Shari Anton - Lord Of The Manor

The earth fair shook as the noble overtook them, passed by on his magnificent steed, giving her a clear view of his back. He was, indeed, a tall and broad-shouldered warrior and, to her relief, no longer a danger.

The men-at-arms, in a double column, marched past. She put her hand to her nose against the dust. The company consisted of twenty armed and likely well-trained soldiers. She let out the breath she’d been holding as she sensed a break in the retinue. All that remained to pass by were the wagons.

Philip wiped his nose with his tunic sleeve. He sneezed hard, kicking the mule. The mule brayed and shifted, nearly knocking Lucinda off balance.

Then Philip sneezed again. The mule bolted, jerking the lead rope from her hand so fast it burned.

“Hold fast, Philip!” she shouted, and began to run with a speed she’d never known she could attain. Sweet Jesu, she’d never seen that mule move so fast. Philip bounced and swayed, but he held on.

One soldier almost snared the lead rope as the mule sped by. Two others dropped their spears and shields to give chase.

Lucinda followed, damning the mule to perdition, praying that Philip could hold tight a while longer. If Philip were injured…no, she couldn’t think of that now, just concentrate on getting to him.

Too late, she saw the bump of a tree root in the road. Her foot caught, sending her tumbling. Gasping for air, ignoring her scraped hands, she tried to rise. Pain shot from her ankle. She swore, a foul word she’d learned from Basil’s mercenaries.

Lucinda flinched when a hand clasped her shoulder.

“Can you get up?” the man said.

Admitting weakness to a man wasn’t wise. A lone woman amid so many men would do well to keep her vulnerability a secret. Unfortunately, her injury would show the moment she put weight on her ankle. She looked up into the face of an old soldier, his warm brown eyes and puggish nose surrounded by a bushy, graying beard.

“Mayhap, with your aid,” she said.

As he helped her to stand, the soldier said, “Worry not about the boy. Even now Lord Richard chases the mule.”

Indeed, the commotion drew the attention of the noble who led the company. Effortlessly, his destrier kept pace with the mule. Lord Richard shouted down to Philip, then reached out and plucked her son from the mule’s back.

A cheer laced with laughter went up from the soldiers. Lucinda sighed with relief, not having the breath to cheer. This lord who had snatched Philip from the threat of harm was due her gratitude.

The lord wheeled his horse around. Philip sat on the man’s lap, safe. The lord said something to his two soldiers who had given chase. They nodded and continued up the road, but at a slower pace. She assumed they’d been ordered to find the mule. If not for the precious packs on the beast’s back, she’d have told them not to bother.

Lord Richard was riding slowly toward her, bearing Philip back to her. Lucinda shook the worst of the dust from her gown and straightened her scarf, hoping she could adequately express her thanks for his rescue of her son.

Her heart stopped when she recognized the man she’d seen but once, at court, lo those many years ago. Basil had pointed out each member of the family he so despised: Everart, Baron of Wilmont, whose lands Basil coveted; the heir Gerard and the youngest son Stephen; and Richard, the middle son—the bastard.

Philip was sitting on the lap of Richard of Wilmont, who had been severely wounded and nearly died because of Basil’s treachery.

Richard ruffled Philip’s hair, talking to him. Philip smiled up at Richard and answered. Lucinda bit her bottom lip. If Richard spoke to Philip in Norman French, the language of the nobility, Philip would answer in his native tongue, which no mere peasant boy would know. It would be a clear sign that she and her son were not who they appeared to be.

Oblivious to the danger, smiling hugely, Philip rattled on and on, his hands gesturing as he spoke. Richard commented occasionally, with only one or two words.

Though she couldn’t hear what they said, one exchange didn’t need to be heard to be understood. Richard’s lips clearly formed Philip’s name, and then hers, Lucinda, drawn out as if he savored the word.

She shivered. Surely, now, Richard knew who she was, realized whose son he held firmly in his grasp. Or did he? True, Everart would have pointed Basil out to each of his sons so they would know their enemy. Had she been with Basil at the time? Would Everart have bothered identifying Basil’s wife? Would Everart even have known her name?

Lucinda took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Whatever was to come next, she had to face it. She couldn’t run, not with her injured ankle, not with a small boy in tow. Nor would she cower. She knew how to face angry, abusive men and retain her inner dignity.

Lucinda allowed herself a small show of a mother’s concern for her son as Richard reined his horse to a halt. She looked Philip over, head to toe, searching for signs of injury. She found none. That done, she smoothed her features into the impenetrable mask that had served her well for so many years.

“Lucinda,” Richard said from the great height of his destrier.

Her name, spoken in his low, rumbling voice, sounded odd, almost beautiful. ’Twas a pleasant sensation, but she refused to allow the feeling to linger or cloud her judgment. Too often she’d seen nobles, no matter how seemingly charming, turn beastly.

As a peasant woman, she should bow low before Richard. But if she tried, her ankle would crumble. She gave him a slight bow and hoped he wouldn’t take offense.

“This boy, Philip, claims to belong to you,” he said before she’d finished the bow. She’d expected haughtiness or derision, not the hint of humor in his voice. And, thank the Lord, he spoke in English.

“He is my son, my lord.”

He grasped Philip around the waist and lifted him. “Then I shall return this outstanding mule rider to your care.”

Lucinda knew that Richard expected her to come forward to claim Philip. To her relief, the old soldier who had helped her to stand walked over to fetch her son. As soon as Philip’s feet hit the road, he ran to the invitation of her open arms. She wanted to bend down and pick him up. Afraid she would fall on her face if she tried, she put her hands on his back and head and held him firmly against her.

“I give you my thanks, my lord, for your timely and gracious rescue,” she said.

He nodded. “Is your mule always so skittish?”

“Nay, my lord. He is usually well-mannered—for a mule.”

Richard glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, even now the beast comes. Having had his run for the day, mayhap he will be calmer now.”

“’Tis hoped for, my lord,” she answered, her fears fading. Surely, if Richard had recognized her he would have said so by now, not rambled on about a skittish mule. Perhaps she and Philip would escape this encounter unscathed.

Deftly, Richard nudged his destrier to the side, allowing the soldier who led the mule to pass by him. With the rope again in her hand, Lucinda gave the soldier a gracious smile, feeling ever more confident that she worried for naught.

“Philip,” Richard called out, “have a care not to sneeze loudly again.”

Lucinda held tight to Philip’s shoulders as he turned around to answer, “I shall try, my lord.” Then he tilted his head up to ask her, “Must I get on that beast again? My arse is well sore!”

Richard’s smile widened. The soldiers about her chuckled.

She strove for a light tone. “Mayhap I will ride and let you walk, for a while.”

Richard gathered up his horse’s reins. “I wish you both a pleasant journey,” he said, but before he could turn his horse, the old, grizzled soldier put a hand on Richard’s leg.