My Lord's Desire. Margaret Moore
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Armand said, his anger lessening. Young men in their cups often said and did things they later regretted, as had he, although he’d never accosted a woman. “Go back to Ludgershall and sleep it off.”
He headed to the door, making it clear he intended to see that Alfred did as he was told, and believing there was hope for these young fellows yet, if they had other examples of honorable behaviour than the king and his sycophants.
“The rest of you, as well—back to Ludgershall,” he ordered, holding the door open and waiting for them to pass.
Charles likewise made no protest, and left.
His head bowed, Alfred dutifully departed. For a moment, Armand thought the Irishman was going to refuse, but then he shrugged his shoulders and strolled out the door as if Armand’s order was just a suggestion and he had nothing else to do.
Insolent pup!
Godwin also started to leave, until Armand waved him back. “Stay and finish your stew.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Godwin replied with a grin, and the women smiled gratefully as they bade Armand farewell.
AS ARMAND was ensuring that the young knights returned to the castle without further incident, Adelaide walked briskly across the courtyard. In her hand she held a scroll, a letter to her sister Gillian that one of the king’s clerks had written for her.
She didn’t really need any man’s aid to write a letter. She and her sisters had been taught to read and write by their father’s steward, one of the many secrets in their father’s household while he’d been alive. Her father had believed that educating women was a waste of time and effort, and by the time she was old enough to realize there was such a thing as reading and writing, her mother had been so worn out giving birth to her sisters and other babies who had not lived, she had no strength to teach her.
Adelaide, however, had not wanted to remain ignorant. As she’d pointed out to her father when he was in a rare, peaceable humor, being able to read and write would increase her value to a potential husband.
His good humor had died in an instant, and he’d thrown his goblet at her. “Think you know better than me, girl?” he’d shouted.
Thankfully his steward, Samuel de Corlette, had heard the exchange. Afterward, he’d told Adelaide she was right to want to learn. “After all,” he’d said, smiling kindly, his face lined with furrows of stress from dealing with her father all those years, “your father will not live forever.”
So he had not—and the day he died, not a single person had mourned his passing.
It had been different when kind-hearted, patient Samuel had died. He’d been born the bastard son of a Norman foot soldier, but he’d been more honorable, noble and kind than most noblemen she’d met, and everyone at Averette had been saddened by the loss.
Here at Ludgershall, the clerks had flocked about her like so many busy bees when she’d appeared in their chamber and asked if any of them had a moment to spare to write a letter for her. All had smiled and several had offered, while she’d dithered and demurred and apologized for taking them from their worthy labors. She’d been able to hear most of them say something in response.
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