Lord of the Mist (14 page)

“Do as you please.” Durand shoved past his brother and
strode into the hall, a grievous mistake, as the king called to him and there
was naught to do but obey.

“Sire?” Durand said, bowing.

“We have spoken to our guards about a woman at the postern
gate. Have we need for concern?”

“Nay. ‘Twas just a woman seeking privacy.”

King John stroked his beard with this thumbs. “Hmm. We would
know more of this. We don’t need spies among us.”

Something hot and heavy settled in Durand’s belly. “She’s
not a spy. Women have moods, sire, as you well know.”

The king threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, aye. We know
a woman’s moods. If you are sure of her, we’ll not interfere. Spurned by a
lover, having a fit of pique, no doubt.”

The men about the king laughed with him. The heavy feeling
lifted just a bit. “Come, de Marle,” the king commanded. “Tell d’Argent, here,
how many men you will give to our noble cause.”

Durand could not refuse. He turned to the only man not
laughing—Gilles d’Argent. The baron had not the problems he must face.
D’Argent’s lands were all in England. He had no divided loyalty, and enough
wealth that Durand imagined most of d’Argent’s conversations with the king were
about how much his scutage costs and baronial bribe would be.

* * * * *

Luke nudged Cristina awake with his toe. She looked up his
long leg but a moment before rising and following him from the bedchamber.

“Have you been weeping?” He took Felice from her arms and
cradled the babe against his shoulder.

“Nay. I never weep,” she said, but her eyes felt swollen.

“Come.” He walked away, up a set of steps she had never
climbed, and opened a door. A sentry greeted him, and they stepped out onto the
wall walk. Far below, the bailey was alive with men and women, torches and
conversation. In the distance the river was a silver ribbon. “Now, why were you
at the postern gate?”

“You don’t mince your words.” She leaned against the parapet
wall. The cold stone soothed her hot cheeks.

“Durand’s in a rage. He doesn’t need such business at this
time.”

“I don’t know what to say. I needed to find a place of
privacy. Felice’s chamber—”

“Your chamber—”

“Sir Luke, I have no place here. I nurse Felice. That is my
duty
.
It makes me your brother’s servant. Servants do not have chambers.”

He gave a low whistle. “I stand duly chastised, Mistress le
Gros. Why did you not retire to
Felice’s
chamber?”

“Lovers, sir.” Why explain? Durand’s men would bring Simon
here to Ravenswood and he would explain himself. She would wait for his arrival
and know the truth about the boy in the chapel.

But if she did not believe in her husband, she had nothing.
Nothing. And if Simon lied, she would be cast out by Lord Durand. Set upon the
road. And Simon…she would not think of his fate—a fate now in Lord Durand’s
hands.

“There are places aplenty in the keep if you need privacy.”

“The jakes?” She rubbed her swollen eyes.

“‘Tis not a time for levity. Marion’s garden, then?”

Cristina turned around to face him. Moonlight painted him in
a silver gleam—his hair, his skin, his white linen shirt showing at the neck
and sleeves of his tunic. He was handsome, but not stupid. “You have said it,
my lord. ‘Tis Lady Marion’s garden.”

“I see. Does her shade walk there?” He turned Felice and
inspected her tiny face.

“In a manner, aye. I may nurture the plants, but still, ‘tis
her garden.”

“Has my brother made you feel unwelcome there?”

“Nay,” she said softly, then looked up at the black velvet
sky, studded with stars. “Nay.” Instead Lord Durand had beguiled her there,
kissed her, made her wish for what could never be—the strength of his arms, the
feel of his body against hers. A quiver of fear and want, indistinguishable one
from another, ran through her.

Now he thought her perfidious. The thought was a deeper pain
than any illness, any stab with a dagger, could be.

* * * * *

Durand woke from a vivid dream. His body was bathed in sweat
and ready should a willing woman have lain beside him. But his pallet was in
his brother’s counting room, and only Luke lay snoring by the fire to disturb
his rest.

He sat up, cast off the furs, and clasped his arms about his
knees. In his dream he had pursued Cristina through the postern gate, past the
village, and into the forest. It was deepest night in his dream, for purple and
black shadows filled the clearing. She was clothed only in her hair, and he had
wanted to bury his face in the sweetly scented tresses.

The pursued became the pursuer.

She had fetched a bowl of water from the nearby river that
seemed to writhe and breathe as if it were a living thing. Without a word he
had stretched out on the ground for her as she approached. He, too, was
suddenly naked, and she had bathed his skin in scented water as moonlight shone
on the shape of her full breasts and womanly thighs.

His body had arched to her gentle caresses, and just as the
pleasure had come, she had lifted the bowl and spilled its silver stream as his
body had poured forth its ecstasy.

