by Ann Lawrence
He lifted her onto Marauder’s back and climbed up behind her. She felt small within the circle of his arms, not coming against him, not seeking shelter or comfort in his embrace.
With no thought this time of lust, he wrapped one arm about her waist and drew her against his chest. She shuddered once and then rested, her soft hair grazing his cheek, and he kept his arm around her that she might not fall. He sensed she was not really aware of her surroundings, the trees that plucked at his mantle, the rattle of wood beneath the horse’s hooves as they crossed the old bridge near the merchant’s cottage.
In the yard he dismounted and then reached up to clasp her about the waist. She clamped her hands on his arms and allowed him to swing her down. She had lost her headcovering somewhere along the way.
For a brief moment they remained that way, his hands on her waist, her hands on his arms.
“I will help you,” he said, not sure what he meant, only knowing she needed someone at this moment for he was about to take her world apart.
In his heart, he knew she would hate him for it on the morrow.
Chapter Twelve
Cristina preceded Durand into Simon’s abode. He stood before the hearth talking to a young woman dressed in a simple kirtle and gown of gray wool. Cristina recognized her as the innkeeper’s daughter and felt Lord Durand stiffen beside her.
“Ah, my lord,” Simon said. He flushed a deep red. “It is good of you to escort my wife.” He cleared his throat. “This is Agnes. She’ll see to the cooking and scrubbing from now on.”
“That’s good, Simon,” Cristina said, unable to look at Lord Durand, who stood by the door. Tension radiated from his body.
“Agnes, see that a boy tends my horse and remain in the yard until we call for you,” Lord Durand said abruptly, and the girl made a quick curtsy and slipped out the door. “Now that we’re alone, le Gros, I’ve a matter of grave importance to discuss with you.” His voice was hard, but when he placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch was gentle. “Would you like to wait outside?”
Cristina stepped from his touch. “Nay, my lord. I’ll not be sent away like a child.” Her face felt wretchedly hot, but she would know every word Simon spoke, see his face when Lord Durand asked his questions. Know that Lord Durand was wrong.
“What is this about, my lord?” Simon shoved his hands up into his sleeves.
“Do you know the youth who died under Master Aldwin’s care? The boy from the bishop’s party?”
There was something of a threat in the way Lord Durand’s hand rested on the hilt of his raven’s-head dagger.
“I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I’ve never seen the young man before.” Simon shook his head.
“Your wife said there was something familiar about the boy, and I agree. I believe he looks like you.”
Cristina watched her husband pace before the hearth. His lips were as pale as his face. His hands, thrust up his sleeves, shed no light upon his agitation. He did not meet her gaze.
“I know him not. And if the boy looks like someone of Cristina’s acquaintance, then she is wandering beyond my knowledge and must answer for it.”
“Simon!” She made to go to his side, but Lord Durand held her still with a quick shake of his head.
“Can you deny you were greatly affected by the sight of the wounded boy?” Lord Durand crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’ll not deny that, my lord. I’ve never seen such a wound, nor smelled one. It sickened me. I was moved by pity, my lord, nothing more.”
Lord Durand turned to her. “Did you not see something familiar in the youth?”
“Aye. But I thought of Felice, my lord.”
She felt Simon’s emotion as tangibly as if he had raised the stick he threatened her with so often and actually struck her.
“Felice! You waste our lord’s time with your nonsense! You will shut your mouth and speak only when I bid you do so, wife.”
“I beg your indulgence, le Gros.” Durand lifted a staying hand. “Penne saw a resemblance as well, though not to the babe your wife nurses. He saw you. Is the dead boy your son Hugh?”
“Hugh’s with his mother in Winchester. Cristina has never even seen the boy. She’s not his mother and knows nothing of him at all.”
Cristina bowed her head. She had heard those words so often—that she knew nothing. But Lord Durand was wrong. The boy could not be Simon’s. Simon would never lie about such a thing. When she looked at the two men, Lord Durand met her gaze, his eyes filled with pity. She turned from him to her husband.
