by Shari Anton
Ardith had blossomed into a beautiful young woman.
She was gowned in coarse wool that hugged her ripe bosom and tiny waist before flaring over the curve of rounded hips.
Her smile alone could lift a man’s spirits. Ardith’s smile for Corwin caught not only her mouth and eyes, but lighted her entire face.
The tug in the area of his heart he attributed to envy. Of all the women in his life, from court ladies to peasant wenches, no woman had ever greeted him with such abandon.
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?”
“Chit,” Corwin chided, hoisting the keg to his shoulder. “I could toss you over my shoulder and not feel the weight.”
Ardith didn’t challenge him. Corwin would feel compelled to prove his boast. Instead, she asked, “How many men are in the Wilmont company?”
“Twenty, besides Baron Gerard and myself.”
She mentally sorted through available supplies. “I will inform the cook. Evening meal will be a test of her skills. There is little fresh meat to work with.”
“The men will not care, so long as the food is hot and plentiful. You may want to send someone to the village to get help with the carting and serving, though.”
Ardith nodded. “And for extra pallets for the Wilmont men-at-arms. The hall will be crowded tonight”
“You need not fret over sleeping space for Gerard, or most of Wilmont’s men. Even now they raise the tents.”
“Tents? In this cold?”
Corwin smiled. “These are true soldiers, Ardith, not pampered companions. Come, look at the field.”
Ardith followed Corwin out of the storage room. In the field nearest the manor, Wilmont’s men-at-arms erected small tents around a mammoth tent of scarlet and gold.
“Gerard likes his privacy,” Corwin said. “Nor would he ask anything of his men that he is not willing to do himself. Granted, his tent is more opulent, but a tent nonetheless.”
The scarlet tent appeared sturdy, capable of blocking chilly winds. Yet, why would Gerard forgo the comfort of a bed? With relief Ardith realized she wouldn’t need to try to sleep in the same room with Gerard. Sleep would be hard enough to come by this night.
“Well, that solves that dilemma,” she said. “Now all I must do is find someone to send to the village.”
Corwin glanced around. “Ah, there is a lad who looks like he needs something to do. Thomas! Over here!”
A brown-haired lad crossed the yard at a brisk walk.
“Thomas, this is my sister Ardith. She has an errand for you. Be quick about it and she might feed you tonight.”
“Corwin! What a cruel thing to say! Mayhap I will not feed you tonight.”
Corwin shifted the keg and headed for the manor. “I have the ale. ’Tis all I need.”
Ardith smiled and looked back at Thomas—just in time to see the uncertainty leave his eyes. And not, she realized, about being fed, but about her identity.
She couldn’t blame the lad. Ardith knew she looked more peasant than lady in her coarse gown and uncovered hair. Which meant Gerard had probably noticed as well.
Ardith gave Thomas directions and instructions, then helped the cook until a group of women arrived from the village. When she finally returned to the manor, she found Harold had come home and, much to her chagrin, saw Elva seated in the shadowed corner near the tapestry.
Wary, Ardith approached her aunt. “I did not expect you to come up from the village.”
Elva’s gray, piercing eyes scanned the room and landed squarely on Gerard. Her thin mouth turned grim, and Ardith felt a twinge of panic. Elva’s tongue had grown less cautious as she aged. Though she’d never voiced her hatred of Normans in front of Lenvil’s liege lord, Ardith feared that, one day, Elva’s restraint would dissolve and evoke punishment.
The old woman taunted, “Afraid I may anger Harold? Fret not, dear. He is too busy groveling before the Norman to notice me. Go, be about your duties.”
Ardith shot a worried glance toward where Harold was relating an account of his day’s ride, claiming Gerard’s complete attention.
Well, not complete. Occasionally, as she oversaw the serving of the meal, she could feel Gerard watching. She firmly ignored the ripple in her midsection whenever their gaze happened to meet, or the flutter in her heart whenever his deep, rich voice drifted into her range of hearing.
After the meal, she waited until Harold had convinced Gerard and Corwin to hunt on the morrow before asking Corwin where he intended to sleep.
“Lay me a pallet in the sleeping chamber,” he answered. “I have had enough of wet and cold. Gerard may prefer a tent, but not me.”
“What? Sleep in a tent!” Harold blustered. “My lord, surely Ardith told you that you are welcome to the bed. If she did not, she neglects her duties. ‘Tis your due!”
Ardith held her breath, fearing Gerard might agree to both sleeping in the bed and her neglect of duty.
“Nay, Harold, keep your bed,” he said. Then Gerard looked straight into her eyes. “I will be quite comfortable…alone…on my pallet of furs.”
Chapter Three
Gerard’s spirits soared with the goshawk. The predator flew well within range of sight, her keen eyes searching the earth for whatever quarry the dogs might flush out.
Then she hovered against the pale, midafternoon sky.
“Another hare,” Gerard said quietly, having spotted the hawk’s intended prey.
