“Ardith! Ardith!” Elva’s shrill call interrupted.
Ardith smiled slightly. “If I am to keep your secret, my lord, I must waylay Elva.”
“Interfering old buzzard.”
She blamed Gerard’s nasty words on his sore head. She slipped through the tent flap, almost bumping into Elva.
“Oh, Ardith.” Elva sighed, nearly smothering Ardith with an embrace. “Be you all right? Did he hurt you?”
“Nay, Elva, be at ease,” Ardith soothed, gently pushing away. “The baron has no reason to do me harm.”
Elva grasped Ardith’s arms. “You must have a care, Ardith. You must beware the beast. He will tear you apart.”
The old woman’s warning of physical danger at Gerard’s hand baffled Ardith. She knew the only danger Gerard presented was to her heart, and the damage was already done.
“Come,” she said, guiding Elva back to the manor, steeling her resolve against Gerard’s prolonged visit. “Fret not The beast cannot harm what he cannot catch.”
Gerard looked on as Corwin bullied Lenvil’s guards. After a week of drills, the guards showed progress. But Corwin was still angry. Having found his birthright endangered, he challenged the soldiers to match his mastery. Though he was only ten and seven, Corwin’s skill with weapons had earned him the respect of even Wilmont’s knights.
After a long talk with Sedrick, who’d admitted a problem with his eyesight, Gerard had reserved the right to choose a new captain. Now, having tested and talked to each Lenvil soldier, Gerard still hadn’t chosen. To his mind, none was ready and he wouldn’t entrust Lenvil’s defense to a man not fully competent.
Gerard had realized, these past few days, it wasn’t Lenvil he strove to protect. The holding was a fine one and Corwin’s birthright. If the manor and village burned, the peasants and livestock scattered, the crops destroyed, the waste would raise his anger. His demand for justice would be swift against the knave who dared attack the holding.
But a manor could be rebuilt, people and cattle retrieved, crops replanted. Intolerable was the thought of Ardith’s fate should the manor fall.
Visions of lovely Ardith hovered at the edge of his mind, ethereal and subtle, but always with him. He caught himself looking for her in the yard or in the manor, listening for the sound of her voice. His enchantment grew with each passing day—and night.
As did his hunger. He couldn’t look upon Ardith without desire flooding his loins, hardening his manroot.
On the day she’d come to his tent to tend his head, he’d thought they reached an accord. But still she shunned him, as though she hadn’t gently touched his forehead and stood so close that he could feel her warmth and smell her unique scent.
Had the desire to bed Ardith been the only source of his vexation, he might have ordered her to his bed. Often he’d thought of winding her plait in his fist, dragging her into his tent and flinging her naked body down onto his furs. None would gainsay him.
Odd, how he willingly abandoned that right in order to win her favor. Winsome and eager was how he wanted Ardith. Aye, he wanted her passion, but he also wanted her affection. From Ardith he wanted more than the mere joining of bodies. She must be kept safe, because after concluding his business with Basil, Gerard intended to take Ardith as his wife.
He needed royal consent to marry, but could think of no reason why King Henry should disapprove of Ardith. Though not of noble blood, Ardith hailed from good stock. As fifth daughter she would have no dowry to speak of, but if Gerard didn’t begrudge the lack, Henry shouldn’t care. And she was Saxon, a happenstance likely to sway Henry to approve.
Gerard yearned to begin the delightful duty of siring a legal heir to Wilmont. Making babes with Ardith would be pure pleasure.
As for Daymon, Gerard was sure Ardith would lovingly accept his bastard son. Every child in the manor sought her out to soothe bumps and bandage scrapes. He strongly suspected her coddling eased their hurts more than the salves and strips of linen. She adored children, had threatened to whip Belinda over a bastard’s care.
But hellfire, why did he so want the one woman in the entire kingdom who refused to respond to the desire that flared whenever their eyes met?
Gerard turned toward the sound of a horse thundering toward the manor, his hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword. Then he recognized the messenger who rode one of Wilmont’s swiftest coursers. Foam frothed from the horse’s mouth as the courier reined to a halt.
“Baron Gerard,” the man said panting, holding out a rolled parchment. “From Walter. He bid me await your reply.”
Gerard untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. Rage blinded him for a moment as he read.
“When?” he growled at the messenger.
“Yesterday, my lord.”
Gerard crushed the message in a white-knuckled fist.
“What is amiss?” Corwin asked from beside him.
“Frederick has returned to Wilmont.”
“Has Milhurst fallen to Basil?”
“Frederick could not say because he was dead, strapped across his horse like game from the hunt. Someone killed him and led the horse near enough to Wilmont for the horse to find its way home.”
“Basil?”
“His minions, I suspect.” Gerard exploded. “Devil take him! His audacity is beyond endurance. Tell John to have the men ready to march on the morn. We leave for Westminster.”
Gerard stalked off to his tent. In quick, angry strokes he penned a message to Stephen, giving his brother permission to take whatever defensive measures he thought necessary.
After Richard’s wounding, Gerard’s first impulse had been to run a sword through Basil of Northbryre’s gullet. But King Henry’s staying hand had given Gerard time to realize that by seeking redress through the court he might gain title to Basil’s holdings without putting men on the field of battle. And by doing so, Gerard could richly reward Stephen and Richard for their loyalty without giving up any Wilmont lands.
Gerard almost hoped Basil had been stupid enough to raid Milhurst. The mistake would add weight to Gerard’s case. He shook his head at the notion. Leaving Milhurst open to attack, or not taking it back if Basil had succeeded with a raid, would be seen as weakness. Gerard added another order to Stephen’s letter, to send two knights and ten men-at-arms to Milhurst.
His mind settled on the matter, Gerard turned his attention to leaving Lenvil. He had yet to choose a captain for Lenvil’s guard. The ideal would be to leave Corwin here to handle the matter, but he needed Corwin at court.
And Ardith?
Gerard wondered what Ardith’s reaction would be when informed she was making the trip to Westminster.
“Elva, Ardith needs your help. You must come up to the manor. We leave on the morn and there is much to be done.”
“Then you help her, Bronwyn,” Elva called to the closed door of her hovel. She shook out a square of black wool and covered the small table. On the cloth she placed a treasured Celtic cross, a gift from her long-dead mother. Beside the cloth she placed a thick, tallow candle.
“Ardith wants you to take charge of the manor while she is away. She is upset about this journey. Having you at the manor in her absence would ease her mind. Please, Elva. If you do not come, she will have to place another in charge.”
Elva didn’t answer, and soon heard Bronwyn’s disgruntled huff and the shuffle of retreating footsteps.
She lit