Lord of the Manor (15 page)

Once down the road, out of sight of Collinwood, he turned to Stephen. “Tell me about George.”

“He looks like Basil. Bald. Squinty gray eyes. Big belly. Slick tongue.”

Richard added, “Arrogant. Pompous. Thinks the world should bow to him simply because he is a Norman baron.”

“Just like our brother Gerard.”

“Ah, but Gerard merits those bows, deserves respect. Men of Basil and George’s ilk demand it without earning it, and woe to the man who does not bow down quick or deep enough.”

“You do not intend to bow.”

“I do not intend to get off my horse.”

They rode in silence for the rest of the way to where Stephen had instructed George to await word. As any good escort would, the men who served George hustled to grab shields and weapons the moment they spotted mounted men in chain mail.

From Stephen’s description, George was easy to pick out. Clad in an emerald dalmatica trimmed in an ornate pattern of gold thread, the rotund little man labored to get up from the ground where he’d been sitting under the shade of a tree. ‘Twas a comical, pitiful exhibition.

Richard reined in several yards in front of the forward-most of George’s soldiers. He sat silently atop Odin, forcing George to waddle over to greet him. George examined Richard’s men, frowned slightly, then set his features into a pleasant posture.

“Richard of Wilmont, we finally meet,” he said. “Stephen has told you why I come?”

“He has.”

“Good. Then come share a wine with me, and we can discuss—”

“We have naught to discuss, George. Did not Stephen tell you.that I intend to carry on as Philip’s protector? King Henry entrusted me with the duty until Philip reaches his majority.”

George waved a hand in the air, dismissing the royal edict. “The boy is blood of my blood. His holdings rest on Norman soil. Certes, even Henry will see the wisdom of what we do once ’tis done.”

“’Tis already done! You should not have bothered leaving Dover. Truly, you might have remained in Normandy. Henry is also Duke of Normandy, your sovereign. You are bound to obey his dictates the same as I.”

Richard saw a flash of anger, quickly smothered.

“Henry holds the title of duke, but his influence is not so far-reaching in Normandy as here in England. We do not fear his wrath as you English-bound landowners do. Give the boy over to me and keep the goods I offer as payment for your trouble. Indeed, if you wish to bargain for more, I am willing to listen.”

Richard leaned forward in the saddle. “I do not accept bribes. I do not bargain away my honor.”

“Honor? Is that why you hesitate? ’Tis no obstacle. Why, should Henry ask how you came to give over the boy, tell him I took Philip from you by force and absconded with him.”

Richard glanced about at the twenty men, led by a man who could barely move. He could almost hear
Henry’s reaction if told such an absurd tale. “You jest.”

“I do not. Richard, I know you did not accept the boy willingly. He was forced upon you by a man who cared nothing for your wishes, nor those of Philip’s family. What harm if we set to rights the injustice Henry has inflicted on us both?”

Richard remembered a time when, if George had put the proposition to him in just that fashion, he might have taken the man up on his offer. But no longer.

Behind him, Richard could hear the rattle of oxen-drawn wagons. A quick check over his shoulder showed him three wagons, all driven by George’s men. The account was paid in full, and he could be rid of this irritating little man.

Richard urged Odin forward a few steps, forcing George to crane his neck to look up. “I refuse your offer, George. Take your wagons and go back to Normandy. I will expect a like tribute next year. If it does not arrive, you can expect to see me again, at the threshold to your castle, with a force of Wilmont knights in my wake.”

George turned livid. “A warning, Richard of Wilmont. I do not like threats.”

“I do not threaten, George. I merely state my intentions should you decide to withhold the goods due. Not only would Gerard back me, but so would the king. I am sure Henry would be interested to know that you feel he has no influence in the dukedom.”

George waited until the wagons rolled by before saying, “Then we must see who holds the greater influence with the king—a bastard who owes all to
the whim of a brother, or a Norman baron whose heritage goes back far before the Conquest.”

Richard let the insult roll off as he’d done so many times before over so many years. He may be the bastard, but he was the better man.

George intended to contest the wardship, did he?

“You would do well to take great care, George. One look at you and Henry may see Basil, remember the treachery which he lost the chance to punish. Challenge the wardship if you wish, but do so at your own peril. You may end up in the same dank room where your cousin once resided, deep in the subcrypt of White Tower.”

