Lord Of The Manor. Shari Anton

the king said. “Kester informs us that you wish judgment on a land dispute.”

      Kester. Though Lucinda had never met the man, she knew his place at court—advisor to the king. He held a sheet of parchment, which he consulted, then glanced about the room. Seeking the next petitioner?

      She watched as the procedure was repeated, then, sure of her conjecture, approached Kester. He looked up from his list.

      “I am Lucinda of…Northbryre,” she said. “The king granted my request for an audience today.”

      Kester frowned. She could almost feel his spine stiffen. “The king has many to see today. Stand aside and wait your turn.”

      Lucinda bristled at his obvious disdain. But, watching him add her name to his list, she moved away, toward one of the hall’s many supporting pillars. At the edge of her awareness she realized some people stared at her, some pointed fingers. She ignored them. She had a higher purpose than providing entertainment for the court.

      Was Richard among those assembled? Would he come forward and make a spectacle of them both? She prayed not, and resisted looking for him. ’Twould be tempting fate.

      She concentrated on the proceedings. As petitioner after petitioner presented his grievance or request to Henry, she noticed that several people had been placed ahead of her, and Henry was granting fewer and fewer requests.

      Lucinda was about to remind Kester that she’d been waiting overlong when he moved to the king’s side, whispered in Henry’s ear, then looked straight at her. She took a deep breath, prayed for the strength to remain calm, and presented herself to King Henry before he could call out her name.

      The king studied her with an unreadable expression on his face. She endured it, waiting for him to speak, as protocol demanded.

      “Lucinda of Northbryre,” he finally said, his voice flat. “We thought you had fled to Normandy.”

      A natural assumption for him to make. Most women in her situation—short of funds and with her husband in disgrace—would have fled to family.

      “Nay, Majesty,” she said, surprised at the steadiness in her voice. “I had no desire to return to either my family or Basil’s. For my son’s sake, I never left England.”

      “Who sheltered you?”

      She heard a faint hint of anger in the king’s voice, and was suddenly glad that Oscar and Hetty were beyond Henry’s reach.

      “An old peasant couple, who have recently gone to their heavenly reward,” she answered.

      “You ask us to believe that you have lived as a peasant these past three years?” His incredulity rang clear. The rest of the court doubted, too, judging from the twitter she heard around her.

      “Aye, Majesty, I have.”

      He leaned back in his throne, obviously contemplating her revelation. “We must say we are displeased that you waited so long to come before us and beg our forgiveness.”

      Lucinda tamped down a flash of anger. Neither she nor Philip had done anything wrong. Basil had plotted treason, not she. Saying so to Henry, however, would do her no good. She swallowed her pride—somewhat.

      “Basil’s disloyalty to his king was a difficult burden for me to bear. Given his treasonous actions, I realize you make a magnanimous gesture by allowing me into your royal presence to hear my petition. I humbly and gratefully thank you for your kindness, Majesty.”

      She hadn’t begged forgiveness, but the king seemed pleased with her flattery. How odd that she had Basil to thank for telling her of the king’s susceptibility.

      “What petition?”

      A bit more sure of how to go about asking favor from Henry, she chose her words with care.

      “I seek a protector for Philip. I would have him raised in a noble house whose loyalty to the crown is unquestioned, that he might learn the ways of the court and earn his knighthood. Someday, God willing, Philip might then serve his king as a loyal and true subject.”

      “Ah, but will he, Sire?” came a male voice. “Basil’s tainted blood flows in the boy, and surely blood will tell.”

      Lucinda glanced in the speaker’s direction. A raven-haired man broke through the crowd. Immediately behind him strode Richard. Beyond all reason, she wanted to reach out to Richard, to give him some explanation of her actions on the road. To him she would have apologized for what he and his family had suffered at Basil’s hand.

      The raven-haired speaker was likely Stephen of Wilmont, the youngest of the three brothers. Now, not only must she convince the king of her plan’s validity, but do so over Wilmont’s objection.

      “We do not recall asking your opinion,” the king admonished Stephen.

      Stephen bowed to Henry. “I beg your indulgence if I overstep, Sire, but I feel obligated to speak out. Wilmont endured much due to Basil’s treachery. Richard is fortunate to have survived Basil’s attempt to do murder. And even now, three years after their kidnapping, Gerard’s wife and son suffer nightmares of their mistreatment at Basil’s hands. Surely, Sire, you can understand my concern.”

      What kidnapping? What other horrors had Basil inflicted on those of Wilmont which she knew nothing about? What obscenities had he committed upon an innocent woman he deemed an enemy?

      Was Stephen right? Would blood tell? Would Philip grow up to be just like his father, viciously cruel, simply because Basil had fathered him?

      She refused to believe it.

      “Majesty,” she said, drawing the king’s attention. “I know that those of Wilmont have sound reasons to hate Basil. Philip, however, was but three summers old when his father died, too young for Basil to have had a lasting influence on the boy. And my son also carries my blood, both noble and untainted. Would not the proper counsel of a stalwart protector prove the stronger influence on how Philip grows to manhood? Majesty,” she continued, hating the plea in her voice but unable to help it, “must the sins of the father be held against the son?”

      “Trust a woman to think so unsoundly,” Stephen said. “Bad seed is bad seed, passed through the male line. Sire, if you will allow, I will arrange for Basil’s widow and son to sail to Normandy. If she has not the coin to pay, I will.”

      Lucinda strongly objected. “If I return to my family, my father will send Philip to Basil’s family to be raised. Philip will but learn the same lessons as Basil learned, those of cruelty and deceit. Majesty, I beg you not to sentence my son to the fate of his father.”

      “My offer stands, Sire,” Stephen said.

      Silence reigned. Henry hadn’t said a word during her argument with Stephen. She had no idea to which side he leaned. The king looked hard at Stephen and Richard, then turned to Lucinda.

      “If our memory serves us,” the king said, “we recall that Basil had lands in Normandy, which should rightfully now belong to your son. Who would now control those lands?”

      “I assume Basil’s cousin, George.”

      “Ah…another noble of questionable loyalty and judgment. You did well to keep the boy from his influence.” The king shifted on his throne. “So whoever we name protector must have the means to fight George, if necessary, to collect the rents due from the boy’s lands, and thus the protector’s reward for accepting Philip until the boy is of age.”

      She nodded, her hopes for a favorable judgment rising. The king seemed to understand her position and was leaning in her favor.

      “We know of several men capable,” the king continued. “Our concern is that given the added wealth, those men might also challenge Wilmont for control of Basil’s former English lands, on the child’s behalf. We want peace among our nobles, not petty wars. To our mind, the perfect protector would be Gerard of Wilmont.”

      The king couldn’t