Shari Anton - By King's Decree

Leaping two steps at a time, Gerard climbed the outside stairs leading to the keep’s second floor. He pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the great hall.

He merely glanced at the familiar tapestries hanging beside ancient weapons, hardly noticed the decorative marble carvings hewn into walls of expensive stone. Nor did he acknowledge the peasant women who scurried to prepare the feast he’d ordered to be served after the burial Mass.

The heavy door banged shut. Gerard glanced over his shoulder at Thomas, a young but trusted servant, one of the few people who knew of the ruse necessary to hide and protect Richard. Gerard shrugged out of his beaver cloak and tossed it toward Thomas.

“I will be with the monk. Bring ale,” Gerard ordered, then bounded up the stairway leading to the family quarters.

At the end of the passageway he rapped twice on a door, paused, then rapped twice again. As expected, Corwin opened the door. Smiling ruefully, Corwin executed an exaggerated bow, saying, “At last, reinforcements. Do come in, my lord.”

“Is Richard not behaving?” Gerard asked.

Corwin closed the door and slid the bolt. “As well as one could expect on the day of his own burial, I suppose.”

“In a sullen mood, is he?”

“Peevish, my lord.”

“Richard feels more himself, then.”

“Aye,” Corwin answered on a sigh.

From the bed, Richard grumbled, “You speak as though I am not in the room. Why not ask me how I feel?”

Gerard locked his arms behind his back and sauntered to the bedside. He looked into Richard’s scowling face, a face so near a reflection of his own. The resemblance was striking, though they’d been born of different mothers—one a noble bride, one a peasant lover. Though Gerard claimed the advantage of height, when mounted and armored in chain mail and helm, he and Richard were nigh impossible to tell apart.

Because of the resemblance, Richard had almost died—the victim of an ambush meant to either kill or take as prisoner Gerard, the new baron of Wilmont. Basil of Northbryre and his mercenaries would soon pay dearly for their audacity.

“In this, Richard, your word is not reliable,” Gerard finally responded. “You would have me believe you are ready for the practice yard.”

“Mayhap not the practice yard, but able to get out of bed. Did you know that Corwin would not let me out of the chamber to use the garderobe, made me use a piss pot?”

“At my order.”

“Did I not survive crossing the Channel?”

Confined to a pallet below decks, Richard had barely survived the boat trip home from Normandy, even though under the care of one of King Henry’s physicians.

“You slept the whole time,” Gerard countered.

“And I survived the wagon ride from Dover to Wilmont.”

“By a gnat’s breath.”

“Surely I can survive a walk beyond this chamber.”

Gerard crossed his arms and stated firmly, “Basil is sure to have a spy or two sniffing about. After all I’ve done to convince half the kingdom you are dead, you will not expose the ruse by roaming the keep!”

Corwin answered a signal tap on the door. Thomas entered with the ale. The beverage poured and served, Gerard dismissed Corwin and Thomas, bolting the door behind them.

Gerard lowered his relaxing body onto a chair. He stretched his legs toward the heat from the brazier, swirling the ale in his goblet.

“My burial went well?” Richard asked sarcastically.

“Father Dominic gave an impassioned plea for God’s mercy on your soul. Stephen praised your bravery and loyalty to Wilmont. Half the wenches in the castle are overcome with grief. I would say you are well mourned.”

A small smile graced Richard’s face. “The wenches may cry for me, but they would wail for you.”

Gerard raised an eyebrow. “Can they tell us apart in the dark, do you think?”

“One wonders. Since I am confined to bed anyway, mayhap I will call for one or two and find out”

Gerard wagged a warning finger. “You are in hiding and supposed to be an ailing monk. Call for a wench and I will confine you to this chamber for the entire winter!”

Richard squirmed at the notion, then said, “You cannot. You will need me at court. When do we leave?”

“You remain here until I send for you. Probably just before Christmas. Corwin and I leave in two days. He wishes to visit Lenvil before going on to Westminster.”

Richard moaned. “You would leave me here with Stephen as my nursemaid. Have pity, Gerard. I will never be allowed out of this bed.”

“Stephen will let you up when Father Dominic says you are healed, not before then.”

Richard raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Father Dominic? You told him?”

“I thought telling the priest prudent, just in case.”

“I will not need the final sacrament,” Richard insisted. “Who all knows I still live?”

“Stephen, Thomas, Corwin, King Henry and his physicians.” Gerard sighed. “I also found it necessary to inform Lady Ursula. I had hoped to avoid involving my mother, but she would plague Stephen with questions about the strange monk in a family bedchamber.”

“I imagine my lying in this chamber instead of in that coffin, underground, vexes Lady Ursula to no end.”

“No doubt, but she will not interfere with your care. Stephen will see to that.”

“Your mother will prick him at every turn for his loyalty, try to turn him against you.”

“He will hold fast. Sparring with Ursula will make a man of him, may even earn Stephen his knighthood.” The brothers chuckled, then Gerard sobered. “You have certainly earned your knighthood, Richard. We will see to the formalities at court.”

Gerard rose from his chair and headed for the door.

“Do you trust King Henry’s promise?” Richard asked.

Gerard’s hand gripped the bolt. “When Henry refused my demand for armed reprisal against. Basil, he promised royal justice. I had no choice, at the time, but to obey.”

“And if we do not get justice?”

Gerard flashed a feral smile. “Then heal well, Richard. I will need your sword arm when I seek revenge.”

Richard returned the smile. “The mercenary captain, Edward Siefeld, is mine.”

“As Basil of Northbryre is mine.”

Sprawled across the bed on his stomach, an arm dangling over the edge, Gerard slowly opened one eye. The light hurt, piercing into a head too heavy to lift from the bolster.

“My lord,” Thomas said softly, though urgently.

“By your life, lad, you best have good reason for waking me so early.”

“I let you sleep as long as I dared, my lord. The household awaits you in the chapel. Father Dominic cannot begin Mass until you arrive.”

Reluctantly, Gerard rolled over. Pieces of last night’s drinking bout floated through his groggy memory. He’d tried to relieve his frustration with ale. A futile attempt.

He tossed back the furs and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. His head swam. Gerard drew deep breaths and compelled his body to function. Muscles rippled to his command as he stood, his warrior’s body unaffected by the muddle in his head.

With a slight nod he approved the garments Thomas placed on the bed. Gerard donned the white soft-woolen sherte and the dalmatica of scarlet silk shot through with gold thread. He wrapped a girdle of gold around his waist. He would gladly have shunned the elegant clothing for less pretentious garb. But today, he must appear and act the baron.

He wasn’t surprised that Lady Ursula stood at the front of the chapel, awaiting his arrival with tight-lipped censure. Within moments of the Mass’s start, Gerard stifled a yawn. His mother glared. Stephen and Corwin exchanged knowing smiles. Father Dominic understood the suggestion and sped through the service.