by Ann Lawrence
* * * * *
Durand drifted to sleep in her arms, but that blissful peace eluded her. She lay there for hours and savored his scent, the hard length of his body, the warmth of his hand tangled in her hair.
When next he woke, he drew her into his arms and, without a word, mounted her quickly. She rode his passions as they flew from his control. At some point he gasped her name again and again.
She said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Dawn had come.
Chapter Twenty
Not more than an hour after Durand had left, a guard fetched her. She went without demur as she knew there was little anyone could do. Simon had stitched her into her shroud as surely as if he had wielded real needle and thread.
Though she offered no resistance, the king’s man held her roughly and hustled her down the steps and into the hall. A wall of people met her view. Even the upper gallery was lined with spectators, the humbler maids and pages to those who sat near the hearth.
The guard parted the throng by calling out “Make way for the thief,” as if she had already been tried and convicted. “Sit,” the man ordered her, and thrust her onto a stool by Father Laurentius.
The long table by the hearth held the clerics and Lord Durand. He did not look at her, and she felt chilled.
Did he, somewhere inside, think her guilty? That he might was worse than a thrust from the dagger he had placed in its sheath when he had dressed. That blade, with its raven, and the torque he wore were symbols of who he was.
The marks on her wrists from the ropes that had bound her were symbols of who she was, too.
As she stared at the red rough patches on her skin, anger filled her. How dare Simon involve her in this? How dare Lady Sabina stand somewhere in the crowd and not speak? How dare this knavish company stand in judgment of her? They who traded beds on a whim, taxed their minions to near starvation, and warred over land, then trampled it wantonly as they hunted?
Not Lord Durand.
She folded her hands in her lap to still their tremor. Lord Durand did not drain the life from his people—nor did Luke, in his stead.
Lady Oriel and Lady Nona came to stand in front of her. They were garbed like twin butterflies in vibrant blues and yellows as if they had planned to complement each other. Both wore chains of gold about their waists and necks. All the finery did not conceal Oriel’s pale face or Lady Nona’s delicate beauty.
Oriel kissed her cheeks. Lady Nona was not so familiar, but did touch her shoulder quickly, lightly. They took their places by the hearth with Lord Gilles and his son, who had just entered with Penne. The king was announced. He swept in with his queen on his arm. Cristina knew she would be judged by this man who was said to be as capricious as the summer winds. As if he had touched her, she felt his gaze settle on her.
Father Laurentius hurried toward her from the bailey. His robes flapped around his thin frame, but he smiled gravely and patted her hand. “All will be well, mistress. Take heart.”
To show the priest and all who chose to judge her in their own hearts, she straightened her spine and settled her features into what she hoped looked like the countenance of a woman with no guilt or fear.
Several agonizing moments of courtly banter passed as more of King John’s party arranged themselves about the hearth area. The queen called for wine and something sweet. Serving boys went about tending to the needs of their masters and mistresses. Did no one care that she waited with a racing heart and sweating palms, her life in the balance?
Lord Durand was every inch the warrior lord as he took a seat by the king. He wore a long tunic more suited to combat than this business. At the neck and sleeves she saw a dark wine linen shirt that somehow reminded her of the colors in his hair as they were touched by the flickers of flame.
He nodded to her and, suddenly she felt an inner peace. He had promised to help her. He was a man of honor. He would keep his word.
The sick churning of her belly subsided.
The king gestured for Father Laurentius to approach. This time, there would be no difficulty hearing every word spoken. She was the accused.
To her great surprise—Lord Durand’s, too, if his expression was any window to his thoughts—the king asked Luke to step forward.
Luke went down on one knee and bowed to the king.
John sat in a huge oak chair and leaned on one elbow. The size of the chair did naught to increase his own physical presence. He was a small man compared to Luke. But his splendid robes bespoke his position. He wore several rings, the worth of which would keep ten peasant families all their lives.