Awake now, he felt as drained as if he had spent himself,
and yet was still as aroused as if he had not.

Why must he dream of her now? Now, when he doubted every
word she spoke? Now, when he most wanted to believe she knew naught of Simon’s
thievery? Yet she had lied about her reasons for seeking the gate. Her face, so
innocently expressive, had told all.

His eyes felt as if filled with sand. He rose and poured
water into a basin and splashed his face. Near to hand sat a pot of soft
soap—his brother’s. Its smell was not that of the forest glade of his dreams.
He set it aside, unused.

Once in the hall, he ate little of the bounty set before
him. The fat congealing at the edges of the trenchers did naught for his
appetite. He searched but failed to see Cristina at one of the many tables in
the hall.

Given no unforeseen events, brigands or otherwise, Simon
would be here before nightfall. As he chewed, he noted the king’s arrival in
the hall. He rose and bowed, as did everyone else. Thank God John had not the
habit of his father of wandering around and ofttimes eating whilst standing.
Durand kissed Queen Isabelle’s hand and led her to a chair next to his.

“What is this we hear that you are bringing in a thief?” the
king asked.

“It is not determined the man is a thief. He’ll have his
say.” Durand lifted his goblet, but quickly set it down when Cristina entered
the hall. She was garbed in the white gown in which he had first seen her, but
no ribbons held her hair looped back. Was it mere imagination that traced
shadows under her eyes? She did not look toward him, nor settle at a table.
Instead, she wrapped a heel of bread in a cloth and returned to the tower.

The king leaned close to Durand and spoke at his ear.
“Fetching.”

“Sire?” Durand said.

“That woman. A fetching morsel.”

Durand licked his lips. “Aye.”

“She made our dear queen a most wonderful soap. A talented
hand with scents and potions.”

“Aye, sire,” he said. He did not want to think of Cristina’s
scent. It filled his dreams and tormented his sleep.

Cristina feared to walk about the keep, yet could not remain
in Felice’s chamber. There, she would not know when Simon arrived. She’d left
only once to get bread, but had found that every step in crossing the lofty
hall meant moments of torture before
his
scrutiny.

Eating the bread, feeding Felice, attempting to make sweet
pillows for the queen’s waiting maids did naught to assuage her panic. The
sentry had moved from his position at the foot of the tower steps to outside
her door and served as a reminder that Lord Durand did not trust her.

She tested the hair salve for Luke, judged it cool enough to
pot up, and finished it off with a dab of day old butter just as a light tap
came at the chamber door.

Her heart tapped rapidly in her chest. “Enter,” she called.

It was Lady Nona who lifted the latch.

“Do I disturb you, Mistress le Gros?” the lady asked.

Cristina curtsied and brushed back the loose strands of hair
at her brow. It was carelessly tied at her nape. Now, faced with Lady Nona’s
splendid perfection, she felt slatternly. “Enter, my lady. You do not disturb
me.”

Lady Nona wore a gown of soft green stitched with pearls and
trimmed with ivory ribbon. Her hair was entwined with ribbons, and ropes of
pearls looped her neck. “I thought to see the babe,” she said in a manner that
suggested she would not trespass if Cristina forbid it.

“As you wish, my lady,” Cristina said softly, continuing her
task, pouring Luke’s hair salve into an earthenware pot.

The lady plucked Felice from the cradle and brought her
near. “That certainly stinks like the pigsty,” she said with a grimace.

“Oh, aye.” Cristina pressed a fat cork into the small pot’s
neck. “It is not harmful to the child.”

Nona peered down at Felice’s face. She brushed a fingertip
across the rosebud lips. “Nay, I did not think such a thought. But I do think
it harmful for you to eat nothing. Lady Oriel says you’ve not attended meals
and took only some milk yestereve.”

“I had some bread.” But the cloth still holding the bread
showed she had but nibbled at the edges.

“Please me, Mistress, and eat, else you’ll make yourself
ill.” Lady Nona went to the door and spoke to the sentry as if she had
commanded the men of Ravenswood all her life.

While they waited, Nona watched Cristina stuff dried flowers
into small pouches of linen and tie them with narrow ribbons. The women did not
speak until after a servant had placed a tray on the worktable. It held cheese,
roasted partridge, and wine.

Cristina felt no wish to eat. All would taste of ashes in
her mouth, she knew, but to please the lady she sat on a stool and sliced some
cheese.

“What will you do?” Lady Nona asked. She tickled Felice’s
stomach, and Cristina could not keep jealousy from filling her as Felice batted
her legs and wriggled happily.

“Do?” She crumbled the cheese between her fingertips. “About
what, my lady?”

“About your husband. ‘Tis all the gossip that he has stolen
from Lord Durand.”

