By King's Decree

by Shari Anton

  “They think you are about to commit mayhem, my lord.”

  He looked at his hands, so close to her throat, the thumbs that still stroked. “What makes you think I am not?”

  “Gerard,” she asked, “If you did not come to fetch me, then what brings you to Romsey?”

  He took his hands from around her neck but didn’t let her go. His arm circled her shoulders, pulling her tight against his side.

  “Lady Ursula,” he answered. “She is with the abbess.”

  “Ah. That explains the summons,” Matilda said. “It seems every noblewoman who visits begs an audience. The abbess feels obliged to consent.”

  “Lady Ursula does not visit. She stays. My mother needs to learn the difference between devotion and fanaticism. Who better to teach her than Abbess Christina and Queen Matilda?” A hint of a smile touched Gerard’s lips. “If you care to assume the task, Majesty, I would ask another boon. See if you can amend her attitude toward bastards.”

  Queen Matilda crossed her arms. “You ask a great deal, Gerard of Wilmont.”

  “Who better to uphold the innocence of noble bastards? What has Henry? Nine? Ten? Yet never have you held the children answerable to the self-indulgence of the father. To each you have shown kindness, even when Henry brought each in turn to court, to educate them and bestow rank and funds.”

  “We gather your mother still holds Richard responsible for Everart’s wandering.”

  “Not only does she abhor Richard, but has taken to the notion of purging Wilmont of bastards.”

  Matilda shook her head sadly. “Such nonsense. We will do what we can.” Then she smiled, the warm, sincere smile that had touched Ardith’s heart. “Take good care of this young woman, Gerard of Wilmont. We like her.”

  Gerard heaved a long, aggrieved sigh. “I keep trying, Majesty, but Ardith insists on taking unwise risks.”

  “Your lady is both wise and brave.” Queen Matilda’s smile widened. “We believe you will find her efforts on your behalf most rewarding. You must visit me again, Ardith, soon.”

  The queen turned to leave. Ardith dared to stop her, putting fingertips on a royal arm without permission.

  “I have not yet thanked you, Majesty, for your help.”

  Matilda leaned close and whispered, “You can thank me by making me a godmother.”

  Awed by the honor, Ardith watched Queen Matilda flounce out of the hall.

  “A godmother? Ardith?”

  Ardith looked up. The hope on Gerard’s face was almost too much to bear. She grabbed his hand and led him to the sitting room where Thomas’s clothes lay rolled in the corner.

  The tale burst forth like water rushing down a stream. Throughout the telling, Gerard remained silent, sitting in a chair, his hands opening and closing.

  Ardith unrolled the tunic, exposing the hose and leather lacings. “Corwin even made me wear male clothing, so I would not be recognized.”

  He took an audible breath. “Could you not have waited for me to return? Had you wanted to come to Romsey, see this nun, I would have brought you.”

  “’Twas impulsive, I know. But I did not expect you for several more days, and my need to see the nun grew so strong I could not wait.” Ardith knelt before him, grasped his hands. “I did not intend to upset you, Gerard. Forgive me?”

  “There is no harm done, I suppose.”

  “You worry overmuch, my love.”

  “Mayhap. I gather you have seen this nun.” He squeezed her hands. “Ardith, the queen said…are you—?”

  “Not yet, I think. But Sister Bernadette believes Elva may have…erred, that ‘tis possible I can bear children.”

  Gerard swept her from the floor onto his lap, and into a smothering hug. She ignored the hard rings of the hauberk.

  “Hellfire, Ardith. We could have wed years ago, if not for Elva’s blunder. Damn her for keeping you from me, for putting us through this torment. Well, no longer.”

  Ardith guessed the direction of his thoughts and sat up straight. “Gerard, wait”

  But he wasn’t listening.

  “We will have the banns read immediately,” he continued. “I will find a priest. I can send for Father Dominic from Wilmont if need be. We can be wed by month’s end.”

  “Gerard, the king, the betrothal decree.”

  “Henry can take his decree and—”

  Her hand covered his mouth before he uttered words he would later regret Sweet Mother, the man could be mulish. She understood, his feelings, wanted the marriage to take place with all haste as much as, if not more than, Gerard. But ignoring the decree could only mean trouble.

