Lord of the Mist (19 page)

Not more than an hour after Durand had left, a guard fetched
her. She went without demur as she knew there was little anyone could do. Simon
had stitched her into her shroud as surely as if he had wielded real needle and
thread.

Though she offered no resistance, the king’s man held her
roughly and hustled her down the steps and into the hall. A wall of people met
her view. Even the upper gallery was lined with spectators, the humbler maids
and pages to those who sat near the hearth.

The guard parted the throng by calling out “Make way for the
thief,” as if she had already been tried and convicted. “Sit,” the man ordered
her, and thrust her onto a stool by Father Laurentius.

The long table by the hearth held the clerics and Lord
Durand. He did not look at her, and she felt chilled.

Did he, somewhere inside, think her guilty? That he might
was worse than a thrust from the dagger he had placed in its sheath when he had
dressed. That blade, with its raven, and the torque he wore were symbols of who
he was.

The marks on her wrists from the ropes that had bound her
were symbols of who she was, too.

As she stared at the red rough patches on her skin, anger
filled her. How dare Simon involve her in this? How dare Lady Sabina stand
somewhere in the crowd and not speak? How dare this knavish company stand in
judgment of her? They who traded beds on a whim, taxed their minions to near
starvation, and warred over land, then trampled it wantonly as they hunted?

Not Lord Durand
.

She folded her hands in her lap to still their tremor. Lord
Durand did not drain the life from his people—nor did Luke, in his stead.

Lady Oriel and Lady Nona came to stand in front of her. They
were garbed like twin butterflies in vibrant blues and yellows as if they had
planned to complement each other. Both wore chains of gold about their waists
and necks. All the finery did not conceal Oriel’s pale face or Lady Nona’s
delicate beauty.

Oriel kissed her cheeks. Lady Nona was not so familiar, but
did touch her shoulder quickly, lightly. They took their places by the hearth
with Lord Gilles and his son, who had just entered with Penne. The king was
announced. He swept in with his queen on his arm. Cristina knew she would be
judged by this man who was said to be as capricious as the summer winds. As if
he had touched her, she felt his gaze settle on her.

Father Laurentius hurried toward her from the bailey. His
robes flapped around his thin frame, but he smiled gravely and patted her hand.
“All will be well, mistress. Take heart.”

To show the priest and all who chose to judge her in their
own hearts, she straightened her spine and settled her features into what she
hoped looked like the countenance of a woman with no guilt or fear.

Several agonizing moments of courtly banter passed as more
of King John’s party arranged themselves about the hearth area. The queen
called for wine and something sweet. Serving boys went about tending to the
needs of their masters and mistresses. Did no one care that she waited with a
racing heart and sweating palms, her life in the balance?

Lord Durand was every inch the warrior lord as he took a
seat by the king. He wore a long tunic more suited to combat than this
business. At the neck and sleeves she saw a dark wine linen shirt that somehow
reminded her of the colors in his hair as they were touched by the flickers of
flame.

He nodded to her and, suddenly she felt an inner peace. He
had promised to help her. He was a man of honor. He would keep his word.

The sick churning of her belly subsided.

The king gestured for Father Laurentius to approach. This
time, there would be no difficulty hearing every word spoken. She was the
accused.

To her great surprise—Lord Durand’s, too, if his expression
was any window to his thoughts—the king asked Luke to step forward.

Luke went down on one knee and bowed to the king.

John sat in a huge oak chair and leaned on one elbow. The
size of the chair did naught to increase his own physical presence. He was a
small man compared to Luke. But his splendid robes bespoke his position. He
wore several rings, the worth of which would keep ten peasant families all
their lives.

Sir Luke also looked splendid, though he was more plainly
dressed. He was garbed in russet brown with touches of gold trim. He wore his
mantle over one shoulder. It was clasped with a gold pin shaped like a raven—a
reminder that he was a de Marle, too.

The king spoke almost gently. “Luke, you take a most
prodigious interest in Mistress le Gros.”

She started at her name.

“My interest is that of castellan.”

