Lord of the Manor (19 page)

Richard trimmed the arrow to a clean point, then cut away the tunic surrounding the wounds. A woman stood by with the treated pads.

“Pull slow, steady and straight,” Lucinda said.

“You do not ask much, woman,” he said of her dictates.

“Want me to do it?”

“Sit.”

She turned to the woman with the pads. “Flush the wounds with water, then press the pads on tight. Do so quickly. He has already lost more blood than he can afford to lose.”

Richard braced a hand on Connor’s back and grasped the arrow’s shaft with the other. He pulled it out, steady and straight, just as he would pull his sword from its scabbard. Holding the bloody arrow, he stepped out of the women’s way.

Blood oozed from the holes in Connor’s already too-frail body. The women worked quickly and soon had the pads in place.

They waited. Lucinda nibbled on bread. Richard washed the blood from his hands. Still they waited, but no more blood seeped through the pads.

Lucinda got up and very gently eased away the pad from Connor’s back. “’Tis ready for stitching. I will need needle and thread.”

“Let another do it,” Richard ordered. “You are to rest”

“Volley! Fire!”

“Hellfire,” Richard swore and headed for the door.

Lucinda grabbed his arm. Her eyes held no fear, only concern. “You can do naught until the arrows fall. Wait. Please.”

She had the right of it. No sense going out until the worst had passed. But he could watch.

“Come,” he said. Richard took Lucinda’s hand and led them to the manor door.

Night had fallen. Against the black sky, the flaming arrows streaked though the night like falling stars. As always, because of the distance, most of the arrows drowned in the moat. Only two arrows flew over the
palisade, both landing in the dirt in the bailey, where no one wasted water to douse them. He watched them burn out, hoping George would burn out soon as well.

“Mayhap now we will have a peaceful night,” Lucinda said.

“Mayhap,” he said, hoping Lucinda was right.

“Then again on the morn, we will dodge arrows and fire, and treat burns and wounds, and more people will die.”

“’Tis the way of a siege, as you well know. We are safer within the palisade than without on the field. If George had not so many men, or if I had more…”

She squeezed his hand. “It irks you to wait and do nothing to hasten the outcome.”

“True. I give George a sennight. If he does not leave by then, I will take action. I do not know what as yet, but I refuse to let him sit out there overlong.” He kissed her forehead. “Rest.”

“You go back to the walk?”

“Aye. I intend to find the stoutest bow in the place and send the arrow that almost hit you into the very center of George’s camp. If I do not find fortune and hit George, then pray I hit one of the men whose strength sends fire over our walls.”

On the third day of the siege, George changed his tactics. He burned the home of a tenant farmer. Thick, pungent smoke curled up into the wind and drifted high over the manor.

Lucinda tried not to listen to the sobs of the woman whose home burned to ashes, but each sob struck like a knife in her heart. Though Richard assured the family that the hut would be rebuilt, they mourned the loss of the old.

The grumbling had also begun. Too many people

in too little space, beset by too much strain, made for short tempers. Two fresh graves reminded all that more was at stake than loss of a home.

They blamed Lucinda and Philip for their misfortune. Not outright, and not to Richard—at least not that she knew of. Among themselves, in corners and whispers, with sidelong glances from angry faces, they pointed out and cursed the source of the troubles.

Two men lay cold in the ground. A family had lost its home. If George didn’t desist soon, more would die, more would suffer losses. The longer the siege lasted, the more they would question Richard’s reasons for holding on to the outsiders. And the greater the chance they would rebel, or a group of them would take matters into their own hands and give her and Philip over to George.

Richard’s vassals were good people, but even good people could be pushed to rebellion. Though Basil had mistreated them, they’d never had their lives directly threatened, never seen death come at the point of an arrow or a spark of fire.

Given time, Richard would win out over George, but his people might not give him the time. Richard would lose everything he’d worked so hard to build if forced to fight both an enemy without and a rebellion within.

Lucinda thought back to the day when she’d asked the king for a wardship for Philip. Such dreams and hopes she’d held for her son! After the first fortnight under Richard’s care, she’d begun to believe it could all come true.

Then she and Richard had become lovers, and she’d even begun to think she could find a measure of happiness for herself. And she had, truly. For a
few short weeks she’d been happier than she’d ever been in her entire life.

All because she’d fallen in love with Richard.

Slowly, she climbed the inner bank to the wall-walk, where Richard and Edric spent most of their days and nights. They were there now, staring out over the countryside.

No cries of “volley” had sounded this morning. The sounds of saws felling trees and hammers pounding nails had taken the place of whizzing arrows.