  She said pointedly, “You need King Henry’s consent to marry, whether me or another. At the least, you must tell him of my visit here, petition him to set aside the decree.”

  He glared. She removed her hand from his mouth.

  “It vexes me sorely to once again await Henry’s justice, to take no action while Henry—”

  “But you can take action.”

  “What?”

  “You could double your efforts to satisfy the decree. Then no matter what Henry thinks…Gerard, what are you doing? Not now! We are in an abbey, for mercy’s sake. Do not tear the robe—’tis not mine. Gerard!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ardith sat on a boulder on the hillside, a letter from Queen Matilda in her hands. The queen wrote often, of Ursula, of Judith, of happenings at court. Matilda held hope for Ursula, but changing beliefs of a lifetime required time and patience. Always, before scrawling her name in closing, Matilda asked the same question.

  This time, Ardith would answer. Late, by two weeks.

  Gerard knew. His sidelong glances, his subtle steering of conversations, his gentleness, all indicated he knew. Yet he said nothing. His patience, however, was thinning.

  Elva knew, too. Ardith couldn’t mistake the anger and sorrow always present in her aunt’s eyes.

  Elva had lied. Since returning from the abbey, Ardith hadn’t confronted her aunt, but suspecting continued treachery, refused all food and drink from her aunt’s hand. Elva’s stunned, nearly panicked reaction convinced Ardith of Elva’s initial deceit, and her continuing endeavor to prevent conception by use of potions. The betrayal hurt.

  If anyone else suspected, none dared jinx the possible pregnancy by saying the words aloud. She’d been late before, then bled.

  But never this late.

  Ardith looked up to watch Daymon chase the lambs that more often sidled up to their mothers than played with the tot. Spring had arrived with the birth of the lambs. Sunshine had signaled the flowers to bloom and the trees to leaf.

  The season’s promise of new life nettled.

  Pip swung Daymon onto a ewe’s back. The boy squealed with delight. The ewe bleated a protest. Of everyone, only Daymon seemed unaware of the swelling tension in the manor, some of it caused by speculation over her condition, some not.

  King Henry hadn’t answered Gerard’s petition to set aside the betrothal decree, nor had Henry sent word on Basil’s whereabouts. Stephen impatiently waited for Gerard to release him to oversee his new holdings. Corwin served the double stands of guard duty Gerard had assigned as punishment for taking Ardith to Romsey. Richard wore out the soldiers with constant bouts of swordplay, determined to regain all his strength—or at least enough to beat Gerard. Elva’s surly mood had provoked Gerard beyond tolerance and he’d ordered her out of the manor, into a hovel.

  As Pip, carrying Daymon, sauntered toward Ardith, she folded the queen’s letter and slipped it into her boot.

  “Here y’go, little one,” Pip said, plopping Daymon onto Ardith’s lap. “His eyes, milady, they droop.”

  “So they do,” Ardith agreed, smiling down at Daymon.

  Dirt smudged his cheeks and sweat-dampened hair hung close to sleepy eyes. He reeked of sheep. His thumb found his mouth as he snuggled into a comfortable position, his head on her shoulder, his pudgy legs wrapped around her waist.

  “Mayhap I should car
ry him down,” Pip suggested.

  “My thanks for the offer, Pip, but I can manage. Besides, you have a flock to tend.”

  “Aye, and a lamb to find. One of the little buggers has wandered off.”

  “Then find it, by all means. We both know how the baron prizes his sheep. We must not let one get away.”

  Pip rolled his eyes at the jest Ardith laughed, then shifted Daymon and started down the hill toward the manor, where Wilmont’s soldiers were again erecting buildings: a shed for shearing sheep and storing fleece, another privy, a smithy. Someday, Gerard had decided, this holding would belong to Daymon, under Pip’s stewardship.

  As she reached the bottom of the hill, she heard an odd sound coming from the woods. She stopped to listen. Birds sang, calling to mates as they hurried to build nests. A squirrel chattered at some intruder.

  Then she heard the lamb. A plaintive cry for help. She looked up the hill but didn’t see Pip.

  “Shall we go lamb hunting?” she asked Daymon.

  Daymon didn’t answer, having fallen asleep. Ardith followed the lamb’s call.

