Lord Of The Manor

“Odin.”

When another question didn’t immediately follow, Richard looked down. Philip stood unusually still for a boy of his age, his hands clasped behind his back, his bottom lip sucked in, pure awe on his face. The boy yearned to touch the horse, just as Richard, as a child of about the same age, had once stood beside his father admiring one of the beasts, wishing the same wish, wary of getting too near the horse’s hooves.

Richard put his hands out in invitation. The boy hesitated but couldn’t resist. Philip put one arm around Richard’s neck and with the other reached out to stroke Odin’s neck. Sheer delight beamed from Philip’s face.

“Odin is an odd name,” Philip said.

“Have you never heard of Odin, the Viking god of war?”.

Philip’s small brow scrunched. “There is another god besides God?”

“So the Vikings believe. They worship many gods.”

“Who are Vikings?”

Every Norman’s heritage was ripe with Viking ancestry. Before the Normans had conquered England, the Vikings had made many raids on English soil. Every noble or peasant child should have heard of the Vikings.

“The Vikings are warriors who believe the only honorable death is to die in battle, so they can go to Valhalla, their vision of heaven.”

Philip absorbed that piece of information, then asked, “You are a warrior?”

“Aye.”

“Are you a Viking?”

“I have some Viking blood in my veins.”

As do you, probably more than 1, Richard wanted to add, but didn’t

Over the past two days he’d watched Lucinda and Philip closely and become more convinced that both were Norman. For some reason, Lucinda wanted all and sundry to believe that she and her son were English. It seemed foolish to Richard, for anyone who took the time to study them would see through the ruse just as he had.

Lucinda was also overprotective of Philip. She rarely allowed the boy to wander far from her side, and never out of her sight. Richard looked around and, as if his thoughts had called her, Lucinda was walking toward him. Her ankle had improved, though she yet walked gingerly and with a limp.

“Do you wish to die in battle?” Philip asked, his concern over the possibility seeping into the question.

Richard had once come within a gnat’s breath of dying from a battle wound, and preferred not to repeat the experience.

“’Tis my wish to live a very long life and die peacefully in my bed,” he assured the boy.

Philip laid his head on Richard’s shoulder and whispered, “That is how Oscar and Hetty died. They got sick and went to sleep and never woke up.”

A multitude of questions begged answers, but the boy didn’t need questions now. He needed comfort.

Richard wasn’t sure how to react to Philip’s sorrow, how to comfort a hurt of the heart. True, he’d once held Daymon to stop the flow of tears when his nephew had scraped both hands and knees during a nasty fall. Richard knew he would do almost anything for Daymon.

The bond Richard had formed with Daymon was a natural one. Bastards both—English and Norman both—Richard had tried to prepare his nephew to one day cope with the attitudes of people outside of the family circle. Thankfully, Daymon’s life would be less harsh than Richard’s had been, simply because Ardith accepted Daymon as Gerard’s son, and loved and nurtured him as she did her own son.

Philip and Daymon were of an age, and a hurt was a hurt.

Richard tightened his hold on Philip and lowered his head until his cheek touched Philip’s brow.

What could he say to a boy who had obviously lost two people whom he cared about, Hetty and Oscar, to sickness? Recently? Were they friends, perhaps? Or a brother and sister? Maybe that was why Lucinda fairly hovered over the child. Maybe that was why these two were on the road, escaping a sickness that had ravaged their family.

Richard groped for words. “Their death made you sad,” he finally commented.

Philip nodded.

“Does it help to know that Oscar and Hetty are now in a better place, in heaven with God?”

“Nay.”

The boy’s honesty echoed Richard’s beliefs. In truth, he’d never been able to take comfort in religion. Oh, he believed in God and Christ, but Ursula had always made sure that he knew that God had no use for bastards.

Lucinda finally made her way to where he stood.

“Philip, you must not disturb his lordship this morn. He has preparations to see to before we leave,” she said in that lyrical, husky voice that invoked visions of disheveled fur coverlets and the heady scent of coupling.

Philip stiffened at his mother’s rebuke. Richard put a hand on the boy’s back, holding the child still.

