by Ann Lawrence
“What’s happening? I don’t understand.” When she fought against his hold, he thrust her into the sentry’s hands.
“Simon will be tested, Cristina,” Durand said. “Surely you understand a test? He will be thrown into water, and if he survives he is guilty and will lose his hands. If he sinks…he is dead.”
Her teeth began to chatter. “My lord—”
“You will await me here,” he ordered. To the sentry he said, “You’ll see she remains here, or I will have your sword.”
Durand reached out and touched her cheek. She moaned softly. There was nothing he could do for her. He strode away.
* * * * *
Alone in the hall save for the sentry, Cristina waited impatiently for some word of Simon’s fate. She held no hope of Simon’s innocence. That he had contrived to take the book she was sure—and had been since seeing the rings.
She searched her heart and felt, first and foremost, fear. For herself. She also felt guilty. Guilty for her lack of love for Simon.
And she felt angry. She knew that after today, she would spend her life looking after a man who had no means of supporting himself. All who saw him would know by his disfigurement that he was a thief. Or Simon would be dead, and she would find herself alone.
She had lied to Lord Durand. There would be no going home to her father. As a merchant himself, he would not, could not, have a thief in his household. They must go back to a single cart on the road. The thought was chilling. And how would she bear the days ‘til Rose was ready to take Felice to nurse? Even a simple walk through the village would be torment. She must withstand the shame of not just Simon’s thievery, but of people believing she was Sir Luke’s mistress.
And she would not have even the succor of a child’s love to sustain her.
Who had aided Simon? Taken the Aelfric from Lord Durand’s chamber and given it to him? Who, along with Simon, had ruined her life?
“Mistress le Gros?”
Cristina rose. One of King John’s guards stood before her, a rope in his hand. She could look no higher than the narrow twine. “Aye.”
“Put out your hands.” She did as he bid. He quickly bound her hands, ignoring the protests of Lord Durand’s sentry.
“Why?” It was all she could say. Her voice sounded far away, as if it came from someone else.
The guard shrugged and tested the rope to be sure it was fast. “The king commands you into custody until you can be tried for theft.” At those words, Lord Durand’s sentry turned and dashed off, leaving her alone with the king’s man.
“Tried?” She stumbled after the guard as he tugged on the rope. Why should she be tried? “There must be some mistake. I don’t understand.”
The guard said nothing. He pulled her relentlessly toward the steps to the lower levels of the keep.
To the punishment cells.
Chapter Eighteen
“Halt!” Durand strode toward her across the hall, the sentry on his heels. “Where are you taking Mistress le Gros?”
“Below,” the king’s guard said.
“I’ll take charge of her.” Durand drew his dagger and sliced through the twine at her wrists.
“Thank you,” she managed to stammer as black spots filled her vision. She swayed in place, but forced herself to remain upright. Calm. All would be well now.
“The king will be displeased,” the guard said.
“The king will not care where Mistress le Gros is imprisoned, only that she is.” Durand took her arm and led her toward the west tower.
Imprisoned. There was no error. She stumbled along, unable to speak.
In silence, they climbed the steps to the book chamber. At the door, Durand halted and addressed the king’s man who huffed along behind them. “Stand guard if you wish, but remain without unless I command you otherwise.”
Cristina forced herself to walk into the chamber. It was flooded with sunlight in mockery of the blackness sweeping over her. She clasped her hands tightly. Her wrists were red from the guard’s rope. Heart racing, she offered up a whispered prayer for strength.
With a harsh rasp, the key turned and she was alone with him.
“Cristina.” Durand said her name almost gently.
“My lord?” She took a step toward him, then hesitated. “Why am I imprisoned here?”
He held out his hand. “I must tell you…come here.”
She stared from his hand to his face. “Is the king finished with Simon?” Her words were barely a whisper in the small chamber.
Still, Lord Durand held out his hand and did not speak. It took all her courage to walk to him and put her hand in his.
He drew it to his mouth and pressed his lips to her fingers. “May God forgive him,” he said.
Her heart thumped rapidly. “Please. Tell me.”
He pulled her close. She wanted to burrow into his body and hide. For she knew he would tell her something terrible.
“Simon accused you of taking the book for him. He claimed no other aided him.”
The room spun for a moment, tipped, and grew dark at the edges. She heard her name, said from afar.
She became aware that Lord Durand had lowered her to the bench. “Cristina. Cristina,” he said again. His face wavered above her as if seen through water.
Slowly, his features gained clarity—along with her own sense of what had happened.
She was doomed.
Lord Durand smoothed the hair from her brow. “I’ve asked Father Laurentius to help you. So all will be well, I promise.”
“But Simon has but to tell the king the truth. He knows I had nothing to do with it. He must tell the truth. Please…make him tell the truth.”
He shook his head. “Simon is dead, Cristina.”
Durand watched as her body went stiff. Her breathing changed to rapid pants as if she had run a great distance. Her lips went white.
He could do naught but speak quickly. “Simon was cast into the mill pond. I have no need to say he was pulled out alive.” He wanted to embrace her, but hesitated. “The king ordered the rest…done immediately.”
