By King's Decree

by Shari Anton

  Her body relaxed. “A wise decision,” she said against the side of his neck, her warm breath puffing near his ear. “Will you go to Wilmont?”

  “Will you come with me?”

  “Would I have a choice?”

  “Nay.” He ran a hand along her ribs, fondled a breast covered by the thick, coarse wool of the gown she wore while cleaning. “We have a child of our own to create, remember? Where I go, you go. Where you are, I will be.”

  Ardith squirmed, pressing into his caressing hand, then abruptly drew back. “Shall we retire to the tent?”

  “Why? We are alone.”

  “We are?” Ardith sat up straight, looking around. Gerard’s men-at-arms had finished eating and left, choosing not to linger over ale. Meg no longer knelt by the tub, scrubbing pots. Even Elva and Thomas were nowhere to be seen. “Where did they go? Gerard, did you order everyone out?”

  “Did you hear me give an order to clear the room?”

  “’Tis mightily strange that everyone should vanish without taking our leave.”

  “You find that disturbing?”

  “Nay,” she admitted, then added, “just…odd.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “My lord, if you have no further need of me, I would like to see how the work progresses,” Thomas said, hanging a mended bridle on a wooden peg.

  Gerard nodded his permission, running a hand over his destrier’s flank, half noting the pounding of hammers from where his men-at-arms were building an armory.

  “I, too, milord. By your leave, o’course,” Pip said.

  Gerard glanced at Pip, approving of the man’s interest in the eruption of improvements currently taking place. Given some tutoring in numbers and letters, Pip might make a good steward. And Meg would do well as his helpmate. From the hut where the couple lived, Meg accompanied Pip to the manor each morning. While Pip worked in the stable or helped with the carpentry, Meg helped Ardith in the manor.

  At a wave of Gerard’s hand, Pip scurried from the stable, bowing briefly at Ardith, who stood in the doorway. Even at this distance, several stalls from the opening, Gerard could see the dejection on her face.

  “If you are not too busy, Gerard, I should like a word with you.” She tugged up the hem of the overlong beaver cloak he insisted she wear whenever venturing outside, wandered over toward an overturned crate and sat down.

  Arms crossed, he leaned against one of the posts that supported the roof. “What has happened?” he asked, silently vowing to throttle whoever had caused her distress.

  She waved a hand, indicating the stable. “Look about you. What do you see?”

  Confused, he answered, “A stable. Horses, hay, leather. What of it?”

  “But no people. As soon as I appeared in the doorway, Thomas and Pip scurried out like hares pursued by hawks.”

  “Their leaving had naught to do with you. They finished their chores and wished to watch the men work on the armory.”

  “Ah, the armory. Your men cannot abide sleeping in the manor. They must build a place of their own.”

  “They are used to wintering in the armory at Wilmont. If they wish to expend the energy to build one here, I see no reason to deny the request.”

  She shook her head. “They wish a place of their own to escape me, Gerard. Your men do not like me.”

  He nearly laughed at the absurd notion, but the tear forming in the comer of her eye stopped him cold. “Not like you?” he asked gently. “Those men would lay down their lives to protect you.”

  Her lip trembled. “Only because I belong to you.”

  Gerard knew his soldiers extended allegiance to Ardith from affection as well. Why, the dolts went to great lengths to win her approval.

  “When you expressed a wish for a long table and benches, did they not make them?”

  “They tired of eating while sitting among the rushes.”

  His men had eaten under conditions that would have horrified Ardith. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of a warm manor, balancing trenchers on knees while eating hearty, tasty meals could be termed luxury. On the night Ardith made a passing comment about the need for a bigger table, the men had drawn lots, vying for the honor of fulfilling her wishes.

  Nor had the fawning stopped with the completion of the table and benches. They hung on her every word for some hint of how to serve Ardith. No task was too arduous, no chore too menial. Her feet were cold? They chopped and split extra wood for the pit She needed a bucket of water? They hauled four from the stream. There was a draft from a corner? They mixed mud and straw and plugged the timbers. She’d turned his soldiers into drudges, and they minded not one whit.

