Richard nodded. “We shall be in Westminster day after next I know the abbot well. You will receive good care there.” Then he turned and headed toward Philip.
The abbey at Westminster? She hadn’t known she was that close!
Granted, she’d thought to go to Westminster, but now that it was close at hand, she must make her decision. The thought of going to court still didn’t fully appeal, but her options were running out.
Nor did she wish to spend two days in the company of Richard of Wilmont. Thus far, he’d been kind to a woman he thought a peasant, but that would change if he learned she was Basil’s widow.
For all Basil had hated every Wilmont male, Lucinda had to admire Richard. Merciful heaven, she was even physically attracted to the man. How very odd. This man who was her enemy had touched her, but her stomach hadn’t churned in revulsion.
Who is she? Richard wondered again, as he had for most of the day and into the evening.
Standing in the open flap of his tent, he could see Lucinda sitting just outside the brightness of the campfire, with her back against a tree and her foot propped on a rolled blanket. Philip sat nearby, as did Edric, the captain of his guard, who seemed to have appointed himself the protector of the woman and boy.
Lucinda and Philip weren’t peasants, though they were garbed in peasant clothing. He’d seen through the ruse within moments of rescuing Philip. Hoping to calm the boy, Richard had spoken comforting words to Philip in peasant English. Philip had responded in kind, but as he’d become more excited while relating his tale, the faint lilt of Norman French became more pronounced. The longer the boy talked, the more Richard became convinced that the boy’s first language wasn’t English.
The names Lucinda and Philip weren’t common names among peasants. If he were right, if these two had ties to Norman nobility, then why were they on the road with no escort, disguised as peasants? Where was her husband, the boy’s father? Or their male guardian?
‘Twas really none of his affair. Lucinda must have her reasons, and he had no wish to become involved in her life. His offer of an escort was simply a kindness extended to a woman in need, no more.
A beautiful woman.
Raven hair, woven into a single plait, hung low and shining against her gray gown. Her features were sharp, but not harsh. The tilt of her chin and cool set of her mouth warned a man to expect no warmth from her, but her husky, honey-warm voice beckoned a man to search for her heat.
He shouldn’t have touched her. Then he wouldn’t know that her lips were warm, her cheek soft, her waist slim, her hands gentle. He’d been on his horse at the head of the company, she in the wagon at the very end of the line, and he’d been achingly aware of her the whole time. He wouldn’t now want her if he hadn’t touched her.
Richard took a deep breath and glanced about the campsite. His men had eaten and would soon make up their sleeping pallets or take their turn at guard duty. Tomorrow would bring another long day on the road. If he hoped to join Stephen at court day after next, his company could waste no time.
In typical fashion, Stephen had rushed from Wilmont with little preparation, leaving Richard to haul chests of clothing, extra food and drink and Wilmont’s gifts to the princess. Likely, Stephen now enjoyed the luxury and freedom of having Wilmont’s chambers in Westminster Palace all to himself. Richard didn’t doubt that Stephen had found a willing wench—or noble lady—to share his bed.
Richard looked at Lucinda. In his place, Stephen wouldn’t hesitate to invite Lucinda into his tent to share his pallet of furs. He wouldn’t care what his men thought, or that she had a small son curled up at her side, or that her ankle pained her. Or that she might have a husband. Stephen would note only that his loins grew heavy with desire, and that the woman seemed to share the pull of physical attraction.
So why do I hesitate?
Lucinda looked at him then. She studied him, her violet eyes drawing him in, inviting him to linger and learn her secrets.
If he learned her secrets, she might learn his.
He acknowledged her with a slight nod, then stepped back and closed the tent flap.
“He is truly wondrous,” Philip said.
“That he is,” Richard agreed, giving a silver disk on the horse’s bridle a last buff with the sleeve of his silver-trimmed, black silk tunic. On this last morning of his journey, he’d made a considerable effort to ensure his entrance into Westminster would be impressive.
Satisfied with the horse’s appearance, and his own, Richard gave the destrier a pat on his gleaming black neck.
“Has he a name?” Philip asked.
“Odin.”
When another question didn’t immediately follow, Richard looked down. Philip stood unusually still for a boy of his age, his hands clasped behind his back, his bottom lip sucked in, pure awe on his face. The boy yearned to touch the horse, just as Richard, as a child of about the same age, had once stood beside his father admiring one of the beasts, wishing the same wish, wary of getting too near the horse’s hooves.
Richard put his hands out in invitation. The boy hesitated but couldn’t resist. Philip put one arm around Richard’s neck and with the other reached out to stroke Odin’s neck. Sheer delight beamed from Philip’s face.
“Odin is an odd name,” Philip said.
“Have you never heard of Odin, the Viking god of war?”.
Philip’s small brow scrunched. “There is another god besides God?”
“So the Vikings believe. They worship many gods.”
“Who are Vikings?”
Every Norman’s heritage was ripe with Viking ancestry. Before the Normans had conquered England, the Vikings had made many raids on English soil. Every noble or peasant child should have heard of the Vikings.
“The Vikings are warriors who believe the only honorable death is to die in battle, so they can go to Valhalla, their vision of heaven.”
Philip absorbed that piece of information, then asked, “You are a warrior?”
“Aye.”
“Are you a Viking?”
“I have some Viking blood in my veins.”
As do you, probably more than 1, Richard wanted to add, but didn’t
Over the past two days he’d watched Lucinda and Philip closely and become more convinced that both were Norman. For some reason, Lucinda wanted all and sundry to believe that she and her son were English. It seemed foolish to Richard, for anyone who took the time to study them would see through the ruse just as he had.
Lucinda was also overprotective of Philip. She rarely allowed the boy to wander far from her side, and never out of her sight. Richard looked around and, as if his thoughts had called her, Lucinda was walking toward him. Her ankle had improved, though she yet walked gingerly and with a limp.
“Do you wish to die in battle?” Philip asked, his concern over the possibility seeping into the question.
Richard had once come within a gnat’s breath of dying from a battle wound, and preferred not to repeat the experience.
“’Tis my wish to live a very long life and die peacefully in my bed,” he assured the boy.
Philip laid his head on Richard’s shoulder and whispered, “That is how Oscar and Hetty died. They