By King's Decree

by Shari Anton

  Richard relented. Gerard handed the remaining list to Stephen. “You hold these lands in vassalage to Wilmont. We will negotiate rent and knight service on the morrow. This bequest should satisfy our pact.”

  Ardith knew nothing of the pact now satisfied, knew only that Gerard, amazingly, was dividing the bulk of the holdings between Stephen and Richard. The contentment of the brothers signified a promise made, and now fulfilled.

  “After we come to terms and the recording of land transfers are made,” Gerard continued, “notice of the change of ownership will go out to the holdings under the king’s seal.”

  Stephen suddenly looked up from the intent study of his newly acquired wealth. “Might I deliver the notices?”

  “All of them?”

  “Aye.” Stephen pressed on. “We should take advantage of this opportunity, Gerard. If one of us delivers the notices, affirms Wilmont authority from the outset, the fewer problems later. I can detect rebellion and squash the trouble before it can breed.”

  “Besides, you want a look at your holdings.”

  Stephen smiled crookedly. “Well, that too, but I still believe my idea a good one.”

  “Stephen makes a good case,” Richard said thoughtfully. “If he visits each holding, we will get a truthful accounting.”

  As though preparing a major campaign, the three fell into a discussion of men and mounts and provisions. Gerard fetched a map and they outlined a route.

  “Mayhap I should go along,” Richard suggested, obviously fancying the rigors of the road after so long a confinement.

  Gerard pointed a forefinger at Richard, an unrelenting look on his face. “You are returning to Wilmont. I will not have you wandering about until you regain full strength. Besides, someone must take the deeds to Walter. He should be told of the new holdings.”

  “You are not returning to Wilmont after court?”

  “I have other plans.”

  The announcement came as a complete but not unwelcome surprise. Ardith had assumed Gerard would want to winter at Wilmont. She knew he missed his son, and winter was the season when lords planned crop plantings and livestock needs for the warmer months. She hadn’t looked forward to meeting Lady Ursula. Ardith gave thanks for the reprieve.

  Richard seemed to follow the drift of her thoughts. “Lady Ursula will not be pleased when she learns how you favor us, Gerard, especially me. She will wail and screech until no one dare cross her path.”

  Gerard smiled wryly. “Will you hide?”

  “I intend to sleep in the armory and take my meals at the low end of the table.”

  “Coward.”

  “Give me a blade and an enemy to face and I will fight till my dying breath to defend Wilmont, but Gerard, facing your harridan parent fills my heart with dread.”

  “She is only a woman. You are a knight. Tell her to remember her position.”

  “You tell Lady Ursula. I believe part of her problem is that she has no position and well knows it.”

  Oblivious to—or ignoring—his brothers’ bantering, Stephen studied Gerard’s map. “Mayhap I should take Corwin with me. He might enjoy the adventure.”

  “I wish you would not.” Ardith put fingertips to lips. Again she’d interfered, drawing the sharp attention of three pairs of eyes, eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “You worry over Corwin?” Gerard finally asked.

  “Nay, not Corwin. I hoped Corwin could go back to Lenvil to care for Father. He should not be alone.”

  Gerard wondered why Ardith should care. Hellfire, Harold gave Ardith naught but grief, treated her little better than a serf. Yet he would ease her mind. “Before Harold left for Lenvil, the physicians poked and prodded till he refused to cooperate. Save for his leg, his body is sound for his age. As for his uncertain memory—” Gerard shrugged a shoulder “—John is aware of the problem.”

  Ardith bit her bottom lip. Gerard recognized the gesture. His lady wanted to protest, but apparently thought better of doing so in front of Stephen and Richard.

  Richard rose from his chair, yawned and stretched. “If you have no further need of me, I am for bed. Mass on the morn will be early, and a pompous affair. I intend, however, to enjoy the festivities now that I am alive again.”

  “I am off to find Corwin,” Stephen announced.

  His brothers gone, Gerard gathered Ardith in his arms, anticipating festivities in the privacy of her chamber.

  “Gerard, where are we going if not to Wilmont?”

  “To a small manor near Romsey. The rents are late. Now seems as good a time as any to find out why.”

