Shari Anton - By King's Decree

After breaking fast on porridge and bread, Gerard ordered Lady Ursula and Walter, Wilmont’s steward, to attend him in his chambers.

“As you can see, Baron Gerard, Wilmont fares well,” Walter said, waving a hand at the scroll on the table in Gerard’s bedchamber.

Gerard inspected the records of fees and goods due to Wilmont. Not for the first time, he was grateful for his father’s unusual decision to educate his sons. Never would Gerard be at the mercy of clergy or steward to read messages or records, unlike most of his Norman peers.

He pointed to an empty space in the accounting and asked Walter, “What of these rents?”

“The coinage from Milhurst is overdue. Unfortunately, your father succumbed to the fever before he could visit Milhurst to collect”

Gerard’s temper flashed. Basil of Northbryre, Gerard would wager, had somehow interfered with the delivery of Milhurst’s rents—an easy task since Milhurst bordered Northbryre. He added the suspected crime to the list of grievances he would present to King Henry against Basil.

“Are other monies or goods overdue?”

Walter’s bony finger pointed to another blank space on the parchment. “Aye, my lord, from this manor near Romsey, also in Hampshire. We are owed six sheep on the hoof every winter as tribute. The steward might yet bring them, though he is very late this year.”

“Will you go to Hampshire to collect the tributes?” Lady Ursula interrupted.

The hope in her voice turned Gerard’s head. Though almost forty, his mother had aged well. She studied him with eyes of silver gray, unfaded by time. Hair as black as a raven’s wing framed her smooth face, pallid from countless hours spent praying in a dark chapel. Had Ursula prayed or mourned for Everart, only two months in his grave? Gerard doubted she’d shed a single tear over his father’s death.

Gerard knew why she wanted him gone. She had suffered the commands of her husband; she would loathe taking orders from her son. Gerard couldn’t summon sympathy.

“All in good time,” he answered, then turned to Walter. “Have Frederick make ready to journey to Hampshire on the morrow. I have no interest in the sheep from Romsey, but I must know if Basil has moved against Milhurst. Tell Frederick I will give him instructions before he leaves.”

Walter bowed his balding head. “As my lord wishes,” he said and left the chamber.

Gerard leaned back in his chair and said to his mother, “You will no doubt be pleased to hear I leave on the morrow, not for Hampshire but for Lenvil, then Westminster.”

Hands clasped tightly in her lap, she said, “Very well.”

He almost laughed at the scheme so easily read on her face, but suppressed the impulse. Gerard leaned forward and rested his crossed arms on the table. He caught his mother’s gaze and held it transfixed.

“Richard will remain at Wilmont. Stephen will oversee our brother’s care with the help of Father Dominic. You will allow Richard to stay in the bedchamber in the family quarters until I send for him.”

With each word, Lady Ursula’s spine stiffened. Gerard braced for the inevitable tirade.

“You would shame me with his presence in the family quarters? Even your father did not insult me so, made the bastard sleep below stairs! Is it not enough I must tolerate him in my household without his being under my very nose?”

“I have done you the courtesy of explaining the need to hide Richard. After Corwin and I leave, only Stephen and Father Dominic, besides you, will know who rests in that chamber. Be aware, madam, that I will be very unhappy if the information spreads further.”

Gerard reached across the table and grasped the jeweled silver cross that hung from his mother’s neck. “Swear, by the cross you hold so dear, you will not interfere with Richard’s care. Swear you will keep secret his whereabouts.”

Livid, his mother snatched the cross from his hand. “What blasphemy is this? You ask me to swear? You who were late for Mass and nearly slept through it? You would ask me to profane the Lord’s teaching by allowing a by-blow, the proof of your father’s sinful lust, to remain succored within these walls?”

Gerard barely held his temper. Ursula would never concede that Everart’s decision to raise Richard as his own had gained Gerard a loyal brother instead of a bitter enemy. Gerard took pride in the loyalty of both Richard and Stephen, an odd but welcome relationship in a land where sons plotted against fathers, and brother fought brother over inheritance.

Like most noble marriages, the arranged union of Ursula and Everart had allied two noble families. No love, or even affection had developed between the pair. Ursula had endured her marriage, and for the most part tolerated her sons. But the middle child, born of Everart’s peasant lover, Ursula hated passionately.

“Wilmont is Richard’s home, by my father’s wish and now mine. Your position is less secure.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

Gerard’s glance flickered to the cross, to the jewels on her fingers, to her fine silken gown. “You are now a widow. Perhaps your God calls you to the religious life. Would that suit you, Mother? Life in an abbey?”

Ursula’s mouth opened, then closed.

“Or perhaps you would prefer to marry again. I have no doubt that there is some male in this kingdom willing to have you to secure an alliance with Wilmont.”

She paled. “You would not dare…”

“I would dare. Are you ready to swear your silence?”

She curled her fingers around the cross. Her voice shook as she said, “I swear.” Then she dropped the cross as though it burned.

“So be it.”

“Beware, Gerard,” she warned as she rose from her chair. “You inherit not only your father’s title and holdings, but his immorality as well. One day you, too, will face the Lord’s judgment. May he have pity on your soul.”

As the door slammed behind his mother, Gerard wondered why she still had the power to affect him. He should be immune to her curses, having heard throughout his life of how he would burn for eternity for one reason or another.

Then he brightened. With estate business resolved, he now had time to do what he’d ached to do since returning from Normandy—spend time with his son.

Gerard found Daymon in the hall, stacking pieces of wood as a nursemaid looked on. Gerard approached slowly, waiting for Daymon to sense his presence and make the first approach. Too often Gerard had returned from a long absence to sweep Daymon up, only to learn from his son’s screams that young children possessed short memories.

When his son didn’t look up, Gerard quietly asked the nursemaid, “How fares my boy?”

“Well, my lord, except he misses Baron Everart terribly. Daymon is too young to understand death. He only knows his favorite playmate no longer comes.”

Gerard smiled sadly, feeling the same pang of loss.

“He seems healthy enough,” he commented, noting chubby cheeks, bright eyes and a sure grip of fingers around wood.

Then Daymon turned to stare upward. Gerard saw the boy’s mother in his face. If she’d lived through childbirth, he’d have given her a hut in the village, might even have found her a husband. Gerard hadn’t loved the peasant girl, only found her winsome and responsive.

But he loved his son.

Gerard scrunched nearly to kneeling as Daymon continued to stare, yearning to reach out to the boy, but he waited. Then a smile touched Daymon’s mouth. Recognition lighted green eyes and little arms reached upward.

Scooping the boy from the floor, Gerard gave Daymon a hug. The boy clung, squeezing tight with both arms and legs. Daymon’s obvious need stung Gerard’s heart. The boy hadn’t known his mother, had recently lost his grandfather, and now his father was about to leave again. Daymon had no one else, besides nursemaids, to whom he could turn for affection.