Shari Anton - By King's Decree

Ardith’s stomach tightened as she watched for him to reappear. A clamor rose from the crowd. Whether the cheer was for Gerard’s prowess, or because he’d managed to toss the ball to Corwin, Ardith wasn’t sure.

She scanned the field. When she finally saw Gerard getting to his feet, she exhaled shakily and stood. “’Tis barbaric,” she complained to Bronwyn. “I will return to the manor and ready water and bandages.”

Bronwyn’s gaze never left the field as she delicately lifted a shoulder. “As you wish.”

Ardith tossed her hands in the air and turned toward the manor. Along the way she snared three serving girls, who protested having to leave the display of sweat-glistened male flesh.

“You will see their attributes up close shortly,” she told them. “If this idiocy continues, they will drop from wounds and exhaustion and need tending. I fear we may not get water heated before they drag the first of the fallen back to the manor.”

Ardith’s prediction proved true. As she cleaned scrapes and poulticed bruises, she noticed that Lenvil’s men-at-arms had taken the worst beating. Nearly all had returned battered and bruised. From the men’s talk, she knew the teams had been evenly divided, with men of all three loyalties on each side. Lenvil’s soldiers had succumbed early and hard, leaving the men of Wilmont and Bronwyn’s escort to play out the game.

As she glanced about the hall for another man to bandage, she saw Thomas standing in the doorway. He made a slight, beckoning hand motion. Thomas was dirty and a bit scratched, but otherwise seemed sound.

“My lady,” he said quietly as she reached him, “when you have a spare moment, would you attend Baron Gerard?”

Ardith’s apprehension blossomed. She pictured Gerard lying broken, bleeding profusely, dying on the playing field. “Where is he? How badly is he hurt?”

“In his tent, nursing a lump on his head.”

“Why did he not come into the manor?”

Thomas looked sincerely shocked. “Oh, no, my lady, he could not. He would never show any weakness before the men.”

Ardith looked around the hall. “Has the game ended?”

“Baron Gerard was the last man off the field.”

She thought to ask who won, then decided she didn’t care. She fetched a bowl and some rags, then gave the bowl to Thomas.

“The pond has frozen over. Go fetch ice and bring it to the baron’s tent”

Ardith pushed open the tent flap. Gerard sat on a stool near a small table, his booted feet spread for balance. With elbows on knees, he held his face in his hands.

“Did you get a cold rag?” he muttered.

“I sent Thomas for ice.”

Gerard slowly raised his head. “What do you here?”

“Thomas said you need tending.”

“I do not need tending. I need but a cold rag.”

“Apparently Thomas thought someone should look at your head. Since I am here, may I?”

He hesitated, then nodded. The motion made him sway. Her bottom lip between her teeth, Ardith crossed the exotic rug spread as a floor for the tent. Her fingers trembled as she pushed aside his sweat-wetted hair. The lump was as large as a goose’s egg and colored a nasty shade of blue.

Incredulous, she gasped, “You walked off the field?”

“Of course.”

Ardith shook her head. “Men and their cursed pride. I thought my father the most stubborn man in England. Next you will try to persuade me you have no headache.”

“Ardith, ‘tis but a little bump on the head. I have survived much worse.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She chose not to ask how he’d come by the scar below his right ear, or what weapon had carved the jagged line across his left ribs.

Thomas burst into the tent and put the bowl of ice on the table. “Will you need aught else, my lady?”

“Nay,” Ardith said, wrapping a chunk of ice in a rag. “Go into the manor and have those scratches cleansed.”

The young man had almost made his exit when Gerard growled, “Thomas.”

With a resigned sigh, Thomas turned. “My lord?”

Silence loomed as Gerard glared at the boy, silently expressing his displeasure. Then he said quietly, “Find John and Corwin and send them to me.”

Thomas nodded and fled.

Ardith set the ice packet on the table and looked around for a heavy object with which to break the ice. Her gaze traveled quickly over Gerard’s fur-piled pallet to a large oak trunk banded with black iron. Draped over the lid lay Gerard’s chain mail, upon which rested a conical helmet of leather and iron with a gleaming nose guard.

His sword stood sheathed in the corner, the hilt jewelencrusted and polished to brilliance. Ardith doubted she could lift the sword, much less use it to crush the ice.

Ardith picked up the packet and whacked it against the table. The ice cracked but didn’t break.

“Ardith, put it down,” Gerard wearily ordered.

She obeyed, then flinched when his fist hammered the packet, pummeling the ice into shards. He picked up the packet and put it to his head.

“You should lie down,” Ardith said.

“Not yet,” he replied, closing his eyes. “Mayhap after I speak with John and Corwin.”

“You should don a sherte.”

“Does my nakedness offend you?”

Ardith felt a blush rise. “Nay, my lord. I merely thought that given the cold air and the ice a sherte might provide some measure of comfort.”

“In the trunk.”

The helmet moved easily, but she struggled under the weight of the chain mail. From inside the trunk she drew an ivory linen sherte.

She held it out to him. “Brush the mud off first.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Any other orders, scamp?”

Ardith couldn’t resist. “Not as yet, my lord. Give me but a moment and I could surely think of another one or two.”

He sighed, put the packet on the table and brushed the mud from the profusion of hair on his chest. Was the hair as silky as it looked, as fine textured as that on his head?

As he pulled the sherte on, John entered, followed by Corwin.

“Well?” Gerard asked of John.

“’Tis as we feared, my lord,” John replied. He gave a sidelong glance at Corwin before continuing. “To almost a man, the Lenvil guards lack agility and stamina. Had they fought a battle, I fear most would have fallen within moments of attack. Of course, I have not seen them wield weapons.”

Though John tried to soften the report, Ardith realized instantly the reason for this morning’s game—a test of Lenvil’s guard, and they’d failed.

“Last night, I found two Lenvil soldiers asleep at their posts,” Gerard said. “Another did not hear me until I was close enough to slit his throat. Only one challenged my presence in time to raise an alarm.”

“I will have their heads,” Corwin said angrily.

Gerard smiled wryly. “They will need their heads, indeed all their wits, for what we are about to do to them. John, inform the men of arms practice tomorrow for both Wilmont and Lenvil. Bronwyn’s men may join us if they wish.

“Corwin, inspect Lenvil’s weapons. If needed, you may borrow arms from Wilmont stores. No man finds excuse to beg off due to lack of a weapon. And Corwin, ‘tis my place to speak of Lenvil’s weakness with Harold.”

“Aye, my lord,” Corwin said, but he wasn’t pleased.

“Now, tell me about Lenvil’s captain.”

“Sedrick has captained the guard since before I was born. He is almost Father’s age. ‘Tis odd, I remember him as an unyielding taskmaster, whether in discipline or skills. You think to tell Father to replace him?”

“Nay!” Ardith protested. Three pairs of stunned eyes swiveled to stare. She knew she meddled in matters outside her realm of authority, but to take the captaincy from Sedrick was unthinkable. Still, she’d bandaged far too many bruises and cuts. Maybe, just maybe, they were right.