Sir Luke also looked splendid, though he was more plainly dressed. He was garbed in russet brown with touches of gold trim. He wore his mantle over one shoulder. It was clasped with a gold pin shaped like a raven—a reminder that he was a de Marle, too.
The king spoke almost gently. “Luke, you take a most prodigious interest in Mistress le Gros.”
She started at her name.
“My interest is that of castellan.”
“Come, Luke, we are not blind. The woman is fetching, is she not? And you are most aptly called Lord of Skirts. How is it you have let such a tempting morsel pass you by?”
Durand watched his brother carefully. Hot color filled Luke’s cheeks, but he shrugged. “There are so many temptations,” Luke said. “And only so many hours.”
The hall burst into laughter.
The king smiled. “So,” he continued. “You have not yet sampled Mistress le Gros?”
Luke shrugged again, but made no answer.
Durand watched Cristina bow her head. It was an indication of her inner turmoil at this open discussion of her as if she could not hear. He wanted to call out to her to sit as before, not cave to one man’s accusations.
The queen touched King John’s hand. “Luke has neither wealth nor position. He has a pretty face, I grant you, but he has naught to offer a woman of wealth, and so can we not assume he will seek such as this one?”
There was a hint of malice in the queen’s tone, and enlightenment hit Durand with a jolt.
The king held an interest in Cristina, and the queen knew it.
King John shook his head. “Are we correct, Sir Luke, that many seek you, highborn and low, for your connection to your brother and any future considerations he might settle on you?”
“Aye, sire. Many seek me for what Durand might offer.”
Durand saw Lady Nona rise abruptly and slip between Oriel and Penne. She lifted her hem, and it belled around her legs as she darted down the steps to the lower reaches of the castle. What ailed her?
Then he knew. She was humiliated, just as Cristina was at the implications of the king’s conversation, now her name was coupled with that of de Marle. Guilt that he had spent the night in Cristina’s arms washed over him. But he thrust it aside. He was not wed to the lady yet and might never make a contract with her. What he had done with Cristina was none of Lady Nona’s concern.
The king’s caprice in such matters was legendary. But Durand would not undo the night in Cristina’s arms for all the wealth and land in Christendom.
“What places have you been alone with Mistress le Gros?” the king asked Luke.
Father Laurentius came to life. He gripped Luke’s arm and bade him to be silent. “Sire, Sir Luke is not accused of theft. Mistress le Gros is. She is innocent of everything but a blindness to her husband’s perfidious nature. In fact, she was given the book in question by Lord Durand and returned it to him through Luke once she had cleaned it.”
Someone in the crowd snickered.
Durand watched Cristina’s head snap up. She fixed her gaze on the king with no agitation of her hands, nor telltale blush staining her pale cheeks. He admired her return to courage.
“It is your statement ‘through Luke’ that we question, Father,” the king said. “Can you deny the woman had access to the Aelfric? Can you deny she may have had a second thought about returning such a valuable book when
it could fetch up to a thousand pounds?”
“I deny it completely. Mistress le Gros had but to ask Lord Durand and he would have given her the book. Once she had it, she could have sold it to whomever she wished. ‘Tis nonsense that she would have stolen it!”
The king tapped his chin in thoughtful contemplation. “If this is the case, Father, then why did Simon not ask his wife to petition Lord Durand for it. Why would he need to steal it?”
“Indeed. Let us ask Mistress le Gros.” Father Laurentius turned to her. He bent close to her. “Well?” he asked.
Cristina looked up at the priest and Durand held his breath. What would she say? “I did not tell my husband that Lord Durand gave me the book, as I thought Simon might see something in it beyond kindness. I did not wish to raise his anger. I merely said Lord Durand had given the Aelfric to me to clean.”
“Did anyone witness this exchange, my child?”
She shook her head. The priest repeated Cristina’s answer to the king, and for the first time Durand saw color on her cheeks.
