By King's Decree. Shari Anton

hand gripped the bolt. “When Henry refused my demand for armed reprisal against. Basil, he promised royal justice. I had no choice, at the time, but to obey.”

      “And if we do not get justice?”

      Gerard flashed a feral smile. “Then heal well, Richard. I will need your sword arm when I seek revenge.”

      Richard returned the smile. “The mercenary captain, Edward Siefeld, is mine.”

      “As Basil of Northbryre is mine.”

      

      Sprawled across the bed on his stomach, an arm dangling over the edge, Gerard slowly opened one eye. The light hurt, piercing into a head too heavy to lift from the bolster.

      “My lord,” Thomas said softly, though urgently.

      “By your life, lad, you best have good reason for waking me so early.”

      “I let you sleep as long as I dared, my lord. The household awaits you in the chapel. Father Dominic cannot begin Mass until you arrive.”

      Reluctantly, Gerard rolled over. Pieces of last night’s drinking bout floated through his groggy memory. He’d tried to relieve his frustration with ale. A futile attempt.

      He tossed back the furs and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. His head swam. Gerard drew deep breaths and compelled his body to function. Muscles rippled to his command as he stood, his warrior’s body unaffected by the muddle in his head.

      With a slight nod he approved the garments Thomas placed on the bed. Gerard donned the white soft-woolen sherte and the dalmatica of scarlet silk shot through with gold thread. He wrapped a girdle of gold around his waist. He would gladly have shunned the elegant clothing for less pretentious garb. But today, he must appear and act the baron.

      He wasn’t surprised that Lady Ursula stood at the front of the chapel, awaiting his arrival with tight-lipped censure. Within moments of the Mass’s start, Gerard stifled a yawn. His mother glared. Stephen and Corwin exchanged knowing smiles. Father Dominic understood the suggestion and sped through the service.

      After breaking fast on porridge and bread, Gerard ordered Lady Ursula and Walter, Wilmont’s steward, to attend him in his chambers.

      

      “As you can see, Baron Gerard, Wilmont fares well,” Walter said, waving a hand at the scroll on the table in Gerard’s bedchamber.

      Gerard inspected the records of fees and goods due to Wilmont. Not for the first time, he was grateful for his father’s unusual decision to educate his sons. Never would Gerard be at the mercy of clergy or steward to read messages or records, unlike most of his Norman peers.

      He pointed to an empty space in the accounting and asked Walter, “What of these rents?”

      “The coinage from Milhurst is overdue. Unfortunately, your father succumbed to the fever before he could visit Milhurst to collect”

      Gerard’s temper flashed. Basil of Northbryre, Gerard would wager, had somehow interfered with the delivery of Milhurst’s rents—an easy task since Milhurst bordered Northbryre. He added the suspected crime to the list of grievances he would present to King Henry against Basil.

      “Are other monies or goods overdue?”

      Walter’s bony finger pointed to another blank space on the parchment. “Aye, my lord, from this manor near Romsey, also in Hampshire. We are owed six sheep on the hoof every winter as tribute. The steward might yet bring them, though he is very late this year.”

      “Will you go to Hampshire to collect the tributes?” Lady Ursula interrupted.

      The hope in her voice turned Gerard’s head. Though almost forty, his mother had aged well. She studied him with eyes of silver gray, unfaded by time. Hair as black as a raven’s wing framed her smooth face, pallid from countless hours spent praying in a dark chapel. Had Ursula prayed or mourned for Everart, only two months in his grave? Gerard doubted she’d shed a single tear over his father’s death.

      Gerard knew why she wanted him gone. She had suffered the commands of her husband; she would loathe taking orders from her son. Gerard couldn’t summon sympathy.

      “All in good time,” he answered, then turned to Walter. “Have Frederick make ready to journey to Hampshire on the morrow. I have no interest in the sheep from Romsey, but I must know if Basil has moved against Milhurst. Tell Frederick I will give him instructions before he leaves.”

      Walter bowed his balding head. “As my lord wishes,” he said and left the chamber.

      Gerard leaned back in his chair and said to his mother, “You will no doubt be pleased to hear I leave on the morrow, not for Hampshire but for Lenvil, then Westminster.”

      Hands clasped tightly in her lap, she said, “Very well.”

      He almost laughed at the scheme so easily read on her face, but suppressed the impulse. Gerard leaned forward and rested his crossed arms on the table. He caught his mother’s gaze and held it transfixed.

      “Richard will remain at Wilmont. Stephen will oversee our brother’s care with the help of Father Dominic. You will allow Richard to stay in the bedchamber in the family quarters until I send for him.”

      With each word, Lady Ursula’s spine stiffened. Gerard braced for the inevitable tirade.

      “You would shame me with his presence in the family quarters? Even your father did not insult me so, made the bastard sleep below stairs! Is it not enough I must tolerate him in my household without his being under my very nose?”

      “I have done you the courtesy of explaining the need to hide Richard. After Corwin and I leave, only Stephen and Father Dominic, besides you, will know who rests in that chamber. Be aware, madam, that I will be very unhappy if the information spreads further.”

      Gerard reached across the table and grasped the jeweled silver cross that hung from his mother’s neck. “Swear, by the cross you hold so dear, you will not interfere with Richard’s care. Swear you will keep secret his whereabouts.”

      Livid, his mother snatched the cross from his hand. “What blasphemy is this? You ask me to swear? You who were late for Mass and nearly slept through it? You would ask me to profane the Lord’s teaching by allowing a by-blow, the proof of your father’s sinful lust, to remain succored within these walls?”

      Gerard barely held his temper. Ursula would never concede that Everart’s decision to raise Richard as his own had gained Gerard a loyal brother instead of a bitter enemy. Gerard took pride in the loyalty of both Richard and Stephen, an odd but welcome relationship in a land where sons plotted against fathers, and brother fought brother over inheritance.

      Like most noble marriages, the arranged union of Ursula and Everart had allied two noble families. No love, or even affection had developed between the pair. Ursula had endured her marriage, and for the most part tolerated her sons. But the middle child, born of Everart’s peasant lover, Ursula hated passionately.

      “Wilmont is Richard’s home, by my father’s wish and now mine. Your position is less secure.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

      Gerard’s glance flickered to the cross, to the jewels on her fingers, to her fine silken gown. “You are now a widow. Perhaps your God calls you to the religious life. Would that suit you, Mother? Life in an abbey?”

      Ursula’s mouth opened, then closed.

      “Or perhaps you would prefer to marry again. I have no doubt that there is some male in this kingdom willing to have you to secure an alliance with Wilmont.”

      She paled. “You would not dare…”

      “I would dare. Are you ready to swear your silence?”

      She curled her fingers around the cross. Her voice shook as she said, “I swear.” Then she dropped the cross as though it