  Daymon’s deadweight strained her arms. Balancing him as she ducked under low hanging limbs proved taxing. She nearly tripped on the hem of her cloak. Yet she doggedly plodded on, directed by the lamb whose cry grew louder and more pitiful. It had to be trapped somewhere, entangled in the underbrush or down a hole.

  “Hush!” Ardith heard Elva’s command above the cries. “’Twill be only a moment now. Hush.”

  Elva? Had she also heard the lamb and gone to its rescue? Ardith opened her mouth to call out, then didn’t, paying heed to the prickle of hair on the back of her neck. She looked around, spotted a patch of long grass and gently eased Daymon into nature’s cradle, then quietly moved toward the clearing ahead, sure she would find Elva and the lamb.

  At the edge of the clearing, Ardith stopped, momentarily confused by what she observed. Atop a flat-topped boulder lay the lamb, struggling against the rope binding its legs. Elva knelt before the rock, her head thrown back, her arms stretched skyward, muttering guttural words Ardith didn’t understand. Flames shimmered on the candles on the forest floor, encircling woman and lamb.

  A pagan ritual. A sacrifice. A requirement for asking a favor from the ancient gods. Ardith put a hand over her stomach, suddenly realizing why Elva intended to kill the lamb.

  “Elva, stop.” The words came out choked. Elva either didn’t hear or purposely ignored the command. She reached down into the grass near her knees and pulled up a butchering knife.

  Ardith screamed her aunt’s name. Elva jerked and the chanting ceased, but she didn’t turn.

  “I will never forgive you,” Ardith swore. “Do you hear me? If you persist, I will never forgive you, never speak to you again.”

  Elva resumed chanting, her voice now loud, the eerie words echoing in the woodland clearing. The knife rose higher.

  Ardith ran toward her aunt, kicking over and snuffing out candles. “I have spoiled your circle. The gods will not hear. The sacrifice is in vain. Put down the knife.”

  Elva’s face twisted in anguish, huge tears running down her cheeks. “Baron Wilmont would steal you from me again. I cannot let that happen!”

  “I am here. No one steals me away.”

  “He did! Wilmont beast. Spawn of Satan. He took you from me at birth, said you were dead. Lies, all lies. ‘Twas a miracle I got my baby back. Wilmont shall not have you again!”

  Ardith tried to make sense of the prattle of beasts and the absurd notion that Elva could be her mother. True, Elva had been like a mother to her after her own had died, but Ardith had heard too many stories of the day she and Corwin had been born to doubt her parentage.

  Those many years ago, when Elva had been a young woman serving as hostage to Wilmont, had she given birth to a girl child? What had happened to the baby? Had it died? Who had been the father? The first baron, Gerard’s grandfather? Was this why Elva hated every male of Wilmont heritage with such passion?

  Elva’s upraised arm trembled. Relying only on instinct and intuition, Ardith knelt beside her aunt and gently touched the shoulder of the knife-bearing arm.

  “Elva, dearest, this lamb need not die. Listen as he calls to his mother. Can you not hear the ewe, calling out to her babe? Would you deprive the mother of her child?”

  The upraised arm lowered slightly. Ardith deftly snatched the knife from Elva’s grasp. With a quick flip of the wrist, Ardith cut the rope binding the lamb’s legs. Shaking, the lamb stood on the flat-topped rock, then leaped off. Ardith put the knife on the ground.

  Elva rocked slowly on her knees, keening.

  Ardith wrapped her arms around Elva, making hushing noises as one would soothe a child. If everything she suspected was true, Elva’s mind had taken a strange twist, confusing two parts of her life. And now Ardith was involved with a baron of Wilmont, and Elva feared a repeat of the past.

  How sad. How horrible. And now that Ardith knew, what could she do? She couldn’t change the past. She couldn’t heal Elva’s mind, but she might give Elva peace.

  She pushed away gently. “Elva, you must make me a promise. You must help me bring my child into the world, a child of Wilmont and Lenvil.”

  Elva’s eyes went wide.

  Ardith hurriedly continued. “You knew I would bear this child. Has not fate decreed this child should be born?”

  “The bones,” Elva said softly.

  “Aye, the bones,” Ardith encouraged. “Do we, mere mortals, dare alter the will of the gods? What punishment will they inflict if we interfere? Who knows what they intend for this child of mixed blood, of Saxon and Norman?”

