Lord of the Mist (23 page)

Men, the king included, stood by the hearth, maps before
them. They were too intent upon their business to note her in any way. But as
she walked by, she thought she felt the king’s glance upon her. How little she
thought of him—a man who could show such public affection for his wife and
invite another to be his mistress behind her back—one he thought to be a thief,
no less.

For a moment Cristina pitied the queen. Surely the king
would make offers to other women, and how many would refuse.

There were no ladies in the great hall, although Cristina
glimpsed the bent head of Lady Nona in an alcove.

Lady Nona was a beautiful and kindly woman. She would make
Lord Durand a good wife. Although Cristina swallowed several times to still her
misery, tears ran down her cheeks. She was thankful when, once she gained the
bailey, rain fell in fitful squalls and hid her discomposure.

Where had happened to her vow never to weep?

Cristina saw nothing and heard nothing as she walked through
the inner bailey to the stable and the waiting men. She passed the empty
pavilions with their extinguished torches.

A groom boosted her into a saddle and slapped the palfrey’s
rump to get her moving. Squalls of rain whipped Cristina’s mantle back and
dampened her skirt.

Three men rode before her and three behind. Roger Godshall
led them. It was far too large an escort to the village. It smacked of the
escort of a prisoner to her cell.

As her party rode through Ravenswood’s gates, the chapel
bells rang. The man directly in front of her looked back.

Cristina did not.

* * * * *

The chapel bells woke Durand. The chamber stood empty, the
tub gone—Cristina, too. He had slept the morning through.

He stretched and groaned at the pulling protest of his
muscles. Had there been something in the lush vapors of the scented oil to put
him to sleep? Or was he just growing old? Soon his hair would be falling out.

He went to the hall on a quest for the largest haunch of
venison the cook could provide. John was poring over his maps, his men around
him, and Durand decided it would make better sense to attend the king than fill
his belly. He settled for a heel of bread and a slice of cheese, then joined
the royal party.

The king acknowledged him with a nod. “We’ll sail when
Marshall arrives and the weather turns. This messenger from Dartmouth,” the
king gestured to a man covered in mud, “assures us all is in readiness there as
well.”

Durand looked over the map. They would disembark at La
Rochelle and drive through Poitou and thence to Anjou, Maine, and finally
Normandy. And likely die on the road.

Two of the king’s minstrels began to wander the hall, and
the king ordered the maps rolled. Durand searched every face. Someone here had
stood aside and allowed an innocent woman to be accused of theft. It was
another kind of betrayal, one he needed to avenge.

“Durand, over here,” Nicholas d’Argent beckoned him near.
Several men-at-arms as well as Gilles’ son were sitting and dicing by the
hearth.

He straddled a bench and joined them. A boy offered him a
goblet of wine. As he lifted the cup, he nearly groaned at the deep ache in his
shoulder. Cristina must rub some more of her salve there. His thoughts dwelled
a moment on Cristina. He wondered where she was hiding herself. And he knew she
was hiding from this company’s scrutiny.

As was the habit of men, they examined every aspect of the
previous day’s combat. He was excused any faults by way of the mud. And triumph
always sweetened the tale. The idea amused him. “Surely one of John’s jongleurs
will immortalize me in song?” he asked the company.

“Nay, they are scratching out something in honor of Luke’s
cock,” one quipped. “They have no time for combat between mere mortals.”

Durand could not help laughing along with the men. “How many
of you have visited Mistress le Gros for one of her potions that you might be
so revered?”

Silence fell. Nicholas cleared his throat. “Surely you know
she is gone?”

“Gone?” Durand looked from one face to another, but all eyes
slid away save Nicholas’.

“Aye,” d’Argent said. “I have it from my groom that the
queen ordered her gone early this morn—to the village, I believe.”

Durand shot to his feet. He crossed the hall and took the
steps to the east tower two at a time. He hammered a fist on Felice’s door. A
maid opened it a scant inch and peered out.