“We see,” the king said. The queen distracted him for a moment by leaning and whispering in his ear. “We would speak with Penne Martine,” he said to the priest.
Penne approached with a slightly bewildered expression. Durand, too, had no idea why the king wished to speak with him.
“Martine, it is our understanding that you frequent the counting room.” The king rose and stood before Penne, his hand outstretched.
Penne bowed over the king’s extended hand. “Sire, I am often in the counting room with Luke and others.”
“Did you see this woman there, and most particularly alone, at any time near to, or before, the theft was noticed?” The king swept out his hand to where Cristina sat.
There was but a moment of hesitation before Penne spoke. “Aye. I did see her one night alone in the counting room.”
“When? And what was she doing there?” the king asked.
Who had supplied the king—nay the queen—with such information? Durand flicked his glance quickly across the assembled crowd. There were no clues in any faces that he could read.
Penne licked his lips. “I am not sure when…a stormy night, I believe. She was doing nothing untoward, sire. She was placing a bottle of sorts upon the table.”
“Could she have opened the coffer in which the Aelfric lay before you arrived? Did she remain after you?” The king did not wait for Penne to answer. He forged on with a question to Laurentius. “What was in the bottle, Father?”
When asked the question, Cristina glanced toward Luke. What had Cristina made for Luke? Durand wondered.
“Father,” Cristina said, “I am loath to break a confidence.”
“You must,” the priest said. “Why die for some simple you made?”
Cristina’s face paled and she visibly swallowed. “I made a love potion.”
Mon Dieu, Durand thought as the hall erupted in discord.
The king threw back his head and laughed. “We cannot believe the Lord of Skirts needs a love potion!” The king slapped the arms of his chair.
Luke merely shrugged and looked steadily at the king.
“‘Twas not a usual love potion, sire,” Luke said when the hall quieted. “I merely wished that an hour or so of lovemaking might last for three…or four.”
Silence fell. Durand gave his brother a silent salute. Trust Luke to fall into something and arise smelling like a rose.
“We are indeed envious. And shall soon be purchasing the same for ourselves,” the king said. The many courtiers of his court were laughing along with the king. Robert Godshall whispered something to Sabina, which turned her smile into a frown.
The queen tapped her husband’s arm and made a soft comment. The king burst into renewed laughter. “Our most esteemed queen informs me that Luke wears well the appellation of Lord of Skirts, and wishes to know if the potion was effective.”
Luke bowed to the queen. “Aye, sire, it was most effective.”
Durand thought that Cristina would never starve if she survived this. She would be making love potions for the next score of years for every man present.
Father Laurentius cleared his throat. “Is there not sufficient doubt, sire, that this woman must be freed?”
“Not withstanding our amusement, we have not lost sight of our purpose.” The king turned to Durand. “We can see that many had access to the Aelfric. Furthermore, this woman was seen alone in the chamber despite her very worthy need to be there. Could she not have delivered the potion to Sir Luke at any time? Aye, she could have. Yet she chose a quiet moment when no other was in the chamber. ‘Tis a telling circumstance.”
Durand quickly interjected, “Aye, sire. And I have seen other women alone there, too.” A woman caught his eye. “Lady Sabina, for one.”
Cristina felt hope rise within her. If Lord Durand could marshal doubt, she might yet live. Then her spirits fell. A woman with a father the king called friend would not need to steal.
“Have you succumbed to the Lord of Skirts?” John leaned toward Sabina.
She smiled. “All woman have lost their hearts to him, sire, but not all of us have lost our virtue to him.”
“Indeed.” The king swept his gaze across the hall and let it come to rest on Cristina. “Rise, mistress.”
She did so with difficulty, for she wanted only to melt into the floor. She dropped into a deep curtsy.
“We have a simple solution that will greatly amuse us all,” the king said. “We shall allow God to determine guilt and innocence.”
