Shari Anton - By King's Decree

Ardith unbalanced his mind.

After his lecture to Belinda on the care of her son, Gerard had returned to the manor to see Ardith by the fire, her drying hair flowing about her shoulders. As she shook her head and combed her hair, the fire’s light had danced off reddish strands, highlighting her auburn tresses.

She’d changed her gown. The saffron wool hugged her body like a sheath from shoulders to hips where the skirt flared to swirl about her ankles. His loins had stirred when she arched backward toward the fire, closing her eyes, reaching to run her fingers through her hair.

The sensuous pose had ignited his desire. His manroot urged him to close the distance, to press his growing need against the woman’s place so enticingly presented. The thought of lifting her skirts and driving himself deep within her had made him shudder.

Then Ardith had opened her eyes and noticed him standing inside the doorway. She’d declared her hair dry and scurried off to the other chamber. She’d returned a short while later, her hair plaited and veiled, but she stayed as far away from him as was possible and still complete her duties.

And still she shunned him, hiding on the other side of the arch, unwilling to enter the hall while he was present His patience snapped.

“Ardith, come out,” he said brusquely.

Slowly, Ardith appeared from behind the timber. Though she still wore the saffron gown, she’d dispensed with the veil. Her plait fell forward across her chest, snuggled into the valley between her breasts.

“Well, what brings you from your pallet, my lady?” he asked when she didn’t move or speak.

“I came to fetch my father. He should sleep in his bed.”

Ah yes, the dutiful daughter, concerned for Harold’s needs. Harold—who spoke to Ardith only to complain, who noted her existence only when something disturbed his comfort. Such loyalty was commendable, but at the moment her devotion rubbed a raw spot on his temper.

“’Tis his own foolishness leaves him sprawled drunk across the table. Leave him sleep where he lies.”

Ardith’s chin came up. “’Tis you who bear blame for his drunkenness, my lord. He could not leave until you called a halt to the revelry and retired to your tent.”

A valid accusation, one he ignored.

She’d called him “my lord” with a touch of censure in her voice. What would his given name sound like coming from her lips, in her sweet voice that chimed melodious when she smiled, or better, in a breathless whisper hovering on the fulfillment of passion?

He looked down at Harold. The old man was too far gone with drink to wake easily. If Ardith insisted that her father sleep in his bed, then Harold need be carried.

Gerard stood, too quickly. Lenvil’s brewer made strong ale. He waited for the slight dizziness to fade, then commanded, “Take his feet.”

As Ardith chose her path among the pallets, Gerard hooked his arms under Harold’s, gripping him firmly about the chest. Ardith tugged at Harold’s legs, dragging them from beneath the table. Then she turned around and bent over, hooking her hands under Harold’s knees, presenting a prettily rounded bottom for Gerard to admire as she wiggled to secure her grip.

With a slight grunt, she straightened. “Ready, my lord?”

“Aye, my lady. Lead on.”

None too steadily they moved, Ardith laboring with the weight, Gerard battling the effects of drink mixed with lust.

Gerard was sweating by the time they dumped Harold onto the bed. He plopped down to sit on the bed, elbows on knees, chin on an upraised fist. The chamber hadn’t changed much over the years. Harold’s bed dominated the room. Coals in a small brazier reduced the chill. Three pallets dotted the floor. Bronwyn slept on one, the other two remained empty; one meant for Corwin, the other Ardith’s.

Ardith removed Harold’s boots and stood them near the brazier. Gerard felt a tug on the blanket beneath his rump. He didn’t move.

She came around to face him. “My lord, if you would stand a moment…” she said.

He reached out to capture her hand. She didn’t pull away. “Do you dislike me, Ardith? Am I so loathsome you must keep your distance?”

“Nay, my lord. I meant no offense. But I have duties to perform and…you came to visit with my father, and Bronwyn is the one skilled in courtly ways and conversation and—”

“You lie badly, Ardith.”

She bit her bottom lip and looked away. Gerard frowned and stood, slowly and carefully this time. He needed to get outside, into the cold air to banish the effect of the ale.

Still holding her hand, he felt the slight tremor that shook her. With his other hand he reached out and tilted her chin, forcing her gaze back to his face.

“Say my name, Ardith.”

She hesitated, then said musically, “Gerard.”

His fingertips moved from chin to cheek.

Harold stirred. “Ardith, a cup of water.”

Ardith retreated a step.

Gerard knew he was on the brink of acting the tyrant, of ordering Harold to get his own damned water, then hauling Ardith off to the privacy of his tent.

“’Till the morrow, Ardith,” he said, and left the chamber.

“Have they lost their wits?” Ardith exclaimed.

“Nay, Ardith, ‘tis but a game,” Bronwyn said, patting the frosted grass beside her on the hillside. “Come sit and watch. We should be safe at this distance.”

Ardith wasn’t so sure, though Bronwyn had chosen a viewing site at least an arrow-shot away from the men on the field.

“When Corwin said sport I thought he meant footraces, or wrestling. I never imagined—” Ardith indicated the field and tangle of men with a sweep of her hand “—this madness.”

“Have you never seen a ball game?” Bronwyn asked.

Ardith shook her head, then watched in horror as a man tossed a leather sphere to, she assumed, a teammate. Ball in hand, the man went down under a barrage of opponents. “They will kill each other.”

“Oh, you may have a bit of bleeding to stop and a few bones to straighten, but I doubt the blows will kill.”

“When does the sport end?”

“When the team with the ball crosses the goal, in this case the end of the field. Whichever team accomplishes the feat, wins. Baron Gerard’s team is getting close.”

Though the day was cold, some men played barechested, among them Corwin and Gerard. From what she could see, so far they had escaped injury. Others weren’t so fortunate. Blood ran from men’s noses and from deep scratches down their arms and across their chests. She tried to assess injuries, but her gaze kept drifting back to Gerard.

When not buried under a pile of men, Gerard was easy to pick out. He stood a head taller than the others, his golden hair a beacon on the gray day.

Bits of mud clung to the hair on his muscled, sculptured chest. His thighs bulged against his breeches, threatening to rip open the seams as he struggled. Black leather boots hugged his calves.

Where other men lumbered, Gerard moved with grace. Like a large cat, she thought. The young lion.

He reached down with splayed fingers and dug the ball out of the writhing mass at his feet. With a roar heard above the shouts and grunts of the other players, Gerard turned and tried to run. He bounded over one fallen man, but another caught his ankle, stopping his flight long enough for an opponent to leap on his back. Gerard dislodged the man with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

Gerard continued to shake off opponents. Caught up in the excitement of watching the display of raw strength, Ardith wanted to scream his name to cheer him onward. Then the tide turned.

Gerard’s challengers kept rising and attacking until he finally succumbed. It took four men, hanging on him like leeches, to bring him down.