“He does not disturb me,” Richard told her. “When Philip came to admire the horse, ‘twas my notion to pick him up so he could touch Odin.”

She glanced at the horse. “I see.”

Lucinda was nervous, upset. Richard saw no outward sign of it. She neither fussed with her clothing nor wrung her hands. Her voice didn’t shake. Somehow, though, he knew without a doubt that she didn’t like Philip’s nearness to the horse, liked even less that Philip was in Richard’s arms.

“You are generous, my lord, with your time and patience for a small boy,” she said. “I imagine Philip asked all manner of questions.”

“Not so many,” Richard said.

“That is good,” she said, her relief clear. “Edric tells me we are almost ready to leave. Philip and I must take our place in the wagon.” Then she took a slightly deeper breath. “I understand your wagon driver will take Philip and me to Westminster Abbey. Since we shall probably not see you again, my lord, I would give you my thanks now for your assistance.”

The arrangement made sense. He simply didn’t like it, though he couldn’t for the life of him explain why.

“I had thought to ask Philip if he wished to ride with me for a while on Odin,” he heard himself say, though he hadn’t thought of asking Philip any such thing. “What say you, lad?”

Philip’s head popped up. “Oh, aye!” he said, then turned to ask Lucinda, “May I, Mother? May I please?”

Sensing that Lucinda was about to withhold permission, Richard tossed Philip up into the saddle.

“Of course, you may,” he said. “Your mother will be glad for some peace this fine morn, will you not, Lucinda?”

Lucinda knew she would have no peace for the entire ride into Westminster, not if Philip rode and talked with Richard of Wilmont.

For the past two days she’d lived in fear that Philip would say something to alert Richard to his identity. She’d kept Philip close, cautioned him to say nothing to Richard or his soldiers of where they had come from or where they were going. Philip didn’t understand why, but she couldn’t explain without either lying or telling him about his father and the hatred that existed between Northbryre and Wilmont. She’d succeeded in keeping Philip within earshot until this morning when his awe of the destrier had drawn him from her side.

She nearly panicked when Richard had hefted Philip into his arms. Seeing her son in Richard’s grasp caused her stomach to churn and her heart to constrict. Thus far, Richard had been friendly and gentle with Philip, to the point of giving him a brief hug. If Richard learned that Philip was the son of Basil, the man who’d caused Wilmont no end of suffering, surely his gentleness would vanish.

Richard already suspected that she and Philip weren’t who they pretended to be. Time and again she’d caught him staring intently at either her or Philip, a puzzled look on his face, as if he’d seen them before and was trying to place where.

At other times Richard’s scrutiny had been for her alone, as a man looks at a woman. It always sent a tingle up her spine. Thankfully, he’d never acted on his obvious interest.

Right now he stood stoic, waiting for her to capitulate over the matter of where Philip would complete the final leagues of their journey.

Philip looked utterly joyous sitting atop the destrier. She couldn’t very well deny a lord’s wishes without his questioning a peasant’s audacity. Resigned, she put a hand on Philip’s leg.

“You must behave for his lordship,” she said. “Do nothing to startle the horse. Nor will you bore Lord Richard with your chatter. Understood?”

Philip looked down at her from the great height—too high, in a mother’s opinion, for a little boy to be off the ground. His joyous expression faded to thoughtfulness.

“Aye, Mother,” he said, then glanced at Richard. “Mayhap his lordship will do all the talking. I would like to know more of the Vikings.”

Richard chuckled. “Viking tales it is, lad.”

Lucinda thought it a safe subject of conversation, with one reservation. “A mother would hope that the tales are not too gruesome.”

Richard looked comically offended. “One cannot tell a proper Viking tale without some blood and gore.”

She crossed her arms. “Mayhap not, but one could tell the tales without ensuring bad dreams.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “One could try, but one gives no assurances, my lady.” With a grace that belied his size, Richard swung up into the saddle behind Philip.

My lady.

Had the honorific been a slip of the tongue, or a warning that her disguise hadn’t fooled him for long?

