by Ann Lawrence
“What utter rot!” Luke slapped a hand to the table. “This is not about giving Cristina a book. This is about spending last night in her chamber. You’re being led by your cock, not your head.”
“Where I spend the night is of no concern to you,” Durand said stiffly.
Luke did not answer immediately. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke his voice was calm once again.
“Where you spend your nights is of concern to Lady Nona. Have you forgotten she is here to wed you?”
Durand bit off the retort he had planned. He had forgotten Lady Nona, had hardly registered her presence with Luke, save as someone who could take the child away. “I’ve not signed any contracts with Lady Nona.”
“She’ll not have you if you so patently champion Cristina!” Luke pointed a finger at him. “I’ve no prospective bride to impress, no children to mourn me if I misstep with that barbarian John drags about the kingdom.”
“You will not win.”
Luke’s face hardened into angry lines. “I will. I’m the best there is at Ravenswood.”
“Save me.”
Luke rose. He stood almost as tall. He was younger, mayhap quicker in reflexes. But he did not wish to win as urgently as Durand did. He was not quite as canny.
“Let me repeat,” Luke said, “you are doing this for the wrong reasons, and it will kill you. Cristina is naught but another set of large breasts and cushioned thighs—”
“You dare counsel me?” Anger roared through him. Luke might have lain in Marion’s bed, fathered Felice. It should be Luke whom Durand challenged after Vespers.
“Someone must!” They were nose-to-nose when the door opened and Penne entered, taking in the situation at a glance. He thrust himself between them, holding them apart with outstretched hands.
“I thought this is what I would find,” Penne shouted over them. “Settle. Now.” He shoved Luke toward the hearth and glared at Durand. “This is folly. If the whole castle does not think you both share Cristina’s bed, I don’t know what they think. Will she thank either of you for shredding her reputation? Oriel just came to me to say that Lady Nona found a man at her door when she delivered Felice.”
Luke tugged his tunic straight. “He probably just wants the love potion.”
“That may be so,” Penne said, “but he might also see her as easy game now you two have offered to die for her! And die you will. Gregory Tillet is undefeated!”
“It does not change anything,” Durand said. “I’ll meet him and defeat him.”
“Are you sure you are not drained of strength from a night of mattress combat?” Luke drawled.
“Cease this.” Penne shot a hand out to stay Durand from tearing off Luke’s head. “I’m loath to advise you two. I love you both, but I’m sorry, Luke: Durand is the better fighter. Gregory is treacherous, but Durand is ruthless. Step aside.”
Luke shook his head and turned to Durand. “Adrian and Robert need you.”
Durand felt a pang of conscience at Luke’s utterly sincere manner. He let his body relax. He blew out a long breath. “I’m as likely to die in Normandy, Luke. Let it be. I’ll champion Cristina, and you’ll champion Adrian and Robert if I fall.”
“And Felice,” Luke and Penne said at the same time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Durand saw only Cristina in his mind’s eye as he readied himself for combat. He hoped God would forgive his distraction as he and Tillet knelt in the chapel to be shriven of their sins.
Joseph was helping Durand shrug into his hauberk when Gilles d’Argent entered the armory.
“Joseph,” Gilles d’Argent said, “see to the grounds. Walk them and note any spots treacherous to the unwary foot.”
“Aye, my lord.” Joseph ran from the long stone building without a backward glance.
“I know my own field,” Durand snapped.
Gilles took up a sword and inspected the blade. He shook his head and handed it off to the armorer. “Fetch mine from my son Nicholas, will you? He’s in the hall.”
Durand found himself alone with his friend. Gilles propped his hip on a table and crossed his arms over his chest. Durand waited for him to speak.
“You are determined to this folly?” Gilles asked.
“You think this folly? Do I look the fool?” Anger coursed through Durand.
But Gilles held up a staying hand. “Save your wrath for the field, where it will serve a better purpose. I’m merely here at your brother’s behest.”
