By King's Decree

by Shari Anton

  “So until some ailment appears, you are not sure if we have fulfilled the decree.”

  Her sigh eloquently answered.

  “Damn Basil,” he said. “He could have waited another week or two to surface. I dislike leaving you now, my love.”

  “But go you must.”

  Torn between the need to vanquish his enemy and the desire to remain with Ardith, Gerard gathered her onto his lap. He thought of taking her along, then dismissed the notion. The march to Manchester would be fast and hard, difficult for soldiers, hazardous for a woman with child.

  “Go I must,” he relented.

  Two days after Gerard’s departure, Ardith couldn’t stand the thought of breaking fast, much less the smell or sight of food. She fell asleep at table at midday meal.

  She wrote to the queen, pouring out her joy.

  “Fire! Fire in the armory!”

  Ardith tossed the coverlet aside and pulled on her boots. She checked Daymon, asleep in his nest of furs, then pushed aside the curtain that separated sleeping space from hall.

  Stephen had risen, pulled on a tunic and boots. Yawning, he ran a hand through his hair. “Go back to sleep, Ardith. Some fool probably got drunk and dropped a torch.”

  “I should do something to help.”

  “I would rather you stay inside and keep Daymon from getting underfoot. Gerard would have my head if somebody stepped on him or doused him with a bucket of water.”

  A bit woozy from rising so fast, Ardith agreed.

  Stephen flashed a smile. “You look a bit green, Ardith.”

  She smiled back. “Hush, or I will tell Gerard how you have mistreated me.”

  Laughing, he went out the door.

  The sun wouldn’t rise for an hour yet, but wide-awake, she wouldn’t be able to sleep until Stephen returned with the story of the fire. And fires always meant burns, no matter how small the fire or how careful the men. They would need her salves.

  Still smiling at Stephen’s jest, she wished again that Gerard would hurry back.

  Gerard had taken Richard with him, to track Basil, and Corwin, whom Gerard considered too easily swayed by Ardith’s whims, and several of his soldiers. Stephen grumbled at being left behind, but Ardith was glad of his company. He slept in the manor on Thomas’s usual pallet. He watched over her and Daymon with a doggedness that sometimes put her teeth on edge.

  Ardith peeked out the door of the manor. Flame blazed skyward from the far end of the armory. Men shouted above the crackle of fire consuming wood, passing buckets of water along a human line from the well. The stabled horses, though not endangered, sensed the threat and voiced their fear. A warm breeze ruffled around her, carrying the tang of smoke to eyes and nose. She shut the door.

  Intending to change from her night rail into a gown and dig out the salve, Ardith padded into the sleeping area. Next to the pallet she shared with Gerard, she knelt to open a chest.

  The manor door opened, closed. Ardith grabbed the tin of salve and closed the lid. The drapery parted. Expecting Stephen, Ardith turned.

  Before the fur coverlet came down over her head, knocking her off balance, she identified her assailant. Edward Siefeld. Basil’s mercenary captain. The man who’d nearly killed Richard in Normandy, who’d stood before the king dressed all in black.

  Her heart raced. She tried to scream, but even in her panic realized the effort useless. No one would hear. Her breathing became harsh and labored. Fight! She pushed at the fur. Strong arms came around her, pinning her arms to her sides, lifting. She kicked wildly. Her boot connected with something solid, a piece of Siefeld’s body, she hoped.

  “Be still or we kill the boy!” Siefeld’s harshly spoken command pierced through the smothering fur, through the terror scrambling her senses.

  Daymon! Oh, God. Ardith’s body went limp.

  “Do we take the boy?” a male voice asked.

  “Aye. Wilmont’s whore and bastard. A good day’s loot.”

  “No!” Ardith yelled, twisting in Siefeld’s arms.

  “Handle him gently,” Siefeld added. “If he remains asleep he won’t cry out”

  They moved out of the sleeping area. The manor door squealed on its hinges.

  “Stephen!” she screamed.

  There was a bloodcurdling cry of outrage, a crash.

  “Damn. Here, watch her,” Siefeld said, putting her on her feet. Ardith felt a second burly arm tighten around her. During the transfer, the fur slid off her face. She glanced around quickly. Hope died a swift death.

  Two men stood in the center of the hall, swords drawn and pointing downward to where Stephen lay on the floor, propped on an elbow in a tangle of table and benches.

