by Ann Lawrence
Did he see the resemblance in the boy to Simon, as claimed by Penne? In truth, Durand could not say either way. Was there aught else but hair and eye color there?
Would Felice one day betray her father’s blood by the turn of her cheek or the color of her hair?
His gaze fell on Lady Nona. He nodded to her. He found the possibility of marriage to Lady Nona created a terrible conflict in him. If one counted the wealth of her French and English properties combined, they would more than compensate for all his sons might lose if the king’s plans for Normandy failed. But it would also place great power in his hands.
John’s choice of bride for him raised myriad questions in Durand’s mind. Why choose a woman of such power if he questioned Durand’s loyalty? And as long as John withheld the earl’s belt, he was under suspicion.
Chapter Eleven
Durand was challenged by Penne to a game of dice. He used the pretext to escape the king’s notice and discuss the dead boy’s resemblance to Simon. But Penne turned his thoughts elsewhere.
“So we have two prospective brides for your hand. You should be flattered. Lady Nona is quite a match.”
“Aye. But why? It is as if the king is dangling something before me. No doubt when I reach for it, he will snatch it back.”
“Will you reach for it?”
Durand glanced at the king. He was a small man, mean of mouth and surrounded by his bachelors, men not of royal rank, but much within his confidence. “He is as changeable as the wind, but I’m not a fool.”
“Nona’s a fetching little morsel.” Penne rocked the dice cup in a manner imitative of a woman’s swaying skirts.
“It matters not if a wife is fetching.” Durand frowned at his friend. What was behind Penne’s approval of Lady Nona? The marriage might allow him to offer a bribe and avoid taking up the sword against Philip himself. But did Penne not need him negotiating for the return of their properties? If he remained in England with a well-dowered wife, he could do none of those things for his friend. He hated suspecting every word his friend spoke.
Penne tapped the table to gain his attention. “You could negotiate Mistress le Gros into your marriage contracts, if you are shrewd about it. ‘Tis been done before, a wife’s agreeing to tolerate a mistress.”
Durand frowned. “I beg your pardon.”
“Come. You look at our merchant’s wife as if you would devour her. If Marion were alive, she would dismiss the woman the instant she saw you and her in the same chamber. There is heat in your look. Hunger. You would do well to conceal it before Lady Nona.” The dice rattled across the tabletop.
Durand throat dried. Was he as transparent as the glass in Penne’s chamber windows? “I’ve no intention of—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Penne said, leaning close.
Durand recoiled from his friend. If it was Penne who had betrayed him, what right had he to make sport of Cristina? “I admit only that she is a taking woman to look upon.”
“Take her then, for I suspect our Cristina wants you as much as you want her, but see,” he pointed with the dicing cup, “she’s sitting with Luke. Do you not think it will be he who charms her into his bed if you do not?”
Durand looked from Penne to Luke. From Luke to Penne. Marion had oft berated him for qualities found in abundance in his brother—and friend—and sadly lacking in himself.
Humor. Patience.
He remembered le Gros’ accusation that Luke had handled Cristina. Was there aught between them? She was taking. Any man would think her so. “Think you Luke pursues her?” he asked with studied indifference.
Penne shrugged. “She invites no liberties that I see. The perfect picture of gentle modesty. But she’s damned well made, if you ask me, and ‘tis sure she finds a cold bed with le Gros. In fact, offer le Gros a few marks for her. He slavers to increase his importance so, I imagine he would probably lift his wife’s gown for you and help her into your bed, if asked.”
“How can Oriel abide you?”
“How can I do what?” Oriel asked. She plucked the dice from the table and kissed them before giving them back to Penne.
“Abide this man here,” Durand said, attempting a manner of levity.
“All women find him ‘abidable’, Durand. ‘Tis his lovely blue eyes, I wager. Was I not saying just today that Penne was Marion’s first choice?” Oriel perched on Penne’s knee. “I believe she envied me. Not to belittle your worth, Durand.”