Cristina clamped her hands on her knees. “My husband is not
a thief. He just signed a charter that will yield him much. Why would he
steal?” If she said it often enough, it would be the truth.

“Indeed. But can you continue here if he is accused and
found guilty?”

She searched the good lady’s face for some sign of what she
wanted. “I cannot.” The words almost caught in her throat.

Lady Nona rose. “If I might be so bold, I’m sure I could
find a place for you at my manor in Bordeaux. Of course, we must see if there’s
another wet nurse about. You would not want Felice to suffer when you depart.”
Nona rocked Felice in her arms as she headed for the door. In moments, Cristina
was alone.

We
would not want…

Cristina’s mouth went dry. How could she have forgotten the
this lady was to wed Lord Durand? She jumped up and, ignoring the sentry at the
door, dashed down the steps to the hall.

As she rounded the steps, she almost stumbled over Oriel.
Her blue gown, trimmed with black stitches, looked crumpled.

“My lady, may I help you?” Cristina placed a hand on Oriel’s
arm. The sentry backed away.

Oriel licked her lips and wiped away tears. “I’m so
concerned about Penne. He’s at odds with the king today. He wants to do the
honorable thing, but ‘tis difficult with John. He trusts no one, and Guy
Wallingford has urged Penne to desert this effort. ‘Twill end in disaster or
death for so many.”

“His holdings were confiscated by King Philip?” Cristina
asked. Her stomach lurched at the thought of the deadly sword wounds of the
recent brigand attack. She could not think of Durand in a pool of blood on a
battlefield with no one to see to him.

What had fate in store for him? For Felice? For…her? She
became aware that Oriel had answered her question.

“Aye. Penne’s lands were granted to him by King Richard that
the Martine family might serve, with others, mind you, to break up King
Philip’s power in Normandy. ‘Twas one of Richard’s reasons for approving
Marion’s marriage to Durand. But one of the barons reminds Penne daily that if
he just went to Philip, swore fealty there, he would very likely get his lands
back without risking his life. It must be done before Philip portions them out
to another if it is to be done at all.”

“So Penne might leave John for Philip?”

“What?” Durand stood before the alcove, a frown on his face.

“Oh, Durand,” Oriel said, rising, swaying a moment. He shot
out his hand and steadied her. “I didn’t see you there.”

“So it would seem. What were you saying about Penne leaving
John for Philip?”

“I didn’t say such a thing. Cristina asked if Penne might
leave John. I was just about to assure her that Penne swore to John and will
not desert him.”

“I see.” His doubting tone told her ‘twas not just the king
who had no trust.

“If I might, my lord, may I speak to you in private?”
Cristina asked.

“Be quick about it, as your husband should arrive at any
hour,” he said to her.

“He will make all clear, I’m sure,” Cristina said.

“All is clear now,” he said abruptly.

Oriel touched her arm. “Excuse me; I intrude.” With that,
Cristina found herself alone with him.

“You are a doubting man,” Cristina said, unable to keep a
tart tone from her voice.

“Aye. I doubt what I cannot see or hear or touch.”

How intense was his gaze, a sharp dagger that stabbed
through her composure.

“You need trust.” She looked at the raven’s head on his
dagger and at the ends of the torque at his throat. They were predator birds
and symbols of power. He would soon wield it for good or ill.

“You trust your husband?” he asked.

“I have no one else,” she said, unable to truly answer him.

“If you know something more about this business, you should
tell me.”

“There are times when silence is best, my lord.” Could she
tell him that to deny her husband was to deny the life fate and her father had
chosen for her?

“Name one.”

“Lady Marion told me she had withheld her news of Felice
from you until this spring, as she felt so ill she feared she might lose the
child and disappoint you.”

A hard look overspread his face. It was as sudden as if
someone had taken a torch and plunged it into water—cold water. “Is that what
she told you?” His words were icy.

“Aye, my lord.” Cristina dropped a curtsey. “Forgive me, my
lord, if I—or she—broke some confidence. Lady Marion was much alone as you
traveled with King John, and as I was to have a child at the same time, we
spent a great deal of time together and oft talked of babes and—”

“Husbands?” He almost spat the word. He pushed himself off
the wall. He was suddenly taller and broader.

“On occasion. She gained much benefit from a soothing drink
I made her, and she would talk to me as she sipped it.”

“And what were your opinions of husbands?”

Cristina bowed her head. She had done her best not to
complain of Simon, but Marion had been like a bird pecking at seed, picking and
picking at her for every detail of their life together. “In truth, my lord,
Lady Marion spent more time peering into my life than I into hers. She spoke of
you with affection.”

“And the babe? What were her thoughts on Felice?”

She raised her gaze to his hard face. The lines about his
mouth were etched deeply. He looked to be in some pain.

