Lord of the Mist

by Ann Lawrence

  Alice returned Felice for her next feeding. As the babe nursed, Cristina’s mind drifted to thoughts of the kitchen garden and how long it would take to harvest anything useful. Just a few rows was all she needed—actually, many rows, but she would settle for a few to start.

  The many scents that mingled without purpose offended her. She contemplated the enemy she had made in Master Aldwin.

  Would Lord Durand turn her out at Aldwin’s word?

  She put Felice in her sling and went in search of Sir Luke. But he sat at Lord Durand’s side amidst a group of lords and knights and their ladies, making approach impossible.

  The women were draped in gowns the colors of the flowers of the fields; gold circlets studded with gems adorned their brows. Each woman was tended by her servant, each lord and knight by his men. Then she saw a portly man, a bishop, with several cassocked men at his side. What illustrious company had gathered for King John’s visit. This is what she had missed when last the king had visited Ravenswood. Then she had lived at the alehouse and come to the keep not at all.

  Lord Durand looked the finest of the men. He wore a tunic of deep forest green. About his waist he wore a belt of leather, studded with silver and amber. About his neck gleamed the golden torque. She had seen it close now, the twists of metal old and worn, the terminals that embraced the hollow of his throat, ravens’ heads.

  She thought of how the old gold must feel, smooth where it lay against his skin, warm from the throb of his pulse. Why was she having such thoughts? Quickly she ran through the resisting potion. Had she made a mistake? Forgotten something? There was no one to consult. The potion had come from her mother’s mother.

  A lady rose and went to Lord Durand’s side. As Cristina watched, the woman slipped her hand along the back of his neck. She toyed with the hair at his nape, then leaned down to whisper something in his ear that caused him to smile.

  Just then, Lady Oriel rose with elegant grace. “Cristina. Come. Join us.”

  With a quick shake of her head, she took a step back, but Lady Oriel touched Lord Durand on the arm. “Command her here, Durand. Lady Sabina, you’d like to see Marion’s babe, would you not?”

  The woman draped over Lord Durand’s shoulder straightened and turned to where Cristina stood. “Aye. Bring the child.”

  Cristina walked slowly to the table, aware of many eyes on her. The ladies gathered about. The Lady Sabina had flawless skin, gray-green eyes, and thick lashes as black as her hair. Unkindly, Cristina also noted the sharp nose and thin lips.

  “Durand, she is a sweetling. She has the de Marle look. My father will surely want her for my brother. What say you?” Lady Sabina asked over her shoulder.

  Lord Durand shook his head and rose. “Nay. I’ll settle only for a prince.”

  Lady Sabina laughed. “Mayhap King John will know of a little princeling who’s dangling for a bride. Shall I ask him when he arrives?”

  How easily they spoke of princes, Cristina thought. Did she nurture a future queen? She thought of King John coming to Ravenswood Castle, planning a marriage for Felice, sporting with these men and women just as he had this past summer. How long until they all left for Normandy and war? Some of the men in this hall would die. A shiver of fear, a sudden foreboding, filled her.

  “Please yourself, Sabina.” Durand swept her a bow. “What brings you here, mistress?” He did not approach, but the look he directed at her would melt metal. Had Master Aldwin already complained of her?

  “I had need of a word with Sir Luke.”

  A nearby knight made a remark aside to his lady. The lady snickered. So did the bishop.

  Cristina lifted her chin.

  “Luke?” Durand turned to his brother.

  “Ah, mistress, have you brought me some of your fine soap?”

  “Nay, my lord. I have found my stores seriously depleted, and I am unable to make your soap. Mayhap another time.” She curtsied deeply and left the company. She did not belong here among these fine folk, and the talk of soap merely informed the company at large where she stood among them.

  Behind her several men laughed. They thought nothing of embarrassing a stranger with their laughter. She held them in contempt. At the first opportunity she left the hall.

  * * * * *

  Durand attended with great concentration to the sauced partridges and fine wines that evening, but by the time the poached pears were set before him, he could no longer contain himself. “Soap?” he demanded of his brother. “What need have you for scented soap?”