  “Shall I line them up and let them grovel at your feet?” he teased.

  Ardith looked horrified. “Nay! They would do so out of loyalty to you, Gerard. And ‘tis not only the soldiers, but the peasants who shun me. What have I done to offend them?”

  “Surely, you jest!”

  “Not so,” she countered, shaking her head, the tear finally falling down her cheek.

  The peasants were as infatuated as the soldiers, mayhap more so. The farmer tenants, their wives, the children—they adored Ardith. Gerard could stand no more. He squatted before Ardith, enfolded her hands. “What brought this on, Ardith?”

  “Meg refused my invitation to stay for evening meal.”

  There had to be more. “And?”

  “Do you not see, Gerard? At Lenvil, people lingered long after mealtimes, sharing food and drink and talk. Here, no one will stay about the manor for long, not even Meg or Pip. Meg prefers to return to her hut when her chores are done. Even Elva leaves, goes home with Meg.”

  A blessing, Gerard thought of the old woman’s absence. “Elva stays with Pip and Meg because it is so near Meg’s time. Once the babe is born, Elva will return.”

  Ardith shrugged a melancholy shoulder. “Mayhap, but what of the others, Gerard? Will they ever come to accept me? I had thought…”

  Gerard completed her thought silently. Ardith would make this manor her home. He’d watched her strive to make the manor more comfortable, to become friendly with the peasants. He’d even thought to interfere. This wasn’t the manor he intended for Ardith, should settling her in some manor become necessary. This holding was too distant from Wilmont.

  She continued, a bit of anger creeping into her tone, “The women do not come unless they bear gifts, as though I am some ogre who must be appeased. Then they hustle off with barely a word. I have tried to get them to sit for a while, to talk over a cup of ale, but they will not The only days I can tempt anyone to linger are the days you go hunting.”

  “Then mayhap ‘tis my fault the peasants avoid the manor,” Gerard said thoughtfully. “Thomas and my men know I like my privacy. They may have made comment to the tenants, who took it as warning to stay away.”

  “Nay, ‘tis me the tenants dislike. You should hear how they praise their new liege lord. These people love you.”

  “And I have heard them praise you. I wonder—” Gerard broke off, not daring to voice the outrageous explanation that flickered through his head. He had to test it first. He stood up and pulled Ardith to her feet.

  “Come. Let us inspect the armory.”

  Within moments of their arrival the hammers fell silent. Gerard walked about the inner walls, inspecting, showing Ardith points of competent construction. The men had done a good job. They had also vanished.

  “Do you see what I mean, Gerard? All I need do is walk into the soldiers’ midst and they leave.”

  Gerard shook his head. “Nay, not you. Us.” He put his hands on her shoulders, saying, “One more test Go into the manor. I will follow in a moment”

  She looked at him quizzically, then obeyed.

  Gerard waited silently. Soon, the soldiers returned, hauling logs they wouldn’t need for several hours. He smiled, more sure of his conjecture. As he reached the manor, the tattoo of hammer on nail again split the air.

  In the manor, Ardith thanked a tenant
’s wife for a round of yellow cheese. Meg pulled loaves of brown bread from the fire. Elva carded wool sheared from a sheep butchered for meat. Gerard had no more than fetched a cup of ale and sat down at the table when silence loomed, only he and Ardith remaining.

  He broke off a chunk of hot bread as she sat. He tried not to smile, but failed. “Ardith, did you tell the women of the betrothal decree?”

  “Aye.” She sighed. “I fear they stay away because they disapprove.”

  He chuckled. “Nay. They vanish because they wish us success. I swear, Ardith, I believe I could fling up your skirts and have you anywhere, anytime I pleased, and we would not be disturbed. Beware the next time you come looking for me in the stable. Henceforth, I will keep a stall in readiness, empty of horse but strewn with fresh hay.”

  A rosy blush crept up her neck and bloomed on her cheeks. “Gerard, you cannot mean…they would not…they give us privacy to…Blessed Mother,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands.

