Authors: Shari Anton
“I dislike having my fate in the hands of others.”
Including him.
“Sometimes ’tis best to give a task to those best suited.” He shrugged. “Besides, George may change his mind on the matter before he reaches London.”
“I would not depend on George changing his mind.”
“Stubborn, is he?”
“As stubborn, obstinate, bullheaded and unyielding as any other man who wants something he cannot have.”
Including me?
He abstained from comment on her low opinion of males. She might give him an appraisal of himself that he would rather not hear. Better to change the subject.
Richard drained his cup. When he reached for the flagon, Lucinda held out hers to be refilled, too.
“These goods that George sent,” he said, pointing to the parchment, noting the healthy swig of wine she took. “Sit and help me decide which to keep and which to take to market.”
She plopped down onto the stool. “How large a city is Ely? Are there people there who can afford luxuries?”
“A few. I should give the bishop first choice of the goods, then take to the streets whatever he does not want.”
She picked up the parchment, studied the list, sipped her wine. “You should surely sell whatever spices you can do without. They will bring a pretty profit.”
And on down the list she went. Keep the pheasants, sell the chickens. Divide the barrels of salted meats or fish among his holdings. Mill the grain into flour first—because it would bring a better price—then either sell or distribute. Do not, under any circumstances, sell the wine. Give some to the bishop and his brothers if he must, but keep the rest.
By the time he’d decided what to take to market, Lucinda’s eyes had gone dreamily glazed. She removed
her circlet and veil, remarking on how warm the day had become.
The woman was fluttered, pleasantly so.
“Does Ely have a large market? With tradesmen and street merchants and entertainers?” she asked wistfully.
“Aye. I think you and Philip will enjoy it.”
Surprise rounded her eyes wide. “Philip and me? Truly?”
He chuckled. “Truly. How long has it been since you have been to a market fair?”
“An eternity. Well, nearly forever. Since my youth, anyway.”
“You speak as if that were so very long ago. You are not old, Lucinda.”
She shook her head. “In years, mayhap not. But in other ways I am ancient. You see, I lost my youth the day I became Basil’s wife.”
Lucinda had said very little about her marriage. Richard knew he waded in dangerous waters and wasn’t sure he wanted to hear more. Still, he splashed more wine into her cup.
“How old were you when you married?” he asked.
“Ten and six, a proper age to wed. I thought it the most horrible day of my life. I learned soon enough that there were more horrible days to come.” She rubbed the cup between her hands, and frowned. “Basil lied to my father, you know. He told Father that he thought me lovely and lively, then he spent the weeks following our wedding beating the liveliness out of me because he thought high spirits unsuitable in a wife.”
Richard’s hand tightened on his cup, and he cursed
himself for prodding her into revealing what he had no right nor wish to hear.
“Do you know what it is like to live in fear?” she asked, very softly, and not really of him. “To continually watch what you say or do because the person who holds sway over your very existence may take offense?”
Under scorn, aye, but not fear.
“Not only my words, but those of others. Once, one of the mercenaries remarked that Basil must surely enjoy bedding such a comely wench as his wife. Basil killed the mercenary, then beat me so no one else would think me comely. I lived through it just to spite him.”
By law, a man could beat his wife for whatever offense. Indeed, many thought it a man’s duty to strictly discipline both wife and children. Richard knew how a switch felt when applied to a backside. His father hadn’t spared the rod when called for. But he’d never been severely beaten, and never due to someone else’s heedless comment.
’Twas not hard to imagine why Lucinda never wanted to marry again, why she’d asked him to pay her bride price.
He reached out to touch her.
She drew back, her eyes gone hard, like violet gems. “I have caused you naught but trouble. At court, with your family, with your tenants. Now with George. How can you stand the sight of me?”
’Twas the wine talking. The old fears had come out in the open and she quailed at them, and at the touch of him. He wouldn’t have it. He wasn’t Basil. She had to know that. Richard cupped her cheeks in his hands, held her still when she tried to turn away.
“I crave the sight, the scent, the taste of you, woman. I see your raven hair and violet eyes in my dreams. The scent of you spins my senses around, but always leads me straight to you. And your taste, ah Lucinda, your taste. ’Tis of the most exotic spice or hardiest wine.”
“Stop,” she whispered. Tears threatened. She closed her eyes, but otherwise stood rigid.