“Henry would not dare!”

“Would that I shared your confidence. I have known Henry to pluck a man’s eyes out for the merest offense.” Richard backed Odin. “So long as you are off my land within the hour, I care not where you go. London. Normandy. Hell. All are the same to me.”

L
ucinda stood among the goods scattered about the bailey. The men had carried off and stored most of them, but not all. The manor was crowded, the armory squeezed tight, and the storage shed stuffed. Where Connor would put the remaining articles she didn’t know.

George had sent every item due, and each of good quality. She’d been surprised, then realized that George would send only the best from his stores. He would expect Richard to inspect the goods before handing over Philip. And her. But she knew she didn’t count in George’s plans. Only Philip.

A flagon of wine stood near her feet. She blushed each time she looked at it—wondering where from her body Richard intended to sip—so she tried not to look down.

“Philip, come down off those crates,” she said, having seen her son’s antics on the edge of her vision.

“’Tis a good vantage point, Mother. The better to see the enemy.”

“You can barely see at all with that helmet on your head. I think it time to remove it.”

“A true soldier must be prepared. I cannot be a true soldier without a helmet!”

Or a sword, or so Philip had informed her earlier when she’d suggested he lay the wooden sword aside before he tripped over it. He’d vowed to protect her with his life should the enemy attack and breach the palisade. A noble vow. But Philip was much too young to take an aggressive stance should the unthinkable transpire.

The longer Richard was gone, the more she fretted. Her stomach ached with worry, her head hurt with visions of what could happen if six men fought twenty. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if George tried some devilish tactic to capture Philip and take back his goods.

She glanced up at the wall-walk. Richard had thought of the possibility, too, or he wouldn’t have assigned so many soldiers to walk the palisade. Richard wore chain mail, as did all of the men who accompanied him. But chain mail could be pierced if done aright.

Horrible visions of wounds and blood swam through her head, yet mingled with them flashed erotic scenes of how Richard intended to drink his wine when he returned.

A cry of “Open the gates!” came as music to her ears.

Philip scrambled down from his imaginary tower, drew his sword, and took his stance not a foot in front of her.

“Philip, if the gates open, that means Richard returns.”

“But what if the enemy sneaks in right behind
him? Richard entrusted me with your care, Mother. I must do my duty.”

Richard rode in at the head of the column, in the same high spirits with which he’d ridden out. He pulled Odin up short and spun the horse in a circle, scattering dust. Stephen shook his head at his brother’s antics. The men-at-arms laughed.

The people cheered. All about her they waved their arms in the air and shouted Richard’s name.

Richard cut the cheers short. Though he’d refused George’s offer and sent him on his way, he informed everyone, he wanted to ensure the man had gone before relaxing guard. With Odin held to a walk, he rode through the bailey and shouted orders to close the gates and commanded the soldiers on the wall-walk to yet keep watch.

He halted the huge destrier near a stack of crates and looked down at Philip. “Still on guard?”

“Aye, my lord, as you commanded.”

Richard dismounted. “You may stand down. Put my helmet away and help Edric out of his mail.”

“What about yours, my lord?”

Richard’s eyes wandered up to peer into hers. She could swear her heart missed a beat. “I will have another remove mine. Go.”

Philip did, without argument.

Richard handed Odin’s reins to the waiting stable master, then wandered around the piles of goods, peeking into crates, poking at sacks. A warrior inspecting his loot. His chain mail glinted with each movement, hugged his body, encased him in protective metal rings. She’d seen him so garbed on the day they’d first met, thought then that he looked the consummate
warrior. He still did. Tall, strong, commanding. Lord of the manor and all he surveyed.

A hint of smug victory teased the corners of his mouth, as if he’d fought some great battle and won. Mayhap he had. Had the battle with George been fought with words, or with swords? If swords had crossed, he wore no sign of it. No blood stained his chain mail or hands.

Beneath the chain mail beat the heart of a mortal man. Along his lower ribs slashed a brutal scar, proving he wasn’t invincible.