Having related every Viking tale in his memory, Richard considered returning Philip to his mother. The boy made for fine company, but Richard didn’t want to enter Westminster with a peasant-clad boy on his lap. This visit to court was too important to risk that some noble would notice his unusual riding companion and start speculation on the boy’s identity.

Too, Richard hadn’t found a natural opportunity to explore the child’s past. ‘Twas likely knavish to wrest the tale from an unsuspecting child, but Richard knew he would get no answers from the mother.

“I have told you many a tale of Vikings, Philip,” Richard said. “’Tis now your turn to tell me a tale.”

Philip laughed. “All the tales I know of Vikings are those you have just told me! I know no others.”

“Have you a tale of adventures, then? I know you had an adventure on your mule two days past. Surely, you have had others.”

Philip was silent for several heartbeats, then said, “I caught a frog once.”

“Did you? A big frog?” he asked, having a good idea of the tale’s outcome. He’d caught a frog or two during his childhood, and done his utmost to frighten at least one kitchen wench with the slimy creature before being forced to release it back into the pond.

Philip didn’t disappoint. He exaggerated the size of his prey, told of soaking his shoes and tunic in the pond and, upon successful stalk and capture, carrying the frog home.

“I would wager your mother forbade the beast in the hut.”

“She did,” Philip said on a sigh. “Mother did not think Hetty and Oscar would like a frog hopping about their feet. She told me to take the frog back to the pond.”

“Of course, you obeyed her,” Richard said, his tone conveying that he knew Philip probably hadn’t. He smiled when Philip squirmed. “Never tell me you took it into the hut!”

Philip leaned over and looked back at the men-at-arms and wagons following them.

Richard chided. “Your mother cannot hear you, Philip. She is too far away.”

Philip straightened, but tilted his head back so he could look up at Richard. “I did!” he said, grinning. “For the whole of an afternoon I kept the frog hidden in a bucket.” He giggled. “Then Mother grabbed the bucket to fetch water and the frog jumped out. She screeched like a banshee!”

He couldn’t imagine the cool-headed, reserved Lucinda screeching even if frightened, but kept the thought to himself.

Instead, he suggested, “Mayhap you should have asked your father if you could keep the frog.”

Philip shook his head. “I have no father. He died when I was so little that I do not remember him.”

Richard noted the lack of sorrow in Philip’s statement, just as Richard felt no sorrow when the subject of his mother, who’d died giving him birth, arose.

Lucinda must be a widow of several years, then.

“This Oscar you spoke of, mayhap he would have let you keep the frog.”

“Not Oscar. He never went against Mother’s wishes. Nor did Hetty. I wish…”

True grief had crept into the boy’s tone. Richard gave Philip a gentle squeeze. “What do you wish?”

“I wish they had not been so old, because then they might have survived the sickness in the village. Mother tried every potion she knew of to help them get well, but none worked.”

“Were you sick, or your mother?”

“Nay.” Philip sighed. “Mother thought it best that we leave the village before we got sick, too. She looks for a new home for us, but has not found one that suits her. I hope she finds one she likes very soon. I tire of riding on that mule.”

He knew of a suitable home for mother and child. His manor, Collinwood. The people had suffered greatly under the lordship of Basil of Northbryre. Since being awarded the land, Richard had done his best to improve his vassals’ lot. If Lucinda possessed skill at caring for the sick, his vassals would accept her gladly.

He needed to talk to Lucinda about the prospect, but first he must find Stephen and begin his task of gathering information for Gerard. He wouldn’t need to inquire about which heiresses would be granted in marriage. Stephen would already know.

Lucinda’s ankle had healed somewhat, but he suspected the monks at Westminster Abbey would advise her to rest well before resuming her hunt for a home. He could visit her—and Philip, of course—at the abbey on the morrow.

The only problem with this whole plan of taking her home with him lay in his attraction to Lucinda. He had but to look at her to feel a tug on his innards.

However, resisting the temptation of her would be easier if he took a wife. An heiress. A noblewoman to share his bed to assuage his physical needs and bear his children. An heiress who brought with her enough wealth to raise his status and pay for the betterment of his lands.

For those reasons alone, he could resist temptation.

Richard reined Odin to a halt. He lowered Philip to the road with an order to return to his mother.