  “Romsey?” Ardith’s pert mouth pursed in concentration. So very kissable, that mouth. “The name sounds familiar, but I know not why.”

  “Queen Matilda retired to a convent there some years ago,” he said, dipping for a kiss, once, twice. “Mayhap you heard the name in connection with her.”

  “Hmm.” She breathed against his mouth, laying her arms on his shoulders, her hands against his neck. “You may be right.”

  His loins beginning to burn with familiar, pleasant fire, Gerard lost the thread- of the conversation.

  Never, in her entire ten and seven years, could Ardith remember being so cold. Despite protection from frigid winds by the heavy canvas walls of the tent, despite the heat from glowing coals in the brazier, her body refused to warm.

  The weather didn’t affect Elva’s ability to sleep. Snoring softly, she huddled on a pallet near the brazier.

  With a sigh Ardith burrowed deeper into the furs and pulled the cover over her nose, wishing Gerard less impulsive but knowing he wouldn’t change.

  Gerard’s patience knew definite limits.

  Nearly a fortnight had passed since King Henry’s banishment of Basil of Northbryre and Edward Siefeld to the Tower’s subcrypt, where they still languished. Gerard, knowing he couldn’t rush Henry or influence the harshness of Basil’s sentence, had decided to leave. As at Lenvil, he issued orders one day for departure on the next, throwing men-at-arms and maids into a frenzy of packing.

  Ardith didn’t argue against his impetuous decision, for she was eager to leave. No longer need she endure Lady Diane’s cutting remarks or the whispers of the court.

  Nor did she wish to witness whatever punishment Henry saw fit to inflict on Basil. Bronwyn had told her of people who’d suffered Henry’s tortures—including his own grandchildren—each tale more gruesome and each punishment more cruel than the last.

  So this morning the company had assembled and left Westminster at dawn, pressing on until nearly nightfall when Gerard pulled off the road and ordered the tents pitched. After a light meal of bread and cheese, Ardith had sought Gerard’s tent and the comfort of a pallet, gratefully accepting the warm, spiced wine Elva had prepared.

  A brisk breeze stirred the fur of her coverings as the tent flap opened. Ardith buried the rest of her face. She could hear Thomas and Gerard rustling about but had no desire to peek out.

  Naked as the day he was born, Gerard crawled onto the pallet. He uncovered her face.

  “There you are. I knew you must be in here somewhere.”

  Ardith reached out, putting an icy hand on his chest. He sucked in his breath, then yelped and shuddered when her feet curled around his calves.

  “Hellfire! Why did you not tell me you had frozen?”

  She sighed, relieved she still had toes. She could feel them now. “I had thought you as vulnerable to cold as the rest of us mere mortals. I was wrong. You are so very warm.”

  Gerard pulled Ardith’s body close, noting she’d stripped down to her chemise, no further. She pressed hard against his body. The soft purr from her throat scolded him more sharply than a Harpy’s shriek.

  He’d pushed the company hard without thought for Ardith’s comfort. The men-at-arms hadn’t complained—but they would never admit so unmanly a discomfort as cold toes. Elva had huddled in a wagon in a deep nest of furs. Thomas, young and full of high spirits, thought the ride a grand adventure.


  Only Ardith suffered. Her rabbit mantle and soft boots hadn’t kept her warm. He gathered her hands. How had she held on to the reins with such stiff fingers? Thank the Lord her palfrey was gentle, easily guided.

  He would wrap Ardith in his beaver cloak for the remainder of the journey. They should reach the manor tomorrow, within a few hours of breaking camp.

  Tonight he would share his heat. Nay, tonight he would create heat. He reached for the hem of her chemise. Ardith slapped at his hand.

  “Gerard, you cannot mean to want this now,” she whispered.

  “Can you think of a more pleasant way to drive the chill from your body?”

  Her lips were against his chest. He felt her smile. “Nay. But we are not private.”

  “Thomas and Elva sleep. Unless you scream when your body convulses with pleasure, they will remain ignorant of our labors under the furs.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then lightly scolded, “Labors? ‘Tis such demanding work, then, making love to me?”