“Luke!” Durand took up the padded cap that would protect his head beneath the mail and helm. He turned it round and round in his hand. “He does not have my skills.”
“Agreed, but he has no sons to mourn him either.” Gilles plucked Durand’s gauntlets from the table. “It only makes sense to send the man with nothing to lose into the field. I agree that you’re the better fighter, but that does not mean Luke is not able enough to see it through. I agree with Luke that you have too many responsibilities to throw your life away so easily; let him take the challenge.”
Durand held out his hand for his gauntlets. “I cannot, my friend. I carelessly gave Cristina a book that ruined her life, so I must offer her the best chance I can to recover it.” He knew he was not making sense, but could not explain himself any better.
He would never tell this man the reasons he had given the book, nor that his trust in Luke was blighted by suspicion.
If one had no trust, one could depend only on one’s self.
“I cannot abandon Cristina to John’s caprice, Gilles. And you know him well enough to know that he ordered that water test for spite. ‘Tis an antiquated piece of business, as well as one only the most blindly religious fanatic believes in anymore. We know some hidden plan’s at work here.”
“Think you John sees Luke as more malleable to his purposes? More willing to comply with his wishes?” Gilles acted the squire and helped Durand don a gray surcoat bearing a raven in flight on the breast.
“I know it in my bones, but it changes nothing of what I will do here. Most assuredly, the merchant died for his sins, but this continued pursuit of Cristina smacks of something else. In the past I have seen John dismiss such questionable business on my advice alone. Why now did he pursue this so?”
And, in truth, Durand thought, I owe Cristina and nothing will change that.
The armorer returned with Gilles’ sword. A powerful emotion swept over Durand when the older man took his sword and held it out. “Then have as many advantages as possible,” Gilles said.
Durand took the sword. It was the finest of Toledo steel, far finer than any sword Durand had ever held in his hand. He weighed its balance with a few test swipes of the air. His own sword, so summarily dismissed by d’Argent, was well balanced, but this one felt as if were an extension of his arm.
Any advantage was a blessing.
“I must thank you, Gilles,” Durand said, sheathing the fine sword. He bowed to his friend. “I’ll not fail.”
Gilles and he clasped hands.
“Use the blade well, my friend, but remember: fight with a mind to treachery. Expect it and you’ll not be caught unawares.”
“Treachery?” Luke walked into the armory, Joseph behind him. Luke was fully garbed for battle, helm under his arm. “Who speaks of treachery?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Durand said in a snarl.
“Saving you from this madness.”
Durand thrust his helm into Gilles’ arms and drew his sword. Luke dropped his helm and did the same.
“My lord!” cried Joseph.
Gilles stayed the man from dashing forth. “Let them decide it for themselves.”
Luke hefted his sword. “Aye. Let us have this out. There is more to this than a simple need to champion your mistress.”
“Sire,” Durand said with a glance over Luke’s shoulder. Luke turned slightly. In moments Durand had knocked his sword from his hand and put him on his back. “You just fell for the simplest of tricks. I’ve prove
d my point. You’ll not fight this day, do you hear?”
* * * * *
The rain had begun two hours before vespers. The recent heavy horse traffic in the inner bailey had turned it to a quagmire. But men worked to erect pavilions for the spectators as if it were a sunny day and the coming event a fair.
Unable to sit and wait the dreaded moment of combat, Cristina had Alice bring her a few herbs and oils from Felice’s chamber.
When Oriel came to fetch her, Cristina felt her heart beat out of rhythm.
“What are you doing?” Oriel asked, coming to the mat where Cristina knelt.
With a final stir of the herbs and oils she was blending, Cristina rose. “I’m making a salve for any wounds Lord Durand might sustain. ‘Tis dill and century—secured by Alice without Aldwin’s knowledge, I imagine—as well as my own bay and almond oil to soothe.”
Oriel touched her shoulder. “Could not Aldwin see to it?”
