His gray eyes went wide. “Truly? How?”
“By making you a ward of a nobleman.”
Philip expression didn’t change, not understanding. She’d never explained the ways of nobles to him. ’Twas her own fault that her son now had much to learn in a short time.
“The noble would be your protector. He would see to your training in the ways of the court and the skills of a knight. I thought to petition the king for a protector for you.”
He thought that over for a moment, then said, “Then we would have a home. We would live in the lord’s castle, and I could have a horse!”
No, not we—you.
Lucinda realized how little thought she’d given to where she would go if the king granted her petition. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She must see to Philip first without worrying about what would become of her.
Philip jumped up, his eyes shining with excitement. “Mayhap we could ask Lord Richard to be my protector!”
Naturally, Philip would think first of Richard of Wilmont, the only lord he knew, one who’d been kind to him.
“Nay, Philip. Not Richard.”
Philip mustered his courage to argue, “But why not? Is not Richard a noble lord?”
She took her confused son’s hands in hers. “He is, indeed, a noble lord, and was kind to us when we needed his aid,” she said, giving Richard his due. “He is not, however, a suitable protector for you.”
Philip pulled his hands away. He pouted. “I like him and I think he likes me. I do not see the harm in asking.”
How to explain? She took a deep breath, hoping her words would be the right ones.
“Long ago, before you were born, your father made an enemy of Everart of Wilmont, Richard’s father. Both Everart and your father are dead now, but I doubt Richard will ever forget the hatred that existed between the two families, or forgive your father for his treachery. Once Richard knows who your father was, I fear he will not like you anymore.”
“My father fought with Lord Richard?”
Basil had damn near caused Richard’s death. She nodded.
Philip was silent for a moment, then asked, “If I promised not to fight with Richard, would he like me then?”
So simple. So childlike. So impossible a solution.
“You must understand, Philip, your father was not a nice man. He inflicted great suffering on the family of Wilmont, and as fine a man as Richard is, we cannot expect him to ignore that you are his enemy’s son.”
Or that I was his enemy’s wife.
“Never have you told me anything of my father. I do not even know his name,” Philip accused.
“His name was Basil of Northbryre. I did not tell you of him because…” She faltered. She’d been about to tell her son a lie. She hadn’t spoken to Philip about Basil, not to spare her son pain, but to spare herself. “…because I wished to forget that he existed. That was wrong of me. I should have told you of him, and I will. You have my promise.”
Brother Ambrose returned. “You will be pleased to hear that private lodgings are available. The abbot sends his thanks for your kind gift. He will keep you in his prayers.”
A fine sentiment. Likely she would need all of the divine intervention she could get over the next few days.
“Philip, see to your pack,” she said, picking up her own bundle that contained her one unstained gown and a few coins.
The monk turned to lead them out of the room. Lucinda stopped him.
“Brother Ambrose, I have but one more request. I should like to have a message sent to the palace.”
The monk’s eyes widened. “A message?”
She ignored his incredulity. “To King Henry.”
His eyes widened farther. “What is the message?”
“Lucinda of Northbryre wishes an audience with His Majesty.”
The monk’s jaw dropped. “Indeed.”
“Can the message be delivered within the hour?”
He regained his poise. “Aye, my lady, I will see it done. Now, if you will follow me, I will show you to your lodgings.”
Taking Philip’s hand, Lucinda followed as bid, wondering if she’d given away the mule too soon. All of her plans depended upon the king’s willingness to hear her petition, and upon how much, after three years, Henry still detested Basil.
If the king refused to see her or denied her petition, within two days she and Philip would again be searching for a hiding place, a refuge to call home.
Richard leaned against one of the many marble pillars that supported the great arches of Westminster Hall. A large crowd had gathered with the vast room; voices and footsteps echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
He’d chosen this spot to best watch the comings and goings of nobles and peasants alike, noting in particular which men of power had arrived. Most notably absent was Emperor Henry V, to whom Princess Matilda would soon be betrothed. The emperor’s delegation would seal the bargain and fetch the princess who, at the age of seven, was having a grand time flaunting her impending title of empress.
If King Henry of England took offense at the emperor’s absence, Richard had no notion. He just hoped the king didn’t take offense that Gerard had sent his own delegation—him and Stephen—in his stead.
Richard looked toward the dais where the king presided from his throne, searching for Stephen, who was supposed to be listening to the petitions presented to Henry. With so many people crowding the hall, however, ’twas impossible to detect Stephen’s position.
Boredom had set in long ago. He’d seen those nobles whom he expected to see and exchanged greetings with the most staunch of Wilmont’s allies. Likely, tongues were wagging among England’s and Normandy’s nobility about Gerard’s absence—a situation Richard had already explained far too often this morning for comfort. He had yet to give Gerard’s greetings and regrets to the king—a task he was hoping Stephen would fulfill.
While he observed the crowd, Richard’s thoughts wandered to Lucinda and Philip, wondering how they fared at the abbey and if Lucinda could now walk without pain. He almost hoped not, for then she wouldn’t leave the abbey before he spoke to her about settling at Collinwood.
But before he asked Lucinda to become a part of his world, for his own protection, and that of his people he needed to know the secret she harbored behind her startling violet eyes. He needed to know why a Norman noblewoman trekked the road garbed as an English peasant Surely, she answered to some male relative—a father or brother, or other male head of her family or her dead husband’s. Every woman did.
Was she running away? Had she been exiled? And why?
Richard was about to bolt the hall in favor of the abbey when he saw Stephen coming toward him, perturbed.
“’Tis not a good day to ask the king for favor,” Stephen declared. “He hears petition after petition and grants few.”
“Not a good day, then, to ask for the hand of a fair heiress. Have you decided on one?”
“I have three I would consider. You?”
Richard