Shari Anton - By King's Decree

Like now, as Ardith wondered if the meeting in the tent would end with Belinda offering her body to Gerard—and Gerard accepting. Maybe, tonight, Gerard would have company in his tent, on his fur pallet.

The cooking fire had died down to coals, so little light eased through the shuttered windows of the kitchen. Standing within the meager light, Ardith confronted Belinda.

“I will take better care of Kirk, milady,” Belinda said.

Ardith didn’t doubt Belinda would, at least as long as Gerard remained at Lenvil. According to Corwin, Gerard had threatened to strap Belinda to the post the soldiers used for spear practice should any harm come to Kirk.

Gerard’s threat had jolted Belinda. All evening she’d stayed close to Kirk, as if tethered to the babe. Even now Kirk slept against Belinda’s shoulder, wrapped within the folds of his mother’s mantle.

“I believe you will,” Ardith said. “My concern for Kirk goes beyond his safety, however. Belinda, could my father be Kirk’s father?”

“Nay, milady,” Belinda said.

Disappointed, Ardith pressed, “Are you sure? Do you know who Kirk’s father is?”

“Quite sure ‘bout lord Harold, milady. As a man grows old his parts wither. Poor Harold has to work hard to get his manroot stiff.”

“Oh?” Ardith choked.

“Aye, his days of begettin’ wee ones are over. You see milady, for the seed to take root, a man has to plant deep inside a woman. Harold just don’t stay long enough or hard enough for the sowin’ anymore.”

“I see.”

“Now you take a young, strappin’ big man like the baron. Lay enough wenches beneath him and he could sire his own army, he could. Aye, he would furrow deep. Wager he could plant three or four babes before takin’ a rest.”

Blessed Mother! How could Belinda so blithely speak of male private parts and the act that led to conception? Her father’s male private parts…Gerard’s!

Ardith knew how men and women coupled. One had only to walk into the hall at night to see men-at-arms and maids, servants and serfs, bouncing on pallets.

The sight and sounds had so disgusted her sister Edith that she’d fled to a nunnery. Not so her other sisters, who knew they would wed and were resigned to servicing their husbands. Though Bronwyn had never said as much, Ardith suspected her sister enjoyed the experience with Kester.

The one time Ardith had dared broach the subject, while learning midwife skills, Elva had dismissed the act as a needless waste of energy. “‘Tis men who cannot resist the urge to fornicate,” Elva declared. “They measure their worth by the size of their rod. A woman need only lie still and hope he is quick about his business. Be glad you need never endure the demands of a male.”

Ardith had wanted to ask if Elva judged from firsthand knowledge but lacked the courage. She suspected not, because Elva had never married. Nor could Ardith quite believe Elva’s statement. Too many maids smiled brightly on the morn after sharing a man’s pallet. Belinda certainly didn’t show any sign of suffering from male demands.

Had Belinda lain with Gerard? Was that how she knew his size and stamina? No, she hadn’t. Belinda had used a wistful tone as though she would like to, but hadn’t yet shared Gerard’s furs.

Embarrassed, but fascinated, Ardith asked, “How can you judge Baron Gerard’s, or any man’s…without…”

Ardith lost her courage, but Belinda understood.

“By his hands, milady. You take a look at the baron’s fingers. They be long and thick, so his rod be long and thick. Aye, he would be a real handful, mayhap two, that one. Do you want me to describe him for you should he—”

“Nay!” Ardith took a deep breath and regained her composure. “My interest is not personal, you understand. My duties as healer bid me ask. I must know how things work if I am to treat ailments and the like properly.”

“Of course, milady.”

Ardith knew from the smile in Belinda’s voice that she hadn’t fooled the whore.

Gerard pushed aside his empty goblet.

The hall was quiet except for a low crackle from the fire pit and an occasional intruding snore. Corwin had succumbed, lay sprawled across a bench. Harold slept, facedown on his forearms crossed on the table. Men-at-arms and servants had taken to pallets scattered across the floor.

The manor’s door opened and John entered on an icy gust of wind. “The watch is set, my lord,” he said, picking his way among the pallets to reach the table.

Gerard’s eyes narrowed as he waved John to a stool. “Why do you report instead of Lenvil’s captain?”

John removed his helmet to reveal midnight-black hair and a full, though neatly trimmed beard.

“I may have overstepped my authority, my lord,” John said with no apology in his voice, though he glanced at the sleeping Harold. “Since Lenvil has no defensive palisade or earthworks around the manor, I thought the most effective defense was to station extra sentries. I do not mind telling you, my lord, I feel naked in this place.”

“’Tis within your authority to assign guards as you deem necessary.”

“Aye, my lord, Wilmont’s men. But if you walk the perimeter tonight, you will find a few of Lady Bronwyn’s escort among the men of Wilmont and Lenvil. The lady’s men asked for duty. They have been here for a fortnight and grow restless, as duty-conscious soldiers will.”

John lowered his voice to a near whisper. “There is a lack of discipline among Lenvil’s guard I find disturbing. The watch is haphazard. I had to rouse several of Lenvil’s men for the night watch. They grumbled, expecting Wilmont soldiers to assume the duty.”

Gerard frowned. “The guard grows soft.”

“I fear so. They have no regular weapon practice, no sport or heavy work to build muscle or strength. Should an enemy attack, I fear the manor would be overrun before a rider could reach Wilmont for aid. Lenvil is vulnerable.”

Gerard felt his anger pulse, at Harold for allowing his guard to become lax, at himself for not seeing the situation immediately. As baron, final responsibility for Lenvil’s defense rested on Gerard’s shoulders.

That any of his holdings could be vulnerable irked Gerard. That Lenvil was easy prey made him furious.

He’d found ease at Lenvil.

The war in Normandy had been long and harsh, the death of his father a bitter blow. Fury at Basil ate at his innards. Frustration at King Henry’s order to deal with Basil in court grated against Gerard’s warrior nature.

At Lenvil, he’d found a haven.

Near the arch separating the manor’s two rooms, Gerard saw a flash of yellow. Why was Ardith awake and flitting about at this hour? Certainly not to speak with him. Ardith avoided him as though he were diseased.

He told John, “Tomorrow we shall measure the seriousness of the problem. Arrange some sport to test their mettle.”

John’s smile spread. “Perhaps a ball game, my lord?”

Gerard’s smile matched John’s. “You lead one team and I shall lead the other. Agreed?”

“With pleasure.”

“Good. Turn in, John. I will make the last round of the guard and ferret out our laggards.”

“Then I will see you next on the playing field, my lord. Prepare for a thrashing.”

Gerard laughed lightly as John picked up his helmet and strode from the manor to seek his tent and bedroll. Gerard glanced toward the arch. Ardith remained hidden.

He sighed inwardly. This obsession of hers to avoid his company was annoying—and presented a challenge. In many ways, it was to Ardith’s credit he felt content at Lenvil. Yet, it was also her fault he sometimes felt the leper, an outcast.