By King's Decree

The manor’s door opened and John entered on an icy gust of wind. “The watch is set, my lord,” he said, picking his way among the pallets to reach the table.

Gerard’s eyes narrowed as he waved John to a stool. “Why do you report instead of Lenvil’s captain?”

John removed his helmet to reveal midnight-black hair and a full, though neatly trimmed beard.

“I may have overstepped my authority, my lord,” John said with no apology in his voice, though he glanced at the sleeping Harold. “Since Lenvil has no defensive palisade or earthworks around the manor, I thought the most effective defense was to station extra sentries. I do not mind telling you, my lord, I feel naked in this place.”

“’Tis within your authority to assign guards as you deem necessary.”

“Aye, my lord, Wilmont’s men. But if you walk the perimeter tonight, you will find a few of Lady Bronwyn’s escort among the men of Wilmont and Lenvil. The lady’s men asked for duty. They have been here for a fortnight and grow restless, as duty-conscious soldiers will.”

John lowered his voice to a near whisper. “There is a lack of discipline among Lenvil’s guard I find disturbing. The watch is haphazard. I had to rouse several of Lenvil’s men for the night watch. They grumbled, expecting Wilmont soldiers to assume the duty.”

Gerard frowned. “The guard grows soft.”

“I fear so. They have no regular weapon practice, no sport or heavy work to build muscle or strength. Should an enemy attack, I fear the manor would be overrun before a rider could reach Wilmont for aid. Lenvil is vulnerable.”

Gerard felt his anger pulse, at Harold for allowing his guard to become lax, at himself for not seeing the situation immediately. As baron, final responsibility for Lenvil’s defense rested on Gerard’s shoulders.

That any of his holdings could be vulnerable irked Gerard. That Lenvil was easy prey made him furious.

He’d found ease at Lenvil.

The war in Normandy had been long and harsh, the death of his father a bitter blow. Fury at Basil ate at his innards. Frustration at King Henry’s order to deal with Basil in court grated against Gerard’s warrior nature.

At Lenvil, he’d found a haven.

Near the arch separating the manor’s two rooms, Gerard saw a flash of yellow. Why was Ardith awake and flitting about at this hour? Certainly not to speak with him. Ardith avoided him as though he were diseased.

He told John, “Tomorrow we shall measure the seriousness of the problem. Arrange some sport to test their mettle.”

John’s smile spread. “Perhaps a ball game, my lord?”

Gerard’s smile matched John’s. “You lead one team and I shall lead the other. Agreed?”

“With pleasure.”

“Good. Turn in, John. I will make the last round of the guard and ferret out our laggards.”

“Then I will see you next on the playing field, my lord. Prepare for a thrashing.”

Gerard laughed lightly as John picked up his helmet and strode from the manor to seek his tent and bedroll. Gerard glanced toward the arch. Ardith remained hidden.

He sighed inwardly. This obsession of hers to avoid his company was annoying—and presented a challenge. In many ways, it was to Ardith’s credit he felt content at Lenvil. Yet, it was also her fault he sometimes felt the leper, an outcast.

Ardith unbalanced his mind.

After his lecture to Belinda on the care of her son, Gerard had returned to the manor to see Ardith by the fire, her drying hair flowing about her shoulders. As she shook her head and combed her hair, the fire’s light had danced off reddish strands, highlighting her auburn tresses.

She’d changed her gown. The saffron wool hugged her body like a sheath from shoulders to hips where the skirt flared to swirl about her ankles. His loins had stirred when she arched backward toward the fire, closing her eyes, reaching to run her fingers through her hair.

The sensuous pose had ignited his desire. His manroot urged him to close the distance, to press his growing need against the woman’s place so enticingly presented. The thought of lifting her skirts and driving himself deep within her had made him shudder.

Then Ardith had opened her eyes and noticed him standing inside the doorway. She’d declared her hair dry and scurried off to the other chamber. She’d returned a short while later, her hair plaited and veiled, but she stayed as far away from him as was possible and still complete her duties.

And still she shunned him, hiding on the other side of the arch, unwilling to enter the hall while he was present His patience snapped.

“Ardith, come out,” he said brusquely.

Slowly, Ardith appeared from behind the timber. Though she still wore the saffron gown, she’d dispensed with the veil. Her plait fell forward across her chest, snuggled into the valley between her breasts.