Penne smiled. “‘Twas I who had not Durand’s worth.”
Oriel tugged on Penne’s hair in a playful manner, but there was little playful in her tone. “Which, thank God, made you perfect for me, the younger, less important daughter.”
“You could never be unimportant,” Durand said. “I am blessed to have you here.”
“You are kind.” Oriel rose and kissed Durand’s cheek, then went back to Penne’s knee. “But I’ve always felt a need to watch Penne every moment, else Marion might have stolen him away.”
“Or I her.” Penne kissed Oriel on the neck. Tension underlay Oriel’s bantering tone.
Hastily Durand rose. “Excuse me,” he said, almost knocking his chair over in his haste to rise. “I must find where Joseph has placed my pallet.”
* * * * *
The next morning the hall filled as everyone clamored to see and hear the king conduct business. He did not, as he had the previous autumn, lie abed with his young wife in neglect of his duties. Nay, he had been first to the hall after Lord Durand, and now, several hours later, he was still there. The long table was filled with barons and other men.
Cristina took her place with the women of lesser importance, stitching diligently and nursing Felice as she demanded. She should have been well rested, as Felice had blessedly slept through the night, but instead Cristina felt weary to her bones.
She tried—and failed—to ignore the chattering women who surrounded the very pretty, very young queen.
“Mistress?” Luke sat at her feet. “What so occupies you that you must ruin your lovely face with a frown?”
She could not help smiling down at him. “This stitch is difficult.”
“I’m not a lady to know needlecraft, but it looks to me like simple mending. Why are you not truthful?”
“Forgive me,” she said softly. “I am much concerned of this talk of war.”
“Aye. We await the arrival of William Marshall and the king’s new galley; then we’ll be off.”
“So soon?” Her throat felt tight. “You will—” She broke off when one of the queen’s ladies came to their side.
“Let me present Lady Nona,” Luke said. Cristina rose and made a respectful curtsy. “And Lady Nona, please meet a woman who fills our lives with sweet scents—Cristina le Gros.”
“Is this Lord Durand’s daughter?” Lady Nona asked, dropping to her knees in a pool of bronze wool skirts.
“Aye, my lady,” Cristina said.
“She is a sweetling,” Lady Nona said, peering in the basket.
Luke pulled Felice from her swaddling. He set her in Nona’s arms. “She’s plump as a stoat and pretty as her mother was. Thank God she has naught of Durand!” He paused, then peered closely at Felice. “Is she losing her hair? She’s almost bald.”
“Luke, you are hard on the poor child.” Lady Nona laughed. “In a few years, you will wish for such a thatch!”
Luke touched his head and frowned.
Lady Nona took the child and held her close. The lady’s cheeks were soft as a summer peach. She wore her golden brown hair held back by a circlet of silver and gold entwined and decorated with small squares of blue enamel. Her bronze gown covered a fine linen undergown of a deep blue. The embroidery was inches thick about the sleeve and hem. Her girdle repeated the richness of her circlet.
“Have you children of your own?” Luke asked, leaning negligently on a nearby table. He crossed his arms over his chest. He had never looked more handsome, his red-gold hair, thick enough to last a score of years, agleam in th
e sun streaming in the solar window. His brown tunic and heavy leather belt emphasized his slim waist.
“To my great regret, I don’t, my lord,” Lady Nona said. “May I take this sweet one away whilst I walk about the castle grounds?” She directed her question to Cristina.
What could she say to this companion to the queen? “As it pleases you, my lady.” The lady smiled and turned away.
“The king wishes Nona to wed Durand,” Luke said, staring after her.
Wed Durand? An impossible ache lodged somewhere near Cristina’s heart. What right had she to feel anything?
She stared at the empty basket by her feet. It was as it should be, she thought. Lord Durand’s wife-to-be must learn the place and his daughter. Her throat burned, as did her eyes.
Lord Durand was naught but the substance of dreams.
“Cristina? Have you something for my hair?” Luke asked.
“Your hair?” She forced herself to concentrate on his words and the frown upon his face.