“Deep inside you hides the lively girl that few have been privileged to see and fewer have appreciated. ’Tis that lively one who wraps me in her warmth and soothes me. ’Tis her summons I will always answer.”
She blinked away her tears. Her eyes shone with a deep inner light—her fire. “Words, mere words.”
If his words couldn’t soothe her, mayhap his body could. A light kiss on her brow led to a longer kiss on her temple. With gentle but firm pressure he kneaded her shoulders and stroked her back. Slowly, Lucinda relaxed. Briefly, he wondered if she responded to him or succumbed to the wine, then decided not to question.
He gathered Lucinda in his arms and held her tightly. He couldn’t change the life she’d known, or purge her memories. But he could help her make new ones, better ones, gentler ones.
Hellfire. How pompous of him to think anything that he might do to Lucinda could help. He might even do more harm than good. But damn, he had to try, or never forgive himself.
Richard lowered Lucinda to the furs and, with all that was in him, tried.
H
er brain had swollen and threatened to burst her skull open. The sharp odor of smoke from the cooking fire mingled with the aroma of grease from the goose and churned in her stomach. Everyone spoke too loudly. A yip from one of the dogs sounded like a scream.
She probably should have stayed in her hut, on her pallet.
Lucinda took another small bite of the bread she’d torn from the trencher before shoving the rest toward Philip. The pretense wasn’t fooling Richard, or Stephen, though both had the good manners to hold their tongues.
“Are you ill?” Philip asked.
“Nay, just not hungry,” she lied, unwilling to tell Philip how far she’d succumbed to the wine’s effects.
Never again would she drink more than two cups of wine at a time. Not because of the pain or the sickness, but because her mouth ran loose. She’d told Richard things about her marriage to Basil that she’d never told anyone, horrors she’d intended to take to her grave.
The degradation, the shame, the self-loathing. She’d told him too much, let him see too deep. Merciful heaven, she’d been on the verge of telling Richard that she loved him. Even in her muddled state she’d had the good sense to hold it back.
He’d soothed her with poetic words and tender caresses. Already the man held too much sway over her senses. If ever he mocked her love for him, ’twould destroy her as no fist to her face or insult to her pride ever could.
For all he’d tried, Basil had never broken her spirit. Richard could if he knew how she yearned for his words and caresses. All he would have to do is withhold them.
Richard picked up his goblet and quaffed down his wine. The potent drink seemed to have had no effect on him. “True ambrosia,” he said.
“Agreed,” Stephen said. “Far better than what Gerard manages to obtain, and I always thought his good. Our brother will be jealous when he tastes yours. Did you get everything you wished to take to Ely loaded on the barge?”
“Aye. All is ready. All we need do on the morn is get on and shove off.”
She’d missed the loading of the barge. Richard had slipped out of her hut and handled the sorting and loading while she slept the afternoon away.
Lucinda prayed that her stomach calmed by morn, or she would suffer a miserable voyage. A misery she would gladly endure for the sake of the adventure up the river Granta. Through the marshy Fens, to Ely, to market. Far from Connor’s harsh disapproval and farther yet from George.
She didn’t take the time to identify the pungent
odor that wafted under her nose and coiled in her innards. She rose gingerly.
“Your pardon,” she said quietly to Richard, then walked slowly to the manor’s door, seeking the fresh air necessary to keep down the little food she’d eaten.
Once outside, she continued to walk while the breeze of a gentle spring evening worked its magic. The sun had already dipped below treetop level, leaving in its wake a glow of brilliant orange. A sign of a good day on the morrow.
Feeling better, her head clearing somewhat, she climbed the steep earthwork to the wall-walk. She stopped at the V between two of the spike-pointed timbers of the palisade and absorbed the beauty of the flowing, sparkling moat. The road arrowed between newly plowed fields and the tenant farmers’ thatched huts. Beyond them the forest loomed tall and thick.
She heard soft footfalls. Expecting to see one of the guards whose turn it was to walk the palisade, she glanced left to see Stephen come up beside her. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I brought you a mint leaf,” he said, holding it out. “’Twill not cure what ails you, but may give relief. Bite off a small piece and let it lie under your tongue.”
Chagrined, but grateful for any remedy, she followed his instructions. “My thanks. I gather you have fallen victim to this malady.”
He laughed lightly. “Too many times, I fear.” He glanced out over the scene she’d been admiring. “The sky promises nice weather for the first day of your journey. You should have smooth sailing—good tidings for your stomach.”