  “Revenge?”

  Ardith sighed at the hopeful look on Elva’s face. “Your promise, Elva. If you wish to stay with me, you must promise to let fate run its course. You must not interfere.”

  Elva’s head bobbed. Ardith settled for the vague agreement.

  * * *

  From a seat at the table, Gerard shouted at the king’s messenger. “What the devil is Basil doing in Manchester?”

  “By all reports, Basil of Northbryre is trying to raise an army, not only against you, but King Henry. His efforts met with little success, my lord.”

  Of course, Gerard inwardly scoffed. His fellow barons might shelter Basil, might listen to his plans, might wish the man well and neglect to inform Henry of Basil’s treason. The Norman barons were a disgruntled lot, but they weren’t fools, and wouldn’t rally to a man as reckless as Basil.

  “Is Basil still near Manchester?”

  “We believe so, my lord. You are granted the privilege of capturing Basil. King Henry requires only that you bring Basil back to London. Alive.”

  “Alive?” Gerard roared.

  The messenger took a step backward. “Aye, my lord.”

  “Do not bite the messenger, Gerard,” Ardith said softly, placing a hand on his arm. “He only repeats Henry’s command.”

  Gerard scowled, and dismissed the young man.

  Then he grabbed Ardith’s hand. “Walk with me,” he said, and led Ardith out of the manor.

  He sauntered up the hillside, deferring to Ardith’s short stride—and her delicate condition. She hadn’t confirmed his suspicions yet, but he could count weeks. She’d now missed a second monthly flow.

  At the top of the hill, he eased onto the ground, settling his back against a tree. Ardith curled against him. As always, he could smell her unique scent—wildflowers and sunshine—sweet and alluring. The heat of her body penetrated his sherte, awakening the desire that lurked just under his skin, stirring whenever Ardith was close.

  He wanted to make love to her, he wanted to shake her. Why hadn’t she said the words that would seal their future?

  “You surprise me, Gerard. I expected you to jump up from the table shouting orders.”

  “I have not yet decided what orders to give.”

  Eyes, pools of shimmering blue, narrowed in confusion. “You do intend to search for Basil,�
� she stated, then cocked her head. “Yet you hesitate. Why so?”

  “I have yet to decide what to do with you. If my mother were not at Romsey with the queen, I would take you there.”

  “There is no need for me to go anywhere. Really, Gerard you worry overmuch. I will be quite safe and content here. Go, catch Basil, deliver him to Henry, then return to me.”

  “So simple.”

  Her easy smile preceded soft laughter. “I have heard the stories your men-at-arms tell. If they speak true, you are a knight of unequaled skill, a cunning tactician, a leader they would follow into the most dire of battles. Even if they stretch the truth, you are still a man to be reckoned with. You can do whatever you set your mind to, Gerard.”

  “Can I?” He touched her cheek. So soft, Ardith’s skin. “I set my mind and my body to siring a child, Ardith. Have I succeeded?”

  Her smile faded. “I fear to say it aloud,” she said.

  Joy welled up, flowed, threatened to overwhelm his senses. If not for the anguish in Ardith’s voice he might have shouted his happiness. Why wasn’t she pleased? Why wasn’t she dancing on air, singing with glee, planning a wedding?

  Unless she wasn’t sure, or something was very wrong.

  “Ardith, are you well?”

  “Too well.”

  “How can one be too well?”

  “Look at my face, Gerard. Do you see a sallowness of skin or a darkening about the eyes? Nay, you do not.” She removed her boots, pulled up her gown. “My ankles, they do not swell, not a mite. See?”

  Gerard wrapped a hand around the dainty ankle she plopped onto his leg. “I see.” He saw more—pretty feet, a shapely calf. His hand traveled the path.

  “I am not ill of a morning. I do not tire easily. My breasts are not tender.”

  “Do you intend to bare those for me, too?”

  “Gerard, be serious. I am frightened.”

  His roving hand stopped at her knee. “Of what?”

  “That my body gives false signs. My monthly has stopped but no other changes happen.”

  “You are supposed to be dark eyed, and ill and tired?”

  “Perhaps not all, but every woman has an ailment or two when carrying.”