“Aye. Is there something to grow new or prevent its loss—”
“Prevent its loss?” Cristina watched Lady Nona leave the hall. “I believe the lady but teased you.”
Nothing could prevent the loss of Felice, she thought as the babe who had come to take the place of her own in her heart left the hall in the arms of Lord Durand’s future wife.
“I have noticed some change here.” Luke tapped his brow.
She needed to escape this place in which she was so much a servant. “I’ll mix you something, but it smells so ‘tis likely you’ll need to make a choice twixt your hair and your bed partners.”
She left him frowning and rubbing his temples and sought out Alice, who sat with Lady Sabina, sorting the woman’s silks.
They remarked not at all when she excused herself, telling Alice she would work in the garden.
But it was not to the peace of Lady Marion’s garden she went. That space was not hers either, just as Felice and this life were not hers. She found herself alone on the road to the village save for a boy and his goat. At the fork she stood a moment, contemplating the many directions to be taken: Portsmouth, where the men would go to embark for war; the village and thence to Winchester; or the forest. She turned to the forest.
In moments she had stepped from the work of man to that of God. The deep green, the coolness of the air, embraced her. She felt at home, welcomed. Her breasts told her it would be hours ere Felice needed her, and heeding a basic need of her own, she hurried through the trees.
A furlong from the road, she came to the clearing where Sir Luke had hewn himself a smooth seat. She sat there and lifted her face to the meager sunlight weaving its way through the boughs overhead. All about was silent of man’s intrusion. Only the rush of the river and God’s creatures could be heard.
She pulled off her plain leather circlet and headcovering, then let down her hair, combing it out with her fingers.
Clouds obscured the sun; the wind rose, teasing her skirt hem. It swirled the mist over the river bank and slowly toward her. She reveled in the peace of the concealing fog, the caress of its intangible fingers on her skin, the deadening of sound.
The jingle of a harness made her turn. Lord Durand sat there atop his terrible black horse, as if a spirit come from the mist.
She rose and faced him. “Are you real?” she asked. “Or have I conjured you?”
He swung his leg over the front of the saddle and slid to the ground, then looped his reins about a low branch. “I’m real, but can I hope you would conjure me if I were not?” he asked.
She sat down, then remembered her hair; but her headcovering was a tightly creased mess and could not be quickly donned.
He walked about the clearing, the fog moving from his boots as if running away. She watched him in silence. His dark green surcoat made him almost a creature of the forest, blending with shadows, at one with his surroundings.
Then he came to stand before her. “Have you forgotten the danger of brigands?”
“Aye, my lord, I must confess I’ve other matters on my mind.”
“What matters are of such import you would endanger yourself?”
His cheeks were shadowed with beard, his brows drawn together with concern or anger—she knew not which.
Cristina shifted on the stump and sought to deflect the heavy weight of his scrutiny. “Ones of little interest to a man such as yourself, my lord.”
To her astonishment, he let it rest, only stepping closer. He wore a jeweled ring on his left hand, one too fragile for a man such as he. It would make a lovely gift for a new bride.
“I have a difficult question for you, Cristina.”
“A question?” She saw a softening in the harsh lines about his mouth. “Ask me whatever you wish.”
Her throat felt tight. Would he ask her to be his mistress? Or would he honor the promise made between them? And if he did ask…what would she answer?
Praise God, she had taken two doses of the resistance potion that morn and had added crushed thorns of hawthorne to make herself less amiable in temperament as further discouragement. She readied herself to resist.
He didn’t speak, but paced the clearing, his steps almost silent on the many layers of pine needles.
Finally he went down on his haunches before her and touched her knee. “Has your husband a son?”
Heat filled her cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean. We have no children.” She hated the compassion she saw on his face.
“I didn’t mean issue with you, but with another. Has Simon a son?”
Cristina ducked her head to hide from his direct gaze and nodded. “He has a son. He would be ten and four or five now.”
