Aye, she was sick, but of heart, not of body. The concern in Hetty’s eyes nearly tore her apart.
“Nay, I am fine. As is Philip.”
Lucinda glanced at the corner of the hut where her son had curled onto his pallet to nap.
Basil’s visits to her bedchamber had been the most horrifying experiences of her life, and Philip’s birth the most painful. Yet, Philip was her one true joy. He no longer remembered his father, or the castle at Northbryre, and truly thought of Hetty and Oscar as relatives. He mourned Oscar as a beloved uncle, and would need comforting when Hetty died.
There. She’d finally admitted the unthinkable. Hetty was about to die. Probably within the hour. Then what?
Go to the king.
Was she wrong to raise her son as a peasant, forsaking all noble connections? Maybe if she could get back to Normandy, to her own family…no, her father would turn Philip over to Basil’s family without second thought.
So might the king. Henry was not only the King of England but the Duke of Normandy.
Hetty had fallen asleep, a sleep she might not wake from. Lucinda unclasped her hand from Hetty’s and stood up. On her way to the door, craving a breath of fresh air, Lucinda stopped to push a lock of Philip’s black hair back from over his eyes. He’d inherited her hair color, but under his closed eyelids lurked Basil’s gray eyes, so unlike her own unusual violet ones. Hopefully, his eye color was the only thing he’d inherited from his father.
Could disdainful disregard for one’s fellow man be passed along bloodlines? Surely, proper guidance shaped a person’s character more than the blood in his veins. But there were those who would never see past Philip’s heritage, would judge him as tainted because of his sire.
She opened the door to brilliant sunshine and a warm breeze. ’Twas sinful that so much unhappiness could occur on such a beautiful day.
Few people roamed the road. Most everyone had shut themselves away in their hovels, to either avoid or contain the sickness. The church’s bell hadn’t pealed the hours for two days because the priest was ill. How many would die on this glorious day? How many tomorrow?
Lucinda crossed her arms over her midriff and leaned against the oak tree just outside the doorway where she would hear if either Hetty or Philip stirred.
Philip.
Nothing remained for her and Philip here. Once again she would be fleeing for her life. She’d managed to find a haven once. She could find another.
On Whitsunday, only a sennight hence, the king would hold court at Westminster. Passing travelers and peddlers had brought tidings of the princess’s betrothal to Emperor Henry. A celebration would be held. Feasting. Dancing. The nobility would flock to court to pay homage to the king and to witness the royal betrothal. King Henry would hear petitions from all comers, noble and peasant alike. He would be in a generous mood, strive to please each of his subjects if he could.
She looked down at her gray gown of loosely woven linen and tried to imagine standing before the king in peasant garb, begging for favor. Humiliating, considering that she’d once curtsied low to the king in a gown of silk.
Basil had taken her to court only once, but once was enough to know how people dressed there, to learn the proper decorum when in the royal presence. She’d been raised in a noble house, brought up as a lady. She knew how to conduct herself and could teach Philip.
But how did one teach a little boy to ignore the insults that he would surely hear? How did one explain that he must hide his feelings behind a mask of indifference and trust no one?
Sweet heaven, was she really considering going to court?
“Mother?”
Lucinda spun around to the sound of Philip’s voice. He stood in the doorway, tears streaming down his face. She held out a hand, inviting him outside. He didn’t move, except to look over his shoulder—back to where Hetty lay.
Lucinda took a deep breath, knowing what she would find when she went back into the hut. She could no longer do anything for Hetty, but she could for her son. Was she going to court? She wasn’t sure, but knew she must leave the village or risk her son’s life.
Slowly, she approached Philip and put her hand on his small shoulder. “I want you to stuff all of your garments into a sack,” she told him, amazed that her voice didn’t tremble. “I’ll see to Hetty, then we must leave.”
He stared up at her for a few moments, then nodded. The trust shining in his eyes was nearly her undoing.
Lucinda tugged on the rope to coax the mule along. After four days of travel, she hadn’t decided if the beast was more a bother or a blessing. The mule carried all her possessions, including Philip, who thought the ride great sport. The mule thought it great sport to impede their progress. Without him, however, she might not have made it this far.
Leaving the village had been hard. She’d made sure that Oscar and Hetty would be buried, ensured their sheep and oxen would be cared for, packed what little food lay about the hut, then set out on the road.
“Mother? I thought that last village nice.”
Philip had thought “nice” each village that they’d passed through. He was right about the one they’d visited this morn. The people smiled as they went about their work. The condition of their homes said they prospered. However, the village’s overlord happened to be Gerard of Wilmont. While the baron might never learn of her presence there, she couldn’t risk that he might hear of it and take exception.
“The people were pleasant enough, but no one had room for us to abide there permanently,” she said.
“Could we not build our own hut?”
If he hadn’t been so serious, she might have laughed at the suggestion. Philip desperately wanted a new home. He hadn’t taken well to traveling without a fixed destination. She also suspected he very much wanted off the mule, despite his initial exuberance.
“I fear you must grow first before we attempt such a feat. Neither you nor I possess the strength or the skill. Our hut would likely fall down about our heads.” She patted his knee. “Be patient for a while longer, Philip. The Lord will provide.”
She hoped, and soon.
Philip looked over his shoulder. “Someone comes.”
Lucinda turned as the jingle of a horse’s tack and the thud of heavy hoofbeats grew louder. A large party approached, judging from the size of the dust cloud hovering over it. She wrapped her woolen scarf around her head to cover her hair and the lower portion of her face, to block the road dust from her mouth and nose and to conceal her features.
The chance of recognition was slim. She’d spent her entire married life buried at Northbryre—save for a single visit to court—then hidden away in a small village after her husband’s downfall. Few would remember her as Basil’s wife, but those who would were of the same nasty disposition as Basil. She had no wish to acknowledge their acquaintance.
Lucinda pulled the mule to the edge of the road to let the oncoming party pass by.
“Remember what I told you,” she said to Philip.
“I will not stare or speak,” he said, then drew a long, awed breath. “Oh, is he not wondrous!”
Lucinda knew he meant the destrier that led the company. Shiny black, his head held high and proud, his tack studded with silver that glinted in the sunlight, the war horse was indeed magnificent.
To her chagrin, she noted the destrier’s master was also a wondrous sight to behold. He guided his horse with reins