by Ann Lawrence
There, Joseph sat with William, one of his men-at-arms, pitting Marauder’s many fine qualities against that of other warhorses.
“Joseph? You are back rather quickly,” Durand said, frowning.
“Aye, my lord,” Joseph said, rising.
“Where’s our prisoner then?”
“The merchant put up no fight, but his horse went lame and I had to hire a cart. ‘Twould have been torture to drag along at that pace. He’ll be a few hours yet.”
“I have another journey for you.” Durand unhooked his purse.
“Nay. My rump is sore tested as it is, my lord.” But he took the purse and hefted it readily enough.
“Bring Father Laurentius here from the abbey.”
“As you wish,” Joseph said. “But what need have we for ecclesiastic lawyers?”
“‘Tis Simon who may feel the need. And William.” Durand turned to Joseph’s companion. “I have an errand in the village, a bit of quiet searching for you to do.”
* * * * *
At dusk, when the party bringing Simon back to Ravenswood had not yet arrived, Durand rode out to meet it. At the fingerpost, he saw a cart and cavalcade of men about a league off. He allowed his mare to graze as he waited for them.
When the carts drew near, he nudged the horse into a lazy walk and then halted in the center of the roadbed.
Simon sat in the rear of the cart, his hands and feet bound. Never had he looked so disheveled or so arrogantly self-righteous. As the cart drew to a halt, Simon struggled to his knees. “Lord Durand, thank God! I’ve tried to convince these simpletons they’ve made a grievous mistake.”
Durand patted his horse’s neck and then spread his gloved hand on his thigh. “Have they made a mistake?”
“Aye. I shall see them punished, my lord.” Simon raised his hands as if Durand might step down and loose his bonds.
“Can you read, Simon?” Durand asked.
“My lord?” Simon cocked his head.
“Can you read? A simple enough question.”
Simon sat back on his haunches and dropped his hands to his lap. “Aye. I read. Latin, English, French, a bit of the Northern tongues. One needs such skills if one is to trade above the common laborer.”
“Ah. I see. Then read that fingerpost.” He swept a hand out to the tall wooden pillar at the crossroads.
Red suffused Simon’s face. He said nothing.
Durand lifted his gloved hand to the cavalcade and led it back to the castle. As they approached, full dark fell. Every arrow slit, every window gleamed with torchlight. The moon hung over the towers, painting them silver. The sounds of revelry floated on the wind: music, song, cries of laughter. Yet Durand felt no desire to take part in any of it.
He wanted only to go to her, take her in his arms, and assure her all would be well. But he could not. He must imprison her husband and on the morrow may have to condemn him to some punishment that would surely be just as great a punishment to her.
Chapter Sixteen
Durand searched for Cristina as soon as Simon was settled. She perched on a stool in Oriel’s chamber, spooning something dried into little pouches. The rich scent of apple wood filled the air. Oriel and Felice lay on the bed, the babe on her back, arms and legs outspread like a fat pup basking in the sun.
“Can you watch the babe?” he asked.
Oriel smiled. “Felice and I shall rest here quite well. Her belly’s full is it not, Cristina?”
Cristina nodded. He noticed her hands trembled. She knew why he had come.
Before he rose, he lifted Oriel’s hand and kissed her fingers. “You are contented here?” he asked. “You will remain if our efforts in Normandy fail?”
“Penne will decide. He says he’s young enough to make his fortune again.”
“As are we all, I suppose. But you know you are both welcome to live here always?”
“Nona will not need another wife lying about, confusing things.” Oriel shook her head.
“I am not yet wed,” he said, but with little heat. He would wed the lady for his sons. It was the only reason to wed—land and power. The other—what Penne and Oriel shared—it had caused him naught but needless pain. He wanted none of it.
“Go.” Oriel shooed him with her hand like a fly annoying her. “Go.”
He went to Cristina and held out his hand. “Cristina. Simon has arrived.”
She rose but did not take his hand. “Will you take me to him?” she asked. Her voice was barely audible, but her head was high and her gaze did not evade his.