Ten men, Stephen had said. Richard had held off ten men in the attack in Normandy, and killed or wounded several before Basil’s mercenary captain snuck under Richard’s guard. Someday, someone might get under that guard again, and she could lose him. ‘Twas what she’d dreaded all the while he’d faced George.

He stood before her, whole and unharmed. She should feel relief, but her innards refused to uncoil. Mayhap once she had him out of his armor, stripped down to bare skin, the tightness would ease.

Too, she wanted to hear exactly what George had said, how Richard answered, and what would happen next. His people might believe the danger had passed so easily. She didn’t—she knew George.

“I gather all is in order,” he said.

“Aye.” She gave him the list.

He glanced over it, then asked, “Did you find the wine?”

Lucinda picked up the flagon for him to see.

“Is it any good?” he asked.

“One would need to taste it.”

“Oh, aye, one would surely need to taste,” he said,
his voice low and suggestive, making her blush once more.

“We have a problem with storage,” she said, bringing them back to the task at hand. “Every nook within the manor, armory and shed is full.”

“Have we tarp to cover what cannot be put under roof?”

“Some, but I doubt enough.”

From across the bailey, Lucinda spotted Stephen, his chain mail disposed of, making his way toward Richard. She sat on a crate, cradling the wine. ’Twould be some time yet before she and Richard could escape to her hut.

Richard studied the list. “Mayhap there are items we could send to my other holdings,” he mused as Stephen reached his side.

“Deciding what to do with the bounty?” Stephen asked.

Richard smiled widely at his brother. “I may send you off to Wilmont so I can fill the stall your horse occupies.”

Stephen gave Richard a mock aggrieved look. “I am wounded to the core, Richard, that you would rid yourself of my good company so soon.”

They both laughed, and Lucinda couldn’t help but smile. The two brothers got along so well that they could tease in outrageous fashion. She’d never seen the like among the noble siblings she knew, who more often squabbled than shared humor.

“Actually,” Stephen said, “I plan to leave for Wilmont on the morrow. ‘Twill give you the space you crave, but not solve your problem.” Stephen wandered over to a sack and untied the rope. From within he drew several dried apricots and popped one into
his mouth. “I would be willing to take a few of these off your hands. Food of the gods.”

Richard crossed his arms. “Been sampling, have you?”

“Naturally. I could not, in good conscience, allow George to send my esteemed brother inferior goods, could I? Nay, I told myself. Only the best for Richard. So I examined the contents of several sacks and crates before we left Normandy, then again when we reached England—just to ensure no spoilage had occurred during the voyage, you understand.”

“Oh, I think I understand perfectly well the
sacrifice
you made for me.”

“I knew you would.” Stephen moved on to another sack. “Taste the raisins. Sweeter than honey,” he declared, handing Richard a handful. “And the almonds. Ah, Richard, wait until you taste the almonds. Magnificent!”

“Truly?” Richard asked dryly.

“Truly. Do you think we might have the pheasant for noon meal? Rare pleasant fowl, they are.”

Stephen had made his way to where she sat. She waited for him to move on, but he stood still, looking down at her.

“Lucinda, I would propose a trade,” he said gently. “My apricots for your wine.”

’Twas the first time Stephen had spoken to her without derision. His voice carried no malice. His green eyes reflected no ridicule. Shock held her tongue.

“Come, Lucinda,” he chided. “’Tis a treat I warrant you have not tasted for a very long time.”

He held out his hand, open palmed, offering the fruit.

Did he offer a truce, or at least an easing of the animosity between them? Whatever Stephen’s reasons, if only for Richard’s sake, she would accept.

“How could I refuse food from the gods?” she said, holding out the flagon and taking the apricots.

Stephen’s smile and slight nod acknowledged the exchange. The encounter left her shaken, yet in better spirits.

Stephen turned to Richard, waving the flagon. “Here is the finest of the fine, the true prize. A bold nectar to sweeten the sharpest tongue. I swear to you, Richard, if you give a flask of this wine to a priest, he will absolve you of not only your past sins but those for the remainder of your life.”

“You ask for a miracle,” Richard chided, watching Lucinda eat the apricots. He didn’t fully understand what had happened between her and Stephen, but the bemused smile on her face was due to more than tasty dried fruit.