  Luke grinned and shrugged. “Fine ladies enjoy such trifles.”

  “So ‘tis just to speed the shedding of a gown?” His relief was unaccountable.

  “Aye. I’ll play at sport in a warm tub—but not alone.”

  The idea fascinated Durand. “Damn you, Luke.”

  Luke wagged his eyebrows. “I can have a tub drawn for you, brother. Mistress le Gros will supply the soaps; Lady Sabina will scrub your back. What say you?”

  “I’ve already said it. Damn you.” He speared a sliver of pear, poached in the last of the wine from his wife’s estates. Sourly he sucked the morsel of fruit off the tip of his blade.

  Luke excused himself. “I believe I’ll find out why Mistress le Gros lacks what she needs to make my soap. When I visited her this morn, her work table groaned with smelly things.” He headed for the tower stairs and took them two at a time.

  Durand watched him go. Visited her this morn? He sat for but a moment before rising and going after his brother.

  Lady Sabina intercepted him. “Come, my lord. You promised to look at my palfrey.” She hooked his arm and it would be the worst of insults to set her aside.

  * * * * *

  “Mistress le Gros?” Luke knocked at her chamber door and pushed it open. He followed her into the alcove where she did her work. “What happened here?” He set his fists on his hips and surveyed her nearly bare table.

  “Master Aldwin got the notion I was poaching on his domain.”

  “He didn’t discover you were making me a love potion, did he?” He turned an alarmed face to her.

  “Nay. He discovered that I’d mixed Lady Marion a drink. Not a medicinal one, still, it seemed so to him.” She sighed when she contemplated the few bowls left unscathed on her work table.

  “Can you gather again what you need? My friend will pay you well to do so.”

  Cristina shrugged. “I know what I need. Savory and onion I have,” she lifted a bowl, “but the rest is costly.”

  Luke grinned and tossed her a heavy purse. “Pray, do not consider the cost.”

  Chapter Six

  After chapel the next morn, Cristina and Alice rode quite comfortably to the village in one of Lord Durand’s carts. Moisture sparkled on the leaves and grass, puddles lay in the rutted roadbed, attesting to the previous night’s storm.

  “‘Ave ye seen the cottage since Old Owen died?” Alice asked.

  “Nay, but I know just what I shall find. Everything shall march in orderly rows, each item set out to best advantage. It was always so with our cart. No matter how long it took, each time we moved from a village, the cart must be put to perfect order again. I hated moving from place to place.”

  “Humph. I prefer Owen’s jumble.”

  So did I, Cristina thought traitorously. Her few forays into Owen’s cottage had delighted the senses and involved many moments of happy exploration after treasures. “Old Owen seemed a kindly man.”

  “Aye. We’ll miss ‘im. Beggin’ yer pardon, but what possessed ye to wed wiv Simon?”

  “‘Tis an easy question to answer. He is—”

  “Pleasin’ to the eye. Flattered ye, too, and yer father, I wager.”

  “Aye. ‘Twas just as you say.”

  They drew up before Simon’s cottage. Cristina clambered from the wagon and thanked Lovell, one of Lord Durand’s grooms, for his kind attentions to their needs. He nodded and joined Alice in the cart. Felice sat in Alice’s lap, sucking on her tiny fingers
.

  The long cottage was built of dressed stone, the front entrance decorated with tiles pilfered from some ancient Roman edifice. The wide wooden door gave entrance into the room used to house and sell the merchant’s wares. On the right stood a ladder that led to the upper story where she would reside once her time with Felice was done—or until Simon demanded she give up the chore and come to her new home.

  How would it feel to leave the babe? It was what must be if she were to have a child—Simon’s child.

  She looked about and saw her husband, oblivious to her presence, head bent over a roll of parchment at an old battered table. As he did not see her, she took a moment to walk about.

  She frowned. Simon must have laid out a sizable sum to have such stock. Had he been borrowing again? He had once gotten into difficulty with such folly, but her father had set it right.

  All about her were the usual goods any villager might need, but there were finer goods more suited to the manor as well: silk thread on small cards, silver needles, citron for a lord’s table.