“Come, Luke, we are not blind. The woman is fetching, is she
not? And you are most aptly called Lord of Skirts. How is it you have let such
a tempting morsel pass you by?”

Durand watched his brother carefully. Hot color filled
Luke’s cheeks, but he shrugged. “There are so many temptations,” Luke said.
“And only so many hours.”

The hall burst into laughter.

The king smiled. “So,” he continued. “You have not
yet
sampled Mistress le Gros?”

Luke shrugged again, but made no answer.

Durand watched Cristina bow her head. It was an indication
of her inner turmoil at this open discussion of her as if she could not hear.
He wanted to call out to her to sit as before, not cave to one man’s
accusations.

The queen touched King John’s hand. “Luke has neither wealth
nor position. He has a pretty face, I grant you, but he has naught to offer a
woman of wealth, and so can we not assume he will seek such as this one?”

There was a hint of malice in the queen’s tone, and
enlightenment hit Durand with a jolt.

The king held an interest in Cristina, and the queen knew
it.

King John shook his head. “Are we correct, Sir Luke, that
many seek you, highborn and low, for your connection to your brother and any
future considerations he might settle on you?”

“Aye, sire. Many seek me for what
Durand
might
offer.”

Durand saw Lady Nona rise abruptly and slip between Oriel
and Penne. She lifted her hem, and it belled around her legs as she darted down
the steps to the lower reaches of the castle. What ailed her?

Then he knew. She was humiliated, just as Cristina was at
the implications of the king’s conversation, now her name was coupled with that
of de Marle. Guilt that he had spent the night in Cristina’s arms washed over
him. But he thrust it aside. He was not wed to the lady yet and might never
make a contract with her. What he had done with Cristina was none of Lady
Nona’s concern.

The king’s caprice in such matters was legendary. But Durand
would not undo the night in Cristina’s arms for all the wealth and land in
Christendom.

“What places have you been alone with Mistress le Gros?” the
king asked Luke.

Father Laurentius came to life. He gripped Luke’s arm and
bade him to be silent. “Sire, Sir Luke is not accused of theft. Mistress le
Gros is. She is innocent of everything but a blindness to her husband’s
perfidious nature. In fact, she was given the book in question by Lord Durand
and returned it to him through Luke once she had cleaned it.”

Someone in the crowd snickered.

Durand watched Cristina’s head snap up. She fixed her gaze
on the king with no agitation of her hands, nor telltale blush staining her
pale cheeks. He admired her return to courage.

“It is your statement ‘through Luke’ that we question,
Father,” the king said. “Can you deny the woman had access to the Aelfric? Can
you deny she may have had a second thought about returning such a valuable book
when it could fetch up to a thousand pounds?”

“I deny it completely. Mistress le Gros had but to ask
Lord
Durand
and he would have given her the book. Once she had it, she could
have sold it to whomever she wished. ‘Tis nonsense that she would have stolen
it!”

The king tapped his chin in thoughtful contemplation. “If
this is the case, Father, then why did Simon not ask his wife to petition Lord
Durand for it. Why would
he
need to steal it?”

“Indeed. Let us ask Mistress le Gros.” Father Laurentius
turned to her. He bent close to her. “Well?” he asked.

Cristina looked up at the priest and Durand held his breath.
What would she say? “I did not tell my husband that Lord Durand gave me the
book, as I thought Simon might see something in it beyond kindness. I did not
wish to raise his anger. I merely said Lord Durand had given the Aelfric to me
to clean.”

“Did anyone witness this exchange, my child?”

She shook her head. The priest repeated Cristina’s answer to
the king, and for the first time Durand saw color on her cheeks.

“We see,” the king said. The queen distracted him for a
moment by leaning and whispering in his ear. “We would speak with Penne
Martine,” he said to the priest.

Penne approached with a slightly bewildered expression.
Durand, too, had no idea why the king wished to speak with him.

“Martine, it is our understanding that you frequent the
counting room.” The king rose and stood before Penne, his hand outstretched.

Penne bowed over the king’s extended hand. “Sire, I am often
in the counting room with Luke and others.”

