Lord Of The Manor

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

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.