“Well, what brings you from your pallet, my lady?” he asked when she didn’t move or speak.

“I came to fetch my father. He should sleep in his bed.”

Ah yes, the dutiful daughter, concerned for Harold’s needs. Harold—who spoke to Ardith only to complain, who noted her existence only when something disturbed his comfort. Such loyalty was commendable, but at the moment her devotion rubbed a raw spot on his temper.

“’Tis his own foolishness leaves him sprawled drunk across the table. Leave him sleep where he lies.”

Ardith’s chin came up. “’Tis you who bear blame for his drunkenness, my lord. He could not leave until you called a halt to the revelry and retired to your tent.”

A valid accusation, one he ignored.

She’d called him “my lord” with a touch of censure in her voice. What would his given name sound like coming from her lips, in her sweet voice that chimed melodious when she smiled, or better, in a breathless whisper hovering on the fulfillment of passion?

He looked down at Harold. The old man was too far gone with drink to wake easily. If Ardith insisted that her father sleep in his bed, then Harold need be carried.

Gerard stood, too quickly. Lenvil’s brewer made strong ale. He waited for the slight dizziness to fade, then commanded, “Take his feet.”

As Ardith chose her path among the pallets, Gerard hooked his arms under Harold’s, gripping him firmly about the chest. Ardith tugged at Harold’s legs, dragging them from beneath the table. Then she turned around and bent over, hooking her hands under Harold’s knees, presenting a prettily rounded bottom for Gerard to admire as she wiggled to secure her grip.

With a slight grunt, she straightened. “Ready, my lord?”

“Aye, my lady. Lead on.”

None too steadily they moved, Ardith laboring with the weight, Gerard battling the effects of drink mixed with lust.

Gerard was sweating by the time they dumped Harold onto the bed. He plopped down to sit on the bed, elbows on knees, chin on an upraised fist. The chamber hadn’t changed much over the years. Harold’s bed dominated the room. Coals in a small brazier reduced the chill. Three pallets dotted the floor. Bronwyn slept on one, the other two remained empty; one meant for Corwin, the other Ardith’s.

Ardith removed Harold’s boots and stood them near the brazier. Gerard felt a tug on the blanket beneath his rump. He didn’t move.

She came around to face him. “My lord, if you would stand a moment…” she said.

He reached out to capture her hand. She didn’t pull away. “Do you dislike me, Ardith? Am I so loathsome you must keep your distance?”

“Nay, my lord. I meant no offense. But I have duties to perform and…you came to visit with my father, and Bronwyn is the one skilled in courtly ways and conversation and—”

“You lie badly, Ardith.”

She bit her bottom lip and looked away. Gerard frowned and stood, slowly and carefully this time. He needed to get outside, into the cold air to banish the effect of the ale.

Still holding her hand, he felt the slight tremor that shook her. With his other hand he reached out and tilted her chin, forcing her gaze back to his face.

“Say my name, Ardith.”

She hesitated, then said musically, “Gerard.”

His fingertips moved from chin to cheek.

Harold stirred. “Ardith, a cup of water.”

Ardith retreated a step.

Gerard knew he was on the brink of acting the tyrant, of ordering Harold to get his own damned water, then hauling Ardith off to the privacy of his tent.

“’Till the morrow, Ardith,” he said, and left the chamber.

“Have they lost their wits?” Ardith exclaimed.

“Nay, Ardith, ‘tis but a game,” Bronwyn said, patting the frosted grass beside her on the hillside. “Come sit and watch. We should be safe at this distance.”

Ardith wasn’t so sure, though Bronwyn had chosen a viewing site at least an arrow-shot away from the men on the field.

“When Corwin said sport I thought he meant footraces, or wrestling. I never imagined—” Ardith indicated the field and tangle of men with a sweep of her hand “—this madness.”

“Have you never seen a ball game?” Bronwyn asked.

Ardith shook her head, then watched in horror as a man tossed a leather sphere to, she assumed, a teammate. Ball in hand, the man went down under a barrage of opponents. “They will kill each other.”

“Oh, you may have a bit of bleeding to stop and a few bones to straighten, but I doubt the blows will kill.”

“When does the sport end?”

“When the team with the ball crosses the goal, in this case the end of the field. Whichever team accomplishes the feat, wins. Baron Gerard’s team is getting close.”

