Shari Anton - Lord Of The Manor

“You are generous, my lord, with your time and patience for a small boy,” she said. “I imagine Philip asked all manner of questions.”

“Not so many,” Richard said.

“That is good,” she said, her relief clear. “Edric tells me we are almost ready to leave. Philip and I must take our place in the wagon.” Then she took a slightly deeper breath. “I understand your wagon driver will take Philip and me to Westminster Abbey. Since we shall probably not see you again, my lord, I would give you my thanks now for your assistance.”

The arrangement made sense. He simply didn’t like it, though he couldn’t for the life of him explain why.

“I had thought to ask Philip if he wished to ride with me for a while on Odin,” he heard himself say, though he hadn’t thought of asking Philip any such thing. “What say you, lad?”

Philip’s head popped up. “Oh, aye!” he said, then turned to ask Lucinda, “May I, Mother? May I please?”

Sensing that Lucinda was about to withhold permission, Richard tossed Philip up into the saddle.

“Of course, you may,” he said. “Your mother will be glad for some peace this fine morn, will you not, Lucinda?”

Lucinda knew she would have no peace for the entire ride into Westminster, not if Philip rode and talked with Richard of Wilmont.

For the past two days she’d lived in fear that Philip would say something to alert Richard to his identity. She’d kept Philip close, cautioned him to say nothing to Richard or his soldiers of where they had come from or where they were going. Philip didn’t understand why, but she couldn’t explain without either lying or telling him about his father and the hatred that existed between Northbryre and Wilmont. She’d succeeded in keeping Philip within earshot until this morning when his awe of the destrier had drawn him from her side.

She nearly panicked when Richard had hefted Philip into his arms. Seeing her son in Richard’s grasp caused her stomach to churn and her heart to constrict. Thus far, Richard had been friendly and gentle with Philip, to the point of giving him a brief hug. If Richard learned that Philip was the son of Basil, the man who’d caused Wilmont no end of suffering, surely his gentleness would vanish.

Richard already suspected that she and Philip weren’t who they pretended to be. Time and again she’d caught him staring intently at either her or Philip, a puzzled look on his face, as if he’d seen them before and was trying to place where.

At other times Richard’s scrutiny had been for her alone, as a man looks at a woman. It always sent a tingle up her spine. Thankfully, he’d never acted on his obvious interest.

Right now he stood stoic, waiting for her to capitulate over the matter of where Philip would complete the final leagues of their journey.

Philip looked utterly joyous sitting atop the destrier. She couldn’t very well deny a lord’s wishes without his questioning a peasant’s audacity. Resigned, she put a hand on Philip’s leg.

“You must behave for his lordship,” she said. “Do nothing to startle the horse. Nor will you bore Lord Richard with your chatter. Understood?”

Philip looked down at her from the great height—too high, in a mother’s opinion, for a little boy to be off the ground. His joyous expression faded to thoughtfulness.

“Aye, Mother,” he said, then glanced at Richard. “Mayhap his lordship will do all the talking. I would like to know more of the Vikings.”

Richard chuckled. “Viking tales it is, lad.”

Lucinda thought it a safe subject of conversation, with one reservation. “A mother would hope that the tales are not too gruesome.”

Richard looked comically offended. “One cannot tell a proper Viking tale without some blood and gore.”

She crossed her arms. “Mayhap not, but one could tell the tales without ensuring bad dreams.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “One could try, but one gives no assurances, my lady.” With a grace that belied his size, Richard swung up into the saddle behind Philip.

My lady.

Had the honorific been a slip of the tongue, or a warning that her disguise hadn’t fooled him for long?

Having related every Viking tale in his memory, Richard considered returning Philip to his mother. The boy made for fine company, but Richard didn’t want to enter Westminster with a peasant-clad boy on his lap. This visit to court was too important to risk that some noble would notice his unusual riding companion and start speculation on the boy’s identity.

Too, Richard hadn’t found a natural opportunity to explore the child’s past. ‘Twas likely knavish to wrest the tale from an unsuspecting child, but Richard knew he would get no answers from the mother.

“I have told you many a tale of Vikings, Philip,” Richard said. “’Tis now your turn to tell me a tale.”

Philip laughed. “All the tales I know of Vikings are those you have just told me! I know no others.”

“Have you a tale of adventures, then? I know you had an adventure on your mule two days past. Surely, you have had others.”

Philip was silent for several heartbeats, then said, “I caught a frog once.”

“Did you? A big frog?” he asked, having a good idea of the tale’s outcome. He’d caught a frog or two during his childhood, and done his utmost to frighten at least one kitchen wench with the slimy creature before being forced to release it back into the pond.

Philip didn’t disappoint. He exaggerated the size of his prey, told of soaking his shoes and tunic in the pond and, upon successful stalk and capture, carrying the frog home.

“I would wager your mother forbade the beast in the hut.”

“She did,” Philip said on a sigh. “Mother did not think Hetty and Oscar would like a frog hopping about their feet. She told me to take the frog back to the pond.”

“Of course, you obeyed her,” Richard said, his tone conveying that he knew Philip probably hadn’t. He smiled when Philip squirmed. “Never tell me you took it into the hut!”

Philip leaned over and looked back at the men-at-arms and wagons following them.

Richard chided. “Your mother cannot hear you, Philip. She is too far away.”

Philip straightened, but tilted his head back so he could look up at Richard. “I did!” he said, grinning. “For the whole of an afternoon I kept the frog hidden in a bucket.” He giggled. “Then Mother grabbed the bucket to fetch water and the frog jumped out. She screeched like a banshee!”

He couldn’t imagine the cool-headed, reserved Lucinda screeching even if frightened, but kept the thought to himself.

Instead, he suggested, “Mayhap you should have asked your father if you could keep the frog.”

Philip shook his head. “I have no father. He died when I was so little that I do not remember him.”

Richard noted the lack of sorrow in Philip’s statement, just as Richard felt no sorrow when the subject of his mother, who’d died giving him birth, arose.

Lucinda must be a widow of several years, then.

“This Oscar you spoke of, mayhap he would have let you keep the frog.”

“Not Oscar. He never went against Mother’s wishes. Nor did Hetty. I wish…”

True grief had crept into the boy’s tone. Richard gave Philip a gentle squeeze. “What do you wish?”

“I wish they had not been so old, because then they might have survived the sickness in the village. Mother tried every potion she knew of to help them get well, but none worked.”

“Were you sick, or your mother?”

“Nay.” Philip sighed. “Mother thought it best that we leave the village before we got sick, too. She looks for a new home for us, but has not found one that suits her. I hope she finds one she likes very soon. I tire of riding on that mule.”