“Sire.” Durand said sharply. “It would be in the best of interests in some cases, but Mistress le Gros has duties that she must perform, guilty or innocent. She cannot nurse the infant Felice if she is dead!”
His assumption of her death was an assumption of her innocence. She sent him a silent thanks for his heated support.
“Ah,” the king said. “The babe. We have not forgotten the babe, as she most severely tested our ears and taxed our patience last eventide. Our most blessed queen agrees that the child needs her nurse, though we have our doubts as to having a thief nurture such an innocent babe.”
Cristina folded her hands in prayerful and silent plea that God might deliver her from this place and these people.
“There are other tests. We most enjoy the spectacle of single combat, do we not?” the king asked his queen.
The crowd in the hall erupted in a babble of voices. Cristina looked from the king to Durand. What did the king mean? She was to fight for her life? How?
But the king spoke to Father Laurentius, and with the cacophony of sound around her, Cristina heard nothing of what he said. When Father Laurentius nodded, Cristina knew her fate was somehow sealed.
Eventually the noise of the hall settled to whispered murmurs. From the many courtiers, a tall, broad man stepped forward. He looked both old and young—young in the fluid way he moved and old in a cynical cast to his features.
The king rose. “Come, mistress.”
She stood at Father Laurentius’ side.
“Have you a champion who will fight for you in single combat?” the king asked.
A hush fell over the hall. Not a man or woman moved. So herein lay her fate. “I have not, sire. My husband is dead and my father old in years. My brothers are merchants, not soldiers.”
“Then we have no recourse—”
“I will champion Mistress le Gros.” Lord Durand rose abruptly to his feet. He walked around the long table and stood before the king. He knelt. “I will champion her,” he repeated.
Lady Oriel took a step forward, but was restrained by Penne. Cristina tugged on Father Laurentius’ robe. “Please, Father, you cannot allow this.”
“Be still,” the priest said to her in a hiss.
“Nay, sire, I shall champion her.”
All eyes swiveled to where Luke stood. He strode to his brother’s side. “It should be me, sire. I have somehow brought this wretched coil to pass.”
&n
bsp; “This is an amusing turn of events,” the king said. “It seems our merchant’s wife has no lack of fine champions.”
Cristina wanted to scream. The brute who stood by the king was huge, his face scarred. She pulled on the priest’s arm.
He rounded on her. “You will say nothing, do you hear? You will be still!”
She recoiled a few steps from his anger. He must have realized he had overstepped, as he patted her arm and muttered, “All is as it should be.”
Durand wanted to draw his sword and smite Luke on the head. How dare he muddy the waters! “Sire,” he began. “I beg to be allowed to engage your champion—”
“Nay, sire,” Luke said. “Select me.”
The king crossed his arms over his chest. “We shall set the time of combat for one hour after Vespers. Until then, settle between yourselves who will be Mistress le Gros’ champion, for we care naught who walks upon the field. Arrive shriven.”
With that pronouncement, the king raised his hand. Cristina’s guard gripped her arm and hauled her away.
Durand could barely control his anger. He sat through two more judgments on petty matters before he could be released to search out Luke. He found him in his counting room. Lady Nona sat at his side, and Felice was cradled in his arms. They were studying a rolled parchment Luke had stretched across the table. Even the babe looked intently at the parchment, her hand fisted, all her fingers in her mouth, sucking avidly.
“Luke, I have need to speak to you.”
Lady Nona rose. “Pray excuse me, my lord.”
“Return the child to Mistress le Gros, Lady Nona, if you will,” Durand said. He would not explain why.
When the woman was gone, Luke spoke. “Are you here to ask me if three hours is really how long I can keep my cock at attention?”
The jest did nothing to lighten Durand’s mood. “You will not champion Cristina.”
Luke slowly rolled the parchment and bound it with a leather thong. “Why not?”
Because I used the book to tempt her. Because I— He settled for saying a half-truth. “If I had not given Cristina the book to clean, Simon would not have seen it—”