  He embarked on an assault of her senses with hands and mouth. “’Tis a grueling task. I sweat. I breathe heavily. My body strains with the anguish of testing my endurance.” He pulled her hand downward. “I ache to complete the chore that leaves me too weak for aught else but sleep.”

  “My poor baron,” she teased softly, her now warming hand sliding in delightful torture over the hub of his need.

  From near the brazier, Ardith thought she heard a noise. She glanced toward Elva. No movement. No sound. Without further concern, Ardith gave in to Gerard’s pleasing and successful method of warming her body.

  Gerard signaled the company to halt at a rise overlooking the Romsey holding.

  “The manor looks abandoned,” Ardith observed.

  He silently agreed. No peasants bustled about the timber building, tending chores. No smoke curled upward from the hole in the center of the manor’s thatched roof. The silence nudged his warrior’s instincts.

  He dismounted and drew his sword. “Thomas, I will take two men. Tell the others to guard the women and wagons.”

  “You should don your mail,” Ardith said softly from atop her palfrey.

  He looked up sharply into her troubled azure eyes.

  “Ardith, I grant you, something is amiss, but no grave threat awaits.”

  Ardith slid from the saddle, faced him squarely. “Yet you call for two men and draw your sword.” Boldly, she placed a quieting finger on his opening mouth. “When you least expect it fate can wave a brutal fist. Have a care, Gerard, for if fate proves unkind, I would miss you dreadfully.”

  She tugged at the palfrey’s reins, taking only a few steps before he called her name. She turned.

  “Have Thomas fetch my hauberk.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  Gerard shook his head over the foolishness of donning armor. If his men thought his overcaution disturbing, so be it, for at the small concession, Ardith had smiled. He would concede far more to ease her mind, to elicit the smile that gladdened his heart.

  She would miss him—dreadfully. What would she miss? The laughter, or spats, or loving? How long would she grieve? A fortnight? A month?

  Hell fire, he had sunk to degrading depths, all because of a slip of a woman with a blinding smile.

  Hauberk donned, he checked to see Ardith surrounded by soldiers who knew their lives forfeit should they fail at their duty. Flanked by two men-at-arms, Gerard cautiously approached the manor.

  “Hail in the manor!” he shouted, oddly expecting an answer.

  The door opened, creaking on weather-brittled hinges. A young man, lean and tall, eased from behind the doorway, brandishing a shepherd’s crook as though it was a weapon. The fright in his eyes disputed his scowl and bold stance. Gerard admired the peasant’s pluck. Though faced by three men, one an armored knight, the man’s knees didn’t quake.

  “Your name,” Gerard ordered, sliding his sword back into the scabbard.

  “I be Pip,” came the answer in a thin voice. Then, to Gerard’s surprise, Pip challenged, “Who might you be, milord?”

  Gerard raised an eyebrow. “Your liege lord, Baron Gerard of Wilmont.”

  “Everart be baron.”

  “No longer, Pip. My father died several months ago.” Gerard raised a beckoning arm toward Ardith and the remaining guard on the hill. “Are you the steward? I will have an accounting for the sorry state of this manor.”

  “’Tis old Biddle you be lookin’ for. He lies yonder.”

  The grave wasn’t fresh.

  “Curled up his toes nigh on a year ago, milord,” Pip offered. “Ate his victuals, went out to do the necessary and pop—” Pip snapped his fingers “—over he goes.”

  “Then who cares for the manor?”

  “The tenants, milord. We take our turns stayin’ in the manor, keepin’ things right and tight. We knew the overlord would come nosin’ around someday, wantin’ his rents.”

  Gerard briefly wondered why his father had let this manor decline to such pitiful condition, ripe for raiding, but had little time to ponder as the rest of the company pulled into the yard. He helped Ardith from the saddle.

  “Ardith, meet Pip. ‘Tis his day to guard the manor.”

  “A pleasure, milady,” Pip said with a slight bow. “Would you be wantin’ to come inside, now, out of the cold?”

  Gerard ushered Ardith ahead, following Pip into the manor. Gerard squinted, sniffing. Beside him Ardith coughed and covered her nose against the stench.