  Siefeld drew his sword, loomed over Stephen. “Get a rope. Tie and gag him,” he ordered one man, then told the other, “Close the door. See if anyone follows.”

  “Gerard won’t let this go unpunished,” Stephen rasped. “Be prepared to die a slow, painful death, Siefeld. You’ll see your guts fall to the ground before you see the gates of hell.”

  At a twist of Siefeld’s wrist, the tip of his sword nicked Stephen’s chin, drawing blood. Stephen smiled, an evil smile Ardith hadn’t thought him capable of.

  “Think of it, Siefeld. First your fingers, joint by joint, then your toes. He will save your eyes and ears for last, so you see each piece fall, hear yourself scream for mercy.”

  The sword took another bite, this one from Stephen’s ear. Stephen never moved, never cried out, only smiled that feral smile. Ardith shuddered.

  “He came alone, Captain. No one followed.”

  “Excellent. Help with the ropes.”

  With the speed of a striking snake, Stephen lunged for Siefeld’s knees. Ardith watched in horror as the sword sliced into Stephen’s shoulder. Momentum carried Stephen forward. He knocked Siefeld over. The sword flew from Siefeld’s hand. Amid splintering wood and splattering blood the two men rolled in a vicious embrace.

  Suddenly remembering the dagger hidden inside her boot, Ardith struggled against her captor. If Stephen could fight, so could she. If she could reach her dagger…

  “Be still. Remember the boy,” her captor said harshly.

  Ardith bit her lower lip and obeyed. She silently prayed, urging Stephen onward, but the odds were against him.

  Siefeld’s men joined the fray, pinning Stephen to the ground, binding his hands and feet even as Stephen clawed and kicked. They rolled him off Siefeld, then trussed him like a boar readied for spit. Stephen panted, but so did Siefeld. Ardith silently approved of Siefeld’s split lower lip, of the eye already turning dark and puffy, the sway in his step from an obviously injured leg.

  “I will let you live, pup,” Siefeld said as his underling stuffed a cloth in Stephen’s mouth. “’Twill save me the trouble of sending a messenger. Tell your brother that Basil requires a ship, readied to sail for Normandy. Two weeks. Portsmouth. If Gerard complies, he gets his whore and bastard back whole. If not…”

  Siefeld didn’t state the gruesome consequences, but Ardith understood. So, she guessed, did Stephen.

  “Ardith! Ardith! I am coming, baby. I am coming!”

  Recognizing Elva’s voice, Ardith’s heart sank to her toes.

  The manor door banged open. Elva ran into the hall, a butchering knife raised above her head.

  “Elva, no! Stop!”

  But Elva didn’t hear. She ran straight at Edward Siefeld.

  Siefeld raised his sword.

  “She is but an old woman! Do not hurt her, please!” Ardith begged.

  She saw the flicker of willingness on Siefeld’s face, but Elva gave him no choice. Shrieking like a banshee, Elva raced to her doom.

  Ardith closed her eyes tightly and turned her head. She heard the scrape of metal against bone, the gurgle of blood in Elva’s throat, the thump of a body hitting the floor.

  “Out. Now!” Siefeld commanded.

  Ardith’s captor pushed her forward. She forced her eyes open, blinking away tears. She merely gl
anced at Elva, crumpled at Siefeld’s feet, refusing to look at the horror too closely.

  But her gaze locked with Stephen’s.

  In his green, glittering eyes, she found what she looked for—a promise. A promise of rescue, and revenge.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Thought I might find you out here,” Richard said smugly. “You are fond of watching the sun rise, of late.”

  Gerard almost smiled at his brother’s attempt to explain an inability to sleep. For more than a week they’d searched for Basil, beginning in Manchester. They’d questioned peasants, serfs, merchants and nobles—two of the latter at sword point. South, all had directed.

  The farther Gerard traveled, the closer he came to capturing Basil, the harder it became to sleep. The longer away from Ardith, from the warmth and comfort of her arms and voice, the more impossible to remain curled on a pallet.

  “He is out there, Richard, but where? Who shelters him? Will he find someone willing to aid his revolt?”

  “He has not thus far, nor will he, I think. From what we have heard, he is becoming desperate. He knows the king’s men are after him, might even suspect we are, too. Desperate men make stupid mistakes, and Basil is not the smartest of men, nor is he the bravest. He will blunder, and then we will have him.”