“Open this door,” he demanded, and she gave way.

One of the king’s guards scrambled in the bed furs to cover
his nakedness. The maid merely walked back to the bed, her hair hiding little
of her slender body.

“Where are the babe’s things?” Durand asked, not able to
mention Cristina, for it was obvious she was not there. The table held no
herbs. No bundles of drying flowers hung from string. Even the chamber’s scent
was that of other women’s perfumed bodies.

The maid leaned on the bedpost and ran her hand over the
linen draperies in an invitational manner, but answered the question. “Are not
all babes with their nurses, my lord?”

* * * * *

With mounting confusion he hastened down the tower steps.
How could he not know so basic a thing in his own keep? The usual alcove for
stitching ladies held one of his quarries—Lady Nona.

“I understand Mistress le Gros is gone.” He tried and failed
to keep his voice low and undisturbed.

“You are correct,” Nona said, rising and bowing. “The queen
gave the order, and it took little to see it done. But she has only gone to the
village.”

“I see.” He realized he was speaking to the wrong woman on
this matter.

Lady Nona wore a dark wine-colored gown trimmed with gold.
Her hair was loosely held at her nape with wine and gold braided ribbons. Her
finery bespoke her station—far above Cristina’s.

“My lord,” Nona said. “Before you go, might I say that the
queen has asked my opinion of a match between Felice and William of Aquitaine
and whether Mistress le Gros should accompany Felice to her new home.”

Jesu
. Cristina and Felice in Aquitaine.

“Although…” Here Nona paused and glanced away. “The queen
did, again, bring up the matter of a child’s nature being formed through the
milk she is fed.”

“I see.” And he did. Alliances had naught to do with lust.
They served one purpose only—securing power. He had married Marion for her
connections regardless of how his heart had later been touched by her. “If it
pleases you, I have much to do,” he said abruptly.

She curtsied and then spoke. “I don’t mean to interfere, but
if you seek to change the queen’s mind about Mistress le Gros, you might do
better through the king.”

“What does that mean?” He retraced his steps to stand before
Lady Nona.

“It means the king has noticed Mistress le Gros.”

Durand understood. Lady Nona was trying to tell him that the
queen was motivated by her jealousy, not by care of Felice.

“My lord?” Nona touched his sleeve.

“What?” He had not meant to be rude, but felt impatient to
see the queen.

“Allow Mistress le Gros some time to settle herself in the
village.”

Without a word of parting, he wheeled away.

Cristina had not come to him.

Anger burned through him. At the queen. At Cristina.

* * * * *

Roger Godshall halted the party at the cottage. One of his
men helped Cristina dismount, an awkward business with a child in arms. When
she moved to the packhorse holding her belongings, Godshall drew his dagger.

It was an elegant weapon, with a handle inlaid with blue
enamel. It sliced through the ropes holding her boxes as if they were but
embroidery thread.

Her boxes crashed to the ground and split open at her feet.

Felice burst into a wailing cry to match her own. Godshall
grinned at her. When Cristina bent toward her boxes, Godshall lifted his
dagger. She froze.

“
Mon Dieu
, what have I done?” Godshall asked his
friends with a lift of his hands and a wide-eyed grin. They merely smiled, and
Cristina realized these were the same men before whom she had embarrassed the
spiteful Godshall.

She swallowed. It was too late to wish she’d spoken and
acted with more care.

Godshall kicked the contents of her boxes. Wood and clothing
scattered. She watched his boots, not his face, nor his blade.

She could not take her eyes from his feet as he crushed her
life’s work into the muddy puddles in the yard.

No matter Durand’s intentions of riding into the village
after Cristina, the king commanded him and the other barons to Porchester
Castle at the head of Portsmouth harbor to inspect the galleys and merchant
ships that would transport their force to La Rochelle. The royal castle, about
ten miles from Ravenswood, teemed with seamen and soldiers. They, at least,
seemed avidly in favor of the offense. Passing through the lengthy bailey of
Porchester to the water gate, Durand saw the many masts of John’s assembled
fleet.