  Sheep. A dozen of the woolly creatures milled about the single room of the manor. Gerard’s eyes watered.

  “Yer rents, milord,” Pip said proudly.

  “Pitch the tents!” Gerard bellowed out the door.

  Two days later, Ardith put a trencher of mutton and gravy on the trestle table before the scowling lord of the manor. “Come, Gerard,” she chided. “’Tis not so bad, now. I think we could even sleep in here tonight.”

  Gerard’s nose scrunched. “Not I.”

  “The women have worked hard to make the manor habitable for their overlord.”

  “As the men have worked hard to build a stable for the horses and a pen for the damned sheep. I have consented to take my meals in here, Ardith. Push no further.”

  Ardith was too weary to argue. The tenant wives had given up two full days from their own chores to scrub and sweep—and shovel—transforming the makeshift animal pen into a manor worthy to house the baron.

  They’d chattered while they worked, tripping over one another’s stories to give Ardith the history of the manor. She now knew how old Biddle had gone about his duties, which women possessed which talents, who grew crops and who grazed sheep.

  The manor claimed no village. Freeman tenants held farms scattered over the area, raising oats, wheat and barley. Some kept flocks of sheep, others ran pigs in the nearby woodlands. For goods the tenants couldn’t raise or make, they bartered in nearby Romsey.

  From Ardith, the women had sought reassurance about their new liege lord. She told them Gerard would be strict but fair. As a warrior unequaled, he would safeguard the farms and their livelihood from raid.

  Not wanting the peasants to misunderstand her position, Ardith also told them of the betrothal decree.

  Meg, a young woman heavy with child, confessed, “Well, now me and me Pip ain’t wed yet either. If a priest happens through and we got the time, we’ll say the vows. If not…” She shrugged and smiled.

  Relieved at the lack of censure, Ardith had directed the work as though she really were the lady of the manor.

  Gerard pushed aside his trencher, rubbed a hand over his eyes. His weariness matched her own.

  “How long do we stay here?” Ardith asked.

  “For a while yet. I must appoint a steward and provide some defense for these people.”

  “The women think guards unnecessary. They feel safe, being so close to the city—and the abbey. Meg told me that last summer some bandits thought to cause mischief but the queen’
s soldiers drove them away.”

  “So the men told me. But the soldiers fight only to shield the queen from possible harm, not the tenants.”

  “This manor cannot support many guards.”

  “Another failing I must change. I think we will winter here. Mayhap I will send for Daymon and spend a quiet season.”

  Daymon—Gerard’s son. Thoughts of the tenants fled as she fought the twinge of panic at meeting the boy. She loved children. A tyke who resembled Gerard would be impossible to resist. She would fall hard for the motherless son of the man she loved. If Gerard sent for Daymon, if they lived here as a family, ‘twould make the eventual parting more painful.

  “That might be unwise.”

  “You do not wish to spend the winter?” Gerard asked, surprised at Ardith’s reluctance. He had thought her content.

  She picked up the used trencher. “I meant sending for Daymon. ‘Tis very cold for so young a child to make such a long journey.”

  “He is a healthy lad. If properly, cared for—”

  “Gerard,” she interrupted, “children, especially little ones, tend to illness. You should not risk his health. If you wish to see him, go to Wilmont for a spell.”

  He noticed she meant to send him off to Wilmont, alone. She frowned slightly, her gaze slid away.

  Until now, whenever Ardith questioned his decisions, she faced him squarely and stated her opinion. He wondered at this odd change.

  Did she object to Daymon’s coming because of the weather, or because she didn’t want his bastard child underfoot?

  Gerard banished the unwelcome thought that Ardith might spurn Daymon. Ardith would love any child under her care, baseborn or not, her own child or another woman’s. He remembered her cold hands and icy feet. Surely, she only wanted to spare Daymon.

  “Ardith?”

  Her gaze slid back. Fatigue marred her eyes. He smiled with relief. His little warrior was simply tired, too weary to spar in her usual forthright manner.

  He took the trencher from her hand, pulled her down onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his neck.

  “You may be right,” he yielded, not without reservation but with respect for Ardith’s common sense. “The weather may yet be too harsh for Daymon to make a long journey.”