  “We will ride into Oxford this morning. Mayhap Basil will be there.”

  Richard shrugged. “He has not yet left the roads. ‘Tis likely he has, at least, passed through the city.”

  As rays of sun brightened the horizon, Gerard turned toward the sound of someone crashing through the brush. Corwin burst through, his eyes wide, sweat trickling down his face.

  “Hellfire, Corwin, what—”

  Grabbing Gerard’s sleeve, Corwin choked out, “I thought it a dream, a nightmare, but the terror clings like a shroud.” Corwin raised his trembling hands, stared at them. “The distance, ‘tis so far, but I cannot stop shaking. I cannot.”

  Corwin swallowed hard, struggling for composure. Gerard’s gut twisted. He clamped on to Corwin’s arms and shook him.

  “Get hold of yourself, man! What frightens you?”

  Just above a whisper, Corwin said, “Ardith. I can feel my twin’s terror as though it were my own.”

  “Is Ardith hurt?”

  “I feel no pain, only fright.”

  “Of what?”

  “I know not. Gerard, please, I must return.”

  Gerard stared at Corwin, unsure of what to do, remembering the jolt of pain Ardith had felt when Corwin bruised his leg. She’d nearly fallen, yet Corwin’s injury hadn’t been serious. Was Corwin overreacting?

  “Corwin, maybe she just—”

  “Look at me!” Corwin snapped, wiping away sweat with unsteady hands. “We are leagues apart, yet the demons of hell snap at my heels. Damn it, Gerard, she is not frightened, she is terrified!”

  If Ardith felt terror, she feared for the babe Gerard was sure she carried, not for herself. Only for Ardith, for their child, would he postpone a confrontation with Basil.

  Gerard squeezed Corwin’s arms. “Then saddle our horses. If we ride hard, we can reach Ardith by midday.”

  Corwin turned on his heel and ran toward the horses.

  “Gerard?”

  Confusion and questions flickered across Richard’s face. Explanations would take too much time.

  “Find Basil for me, Richard. Hold him until I return.”

  * * *

  “Siefeld must have started the fire as a diversion,” Stephen said. “It worked. While everyone strove to put out the flames, he and his men entered the manor. I am sorry, Gerard. I should not have left them alone.”

  Gerard picked up the goblet of ale, wanting to throw it across the room. Realizing the futility of the action, he took a long pull from the vessel, then put it down.

  Corwin sat next to him, arms crossed on the table, chin resting on arms. He hadn’t said a word since they’d met the messenger on the road whom Stephen had sent to find Gerard.

  Stephen sat in a despondent slump, guilt etched in his face. Gerard saw the evidence of Stephen’s fight to thwart the kidnapping—the sword cuts on chin and ear, the shoulder swathed in bandaging. Stephen had fought Siefeld, and failed. So had Elva. Three fresh graves dotted the burial grounds—Elva and two men-at-arms from the night watch.

  Gerard’s fury rose as he imagined the predawn scene. The fire that had almost destroyed the armory. People scurrying to douse the flames. Stephen taunting then attacking Siefeld. Elva flying at Ardith’s kidnappers armed with only a knife.

  He closed his eyes against the sight of Daymon, bundled in furs, whimpering and helpless in the arms of a mercenary. Gerard vowed that for whatever harm befell his son, Siefeld would suffer tenfold.

  And Ardith. Ye gods, Ardith. Her terror had traveled leagues to affect Corwin. For daring to use Ardith in his scheme, Basil would die. For Ardith’s pain and fright, the villain would die slowly.

  Gerard placed the blame for Ardith’s danger squarely upon his own shoulders. She’d placed her trust and love into his keeping, and he’d failed her.

  “Gerard?” Stephen said softly. “When do we leave?”

  Gerard didn’t spare Stephen the edge of his tongue. “For where? We assume Siefeld left in the same direction he came from, but for where?”

  “Portsmouth?”

  “Not likely. Basil expects a ship waiting in the port in a sennight, but he will not go there until he is ready to sail, not if he values his skin. More likely he hides somewhere.”

  Corwin cleared his throat. “Gerard, if you were Basil, sought for crimes against the crown, with no powerful friends, with no funds, where would you go?”

