Shari Anton - Lord Of The Manor

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.”