“There,” Edric said, pointing out through the V of the palisade’s timbers. “They bring up a second pavise. ‘Twill not be long now, my lord. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

Pavises. Huge wooden shields that could be wheeled close to the palisade. From behind them, men could rain fire on the manor with little fear of injury to themselves. With the fire would come fear, confusion, destruction and death.

“At dusk, have the men refill all of the water containers. ‘Twill be a long, hard day on the morrow, but victory will be ours,” Richard declared.

He was probably right. But at what cost?

Collinwood lost to a fire arrow not immediately put out because there were too many fires to douse? How many people would die because of George’s greed? And what of Richard, high upon the palisade, too easy and clear a target?

Richard might be killed, all because she’d made the selfish mistake of thinking that she and Philip were entitled to more than the hardships of a peasant’s life.

Her arrogance, her selfishness, had brought him to this. ‘Twas her duty to end it.

She could prevent the bloodshed by leaving, taking Philip with her out the postern gate and melting into
the night. With no prize to fight for, there need be no fight.

She wasn’t fooling herself. ‘Twouldn’t be easy. She would need help, and knew who to ask. Connor would be pleased to aid her disappearance, for the simple promise to never return.

“Lucinda? Is aught amiss?” Richard asked.

She stepped under his arm held outstretched in invitation.

“Nay,” she said honestly, coming to terms with what she must do tonight if none were to die on the morn. Including the man around whom she now wrapped her arms.

He leaned to whisper in her ear. “Did you think to drag me away to your hut, distract me from my duty?”

In the face of all to come, he teased. Incorrigible man.

“I came for a dose of courage before I go to examine Connor. I may even grant his fondest wish and let him walk about some tonight.”

“He is strong enough?”

“For a frail old man, Connor is tough as leather.” For what she would ask Connor to do, he would find the strength. To be rid of her, he would do anything she asked.

Once before, she’d set out on her own with a young child to care for and managed quite well. She could do so again.

Leaving Collinwood, however, would tear at her as leaving Northbryre hadn’t. Nor would all of her leave Collinwood. Her heart would remain behind.

“B
ut I do not want to go,” Philip said with a pout. He carried his wooden sword and dragged his sack behind him—the same sack in which he’d carried his spare garments on their last journey.

“Neither do I, darling, but ‘tis for the best,” Lucinda said, wondering who she most wanted to reassure, Philip or herself.

‘Tis for the best.
Lucinda refused to reconsider the decision she’d made after a mighty struggle. She’d set her resolve, devised a plan, and would carry through.

Everyone was in the manor, sitting down to evening meal on this dreary, mist-enshrouded evening, except the guards at the wall-walk, who looked outward, not inward. And Connor, who stood near the postern gate.

“He will be angry,” Philip warned.

He
being Richard, and Lucinda couldn’t disagree.

“His anger will fade when he sees the sense in what we do,” she said as much for Philip as for Connor, who hadn’t cooperated with her scheme with the enthusiasm she’d expected. Still, he’d gathered up the
food she’d requested and would distract the guard above the postern gate long enough for her to slip out and reach the river.

Connor glanced from her to Philip and back again. “You have all you need?”

“Aye. You know what to tell Richard and when?”

“I dislike deceiving him.”

“It cannot be helped.”

As long as Connor waited until full dark—too late for Richard to come looking for her, but early enough for him to inform George that the prize had fled—she didn’t care how Connor felt.

“What if George does not believe his lordship’s message and attacks anyway? Why not just go to George and have done?”

She’d thought of it, and rejected the notion as quickly.

“Because I, too, want to live,” she said. “As for George, he will demand to come have a look, and when he finds us truly gone, he will be too busy searching for us to harass Collinwood further. The man’s greed drives him. He wants Philip, nothing more.”

Connor nodded. “No doubt. Where will you go?”

She almost told him. Cambridge. One could walk the banks between Collinwood and Cambridge, Richard had once told her. The teeming port city seemed her best destination, full of travelers, where no one would note a strange woman and child. From there, she could board a ship or head overland.

But she wouldn’t tell Connor. She couldn’t risk his telling Richard—or George. Both men would ask him because both would search. Richard out of duty, George out of greed.

“I have not decided,” she answered. “Rest assured ‘twill be far away. Take care of Richard well, Connor. He is the best lord this holding will ever have.”

She tossed her pack over her shoulder.

“Godspeed, my lady.”

She almost laughed. “Come now, Connor. You have wished for this day from the moment I arrived. Surely you have no misgivings now!”

“Nay, no misgivings. You have never fit in here, should never have come. However, I…I owe you my life. I would have no harm come to you.”

So that was it. Obligation bothered Connor. How appalled he must feel that he owed his life to a woman he so hated.

Damn the man! Why did he go soft on her now when she needed him to believe the very worst of her and so uphold his part in her plans?

