by Ann Lawrence
“You were running away to join your husband.”
His words struck her silent. An expression flitted across his face. Compassion? Then it disappeared.
“Aye. Running away to your husband,” he repeated.
“S-Simon is on his way to Winchester, my lord. What need have I to go there? I don’t know what you are saying.”
He tossed a scrap of parchment he had been holding behind his back onto the table. “This says differently.”
Her hand shook as she took up the much creased vellum. She scanned the words. “I don’t understand. This says Simon took the east road…I don’t understand.”
“I understand completely. I asked Simon to fetch his son, and since his son lies dead in my chapel he had no choice. He fled.”
She sank to a stool. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. “Nay,” she whispered. “Nay.”
“He lied. Can there be any other reason for him to take the east road, not the north?”
Cristina examined his face. He looked every inch a warrior lord, someone with the power to crush others in his hands and beneath his muddy boot. “I have no reason to offer for his behavior.”
“I’ve sent my men to collect him.” The words seared through her. “What were you doing at the postern gate?”
“I sought some privacy and just wandered in that direction. The guard there started to relieve himself, so I stepped away.”
“Or you sought to leave whilst he was occupied.”
“Nay, I did not!” She stood up. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but could not bring herself to raise her hand.
“Think you there is but one guard for the gate? The other saw you step to the door.”
“I stepped into the shadows so the guard would not see me. He was relieving himself.”
He said nothing. His face was as hard as one carved in stone. This was not the tender lover of her dreams.
She tried again. “Would you suspect Lady Sabina or Lady Nona of some perfidious act if they had done the same? Would the guard have imprisoned them?”
“They don’t have husbands I suspect of theft!”
She ached inside and out. “What would you have me do, my lord?” He would imprison her in the damp cell again, but this time Felice would not be with her. Her throat burned.
“Return to your duties.”
“My lord?” she whispered, rising, Felice tight against her chest. But he had turned his broad back on her. She stood a moment looking at him, but he did not acknowledge her.
Without another word, she left. Climbing the tower steps, she tentatively touched the latch to Felice’s chamber. This time it was not barred against her. This time she would not be alone. This time no lush dreams would keep her from sleep.
Myriad smells and sounds came to her from the dark. The banked fire cast enough light that she could see her way to an empty pallet, one near the door and offering no warmth at all.
Her hands were shaking as she tucked Felice against her side, not even removing her mantle or shoes. Simon had not gone to Winchester. Lord Durand thought him guilty of theft and—worse—suspected her as well.
She would not weep! But her eyes burned and some moments later she felt tears slip over her cheeks.
* * * * *
Luke snorted and tossed the note Cristina had so recently held onto the table. “You think she had a part in this?”
“What am I to think?” Durand said in a snarl, slamming his fist to the table. “She was leaving.”
“That I cannot deny, but if she witnessed this side of you, then no wonder she fled.”
“Mon Dieu. What does that mean?” Durand balled Joseph’s note and cast it into the flames.
“I’ve never seen you so angry. She’s a thorn in your palm, and it festers.”
He could not deny it. “She was at the postern gate!”
“What did she say again?”
“She said she needed to be alone.”
“What of her chamber?”
“It held lovers.”
“Did you look into it?”
Durand nodded. “Aye, one of the queen’s maids was with a lover, but that does not excuse her! She could have walked in the garden! She had the key on her person.”
“Searched her, did you?”
Luke grinned and something inside Durand snapped.
He reached across the table and snatched his brother by the tunic. “And how many times have you searched her?”
Luke wrenched the fabric away from his grasp. “Durand! Take hold of yourself. You know I never dally with married women. I believe Cristina had no motive beyond what she said.” He straightened his tunic.
Durand unclenched his fist.
“I’ll speak with Cristina for you, if you wish. Mayhap I’ll not frighten her so she cannot think straight.”
“Do as you please.” Durand shoved past his brother and strode into the hall, a grievous mistake, as the king called to him and there was naught to do but obey.