Though the day was cold, some men played barechested, among them Corwin and Gerard. From what she could see, so far they had escaped injury. Others weren’t so fortunate. Blood ran from men’s noses and from deep scratches down their arms and across their chests. She tried to assess injuries, but her gaze kept drifting back to Gerard.

When not buried under a pile of men, Gerard was easy to pick out. He stood a head taller than the others, his golden hair a beacon on the gray day.

Bits of mud clung to the hair on his muscled, sculptured chest. His thighs bulged against his breeches, threatening to rip open the seams as he struggled. Black leather boots hugged his calves.

Where other men lumbered, Gerard moved with grace. Like a large cat, she thought. The young lion.

He reached down with splayed fingers and dug the ball out of the writhing mass at his feet. With a roar heard above the shouts and grunts of the other players, Gerard turned and tried to run. He bounded over one fallen man, but another caught his ankle, stopping his flight long enough for an opponent to leap on his back. Gerard dislodged the man with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

Gerard continued to shake off opponents. Caught up in the excitement of watching the display of raw strength, Ardith wanted to scream his name to cheer him onward. Then the tide turned.

Gerard’s challengers kept rising and attacking until he finally succumbed. It took four men, hanging on him like leeches, to bring him down.

Ardith’s stomach tightened as she watched for him to reappear. A clamor rose from the crowd. Whether the cheer was for Gerard’s prowess, or because he’d managed to toss the ball to Corwin, Ardith wasn’t sure.

She scanned the field. When she finally saw Gerard getting to his feet, she exhaled shakily and stood. “’Tis barbaric,” she complained to Bronwyn. “I will return to the manor and ready water and bandages.”

Bronwyn’s gaze never left the field as she delicately lifted a shoulder. “As you wish.”

Ardith tossed her hands in the air and turned toward the manor. Along the way she snared three serving girls, who protested having to leave the display of sweat-glistened male flesh.

“You will see their attributes up close shortly,” she told them. “If this idiocy continues, they will drop from wounds and exhaustion and need tending. I fear we may not get water heated before they drag the first of the fallen back to the manor.”

Ardith’s prediction proved true. As she cleaned scrapes and poulticed bruises, she noticed that Lenvil’s men-at-arms had taken the worst beating. Nearly all had returned battered and bruised. From the men’s talk, she knew the teams had been evenly divided, with men of all three loyalties on each side. Lenvil’s soldiers had succumbed early and hard, leaving the men of Wilmont and Bronwyn’s escort to play out the game.

As she glanced about the hall for another man to bandage, she saw Thomas standing in the doorway. He made a slight, beckoning hand motion. Thomas was dirty and a bit scratched, but otherwise seemed sound.

“My lady,” he said quietly as she reached him, “when you have a spare moment, would you attend Baron Gerard?”

Ardith’s apprehension blossomed. She pictured Gerard lying broken, bleeding profusely, dying on the playing field. “Where is he? How badly is he hurt?”

“In his tent, nursing a lump on his head.”

“Why did he not come into the manor?”

Thomas looked sincerely shocked. “Oh, no, my lady, he could not. He would never show any weakness before the men.”

Ardith looked around the hall. “Has the game ended?”

“Baron Gerard was the last man off the field.”

She thought to ask who won, then decided she didn’t care. She fetched a bowl and some rags, then gave the bowl to Thomas.

“The pond has frozen over. Go fetch ice and bring it to the baron’s tent”

Chapter Five

Ardith pushed open the tent flap. Gerard sat on a stool near a small table, his booted feet spread for balance. With elbows on knees, he held his face in his hands.

“Did you get a cold rag?” he muttered.

“I sent Thomas for ice.”

Gerard slowly raised his head. “What do you here?”

“Thomas said you need tending.”

“I do not need tending. I need but a cold rag.”

“Apparently Thomas thought someone should look at your head. Since I am here, may I?”

He hesitated, then nodded. The motion made him sway. Her bottom lip between her teeth, Ardith crossed the exotic rug spread as a floor for the tent. Her fingers trembled as she pushed aside his sweat-wetted hair. The lump was as large as a goose’s egg and colored a nasty shade of blue.

Incredulous, she gasped, “You walked off the field?”

“Of course.”

Ardith shook her head. “Men and their cursed pride. I thought my father the most stubborn man in England. Next you will try to persuade me you have no headache.”

