Lord of the Manor Page 5

  Was she running away? Had she been exiled? And why?

  Richard was about to bolt the hall in favor of the abbey when he saw Stephen coming toward him, perturbed.

  “’Tis not a good day to ask the king for favor,” Stephen declared. “He hears petition after petition and grants few.”

  “Not a good day, then, to ask for the hand of a fair heiress. Have you decided on one?”

  “I have three I would consider. You?”

  Richard shrugged a shoulder. Though he knew he should probably court at least one woman on Stephen’s list of heiresses, not one name struck the mildest note of interest.

  Stephen chided. “Richard, if you wish to better your holdings, you had best make yourself known to at least a few of the heiresses. Mayhap one will take a liking to your ugly face and ask for you!”

  Richard smiled. “Mayhap I should let you choose for me. Judging from your notes on the list, you have studied all of their qualities, from fairness of face to the coin they bring.”

  “Ha! And have you blame me if her temperament is sour? Nay, brother, choose for yourself.”

  Richard chuckled, then asked, “Did you happen to tell Henry of Gerard’s absence.”

  “Aye.” Stephen sighed. “Another reason to delay asking for favors today. Henry accepted my explanation with little grace. He says he understands, but ’twas quite clear he is displeased.”

  An unhappy Henry was also a dangerous Henry. Today was not the day to begin an attempt to heal the rift between Gerard and the king, a cause near to Richard’s heart. He disliked seeing the two men at odds with each other when they had been such great companions. For now, ’twas best to stay out of the king’s sight and beyond his reach until his spirits lightened.

  Richard decided he’d had enough of noblewatching for the day. “I am off for the abbey. Do try to stay out of trouble.”

  Stephen raised an eyebrow. “The abbey? Whatever for?”

  “Mayhap I wish to confess my sins,” Richard suggested.

  “Hardly likely.” Stephen knew him too well.

  “I go to visit the woman and boy who traveled with us. I wish to see if they are well cared for.”

  Stephen crossed his arms. “How can they be less than well cared for in Westminster Abbey? This is the third time you have mentioned this woman since you arrived yesterday. I begin to suspect that something happened between the two of you during your journey.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  ’Twas a small lie he told. In truth, nothing had happened beyond her riding in the wagon and a few, brief moments of conversation. That something might have happened if he’d given in to the attraction that simmered whenever he looked at Lucinda was none of Stephen’s affair.

  Stephen studied Richard for several moments before saying, “If you wish to bring the woman to Wilmont’s chambers to warm your bed while we are here, I have no objection.”

  Richard felt a twinge of ire rise. “Not that I intend to do so, Stephen, but should I invite a woman to share my furs, I will not seek your permission!”

  Stephen didn’t comment. Someone or something near the door had captured his attention.

  A woman. She stood inside the door, glancing about the hall as if confused, almost frightened of entering. Lucinda.

  Her simple gown of green wool hugged her curves as softly and becomingly as silk. Under a sheer white veil, held in place by a silver circlet, her raven hair shimmered almost blue in the light of a nearby torch.

  She held herself erect and poised. One had to look into her eyes to see her anxiety. She might be noble, but perhaps not accustomed to attending court. Mayhap he could ease her anxiety. Perhaps he could explain the protocol or help her find whatever or whomever she looked for.

  Stephen said angrily, “Mayhap you should stay awhile, Richard. I fear we are about to witness some excitement. ’Tis good that Gerard is not here. He would roar the arches down.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The woman in the green gown, coming into the hall. Do you recognize her?”

  He’d just spent the past two days in Lucinda’s company and had thought of her far too often since. Was thinking far too much of her now. But, alerted by Stephen’s tone, Richard held his counsel.

  “Should I know her?”

  “Aye, I believe you should. I saw her only the once, and do not remember her name, but I believe she is the widow of Basil of Northbryre.”

  The kick to Richard’s gut threatened to send bile up his throat. Richard swallowed hard. Hellfire! Was it possible he’d been strongly attracted to the widow of Wilmont’s worst enemy?

