Lord Of The Manor. Shari Anton

      Stephen sat down beside Gerard, straddling the bench. “You wish us to accompany you to court, to witness the royal betrothal?”

      Gerard placed the pitcher on the table within easy reach of them all. “I chose not to go, so I am sending the two of you in my stead.”

      While Stephen jumped for joy, Richard winced. He hated attending court, disliked the crowds of nobles and their incessant political maneuvering. And though no one would say so to his face due to their respect for Gerard, the nobles tolerated his presence as the bastard who enjoyed his brother’s goodwill. Never mind that his holdings far exceeded what many men could hope to gain, or that the court accepted King Henry’s multitude of bastards. Those bastards enjoyed favor simply because they were royal bastards.

      Richard took a sip of fortifying wine before he asked Gerard, “Why do you not attend?”

      “Each time I show my face at court, Henry’s ire flares and he gives me a duty which keeps me from Wilmont for months. Ardith is due in two months and I wish to be home when she gives birth.”

      Stephen nodded. “Wise of you, Gerard. Come, Richard. Do not look so glum. We will have a fine time! On the grand occasion of his daughter’s betrothal, the king will spare no expense on food, drink and entertainment.”

      Richard ignored Stephen. “Then why not send only Stephen? My face is too like yours, Gerard. Henry’s ire may flare when he sees my face.”

      “’Tis possible, but for all the king’s faults, he is usually a fair man, and he is not angry with you as he is with me. Too, I want both of you there, as my eyes and ears.”

      Gerard didn’t lack for staunch allies at court. Richard could think of several who would gladly give Gerard detailed reports. While Richard could see the sense in one of them attending court to establish a Wilmont presence, why Gerard would wish to send both of his brothers was beyond him.

      “Why? What do you think will happen?” Stephen asked.

      Gerard leaned forward. “All know that Henry will be generous at this court. He will hear all petitions, from those for land to requests for heiresses. The balance of power within the kingdom will shift, and ‘tis important I know in whose direction the favor tilts. We can be sure it will not tilt in our favor, and must protect what is ours.”

      Richard frowned. “You think Henry might yet have his eye on Wilmont holdings?”

      “Possibly.”

      Stephen waved a dismissing hand. “I doubt Henry would do anything to test Wilmont’s power. You have too many strong allies, Gerard. Do you know which heiresses are available? Ah, Richard, think! We could both come home rich!”

      Richard laughed, at both Stephen’s sudden change of subject and his optimism. “You, mayhap, but me? Doubtful.”

      Richard knew the chance of his being granted an heiress was almost nil. The great heiresses of England were given to men of high standing and good name, not to bastards—unless they were royal bastards. Still, if something could be done to soften Henry’s ire against Wilmont, there might be the slimmest chance of gaining favor, and mayhap a less wealthy heiress.

      With the wealth that an heiress would bring, he could expand his holdings. In land was power, and the more he controlled, the greater his standing, bastard or no.

      “What say you, Richard?” Gerard asked. “What harm could come from looking?”

      Richard finally understood Gerard’s maneuvering. Once more, Gerard was opening a door for him. Aye, Gerard might wish to be at Wilmont when Ardith gave birth, but he was staying away from court to give Stephen and Richard the chance to gain favor on their own, without reminding the king of past hard feelings.

      No harm could come from looking. While he looked, he also might find a way to help mend the rift between two men who had once been very close—Gerard and King Henry.

      “I daresay I should go, if only to keep Stephen out of mischief.”

      While Stephen sputtered a protest, Gerard nodded slightly and took a sip of wine from his jewel-encrusted goblet. His failed effort to hide a satisfied smile wasn’t lost on Richard.

      

      On her knees beside Hetty’s pallet, Lucinda bent low to hear the old woman’s whispered words.

      “Take the boy away, dear,” she said. “Go now, before the sickness claims you, too.”

      Lucinda placed a cold, wet rag on Hetty’s fevered brow. This sickness had swept through the village at a frightening pace. Infants and the elders seemed particularly vulnerable. Few survived.

      Lucinda knew Hetty spoke wisely. Philip was but six. She should remove her son from harm’s way, but she couldn’t leave Hetty alone to battle the illness.

      Hetty and her husband had taken Lucinda and Philip into their home and cared for them for the past three years. Leaving would be a betrayal of their kindness. Even if she did flee, there was no surety that she and Philip wouldn’t succumb while on the road.

      “Hush, Hetty, save your strength,” Lucinda said.

      Hetty grasped Lucinda’s hand and squeezed. “I know I am dying, and would go quickly to join my Oscar. Have they buried him yet?”

      Lucinda shook her head. Oscar had died yesterday, but too few of the village men were well enough to dig graves for those poor souls who had already departed this mortal life.

      “Good,” Hetty said on a relieved sigh. “Then they will put us in the same grave. ’Tis fitting I should spend eternity with my husband.”

      Hetty and Oscar’s devotion to each other had always amazed Lucinda. Their marriage had been a joy to them, so unlike the horror of her marriage to Basil. The only thing Basil had done right in his whole miserable life had been to warn her to flee the castle at Northbryre, to go to his family in Normandy, before his downfall. Of course, he hadn’t been concerned with her safety, but with that of Philip, his son and heir.

      She’d fled Northbryre, but hadn’t gone to Normandy.

      Lucinda glanced about the one-room hut built of wattle and daub. It had become her refuge, a place to hide from both Basil’s enemies and his family.

      If she did flee, where would she go? She yet possessed a few of the coins she’d taken from North-bryre’s coffers. Were they enough to get her and Philip to another village, enough to entice some other kindly couple to shelter a woman and her son?

      “We will stay here with you, Hetty,” Lucinda said. “When you are well—”

      “Go to the king. Petition for Philip’s due.”

      Lucinda closed her eyes and bowed her head. She and Hetty had argued over Philip’s inheritance before. In all of the village, only Hetty and Oscar knew her identity. They had explained her presence in their home as that of a niece come to live with them after suffering widowhood. These kind, gentle souls had taken in the widow of a man considered a traitor to the kingdom, the son of a man whose cruelties were well known, and shielded them from those who would shun them.

      Hetty insisted that since Philip was noble, he should take his rightful place among the nobility, no matter that his father had been the devil himself.

      Basil’s downfall had been almost total. He’d lost his life, and the king had divided Basil’s English holdings between himself and Gerard of Wilmont in restitution for Basil’s treachery. She highly doubted that King Henry would restore those lands to the son of a man who’d tried to convince England’s barons to revolt.

      Basil’s holdings in Normandy were now, probably, controlled by his family, who would loathe giving them up. To regain control of the Normandy holdings, Philip would have to become the ward of a noble strong enough to demand their return.

      Lucinda couldn’t bear the thought of giving Philip over to someone else to raise, especially not any noble she knew. The thought