Shari Anton - By King's Decree

Corwin put Ardith down. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Corwin, you inconsiderate beast, I could hit you,” she said, and did, lightly on the shoulder.

“What have I done now?”

“What you have not done is answer my letters! Did you not teach me to read and write so we could exchange messages?”

Corwin smiled. “As I recall, I taught you the skill because someone pleaded with me to do so, not trusting old Father Hugh’s eyesight.”

“True, but did you not tell me to practice my writing by sending you messages, which you promised to answer? Fie on you, Corwin. How could you let me worry so?” Ardith backed away and looked him up and down. “You seem in one piece.”

“Hale and hardy,” Corwin affirmed. With a mocking bow, he added, “And most repentant. You must understand, however, that I had little time to take quill in hand. And believe me, Ardith, you would not wish to read of the war.”

Gerard’s envy increased as Ardith brushed a comforting hand along Corwin’s arm.

“Was it horrible?” she asked.

“Aye. But I am home now, and in need of food and drink. Can you provide a keg of ale to help us celebrate?”

Ardith hesitated before answering, clearly dissatisfied with Corwin’s short answer and change of subject. Then she nodded and smiled. “I believe I can. Tell me, how long can you stay?”

Corwin looked to Gerard.

Gerard answered, “For only a few days.”

Ardith froze, though her cheeks grew hot. With her complete attention on greeting Corwin, she hadn’t noticed the other people in the hall. Corwin hadn’t made the trip from Wilmont alone. A goodly number of Wilmont soldiers mingled with Lenvil’s men-at-arms and Bronwyn’s escort.

And the niggling feeling grew that she knew that voice. Ardith prayed, a futile prayer, that the disembodied voice belonged to an unknown knight. She prayed that, just this once, the fates would be kind. But only one other man of her acquaintance could sound so much like Baron Everart. Gerard. Gathering her poise, she turned.

Her heart leaped as she beheld Gerard. Gerard—no longer the young man who’d carried her from hall to pallet and spoken comforting words to a distraught maiden, but a man full grown. The man whom, but for a cruel twist of fate, she might have married.

The young lion, Elva had christened the heir to Wilmont. The image had suited Gerard perfectly as a young man, but the cub had matured.

His eyes hadn’t changed, but for the scant deepening of the lines in the corners. Green eyes, set wide of a noble nose, were still as bright as spring leaves. Over his eyes fanned thick lashes and heavy brows, matching his flaxen, shoulder-length hair.

The wavy lengths were damp and slightly matted against his head from the pressure of a recently worn helm. Her fingers itched to slide through the locks, to fluff his hair into a mane worthy to frame his high, proud forehead and square, tenacious jaw.

Over a simple black tunic he wore a hauberk of chain mail. His massive shoulders easily bore the weight of the armor as well as the baldric from which hung a scabbard and ponderous broadsword, tilted within easy reach of his right hand.

Gerard stood with regal ease. His very stance conveyed an aplomb that only a man sure of his position and power could attain.

He must have found her scrutiny amusing for he cocked his head and the corners of his mouth rose in a small smile.

“Greetings, Ardith. Had I known of your concern for Corwin, I would have ordered him to write, I assure you.”

His words snapped Ardith from her trance. Blessed Mother! She was staring at Gerard as if he were a curiosity from a distant land. Controlling the tremble of her hands and knees, she dipped into a low curtsy. She closed her eyes as she lowered her head, striving for composure.

She mustn’t allow Gerard to see the turmoil of her thoughts or the ache in her heart. He must never know how his kind words and thoughtful gesture had captured the fancy of a young maiden. He must never know how she cherished the memory in night dreams and unguarded lonely moments.

“Baron Gerard,” she honored him, just above a whisper.

Gerard uncrossed his arms. The last time Ardith had curtsied to him, she’d tumbled forward, and for some perverse reason he was wishing she would do so again, just so he could catch her.

This time, however, Ardith had her body under control.

And her thoughts, he realized, as Ardith looked up and met his gaze squarely. Gone was the apprehension, the brief glint of anxiety he’d seen in her azure eyes.

He held out his hand. Ardith hesitated, then placed her fingers across his palm and rose as bidden. Her hand wasn’t fragile, like Bronwyn’s, but sturdy. No callus marred the pads nor redness blemished the palm, but neither was her grasp flaccid from idleness.

Gerard yielded to an impulse. He raised her fingers to his mouth, brushing his lips across blunt-cut nails. She didn’t jerk away. Instead, she squeezed his hand.

He must have misread the anxiety he’d seen in her eyes. She assuredly didn’t fear him, or shy from his touch, for which he felt inordinately grateful.

“Still the scamp, I see,” he teased, nudging her memory of their first meeting.

She blinked in surprise, then blushed, a wonderful rose shade that complemented her unveiled auburn hair. “I am truly sorry, my lord, for not greeting you first as is proper. And you must think me a hamdan for chastising Corwin in the presence of others.”

“Shall we say you are spirited? Besides, I believe Corwin may deserve the rebuke.”

She cast a guilty glance toward Corwin. “Actually, my lord, I always knew how Corwin fared. Baron Everart, God rest his soul, thought it important to keep my father aware of Corwin’s whereabouts and health. Your steward, Walter, continued the practice.”

Gerard nodded in approval. He must remember to commend Walter. Then her expression changed, and Gerard stood transfixed as she continued.

“I know my father will speak formally for Lenvil, but until he does, I offer our condolences on the death of your father…and Richard. From what Corwin has told me, you were fond of them both.”

Ardith’s genuine compassion tugged at his heart. He’d almost mistaken her words of sympathy for mere platitudes, but then the mistake would have been natural. Rarely did any of his acquaintances or peers show true emotion.

“My thanks,” he said quietly. Stating how deeply her words touched him proved impossible. Nor would he do so before so many people.

“Ardith,” Bronwyn prompted, “you did promise the men a keg of ale.”

Ardith looked at Bronwyn, confused for a moment, then she blushed and pulled her hand from his grasp.’“Of course. Bronwyn, would you see Baron Gerard seated? Corwin, come with me to carry the keg. By your leave, my lord?”

Walking across the short span of yard to the storage room attached to the kitchen, Ardith scolded Corwin. “You could have warned me the baron watched.”

“Truth to tell, I forgot Gerard was standing there.”

Ardith wondered how anyone could forget that a baron of Gerard’s stature stood within the same room.

“You could have written from Normandy, let us know you were well,” she stated as they entered the storage room.

“Come now, Ardith. If I had taken a fatal injury, you would have known.”

Alone amid only sacks of grain and barrels of salted meat, Ardith felt safe to speak of the bond she shared with her twin. They had been warned by Elva, as children, to never speak of it lest someone declare them witches. “Do you truly believe so? Normandy is very far away.”

Corwin put a hand on her shoulder. “What do you think?”

He sounded so sure and Ardith wanted to believe. “You may be right,” she said, then turned to the task at hand. “Now, I believe the brewer’s finest is in that corner. Are you strong enough to heft the keg?”