  “Lucinda.” He supplied her name to Stephen. This time, the sound of it didn’t seem musical.

  Stephen nodded. “That is it. I heard that she and her son had escaped to Basil’s lands in Normandy. I wonder what brings her back after all this time?”

  Richard didn’t care. He was too busy wondering where he should have known her from, if they had met before. Wondering how his character could be so flawed that he’d wished to couple with a woman who’d rutted with Basil of Northbryre.

  On the road, if he’d known. who she was, he’d have let the mule run off with Philip, let Lucinda cope on her own.

  She took a small step forward, then another. She didn’t limp. Had she faked the injury to her ankle? Had she laughed behind her hand at his offer of assistance, at his gullibility?

  Did she know his identity? Possibly. ’Twould explain much of her nervousness, her wish to keep Philip so close to her side.

  Hellfire, he’d been such a fool!

  “Come,” Stephen said. “She heads for Henry.”

  Lucinda’s first thought upon entering Westminster Hall was to bring Philip here to see the arched ceiling, the marble pillars and the elaborate throne. He would think the hall grand.

  She’d left Philip at the abbey under the care of Brother Ambrose. The monk had relented to her son’s plea to once again explore the infirmary, and wouldn’t be content until he learned the name of each medicinal herb, the purpose of every balm, and the use of all the tonics in the place.

  Philip knew that she’d left the abbey to see the king, and why, though he didn’t yet realize the full extent of how her petition, if granted, would change his life. Lucinda had decided not to explain too fully, for now.

  The king’s anger at Basil’s treachery must have cooled somewhat or he wouldn’t have granted her an audience. That didn’t mean he would also grant her petition.

  Lucinda glanced about the hall, recognizing few faces. Her hopes that she could go unrecognized and without comment faded when a woman’s eyes widened and she turned to a companion to whisper behind her hand. ’Twas too much to hope that the woman only commented on the shabby state of Lucinda’s garments when compared to the rest of the silk-clad, jewel-bedecked nobles.

  Lucinda focused on Henry during her long walk from the door to the dais. She wanted to get this over with. Only Henry’s opinion and mood mattered, not the rest of the court’s. With the words she would say to the king tumbling around in her head, she threaded her way through the crowd.

  As she neared the dais she took slow, steady breaths to calm a sudden tremor, which she hoped no one noticed. For as much as she feared facing Henry, she also dreaded running into Richard.

  Was he here in the hall? He would be angry when he learned her identity, of that she was sure. What form would his anger take?

  She would deal with him when the time came. Now she must present herself to the king and hope his anger at her late husband’s betrayal didn’t overflow onto her son.

  The crowd thickened as she neared the throne. Her nose wrinkled at the stench of too many bodies in too little space. Were these all petitioners, or merely listeners?

  “We will grant your request, Gaylord,” the king was saying. “You may hunt the woodland to the east of Hawkland for small game. You may not, however, take the king’s deer. In return for the privilege, you will keep the forest free of poachers.
”

  “My thanks, Sire,” a man answered, bending into a low bow. “I will enforce the Forest Law with vigor.”

  As Gaylord turned to leave, a man approached the king and leaned down to whisper into Henry’s ear. Henry nodded, then turned to motion to someone in the crowd.

  “John,” the king said. “Kester informs us that you wish judgment on a land dispute.”

  Kester. Though Lucinda had never met the man, she knew his place at court—advisor to the king. He held a sheet of parchment, which he consulted, then glanced about the room. Seeking the next petitioner?

  She watched as the procedure was repeated, then, sure of her conjecture, approached Kester. He looked up from his list.

  “I am Lucinda of…Northbryre,” she said. “The king granted my request for an audience today.”

  Kester frowned. She could almost feel his spine stiffen. “The king has many to see today. Stand aside and wait your turn.”