The mint washed the sourness from her mouth.
What effect it would have on her stomach she had yet to find out.
Lucinda twirled the leaf in her fingers, searching for further words. She hadn’t been prepared for Stephen’s kind words earlier, and wasn’t sure how to converse with him now. “You, too, leave on the morrow.”
He nodded. “At first light. I hope to reach Bury St. Edmunds by nightfall.”
“A long journey for one day.”
“Aye, but that will allow me to reach Wilmont early on the following day. I have much to report to Gerard. So, I will say farewell to you now and make for my pallet. Have a pleasant trip, Lucinda.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait,” she said, gathering her courage. If she didn’t ask him now, she might never have another chance. She held up the leaf. “Why bring me the mint, Stephen? Up until today, you would not have given it to me, but let me suffer and hoped I suffered greatly. Today you offer me apricots and mint.”
His smile widened. “Because today Richard made a spectacle of himself on his horse, faced George with the iron will of a true lord, and allowed his people to cheer him. ’Tis a tidbit I cannot wait to tell Gerard. Good journey, Lucinda.”
With that, Stephen strode off toward the manor, leaving her more confused than before. She would try to sort it out later, when her head didn’t hurt. Her stomach, surprisingly, no longer roiled.
Lucinda warily eyed the barge that rested partly on the bank of the Granta. ‘Twas no more than a raft of ten logs lashed together with rope. A tarp covered the
sizable mound of goods piled in the center, yet left ample room around the edges for the men to push and steer the barge with long poles.
“’Tis safe,” Richard said, extending his hand to help her onto the barge. “It has not come apart from underneath us yet”
“Yet,” she said, putting her free hand in his. Her other arm was wrapped around her thrice-folded bearskin that Richard had told her to bring along as a soft mat to sit upon.
Philip, she noticed, hopped from log to log with the grace of a deer. She just hoped she wouldn’t disgrace herself by falling into the river before the barge left shore.
With her balance none too steady, her hand clutched in Richard’s, she gingerly stepped as far into the center of the barge as she could get. She bent to sit down and made a rather ungraceful landing.
“Comfortable?” Richard asked.
“I am fine, Richard. Go about your duties.”
To his credit, he did so without another comment on her nervousness or clumsiness. Not until his back was turned did she brace her hands on either side of herself and shift her backside to a better position. Just when she thought her body stable, Richard shouted for the men to shove off.
She grabbed the tarp and held tightly.
The barge glided away from the bank. On a command from Richard, the men lowered their poles into the river and set the barge in motion. The last she saw of anything familiar was Connor, growing smaller with distance, his arm raised in farewell.
She loosened her grip on the tarp. Richard plopped down beside her.
“What think you of my ship?” he asked, a wide smile on his face, the river breeze ruffling his long, blond hair.
“’Tis like no other ship on which I have sailed.”
He chuckled. “I imagine.” He tapped on a log. “’Tis sturdy, and unless we have a storm, a smooth sailing vessel.”
“And in a storm?”
“We seek the bank and shelter.”
Six men—three on each side—worked in a coordinated pattern of lowering a pole into the river at the front of the barge, walking along the side to the back, then returning to the front. Edric stood at the front, correcting where needed, keeping half an eye on Philip.
“I should call Philip,” she said. “His curiosity will soon get the better of him and he will distract Edric from his task.”
“Very little distracts Edric, not even Philip. He is good with the boy.”
Lucinda couldn’t disagree. Edric was extremely patient with her son, as was Richard. Both took care to answer his questions in a calm and thorough manner, not brushing him aside. Lately she’d learned, from Philip’s stories of his adventures each evening, that others about Collinwood had been patient with her son, too. And Philip had also made a friend of the blacksmith’s son, a year younger than himself.
Edric’s doing? Richard’s? She didn’t know, but was grateful. Her son, at least, had a chance of having a true home with Richard.
“Since coming to Collinwood,” she said, “Philip has told me that he would like to be a soldier, a tanner,
a blacksmith, and a great lord. Care to wager that he will now wish to be a sailor?”
“Hmm. After sailor will come merchant or monk. He will find Ely a delight.”
“What is Ely like? A large city?”
“Nay, merely a Benedictine monastery, atop a hill rising out of the marsh. The last time I visited the place, the cathedral had just been begun. I am anxious to see how the work progresses.”
He also wished to talk to the masons about the process and costs of building a stone keep. Lucinda thought it an ambitious and costly project, but kept her opinion to herself.