  Beyond a marvelous selection of linen and wool sat a leather saddle. This must be the one destined for the king. She ran her hand over the smooth, fragrant leather; the deeply incised patterns of mounted men with couched lances and brandished swords that graced the skirt reminded her of what was to come.

  Simon looked up from his ledger. “Cristina! Is something the matter? Why are you here?” He did not rise.

  “Sir Luke gave me a purse to purchase a few necessaries,” she said, abandoning the saddle and confronting her husband. She held out the purse, but Simon did not take it.

  His eyes narrowed. He yelped and leapt to his feet. He shoved past her to push open a shutter and lean out. “Hag! What are you doing here?”

  “Simon, she accompanies me.”

  Her husband drew back into the room and pointed at the door. “If she sets foot in here, I shall take a stick to you. That woman is a plague on me. She told two men in Guy Wallingford’s service I—” His face flared red. “Never mind what she said. ‘Tis enough to know she is a slandering hag!”

  “What did she say, Simon? You’ve gone too far to retreat; you slander her if you cannot put evidence to your complaints.”

  Cristina drew her mantle close about her middle. What lie would he concoct? For she saw on his stony face she would not have the truth. “Think you I’ll not ask Alice myself when we are away from here?”

  “A man need not give his wife an account of himself.” With an attitude of great importance, Simon hastened to his desk and took up his quill. “Now, you disturb my work. Lord Durand’s man is due to collect the king’s saddle, and I’ve not yet written the charge. I repeat, what is it you want?”

  Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, she found she did not care what he had done. She dropped the purse with a thump on the table by Simon’s elbow, along with the list to make not only Luke’s potency elixir, but also Lady Oriel’s sweet pillows and a wrinkle cream for Guy Wallingford’s lady.

  “Cinnamon? Ginger?” Simon murmured as he read the list. He looked up, one brow raised. “This is a sizable purchase. What became of the ginger I gave you last week?”

  “Master Aldwin used it.” That was certainly not a lie.

  “Hmmm. If Master Aldwin needs to replenish his stores, he should pay for them. Do not allow it to happen again.”

  He handed back the list and, with a wave of his hand indicating she should search out the items herself, went back to his accounting.

  Old Owen’s cottage was still a delight to her despite the loss of its haphazard nature. She poked in every box and barrel and bin and put aside thoughts of the debts incurred to stock it so. She breathed deeply of the ginger and added some fennel seeds to her heap of purchases for a wrinkle cream for Lord Guy’s wife. She placed them in the back of her cart. Felice now lay sleeping in Lovell’s lap. He shrugged with a sheepish grin. “I’ll be but a moment more,” she told him.

  But a well-trimmed goose quill tempted her and she thought of the months of work it took to make the Aelfric herbal. The sound of a party of horses arriving in the lane distracted her from her contemplation. On tiptoe, she peered out the front window. ‘Twas Lord Durand, himself, with the Lady Sabina and several other men—come for the saddle, she heard Lord Durand say to Simon, who was gushing a welcome to the lady.

  Cristina’s heart banged in her chest. She put a frantic hand to her head. Her headcovering was askew, hair straggling from its confines. Hastily she tucked in the errant strands and tugged her gown straight.

  Lord Durand entered the cottage, bringing with him the scent of leather and horses, accompanied by Lady Sabina and Lord Penne. Cristina curtsied, but it was to him she looked.

  His wintry eyes looked as pale as silver pennies in the sunlit cottage; his dark hair was swept back from his brow. He drew his gloves off and tucked them in his belt, but remained at the door whilst the others spread out to examine Simon’s wares. His gaze ran over her in a lazy perusal that felt like a flame licking over her skin.

  She nodded to him and he inclined his head.

  “Cristina, serve Lady Sabina,” Simon called her to the far end of the cottage. She went and, with clumsy hands—clumsy for he had come to stand at their side—showed the lady several lengths of fine linen dyed the color of the sea.

  He stood within a foot of her, leaned his arm on a tall shelf, and listened to her description of the cloth, its tight weave, the likelihood it would fray when washed, as if he were going to stitch up a gown himself. The thought of him, so large, so male, needle in hand, his men and hounds about him at the hearth, made her nearly choke on a giggle.

