by Ann Lawrence
Her fingers were gentle. “It’s not very serious, my lord.”
“Have you a salve?” Oriel asked, going to her husband’s side. She touched Penne’s shoulder and he reached up and entwined his fingers with hers.
Durand felt a stab of jealousy.
Mistress le Gros nodded. “I’m not a healer, my lady, my lords, but I have this—a salve with a little betony and comfrey.” She held up a small wooden pot. “It should serve you well.”
She turned over the basin on his table. Penne chuckled as Cristina carefully placed his dice and cups aside and filled the bowl with water. Durand shot Penne a quelling look, then smoothed his countenance when she indicated he join her at the table.
“I’ve just bathed,” he said.
“If it pleases you, my lord, I like to see to the cleansing of a wound myself.” She gracefully swept her plain blue wool skirts aside and sat down.
“As you wish.” He settled across from her and stretched out his bloody arm. Pungent forest scents rose from the cloth she lathered. “Did you make the soap?” he asked.
“Aye. Is it pleasing to you, my lord?” She inspected his wound again. A tiny frown knitted her brow.
“Very much.”
When she raised her gaze to his, Penne and Oriel had disappeared. Only she remained.
She wiped away a fresh welling of blood. “How did you come by the wound?” she asked.
“Carelessness,” he said simply.
“Sometimes it helps to know what caused the wound. Some fester more readily than others.” Gently, she probed the edges of the cut. “It may scar.”
“I have others.”
She looked up, and he felt the flick of her glance across his face as if she had touched his mouth lightly with her fingertips. “Aye. All warriors are so marked.”
Cloth in hand, she bent to her task. “I have a preparation that prevents scars. You might wish to use it when this is well knitted.”
A shudder ran through him as she gently bathed his arm, tracing along the edges of the wound and skimming the rope of veins on his forearm. His blood pounded visibly at his wrist. Surely she must see the tell-tale throb.
He cleared his throat. “I have several books, not just the Aristophanes. Would you like to read them?”
Her already high color rose. “Would I like…I could not, my lord.”
“Why not? You can read. I have books.”
Twice more she dipped her cloth in warm water and bathed his wound without remark. Twice more she skimmed heat along his inner arm before laying aside the cloth.
“You’ve not answered me,” he said when she patted the wound dry and dipped her fingertips into the salve she had brought. He jerked back when she touched the wound.
A hint of a smile touched her lips. “Hold still, my lord,” she said softly, then bound his arm in clean strips of cloth and tied them snugly. She had finished, but did not rise. “I’m not sure it would be proper for me to read your books. My husband would not approve such idleness.” Her warm hands lingered on the bandage. “Would you like me to look at the wound in the morning?”
He had a leech to see to such matters, but no leech had hands so gentle or so soothing. This close, he saw her cheeks were downy, her lips full and lushly red. Her breath was sweetly scented with mint. Underlying some simple flowery scent was her own womanly fragrance. It seduced.
“Aye. On the morrow. Come see to it.”
He wanted her. To his shame, within days of having laid Marion to rest in the family crypt, he wanted another man’s wife.
Badly.
Chapter Four
After the evening meal, when Felice was settled, Cristina sought Lady Oriel in an alcove off the hall, where she sat with several ladies chatting and stitching. The instant Lady Oriel saw her, she rose and, with a quick jerk of her head, indicated they should walk out. Cristina followed Lady Oriel to the deserted chapel.
“My friend would be shamed if anyone knew what she was about, Cristina. You don’t mind that we meet here?”
With a smile, Cristina offered Oriel a linen-wrapped vial. “What better place?” Before Cristina turned away, she paused, a hand on Oriel’s sleeve. “I believe, my lady, what your friend needs is one sweet moment, one moment of total love, a giving without thought for one’s own pleasure, a giving that stands only as a token of the passion in her heart. That will best serve your friend. How could a child made in such a moment not be loving and giving?”