He looked away.
Lord Durand shrugged. “It is of little moment, and the question easily answered. Fetch your son from Winchester.”
“But my lord,” Simon protested. “I have several men coming on the morrow for a millstone—”
“They can wait.” Durand strode from the cottage into the yard. “You’ll come to the keep with me, mistress. Felice misses you, I’m sure.”
In the yard, the boy Simon had hired to tend the old horse was standing with Lord Durand’s destrier, patting the great horse’s neck. Agnes sat on a bench, her back against the wall beneath the window, likely eavesdropping for what tidbits she could share at the well.
Durand praised the boy’s care of his horse, then mounted and put out his hand to her.
When she looked at Simon, he turned away and beckoned the boy, leaving her to be pulled up by Lord Durand. “Saddle my horse,” Simon said to the boy. “I must get to Winchester.”
This time she did not ride before Lord Durand on his horse, but behind him, her arms about his waist. She found it almost impossible to bear. How hard and unyielding his body was against hers. Not like that of her dreams.
Fear filled her. This man held such power over her—not just in physical temptation, but in his dealings with Simon.
The instant the horse came to a halt by the keep steps, she slid off and ran up the steps, two at a time, heedless of what Lord Durand might think.
Instead of heading for Felice, she darted down to Aldwin’s lair. He was stirring something black and noisome.
“Oh, ‘tis you. What do you want?” he asked, and went back to his task.
“The bishop’s guard? Where is he?”
Aldwin gestured vaguely to the soot-blackened ceiling. “At the chapel, being readied for burial.”
“Thank you.” She curtsied, then ran back through the keep, out the door, and across the bailey to the chapel. Inside, she found Father Odo and the tightly wrapped body of the boy.
It was too late. She could not see those waxen features for herself, could only conjure them in her imagination.
“Mistress le Gros!” Father Odo rose off his knees with a groan. “How may I help you?”
“Oh. That is…I came to pray for the boy.”
Father Odo took her arm and led her to the bier. How different it all looked from when Lady Marion had lain here, flower-bedecked. “He needs our prayers. There’s no one to mourn him, and the others will be buried at the abbey. No one from the abbey claimed him, I’m afraid.”
No one from the abbey claimed him. She knelt on a soft cushion and folded her hands. The good father faded away and she tried to pray for the boy’s soul, but her mind kept returning to Lord Durand’s suspicions. He must be wrong. Simon would fetch his son and prove him wrong.
No one from the abbey had claimed him
* * * * *
Durand offered Joseph a small purse. “Use what you need. The man may try to disappear, and I would be most grievously angered if he succeeds.”
“I’ll see where he goes. He’ll not escape from me, my lord. Ye know me well enough to know that.”
“Aye, ‘tis why I’ve chosen you. Take a good horse and stay in the shadows.”
Durand walked Joseph to the stable. When his squire was gone to follow Simon le Gros, he wandered about. He had no private space in which to brood. His chamber was now the royal apartment. Other chambers overflowed with barons and their men. He t
urned to the chapel. He would pray he was wrong, that Simon would appear with his son, that Cristina was not wed to a thief.
Did her pale face and anxious defense of the man bespeak love? She had not spoken of love in the garden, he thought as he entered the chapel.
The boy’s body lay on a bier, a fragrant garland of dried flowers draped over it. He recognized Cristina’s work. A simple rose lay on the boy’s breast.
Was it his imagination that he could catch her scent on the air? Somehow, her care of the boy tightened his throat. He put his hand there and his fingers encountered his torque. If Simon ran, or if Simon could not produce his son, Durand knew he would pursue the man for theft of the Aelfric. He had judged other such crimes and enacted heavy penalties.
And if Cristina loved Simon, would she ever forgive him?
Chapter Thirteen
From a bench in the hall, Cristina watched the evening sun slip away. One of the queen’s waiting maids was making love to a knight in Felice’s chamber, and all assigned a sleeping space there must await their pleasure. In truth, Cristina dreaded sleep. Would her dreams betray her again? And when would Simon return?
