The bond Richard had formed with Daymon was a natural one. Bastards both—English and Norman both—Richard had tried to prepare his nephew to one day cope with the attitudes of people outside of the family circle. Thankfully, Daymon’s life would be less harsh than Richard’s had been, simply because Ardith accepted Daymon as Gerard’s son, and loved and nurtured him as she did her own son.
Philip and Daymon were of an age, and a hurt was a hurt.
Richard tightened his hold on Philip and lowered his head until his cheek touched Philip’s brow.
What could he say to a boy who had obviously lost two people whom he cared about, Hetty and Oscar, to sickness? Recently? Were they friends, perhaps? Or a brother and sister? Maybe that was why Lucinda fairly hovered over the child. Maybe that was why these two were on the road, escaping a sickness that had ravaged their family.
Richard groped for words. “Their death made you sad,” he finally commented.
Philip nodded.
“Does it help to know that Oscar and Hetty are now in a better place, in heaven with God?”
“Nay.”
The boy’s honesty echoed Richard’s beliefs. In truth, he’d never been able to take comfort in religion. Oh, he believed in God and Christ, but Ursula had always made sure that he knew that God had no use for bastards.
Lucinda finally made her way to where he stood.
“Philip, you must not disturb his lordship this morn. He has preparations to see to before we leave,” she said in that lyrical, husky voice that invoked visions of disheveled fur coverlets and the heady scent of coupling.
Philip stiffened at his mother’s rebuke. Richard put a hand on the boy’s back, holding the child still.
“He does not disturb me,” Richard told her. “When Philip came to admire the horse, ‘twas my notion to pick him up so he could touch Odin.”
She glanced at the horse. “I see.”
Lucinda was nervous, upset. Richard saw no outward sign of it. She neither fussed with her clothing nor wrung her hands. Her voice didn’t shake. Somehow, though, he knew without a doubt that she didn’t like Philip’s nearness to the horse, liked even less that Philip was in Richard’s arms.
“You are generous, my lord, with your time and patience for a small boy,” she said. “I imagine Philip asked all manner of questions.”
“Not so many,” Richard said.
“That is good,” she said, her relief clear. “Edric tells me we are almost ready to leave. Philip and I must take our place in the wagon.” Then she took a slightly deeper breath. “I understand your wagon driver will take Philip and me to Westminster Abbey. Since we shall probably not see you again, my lord, I would give you my thanks now for your assistance.”
The arrangement made sense. He simply didn’t like it, though he couldn’t for the life of him explain why.
“I had thought to ask Philip if he wished to ride with me for a while on Odin,” he heard himself say, though he hadn’t thought of asking Philip any such thing. “What say you, lad?”
Philip’s head popped up. “Oh, aye!” he said, then turned to ask Lucinda, “May I, Mother? May I please?”
Sensing that Lucinda was about to withhold permission, Richard tossed Philip up into the saddle.
“Of course, you may,” he said. “Your mother will be glad for some peace this fine morn, will you not, Lucinda?”
Lucinda knew she would have no peace for the entire ride into Westminster, not if Philip rode and talked with Richard of Wilmont.
For the past two days she’d lived in fear that Philip would say something to alert Richard to his identity. She’d kept Philip close, cautioned him to say nothing to Richard or his soldiers of where they had come from or where they were going. Philip didn’t understand why, but she couldn’t explain without either lying or telling him about his father and the hatred that existed between Northbryre and Wilmont. She’d succeeded in keeping Philip within earshot until this morning when his awe of the destrier had drawn him from her side.
She nearly panicked when Richard had hefted Philip into his arms. Seeing her son in Richard’s grasp caused her stomach to churn and her heart to constrict. Thus far, Richard had been friendly and gentle with Philip, to the point of giving him a brief hug. If Richard learned that Philip was the son of Basil, the man who’d caused Wilmont no end of suffering, surely his gentleness would vanish.
Richard already suspected that she and Philip weren’t who they pretended to be. Time and again she’d caught him staring intently at either her or Philip, a puzzled look on his face, as if he’d seen them before and was trying to place where.
At other times Richard’s scrutiny had been for her alone, as a man looks at a woman. It always sent a tingle up her spine. Thankfully, he’d never acted on his obvious interest.
Right now he stood stoic, waiting for her to capitulate over the matter of where Philip would complete the final leagues of their journey.
Philip looked utterly joyous sitting atop the destrier. She couldn’t very well deny a lord’s wishes without his questioning a peasant’s audacity. Resigned, she put a hand on Philip’s leg.
“You must behave for his lordship,” she said. “Do nothing to startle the horse. Nor will you bore Lord Richard with your chatter. Understood?”
Philip looked down at her from the great height—too high, in a mother’s opinion, for a little boy to be off the ground. His joyous expression faded to thoughtfulness.
“Aye, Mother,” he said, then glanced at Richard. “Mayhap his lordship will do all the talking. I would like to know more of the Vikings.”
Richard chuckled. “Viking tales it is, lad.”
Lucinda thought it a safe subject of conversation, with one reservation. “A mother would hope that the tales are not too gruesome.”
Richard looked comically offended. “One cannot tell a proper Viking tale without some blood and gore.”
She crossed her arms. “Mayhap not, but one could tell the tales without ensuring bad dreams.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “One could try, but one gives no assurances, my lady.” With a grace that belied his size, Richard swung up into the saddle behind Philip.
My lady.
Had the honorific been a slip of the tongue, or a warning that her disguise hadn’t fooled him for long?
Having related every Viking tale in his memory, Richard considered returning Philip to his mother. The boy made for fine company, but Richard didn’t want to enter Westminster with a peasant-clad boy on his lap. This visit to court was too important to risk that some noble would notice his unusual riding companion and start speculation on the boy’s identity.
Too, Richard hadn’t found a natural opportunity to explore the child’s past. ‘Twas likely knavish to wrest the tale from an unsuspecting child, but Richard knew he would get no answers from the mother.
“I have told you many a tale of Vikings, Philip,” Richard said. “’Tis now your turn to tell me a tale.”
Philip laughed. “All the tales I know of Vikings are those you have just told me! I know no others.”
“Have you a tale of adventures, then? I know you had an adventure on your mule two days past. Surely, you have had others.”
Philip