“Sire?” Durand said, bowing.
“We have spoken to our guards about a woman at the postern gate. Have we need for concern?”
“Nay. ‘Twas just a woman seeking privacy.”
King John stroked his beard with this thumbs. “Hmm. We would know more of this. We don’t need spies among us.”
Something hot and heavy settled in Durand’s belly. “She’s not a spy. Women have moods, sire, as you well know.”
The king threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, aye. We know a woman’s moods. If you are sure of her, we’ll not interfere. Spurned by a lover, having a fit of pique, no doubt.”
The men about the king laughed with him. The heavy feeling lifted just a bit. “Come, de Marle,” the king commanded. “Tell d’Argent, here, how many men you will give to our noble cause.”
Durand could not refuse. He turned to the only man not laughing—Gilles d’Argent. The baron had not the problems he must face. D’Argent’s lands were all in England. He had no divided loyalty, and enough wealth that Durand imagined most of d’Argent’s conversations with the king were about how much his scutage costs and baronial bribe would be.
* * * * *
Luke nudged Cristina awake with his toe. She looked up his long leg but a moment before rising and following him from the bedchamber.
“Have you been weeping?” He took Felice from her arms and cradled the babe against his shoulder.
“Nay. I never weep,” she said, but her eyes felt swollen.
“Come.” He walked away, up a set of steps she had never climbed, and opened a door. A sentry greeted him, and they stepped out onto the wall walk. Far below, the bailey was alive with men and women, torches and conversation. In the distance the river was a silver ribbon. “Now, why were you at the postern gate?”
“You don’t mince your words.” She leaned against the parapet wall. The cold stone soothed her hot cheeks.
“Durand’s in a rage. He doesn’t need such business at this time.”
“I don’t know what to say. I needed to find a place of privacy. Felice’s chamber—”
“Your chamber—”
“Sir Luke, I have no place here. I nurse Felice. That is my duty. It makes me your brother’s servant. Servants do not have chambers.”
He gave a low whistle. “I stand duly chastised, Mistress le Gros. Why did you not retire to Felice’s chamber?”
“Lovers, sir.” Why explain? Durand’s men would bring Simon here to Ravenswood and he would explain himself. She would wait for his arrival and know the truth about the boy in the chapel.
But if she did not believe in her husband, she had nothing. Nothing. And if Simon lied, she would be cast out by Lord Durand. Set upon the road. And Simon…she would not think of his fate—a fate now in Lord Durand’s hands.
“There are places aplenty in the keep if you need privacy.”
“The jakes?” She rubbed her swollen eyes.
“‘Tis not a time for levity. Marion’s garden, then?”
<
br /> Cristina turned around to face him. Moonlight painted him in a silver gleam—his hair, his skin, his white linen shirt showing at the neck and sleeves of his tunic. He was handsome, but not stupid. “You have said it, my lord. ‘Tis Lady Marion’s garden.”
“I see. Does her shade walk there?” He turned Felice and inspected her tiny face.
“In a manner, aye. I may nurture the plants, but still, ‘tis her garden.”
“Has my brother made you feel unwelcome there?”
“Nay,” she said softly, then looked up at the black velvet sky, studded with stars. “Nay.” Instead Lord Durand had beguiled her there, kissed her, made her wish for what could never be—the strength of his arms, the feel of his body against hers. A quiver of fear and want, indistinguishable one from another, ran through her.
Now he thought her perfidious. The thought was a deeper pain than any illness, any stab with a dagger, could be.
* * * * *
Durand woke from a vivid dream. His body was bathed in sweat and ready should a willing woman have lain beside him. But his pallet was in his brother’s counting room, and only Luke lay snoring by the fire to disturb his rest.
He sat up, cast off the furs, and clasped his arms about his knees. In his dream he had pursued Cristina through the postern gate, past the village, and into the forest. It was deepest night in his dream, for purple and black shadows filled the clearing. She was clothed only in her hair, and he had wanted to bury his face in the sweetly scented tresses.