Cristina paused. How to say what she thought of Aldwin without stepping beyond her bounds? “I’m sure Aldwin has his own methods, my lady, but this salve was taught me by my mother, and he may not know it.”
The purse of Oriel’s lips and her quick nod told Cristina the lady understood. In fact, Cristina had said extra prayers over the salve to obviate the fact that the herbs had spent such a long time in Aldwin’s hands.
Oriel handed Cristina a heavy mantle. It was a fine green wool lined with fur and suited to protection from a winter storm—or standing in the rain watching men do battle.
“My lady, I cannot take this.”
“Nonsense. I have several more.” Oriel wrapped a shawl about Cristina’s head and lifted the hood of the mantle. “If you catch a chill, you’ll not be able to see to my needs. My tassel came undone again.”
It was said with a smile, and Cristina knew it would hurt the lady’s feelings if she did not accept the mantle. “I thank you,” she said softly. “You’ve not shunned me as others in your position might.”
“I have so much to thank you for. And ‘twas a potion for Penne that you placed in Luke’s counting room that night, as I am sure you must suspect. We decided we should not hide behind ‘friends’ any longer. Penne didn’t know how to request such a thing for himself. So, my sweet Cristina, we would not want you harmed for aiding us.”
“My lady,” Cristina said. “I would ask you if…if—”
A horn sounded outside. Oriel ran to the window and peered out. “Come, say what needs saying. ‘Tis time.”
“When this night is done…” She swallowed. Her mouth was as dry as the Jerusalem desert. “I fear I must leave this place, and hope you’ll express my apology to any who might…that is—”
She lost her nerve to ask whether Lady Nona held some antipathy for her. Alice, when she had brought Felice to nurse, had said that gossip of Lord Durand’s sojourn in this chamber the previous night had reached that lady’s ears.
Alice had spewed a stream of invective at her for succumbing to the same male lust that had killed her lady. Only Cristina’s complete silence had finally stopped Alice’s tirade. That Alice had wept throughout did naught to still Cristina’s apprehensions regarding her status in the castle once this night ended. The trial had tainted her as Luke’s possible mistress and now Durand’s presence in her chamber had cast her as his.
She would not be ashamed of her time with Durand. It was an affirmation of life. Nothing else.
Where would she stand at midnight if he triumphed? And he would triumph. Anything else was unthinkable. Her mind shied from thoughts of bloody or festering wounds.
“You’ll remain right here at Ravenswood,” Oriel said, dismissing Cristina’s words with a toss of the head. “This is your home now.”
Hope filled her. But then a glimpse of the dark ribbon of the road to the west reminded Cristina the lady was wrong.
Could she go without crumbling? She might acknowledge only that she dreaded the loss of Felice. That alone must account for her tears when she left.
Where would she go? Her father would be ashamed to have her, though accept her he might.
After a final look into the bailey she was ready. “The king will halt this fight before either man is dead, will he not?” she asked. “Alice said ‘twas so.”
“Oh, aye. John cannot afford to lose such a man as Durand. ‘Tis wounds I fear more. More good men have died of them than lived,” Oriel said.
Cristina felt a shiver of fear.
Two guards waited at the door to escort her to the bailey. They took her to the largest pavilion, set up in the bailey for the king and his party. She was not to be sheltered there, merely must curtsy to the king and queen and thank them for this opportunity to prove her innocence, Father Laurentius informed her in a quick whisper.
Immediately after she made her obeisance, two of the king’s men escorted her to one end of the sparring ground and then took up a post, one on either side of her. All could gaze upon her and speculate on Durand and Luke’s championing of her—and her part in the theft of the Aelfric. Heat filled her, her heart raced, but she looked only at the field and ignored the twist of her insides.
Many men, honing their skills for Normandy, had trampled the green sward to a sticky bog. How could a man maintain his footing in such a place? Real fear at memories of the brigands’ attack and the fearful wounds inflicted filled her.
Another horn sounded. The sky was an angry swirl of low clouds as day fled to night’s embrace. Smoking torches beneath the pavilions lighted the area with eerie shadows.