Oriel smoothed the contours of the bottle. “Think you such a moment exists?”
There had been no such moments in Cristina’s life. “You could offer a prayer to God for your friend.”
Cristina was then struck with a thought. “My lady, mayhap God has chosen your friend to care for some orphaned child, just as I am sure you must be a mother to Felice.”
Oriel bowed her head. “My time with her will be but little, for I’m sure Durand will marry again.”
“Lord Durand…wed?” The thought raised an unaccountable flutter in Cristina’s middle.
“Aye, and soon—if he wishes to restore what he has lost through King Philip’s dastardly usurpation! Aye, he must, and a new wife will dictate Felice’s future.”
A lump formed in her throat, and not just at the thought that her time with Felice was limited.
Oriel opened the layers of cloth to reveal the vial stoppered with wood. “What should I—my friend—do?”
“Your friend should stir a small spoonful of the powder into her wine each evening. If this does not work, I have others, some that must go in the husband’s wine, not often an easy task to perform without his consent.”
Oriel nodded. “Aye.” She then wrapped her arms about Cristina. “Thank you, sweet Cristina. My friend will be most grateful.” Oriel tucked the potion into her purse and shoved something into Cristina’s hands along with a coin. “Oh, and this tassel you made me has come undone. Do what you can with it.”
Cristina watched Oriel flit from the chapel after offering a lengthy silent prayer at the altar, hands folded with white knuckles, the prayer far too long for simply aiding a friend.
When she was alone, Cristina went forward and checked on the reserves of oil in the lamps there. Her fingers lingered on the altar cloth. She no longer prayed for a child. She no longer prayed for Simon to come to their bed. Soon, though, she knew she must again do her duty. Duty. For men it was a pleasure as well. For women such as herself and Oriel, who could not give their husbands what they most wanted, it truly was a chore.
Simon would soon ask when she could perform her wifely duties. She sighed with an ache in her throat and chest. If there was to be a child in her life, someone to love, who would love her in return, care for her in her old age, then she must be a wife—a good and dutiful wife.
Back in the hall, as Cristina crossed to the east tower stairs, she looked about for Lady Oriel and Lord Penne. The lady was not in evidence, but Lord Penne was playing at dice with three other men.
He was a handsome man, strong, filled with laughter. Cristina admired his fair hair and startling dark brows that somehow beautifully framed his fine blue eyes. Surely the glances he gave his wife did not indicate a waning interest. Nay, Lord Penne took every opportunity to touch his wife. He did not keep his hands tucked up in his sleeves as Simon did. Nay, Lord Penne ofttimes linked fingers with Lady Oriel, lifted them to his lips in affection. Mayhap Oriel asked for another lady after all. There were several in the keep accompanied by their lords and knights now the king’s visit was assured.
* * * * *
Oriel used a silver spoon to measure the potion into her wine.
“What’s in it?” Penne encircled her waist, leaned close to watch, and perched his chin on her shoulder.
“I’ve not the least idea,” Oriel said. She frowned. “I said a prayer over it.”
Penne turned her around. He clamped a hand on hers as she lifted the goblet of wine to her lips. “You don’t need to drink this…this love potion. You d
o understand that? I care not if you conceive. I love you as you are.”
Oriel fought the burn of tears against her eyelids, the throb of her pulse in her throat. He said it often, how much he loved her despite their childless state, but she knew better.
Marion had told her of Penne’s confession one night of his desire for strong sons like Durand’s, of how his desire was even stronger now he had lost his holdings in Normandy. He had said to Marion that he had nothing now. Nothing. Somewhere deep inside resided a dull pain that Penne had not counted her when totaling up his assets.
It was she who had nothing without a child.
Marion had not scoffed at her fears; she had pointed out that Penne laughed quite heartily with the serving wenches. Marion had warned her that it was but one step from laughing words on the lips to a hand beneath a skirt.
