Shari Anton - Lord Of The Manor

‘Twas really none of his affair. Lucinda must have her reasons, and he had no wish to become involved in her life. His offer of an escort was simply a kindness extended to a woman in need, no more.

A beautiful woman.

Raven hair, woven into a single plait, hung low and shining against her gray gown. Her features were sharp, but not harsh. The tilt of her chin and cool set of her mouth warned a man to expect no warmth from her, but her husky, honey-warm voice beckoned a man to search for her heat.

He shouldn’t have touched her. Then he wouldn’t know that her lips were warm, her cheek soft, her waist slim, her hands gentle. He’d been on his horse at the head of the company, she in the wagon at the very end of the line, and he’d been achingly aware of her the whole time. He wouldn’t now want her if he hadn’t touched her.

Richard took a deep breath and glanced about the campsite. His men had eaten and would soon make up their sleeping pallets or take their turn at guard duty. Tomorrow would bring another long day on the road. If he hoped to join Stephen at court day after next, his company could waste no time.

In typical fashion, Stephen had rushed from Wilmont with little preparation, leaving Richard to haul chests of clothing, extra food and drink and Wilmont’s gifts to the princess. Likely, Stephen now enjoyed the luxury and freedom of having Wilmont’s chambers in Westminster Palace all to himself. Richard didn’t doubt that Stephen had found a willing wench—or noble lady—to share his bed.

Richard looked at Lucinda. In his place, Stephen wouldn’t hesitate to invite Lucinda into his tent to share his pallet of furs. He wouldn’t care what his men thought, or that she had a small son curled up at her side, or that her ankle pained her. Or that she might have a husband. Stephen would note only that his loins grew heavy with desire, and that the woman seemed to share the pull of physical attraction.

So why do I hesitate?

Lucinda looked at him then. She studied him, her violet eyes drawing him in, inviting him to linger and learn her secrets.

If he learned her secrets, she might learn his.

He acknowledged her with a slight nod, then stepped back and closed the tent flap.

“He is truly wondrous,” Philip said.

“That he is,” Richard agreed, giving a silver disk on the horse’s bridle a last buff with the sleeve of his silver-trimmed, black silk tunic. On this last morning of his journey, he’d made a considerable effort to ensure his entrance into Westminster would be impressive.

Satisfied with the horse’s appearance, and his own, Richard gave the destrier a pat on his gleaming black neck.

“Has he a name?” Philip asked.

“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.