“Don’t blame the child for your lady’s death, my lord.”

The pained look was replaced with blank surprise. “I don’t
blame the child. Why would you think such a thing?”

She hurried on. “Lady Marion must have had some glimmer of
her fate, for she feared the child’s birth. She oft asked Luke if you had sent
word of when you would return.”

“I don’t blame the child for Marion’s death. Nay. Never
that.” He began to pace. “Where’s the infant?”

Cristina indicated the hall. “Lady Nona took her, my lord.”

“Lady Nona! What business has she to take the child?”

Two men came past the alcove, and he made a quick gesture
for her to follow him.

The path he took led to the west tower, a place she had
heretofore never visited. He climbed the steps at a quick pace, then halted by
a door similar to those in the east tower, a stout wooden door strapped with
iron, guarded by a tall Ravenswood guard. Lord Durand drew a small, ornate iron
key from his purse, unlocked the door, and gestured her in.

She gasped. Before her lay a chamber filled with shelves of
books and rolls of parchment. “My lord,” she whispered.

He entered the chamber and threw open a shutter. “Come. No
one will bother us here.” He had chosen the room as the guard was above
reproach and the room without a bed or place of comfort in which to practice
seduction or be tempted by it.

Durand watched as Cristina set one toe over the threshold.
He thought of a wading bird, testing the water, a lovely, gentle bird, easily
frightened. “Come,” he repeated, all anger with her gone. She was not
responsible for Marion’s perfidy.

What had possessed him to suspect her? He could not see her
stealing anything—save some man’s heart.

At last she stood a few inches within the chamber. “How is
it no one mentions this room?”

He shrugged. “‘Tis mine, and mine alone. I rarely visit it
myself.”

Sun gleamed on her hair as she edged along the shelves. He
found he liked it loose at her nape rather than tightly plaited.

“Why have you shown me this, my lord?”

“You wished to speak where no ears were able to hear.”

She turned from the shelves. “You think me too bold?”

He leaned his shoulder against a shelf. “I think you have
something of importance to say and need privacy. This a private place.”

The whisper of her skirt across the rushes reminded him of
the first time he had seen her. She moved like a wraith. Mayhap if he looked
away she would disappear.

Her soft white woolen gown hugged her ample breasts. The
cool air of the chamber tightened her nipples and distracted him from her face
a bit, but not enough that he did not see some shadow of the anxiety with which
she had approached him.

Would she beg for her husband? And would he, so drawn to her
as he was, find a way to release Simon and send them both safely away? How long
would his conscience bother him? How long before he ceased to think of her in
Simon’s bed somewhere?

“Speak, Cristina. My time is not my own.”

“I beg you believe me, my lord. I was not leaving by the
postern gate.”

“Is that what you wished to say?”

“Nay, but if you doubt me…that is…Lady Nona said you might
seek a new nurse for Felice.”

She bit her lip. He remembered well the taste of her mouth.
“Lady Nona is bold,” was the only answer he had for her.

“Lady Oriel claims Lady Nona will soon be your wife. Should
she not be so bold in such a position?”

Durand pushed away from the shelves and went to the deep
window. As far as he could see was the land that should have been Luke’s. He
turned his back on the window. “So I am wed to her already?”

“‘Tis none of my concern, my lord.” Her hands stroked along
a shelf, skimming the spines of books, and he wished he could see her face. Her
tone was bare of inflection or meaning.

He wanted her to care that he would wed, then realized she
had gained a promise from him not to put her vows to any test, and so he could
not demand or request such emotion.

“You’d be the wrong nurse for Felice if you didn’t have her
welfare close to your heart.”

“I do, my lord, I do!” She finally faced him, a look of pain
or sorrow on her face, but it was quickly chased away when she turned her back.
“I’m not deaf to gossip, though, and the lady has indicated that a new nurse must
be found if Simon is…” Her voice broke.

“If Simon is found to be a thief,” he finished for her.

“Nay, he is not,” she said, but with less of the heat of her
earlier avowals.

“Cristina.” He said her name as he might if he were her
lover, and she reacted to the tone. She turned to him, her face half in shadow,
half in sun. “You will remain here, with Felice, for as long as you wish,” he
said gently.

“You have judged Simon already.”

“I have not.”

“You will promise to be fair—to hear his excuses?”

He gave a curt nod. “I am considered very fair, else I would
not be one of John’s justices.”

“Does not the king choose those who will see to
his
wishes, my lord?”

“You are hard to please,” he said, pacing the small chamber.
He cared almost as little for this talk of justice as he did for the talk of
marriage. “I will be fair.”
I may even see a thief freed
, he said
silently.

“What penalties have you given for men found guilty of—”