  The answer came instantly, stunning Gerard. “Home. I would go to Wilmont, to gather whatever resources I could to either fight or take with me into exile.”

  Bits of a plan raced through Gerard’s head. Basil had demanded a ship, readied to sail the Channel, not immediately, but in a sennight. Would Basil be obliging and do the logical? Would he hold Ardith and Daymon at Northbryre while gathering mercenaries and funds?

  “Stephen, when you and Corwin inspected Northbryre for me, how did you find the people? Were they loyal to Basil? Would they fight for him?”

  “The people feared him. They were pleased to hear Wilmont now controlled the lands, especially the men-at-arms. I assured those who had not already fled that Wilmont would take them into service if they pledged loyalty.”

  “Then I think it time I accepted those pledges and inspected my Hampshire holdings.

  “Get out,” Siefeld ordered.

  Ardith gladly complied, holding out a helping hand to Daymon as she scrambled out of the hay wagon. After a day and a half of travel, entertaining an increasingly restless toddler, stopping only for hurried meals and to relieve bodily discomforts, she would happily burn the wagon to ashes.

  She shuddered at the thought of fire. With fire, this nightmare had started.

  “Where are we?” Ardith asked.

  “Our last stop before Northbryre,” Siefeld said, glancing over his shoulder at the road just traveled. Two mercenaries stood a few feet off, hands near sword hilts, also staring at the dirt road.

  “He will come, you know,” Ardith taunted softly.

  “Stephen? His wounds will prevent his sitting a saddle. Nor does he know where we are taking you,” Siefeld scoffed.

  “You do not watch for Stephen. You watch for Gerard, and well you should.”

  Siefeld’s hand clamped on to her jaw and squeezed. Ardith refused to wince.

  “Pray he does not. Pray he goes to Portsmouth and arranges for a ship. Now take care of your needs before we resume our journey.”

  With a shove, he let go. Ardith stumbled back a step. Until now, except during the kidnapping, neither Siefeld nor his men had touched her, roughly or otherwise. However, as they drew closer to Northbryre the men’s stares became more bold, and Ardith became more aware of her state of undress, of the thin night rail she k
ept covered with the fur they’d wrapped her in during the kidnapping.

  The fur had become both a shield and a comfort. The fur smelled of Gerard, who would come for her and Daymon as soon as he could. But would Gerard come in time?

  Ardith stretched her hand toward Daymon.

  Siefeld shook his head. “Nay. The boy stays here.”

  Her captors seemed to know she wouldn’t try to escape without the boy. She’d watched for the opportunity, but the mercenaries guarded her closely.

  Ardith turned and sought privacy, feeling the weight of the dagger in her boot, hearing Daymon screech her name as she disappeared from his sight. She hurried, returning quickly to Daymon and the confines of the hay wagon.

  At sunset, the company reached what had to be Northbryre. Ardith grimaced at the disgraceful bailey and keep. Filth and decay met her eye everywhere, from the piles of waste near the stables to the crumbling stone of the keep. Peasants and serfs, bodies thin and covered in rags, walked with slumped shoulders and heads bowed.

  The earthen works surrounding the keep, however, were in good repair. Archers, arrows notched, walked the mounds.

  Ardith reluctantly got out of the wagon with Daymon in her arms. Siefeld bowed mockingly, indicating the stairway that Ardith knew led to the keep’s hall.

  “Your host awaits, milady.”

  “He can wait till sheep roost in trees, for all I care.”

  “Guard your tongue. Basil is not as sweet-tempered as I.”

  With a sweep of haughtiness, Ardith turned and marched up the stairs. She might be a prisoner here, but she wouldn’t cower. She had to be strong, for herself, for Daymon, for her unborn child.

  Ardith nearly gagged as she entered the hall. Several mangy hunting dogs loped over rotting rushes to greet the new arrivals, nearly knocking Ardith to the floor in their enthusiasm. Daymon giggled and bent toward the dogs. Ardith quickly snatched him back.

  From the raised dais beyond rickety trestle tables, came hoarse laughter. Sitting in a thronelike chair, flanked by two mercenaries, Basil of Northbryre raised a gold goblet to his lips. His eyes, beads of obsidian, narrowed and stared. A trickle of wine missed his mouth and dribbled down his chin to soak into rich robes of dark blue silk.