‘Twas best to be here, he decided as he stood with his face
to the heavy winds. It allowed some of his anger to wash away.

Durand had never seen so many vessels in one place. The
sight of the fleet, composed of both newly made and commandeered merchantmen,
reminded him as nothing else could that the matters within his keep were of
little weight against that of a king and his kingdom.

Salt air stung Durand’s cheeks as he contemplated the
caprices of life. Now, when he needed every hour in England to make sense of
the coil of his life, God provided the means through unfavorable winds. Were
they also responsible for delaying the arrival of William Marshall?

The king’s men roamed Porchester’s bailey for hours,
retiring finally to the hall.

Durand felt little inclination for an indifferent ale. He
stood at the water gate and looked out at the ships. Gilles d’Argent came to
his side. They watched the angry water slap the stones near their feet and hiss
away in a timeless rhythm.

It was prophetic, Durand thought, that d’Argent should seek
him out when he most needed an ear.

“My sword did little to aid your efforts, Durand,” Gilles
said.

“‘Twas the man who wielded it that was inadequate, not the
blade.” Durand shook his head. “Joseph will return it.”

“Keep it,” Gilles said. “You may need it another day, and I
have others.”

Durand bowed in acknowledgment of the fine gift. “The sea
gods are discontent,” he said. And truly it seemed so in the scudding movement
of the green-tinged clouds and whipping winds.

In silent accord, Durand and Gilles walked along the
perimeter of the castle walls. “I’m to depart in a few hours for the north.”

“To raise more support for John’s efforts?”

D’Argent nodded. “Nicholas will go with me.”

“Would that I could as well,” Durand said lightly, then
cleared his throat. “You wed one of your weavers.”

“I wed the woman I
love
,” Gilles said, drawing in the
edges of his mantle against the rain that escalated along with the winds. “It
matters not what skills she has.”

“And you survived a king’s wrath.” Durand watched a cart
lumber by to deliver pigs and geese for the kitchens.

“Richard was not best pleased, but a thousand pounds soon
relieved his ire,” Gilles said wryly.

“A thousand pounds?” Durand stared at d’Argent.

“Oh, a bride can go for much more when John is concerned in
the matter.”

“So much?” Durand shook his head. “John already demands a
vast amount of me. I can just pay my knight fees.”

“You know ‘tis John’s means of control. He keeps his barons
on the edge of penury with fees and taxes. Should you fail to meet your
obligations, your lands are forfeit,” Gilles said. He crossed his arms on his
chest.

“Then to get them back, one must pay again,” Durand said.
Or
marry where bidden.

“We are not catching our death in this miserable air that
you might seek my advice on your knight fees, are we?” D’Argent smiled, but it
did little to relieve the sternness of his dark looks.

“Nay,” Durand said, pacing. “I’m filled with uncertainty. In
my hall sits a most comely and well connected woman—”

“Nona.”

“Aye, Nona. She’s a pleasant enough woman, but I find I do
not think of her from one hour to the next. And in the village is a woman I
cannot forget for even one moment.”

He shrugged and gave his friend a sheepish grin. “Nona or
Cristina? Such are the trials of a well-connected man.”

Gilles put out his hands, palm up. He moved them like a
merchant’s scales. “Nona and wealth, Aquitaine and Normandy connections. Or
Cristina le Gros, accused—but vindicated—thief and herbalist, and probably
barren.”

Durand straightened. His jaw felt locked. He clenched his
fists. “I don’t need an heir,” he managed. “It seems you have thought on this
already.”

“Nay,
you
alone think on this. I care not one whit
which woman you wed, but I know from previous experience that a
king
will care.” Gilles dropped his hands. “I’m merely pointing out what John will
think of your choices.”

“You did not let a king’s thoughts control you.”

