.

      “Ardith, could we speak in private?”

      Ardith waylaid a servant as they entered the manor. She gave him the game bag and instructions for the cook. After filling two cups with mead, she sat on a stool across the table from Corwin.

      Corwin took a long pull of mead. His blue eyes locked on her own, then he looked away, as though he’d glimpsed her deepest thoughts and recoiled.

      “Corwin?”

      He leaned forward, his arms crossed on the table. “Ardith, are you happy here at Lenvil?”

      The question was so unexpected it took her a moment to answer. “I am content,” she said, keeping near to the truth. “I have duties to keep me occupied, people to talk to. My hawk. My horse.”

      Corwin’s tone turned sarcastic. “And Father. He believes you waste away your days doing nothing. Were you to vanish for a time, he would realize who truly runs the manor. He thinks Mother trained the servants so well that they merely carried on with their duties after her death. God’s wounds, he—”

      “Corwin, stop,” Ardith said firmly, putting a hand on his arm. “Father is as he has always been. He has never put any store by his daughters. He judges us all witless and useless. Watch tonight how he treats Bronwyn. Do you know he has not said a kind word to her since she came to visit?”

      “Bronwyn has a home of her own to return to, a husband who treats her like a princess. But you, you must stay and bear his ill-treatment.”

      “You are kind to think of my feelings. But if you must know, I learned long ago to ignore Father’s attitude. The more harsh and loud he grows with the onset of age, the more I close my ears.”

      “’Twas not just Father who ignored you, but Mother, right up to the day she died. Then he left you to the mercy of Elva, especially after…”

      Corwin took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

      Amazed by her brother’s distress, she asked, “What happened to rile you so?”

      Corwin cleared his throat. “Father complained about you to Gerard, and when we passed the glen where you were…hurt, Father started in again. Not once did he say he had almost lost a daughter that day, only bragged of how his son had provided meat for a feast. Then Gerard said…said I should be proud of how I saved you.”

      “Well, you should. Corwin, had you not killed the boar, he might have attacked me again. I could have died.”

      “Had I protected you as I should, you would not have been hurt. Had you not suffered the wound, you might have married and escaped Father’s scorn.”

      Corwin’s pained scowl and sharp words drove deep into Ardith’s heart. Never had she imagined the horrible guilt he bore, and she knew that if she tried to ease that guilt now, he wouldn’t listen.

      Soon Harold would be home. If he found Corwin sulking, Father would surely find her at fault.

      If Corwin refused comfort on events past, maybe she could ease his mind about the present and future.

      “The past is past and cannot be undone no matter who claims fault. What matters is this day and the morrows to come. I am content, Corwin. I have a roof above my head and meat on my trencher. Someday Father will no longer be lord of Lenvil, you will. Then you will decide my place in the manor, judge if I still warrant sheltering.”

      Corwin looked horrified. “Ardith, I would never turn you out. You will always have a place at Lenvil.”

      Ardith smiled. “Then I have no regrets,” she lied. There was but one regret, and his name was Gerard.

      “I wish…” Corwin began, but didn’t finish.

      Ardith could hear the hunting party returning, ending her attempt to battle Corwin’s demons. “Corwin, would you do me the favor of keeping Gerard out of the manor for a while?”

      Distracted, Corwin’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

      “I have a hot compress prepared to ease the pain in Father’s leg. If he does not use it, he will growl at everyone for the remainder of the day, and he will not use it if Gerard is anywhere in sight.”

      “How do you know his leg pains him?”

      “It always does after he rides.”

      Corwin nodded as they pushed away from the table. Ardith turned toward the door. At the edge of her vision she caught movement. Little Kirk, just learning to walk, reached out a tiny hand toward the rocks encircling the central fire pit. Skirt and braid flying, Ardith sped toward the babe and reached him just as he put his hand on the hot stone.

      The boy howled. Ardith bent and scooped him into her arms, oblivious to all but the anger pounding in her head. She quickly checked the boy’s hand, found the fingertips lightly burned, and looked around for Belinda, Kirk’s mother, who was nowhere in sight.

      “Belinda!” she shouted.

      “Cease your caterwauling, girl,” Harold ordered as he entered, Gerard at his heels. “What vexes you this time?”

      “Kirk burned his hand because Belinda left him on his own again,” Ardith complained. “I swear, I will take a switch to the wench when I find her! If she chooses not to watch after her son, she should ask another to do so.”

      Ardith tenderly brushed away the large tears that streamed down the boy’s cheeks as he sucked his fingers.

      “Utter waste of time, worrying over the whelp of a whore,” Harold murmured.

      His words didn’t surprise Ardith, but his next action mortared her feet to the floor. Harold plucked the tiny hand from the babe’s mouth and examined the fingers. “I wager the brat has learned to beware the fire.” Harold released Kirk’s hand and limped toward the dais.

      Harold had never shown the least interest in any child about the manor, save one—his son, Corwin. An utterly absurd notion struck and refused dismissal. Even while chastising herself for such foolishness, Ardith studied Kirk’s face for likeness to Harold’s. But Kirk favored Belinda, had no obvious feature from which to identify his sire.

      Ardith gasped as a stream of warm water hit her backside, soaking her gown and hair, droplets flying forward onto her cheeks. She spun and saw Corwin put down a bucket.

      “Blast you, Corwin! Have you lost your wits?”

      “Would you rather I let you burn?”

      She felt a tug on her plait. Gerard held up the end of her braid for her to see. She’d lost all but an inch of hair below the leather thong.

      Gerard’s tone was pensive as he fingered the singed braid. “Your hair must have brushed the flames when you reached for the child.”

      “Oh,” was all she could say, watching Gerard’s large hand twist and play with the burned strands. Had she known him better, she might have understood the odd look that crossed his face, then vanished.

      Gerard reached for the babe and barked orders. “Corwin, find the boy’s mother. Ardith, change your gown before you catch a chill. Bronwyn, help her.”

      “I will see to Ardith,” Elva announced.

      Ardith hadn’t noticed Bronwyn and Elva enter the manor. Nor did she pay them much heed now, watching how easily Gerard handled Kirk, flipping the babe up and around to ride atop massive shoulders. Gerard didn’t even seem to mind when Kirk grabbed fists full of golden locks to secure his perch.

      Gerard gave Elva a chilling look. “Are you not Lenvil’s herbswoman?”

      Elva’s glare was colder. “I am, my lord.”

      “Then be about your duties, woman. Harold needs care.”

      Before Elva could retort, Ardith intervened. “There is a hot compress in the cauldron,” she told Elva, then turned to Gerard.