The pursued became the pursuer.
She had fetched a bowl of water from the nearby river that seemed to writhe and breathe as if it were a living thing. Without a word he had stretched out on the ground for her as she approached. He, too, was suddenly naked, and she had bathed his skin in scented water as moonlight shone on the shape of her full breasts and womanly thighs.
His body had arched to her gentle caresses, and just as the pleasure had come, she had lifted the bowl and spilled its silver stream as his body had poured forth its ecstasy.
Awake now, he felt as drained as if he had spent himself, and yet was still as aroused as if he had not.
Why must he dream of her now? Now, when he doubted every word she spoke? Now, when he most wanted to believe she knew naught of Simon’s thievery? Yet she had lied about her reasons for seeking the gate. Her face, so innocently expressive, had told all.
His eyes felt as if filled with sand. He rose and poured water into a basin and splashed his face. Near to hand sat a pot of soft soap—his brother’s. Its smell was not that of the forest glade of his dreams. He set it aside, unused.
Once in the hall, he ate little of the bounty set before him. The fat congealing at the edges of the trenchers did naught for his appetite. He searched but failed to see Cristina at one of the many tables in the hall.
Given no unforeseen events, brigands or otherwise, Simon would be here before nightfall. As he chewed, he noted the king’s arrival in the hall. He rose and bowed, as did everyone else. Thank God John had not the habit of his father of wandering around and ofttimes eating whilst standing. Durand kissed Queen Isabelle’s hand and led her to a chair next to his.
“What is this we hear that you are bringing in a thief?” the king asked.
“It is not determined the man is a thief. He’ll have his say.” Durand lifted his goblet, but quickly set it down when Cristina entered the hall. She was garbed in the white gown in which he had first seen her, but no ribbons held her hair looped back. Was it mere imagination that traced shadows under her eyes? She did not look toward him, nor settle at a table. Instead, she wrapped a heel of bread in a cloth and returned to the tower.
The king leaned close to Durand and spoke at his ear. “Fetching.”
“Sire?” Durand said.
“That woman. A fetching morsel.”
Durand licked his lips. “Aye.”
“She made our dear queen a most wonderful soap. A talented hand with scents and potions.”
“Aye, sire,” he said. He did not want to think of Cristina’s scent. It filled his dreams and tormented his sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Cristina feared to walk about the keep, yet could not remain in Felice’s chamber. There, she would not know when Simon arrived. She’d left only once to get bread, but had found that every step in crossing the lofty hall meant moments of torture before his scrutiny.
Eating the bread, feeding Felice, attempting to make sweet pillows for the queen’s waiting maids did naught to assuage her panic. The sentry had moved from his position at the foot of the tower steps to outside her door and served as a reminder that Lord Durand did not trust her.
She tested the hair salve for Luke, judged it cool enough to pot up, and finished it off with a dab of day old butter just as a light tap came at the chamber door.
Her heart tapped rapidly in her chest. “Enter,” she called.
It was Lady Nona who lifted the latch.
“Do I disturb you, Mistress le Gros?” the lady asked.
Cristina curtsied and brushed back the loose strands of hair at her brow. It was carelessly tied at her nape. Now, faced with Lady Nona’s splendid perfection, she felt slatternly. “Enter, my lady. You do not disturb me.”
Lady Nona wore a gown of soft green stitched with pearls and trimmed with ivory ribbon. Her hair was entwined with ribbons, and ropes of pearls looped her neck. “I thought to see the babe,” she said in a manner that suggested she would not trespass if Cristina forbid it.
“As you wish, my lady,” Cristina said softly, continuing her task, pouring Luke’s hair salve into an earthenware pot.
The lady plucked Felice from the cradle and brought her near. “That certainly stinks like the pigsty,” she said with a grimace.