Richard wanted nothing more than to take the wine and the woman and hie off to her hut. But Stephen’s comment about priests had nudged forth an idea, one that blossomed with the possibility of solving several problems.

“The market fair at Ely is next week, and I have not been up to see Bishop Hervey for some time. Mayhap I should pack up some of these goods and sell them. Better to turn them into coins than let them go to waste.” He took the flagon of fine wine from Stephen’s hand, glanced about the manor, noting improvements he wanted to make. “I could then hire carpenters to make repairs to the manor, and mayhap build another shed.”

“Carpenters?” Stephen asked, incredulous. “Why
not masons? If you choose to make Collinwood your home, expand the palisade and build a proper stone keep. You are a man of great means now, Richard. Why not live like one?”

“A stone keep,” he said, almost to himself, envisioning the structure—an armory on the lowest level, topped by a great hall, with private quarters above the hall.

’Twould be practical. Buildings of stone lessened the threat of a devastating fire and provided greater defense against attack. A man could hold out for months against a besieging enemy in a stone keep. Not that he expected an attack in these times of peace, but one never knew when that would change.

Home. The word had always meant Wilmont, the castle where he’d been born and raised. During the past three years he’d traveled extensively among his holdings, but always stayed the longest and made the most improvements at Collinwood. Mayhap ’twas time to make Collinwood his true home.

A cry from the wall-walk interrupted his musings.

“Our men return! Open the gate!”

Within minutes, his soldiers stood before him, smiling.

“The vermin are gone, my lord,” one reported. “George moved fast, he did, like ’twas urgent he make time.”

“You followed all the way to the border?”

“Aye, my lord.”

He waved his men off. George was gone, beating a quick path on the road south, which passed through London and then on to Dover. Would George stop or keep going?

Stephen put a hand on his shoulder. “If it helps, I
believe you might be right in what you told George. Henry has an extremely long memory and a hearty appetite for vengeance. I could go to London and let King Henry know your wishes on the matter. Mayhap tease his appetite by telling him in what low esteem George holds the Duke of Normandy. George will be lucky to leave England with all his limbs.”

“Mayhap I should go myself.”

“Richard?” Lucinda asked. She’d risen from the crate. He saw her confusion, sensed her fear.

Decisions and strategies would have to wait.

“Come, Lucinda, I have much to tell you,” he said, then headed for her hut, knowing she would follow. He secured the door behind them and put the wine and list on the table.

He tugged off his gauntlets. “George is a vile creature.”

“I know.”

Richard sat on the stool, his back toward Lucinda. She snapped open a fastening on his chain mail.

“George was not content with my refusal to turn Philip over to him,” Richard began his tale.

She said nothing at all while he related, nearly word for word, the heated exchange with George. Her only reactions came by way of how she undid the fastenings—slowly or quickly, or when she paused.

“You place a great deal of trust in the king,” she said, her tone questioning that trust.

“’Tis Henry’s edict. He will not revoke the wardship,” he said, getting up to shrug out of his armor.

“Mayhap I should go to London to plead Philip’s case.”

Over his dead body. He wouldn’t allow Lucinda within a hundred leagues of George!

“You will not, nor will I. There are others who can do the task with more finesse than we.” Richard opened the flagon and poured the ruby liquid into two cups. “Do you remember Kester, the advisor to whom you appealed for an audience with the king?”

She crossed her arms, her face skewed in thought. “The man who kept the list of supplicants? He made me wait beyond my turn. I was about to take him to task when he finally informed King Henry that I waited.”

“One and the same,” Richard confirmed her memory. “Kester is well versed in the ways of court, and is a great favorite of Henry’s. He is also married to Ardith’s sister, so is family. At word from Gerard, Kester will aid our cause.”

Richard took a sip of the wine. Ambrosia! His thought must have shown on his face.

“I would imagine George cried when he ordered that wine loaded onto the wagon,” she said, then took a sip from her cup, her eyes closing. “Ah, I had forgotten how truly excellent it is. ’Twould bring a grand indulgence, as Stephen said.”

“Or influence.” Richard swirled the elixir in his cup. “Bishop Hervey is an old friend of my father’s and a clergyman Henry respects. For a flask or two of this wine, he might be persuaded to write to Henry and aid our cause as well.”