“’Tis not broken,” the red-faced monk declared.

Lucinda hid her amusement at the monk’s embarrassment. Brother Ambrose had touched her hosecovered ankle as briefly as was possible to confirm the wholeness of her bones.

“You must rest your foot until the swelling is gone,” he prescribed as a cure. “I will have space prepared for you in the ladies’ court.”

“And my son?” Lucinda asked.

The monk glanced over at Philip, who was intrigued by the array of jars neatly arranged on shelves in the abbey’s infirmary.

“He is young enough to stay with you, I would think, if we can arrange for a cell for the two of you. However, sleeping space is dear. The child may have to sleep on a pallet in the dormitory.”

That didn’t surprise her in the least. The streets of Westminster overflowed with people, making passage slow, and therefore dangerous. At Richard’s order, half of his soldiers had surrounded the wagon that carried her and Philip. The escort hadn’t left her until she, Philip and the mule had been safely inside the abbey. A few of the nobles streaming to Westminster would likely take refuge at the abbey until finding other lodgings.

Lucinda struggled to put on her boot.

She’d feared recognition by Richard, but that fear had deepened upon entering Westminster. Now, in close quarters to members of the court and their families, someone was sure to recognize her as Lucinda of Northbryre.

Thus far she hadn’t seen a familiar face. To her knowledge, no one had turned to stare at her, marking her presence. Which shouldn’t surprise her. Few nobles would deign to notice a peasant woman with a small boy in tow. Not even Richard had given them a second glance until that unruly mule took flight with Philip on its back.

Then Richard had taken too much notice. He looked too hard, and too long. She’d taken far too much pleasure in feeling the heat in his gaze. He’d despoiled her belief that she would never again wish to be held, much less touched by a man. After all she’d suffered from Basil, she’d thought herself cured of wanting any man. Richard of Wilmont had proved her wrong with merely a lustful look and a gentle touch.

After the morrow, Richard would not look on her in that way again, for on the morrow he would learn the truth of her identity. On the morrow, she would petition King Henry for a protector for Philip.

By placing Philip within a noble house, under edict from King Henry to safeguard the boy, she could ensure Philip’s safety from not only Basil’s family but his enemies. Most notably Gerard of Wilmont—and his kin.

Her brush with Richard had emphasized the extent of her vulnerability. She possessed neither the physical might nor the power of wealth to protect Philip from anyone who wished him ill. Had some unscrupulous Norman come upon her on the road, she and Philip would have been in deep trouble.

“Brother Ambrose, I am willing to pay for our sleeping space. Would the donation of my mule to the abbey cover lodging and meals for two days?”

The monk rubbed his chin. “I should think the mule more than fair payment. I will ask the abbot.”

After the monk left the infirmary, she patted the bench beside her. “Come sit, Philip.”

Reluctantly, he left his study of the jars.

“Why did you give away Oscar’s mule?” he asked.

“We shall not need the mule any longer. I think Oscar would approve of donating him to the monks.”

“We will stay here, in Westminster?”

She shifted on the bench to better look down into her son’s face. What she would propose affected him most of all, and she wanted to witness his honest opinion.

“You would like to own a destrier.”

With a sharp nod of his head, he said, “Like Odin.”

“What would you say if I told you I might arrange that? Not anytime soon, you understand, but when you are old enough to control such a beast.”

His gray eyes went wide. “Truly? How?”

“By making you a ward of a nobleman.”

Philip expression didn’t change, not understanding. She’d never explained the ways of nobles to him. ’Twas her own fault that her son now had much to learn in a short time.

“The noble would be your protector. He would see to your training in the ways of the court and the skills of a knight. I thought to petition the king for a protector for you.”

He thought that over for a moment, then said, “Then we would have a home. We would live in the lord’s castle, and I could have a horse!”

No, not we—you.

Lucinda realized how little thought she’d given to where she would go if the king granted her petition. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She must see to Philip first without worrying about what would become of her.

Philip jumped up, his eyes shining with excitement. “Mayhap we could ask Lord Richard to be my protector!”