  Lucinda bristled at his obvious disdain. But, watching him add her name to his list, she moved away, toward one of the hall’s many supporting pillars. At the edge of her awareness she realized some people stared at her, some pointed fingers. She ignored them. She had a higher purpose than providing entertainment for the court.

  Was Richard among those assembled? Would he come forward and make a spectacle of them both? She prayed not, and resisted looking for him. ’Twould be tempting fate.

  She concentrated on the proceedings. As petitioner after petitioner presented his grievance or request to Henry, she noticed that several people had been placed ahead of her, and Henry was granting fewer and fewer requests.

  Lucinda was about to remind Kester that she’d been waiting overlong when he moved to the king’s side, whispered in Henry’s ear, then looked straight at her. She took a deep breath, prayed for the strength to remain calm, and presented herself to King Henry before he could call out her name.

  The king studied her with an unreadable expression on his face. She endured it, waiting for him to speak, as protocol demanded.

  “Lucinda of Northbryre,” he finally said, his voice flat. “We thought you had fled to Normandy.”

  A natural assumption for him to make. Most women in her situation—short of funds and with her husband in disgrace—would have fled to family.

  “Nay, Majesty,” she said, surprised at the steadiness in her voice. “I had no desire to return to either my family or Basil’s. For my son’s sake, I never left England.”

  “Who sheltered you?”

  She heard a faint hint of anger in the king’s voice, and was suddenly glad that Oscar and Hetty were beyond Henry’s reach.

  “An old peasant couple, who have recently gone to their heavenly reward,” she answered.

  “You ask us to believe that you have lived as a peasant these past three years?” His incredulity rang clear. The rest of the court doubted, too, judging from the twitter she heard around her.

  “Aye, Majesty, I have.”

  He leaned back in his throne, obviously contemplating her revelation. “We must say we are displeased that you waited so long to come before us and beg our forgiveness.”

  Lucinda tamped down a flash of anger. Neither she nor Philip had done anything wrong. Basil had plotted treason, not she. Saying so to Henry, however, would do her no good. She swallowed her pride—somewhat.

  “Basil’s disloyalty to his king was a difficult burden for me to bear. Given his treasonous actions, I realize you make a magnanimous gesture by allowing me into your royal presence to hear my petition. I humbly and gratefully thank you for your kindness, Majesty.”

  She hadn’t begged forgiveness, but the king seemed pleased with her flattery. How odd that she had Basil to thank for telling her of the king’s susceptibility.

  “What petition?”

  A bit more sure of how to go about asking favor from Henry, she chose her words with care.

  “I seek a protector for Philip. I would have him raised in a noble house whose loyalty to the crown is unquestioned, that he might learn the ways of the court and earn his knighthood. Someday, God willing, Philip might then serve his king as a loyal and true subject.”

  “Ah, but will he, Sire?” came a male voice. “Basil’s tainted blood flows in the boy, and surely blood will tell.”

  Lucinda glanced in the speaker’s direction. A raven-haired man broke through the crowd. Immediately behind him strode Richard. Beyond all reason, she wanted to reach out to Richard, to give him some explanation of her actions on the road. To him she would have apologized for what he and his family had suffered at Basil’s hand.

  The raven-haired speaker was likely Stephen of Wilmont, the youngest of the three brothers. Now, not only must she convince the king of her plan’s validity, but do so over Wilmont’s objection.

  “We do not recall asking your opinion,” the king admonished Stephen.

  Stephen bowed to Henry. “I beg your indulgence if I overstep, Sire, but I feel obligated to speak out. Wilmont endured much due to Basil’s treachery. Richard is fortunate to have survived Basil’s attempt to do murder. And even now, three years after their kidnapping, Gerard’s wife and son suffer nightmares of their mistreatment at Basil’s hands. Surely, Sire, you can understand my concern.”

  What kidnapping? What other horrors had Basil inflicted on those of Wilmont which she knew nothing about? What obscenities had he committed upon an innocent woman he deemed an enemy?

  Was Stephen right? Would blood tell? Would Philip grow up to be just like his father, viciously cruel, simply because Basil had fathered him?