“Nay. But my king was not named John.” Gilles shook his
head. “You must do that which sits best here.” He prodded Durand in the chest
with his finger. “But use this,” he tapped his forehead, “when you do so.”

They walked back to water gate where their horses were tied.

Durand halted by his mare. “I don’t understand why Cristina
did not come to me when the queen sent her away.”

“Ask her. If I know but one thing about women, it is that
they are unaccountable.” Gilles shook his head. “You think they’ll do one
thing, but trust me, they’ll do the exact opposite. I’ve discovered it is best
to just ask and then give every indication you think their reasoning right and
just.”

“And if I don’t care for her answer?” Durand swung into the
saddle.

Gilles grinned. “I’m not sure that will matter a whit,
either.”

Durand bid his friend good journey. He envied him the
opportunity to escape the king’s caprices.

At that thought, the king and a coterie of men rode up.
Durand was invited to inspect the royal galley. With little joy in the task, he
joined the king’s party being rowed out to board the well-fitted ship that
would bear John to France. As was usual with the king, he traveled with every
comfort.

Once aboard they toured above and below deck, where the king
signed an order to ship all manner of game to La Rochelle that good hunting
would be available with he disembarked.

Durand made another effort to point out the value of
treating with Philip. John would not hear.

He sat through a lengthy session with the king on the number
of bowmen to accompany them to France and the onerous cost of putting them up
in Portsmouth. Eventually Durand found himself alone with the king and seized
the opportunity to broach the matter gnawing at him all day.

Nay—from the moment he had joined himself to Cristina.

“Sire, I know ‘tis your wish I make a bargain with Nona, but
if I might, I have another proposition for your consideration.”

King John lifted a brow. “Indeed?”

“Aye. When we are victorious in France, I’ll again have
possession of Marion’s holdings. There will be little need of me to wed Lady
Nona. Mayhap there is another who, in an alliance with her, might strengthen
your hold in Normandy?”

“What is your reluctance to make this marriage contract?”
John asked, leaning closer.

“I would prefer to avoid the shackles of a wife at this
time,” Durand said carefully.

The king smiled. “Can you not think of the bonds of marriage
as aught else than shackles? We find ‘tis more a silken cord that binds one.”

“If the bride is one such as our queen, then aye, sire, it
may be so.”

“Did your marriage to Marion so serve you ill that you would
avoid another?” the king persisted.

“‘Tis more that I served Marion ill,” Durand said. “It is
not the bond I object to, but the one with whom I’ll find myself sharing it.”

The king’s dark, quick eyes met his. “Hmmm.” He rose and
walked to a table spread with maps, duplicates of those he hourly pored over at
Ravenswood. “Take a mistress, if that is your need, and we’ll speak to Nona so
she is properly compliant to your needs. We’re sure Marion would have
understood had she lived.”

A small spark of anger sprang to life, but Durand tamped it
down. “Marion was not so
compliant
as you suppose.”

The king inspected his hand. His jeweled rings glittered in
the light of the many candles illuminating his maps. “Marion was a most
agreeable woman, was she not? Willing to serve in any humble way she could? Or
so it seemed.” The air in the small space crackled with tension.

Durand carefully thought on his words before speaking.
“Marion best loved to serve you, sire.”

A smile kicked up one corner of the king’s mouth. “Marion
served her king well,” he said. “Would that you might do the same.”

Durand realized that the previous summer he had summoned
together all those whom Marion most favored. Which man had served
her
?
And torn his pride to shreds?

Penne
, who Marion oft reminded him had been her first
choice?

Luke
, whose lighthearted manner filled her with
amusement?

Or the king?

Marion was beyond his reach. These men were not.

Durand cleared his throat and took an iron grip of his
desire to wipe the clever smile from the king’s face. He was but a small man
after all. Petty in his amusements. “I seek only to serve you, sire.”