  “Purchase it for me, Durand, will you? I have naught in my purse save dust,” Lady Sabina said, placing a proprietary hand on his arm. “And trim, if it’s to be had.” She led him away. “Where have I seen the merchant’s wife before? I cannot remember, yet she is very familiar.” Lady Sabina made her query without lowering her voice.

  Cristina folded the cloth and selected several ribbons for trim. They had met but the night before.

  “In my hall, Sabina. She brought Marion’s babe to you.”

  “Oh, aye. I remember. She has the sweetest face.”

  Lord Durand’s words, a low murmur, brought a loud cry of amusement from Lady Sabina. “Nay, Durand, I meant the babe! She will be as lovely as Marion one day.”

  Heat filled Cristina’s body. Lord Durand’s answer was lost to her as Penne called out to him to hurry, for they wasted the best part of the day.

  The linen in her hands was glossy, fine, finer than any she would use to make up a gown for herself. But she was happy in her old wool. It was soft and sturdy and suited to her work. She could not mix a salve for dry hands in such a linen, nor could it take a washing to remove a stain from mother’s milk.

  She turned around. Lord Durand stood before her, a wall blocking her way. A turmoil of sensations roiled through her.

  “You returned the Aelfric to my brother. Why?”

  She could not go around him. Did not wish to. “Forgive me, but Simon apprised me of its value and I could not keep it.”

  His dark straight brows drew together in a frown. “Is not its true value the use made of it?”

  “Aye, some would say so. Mayhap it would better serve Master Aldwin.” Her throat felt tight. What if Master Aldwin had complained of her?

  “Aldwin! You may not be able to read Latin, but he cannot read at all. He cares only to bleed a man’s blood into his little bowls and mumble over it later. For all I know he drinks it after ‘tis bled.

  “If you have no interest in the herbal, then say so and the matter is done, but if you can find in it even one page to aid you, then you must have it.” He reached out and skimmed his thumb across her cheek. “Have you been head-down in a barrel? You’ve smudges on your nose and—”

  “My lord!” Lady Sabina called from the doorway. He jerked his hand back.

  The same color that must be
on her cheeks rushed into his. His frown altered to a flat, cold stare. With a shrug he took a step back. “Say what you will, Mistress. Can you find even one page in the herbal of use to you?”

  Cristina became aware that the cottage was empty. They stood alone in a pool of shadow behind a cask of salted herring.

  When he had briefly touched her, she had frozen in place as if a statue, words caught in her throat, words of begging to have the book, and aye to have him read it for her. But his cold countenance, the flat sound of his offer now—now he had been recalled by his friend—stirred her resolve.

  “Nay, my lord, there’s naught in the book I can use.” The lie lay on her tongue like salt on a wound. She blessed the resistance potion that surely aided her now.

  He gave her a stiff bow and swung away. She hastily wrapped Lady Sabina’s linen and rushed out in time to hand it up to a maid who waited for it. The others, Lord Durand at the fore, cantered away up the lane.

  Simon rubbed his hands together. “Did you see? Lord Durand was using the saddle himself! He’ll find it so easy a ride, he will order another for himself when the king is gone. Come. Take what it is you came for and be gone. I want to get along to the Raven’s Head and see if someone there is willing to go to Winchester and fetch another saddle.” He shook Luke’s purse.

  * * * * *

  Two days later, Cristina delivered the elixir for Sir Luke, still warm from the pot. She placed the stone bottle on his table, anchoring a scrap of vellum lying there. The words on it drew her eyes.

  12 chapel S

  The writing was that of a fine lady, each letter beautifully formed, the S larger than the others and finished off with a sweeping curlicue.

  So, Luke would be wooing Lady Sabina in the chapel this night, for she could not think of any other Lady S.

  Of course, it could be that twelve chapel stones needed repair. Then a dreadful thought flitted through her mind: Lord Durand used this chamber. She had found him reading here. Mayhap the missive was from Sabina to him, and they met in secrecy because of Lady Marion’s recent death. Her hand went to her cheek, where he had touched her. With a frown, she set the bottle of hope on the scrap of vellum.