“Oh, aye.” Cristina pressed a fat cork into the small pot’s neck. “It is not harmful to the child.”
Nona peered down at Felice’s face. She brushed a fingertip across the rosebud lips. “Nay, I did not think such a thought. But I do think it harmful for you to eat nothing. Lady Oriel says you’ve not attended meals and took only some milk yestereve.”
“I had some bread.” But the cloth still holding the bread showed she had but nibbled at the edges.
“Please me, Mistress, and eat, else you’ll make yourself ill.” Lady Nona went to the door and spoke to the sentry as if she had commanded the men of Ravenswood all her life.
While they waited, Nona watched Cristina stuff dried flowers into small pouches of linen and tie them with narrow ribbons. The women did not speak until after a servant had placed a tray on the worktable. It held cheese, roasted partridge, and wine.
Cristina felt no wish to eat. All would taste of ashes in her mouth, she knew, but to please the lady she sat on a stool and sliced some cheese.
“What will you do?” Lady Nona asked. She tickled Felice’s stomach, and Cristina could not keep jealousy from filling her as Felice batted her legs and wriggled happily.
“Do?” She crumbled the cheese between her fingertips. “About what, my lady?”
“About your husband. ‘Tis all the gossip that he has stolen from Lord Durand.”
Cristina clamped her hands on her knees. “My husband is not a thief. He just signed a charter that will yield him much. Why would he steal?” If she said it often enough, it would be the truth.
“Indeed. But can you continue here if he is accused and found guilty?”
She searched the good lady’s face for some sign of what she wanted. “I cannot.” The words almost caught in her throat.
Lady Nona rose. “If I might be so bold, I’m sure I could find a place for you at my manor in Bordeaux. Of course, we must see if there’s another wet nurse about. You would not want Felice to suffer when you depart.” Nona rocked Felice in her arms as she headed for the door. In moments, Cristina was alone.
We would not want…
Cristina’s mouth went dry. How could she have forgotten the this lady was to wed Lord Durand? She jump
ed up and, ignoring the sentry at the door, dashed down the steps to the hall.
As she rounded the steps, she almost stumbled over Oriel. Her blue gown, trimmed with black stitches, looked crumpled.
“My lady, may I help you?” Cristina placed a hand on Oriel’s arm. The sentry backed away.
Oriel licked her lips and wiped away tears. “I’m so concerned about Penne. He’s at odds with the king today. He wants to do the honorable thing, but ‘tis difficult with John. He trusts no one, and Guy Wallingford has urged Penne to desert this effort. ‘Twill end in disaster or death for so many.”
“His holdings were confiscated by King Philip?” Cristina asked. Her stomach lurched at the thought of the deadly sword wounds of the recent brigand attack. She could not think of Durand in a pool of blood on a battlefield with no one to see to him.
What had fate in store for him? For Felice? For…her? She became aware that Oriel had answered her question.
“Aye. Penne’s lands were granted to him by King Richard that the Martine family might serve, with others, mind you, to break up King Philip’s power in Normandy. ‘Twas one of Richard’s reasons for approving Marion’s marriage to Durand. But one of the barons reminds Penne daily that if he just went to Philip, swore fealty there, he would very likely get his lands back without risking his life. It must be done before Philip portions them out to another if it is to be done at all.”
“So Penne might leave John for Philip?”
“What?” Durand stood before the alcove, a frown on his face.
“Oh, Durand,” Oriel said, rising, swaying a moment. He shot out his hand and steadied her. “I didn’t see you there.”
“So it would seem. What were you saying about Penne leaving John for Philip?”
“I didn’t say such a thing. Cristina asked if Penne might leave John. I was just about to assure her that Penne swore to John and will not desert him.”
“I see.” His doubting tone told her ‘twas not just the king who had no trust.
“If I might, my lord, may I speak to you in private?” Cristina asked.
“Be quick about it, as your husband should arrive at any hour,” he said to her.