“Aye. Follow me.”
The hall was filled with men. Very few women chose to linger there during the evening revelries. The conversation was coarse, the manners coarser. Roger Godshall sang with several men. The ribald ditty painted a blush on Cristina’s cheeks.
With a hand at her elbow, he led her through the throng to the steps leading to the storerooms and dungeon below Ravenswood’s great hall.
* * * * *
The dank scent of the cell in which Simon sat reminded Cristina all too well of her brief sojourn there. The old man who unlocked Simon’s door asked her in whispered tones if she was sure she wanted to visit such a space. She assured him she did, and without further argument or a glance at Lord Durand, she stepped inside. The sound of the key in the lock made her stomach lurch.
“Do you know why I’m here?” Simon’s voice trembled.
“There is some question that you took Lord Durand’s Aelfric.”
“Some question? He accused me of stealing it!” Simon fell to his knees before her and buried his face in her skirt.
She stood there without touching him for but a moment, then settled her hands on his head. His body shook with sobs, and her own eyes filled. She would not weep.
“Simon, come; you must rise. ‘Tis a damp chamber, and you will take ill.”
He flung himself away from her. “What matter if I am ill? He will hang me! Who cares if a man coughs on his way to his death?”
“You’ve not been condemned yet, Simon. Take heart.”
“He will see to it, make no mistake. He will find a way to kill me!”
“Lord Durand will be fair.” She paced the small cell, seeing the loss of her husband’s fastidious nature in the crumpled blankets tossed on the floor.
“Fair? You jest.” Simon grabbed her arm. His fingers bit deeply into her flesh. “He has no interest in fairness. He’ll hear what he wants, believe what he wants. He’s controlled by his brother.”
“Luke?” Shocked, she stared at Simon’s face and the contorted anger she saw there.
“Aye, Luke. How easily his name comes to your lips, sweet wife. Think you Lord Durand will care what becomes of me if it frees you to his brother’s attentions.”
“What?” She could barely say the word. “Y-you blame me for this?” She jerked from his grasp. “You’re mad! Sir Luke cares nothing for me. I’ve sworn this to you already. He was not taking liberties! He but touched me with concern.” Involuntarily her hand went to her cheek. “You were in error before and err still!”
“He lusts after you.” Simon made a grab for her arm, and she stepped quickly out of his reach.
“Let me understand. Because Sir Luke touched me once, you think that Lord Durand and he conspired to place you here so Luke might have me? What madness.”
“Who else could take a book from a lord but another lord? You had no access; I had no access. I’m accused because I’m nothing to them and Luke wants you in his bed. You’ll be on your back, your legs spread for him within an hour of my death, whether you want it or not!” He fell again to his knees and clutched her skirts. “Save me, please. Save me.”
The sudden change from accusing and shouting to begging froze her in place. “I don’t know what to say to you! You weave a tale of nonsense.”
He imprisoned her about the knees. “I do not. You hide from the truth. A noble took the book. A noble, I tell you.”
She sank to her knees before him and cuppe
d his face. “Look at me, Simon.” He lifted his grime-stained face, streaked with tears, to hers. “I have never done aught to be ashamed of with Sir Luke. He has never touched me with lust.”
Thank the Blessed Mother Simon did not accuse her of wrongdoing with Lord Durand. Her stomach churned.
“I’m afraid,” he whispered.
She embraced him. “Aye. So am I. Now tell me the truth. Was the dead boy Hugh?”
“Nay. I don’t know that boy.”
She leaned forward. “Tell me the truth.”
“‘Tis the truth.” But his eyes slid away.
“Then answer me this. Why did you not go to Winchester to fetch him?”
Simon covered her hands with his. “They will take my hand, or hang me, brand me.” A shudder ran through his body as he turned his face and kissed her palm. “You’ll have to care for me like a babe. I cannot bear it! Go to Sir Luke. If he wants you, he’ll bargain with you.”
“Answer me, Simon.” She would not be deflected. “You owe me honesty.”
