Shari Anton - Lord Of The Manor

He knew of a suitable home for mother and child. His manor, Collinwood. The people had suffered greatly under the lordship of Basil of Northbryre. Since being awarded the land, Richard had done his best to improve his vassals’ lot. If Lucinda possessed skill at caring for the sick, his vassals would accept her gladly.

He needed to talk to Lucinda about the prospect, but first he must find Stephen and begin his task of gathering information for Gerard. He wouldn’t need to inquire about which heiresses would be granted in marriage. Stephen would already know.

Lucinda’s ankle had healed somewhat, but he suspected the monks at Westminster Abbey would advise her to rest well before resuming her hunt for a home. He could visit her—and Philip, of course—at the abbey on the morrow.

The only problem with this whole plan of taking her home with him lay in his attraction to Lucinda. He had but to look at her to feel a tug on his innards.

However, resisting the temptation of her would be easier if he took a wife. An heiress. A noblewoman to share his bed to assuage his physical needs and bear his children. An heiress who brought with her enough wealth to raise his status and pay for the betterment of his lands.

For those reasons alone, he could resist temptation.

Richard reined Odin to a halt. He lowered Philip to the road with an order to return to his mother.

“’Tis not broken,” the red-faced monk declared.

Lucinda hid her amusement at the monk’s embarrassment. Brother Ambrose had touched her hosecovered ankle as briefly as was possible to confirm the wholeness of her bones.

“You must rest your foot until the swelling is gone,” he prescribed as a cure. “I will have space prepared for you in the ladies’ court.”

“And my son?” Lucinda asked.

The monk glanced over at Philip, who was intrigued by the array of jars neatly arranged on shelves in the abbey’s infirmary.

“He is young enough to stay with you, I would think, if we can arrange for a cell for the two of you. However, sleeping space is dear. The child may have to sleep on a pallet in the dormitory.”

That didn’t surprise her in the least. The streets of Westminster overflowed with people, making passage slow, and therefore dangerous. At Richard’s order, half of his soldiers had surrounded the wagon that carried her and Philip. The escort hadn’t left her until she, Philip and the mule had been safely inside the abbey. A few of the nobles streaming to Westminster would likely take refuge at the abbey until finding other lodgings.

Lucinda struggled to put on her boot.

She’d feared recognition by Richard, but that fear had deepened upon entering Westminster. Now, in close quarters to members of the court and their families, someone was sure to recognize her as Lucinda of Northbryre.

Thus far she hadn’t seen a familiar face. To her knowledge, no one had turned to stare at her, marking her presence. Which shouldn’t surprise her. Few nobles would deign to notice a peasant woman with a small boy in tow. Not even Richard had given them a second glance until that unruly mule took flight with Philip on its back.

Then Richard had taken too much notice. He looked too hard, and too long. She’d taken far too much pleasure in feeling the heat in his gaze. He’d despoiled her belief that she would never again wish to be held, much less touched by a man. After all she’d suffered from Basil, she’d thought herself cured of wanting any man. Richard of Wilmont had proved her wrong with merely a lustful look and a gentle touch.

After the morrow, Richard would not look on her in that way again, for on the morrow he would learn the truth of her identity. On the morrow, she would petition King Henry for a protector for Philip.

By placing Philip within a noble house, under edict from King Henry to safeguard the boy, she could ensure Philip’s safety from not only Basil’s family but his enemies. Most notably Gerard of Wilmont—and his kin.

Her brush with Richard had emphasized the extent of her vulnerability. She possessed neither the physical might nor the power of wealth to protect Philip from anyone who wished him ill. Had some unscrupulous Norman come upon her on the road, she and Philip would have been in deep trouble.

“Brother Ambrose, I am willing to pay for our sleeping space. Would the donation of my mule to the abbey cover lodging and meals for two days?”

The monk rubbed his chin. “I should think the mule more than fair payment. I will ask the abbot.”

After the monk left the infirmary, she patted the bench beside her. “Come sit, Philip.”

Reluctantly, he left his study of the jars.

“Why did you give away Oscar’s mule?” he asked.

“We shall not need the mule any longer. I think Oscar would approve of donating him to the monks.”

“We will stay here, in Westminster?”

She shifted on the bench to better look down into her son’s face. What she would propose affected him most of all, and she wanted to witness his honest opinion.

“You would like to own a destrier.”

With a sharp nod of his head, he said, “Like Odin.”

“What would you say if I told you I might arrange that? Not anytime soon, you understand, but when you are old enough to control such a beast.”

His gray eyes went wide. “Truly? How?”

“By making you a ward of a nobleman.”

Philip expression didn’t change, not understanding. She’d never explained the ways of nobles to him. ’Twas her own fault that her son now had much to learn in a short time.

“The noble would be your protector. He would see to your training in the ways of the court and the skills of a knight. I thought to petition the king for a protector for you.”

He thought that over for a moment, then said, “Then we would have a home. We would live in the lord’s castle, and I could have a horse!”

No, not we—you.

Lucinda realized how little thought she’d given to where she would go if the king granted her petition. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She must see to Philip first without worrying about what would become of her.

Philip jumped up, his eyes shining with excitement. “Mayhap we could ask Lord Richard to be my protector!”

Naturally, Philip would think first of Richard of Wilmont, the only lord he knew, one who’d been kind to him.

“Nay, Philip. Not Richard.”

Philip mustered his courage to argue, “But why not? Is not Richard a noble lord?”

She took her confused son’s hands in hers. “He is, indeed, a noble lord, and was kind to us when we needed his aid,” she said, giving Richard his due. “He is not, however, a suitable protector for you.”

Philip pulled his hands away. He pouted. “I like him and I think he likes me. I do not see the harm in asking.”

How to explain? She took a deep breath, hoping her words would be the right ones.

“Long ago, before you were born, your father made an enemy of Everart of Wilmont, Richard’s father. Both Everart and your father are dead now, but I doubt Richard will ever forget the hatred that existed between the two families, or forgive your father for his treachery. Once Richard knows who your father was, I fear he will not like you anymore.”

“My father fought with Lord Richard?”

Basil had damn near caused Richard’s death. She nodded.

Philip was silent for a moment, then asked, “If I promised not to fight with Richard, would he like me then?”

So simple. So childlike. So impossible a solution.

“You must understand, Philip, your father was not a nice man. He inflicted great suffering on the family of Wilmont, and as fine a man as Richard is, we cannot expect him to ignore that you are his enemy’s son.”