Lord Of The Manor. Shari Anton

outcome. He’d caught a frog or two during his childhood, and done his utmost to frighten at least one kitchen wench with the slimy creature before being forced to release it back into the pond.

      Philip didn’t disappoint. He exaggerated the size of his prey, told of soaking his shoes and tunic in the pond and, upon successful stalk and capture, carrying the frog home.

      “I would wager your mother forbade the beast in the hut.”

      “She did,” Philip said on a sigh. “Mother did not think Hetty and Oscar would like a frog hopping about their feet. She told me to take the frog back to the pond.”

      “Of course, you obeyed her,” Richard said, his tone conveying that he knew Philip probably hadn’t. He smiled when Philip squirmed. “Never tell me you took it into the hut!”

      Philip leaned over and looked back at the men-at-arms and wagons following them.

      Richard chided. “Your mother cannot hear you, Philip. She is too far away.”

      Philip straightened, but tilted his head back so he could look up at Richard. “I did!” he said, grinning. “For the whole of an afternoon I kept the frog hidden in a bucket.” He giggled. “Then Mother grabbed the bucket to fetch water and the frog jumped out. She screeched like a banshee!”

      He couldn’t imagine the cool-headed, reserved Lucinda screeching even if frightened, but kept the thought to himself.

      Instead, he suggested, “Mayhap you should have asked your father if you could keep the frog.”

      Philip shook his head. “I have no father. He died when I was so little that I do not remember him.”

      Richard noted the lack of sorrow in Philip’s statement, just as Richard felt no sorrow when the subject of his mother, who’d died giving him birth, arose.

      Lucinda must be a widow of several years, then.

      “This Oscar you spoke of, mayhap he would have let you keep the frog.”

      “Not Oscar. He never went against Mother’s wishes. Nor did Hetty. I wish…”

      True grief had crept into the boy’s tone. Richard gave Philip a gentle squeeze. “What do you wish?”

      “I wish they had not been so old, because then they might have survived the sickness in the village. Mother tried every potion she knew of to help them get well, but none worked.”

      “Were you sick, or your mother?”

      “Nay.” Philip sighed. “Mother thought it best that we leave the village before we got sick, too. She looks for a new home for us, but has not found one that suits her. I hope she finds one she likes very soon. I tire of riding on that mule.”

      He knew of a suitable home for mother and child. His manor, Collinwood. The people had suffered greatly under the lordship of Basil of Northbryre. Since being awarded the land, Richard had done his best to improve his vassals’ lot. If Lucinda possessed skill at caring for the sick, his vassals would accept her gladly.

      He needed to talk to Lucinda about the prospect, but first he must find Stephen and begin his task of gathering information for Gerard. He wouldn’t need to inquire about which heiresses would be granted in marriage. Stephen would already know.

      Lucinda’s ankle had healed somewhat, but he suspected the monks at Westminster Abbey would advise her to rest well before resuming her hunt for a home. He could visit her—and Philip, of course—at the abbey on the morrow.

      The only problem with this whole plan of taking her home with him lay in his attraction to Lucinda. He had but to look at her to feel a tug on his innards.

      However, resisting the temptation of her would be easier if he took a wife. An heiress. A noblewoman to share his bed to assuage his physical needs and bear his children. An heiress who brought with her enough wealth to raise his status and pay for the betterment of his lands.

      For those reasons alone, he could resist temptation.

      Richard reined Odin to a halt. He lowered Philip to the road with an order to return to his mother.

      

      “’Tis not broken,” the red-faced monk declared.

      Lucinda hid her amusement at the monk’s embarrassment. Brother Ambrose had touched her hosecovered ankle as briefly as was possible to confirm the wholeness of her bones.

      “You must rest your foot until the swelling is gone,” he prescribed as a cure. “I will have space prepared for you in the ladies’ court.”

      “And my son?” Lucinda asked.

      The monk glanced over at Philip, who was intrigued by the array of jars neatly arranged on shelves in the abbey’s infirmary.

      “He is young enough to stay with you, I would think, if we can arrange for a cell for the two of you. However, sleeping space is dear. The child may have to sleep on a pallet in the dormitory.”

      That didn’t surprise her in the least. The streets of Westminster overflowed with people, making passage slow, and therefore dangerous. At Richard’s order, half of his soldiers had surrounded the wagon that carried her and Philip. The escort hadn’t left her until she, Philip and the mule had been safely inside the abbey. A few of the nobles streaming to Westminster would likely take refuge at the abbey until finding other lodgings.

      Lucinda struggled to put on her boot.

      She’d feared recognition by Richard, but that fear had deepened upon entering Westminster. Now, in close quarters to members of the court and their families, someone was sure to recognize her as Lucinda of Northbryre.

      Thus far she hadn’t seen a familiar face. To her knowledge, no one had turned to stare at her, marking her presence. Which shouldn’t surprise her. Few nobles would deign to notice a peasant woman with a small boy in tow. Not even Richard had given them a second glance until that unruly mule took flight with Philip on its back.

      Then Richard had taken too much notice. He looked too hard, and too long. She’d taken far too much pleasure in feeling the heat in his gaze. He’d despoiled her belief that she would never again wish to be held, much less touched by a man. After all she’d suffered from Basil, she’d thought herself cured of wanting any man. Richard of Wilmont had proved her wrong with merely a lustful look and a gentle touch.

      After the morrow, Richard would not look on her in that way again, for on the morrow he would learn the truth of her identity. On the morrow, she would petition King Henry for a protector for Philip.

      By placing Philip within a noble house, under edict from King Henry to safeguard the boy, she could ensure Philip’s safety from not only Basil’s family but his enemies. Most notably Gerard of Wilmont—and his kin.

      Her brush with Richard had emphasized the extent of her vulnerability. She possessed neither the physical might nor the power of wealth to protect Philip from anyone who wished him ill. Had some unscrupulous Norman come upon her on the road, she and Philip would have been in deep trouble.

      “Brother Ambrose, I am willing to pay for our sleeping space. Would the donation of my mule to the abbey cover lodging and meals for two days?”

      The monk rubbed his chin. “I should think the mule more than fair payment. I will ask the abbot.”

      After the monk left the infirmary, she patted the bench beside her. “Come sit, Philip.”

      Reluctantly, he left his study of the jars.

      “Why did you give away Oscar’s mule?” he asked.

      “We shall not need the mule any longer. I think Oscar would approve of donating him to the monks.”

      “We will stay here, in Westminster?”

      She shifted on the bench to better look down into her son’s face. What she would propose affected him most of all, and she wanted to witness his honest opinion.