Her throat was scratchy; her head pounded. Felice had fussed all evening and finally fallen asleep in her arms. Each time she tried to set her in her basket, she woke and set up a howl. There was naught to do about preparing Luke’s hair salve while the child fussed and waiting maids made love.
She kissed the babe and closed her eyes, listening to the hum of conversation between the ladies surrounding the queen in the hall.
“Who is that magnificent man who just entered?” Lady Sabina whispered to Oriel. Cristina had not the strength to look up.
“Gilles d’Argent,” Oriel said, laying aside her stitching.
“I’ve heard much of him,” Sabina said, smoothing her skirts.
“Aye, Penne and I wagered he would come late. His wife is said to have just birthed their fifth son.”
“I’d birth ten sons for such a man.”
“He’s a hard-looking man,” Oriel said. “He frightens me.”
As the party of men who had just arrived in the hall approached the king, Cristina saw whom it was they discussed. The baron was tall and black-haired, bearded, hard of face and unrelenting in his manner. Even the king seemed to be honored by his presence. The baron had an entourage of seven knights. One was his son, she heard as the king greeted each man. The son, Nicholas d’Argent, was a handsome man.
Oriel nudged Cristina’s side. “Now, the son has none of the harshness of the father. He would appeal much more to me.”
“You’ll be able to test his appeal,” Sabina said. “Your husband brings him.”
The ladies rose to greet Lord Penne and the newly arrived Nicholas d’Argent. He bowed over each lady’s hand and even Cristina’s, which she considered a kindness.
Sabina drew the newly arrived man’s attention to her. “You and your father come late to the king, do you not?” Sabina chastised, one hand on d’Argent’s arm.
“My father’s wife was lying in. You could not peel my father from her side.”
“So we understand. The troubadours make much of your father and his weaver wife,” Sabina said with a bit of a sneer.
Cristina stroked Felice’s back, but paid more attention to the conversation. Gilles d’Argent had married a weaver? She found the idea ludicrous. Men so high did not marry women so low.
“Aye,” Nicholas said with a slight bow. “My father’s weaver wife is a beautiful, talented woman. He would give his life for her. Other women can only envy his devotion.”
Oriel caught Cristina’s eye and winked. Lord Nicholas had certainly told Sabina he cared naught for her opinion.
“Have you a wife?” Oriel asked.
Nicholas smiled. “Aye. My wife is a gifted healer and it is only her promise to care for my father’s wife that persuaded him to heed the king’s command.”
“He would defy a king?” Cristina wanted to snatch the words into her mouth. The ladies and their maids turned in her direction. She saw concern on Oriel’s face and contempt on the others’, but Nicholas d’Argent merely smiled.
“Oh, aye. ‘Tis why I am here. To see he does not have himself cast into a dungeon or say something to start a baronial war. And you are?” he asked.
But Lady Sabina waved a hand. “She is naught but a wet nurse.”
Lady Nona joined the group. “This is Cristina le Gros, Nicholas.” She linked her arm through Cristina’s. “A woman as talented as your own Catherine with herbs, but not in the healing vein. She makes soaps that would have you think you were bathing in a pool in Eden.”
Cristina felt her face heat with the compliment.
“Lady Nona!” Nicholas d’Argent did not kiss Lady Nona’s hand. He engulfed her in a swift hug and kissed each of her cheeks. “You are more lovely than ever.”
“And you flatter well. Come, Nicholas, Oriel, Penne, sit here by me. And Cristina, bring that sweet babe with you.” She turned toward an alcove with two cushioned benches. As much as Cristina appreciated the lady’s defense of her, she could not abide their banter one moment more.
“Pray, excuse me,” Cristina said, and hurried across the hall. The king and the newly arrived men were drinking ale and wine and speaking in hard tones with little levity today.
