Lord Of The Manor. Shari Anton

at this distance she could judge him tall. Beneath a black cloak he wore a chain mail hauberk, the mark of a warrior noble. No coif covered his shoulder-length, flaxen blond hair. He carried no shield, but a huge broadsword hung at his side.

      He seemed oblivious to the troop of men-at-arms who followed in his wake—some mounted, some walking—each carrying a shield and spear. Behind them lumbered two wagons.

      Nowhere did Lucinda spy a woman, a lady who might object if her lord’s men became unruly. Remembering her husband’s favored guards, she scoffed. Those rough, uncouth mercenaries had treated her no better than a mere woman who happened to share their lord’s table and bed. Any objection she might have made to their behavior would have fallen on deaf ears.

      “Philip, face forward. Pay them no heed.”

      She had to shake him to gain his attention.

      “Some day I want a horse like that,” he declared, and then obeyed.

      Aye, ’twas her son’s right to one day own the trappings of nobility, among them a destrier. That could happen only if she went to court and the king took pity on the widow and son of one of his most treacherous subjects. For every reason that came to mind why she should petition the king, she could think of another why she should not.

      She had time yet to decide. For now, getting safely through the next few minutes took precedence.

      Lucinda considered leaving the road entirely, but that would mean going into the forest. Not a safe place, not with a stubborn mule, not knowing if one of the men would take her action as an invitation and decide to pursue. Best she stay on the road, as close to the edge as possible, and pray that none of the men took it into his head to harass a poor peasant woman and her little boy.

      The earth fair shook as the noble overtook them, passed by on his magnificent steed, giving her a clear view of his back. He was, indeed, a tall and broad-shouldered warrior and, to her relief, no longer a danger.

      The men-at-arms, in a double column, marched past. She put her hand to her nose against the dust. The company consisted of twenty armed and likely well-trained soldiers. She let out the breath she’d been holding as she sensed a break in the retinue. All that remained to pass by were the wagons.

      Philip wiped his nose with his tunic sleeve. He sneezed hard, kicking the mule. The mule brayed and shifted, nearly knocking Lucinda off balance.

      Then Philip sneezed again. The mule bolted, jerking the lead rope from her hand so fast it burned.

      “Hold fast, Philip!” she shouted, and began to run with a speed she’d never known she could attain. Sweet Jesu, she’d never seen that mule move so fast. Philip bounced and swayed, but he held on.

      One soldier almost snared the lead rope as the mule sped by. Two others dropped their spears and shields to give chase.

      Lucinda followed, damning the mule to perdition, praying that Philip could hold tight a while longer. If Philip were injured…no, she couldn’t think of that now, just concentrate on getting to him.

      Too late, she saw the bump of a tree root in the road. Her foot caught, sending her tumbling. Gasping for air, ignoring her scraped hands, she tried to rise. Pain shot from her ankle. She swore, a foul word she’d learned from Basil’s mercenaries.

      Lucinda flinched when a hand clasped her shoulder.

      “Can you get up?” the man said.

      Admitting weakness to a man wasn’t wise. A lone woman amid so many men would do well to keep her vulnerability a secret. Unfortunately, her injury would show the moment she put weight on her ankle. She looked up into the face of an old soldier, his warm brown eyes and puggish nose surrounded by a bushy, graying beard.

      “Mayhap, with your aid,” she said.

      As he helped her to stand, the soldier said, “Worry not about the boy. Even now Lord Richard chases the mule.”

      Indeed, the commotion drew the attention of the noble who led the company. Effortlessly, his destrier kept pace with the mule. Lord Richard shouted down to Philip, then reached out and plucked her son from the mule’s back.

      A cheer laced with laughter went up from the soldiers. Lucinda sighed with relief, not having the breath to cheer. This lord who had snatched Philip from the threat of harm was due her gratitude.

      The lord wheeled his horse around. Philip sat on the man’s lap, safe. The lord said something to his two soldiers who had given chase. They nodded and continued up the road, but at a slower pace. She assumed they’d been ordered to find the mule. If not for the precious packs on the beast’s back, she’d have told them not to bother.

      Lord Richard was riding slowly toward her, bearing Philip back to her. Lucinda shook the worst of the dust from her gown and straightened her scarf, hoping she could adequately express her thanks for his rescue of her son.

      Her heart stopped when she recognized the man she’d seen but once, at court, lo those many years ago. Basil had pointed out each member of the family he so despised: Everart, Baron of Wilmont, whose lands Basil coveted; the heir Gerard and the youngest son Stephen; and Richard, the middle son—the bastard.

      Philip was sitting on the lap of Richard of Wilmont, who had been severely wounded and nearly died because of Basil’s treachery.

      Richard ruffled Philip’s hair, talking to him. Philip smiled up at Richard and answered. Lucinda bit her bottom lip. If Richard spoke to Philip in Norman French, the language of the nobility, Philip would answer in his native tongue, which no mere peasant boy would know. It would be a clear sign that she and her son were not who they appeared to be.

      Oblivious to the danger, smiling hugely, Philip rattled on and on, his hands gesturing as he spoke. Richard commented occasionally, with only one or two words.

      Though she couldn’t hear what they said, one exchange didn’t need to be heard to be understood. Richard’s lips clearly formed Philip’s name, and then hers, Lucinda, drawn out as if he savored the word.

      She shivered. Surely, now, Richard knew who she was, realized whose son he held firmly in his grasp. Or did he? True, Everart would have pointed Basil out to each of his sons so they would know their enemy. Had she been with Basil at the time? Would Everart have bothered identifying Basil’s wife? Would Everart even have known her name?

      Lucinda took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Whatever was to come next, she had to face it. She couldn’t run, not with her injured ankle, not with a small boy in tow. Nor would she cower. She knew how to face angry, abusive men and retain her inner dignity.

      Lucinda allowed herself a small show of a mother’s concern for her son as Richard reined his horse to a halt. She looked Philip over, head to toe, searching for signs of injury. She found none. That done, she smoothed her features into the impenetrable mask that had served her well for so many years.

      “Lucinda,” Richard said from the great height of his destrier.

      Her name, spoken in his low, rumbling voice, sounded odd, almost beautiful. ’Twas a pleasant sensation, but she refused to allow the feeling to linger or cloud her judgment. Too often she’d seen nobles, no matter how seemingly charming, turn beastly.

      As a peasant woman, she should bow low before Richard. But if she tried, her ankle would crumble. She gave him a slight bow and hoped he wouldn’t take offense.

      “This boy, Philip, claims to belong to you,” he said before she’d finished the bow. She’d expected haughtiness or derision, not the hint of humor in his voice. And, thank the Lord, he spoke in English.

      “He is my son, my lord.”

      He grasped Philip around the waist and lifted him. “Then I shall return this outstanding mule rider to your care.”

      Lucinda knew that Richard expected her to come forward to claim Philip. To her relief, the old soldier who had helped her to stand walked over to fetch her son. As soon as Philip’s feet hit the road, he