She gave a small moan, and he felt a surge of great anger against her husband.
He forced himself to be gentle with her. “Before judgement was rendered, the king asked Simon again who aided him and he named you. If God is just, it is only in that Simon did not survive his maiming, Cristina. It happens sometimes.”
“Nay. Nay.” She covered her face with her hands.
“He seemed to stand the first…punishment well. He said naught, even as Aldwin cauterized his wound. Then he had a seizure.”
With a gasp, she stared up at him—and through him.
Durand touched her hair, her cheek. “I entreated Simon to speak the truth from the outset. I thought he was about to when…I am sure had he lived…”
She gripped her knees and gasped over and over. He feared for her. He went down on his knees and took her into his arms. She began to shudder. When he stared into her face, no tears filled her eyes, but he could not help thinking of the dark, liquid ones of the hart when she was run to ground and knew the bolt would take her life.
She stared at him with shock etched on every feature. “Do not make excuses for him. He betrayed me.”
Durand squeezed her hands. “You need not fear this. I will help you. The king will call you soon, and I’ve instructed Father Laurentius to be there.”
“I thank you,” she whispered, covering his hands with hers. “He will not succeed, but I thank you.”
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. He could not bear to think of her maimed. It would not happen.
Father Laurentius was all he had to offer her.
Her voice was dull when she spoke, and her gaze fixed on the window. “Will I be permitted to see him buried?”
He put out a hand to touch her hair, but changed his mind at the last moment. “Nay. The king has ordered the gibbet.”
When she did not respond, he repeated, “I’ll send F
ather Laurentius to speak with you.”
* * * * *
Cristina liked Father Laurentius little better now than she had that morning, but he had one quality she much admired; he seemed to have no awe of the king.
“I fear,” the priest began, “that you have need of better circumstances than these if we are to speak in comfort.” He sat gingerly on the end of the bench near her.
She frowned. “I’ll have no need of furniture after the king calls for me.”
The priest sniffed. “I’ll ask you to be honest with me. From there we shall concoct a tale most appealing to the king.”
“I have no need of tales,” she retorted. “I did not take the book for Simon!” She paced the chamber for a few moments. “Father, I must ask you something of grave importance—as a priest, not a lawyer.”
Father Laurentius set aside his haughty attitude for a moment, and she saw a gentleness in him that reassured her. “Sit, child and ask whatever you desire.”
Cristina perched on the bench and folded her hands tightly. “I’m concerned if I should be condemned that I’ll die with a certain sin within my heart.”
“Is this a confession? I’m not much of a confessor—”
“Nay, I but wish an opinion. I fear the king will put me to the test as he did Simon. I want to know if I would drown if I were innocent of the crime of theft, but still guilty of another.”
“Hmmm. Frankly I suspect you of no crime more weighty than envy.”
She looked up in astonishment. “How perceptive of you. ‘Tis envy I am guilty of. I have envied someone’s position here and aspired beyond my rank.”
“Is that it?” the priest asked. “If that is all, you will sink like a stone.”
Acid rose in her throat. “So, I am to die today or I will lose a hand or both?”
The priest patted her clenched hands where they lay in her lap. “Nay, child. Not if I can help it. Lord Durand—”
She shot to her feet. “Please, do not bring his lordship into this matter.”
“I must. He has offered his most grave assurances that you are innocent of the theft of the Aelfric. He is a justice known across the kingdom for his fair and honest dealings. If he had not importuned me, I would not be here.”
“How will I thank him?” she mused quietly.
“Who do you think took the book?”
“Truly, Father, I know not. What of the lists Simon and Luke wrote? Could they—”
“I fear they may have held some information the king thought it ill-advised others might see. He kept them, and when I asked to compare them, he said he had burned them.”
So, Cristina thought, the king did not care to see justice done. She had only God to help her now. “It must be someone who can enter and leave the counting room with impunity, as well as someone who is of some value to the king, then.”
“His laundress is of value to him. Do not see too much in his actions. And take heart that God will punish whoever it is, though we may not.” He joined her at the window as a clamor of noise came from the bailey.
“Forgive me, Father, but I cannot mourn my husband as I should,” she said. Below, the king’s party was leaving for a hunt. How could life move so idly by as if nothing were wrong? Why was the sky not black and crashing with the anger of lightning and injustice?
“I fear Simon is not worthy of your sentiment. Waste no more time on one who offered you naught but public humiliation.” The priest touched her shoulder. “Mayhap the king will be merciful.”
“I am doomed.”
* * * * *
The queen, weary from the hunt, implored the king to postpone the judging of the merchant’s wife that she might enjoy the event without a yawn. Durand’s teeth hurt as he clenched his jaw to refrain from a retort that a woman’s life was in the balance and should not be weighed against a queen’s fatigue. But he said naught when the king agreed to hold the judgment at first light.
Father Laurentius met him on his way to the tower to see Cristina. He hooked his arm. “Come with me, young man. I seek a private word.”