“Ardith, ‘tis but a little bump on the head. I have survived much worse.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She chose not to ask how he’d come by the scar below his right ear, or what weapon had carved the jagged line across his left ribs.

Thomas burst into the tent and put the bowl of ice on the table. “Will you need aught else, my lady?”

“Nay,” Ardith said, wrapping a chunk of ice in a rag. “Go into the manor and have those scratches cleansed.”

The young man had almost made his exit when Gerard growled, “Thomas.”

With a resigned sigh, Thomas turned. “My lord?”

Silence loomed as Gerard glared at the boy, silently expressing his displeasure. Then he said quietly, “Find John and Corwin and send them to me.”

Thomas nodded and fled.

Ardith set the ice packet on the table and looked around for a heavy object with which to break the ice. Her gaze traveled quickly over Gerard’s fur-piled pallet to a large oak trunk banded with black iron. Draped over the lid lay Gerard’s chain mail, upon which rested a conical helmet of leather and iron with a gleaming nose guard.

His sword stood sheathed in the corner, the hilt jewelencrusted and polished to brilliance. Ardith doubted she could lift the sword, much less use it to crush the ice.

Ardith picked up the packet and whacked it against the table. The ice cracked but didn’t break.

“Ardith, put it down,” Gerard wearily ordered.

She obeyed, then flinched when his fist hammered the packet, pummeling the ice into shards. He picked up the packet and put it to his head.

“You should lie down,” Ardith said.

“Not yet,” he replied, closing his eyes. “Mayhap after I speak with John and Corwin.”

“You should don a sherte.”

“Does my nakedness offend you?”

Ardith felt a blush rise. “Nay, my lord. I merely thought that given the cold air and the ice a sherte might provide some measure of comfort.”

“In the trunk.”

The helmet moved easily, but she struggled under the weight of the chain mail. From inside the trunk she drew an ivory linen sherte.

She held it out to him. “Brush the mud off first.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Any other orders, scamp?”

Ardith couldn’t resist. “Not as yet, my lord. Give me but a moment and I could surely think of another one or two.”

He sighed, put the packet on the table and brushed the mud from the profusion of hair on his chest. Was the hair as silky as it looked, as fine textured as that on his head?

As he pulled the sherte on, John entered, followed by Corwin.

“Well?” Gerard asked of John.

“’Tis as we feared, my lord,” John replied. He gave a sidelong glance at Corwin before continuing. “To almost a man, the Lenvil guards lack agility and stamina. Had they fought a battle, I fear most would have fallen within moments of attack. Of course, I have not seen them wield weapons.”

Though John tried to soften the report, Ardith realized instantly the reason for this morning’s game—a test of Lenvil’s guard, and they’d failed.

“Last night, I found two Lenvil soldiers asleep at their posts,” Gerard said. “Another did not hear me until I was close enough to slit his throat. Only one challenged my presence in time to raise an alarm.”

“I will have their heads,” Corwin said angrily.

Gerard smiled wryly. “They will need their heads, indeed all their wits, for what we are about to do to them. John, inform the men of arms practice tomorrow for both Wilmont and Lenvil. Bronwyn’s men may join us if they wish.

“Corwin, inspect Lenvil’s weapons. If needed, you may borrow arms from Wilmont stores. No man finds excuse to beg off due to lack of a weapon. And Corwin, ‘tis my place to speak of Lenvil’s weakness with Harold.”

“Aye, my lord,” Corwin said, but he wasn’t pleased.

“Now, tell me about Lenvil’s captain.”

“Sedrick has captained the guard since before I was born. He is almost Father’s age. ‘Tis odd, I remember him as an unyielding taskmaster, whether in discipline or skills. You think to tell Father to replace him?”

“Nay!” Ardith protested. Three pairs of stunned eyes swiveled to stare. She knew she meddled in matters outside her realm of authority, but to take the captaincy from Sedrick was unthinkable. Still, she’d bandaged far too many bruises and cuts. Maybe, just maybe, they were right.

“We shall see,” Gerard said. Again he addressed John. “I thought to leave in two days, but I will not leave until assured…Lenvil is well defended.”

John slapped Corwin on the shoulder. “Come. Let us see how much work needs to be done.”

During the ensuing silence, Ardith slowly walked over to the table, picked up the ice packet and gave it to Gerard. His fingers brushed her hand, arousing the warmth that surged through her whenever they touched. His hands, strong and callused and compelling, were larger than most men’s.

