Shari Anton - Lord Of The Manor

“Beg pardon, my lord,” the soldier said.

“What is it, Edric?” Richard asked.

Edric rubbed at his gray beard. “Whilst you chased the boy, the woman took a hard twist to her foot I do not think she can walk. If the boy walks, they will not get to the next village afore nightfall. ’Tain’t room on the beast for the two of them and the packs. Spending the night on the road would be dangerous.”

Richard looked back at her, questioning.

Lucinda quickly said, “’Tis a small hurt, my lord. Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

With a sigh of impatience, the first he’d displayed, Richard dismounted and tossed the reins to Edric.

Lucinda strove to tamp down the panic that threatened to overpower her as Richard of Wilmont came nearer. He halted a few feet away from her and crossed his muscled arms across the wide expanse of his chest.

“Edric is a well-seasoned soldier who has suffered many an injury. If he believes that your ankle will not support you, I will not doubt him. I offer you a seat in a wagon and the protection of our company,” he said.

“A kind gesture, my lord, but not necessary.”

“Can you walk?”

“Well enough,” she lied. Putting weight on her ankle was like dipping it into fire.

Richard tilted his head. “Well enough to reach the safety of the next village before nightfall?”

“That would depend on how many leagues to the village.”

“Too many if you cannot keep the mule moving at a quick pace.” He glanced down at her hands. “Your hands bleed. Can you hold the rope securely?”

She’d forgotten her hands. Not until he’d called her attention to them did she notice the blood smeared on Philip’s tunic.

“Mother?” Philip said, concerned.

“My hands are but lightly scraped. Truly, my lord, there is no need—”

“Walk to me,” he ordered.

His tone brooked no disobedience. About her stood a troop of men, Wilmont soldiers, waiting to see if she would defy their lord. Richard was giving her no choice but to accept his challenge.

Six steps would bring her to within Richard’s reach. Surely she could complete three or four. The sooner done, the sooner Richard of Wilmont would be on his way.

She handed the rope to Philip and gently pushed her son aside. The first steps were tolerable, the third step nearly brought her to her knees. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her leg trembled. She stood still.

Lucinda expected to see triumph in Richard’s expression. To her surprise, she saw admiration.

“A gallant effort, Lucinda,” he said, then signaled the wagon’s driver to come forward.

She couldn’t accept his offer. The longer she stayed in his company, the more risk was involved. She began to utter a protest. He stopped her with a forefinger to her lips. A soft touch. A spark of heat. A devastatingly effective maneuver that stole her words. Shocked, she stood still, unable to move even if she could have.

He frowned, looking intently at his finger on her parted lips. Very slowly, gently, he stroked to the corner of her mouth and across her cheek before he blinked and drew his hand back.

“I understand your reluctance to travel with a troop of men,” he said. “I swear on my honor that you need not fear for yourself or your son while in our company. We will see you safely to wherever it is you wish to go.”

He thought she feared as any woman would fear. Richard didn’t fully understand at all, but she no longer had the strength to argue, didn’t possess the physical ability to fight. Her whole body shook from the effort of having walked three measly steps. It took a fair amount of effort to hold back her tears. She nodded her surrender.

He offered his arm for support. Chain mail met her touch, but beneath the cold metal lay strength and warmth. She was careful to keep her bloody palms from wetting his hauberk.

“Philip, bring that beast over here and we will tie him to the wagon,” Richard ordered.

The wagon driver pulled up within inches of where they stood. Without warning, Richard’s hands encircled her waist. Instinctively, she grasped his shoulders. He lifted her up, effortlessly, until she hovered a few inches from the ground.

She stared straight into his green eyes, his wondrous green eyes. Flecks of gold shimmered within their depths.

He set her down on the wagon bed.

“Such beautiful eyes,” he said. “I do not think I have ever seen their like before. Like violets they are.”

Only a true dolt would respond to such flattery, but she’d been deprived of compliments for so long her vanity got the best of her.

“Not so very uncommon, my lord.”

“Rarer than you might imagine.”

Richard seemed to realize at the same time she did that they hadn’t let go of one another and were staring into each other’s eyes like moonstruck lovers. He let go and backed a step.

He crossed his arms again and looked down at her feet dangling over the wagon bed. “Do you think it broken?”

“Not likely,” she answered truthfully. “Had it broke, I could not walk on it at all.”

“Should we bind it?”

“Nay. My boot holds it fast. If I took my boot off, I might not get it back on my foot again.”

He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Philip and that mule do not get on well.”

Poor Philip. He pulled on the lead rope with all of his might but the mule wouldn’t budge. Lucinda’s frustration bubbled up.

“More than once I have taken a switch to the beast to get him to move.”

“You have come far with him?”

“Too many leagues.”

“How many yet to go?”

She didn’t know, because she didn’t know where she would call her journey to a halt.

“Too many. I thank you for your kindness, my lord. Mayhap you could stop at the next abbey. I could beg hospitality from the monks for a few days while my ankle mends, then Philip and I can be on our way again.”

Richard nodded. “We shall be in Westminster day after next I know the abbot well. You will receive good care there.” Then he turned and headed toward Philip.

The abbey at Westminster? She hadn’t known she was that close!

Granted, she’d thought to go to Westminster, but now that it was close at hand, she must make her decision. The thought of going to court still didn’t fully appeal, but her options were running out.

Nor did she wish to spend two days in the company of Richard of Wilmont. Thus far, he’d been kind to a woman he thought a peasant, but that would change if he learned she was Basil’s widow.

For all Basil had hated every Wilmont male, Lucinda had to admire Richard. Merciful heaven, she was even physically attracted to the man. How very odd. This man who was her enemy had touched her, but her stomach hadn’t churned in revulsion.

Who is she? Richard wondered again, as he had for most of the day and into the evening.

Standing in the open flap of his tent, he could see Lucinda sitting just outside the brightness of the campfire, with her back against a tree and her foot propped on a rolled blanket. Philip sat nearby, as did Edric, the captain of his guard, who seemed to have appointed himself the protector of the woman and boy.

Lucinda and Philip weren’t peasants, though they were garbed in peasant clothing. He’d seen through the ruse within moments of rescuing Philip. Hoping to calm the boy, Richard had spoken comforting words to Philip in peasant English. Philip had responded in kind, but as he’d become more excited while relating his tale, the faint lilt of Norman French became more pronounced. The longer the boy talked, the more Richard became convinced that the boy’s first language wasn’t English.

The names Lucinda and Philip weren’t common names among peasants. If he were right, if these two had ties to Norman nobility, then why were they on the road with no escort, disguised as peasants? Where was her husband, the boy’s father? Or their male guardian?