They walked about the bailey, the older man leaning on him with unnecessary weight. Durand suspected it merely allowed him a closer access to his ear. “We must offer the king some alternative to that foolish water test. If one believes in its ability to reliably predict guilt or innocence, this is Mistress le Gros’ last night on earth.”
“Jesu,” Durand muttered.
“But take heart. I believe we can confuse the issue and offer an alternative to the water test or her maiming. Mistress le Gros cannot practice her craft if she is so punished.”
“What do you suggest?” Durand asked. “There is little left save arguments and—”
“Combat,” the priest finished for him. “‘Tis what I am thinking. We need to ask for the divine intervention of God to fight for her through a champion.”
“Who will champion her, Father? She’s alone in the world.”
“No one is alone in the world. Someone will step forward.” Father Laurentius patted his arm. “If not, she is doomed.”
* * * * *
Father Laurentius’ words chilled Durand more than any winter wind. If only he had left the Aelfric lying at the bottom of his coffer. If he had not used it as an excuse to seek Cristina’s attentions, she would be free.
He was as guilty as Simon for involving an innocent woman in this crime, unwittingly or not.
Heat ran through him. His palms were sweaty. He rubbed them on his thighs and stood up abruptly.
* * * * *
The guard Durand had placed in the west tower was William, a trusted, discreet man. “I see one of the king’s men is set at the foot of the stairs,” Durand said to William with a nod below.
“Aye, my lord, and above,” William said with a jerk of his chin in the direction of the ramparts.
“I suppose that means Mistress le Gros will not be fleeing tonight.”
William shook his head. “The king must think me incapable of a simple watching.” But they both knew the king had set the guard because he did not trust Durand or his men.
“Lock me in,” Durand said.
William nodded. If the king’s guards were not about, Durand thought, he would simply open the door, give Cristina a heavy purse and send her home to her father—and damn the consequences.
Taking a deep breath, he shut the door behind him and listened for William to do as bidden.
She leaned in the window, head propped on her hands. She did not turn. “I’m not hungry, William.”
“But you must eat,” Durand said.
“My lord.” Her voice was colorless as if she was fading away like a plant deprived of sun. She left the window and sat on the edge of the bench. Only her fingers betrayed her agitation as she pleated the fabric of her skirt. He went down on one knee by her.
“Do not fear. I will help you.” He took up her hand, bent his head, and kissed her palm.
She slipped her fingers into his hair and forced him to look up at her. “I thank you. But there is naught that you can do. Distance yourself.”
Her words chilled him.
Her eyes were huge in her face, flecked with gold as the last of the sunlight scattered its gleam across the wooden floor. He could feel the trembling of her body.
“Cristina.”
“Distance yourself.” Her fingertips lingered on his cheek.
With a groan, he wrapped his arms about her and pulled her from the bench, rising, hauling her hard against him. She clung to him and in the time it took to draw one breath, she touched her mouth to his.
It was a hopeless, helpless kiss.
“All will be well,” he said. He kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes, her temples, then buried his face in her hair. Her scent was as sweet as a field of wildflowers, her breath warm upon his throat.
Her breast was swollen, the tip hard when he set his palm against her heart. He pressed gently and brought his mouth to hers. She kissed him back. Frantic, quick touc
hes of lips and tongue.
All the desire he felt for her roared to life.
He gathered her hard against his body. They stumbled back against the shelves. She moaned and closed her eyes. He opened his mouth to her, and she plundered his as if ‘twas the last and only kiss she might be given.
Her buttocks fit perfectly into his palms as he pressed the most sensitive parts of his body to hers.
She shifted on him and gave a soft cry. The sudden touch of her warmth to his sent a jolt of desire through him that almost brought him to his knees.
Her hands swept down his chest to his waist.
His belt hit the floor with a thud. He stripped off his tunic and flung it aside. When he reached for her this time, she leaped into his arms, her kisses on his mouth and face frantic. He thrust his hands into her hair and held her still. For long moments he feasted on her mouth; then he trailed kisses down her throat to her shoulder, sweeping aside the fabric of her gown, pulling apart laces, exposing her swollen breast to his mouth.
She clung to his shoulders. Her breath was sweet on his cheek as she whispered two words at his ear: “Just once.”
“Aye,” he said, bending his head to drag his teeth across her shoulder. “Just once.”
He could wait not a moment longer. Her skirts rode up her smooth legs with one sweep of his hand as if the summer breezes assisted him.
Her hands quested beneath his linen shirt, and she shoved the remainder of his garments down his hips. She cupped his buttocks as he cupped hers, drawing him hard against her, shifting as he shifted on her.
For long moments he reveled in the taste of her mouth, the feel of her hands on him, the soft brush of her feminine hair across his groin.
Then he wanted more. All of her.
“Cristina,” he murmured. How sweet she smelled. He buried his face against her throat and felt the rapid throb of her pulse against his lips.
They stumbled back against the shelves. Rolls of parchments tumbled about them.
With no more words, he lifted her. Her legs came around him. He sought her warmth with his fingertips. A strangled cry escaped her mouth, and he drank it in with his lips and tongue as he touched, soothed, stroked.