This time it was he who jerked away from her. He stood up, towering over her. “I owe you honesty? You who made this coil for me? You who did not guard your virtue and allowed a man to embrace you before your own husband? You who upset Aldwin with your trespass on his work—”
A flash of anger, so intense it burned through her body, forced her to her feet. “Enough! I’ll hear no more.” She went to the door. Simon was on her in an instant, his hands on either side of her, pinning her with his body to the stout wooden portal.
“You will listen, wife. You have caused this. You must undo it. Beg your lover to release me, if he be one, or beg your kind Luke to aid you as a friend if he be not.”
His warm breath heated her cheek. He held her still.
“You’re wrong, Simon, so very, very wrong.”
He ran his hands from her shoulders to her hips. “Is he your lover? Does he want me dead?”
She managed to lift a hand to bang the heel of her palm on the door. A call from the guard made Simon push away from her.
“Beseech Sir Luke to release me, Cristina. You must. You are tied to me unto death.”
The guard opened the door and she almost fell into his arms. Half-blind with confusion and pain, she stumbled to the upper reaches of the keep. Unsure what to do, where to go, she hastened to Lady Oriel’s chamber. She lifted Felice to her shoulder, grabbed her basket, and fled to the garden.
Moonlight washed the paths bright white. Each pebble seemed to sparkle like a gem as she set down the heavy basket. Soundlessly she walked around and around the plants, breathing the soothing scents, listening to the night sounds—not those of the men still at revelry within the bailey, but those of leaves dancing with one another in the breezes.
Her anger over Simon’s accusations subsided with the simple act of walking. He feared for his life. He concocted tales to suit what he saw. And Sir Luke had held her shoulders with great familiarity. And her heart was traitorous—not with Sir Luke, but with Lord Durand.
Her heart was as traitorous as any adulteress’s could be.
Finally she sought a bench and opened her gown. Felice nursed in the slow, lazy way of a child half-asleep. Her time with the babe would be short—a day or two until Simon was punished.
“Did Simon take the book, Felice?” she asked the babe. “I do not know what to believe.” She hugged the child and breathed in the sweet, milky scent of her. “He’s right that few would have access to the Aelfric unless they were nobles. But what of the many women who visit Luke? Have they not access? Might they not know what lies in the coffers?”
Felice fell asleep, but Cristina continued to talk to her as if she understood. “The boy is Hugh. I know that in my heart, too.” Simon had not answered her question but returned to his accusations, and in that moment she had known he avoided the issue because it kept the lie from his lips.
She became aware the moon no longer filled the garden with light. The moon began to sink beneath the garden wall. Carefully she made her way along the paths to the gate. She locked it securely and knew what she must do.
Once in the keep, she saw it filled with many of the king’s men. She did not see Lord Durand, but did see Sir Luke in the gallery. With quick steps, lest her courage fail her, she went up to him.
Luke leaned against the gallery rail, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a black tunic trimmed in gold thread. Black did not become him as it did his brother. Nay, black was Durand’s color. Black as the secret night. She shook off the errant thoughts. “Do you know where I might find Lord Durand?”
“Mayhap, I do. What need have you for him?” Luke asked with a frown.
She sighed and looked away across the many gathered below. Lord Durand was not there. She could no longer avoid what must be done. “I want to speak to him about Simon.” Could she beg Lord Durand for mercy?
Without another word, Luke led her to the counting room, then stepped back. “Are you sure you wish to see him?”
In answer, she shifted the heavy basket to her left arm and tapped lightly on the door.
“Enter,” Lord Durand called.
She hesitated at his sharp tone, but Luke gave her a small push as he lifted the latch.
No candle lit the chamber. Only the dying embers of the hearth told her he sat at the long table. His face was in deep shadow, concealing his expression. She sank into a deep curtsey and tried to stem the thunder of her heart. “My lord. I beg of you a few words.” Luke remained behind her.
“Wait.” He rose and went to the hearth, where he touched a small stick to the coals and then to the wick of a thick candle.