“Did you see this woman there, and most particularly alone,
at any time near to, or before, the theft was noticed?” The king swept out his
hand to where Cristina sat.

There was but a moment of hesitation before Penne spoke.
“Aye. I did see her one night alone in the counting room.”

“When? And what was she doing there?” the king asked.

Who had supplied the king—nay the queen—with such
information? Durand flicked his glance quickly across the assembled crowd.
There were no clues in any faces that he could read.

Penne licked his lips. “I am not sure when…a stormy night, I
believe. She was doing nothing untoward, sire. She was placing a bottle of
sorts upon the table.”

“Could she have opened the coffer in which the Aelfric lay
before you arrived? Did she remain after you?” The king did not wait for Penne
to answer. He forged on with a question to Laurentius. “What was in the bottle,
Father?”

When asked the question, Cristina glanced toward Luke. What
had Cristina made for Luke? Durand wondered.

“Father,” Cristina said, “I am loath to break a confidence.”

“You must,” the priest said. “Why die for some simple you
made?”

Cristina’s face paled and she visibly swallowed. “I made a
love potion.”

Mon Dieu
, Durand thought as the hall erupted in
discord.

The king threw back his head and laughed. “We cannot believe
the Lord of Skirts needs a love potion!” The king slapped the arms of his
chair.

Luke merely shrugged and looked steadily at the king.

“‘Twas not a usual love potion, sire,” Luke said when the
hall quieted. “I merely wished that an hour or so of lovemaking might last for
three…or four.”

Silence fell. Durand gave his brother a silent salute. Trust
Luke to fall into something and arise smelling like a rose.

“We are indeed envious. And shall soon be purchasing the
same for ourselves,” the king said. The many courtiers of his court were
laughing along with the king. Robert Godshall whispered something to Sabina,
which turned her smile into a frown.

The queen tapped her husband’s arm and made a soft comment.
The king burst into renewed laughter. “Our most esteemed queen informs me that
Luke wears well the appellation of Lord of Skirts, and wishes to know if the
potion was effective.”

Luke bowed to the queen. “Aye, sire, it was most effective.”

Durand thought that Cristina would never starve if she
survived this. She would be making love potions for the next score of years for
every man present.

Father Laurentius cleared his throat. “Is there not
sufficient doubt, sire, that this woman must be freed?”

“Not withstanding our amusement, we have not lost sight of
our purpose.” The king turned to Durand. “We can see that many had access to
the Aelfric. Furthermore, this woman was seen alone in the chamber despite her
very worthy need to be there. Could she not have delivered the potion to Sir
Luke at any time? Aye, she could have. Yet she chose a quiet moment when no
other was in the chamber. ‘Tis a telling circumstance.”

Durand quickly interjected, “Aye, sire. And I have seen
other women alone there, too.” A woman caught his eye. “Lady Sabina, for one.”

Cristina felt hope rise within her. If Lord Durand could
marshal doubt, she might yet live. Then her spirits fell. A woman with a father
the king called friend would not need to steal.

“Have you succumbed to the Lord of Skirts?” John leaned
toward Sabina.

She smiled. “All woman have lost their hearts to him, sire,
but not all of us have lost our virtue to him.”

“Indeed.” The king swept his gaze across the hall and let it
come to rest on Cristina. “Rise, mistress.”

She did so with difficulty, for she wanted only to melt into
the floor. She dropped into a deep curtsy.

“We have a simple solution that will greatly amuse us all,”
the king said. “We shall allow God to determine guilt and innocence.”

“Sire.” Durand said sharply. “It would be in the best of
interests in some cases, but Mistress le Gros has duties that she must perform,
guilty or innocent. She cannot nurse the infant Felice if she is dead!”

His assumption of her death was an assumption of her
innocence. She sent him a silent thanks for his heated support.

“Ah,” the king said. “The babe. We have not forgotten the
babe, as she most severely tested our ears and taxed our patience last eventide.
Our most blessed queen agrees that the child needs her nurse, though we have
our doubts as to having a thief nurture such an innocent babe.”