“I see.” Lightly, he placed his hand over hers. “I believe the youth who died from the brigand’s wound is Simon’s son.”
She looked up and saw a terrible truth in his eyes. “Nay. Nay. ‘Tis not possible. He resides in Winchester—”
“Had he not the look of your husband?”
She shook her head. “Nay, my lord.”
“You asked if he did not remind us of someone.”
“Aye. As you thought he reminded you of your son’s friends, so he reminded me of an innocent child. I thought of Felice, no one else, my lord.”
His hard expression softened. “Aye. He did have the beardless cheeks of an innocent, but that’s not who he resembled. He resembled your husband.”
She could not accept what he said. “You’re wrong, my lord. It could not be.” She twisted the linen cloth in her hands. “Oh, ‘tis a misery, if you are right. Simon…” She could not finish. The boy had meant so much to Simon. It was the boy Simon held up to her as proof that their childless state was not his fault.
Her heart throbbing in her throat, she stood up, pulling her hand from under his. “I must…if I may ask, my lord that is…I don’t know what to do…Felice needs—”
“We’ll see to her,” he said. “But first, sit. I have questions to ask you.”
She felt a cold chill down her spine. Clutching her headcloth tightly, she sat on the edge of the stump.
Simon’s son could not be dead.
Lord Durand’s gray eyes were dark, his expression kind, but also closed, like a coffer hiding its treasures. He remained on one knee by her, but did not touch her this time.
“What questions, my lord?”
“You knew of Simon’s son?”
With a quick nod, she looked down at her hands. “I know he has a son.”
And Durand knew he must cause her pain, possibly immeasurable pain. He could not ask the most important question, though he had planned to be direct. She was too pale, her fingers crushing the fabric in her hands, plucking at stitches.
“Let us assume for a moment that I’m right, that the boy is Simon’s. Do you know how the boy could have come to be with the bishop?”
“Nay, in truth, I’ve never met Simon’s son. His name is Hugh, my lord,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Named f
or Simon’s father. He lived—lives—in Winchester with his mother, although I’ve never, that is…Simon kept him separate.”
“How did you know of him?” Durand watched her milk pale skin blotch red.
“Simon told me. After the death of our first daughter. The boy was ten, I believe, at the time. I’ve been wed to Simon but nine years, so ‘tis naught of my business to inquire beyond what Simon—”
“Thought you should know?” Durand asked sharply, rising and striding to the edge of the clearing, his steps tearing the fog.
“Aye, my lord. Do not condemn him. Would you have shared your bastards with Lady Marion?”
He whipped around. “I have no bastards, Mistress le Gros. Now. Do you know how Hugh came to be with the bishop?”
“Was the young man not a guard?” She tipped her head back to stare up at him, and he bit back some of his anger at the blank look upon her face. “That surely proves ‘tis not Simon’s son. Hugh works for a baker in Winchester, I believe. How could a baker’s boy rise to such a position with the bishop?”
“A simple bribe would gain him a place if the boy was not really with the bishop at all.”
Cristina rose. Her hair slipped over one shoulder as she hastened to where he stood. “What are you saying?”
“The boy said his father had taken my Aelfric and sold it to the bishop. The boy was delivering it.”
“The Aelfric?” She stared at him blankly for a moment, and immense relief swept through Durand. If Simon had stolen the book, she had not aided him.
“Aye.” Durand touched her lightly on the shoulder, her hair silk beneath his fingers. “Did Simon know I had a copy?”
“He would not take your Aelfric!” she insisted. “Nay, my lord. Nay. Why would he do such a thing? You’re wrong!”
“The sum the Aelfric would fetch might be very tempting. Did Simon know about my Aelfric?”
“He saw it in my chamber,” she whispered.
“Should we ask Simon about his son in Winchester?”
Durand chastised himself for not saying what he thought. Why did he dance about the point? Because she was near to fainting. She swayed on her feet, and he clasped her shoulders to keep her upright. Her shoulders were thin beneath his hands. “Come. I’ll take you to your husband.”
