By King's Decree. Shari Anton

Baron Everart, God rest his soul, thought it important to keep my father aware of Corwin’s whereabouts and health. Your steward, Walter, continued the practice.”

      Gerard nodded in approval. He must remember to commend Walter. Then her expression changed, and Gerard stood transfixed as she continued.

      “I know my father will speak formally for Lenvil, but until he does, I offer our condolences on the death of your father…and Richard. From what Corwin has told me, you were fond of them both.”

      Ardith’s genuine compassion tugged at his heart. He’d almost mistaken her words of sympathy for mere platitudes, but then the mistake would have been natural. Rarely did any of his acquaintances or peers show true emotion.

      “My thanks,” he said quietly. Stating how deeply her words touched him proved impossible. Nor would he do so before so many people.

      “Ardith,” Bronwyn prompted, “you did promise the men a keg of ale.”

      Ardith looked at Bronwyn, confused for a moment, then she blushed and pulled her hand from his grasp.’“Of course. Bronwyn, would you see Baron Gerard seated? Corwin, come with me to carry the keg. By your leave, my lord?”

      Walking across the short span of yard to the storage room attached to the kitchen, Ardith scolded Corwin. “You could have warned me the baron watched.”

      “Truth to tell, I forgot Gerard was standing there.”

      Ardith wondered how anyone could forget that a baron of Gerard’s stature stood within the same room.

      “You could have written from Normandy, let us know you were well,” she stated as they entered the storage room.

      “Come now, Ardith. If I had taken a fatal injury, you would have known.”

      Alone amid only sacks of grain and barrels of salted meat, Ardith felt safe to speak of the bond she shared with her twin. They had been warned by Elva, as children, to never speak of it lest someone declare them witches. “Do you truly believe so? Normandy is very far away.”

      Corwin put a hand on her shoulder. “What do you think?”

      He sounded so sure and Ardith wanted to believe. “You may be right,” she said, then turned to the task at hand. “Now, I believe the brewer’s finest is in that corner. Are you strong enough to heft the keg?”

      “Chit,” Corwin chided, hoisting the keg to his shoulder. “I could toss you over my shoulder and not feel the weight.”

      Ardith didn’t challenge him. Corwin would feel compelled to prove his boast. Instead, she asked, “How many men are in the Wilmont company?”

      “Twenty, besides Baron Gerard and myself.”

      She mentally sorted through available supplies. “I will inform the cook. Evening meal will be a test of her skills. There is little fresh meat to work with.”

      “The men will not care, so long as the food is hot and plentiful. You may want to send someone to the village to get help with the carting and serving, though.”

      Ardith nodded. “And for extra pallets for the Wilmont men-at-arms. The hall will be crowded tonight”

      “You need not fret over sleeping space for Gerard, or most of Wilmont’s men. Even now they raise the tents.”

      “Tents? In this cold?”

      Corwin smiled. “These are true soldiers, Ardith, not pampered companions. Come, look at the field.”

      Ardith followed Corwin out of the storage room. In the field nearest the manor, Wilmont’s men-at-arms erected small tents around a mammoth tent of scarlet and gold.

      “Gerard likes his privacy,” Corwin said. “Nor would he ask anything of his men that he is not willing to do himself. Granted, his tent is more opulent, but a tent nonetheless.”

      The scarlet tent appeared sturdy, capable of blocking chilly winds. Yet, why would Gerard forgo the comfort of a bed? With relief Ardith realized she wouldn’t need to try to sleep in the same room with Gerard. Sleep would be hard enough to come by this night.

      “Well, that solves that dilemma,” she said. “Now all I must do is find someone to send to the village.”

      Corwin glanced around. “Ah, there is a lad who looks like he needs something to do. Thomas! Over here!”

      A brown-haired lad crossed the yard at a brisk walk.

      “Thomas, this is my sister Ardith. She has an errand for you. Be quick about it and she might feed you tonight.”

      “Corwin! What a cruel thing to say! Mayhap I will not feed you tonight.”

      Corwin shifted the keg and headed for the manor. “I have the ale. ’Tis all I need.”

      Ardith smiled and looked back at Thomas—just in time to see the uncertainty leave his eyes. And not, she realized, about being fed, but about her identity.

      She couldn’t blame the lad. Ardith knew she looked more peasant than lady in her coarse gown and uncovered hair. Which meant Gerard had probably noticed as well.

      Ardith gave Thomas directions and instructions, then helped the cook until a group of women arrived from the village. When she finally returned to the manor, she found Harold had come home and, much to her chagrin, saw Elva seated in the shadowed corner near the tapestry.

      Wary, Ardith approached her aunt. “I did not expect you to come up from the village.”

      Elva’s gray, piercing eyes scanned the room and landed squarely on Gerard. Her thin mouth turned grim, and Ardith felt a twinge of panic. Elva’s tongue had grown less cautious as she aged. Though she’d never voiced her hatred of Normans in front of Lenvil’s liege lord, Ardith feared that, one day, Elva’s restraint would dissolve and evoke punishment.

      The old woman taunted, “Afraid I may anger Harold? Fret not, dear. He is too busy groveling before the Norman to notice me. Go, be about your duties.”

      Ardith shot a worried glance toward where Harold was relating an account of his day’s ride, claiming Gerard’s complete attention.

      Well, not complete. Occasionally, as she oversaw the serving of the meal, she could feel Gerard watching. She firmly ignored the ripple in her midsection whenever their gaze happened to meet, or the flutter in her heart whenever his deep, rich voice drifted into her range of hearing.

      After the meal, she waited until Harold had convinced Gerard and Corwin to hunt on the morrow before asking Corwin where he intended to sleep.

      “Lay me a pallet in the sleeping chamber,” he answered. “I have had enough of wet and cold. Gerard may prefer a tent, but not me.”

      “What? Sleep in a tent!” Harold blustered. “My lord, surely Ardith told you that you are welcome to the bed. If she did not, she neglects her duties. ‘Tis your due!”

      Ardith held her breath, fearing Gerard might agree to both sleeping in the bed and her neglect of duty.

      “Nay, Harold, keep your bed,” he said. Then Gerard looked straight into her eyes. “I will be quite comfortable…alone…on my pallet of furs.”

       Chapter Three

      Gerard’s spirits soared with the goshawk. The predator flew well within range of sight, her keen eyes searching the earth for whatever quarry the dogs might flush out.

      Then she hovered against the pale, midafternoon sky.

      “Another hare,” Gerard said quietly, having spotted the hawk’s intended prey.

      Harold commented, “Never misses, does that one.”

      The hawk stooped