She had nowhere to go, no place to call her own here in the keep. She could not leave, could not go to Felice’s chamber.
Without thought, she found herself at the garden gate. She turned the key and wandered the paths, holding Felice in her arms. This space was not hers either. The garden’s design reflected a desire for beauty but no knowledge of what plants needed. Sun-loving blossoms lingered in shady corners; delicate blooms withered in sun. It brought no comfort to wander here. This was where he had kissed her, and in doing so, torn apart her comfort, her ease, so that even her pillow betrayed her.
Stars filled the ink-black sky overhead, but instead of filling her with awe, they reminded her of the gems in Lady Nona’s circlet and stitched onto Queen Isabelle’s gowns.
Locking Lady Marion’s garden, she headed for the stable area, but the arrival of d’Argent had also meant the arrival of many more horses and men. The heat of the forge drew many to stand about and talk of the coming offensive against Philip.
There must be privacy somewhere. She found herself near the postern gate. Cristina knew it was meant to be a secret exit for use in times of siege. Alice’s idle tongue had informed her of the gate’s location. A man lolled on a bench there, not obviously a guard, but one nonetheless.
Cristina was about to head back to the inner bailey when the sentry rose, ambled a few steps away, lifted his tunic, and began to relieve himself. She turned with some embarrassment and took a step into the shadows. A hand reached out and grabbed her.
* * * * *
The king’s personal guard had said not a word as he dragged her unceremoniously to the bowels of Ravenswood Castle and a damp cell. She had stared at the dish of oil and the smoking wick for more than an hour before she heard footsteps followed by a key turning in the lock.
The Lord Durand who released her was not the Lord Durand who had kissed her. There was no gentleness in his manner as he swung the key on a large iron ring.
“Mistress le Gros. This way.” He gestured her out of the cell.
“I cannot,” she said, touching Felice, who was greedily nursing at her breast.
His jaw clenched. He turned to the guard. “When Mistress le Gros is able, escort her to me,” he said. The door clanged shut behind him.
Cristina heard the angry words Lord Durand directed at the guard once the door was locked behind them. “Are you mad? You imprison a child?”
“I am duty bound to protect the king,” the guard said stiffly.
“Even from babes?” Durand demanded.
The guard sputtered an excuse, but Lord Durand accepted none. “I’ll hold you responsible if even one cough issues from the child’s lips. Do
you understand?” Lord Durand snapped. The men moved off, and in a few moments silence fell.
At least he cared for the babe’s welfare.
She took her time with Felice, delaying Lord Durand’s wrath. How could she soften it? What ill luck to have been found by the king’s man. The Ravenswood guards would most likely have just bantered a few words with her about the weather or the war.
Finally there was not a drop of milk left, and Felice was nodding and kneading her breast, a sure sign of imminent sleep. With dragging footsteps and a heavy heart, Cristina followed an anxious Ravenswood sentry when he opened the cell. She ignored his nagging inquiries after Felice’s health.
Lord Durand was in the counting room, a roaring fire at his back. He stood with his hands locked behind him, his legs spread.
“You may leave Mistress le Gros with me,” he informed the sentry.
“You were running away,” he accused as soon as they were alone.
“Running away? Nay, my lord. Why would I do such a thing? Where would I go?”
“How do you come to know where to find the postern gate?”
“Alice. But I pray, my lord, do not punish her; she gossips from time to time, but I would not have her suffer for it.”
“So. You did know you were at the postern gate. Now explain why you were there.” His gray eyes were stormy. Even his hair seemed angry.
Cristina looked down at his boots. Mud stained them, as it did the hem of his black surcoat. “I needed solitude, my lord.”
“What of your chamber?”
“I have no chamber, my lord,” she said, anger rising to color her words.
“Felice’s chamber, then, mistress.” He bowed slightly in acknowledgment of her assertion.
“Felice’s chamber was occupied by lovers.”
“The garden?” he countered.
“It is not mine either.” She would not say it was memories of him that had driven her from that green space.