“I know you love me, Penne.” She raised the goblet and drank deeply, a false smile on her face. The wine was sweet, with a bitter aftertaste. “I love you, too, but surely, ‘tis worth the trying? There are potions for men as well, you know.” She set the goblet on the table and swept back the bed curtains. A flush of heat swept through her body. Her skin tingled.
Penne stood behind her and slowly removed her gown, trailing kisses in the wake of his hands. Was it the potion that set her skin afire as he ran his fingers down her naked spine?
He turned her and held her tightly against his body. “I love everything about you, Oriel,” he whispered. “Especially this little freckle on your breast.” He bent and touched the tiny mark with the tip of his tongue.
Was it the potion that urged her to boldly entice him by lying back and opening her thighs like some alehouse wench?
What of the urge to touch him in places no woman should?
“Sweet Oriel,” he moaned, moving strongly within her. As he loved her, she silently recited an ancient chant learned from the old midwife who had tended Marion. She said it three times, then crossed the fingers of her left hand, the canopy over her head blurring through her tears.
* * * * *
Cristina removed the bandages from Lord Durand’s arm for the third and final time. It was as difficult to touch him without a flutter of sensation coursing her middle as it had been the first time.
He had his own unique scent. Mist and forest. Those were the only words she could think of to describe it. In her world, ruled by the smells of nature, his scent was one she could not catch without thinking of the day she had first seen him.
He held a power over her that went beyond that of the highborn over the low, a power to make a king and dozens of other men invisible as they rode through the mist.
Was a man born with such power? Or was it drilled into him along with his training at sword play? “There’s no need to cover this again.” She folded the cloth neatly and rose. “It’s quite nicely healed.”
Lord Durand stood as well. He stared down at his arm and frowned.
“It won’t scar, my lord. There will be little to see in a few days. Rub this on it twice a day to be sure.” She set a pot of oily salve on the table.
“I was not concerned on that score.” He smiled at her. “It is just that I now have no excuse to argue about Aristophanes with you.”
She felt the heat rush to her cheeks and dropped her gaze from his face to her feet. Each time she had come to tend his arm, he had been engrossed in the little book. Each time, he had read aloud some favorite passage. “Forgive me, my lord, if I offered my opinion too strongly.”
“I’m used to women with strong opinions, Mistress le Gros. It is women without an opinion I find of little use.”
“Then if I may venture a parting opinion, I wish I could appreciate this humor you find in Aristophanes.”
He grinned. “Then take the play and read it for yourself. My poor recitation is obviously lacking.”
“Oh, I could not.” She put her hands behind her again as if tempted by the offer and determined to resist it.
“As you wish. But come again and let me read one of his plays to you from start to finish.”
“Mayhap one day,” she said, but she knew she could not.
As she reached the door, she rested her hand on the latch and looked back at him. He still smiled. Sun from the window beside him lit his torque with a golden gleam. “I have but one final thought, my lord, on Aristophanes, lest you think me of little use. He must have lacked the caring of a loving wife to write such bitter words about women.”
Lord Durand stiffened. At the same moment, a cloud covered the sun. The sudden shadow on his face made him look carved in stone. She sensed she had taken too much liberty this time.
“Is that what you think? A man is bitter if he has not a woman to love him?”
“Nay, my lord. There are not enough good women about that every man should have one to love him, nor enough good men…I am getting in a muddle. I meant to say only that Aristophanes did not have someone to love him, else he would not say such things. ‘Let each man exercise the art he knows.’ Good day, my lord.”
She lifted the latch and departed. It was better to escape before saying something more to anger him. She sighed as she skipped down the stairs. Certainly, Lord Durand had never wanted for love. Marion had been beautiful and kind. Surely her lady’s heart had brimmed with love for her husband. She had spoken often of love and reveled in the touch of fine cloth and musky scents and wanted to know their properties in bringing a man to bed. In fact, Marion had oft embarrassed her with talk of love play.
Now, to Cristina’s dismay, she knew a little of the man whom Lady Marion had treated to her favors.
