Lord Of The Manor. Shari Anton

1109

      Richard stepped back and sucked in his gut to avoid the whizzing tip of his brother’s broadsword. The gasp of the crowd encircling the castle’s practice yard confirmed how close the sword had come to nicking his navel.

      He grinned. As always, Richard had let Gerard, his elder half brother and Baron of Wilmont, set the pace of the session. Allowed Gerard to probe for weakness in his defenses. That mighty stroke, clean and swift—and close—proclaimed Gerard hadn’t found one.

      Richard returned the compliment with a stroke that would have disarmed a lesser man. Gerard absorbed the blow like a huge boulder, half buried in earth, not budging a mite.

      “Ready to halt?” Gerard asked almost casually.

      “Not until you sweat,” Richard answered, having noted the lack of a sheen on Gerard’s bare chest. ’Twas now a matter of pride to make the wavy blond hair at Gerard’s temples curl from dampness, as his own did.

      In truth, neither brother would win this contest. He and Gerard were too evenly matched, from their skill at swordplay to the strength in their broad shoulders. From the green of their eyes to the flaxen color of their hair. Each even bore a long, jagged scar across his chest—Gerard’s earned many years ago while defending Everart, their now-dead father, Richard’s earned more recently, when he’d been mistaken for Gerard.

      When mounted on war horses and sheathed in chain mail and helmet, ‘twas nearly impossible to distinguish the Baron of Wilmont from the bastard of Wilmont. Usually, the resemblance provided amusement for the brothers—until the fateful day in Normandy when their likeness had spared Gerard the injury that had nearly cost Richard his life.

      The man who ordered Gerard’s murder, Basil of Northbryre, had paid for the mistake with his lands and his life. Gerard had then rewarded Richard by granting lordship over part of the lands won as a result of Basil’s downfall.

      Richard owed much to Gerard—whose raised sword was about to cleave him in two if he didn’t pay better heed.

      The clash of steel on steel reverberated through the yard as Richard met Gerard’s vigorous downstroke. The force of the blow numbed Richard’s hands and sent a wave of shock up his arms. He knew Gerard felt the shock, too. Gerard just didn’t have the decency to show a reaction.

      Blade ran along blade. Richard stepped forward to come chest-to-chest with Gerard, and shoved hard to force his brother out of that irritating, rock-solid stance.

      Another gasp rose from the crowd, but he paid little heed to the onlookers. Instead, he focused on Gerard’s narrowed eyes and feral grin. Richard knew that look, and prepared for the flurry of sword strokes sure to follow.

      He reveled in the power of each blow, in how his muscles responded to the command of his will, in the simple pleasure of pitting his skills and wits against Gerard’s. ’Twas the foremost reason he returned often to Wilmont, where he’d been born of his English peasant mother and raised by his Norman noble father. Where he’d experienced both love and scorn as a child. Where he now commanded respect as a man.

      A piercing whistle brought Richard to an immediate halt. As the tip of his sword dropped, he glanced toward the keep. Stephen, his younger half brother, pushed his lean, lank frame through the onlookers and briskly walked toward him and Gerard.

      While one could tell at a glance that Richard and Gerard had been sired by the same father, that couldn’t be said of Stephen. Not only was he shorter and more slender, he bore the olive skin and black hair of Ursula, Stephen and Gerard’s mother.

      Richard beckoned forth the young soldier who held his and Gerard’s tunics.

      “Hellfire,” Gerard said under his breath as they exchanged weapons for tunics.

      “Hellfire, indeed,” Stephen said with a teasing grin. “Ardith heard what you and Richard were about, Gerard, and that neither of you used a shield nor wore a hauberk. I fear you are in for a tongue-lashing.“

      Gerard’s wife was one of the gentlest women Richard knew. When provoked, however, Ardith had no qualms about expressing her displeasure. This wouldn’t be the first time that Gerard caught hell for engaging in swordplay without protection.

      Gerard huffed. “So she sent you out to halt us.”

      “A woman in delicate condition should not push her way through crowds or get in the middle of swordplay. So I offered my services. Besides, I hoped you would now explain why you summoned Richard and me to Wilmont.”

      Gerard pulled his tunic over his head. “In good time.”

      Stephen rolled his eyes. “I have been here for two days, waiting for Richard to arrive. He came this morn. ‘Tis now nearly time for evening repast. How much longer must we wait?”

      “Until after I calm my wife, wash the sweat and dust from my body, and eat,” Gerard said, then turned and headed for the keep.

      “That man is infuriatingly stubborn,” Stephen complained, glaring at Gerard’s back.

      Richard eased into his tunic. “Patience, Stephen,” he said, knowing it would do no good. Stephen always wanted to be where he was not, do something other than what he was doing. His rush into adventure often got him into trouble, but that never lessened Stephen’s eagerness for the next exploit.

      “I have been patient,” Stephen declared. “Are you not curious about Gerard’s summons?”

      “Aye, but I am content to wait until he is ready to explain.”

      “Humph. Likely, he will do so two words at a time and drive me insane.”

      Richard laughed lightly and chided, “Come now, Stephen. When Gerard chooses to, he can talk endlessly.”

      “Truly? When did you last hear him utter more than two sentences at a time?”

      Richard well remembered standing beside Ardith in Westminster Hall while Gerard proclaimed innocence concerning the death of Basil of Northbryre. “At court. During Gerard’s trial for murder. He presented his case to King Henry in eloquent fashion.”

      Stephen sighed. “I missed the trial, as you know. I was here at Wilmont, preparing for the war that would have followed if Gerard had lost. You are forgetting, Richard, that Gerard did not win against King Henry with words, but through ordeal by combat.”

      Gerard had almost lost the ordeal against the king’s champion. If Ardith hadn’t thrown a dagger onto the field of combat, within reach of Gerard’s hand, Gerard might have lost Wilmont and his life.

      “The how of it does not matter. Gerard defended his barony and honor, and we all kept our lands.”

      “There is that,” Stephen conceded.

      Richard slapped Stephen on the back. “Come. Let us see what wines Gerard has managed to import from France. Mayhap the drink will loosen his tongue.”

      The evening repast turned out to be a pleasant affair.

      Gerard had placated his beautiful wife, Ardith. She sat next to him at the high table, on the dais in the great hall of Wilmont, serenely sharing his trencher. Stephen shared a trencher with Gerard’s illegitimate son, Daymon, a boy of six. Little Everart, now three and Gerard’s heir, ate with Ursula, his grandmother.

      Ursula had once been the bane of Richard’s existence.

      Over the years, her sharp tongue had dulled somewhat. Richard knew, however, she still couldn’t look at him without remembering her husband’s infidelity.

      Not wishing to cause Ursula more painful memories than his mere presence always did, Richard shunned the high table in favor of a trestle table, on the pretense of visiting with the castle’s older knights.

      Later that evening, after most of the folk had taken to their beds or pallets, Richard sat across from Gerard at that same trestle table while Stephen paced around them.

      Pouring sweet French