“Set your mind at ease, Connor. You owe me nothing. If Richard had not wanted you alive, I might not have worked so hard to save your worthless hide.”

His spine stiffened at her false, harsh words. “I will call to the guard as you slip out Good journey.”

The meal dragged on to an interminable length without Lucinda seated beside him. He’d been telling her, for days now, to rest. Apparently tonight she’d taken his advice, chosen to eat her evening meal in her hut with Philip.

Everyone’s mood was subdued, thinking of the five pavises that menacingly faced the main gate, and of the battle the morrow would bring. Even having Connor on the mend and back at table brought no one any joy.

Lucinda might wish to rest, but he had a question
to ask her before she took to her pallet for the night. He needed an answer, yea or nay. And after all, he’d promised God. Richard rose from his stool, gathering his courage.

“I will be with Lucinda and Philip for a while if you or Edric need me,” he told Connor.

“She is not there, my lord,” Connor answered so quietly that Richard strained to hear.

A cold chill crept up Richard’s spine. “Then where is she?”

“Gone. About an hour ago, she and the boy left through the postern gate. By now she is well on her way to wherever she is going.”

Stark fear held him motionless and speechless, but not for long.

He grabbed Connor by the front of his tunic and pulled his steward off the bench. “An hour ago? You knew and kept it secret?”

Connor quaked, but managed a nod.

“In God’s name, man, why?”

“’Twas her wish, my lord, to save us from further death and destruction. She removes the prize, the boy, so there need be no battle.”

“No battle?”

“We must send a message to George, my lord, so he knows there is no reason to harass us further.”

Richard let go of Connor, if only to keep from strangling the man. He glanced down the row of tables, noting relief on many faces. His vassals thought their trouble over.

Rage, pure and cleansing, bubbled up and overflowed. He grabbed the table and upended it, sending food, drink, dogs and people scattering.

“No one eats or drinks of what I provide for you
until Lucinda and Philip are safely recovered! She puts herself in peril. For what? To save your thankless arses? Do you truly think I will put her at further risk by informing George that she is wandering around in the dark? Fools! Let George attack. Let him burn the whole sorry place to ashes for all I care.”

He pointed at Lyle. “Get Edric.”

The young man scrambled to obey. Richard advanced on a trembling Connor.

“Tell me everything,” he commanded, and listened to Connor’s tale of Lucinda’s request for food and help in distracting the guard in exchange for saving Collinwood.

His rage burned all the brighter. “Hellfire, man! Lucinda pulled you from the brink of death and this is how you repay her?”

“’Twas her wish, my lord,” Connor wailed.

“And yours! You fairly leaped from your pallet to be rid of her. From now on, ‘tis
my
wishes you will heed. You will not eat, or sleep, or take a piss without my permission. Nor will anyone else!”

Edric came running in, Lyle at his heels. “My lord, we must find them before George does.”

Richard rubbed his aching temples, but the rage held him captive. “I know, but ‘tis night. We cannot go stumbling around in the dark! Use of torches would give away our whereabouts to George.”

And give away Lucinda’s location, if he found her.

“Then let me go alone,” Edric proposed.

Edric worried for Philip. Richard couldn’t fault him for wanting to do what Richard yearned to do, but neither could he let Edric go.

“Nay. We must wait for daylight. At first rays, we will find them.”

His gaze swept the manor, the havoc he’d wreaked, then he stormed out of the manor and up onto the wall-walk. He looked out into the mist, unable to see much more than the dim fires of George’s camp. Somewhere out there Lucinda would be huddled down, hiding.

He could almost be glad that she had some idea of the danger she faced. Once before she’d escaped a bad situation with little more than the garments on her back, with a toddler in her arms. For three years she’d remained hidden, raised her son in the best way she knew how.

But unlike when she’d left Northbryre, a band of ruthless men camped on Collinwood’s doorstep. Hellfire, if one of the mercenaries found her…he refused to complete the thought. He had to trust that she wouldn’t be captured, or he would drive himself witless with worry.

How far had Lucinda gone? In which direction? Up river? Down? Across, somehow, and overland? The mental exercise gave some relief, but not for long.

He wanted to yell and beat on something, someone—mostly himself for not anticipating her move.

Richard’s hand smacked against the palisade. He’d been so proud of Collinwood, of the fortress built for protection, of the new farms and recently acquired wealth. Of his plans to build a stone keep. Yet none of those things brought him the joy he’d found in loving Lucinda, none of the satisfaction he’d found in caring for Philip.

His head pounded with pain, but he held on to his rage, for despair lurked behind it.

All night, Richard haunted the wall-walk, even when the mist gave over to rain and back again. He
paced, and watched, and paced some more. When light brightened the sky, Richard peered outward at George’s camp.