And she coveted him in a most shameful way.
To banish intimate thoughts of Lady Marion’s husband, Cristina spent the afternoon stitching a small gown for Felice, each rosebud in three shades of pink, each leaf in two shades of green, all done in utter concentration until called upon to feed the babe. She had no sooner set the child to rest in her cradle than there was a knock at her chamber door.
To her amazement, Lord Durand stood in the portal. “Forgive the intrusion, Mistress le Gros.”
Cristina curtsied and stepped back. He did not enter.
“I have merely come to offer you something to read over which we could never argue.”
His gaze held only humor. She could not help smiling as she took the cloth-wrapped bundle from his hands.
She moved to the alcove and her work table. The cloth, a bit musty when opened, revealed an old book. The wooden cover and leather binding were dirty with mold. She tentatively wiped a few smudges before opening it.
“My lord!” She turned to him, hand on her heart. “This is…I cannot believe…surely…”
Lord Durand came to her side and propped his hip on her worktable. He took up the book and reverently turned the leaves. “Aye. ‘Tis a copy of Aelfric’s Nominum Herbarum. I remember my father traded King Richard a fine horse for it.” When he looked up, his smile transformed into a wide grin. “Although I think my father lied a bit about the horse’s lineage.”
“B-b-bartered a h-h-horse? K-king Richard? I cannot touch it, my lord.” She edged away, hands behind her back. “‘Tis worth a sultan’s treasure.”
Durand frowned. He had planned to please her, not frighten her. “Of course you can touch it. ‘Tis almost falling to pieces and is useless to me. Why not look it over? You’ll find a use for it, I wager. I believe whoever copied it had a canny knack for capturing the likeness of each plant, did he not?”
He held it out. A page slipped from the open book and fluttered to the floor. It lay in the rushes, tempting her. He read it on her face and in the way her body leaned toward the delicate page.
Had he brought the book to tempt her?
When she picked up the ragged leaf of parchment, she sighed. How he wished she would look upon him with such admiration. The thought made him smile anew. “Well? What is it?” he asked.
“Oh, ‘tis a wonderful rendering of the simple plum. See, my lord, even so age
d, so spotted with damp, the fruit looks as real as the one in the cook’s garden.”
He moved to her side. In truth, ‘twas not the drawing that drew him close; it was the look of gentle happiness on her face. When had he ever given such pleasure to another with something so simple?
She turned the page to the other side and another plant. “See, my lord, how the poppies just leap off the page? And here…” She skimmed a fingertip over the words. “So simple a thing. So beautiful.”
Aye, beautiful, he thought. She was beautiful. Not as lovely as Marion with her fine bones and flaxen hair, but still, a woman who drew a man’s eyes.
“My lord?” Cristina held out the leaf. “One who knows his business should clean the book for you.”
“Clean it for yourself, Mistress le Gros, and have it with my blessing. I have no need of it. Herbs are of little interest to me. Now if ‘twas a list of weapons, I’d peruse it for hours.”
He wandered back to her worktable. The mixture of scents in her chamber filled his head. “Which is responsible for the great improvement in the odor of my hall and solar?” Picking up a stick, he poked a dish of seeds.
She snatched the stick from him and covered the dish with a cloth. “Oh, I just mixed up a few things, sage and rosemary, but, my lord, I cannot take this book—”
“I order it so.”
They stood in silence a moment—a silence heated with the abruptness of his words.
“As you wish, my lord, but I cannot read it.”
“You don’t read Latin?” He damned himself for not guessing. “Only French?”
“French and English. The languages of my father’s business.”
The disputed book was wrapped in its cloth and set upon the table. Her words separated them as surely as her father’s business. “I shall come back then and read it to you,” he said.
“That is most kind, but—”
He hurried over her embarrassed words. “You’ll show me the book when ‘tis clean? I’d be most interested to see it. Then I shall share it with you.”
She nodded, but did not look his way.