Naturally, Philip would think first of Richard of Wilmont, the only lord he knew, one who’d been kind to him.

“Nay, Philip. Not Richard.”

Philip mustered his courage to argue, “But why not? Is not Richard a noble lord?”

She took her confused son’s hands in hers. “He is, indeed, a noble lord, and was kind to us when we needed his aid,” she said, giving Richard his due. “He is not, however, a suitable protector for you.”

Philip pulled his hands away. He pouted. “I like him and I think he likes me. I do not see the harm in asking.”

How to explain? She took a deep breath, hoping her words would be the right ones.

“Long ago, before you were born, your father made an enemy of Everart of Wilmont, Richard’s father. Both Everart and your father are dead now, but I doubt Richard will ever forget the hatred that existed between the two families, or forgive your father for his treachery. Once Richard knows who your father was, I fear he will not like you anymore.”

“My father fought with Lord Richard?”

Basil had damn near caused Richard’s death. She nodded.

Philip was silent for a moment, then asked, “If I promised not to fight with Richard, would he like me then?”

So simple. So childlike. So impossible a solution.

“You must understand, Philip, your father was not a nice man. He inflicted great suffering on the family of Wilmont, and as fine a man as Richard is, we cannot expect him to ignore that you are his enemy’s son.”

Or that I was his enemy’s wife.

“Never have you told me anything of my father. I do not even know his name,” Philip accused.

“His name was Basil of Northbryre. I did not tell you of him because…” She faltered. She’d been about to tell her son a lie. She hadn’t spoken to Philip about Basil, not to spare her son pain, but to spare herself. “…because I wished to forget that he existed. That was wrong of me. I should have told you of him, and I will. You have my promise.”

Brother Ambrose returned. “You will be pleased to hear that private lodgings are available. The abbot sends his thanks for your kind gift. He will keep you in his prayers.”

A fine sentiment. Likely she would need all of the divine intervention she could get over the next few days.

“Philip, see to your pack,” she said, picking up her own bundle that contained her one unstained gown and a few coins.

The monk turned to lead them out of the room. Lucinda stopped him.

“Brother Ambrose, I have but one more request. I should like to have a message sent to the palace.”

The monk’s eyes widened. “A message?”

She ignored his incredulity. “To King Henry.”

His eyes widened farther. “What is the message?”

“Lucinda of Northbryre wishes an audience with His Majesty.”

The monk’s jaw dropped. “Indeed.”

“Can the message be delivered within the hour?”

He regained his poise. “Aye, my lady, I will see it done. Now, if you will follow me, I will show you to your lodgings.”

Taking Philip’s hand, Lucinda followed as bid, wondering if she’d given away the mule too soon. All of her plans depended upon the king’s willingness to hear her petition, and upon how much, after three years, Henry still detested Basil.

If the king refused to see her or denied her petition, within two days she and Philip would again be searching for a hiding place, a refuge to call home.

Chapter Four

Richard leaned against one of the many marble pillars that supported the great arches of Westminster Hall. A large crowd had gathered with the vast room; voices and footsteps echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

He’d chosen this spot to best watch the comings and goings of nobles and peasants alike, noting in particular which men of power had arrived. Most notably absent was Emperor Henry V, to whom Princess Matilda would soon be betrothed. The emperor’s delegation would seal the bargain and fetch the princess who, at the age of seven, was having a grand time flaunting her impending title of empress.

If King Henry of England took offense at the emperor’s absence, Richard had no notion. He just hoped the king didn’t take offense that Gerard had sent his own delegation—him and Stephen—in his stead.

Richard looked toward the dais where the king presided from his throne, searching for Stephen, who was supposed to be listening to the petitions presented to Henry. With so many people crowding the hall, however, ’twas impossible to detect Stephen’s position.

Boredom had set in long ago. He’d seen those nobles whom he expected to see and exchanged greetings with the most staunch of Wilmont’s allies. Likely, tongues were wagging among England’s and Normandy’s nobility about Gerard’s absence—a situation Richard had already explained far too often this morning for comfort. He had yet to give Gerard’s greetings and regrets to the king—a task he was hoping Stephen would fulfill.