By his hands, milady. You take a look at the baron’s fingers. They be long and thick, so…

Ardith tore her gaze from Gerard’s hand to look at his face. Bright green eyes had darkened to emerald. His mouth slashed a hard line across his rugged visage.

“I spoke without thinking,” she said softly. “’Tis not by my say who captains the guard.”

He dismissed her audacity with a wave of his hand, asking, “Ardith, how ill is Harold?”

“His leg pains him when he overuses the limb.”

“There is more.”

Somehow, Gerard knew of the more serious ailment, though at the moment Harold enjoyed a good spell. She briefly considered denying her father’s affliction, but Gerard was Lenvil’s liege lord, and she hadn’t done as good a job of overseeing the manor as she’d thought.

“His memory suffers. Some mornings ‘tis a victory for him to find his boots. He becomes better at remembering events of decades past than a happening of the day before.”

“How long have you been overseeing Lenvil?”

“Nearly two years.”

“Why did you not inform Corwin or my father?”

“The manor has not suffered, nor has the village or any of our people. We sow and harvest crops, earn enough in milling fees to pay our rents to Wilmont. I did not, however, notice the slackening of the guard. For that, I apologize.”

Gerard shook his head. Ardith saw pain overshadow his anger.

“Gerard, please,” she whispered. “You must lie down.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You assume I can walk so far.”

“Will you allow me to aid you?”

He held out an arm. Ardith grasped him around the waist. He smelled of leather and sweat, of linen stored within oak—and an essence wholly male, wholly Gerard.

She wanted to run from the tent as much as she wanted to stay snuggled under his arm. The few steps to his pallet took forever, yet were completed too soon.

He slid down onto his furs. “I will have your word, Ardith, to say nothing of what transpired in this tent, either about the guard or my head.”

About the guard, she understood. About his head, she failed to comprehend. “Surely everyone already knows of the lump on your head. You were the last man off the field.”

“Of necessity, because my men expect it, and because I could barely walk a straight line. Only you and Thomas know how big the lump is and how it affected me. Beyond sending you out here, Thomas will say naught to anyone else.”

She’d protected her father’s dignity and pride for so long that she could do no less for Gerard. “You have my pledge of silence, my lord,” she said. He shifted the ice packet, reminding Ardith of his pain. “I have headache powders in the manor. I will mix one in a tankard of mead and send it out with Thomas.”

“Ardith! Ardith!” Elva’s shrill call interrupted.

Ardith smiled slightly. “If I am to keep your secret, my lord, I must waylay Elva.”

“Interfering old buzzard.”

She blamed Gerard’s nasty words on his sore head. She slipped through the tent flap, almost bumping into Elva.

“Oh, Ardith.” Elva sighed, nearly smothering Ardith with an embrace. “Be you all right? Did he hurt you?”

“Nay, Elva, be at ease,” Ardith soothed, gently pushing away. “The baron has no reason to do me harm.”

Elva grasped Ardith’s arms. “You must have a care, Ardith. You must beware the beast. He will tear you apart.”

The old woman’s warning of physical danger at Gerard’s hand baffled Ardith. She knew the only danger Gerard presented was to her heart, and the damage was already done.

“Come,” she said, guiding Elva back to the manor, steeling her resolve against Gerard’s prolonged visit. “Fret not The beast cannot harm what he cannot catch.”

Gerard looked on as Corwin bullied Lenvil’s guards. After a week of drills, the guards showed progress. But Corwin was still angry. Having found his birthright endangered, he challenged the soldiers to match his mastery. Though he was only ten and seven, Corwin’s skill with weapons had earned him the respect of even Wilmont’s knights.

After a long talk with Sedrick, who’d admitted a problem with his eyesight, Gerard had reserved the right to choose a new captain. Now, having tested and talked to each Lenvil soldier, Gerard still hadn’t chosen. To his mind, none was ready and he wouldn’t entrust Lenvil’s defense to a man not fully competent.

Gerard had realized, these past few days, it wasn’t Lenvil he strove to protect. The holding was a fine one and Corwin’s birthright. If the manor and village burned, the peasants and livestock scattered, the crops destroyed, the waste would raise his anger. His demand for justice would be swift against the knave who dared attack the holding.