  His laughter burst out. “The tenants and soldiers conspire, Ardith. They give me opportunity to indulge my lusty whims whenever it suits my mood. How can I not approve?”

  The dagger flew true, the tip burrowing deep into the mound of hay, slicing a turnip neatly in half. Ignoring Gerard’s pleased smile, Ardith unstuck the dagger, brushed bits of hay and dirt from the turnip, and tossed the vegetable into the soup pot with the afternoon’s other targets.

  “You improve, Ardith.”

  “I should hope I show progress. You insist on the practice often enough.”

  “Why do you still grumble?”

  “Because I see no point in the lessons. I cannot get past your guard. You disarm me with ease.”

  “Because I know how you will thrust, the extent of your reach. A stranger will not know your style. And you will have surprise in your favor. A foe will not suspect a woman of carrying a blade more lethal than an eating knife, much less knowing how to use the weapon.” He pointed at the dagger. “You can also hit a target. You need not even get close to your enemy to do mayhem.”

  Ardith wiped the blade on her skirt. “So long as I need only draw turnip juice and not blood I am content Nor, might I remind you, does a turnip move.”

  As though he hadn’t heard a word, Gerard continued the lesson. “Your grip is firm, your thrust steady and well aimed. But to defend yourself properly, you also must learn to control your emotions. Show an enemy only what you wish him to see. Learning how to bury fear or anger under calm reasoning is as vital as the speed and angle of your lunge.”

  Ardith slipped the dagger into her boot with a sigh. As always, the manor had cleared of people as soon as Gerard appeared, leaving the two of them alone. Often they used the privacy as the peasants intended, dallying for hours among the furs of their drape-encircled pallet. At other times they merely shared a quiet repast. Occasionally, too often for Ardith’s comfort, Gerard insisted on these lessons.

  Ardith half listened as Gerard droned on about watching an enemy’s eyes, how to use body leverage and choosing the right moment to draw the dagger from her boot.

  Aye, she could draw the dagger, might even be able to threaten. But to kill, to stick the lethal blade into someone? Never. The mere thought turned her stomach.

  “Ardith? Did you hear one word I said?”

  “Of course, Gerard.”

  He shook his head. “Your eyes told me differently. What were you thinking of?”

  Ardith seized the chance to switch to a more pleasant, and possibly profitable, subject.

  “Sheep.”

  “Sheep?”

  Ardith smiled at his scrunched nose. “I know you think of sheep as smelly, annoying beasts. To the peasants, however, the sheep represent a good portion of their livelihood.”

  “There do seem to be a great many around. What of it?”

  “I know you inspected the holding.” When he nodded, she continued, “Then you know that much of the land cannot be put to plow because of the hills. The tenants raise some crops, enough to feed their families. They rely on the sheep, actually the fleece, for the coin to buy cloth or tools or other goods.” She cocked her head. “Why does Wilmont take rent in the form of a whole animal? Meg said old Biddle drove six sheep to Wilmont every year. Would it not be easier to take the rent in fleece, or in coin from the sale of the fleece?”

  “Possibly. I would have to ask Walter. Mayhap my father wanted the meat rather than the coin. You are leading up to something, Ardith. What?”

  “You should buy more sheep.”

  “Ugh.”

  She laughed lightly. “I am not asking you to live with them, Gerard, merely purchase them, begin a flock to support the needs of the manor and pay the rents to Wilmont.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “This land could support twice the number of sheep now grazed in the hills. Romsey is becoming a major trading center for fleece. More merchants attend the market fair every year and the price rises. If we increase the flock now, within a short time this manor could show a nice profit”

  We? Gerard folded his arms across his chest. “Since you have never been to the market fair at Romsey, I assume you learned the way of traders from the tenants.”

  “From Meg, mostly. She says the tenants let Pip haggle with the fleece merchants. He always gets a good price.” Her smile widened. “If we do increase the flock, I think Pip would be a good choice as master shepherd.”

  “I have other plans for Pip.”

  Her smile faded. “Oh?”

