Shari Anton - By King's Decree

If Corwin refused comfort on events past, maybe she could ease his mind about the present and future.

“The past is past and cannot be undone no matter who claims fault. What matters is this day and the morrows to come. I am content, Corwin. I have a roof above my head and meat on my trencher. Someday Father will no longer be lord of Lenvil, you will. Then you will decide my place in the manor, judge if I still warrant sheltering.”

Corwin looked horrified. “Ardith, I would never turn you out. You will always have a place at Lenvil.”

Ardith smiled. “Then I have no regrets,” she lied. There was but one regret, and his name was Gerard.

“I wish…” Corwin began, but didn’t finish.

Ardith could hear the hunting party returning, ending her attempt to battle Corwin’s demons. “Corwin, would you do me the favor of keeping Gerard out of the manor for a while?”

Distracted, Corwin’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“I have a hot compress prepared to ease the pain in Father’s leg. If he does not use it, he will growl at everyone for the remainder of the day, and he will not use it if Gerard is anywhere in sight.”

“How do you know his leg pains him?”

“It always does after he rides.”

Corwin nodded as they pushed away from the table. Ardith turned toward the door. At the edge of her vision she caught movement. Little Kirk, just learning to walk, reached out a tiny hand toward the rocks encircling the central fire pit. Skirt and braid flying, Ardith sped toward the babe and reached him just as he put his hand on the hot stone.

The boy howled. Ardith bent and scooped him into her arms, oblivious to all but the anger pounding in her head. She quickly checked the boy’s hand, found the fingertips lightly burned, and looked around for Belinda, Kirk’s mother, who was nowhere in sight.

“Belinda!” she shouted.

“Cease your caterwauling, girl,” Harold ordered as he entered, Gerard at his heels. “What vexes you this time?”

“Kirk burned his hand because Belinda left him on his own again,” Ardith complained. “I swear, I will take a switch to the wench when I find her! If she chooses not to watch after her son, she should ask another to do so.”

Ardith tenderly brushed away the large tears that streamed down the boy’s cheeks as he sucked his fingers.

“Utter waste of time, worrying over the whelp of a whore,” Harold murmured.

His words didn’t surprise Ardith, but his next action mortared her feet to the floor. Harold plucked the tiny hand from the babe’s mouth and examined the fingers. “I wager the brat has learned to beware the fire.” Harold released Kirk’s hand and limped toward the dais.

Harold had never shown the least interest in any child about the manor, save one—his son, Corwin. An utterly absurd notion struck and refused dismissal. Even while chastising herself for such foolishness, Ardith studied Kirk’s face for likeness to Harold’s. But Kirk favored Belinda, had no obvious feature from which to identify his sire.

Ardith gasped as a stream of warm water hit her backside, soaking her gown and hair, droplets flying forward onto her cheeks. She spun and saw Corwin put down a bucket.

“Blast you, Corwin! Have you lost your wits?”

“Would you rather I let you burn?”

She felt a tug on her plait. Gerard held up the end of her braid for her to see. She’d lost all but an inch of hair below the leather thong.

Gerard’s tone was pensive as he fingered the singed braid. “Your hair must have brushed the flames when you reached for the child.”

“Oh,” was all she could say, watching Gerard’s large hand twist and play with the burned strands. Had she known him better, she might have understood the odd look that crossed his face, then vanished.

Gerard reached for the babe and barked orders. “Corwin, find the boy’s mother. Ardith, change your gown before you catch a chill. Bronwyn, help her.”

“I will see to Ardith,” Elva announced.

Ardith hadn’t noticed Bronwyn and Elva enter the manor. Nor did she pay them much heed now, watching how easily Gerard handled Kirk, flipping the babe up and around to ride atop massive shoulders. Gerard didn’t even seem to mind when Kirk grabbed fists full of golden locks to secure his perch.

Gerard gave Elva a chilling look. “Are you not Lenvil’s herbswoman?”

Elva’s glare was colder. “I am, my lord.”

“Then be about your duties, woman. Harold needs care.”

Before Elva could retort, Ardith intervened. “There is a hot compress in the cauldron,” she told Elva, then turned to Gerard. “My lord, Father will refuse treatment if you remain in the hall.”

Gerard stared at her for a moment, then said, “The lad and I will be in my tent until Corwin finds the mother.”

He headed for the door, stopping only to grab a blanket from a servant’s pallet to toss over Kirk.

“He misses Daymon,” Corwin said in a low voice.

“Daymon?”

“Gerard’s son is about a year older than Kirk.”

Ardith’s heart fell. “I did not know Gerard had wed.”

“He has not wed. Daymon is his by-blow, but you would never know from Gerard’s treatment of the boy.” Corwin sighed. “I had best find Belinda. If Gerard has taken a liking to Kirk, I fear she is in for a scolding worse than you could hope to match.”

Corwin strode off to find Belinda. Seething, Elva stomped toward the cauldron. With a sigh, Ardith walked toward the sleeping chamber. Bronwyn followed.

“Oh, dear,” Bronwyn moaned, picking up the scissors.

“Be quick,” Ardith said quietly.

With a few snips, Bronwyn trimmed the frazzled ends from Ardith’s braid, hair never before touched by scissors.

“Your gown is scorched beyond repair. ’Tis a miracle you were not burned,” Bronwyn said.

Ardith shook out her hair. “Since my hair is wet, I may as well wash it.”

“You will catch your death,” Bronwyn protested.

“I must dry it by the fire anyway.”

Bronwyn fetched a bucket of warm water and bar of rose-scented soap. Together they washed Ardith’s auburn tresses and wrapped her head in a length of linen.

Ardith changed into the dry clothing that Bronwyn had laid out—a chemise of ivory, and a wool gown of saffron yellow.

With bone combs in hand, they sought the heat of the fire and untangled the mass atop Ardith’s head. She bemoaned the loss of hair as she combed. No longer did the tresses reach down over her rump. When properly plaited, the braid would only hang to her waist.

But what import had the loss of a few inches of hair when measured against the possible disaster to Kirk? She hoped Gerard would truly throw the fear of God into Belinda for neglecting the babe. If not, Ardith planned to take Belinda to task after the evening meal.

Duty demanded she speak with Belinda to ensure Kirk’s safety. And there was one particular question she needed to ask of the woman. Belinda had never named Kirk’s sire. If Ardith’s hunch was correct, if Kirk was indeed her half brother, Belinda need never worry about the babe ever again.

Ardith wondered if her father would object to the plans forming in her head. Would Harold acknowledge a bastard son? She could cite Gerard as an example—and Baron Everart. She could also praise the king’s acknowledgment of his bastard children. According to Bronwyn, at last count the king had ten children, only two of them legitimate.

Would Belinda protest, refuse to relinquish the boy? No. Not having to care for her son would leave Belinda free to flit about as she chose.

The whore certainly had her place in the manor, keeping Harold’s few men-at-arms from molesting the village maidens. But there were times when Belinda’s chosen trade grated on Ardith’s nerves.