The king took a seat by him. He slipped a ring from his
finger. “Here is a small token to give to Lady Nona. Use it to seal your troth
in my service as you both love and serve me.”

The ring was cold in Durand’s hand. He now had two
rings—much as Simon had. Had he any more honor than the thief?

“‘Tis time we spoke of a price for your goodwill, de Marle.”
John smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Shall we set it at forfeiture of all
you—and Nona—hold, should your duty fail you?”

Durand rose. The deck beneath his feet rocked with the
escalation of the winds. It symbolized how he felt when dealing with John—it
was always an insecure, rocky venture. “Sire.” He bowed and turned away, the
ring gripped tightly in his palm. On deck, he threw back the edges of his
mantle and put his face to the wind. It scoured his cheeks but he welcomed the
burn.

So if he desired Cristina, he could have her as a mistress
only, and with Lady Nona’s tacit agreement if the king demanded it. When faced
with forfeiture, Nona, too, would concede to whatever the king desired.

Forfeiture. As he and Gilles had discussed, it was a common
threat of the king’s to keep his barony in tow. To jeopardize one’s own
possessions was one thing; to do so with another’s was sinful. Nona was innocent
in all of this.

The ride back to Ravenswood was done in silence, Penne and
Luke at his side, his men in a trailing line behind him. His brother and friend
made no effort to engage him in conversation. When they reached the road to the
castle, Durand stopped for a moment to consider the fearsome sight of Simon,
nearly unrecognizable though he had hung in the gibbet for so few hours. He
served as a warning to all who might journey to Ravenswood of the penalty of
crime.

Had Cristina seen him? There would be no need to pass this
way to reach the village, but if her escort was cruel, they might take this way
with simple excuses about muddy roads. Who would offer her strength to endure
such a sight?

Durand reined in his horse. “I have business in the village.
Luke, see that all is in readiness for the king’s amusement this night should
he tire of Porchester.”

Luke frowned. “You cannot think to stay the night in the
village? What excuse do we offer if anyone asks after you?”

Penne’s mare danced, and he circled until he drew to
Durand’s other side. Durand was hemmed in. Penne gripped his arm. “You are
making a foolish mistake.”

“What mistake is that? And who are you to question what I’m
to do? Have not each of you trespassed where you should not?”

A blank look of incomprehension overspread Penne’s face.
Luke’s blotched an ugly red. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Durand knew in
that moment he should not suspect the king—or Penne. The truth was written so
clearly on Luke’s face. It was he who had fathered Felice. An icy cold filled
Durand.

Penne glanced from one brother to another, then looked
pointedly toward Durand’s men. “This is no way to conduct ourselves.” He placed
his horse between the two brothers. “We must return to the keep and make the
most of what little time we have left. We could be dead on the morrow and
should not have this between us.”

Durand edged his horse between the two men and rode off. His
mare kicked up clots of mud which splattered his mantle’s hem and the horse’s
belly. When he reached the cottage so recently inhabited by Simon le Gros, he
saw that a thin thread of smoke rose from the chimney.

He tried in vain to sort out the emotions of his discovery.

He had lied to Cristina. When she had asked him what he
would do if someone betrayed him, he had said he would run him through.

But he could never raise a sword against Luke.

Luke was tied to him regardless of their love or hate of one
another. He could do as John’s royal siblings had through the years and cut
Luke off without land or monetary consideration. And what reason could he give
for such action? Not the truth. That would announce his cuckoldry to all. It
would be a very public humiliation.

It was well Marion was out of his reach.

The cottage, despite the smoking chimney, looked deserted.
No groom ran out to tend his mount. Split crates and indistinguishable goods
were trampled on the muddy ground before the door.

His ravens, who like most captive birds rarely strayed
beyond the food provided them, stalked among the ruined goods as if inspecting
them. It was an omen—of what he knew not.

Cristina came to stand at the door, Felice in her arms. The
front of her gown, from bodice to hem, was damp. Sweat plastered tendrils of
hair to her brow.