  She refused to believe it.

  “Majesty,” she said, drawing the king’s attention. “I know that those of Wilmont have sound reasons to hate Basil. Philip, however, was but three summers old when his father died, too young for Basil to have had a lasting influence on the boy. And my son also carries my blood, both noble and untainted. Would not the proper counsel of a stalwart protector prove the stronger influence on how Philip grows to manhood? Majesty,” she continued, hating the plea in her voice but unable to help it, “must the sins of the father be held against the son?”

  “Trust a woman to think so unsoundly,” Stephen said. “Bad seed is bad seed, passed through the male line. Sire, if you will allow, I will arrange for Basil’s widow and son to sail to Normandy. If she has not the coin to pay, I will.”

  Lucinda strongly objected. “If I return to my family, my father will send Philip to Basil’s family to be raised. Philip will but learn the same lessons as Basil learned, those of cruelty and deceit. Majesty, I beg you not to sentence my son to the fate of his father.”

  “My offer stands, Sire,” Stephen said.

  Silence reigned. Henry hadn’t said a word during her argument with Stephen. She had no idea to which side he leaned. The king looked hard at Stephen and Richard, then turned to Lucinda.

  “If our memory serves us,” the king said, “we recall that Basil had lands in Normandy, which should rightfully now belong to your son. Who would now control those lands?”

  “I assume Basil’s cousin, George.”

  “Ah…another noble of questionable loyalty and judgment. You did well to keep the boy from his influence.” The king shifted on his throne. “So whoever we name protector must have the means to fight George, if necessary, to collect the rents due from the boy’s lands, and thus the protector’s reward for accepting Philip until the boy is of age.”

  She nodded, her hopes for a favorable judgment rising. The king seemed to understand her position and was leaning in her favor.

  “We know of several men capable,” the king continued. “Our concern is that given the added wealth, those men might also challenge Wilmont for control of Basil’s former English lands, on the child’s behalf. We want peace among our nobles, not petty wars. To our mind, the perfect protector would be Gerard of Wilmont.”

  The king couldn’t give Philip over to Gerard of Wilmont! Before she could protest, Stephen spoke.

&nbs
p; “Sire,” he said softly. “’Twould be most unfair to inflict the boy on Gerard’s family. Have they not suffered enough at the hands of Northbryre?”

  The king leaned forward. “Who better to ensure that no war is waged against Wilmont than those of Wilmont? Frankly, Stephen, our next choice would be to give the pair to you! We will not, however, because you would likely abandon them.”

  The pair? Merciful heaven. The king meant to make both her and her son wards of Wilmont.

  “Majesty,” she said, “would you deliver us into the hands of a man whose hatred for Basil runs so very deep?”

  “You brought your petition before us, Lucinda, and will now trust us to do what is best for not only you and your son, but for the kingdom.”

  Henry then turned to Richard. “You and this boy are both the victims of Basil’s treachery. Through no fault of yours, you nearly lost your life. Through no fault of his, Philip is deprived of a great portion of his inheritance and is in need of guidance. He requires a protector, Richard. What say you?”

  Richard stood as impenetrable and cold-faced as a stone wall. Richard, the bastard of Wilmont. She could think of few men less suitable—except Gerard.

  “Sire,” Richard said, his tone even, “I would suggest that you do the child a disservice, not because I am of Wilmont, but because of my mixed heritage and bastard birth.”

  The king frowned. “Come now, Richard. Surely you do not imply that a man of bastard birth is less worthy. Look to my own offspring. Do you deem them inferior due to their birth?”

  “Of course not, Sire. Although I am sure that when the lady requested a protector, she had in mind a man of at least equal rank and birth as her son, if not higher.”

  The king stood, a sure sign that his patience was at an end. “The fate of this child rests with your decision, Richard of Wilmont. Either the boy and mother go with you, or they go to Gerard. I will have your answer in the morn.” He turned to Kester. “Dismiss the other petitioners until after nooning on the morrow.”