The fires had gone out during the rain. The three supply wagons stood off to the side of George’s tent, the oxen milling about nearby. Several tents dotted the campsite. The pavises stood in an eerie row, ready to be rolled forward. Yet, no one stood ready to roll them.

Not a man could be seen. Nor George’s horse.

George and his force had snuck off during the night.

“Open the gates!” he shouted, already on the run, the knowledge running along with him that George wouldn’t leave unless he had Philip.

Richard forced himself to calm down, to read the signs about the camp that would tell him something, anything, about the situation he now faced. Finding George. Philip. Lucinda.

They’d left in groups, headed in several directions. Only one group, the largest, had taken the road south, led by a horse. George’s horse.

Richard turned to go back to the manor, then stopped. On the drawbridge, near the gate, and on the wall-walk stood nearly every man and older boy. All armed with a spear or sword, or bow or club. A lump threatened his throat. He managed to swallow it before he reached the drawbridge.

“I thank you,” he said, “but I take only ten men.” He spied Edric near the gate. “Choose those most skilled with bow and sword, and who can long sit a horse. George has a good start on us, and we must assume he has Philip.”

And Lucinda. George had captured Lucinda. Richard
ignored the sweat that broke on his brow, and the tremble that threatened his composure. He headed for the armory to fetch his chain mail, to lead the company that would free the woman he loved and the boy he adored, and give him back his life.

Lucinda walked beside the man assigned to guard her, stiff and sore, and so angry she could spit.

She’d almost reached the river. A few more steps and George’s patrol wouldn’t have spotted her. She’d fought, to no avail. Philip had better luck. She would have to commend whoever had taught him to “go for the knees” and then “bash the man on the head” with his wooden sword. But that had worked only once, and the two of them couldn’t fight off five men.

Lucinda glanced over her shoulder. Philip marched along behind her, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, secure in his belief that Richard would find and rescue them. Philip still bore a red splotch on his cheek where George had hit him last night for expressing that opinion.

George had also believed it. He’d paid off and dismissed the mercenary captains, then taken to the road in the dead of night, to escape Richard and to reach Dover as quickly as possible.

And so they marched—she and Philip, and fifteen men—while George rode up ahead.

Richard. Would he come? Most likely. Out of duty. She didn’t want him to risk his life yet again, but he probably would. Damn, she’d made a mess of her escape. Not only had she been caught, but no message of her leaving had been delivered to George’s camp.

George looked back, a smug smile on his pudgy
face. The toad. How she would like to scratch his eyes out! Except her wrists were bound together with rope.

“How do you, Lucinda?” he asked sarcastically.

“Quite well, George. And you? Is your arse sore yet?”

He raised a surprised eyebrow. His surprise matched her own. Merciful heaven, she should watch her tongue. Yet she longed to spit venomous words, lash out and sting him though it would do no good.

“As an ugly wench who is of no use to me, you had best amend your insolent manner if you wish to set eyes on Normandy.”

She had no desire to set eyes on Normandy, and intended to do whatever she must to avoid boarding the ship. This road ran through London. A crowded city. A place where she and Philip could get lost in the throng and find sanctuary in one of the many churches or abbeys.

He threatened her with death, which she expected from him. If the wretch thought she would die easily, the man had best think again.

With a start, Lucinda realized she didn’t fear George. She
should
fear him. He came from the same rotted mold as Basil, that devil’s spawn who’d tried his damnedest to beat her into meekness, berate her into believing herself unlovable.

In the past weeks, she’d learned differently. While she might never lie in Richard’s arms again, she would always feel his warmth, hear his tender words. By loving Richard so thoroughly, she’d gained strength and healed.

No man, not even George, could wound her soul ever again.

* * *

Richard’s man-at-arms beamed as he reported his sighting.

“They have stopped for the night, my lord. Two leagues ahead. George, Lucinda and Philip, and fifteen men. No sign of any of the mercenaries.”

George was a dimwit. A smart man would have retained the mercenaries as escort; the greedy man had decided to save his coin.

“Lucinda and Philip all right?”

“The boy’s tunic is torn about the sleeve. The lady wears no veil and her hands are tied in front of her. Both moved smartly, though, as if uninjured.”

If George had ordered Lucinda’s hands tied, she must have given him trouble. While he inwardly cheered her boldness, he prayed she wouldn’t test George’s patience too hard.

Lucinda had certainly tested Richard’s patience, to the point of rampage. He’d lost his temper before, but never to the severe degree that he’d tossed a table around the room. He tamped down the rage that threatened his composure at the memory of his reaction to her leaving him, putting herself and Philip in danger. He would save his rage for later, when he confronted George, and later still, when he informed Lucinda of his disapproval of this exploit.