-blow, but you would never know from Gerard’s treatment of the boy.” Corwin sighed. “I had best find Belinda. If Gerard has taken a liking to Kirk, I fear she is in for a scolding worse than you could hope to match.”

Corwin strode off to find Belinda. Seething, Elva stomped toward the cauldron. With a sigh, Ardith walked toward the sleeping chamber. Bronwyn followed.

“Oh, dear,” Bronwyn moaned, picking up the scissors.

“Be quick,” Ardith said quietly.

With a few snips, Bronwyn trimmed the frazzled ends from Ardith’s braid, hair never before touched by scissors.

“Your gown is scorched beyond repair. ’Tis a miracle you were not burned,” Bronwyn said.

Ardith shook out her hair. “Since my hair is wet, I may as well wash it.”

“You will catch your death,” Bronwyn protested.

“I must dry it by the fire anyway.”

Bronwyn fetched a bucket of warm water and bar of rose-scented soap. Together they washed Ardith’s auburn tresses and wrapped her head in a length of linen.

Ardith changed into the dry clothing that Bronwyn had laid out—a chemise of ivory, and a wool gown of saffron yellow.

With bone combs in hand, they sought the heat of the fire and untangled the mass atop Ardith’s head. She bemoaned the loss of hair as she combed. No longer did the tresses reach down over her rump. When properly plaited, the braid would only hang to her waist.

But what import had the loss of a few inches of hair when measured against the possible disaster to Kirk? She hoped Gerard would truly throw the fear of God into Belinda for neglecting the babe. If not, Ardith planned to take Belinda to task after the evening meal.

Duty demanded she speak with Belinda to ensure Kirk’s safety. And there was one particular question she needed to ask of the woman. Belinda had never named Kirk’s sire. If Ardith’s hunch was correct, if Kirk was indeed her half brother, Belinda need never worry about the babe ever again.

Ardith wondered if her father would object to the plans forming in her head. Would Harold acknowledge a bastard son? She could cite Gerard as an example—and Baron Everart. She could also praise the king’s acknowledgment of his bastard children. According to Bronwyn, at last count the king had ten children, only two of them legitimate.

Would Belinda protest, refuse to relinquish the boy? No. Not having to care for her son would leave Belinda free to flit about as she chose.

The whore certainly had her place in the manor, keeping Harold’s few men-at-arms from molesting the village maidens. But there were times when Belinda’s chosen trade grated on Ardith’s nerves.

Like now, as Ardith wondered if the meeting in the tent would end with Belinda offering her body to Gerard—and Gerard accepting. Maybe, tonight, Gerard would have company in his tent, on his fur pallet.

Chapter Four

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.