Harold commented, “Never misses, does that one.”
The hawk stooped silently, deadly, and made the kill. Gerard whistled the signal that Corwin had taught him earlier this morning. The hawk answered with a cry of triumph and flew to the padded leather on Gerard’s outstretched arm. He fed her a reward of raw meat, noting how gently she took the tidbit from his fingers.
Accustomed to flying peregrine falcons, Gerard had selected the goshawk from the mews at Corwin’s suggestion. She’d quickly displayed her strength in the field.
“Nary a mark on the bugger ‘cept where the talons caught the head. That makes four clean kills, milord,” the game bearer said, presenting the hare for inspection.
“Of course ‘tis not marked,” Corwin said. “Gwen never tears a pelt, so Ardith can use the fur for clothing.”
“Gwen?” Gerard asked, eyeing the bird.
Harold snorted. “Aye, Ardith named her Gwen. ‘Tis a wonder the hawk hunts, for all the chit spoils the bird. I swear that hawk would heed Ardith’s fist without the call.”
“She does, at least in the mews and the yard,” Corwin stated to Harold’s disgust. “Ardith trained her, feeds her, never uses another bird when she hunts.”
“Made a ruddy pet out of a hawk,” Harold complained.
Gerard reacted privately, surprised and oddly proud that Ardith had trained the hawk. He knew ladies who liked to fly hawks, but none who would trouble to train her own bird.
“If Ardith likes the hunt, why did she not join us?”
Corwin answered. “Ardith said she wanted to finish stitching a gown that Bronwyn desires for court.”
“About time the chit had a bit of work to do. Lord knows she has few duties about the manor,” Harold huffed.
Corwin turned to hide a frown. Gerard managed to keep an indifferent expression. He’d noticed, yesterday noon and last evening, the efficiency of Lenvil’s people. Ardith’s gentle but firm hand had guided the manor’s servants.
Bronwyn, dressed in fine clothing and delicate slippers, had played hostess. But Ardith, in coarse wool and leather boots, had assured a plentiful table laid, prompted a lad to keep the fire fed, kept ale and wine at the ready, and asked John, captain of Gerard’s guards, if Wilmont’s men-at-arms needed extra blankets.
He’d also noticed a decidedly independent side of her nature. She’d ignored his invitation to share his furs. She might have misunderstood, but Gerard didn’t think so.
“Despite a preference for her mistress, the hawk flew well for me this day.” Gerard deliberately kept his praise light. If he marveled overmuch at the bird, Harold would feel duty bound to offer Gwen as a gift. He didn’t want the bird.
He wanted the bird’s owner.
Harold shifted in the saddle
. Gerard guessed the man’s leg hurt, having noticed his limp yesterday. But Harold’s dignity wouldn’t allow him to complain before his liege lord.
“I suggest we return to the manor,” Gerard said, halting the hunt. The party had bagged several hares and a few partridges and pheasants. Gerard supposed Harold’s hunting forays were short and infrequent. Then who hunted fresh meat? Ardith? Perhaps. Gerard didn’t doubt she could, not when flying so magnificent a bird as Gwen.
“Shall I take her, my lord?” the attendant offered.
Gerard looked at the hawk comfortably perched on his arm, grooming her feathers. Gerard wrapped the leather jesses around his arm.
“Nay, she is content and not heavy. I will carry her.”
“As you wish, my lord,” the attendant said, looking askance, but hurrying to take Harold’s bird, then Corwin’s.
“Are you content to ride with me, Gwen?” Gerard softly asked. The hawk simply continued her preening. Gerard chuckled and turned his horse in the direction of the manor.
Gerard looked around for Corwin, who’d been riding at his side. For some reason Corwin lagged a pace behind, studying a copse of trees to his right.
“My son remembers his triumph,” Harold said with pride. He called out, “Proud of you, I was, Corwin. Never was there a finer meal than the boar you slew with your sword, and you a bit of a lad and new to weaponry.”
Corwin rode up beside Gerard. “Killing the boar was no great feat, Father. ‘Twas kill or be killed.”
Addressing Gerard, Harold protested. “Corwin nearly separated the beast from his head. Cook had to piece the boar back together before impaling him on a spit. You should remember the feast, my lord. Baron Everart brought you and Richard to help us celebrate Corwin’s bravery.”
“’Twas Stephen who came, Father, not Richard.”
“Are you sure? I seem to recall…”
“Quite sure. Richard was ill and could not come.”
Harold stared at the horizon for a long moment, then said, “Aye, ‘twas Stephen. No matter. ‘Twas a fine feast to honor Corwin’s prowess.”
Gerard remembered the feast. He’d been seated between Bronwyn and Edith, nodding at Bronwyn’s endless chatter and wondering if Edith would ever end her prayer so he could eat. In his boredom his gaze had wandered the hall, finally resting on a head peeking from behind the corner tapestry.