  “Pip is a smart young man. He knows the land and the tenants. With a few lessons in letters and numbers, I believe Pip would make a good steward here.”

  Understanding washed across her face. “I see,” she said quietly.

  “Your idea holds merit I will discuss it with Pip.”

  The meager praise was all he would offer in recompense for refusing her the stewardship. He felt no remorse for crushing her hopes. Ardith should be planning what she could accomplish as mistress of Wilmont, not as the steward of this remote manor.

  As though knowing his name had been bandied about, Pip cautiously entered the manor. Looking relieved at seeing his lord and lady in the center of the room, fully clothed, he addressed Ardith.

  “Milady…’tis Meg. Her pains begin.”

  Ardith shot up from the stool. “Where is she?”

  “In the yard, milady. We had begun walking back to our hut when—”

  “Well, bring her in here! Gerard, we will need a pallet near the fire. Is there water in those buckets? Now, where did I put my scissors?”

  “I suppose this means I must sleep in the armory this night,” he grumbled.

  “Depends on the babe,” Ardith said absently. “Some birthings go swiftly. Many do not, especially a woman’s first”

  Meg entered the manor, supported by Pip on one side and Elva on the other. Pip looked almost as pale as Meg. A pain struck the laboring peasant woman as she lowered herself to the newly furnished pallet. She groaned.

  Gerard hefted a full keg of ale onto his shoulder and swatted Pip between the shoulder blades.

  “This is no place for a man,” Gerard announced, shoved cups into Pip’s hands, then pushed him toward the door. “Let us find a warm corner to sit and await the birth.”

  Gerard decided to hold vigil in the armory. Of his soldiers, three men stood early watch, another three slept. The others hunkered over a game of dice. Gerard sat on a pallet and opened the keg.

  After the fourth cup of ale, Pip wiped the foam from his mouth with his sleeve. “I know Meg has the harder job, but the waiting is not easy.”

  Gerard couldn’t sympathize. He hadn’t kept vigil for Daymon’s birth. No one had told him of the impending birth until it was over, placing his new son safely in his arms, saying the mother had succumbed to birth fever.

  Would Meg succumb?

  Would Ardith? The thought chilled Gerard to the bone.

  Evening dragged into night. No news came from the mano
r. Gerard sent a soldier for another keg of ale.

  When Pip passed out, Gerard lay back on the pallet and closed his eyes. He couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t sleep.

  How unknightly to so crave the softness of fur and the nearness of a woman’s body that sleep hovered beyond his grasp. And how senseless to worry over that same woman’s death in childbirth when Ardith showed no sign of being with child.

  As dawn’s rays brightened the sky, the woman of his musings cautiously stuck her head into the armory. Gerard scrambled to his feet and went outside.

  She smiled up at him. “A boy, Gerard. Mother and babe are well and sleeping.”

  “As is the father—” Gerard laughed “—well, actually, the father is sotted. We saluted the babe’s coming, Meg’s health and Pip’s virility until Pip could no longer speak lucidly. Shall I wake him?”

  “Let him sleep. ‘Twill be the last uninterrupted night’s rest he will get for a while.” Ardith’s fingertips brushed the shadow under his eye. “You did not sleep well.”

  “Nor did you.”

  “I was otherwise occupied.”

  “So was L”

  He put an arm across her shoulder, guiding her back to the manor. Now they could both get some much needed rest.

  “Meg wants to name the babe for the new overlord. Would that please you, Gerard?”

  Gerard thought he did an admirable job of hiding the pride swelling his chest. “A common enough practice. Look how many males were named for Henry after he became king, and there are enough Williams about to form their own army.”

  She put fingers to her lips, telling him to keep quiet as they entered the manor. All was peaceful. Meg slept on the pallet near the fire, her son bundled in blankets tucked against her side.

  Gerard looked down at the child’s rose-blotched face.

  “’Twas difficult, this birthing, for both mother and child,” Ardith explained. “The boy fought hard to stay within his mother. We nearly sent to the abbey for Sister Bernadette.”