He wore a long gray tunic trimmed in scarlet over a white linen shirt. Laced high at his throat, the shirt almost concealed his torque, but still she saw the gleam of the gold as he moved. How powerful he looked, forbidding, stern—a judge, not a lover.
“How may I serve you?” His voice was gentle.
She placed the basket on the floor and lifted Felice to her shoulder. With a deep breath, she knelt before him. “I beg of you, my lord. Release my husband. He did not steal the Aelfric. He had no need. I could have given it to him so easily, had he coveted it. I believe the boy stole the book after hearing Simon speak of it. The boy is dead, my lord. What would it serve to punish the father?”
Luke made to speak, but Durand lifted a hand and silenced him. This was between himself and Cristina.
He went to where she knelt. The candle shone on her dark hair. Lightly he touched her head. “Don’t beg, Cristina. It ill becomes you.” He would hurt her. He knew it as he knew his own name. For her to beg for Simon bespoke an affection he did not understand. The man abused her, yet she defended him. Would Marion have done so much for him?
“I must beg, my lord,” she whispered. “He’s my husband and I owe him my loyalty.”
He let his fingertips wander down her satiny cheek to her chin. He tipped her face up. What a sweet face she had. Gentle, trusting.
“One must never put too deep a trust in another. One is always hurt by blind faith,” he said softly. He took her hand and placed in it the bishop’s rings. “These were found hidden beneath Simon’s pallet, secreted under a loose floorboard. The boy did not steal the book.” Gently he folded her fist about the cold metal and waited.
Her hand trembled in his. “Nay,” she whispered.
“Aye.”
She ripped her hand from his and opened her fingers to stare at the jeweled rings. With a soft moan, she placed them on the floor. Staggering a bit, she rose. He put out a hand to her, but she shook her head. Her lip trembled. She thrust the child into Luke’s arms, lifted the latch, and disappeared.
Chapter Seventeen
“Cristina,” Durand said, but the door closed with a bang and she was gone. He wanted to go after her, but could not.
Luke placed Felice on her back on his pallet and then took a stool by the table. “That was not so very well done.”
Durand stared at the d
oor. “I could not let her beg for him. He’s a blight on her life.”
“Still, he’s her husband and mayhap there is affection there. Could you not treat her more gently?”
With a sigh, Durand sank into his chair. “Luke. I’m about to find a reason to let a thief go.”
“What? John sees the theft of the Aelfric as tied to Bishop Dominic’s death.” Luke leapt to his feet. “If you let Simon le Gros go, John will suspect you of God knows what. Treachery? The brigands’ attack? Penne said they were far too finely garbed and mounted for mere thieves—”
Durand surged to his feet. “You don’t tell me anything I do not already know.” He stood over Marion’s child. “I cannot let Cristina suffer.”
“You can find another nurse!” Luke swept a hand out to where Felice lay.
But Durand shook his head. “Is that what you think this is about? I’ve been thinking for days on what will become of us all when we go to France. If I die, who will look after this child? You? You’ll be lying dead in France with me, I fear.”
Or would Luke betray him? Remain behind at the last moment with some plausible excuse?
Luke strode from one corner of the chamber to the other. “Oriel will see to her. And this nonsense. You survived a Crusade, for Christ’s sake.”
Durand knelt by the child and put out his hand. The babe snatched and held his finger. Her grip was very strong for one so tiny, but yet so easily broken.
Aye, Oriel could guard Felice’s interests. But the child must serve as his excuse to aid Cristina. He could not tell Luke that he also much wanted to see Cristina at peace, even if it meant she would be somewhere else with Simon.
* * * * *
The sky was beginning to lighten as Durand walked across the bailey to the chapel.
Cristina knelt beside Father Odo at the fore of the chapel. “Seeking sanctuary, Mistress?” he asked.
Felice lay heavily on his shoulder. Now, when she should be eating, she slept. She was as contrary as every other woman he knew. He saw the babe’s basket by Cristina and was relieved. Surely, the basket meant she intended to take the child from him.
