As the door slammed behind his mother, Gerard wondered why she still had the power to affect him. He should be immune to her curses, having heard throughout his life of how he would burn for eternity for one reason or another.
Then he brightened. With estate business resolved, he now had time to do what he’d ached to do since returning from Normandy—spend time with his son.
Gerard found Daymon in the hall, stacking pieces of wood as a nursemaid looked on. Gerard approached slowly, waiting for Daymon to sense his presence and make the first approach. Too often Gerard had returned from a long absence to sweep Daymon up, only to learn from his son’s screams that young children possessed short memories.
When his son didn’t look up, Gerard quietly asked the nursemaid, “How fares my boy?”
“Well, my lord, except he misses Baron Everart terribly. Daymon is too young to understand death. He only knows his favorite playmate no longer comes.”
Gerard smiled sadly, feeling the same pang of loss.
“He seems healthy enough,” he commented, noting chubby cheeks, bright eyes and a sure grip of fingers around wood.
Then Daymon turned to stare upward. Gerard saw the boy’s mother in his face. If she’d lived through childbirth, he’d have given her a hut in the village, might even have found her a husband. Gerard hadn’t loved the peasant girl, only found her winsome and responsive.
But he loved his son.
Gerard scrunched nearly to kneeling as Daymon continued to stare, yearning to reach out to the boy, but he waited. Then a smile touched Daymon’s mouth. Recognition lighted green eyes and little arms reached upward.
Scooping the boy from the floor, Gerard gave Daymon a hug. The boy clung, squeezing tight with both arms and legs. Daymon’s obvious need stung Gerard’s heart. The boy hadn’t known his mother, had recently lost his grandfather, and now his father was about to leave again. Daymon had no one else, besides nursemaids, to whom he could turn for affection.
Gerard inwardly winced, facing the inevitable. He must marry. He should have married years ago, for both Daymon’s sake and Wilmont’s.
His father hadn’t shirked his duty to find a bride for his eldest son. Gerard vaguely remembered talk of a marriage contract to the daughter of another baron, but the girl hadn’t survived childhood. Several years later, Father had bargained for another maiden, but for some reason that betrothal hadn’t come about.
Any number of females would vie for the honor of becoming mistress of Wilmont. The woman he settled on must be of good blood, and able to run a household. She needn’t possess flawless beauty or a large dowry, though he wouldn’t mind a comely wife or additional funds or land.
More important to him than wealth or beauty was that his wife be capable of affection. He most definitely wanted a mate who wouldn’t balk at sharing the marriage bed and producing heirs. He didn’t need love—the emotion having no place in a good marriage contract—merely the woman’s acceptance of her place in his life.
Gerard raised Daymon to arm’s length into the air and smiled at the boy’s delighted squeal.
Acceptance. Was there a woman in all of England or Normandy who would willingly open her heart to Daymon, despite his bastard birth?
As Gerard lowered his son back into his arms, he saw Lady Ursula across the hall. Her glower set his resolve.
Such a woman must exist. He need only find her.
But first he would deal with Basil of Northbryre. Nothing must interfere with bringing that whoreson to his knees.
Ardith knelt on the dirt floor of the sleeping chamber. In front of her swirled the most exquisite cloth she’d ever had the pleasure to pierce with a needle. As her sister Bronwyn turned in a slow circle, the emerald silk flowed past in soft, shimmering waves.
“Halt,” Ardith ordered, then adjusted a holding stitch along the gown’s hem.
“Oh, Ardith, Kester will be so pleased,” Bronwyn stated with a breathless quality in her voice.
Ardith smiled. Bronwyn’s husband, Kester, was besotted with his wife. Knowing how much new gowns pleased Bronwyn, he sought exotic fabrics as gifts. Kester had bought this rare silk from an Italian merchant, right off the ship.
Bronwyn had then rushed to Lenvil. Though she had servants to make her gowns, Bronwyn always returned home to Ardith when she wanted something special. According to Bronwyn, this gown would make its debut at Christmas.
“If you are pleased, Kester will be delighted. Now, turn once more.” She again inspected her handiwork before declaring the session finished.
Ardith stood, flicking pieces of rushes and dirt from her brown, coarse-wool gown. Though she owned two lovely gowns—a yellow wool for winter and a light green linen for summer—she rarely wore them unless visitors were expected. For everyday chores, peasant-woven cloth served best.
She pushed aside Bronwyn’s honey-blond braid to undo the lacing on the gown. “Now, you must finish your story.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Well, as I said, King Henry sent Kester to meet the pope’s envoy. Kester met the ship at Hastings and brought the priest to overnight at our holding before going on to London.” Bronwyn slipped out of the emerald silk and donned a blue wool. She continued, “From what I hear, Pope Paschal is very angry with King Henry, to the point of threatening excommunication.”
Ardith desperately wanted to hear more of the envoy and the king. Having lived her entire ten and seven years at Lenvil, she hungered for news of life beyond the manor. But the jingle of tack and the thud of horses’ hooves cut short the conversation.
“Father has returned earlier than I expected,” Ardith remarked. “No doubt his leg hurts and he cut his inspection short. Would you fetch him a goblet of warm wine? The brew usually eases his pain.”
“How do you bear the grouch?” Bronwyn asked, placing a veil of sheer blue linen over her hair, securing it with a silver circlet.
Ardith shrugged. “’Tis the change of season affecting his mood. Once winter sets in and he stays off his leg, Father’s temper will improve.”
“Why does he bother to inspect the fields once the harvest is in? Heavens, why would anyone want to look at nothing but clots of dirt? You could tell him which fields to plant next spring and which to leave fallow.” Bronwyn suddenly smiled. “Ah, I see. Father thinks he decides on his own, does he?”
“Nor will I have him think otherwise,” Ardith warned.
“As you wish, but do not leave me alone with him overlong. He will ramble on about oats and cabbages.” With a sigh, Bronwyn turned and left the chamber.
Shaking her head in amusement, Ardith gathered up thread and needle and scraps of cloth, thinking of how different her life was from that of her sisters. One by one the girls had left home. Edith had entered the convent; the others had all married. By default, Ardith became the lady of the manor, if not in title, in practice. Someday, Corwin would marry and bring his bride to Lenvil. But since neither Harold nor Corwin appeared eager for that event, her place at Lenvil was secure for a while longer.
For forever, Ardith hoped, and to ensure her place she’d studied Elva’s herb lore. She’d learned which herbs soothed a roiling stomach, which numbed an aching tooth, how to mix powders for headaches and salves for burns. She could poultice a wound and even act as midwife.
Surely Corwin would allow her to stay