“And the bishop?”
“Hervey?” Richard considered for a moment. “He is one of the few churchmen I know who deserves a bishopric. A good man with few vices.” He glanced at the mound of goods. “I believe I have managed to play into each of those vices, sinner that I am to tempt him so. I will be surprised if he does not buy most of this.”
Lucinda couldn’t imagine that Richard would have many sins to confess. Except tempting a bishop to excess. Or perhaps his liaison with her. She shoved that guilt-burdened thought aside, refusing to feel guilty of any sin for expressing her love for Richard in the only way she could.
Richard’s fingers tilted her chin up, turned her face slightly. He frowned. “You are pale. Are you still ill?”
“Nay, merely tired.”
He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “Well then, rest if you can. ‘Twill be a long day before we stop for the night” He looked to the front of the
barge, then rose. “I will rescue Edric. Mayhap Philip and I can snare some perch.”
Lucinda pushed at the tarp. Behind it were stacked sacks—of what she didn’t know—not crates. More accustomed now to the movement of the barge, she twisted around so she could lean against the sacks.
Despite her illness, sleep had come hard last night. The hurt in her head hadn’t kept Stephen’s words at bay. At sometime in the wee hours, she thought she’d finally understood what the man had meant.
She’d wondered, when first coming to Collinwood, why Richard’s people hadn’t greeted him with more enthusiasm. Now she knew that Richard hadn’t allowed them to.
Richard
had
changed, even in the short time since she’d known him. Stephen had noticed, too. He’d implied that Richard’s confidence had grown and that he seemed more at ease with his role as lord.
All well and good, except Stephen thought that she had something to do with that change. She didn’t. Richard’s growth into his role had been a natural one. She’d done nothing to aid or hasten it.
Lucinda closed her eyes and listened to the lap of water against the timber vessel, floating along on a peaceful current. Her last thought before falling asleep was that Stephen had been wrong.
When she again opened her eyes, the barge had slowed to nearly a stop. Several boats and barges now shared the river with them, going both directions.
The wharves of Cambridge came into view. Lucinda tossed off sleep with the blanket, and dared to rise to her feet. The bulk of Cambridge stood on the east bank. To see it, she must move around the goods.
Log by log, using the tarp for hand-holds, she moved to the front of the barge.
Richard stood on the very corner, Philip snug at his side, Edric a few steps off.
Richard pointed forward. “There is where we will pay our toll. See how we line up behind this fishing vessel?”
Philip nodded.
“Look up the bank and you will see Cambridge Castle on Castle Hill. A fine, stout place it is. Built by the Conqueror to secure these lands against the northern English who resisted his kingship.”
On Richard went, pointing out a fishery and a wharf-side alehouse that served particularly good ale and victuals. Her stomach grumbled at the mention of food and drink, despite the odor wafting back from the fishing vessel.
For a long time the barge inched forward in the very busy port. Richard dug coins from the leather pouch secured to his girdle.
“Here now, Lord Richard!” a man called out. “’Tis not a hunting trip you make this time, I see.”
“Nay, not this time. We make for Ely.” The barge bumped against the pillars of the wharf. Richard handed over the coins. “How goes the Granta?”
“Reports of smooth sailing all the way to the Ouse, so I hear. Up to see the bishop?”
“Aye. Any sins you wish me to confess for you, Thomas?”
“Nay. I have too many to burden you with. A good voyage to you, my lord.”
The men bent hard to the poles, spiriting the barge back into the current, setting them on their way once
more. The excitement over, Richard turned around and spotted her.
He nudged Philip. “Your mother has found her sea legs.”
Philip giggled.
She smiled. “Not quite, but I work at it. I have also found an appetite. I assume that food lurks under the tarp.”
Richard ruffled Philip’s hair. “Fetch your mother some of the apricots you uncovered earlier. ‘Twill keep her stomach quiet until we stop for a proper nooning.”
Philip needed no further urging to duck under the tarp.
Richard walked over to her. “There is a pretty place not far up the river. We will stop there to rest and eat, let you use your land legs again.”
She ignored his teasing about her legs.
“You have made this journey before.”
“Not all the way to Ely, but nearby. You will see why when we reach the Fens. ’Tis a glorious marsh, ripe with waterfowl. A spectacular place to hunt.”
As Richard promised, a short while later the men guided the barge to the bank, and after a short nooning they were underway again.