Lord Durand and the king’s champion stepped onto the field. She saw only him, magnificent in his armor, every inch the warrior lord of the immense castle that threw its shadow across the muddy field.
Father Laurentius touched her shoulder. “‘Tis best you know ‘twill be a fight to the death unless the king calls a halt, though there’s little hope of that.”
“Nay,” she cried, and grasped the man’s hands. “I thought ‘twas until one man surrendered.”
“Surrendered? My child, how very innocent you are,” the priest said. “Men such as these never surrender.”
She frantically turned to where the two men stood. “You must stop this,” she begged.
“Too late,” Laurentius said. “Be at peace. God’s will shall triumph.”
A powerful trembling began in her legs. She moaned, and one of the guards gave her a sharp look.
Durand’s surcoat over his mail was gray and stitched with a raven on the breast. Gregory Tillet wore the king’s colors. Somehow the scarlet surcoat reminded her only of blood.
Luke strode out to the combatants and handed his brother a shield emblazoned with the raven striking a serpent. The brothers bowed to one another.
The instant the two men took up their swords, Cristina reached for the priest’s hand, but he was gone—gone to the pavilion to sit beside the queen.
Cristina stood alone between the guards.
All had deserted her save the man who stood in the muddy field. He championed her and might die. She toyed with the idea of going to the king and confessing that she had stolen the Aelfric, that this horrible nightmare might end.
But to do so would dishonor Lord Durand’s gesture.
The two warriors faced the king.
King John raised his hand. “May God’s will decide this matter.”
The two men bowed and then stepped to the center of the field. The crowd began to shout, their words snatched by the wind and slashing rain.
The king dropped his hand.
The men joined in a crack of shields and swords.
They separated, circled, joined, separated again.
Gregory Tillet yelled, then lifted his sword and brought it down in a smashing blow to Durand’s raised shield.
Durand twisted away. His answering blow was swiftly parried.
“God save him,” Cristina murmured. She clasped her hands tightly together.
* * * * *
Durand felt Gregory’s nex
t blow to his shoulder. It stunned his hand and arm. He raised his blade and met the next, taking it on his sword. Metal slid on metal until they were joined at the crossguards.
“Ye’ll have no more whores when I have done with ye,” Tillet said in a snarl, jerking away and bringing up his shield.
“Or you,” Durand snapped back. Sweat broke on his skin.
The thick mud sucked at their feet. Every motion seemed deceptively slow and languid.
As he raised his sword, Gregory slipped to one knee. But still he managed to evade the blow Durand directed to his exposed neck, and rose again.
They moved and struck, one after the other, alternating blows. The rain fell. It ran into their eyes and turned the mud icy slick.
Again and again they stumbled or fell. Their limbs grew weighty with mud.
All Durand saw was a blur of grays and browns, with flashes of color. Smoke drifted through the field from dozens of damp torches.
Tillet’s sword rose again and again. Quick, glancing blows landed on Durand’s legs, which were protected by his heavy mail chausses. His shoulders ached from raising the shield over and over to parry the heavy blade of his adversary.
They alternated supremacy, first one, then the other.
But Durand had not known true combat for several years. He fell back, no longer on the attack, half-blinded by splattered mud.
Tillet pursued him. One small step at a time, Tillet routed him toward the pavilion. He’d be cornered there.
Durand took a deep breath, his lungs on fire. He felt firmer ground under his feet.
He launched himself forward, smashed his shield into Tillet’s, but lost his hold on his sword at the same time. It spun away, tantalizingly out of reach.
Tillet rocked on his feet.
It gained Durand a precious moment that allowed him to slip sideways and whirl away from Tillet’s sword and the pavilion. Unfortunately it also placed him even farther from his sword.
“Are you ready to give up?” Tillet taunted, stalking toward him with measured steps.
Durand drew the dagger from his belt in answer.
He sidestepped, but many more blows of the kind would take his strength. He fell back again.
