SHARI ANTON
prefers to spend her free time at Civil War encampments, medieval fairs or pioneer cemeteries rather than doing housework. Her husband doesn’t mind tagging along to any historical site she wants to visit—if they can take the Harleys to get there! She is also a member of RWA and Wisconsin Romance Writers of America (WisRWA).
The mother of two grown children and one grandchild, Shari lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her husband and a very spoiled golden retriever.
Shari would love to hear from you. You can write to her at: P.O. Box 510611, New Berlin, WI 53151-0611.
To my parents Richard & Ramona Foley Loveya!!
England, 1101
’Tis not fair! Ardith pouted to herself, for there was no one else in the room to hear her complaint.
From her pallet in the sleeping chamber, she could hear the sounds of a feast coming from the common room, where her family and their guests celebrated the heroism of Corwin, Ardith’s twelve-year-old twin brother. She didn’t begrudge Corwin the tribute. After all, Corwin had saved her life.
For the past week she’d suffered the pain of her wound, lain on her pallet and sipped potions of mead and herbs. She longed for a meal of substance, craving a slice of the boar that had gored her before perishing under Corwin’s sword.
Crossing an arm over the bandage wrapped around her middle, she ignored the pain of rising to her feet. She shuffled across the chamber to fetch a woolen mantle to cover her night rail. Thus clad she couldn’t join the feast, but if she held to the shadows she might secretly hail Corwin to fetch her a piece of that beast.
Ardith stepped lightly over the earthen floor strewed with rushes, passed by the black-iron candle stand until she stood under the arch separating the two rooms of the manor. She hugged the timber wall as she crept between the arch and the tapestry that hung in the corner of the common room.
Safely in her hiding place, she peeked around the dusty tapestry, pinching her nose so she wouldn’t sneeze. Serving wenches were clearing away the used bread trenchers. Soon they would remove the remains of the boar.
At the raised dais beyond the central fire pit, her father, Harold, lord of Lenvil, rose from his stool to signal the end of the feast. Beside Father stood Baron Everart, Lenvil’s Norman liege lord, resplendent in robes of black wool trimmed with glittering gems. A pace apart from the baron stood a black-haired boy, similarly attired. Since the boy seemed near her own age, Ardith assumed he must be Stephen, the baron’s younger son. She knew that somewhere in the crowd was the elder son, Gerard, Baron Everart’s heir.
She supposed she owed the baron a word of thanks. If he hadn’t shown favor to Corwin, and allowed her brother to spend most of the summer at Wilmont, where he’d learned to use a sword with skill, both she and Corwin might be dead now.
Two wenches reached for the meat platter. Ardith glanced about for Corwin, but she didn’t see her brother. Intent on silently hailing the serving girls, Ardith took a step. But before she could sneak from behind the tapestry, she heard male voices that became louder as the men approached her hiding place. She scrunched down into the corner, hoping they would pass by quickly.
“I spoke with King William,” Baron Everart said. “He questioned my decision but approved.”
“You humble me with your offer, Baron,” her father replied. “You could do better for your son than the fifth daughter of a Saxon vassal.”
“So thought the king, but Ardith is my choice. What say you to a betrothal bargain, Harold?”
Father sighed. “I regret, my lord, that I must refuse. The chit has done herself an injury and is…damaged.”
As the men passed out of hearing, Ardith shook with the realization that Baron Everart had offered a betrothal between herself and one of his sons. And Father refused!
Done myself an injury? Damaged?
She lightly touched her sore midsection. She would forever wear a scar across her belly. Did a scar make her damaged, lessen her value in marriage?
Suddenly, candle glow flooded the corner. A male hand had pushed aside the tapestry.
“And who have we here?” came a mellow voice, the English words laced with the fluid accent of Norman French.
Ardith looked up into green eyes, as green and bright as spring leaves. No longer a boy, but not quite a man, the Norman noble was strikingly handsome. His hair, in flaxen waves, hung to his shoulders in Saxon fashion, banded by a circlet of gold.
He stood tall and slender, his form adorned by a white linen sherte covered by a calf-length dalmatica of deep blue. Bands of vine-patterned red and gold embroidery trimmed the tuniclike garment’s neckline and sleeves. A girdle of woven gold circled his trim waist.
Kind, she read his expression, and prayed her judgment sound. Norman nobles were often cruel to Saxon underlings—or so Elva, her father’s sister, professed. This Norman must be Gerard, the heir to Wilmont.
“My lord,” she said. Clutching night rail and mantle, she gingerly rose and attempted a curtsy. Dizziness assailed her as she bowed her head. Gerard’s strong hands gripped her arms and saved her from falling.
He looked her over, from head to toe, and back again. His inspection ended at her face. He stared into her eyes.
“You must be Ardith, Corwin’s twin. Your eyes are the same startling blue.” He frowned. “I was told you were sore wounded and confined to your pallet. Why do you lurk behind the tapestry?”
Embarrassment crept on to her cheeks as she realized the foolishness of her actions. Father would be furious if he heard of the incident. Punishment would be swift and severe.
She tried to push away. Gerard’s fingers tightened.
Holding back tears of frustration, she said, “I wanted a hearty slice of that wretched boar.”
His expression softened. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “The boar that wounded you?” he asked. At her nod, he said, “I will order it so. Now come, back to your pallet with you.”
Deftly swept from her feet, firmly cradled in Gerard’s arms, Ardith protested, “I can walk, my lord.”
“Mayhap, my little lady, but you will not. Your strength begins to desert you.”
As he strode toward the sleeping chamber, Ardith couldn’t help wonder if Gerard might, one day, have been her husband. He was so strong, so handsome, and the heir to a title—the fulfillment of every maiden’s dreams. For which son had the baron asked for the betrothal bargain, Gerard or Stephen? Not that it mattered, now. Father considered her damaged somehow, unfit for either Norman lordling.
“Ardith, you little scamp! What have you been up to?” Elva scolded, following them into the chamber. Hands on ample hips, Elva looked ready for battle. Unable to abide another humiliation, Ardith buried her face in Gerard’s shoulder, praying that Elva would refrain from further scolding until Gerard left the chamber.
“Who is the Harpy?” Gerard asked softly as he lowered her slowly, gently, onto her pallet.
“Elva, my father’s sister.”
“And