by Ann Lawrence
Tillet glanced toward the crowd, and Durand leaped close and thrust his dagger past the lowered shield. But Tillet anticipated and took the arm-severing cut on the edge of his blade instead.
For the next few moments Tillet hammered Durand with hard blows. Durand’s shield arm grew numb. A particularly heavy blow tore the shield from his hand, taking the gauntlet with it.
Tillet grinned, his teeth showing white in the small gap twixt mail and helm.
Durand dropped low, snatched a handful of mud, and cast it into his taunting face. With a bellow of anger, Tillet raced at Durand. He fell to one knee and dropped his shoulder. In moments Tillet was sailing over Durand’s body to fall like a turtle on his back. His shield flew several feet away.
Durand leapt up and whirled around. But Tillet rolled and recovered, rising quickly and leaping at Durand with a blood-curdling war yell.
Gilles’ dagger met the blade of the king’s champion. They locked on each other’s blades, nearly hand against hand.
Durand gripped Tillet’s arm, but the mud-slick mail gave him no purchase.
With a muttered curse Durand dropped back, surprising Tillet and throwing him forward. He fell on his side in a wash of mud.
Durand stepped on Tillet’s sword.
He grabbed Durand’s ankle. They grappled for a moment until Tillet triumphed and tossed Durand onto his back.
The mud sucked at his body, but he floundered to his feet. They stood facing each other, the distance of Tillet’s sword blade apart. But there was something wrong with Tillet’s hand. It shook with a tremor that told Durand it was gravely injured. Durand kicked the sword from Tillet’s hand.
Tillet threw himself on Durand, bearing him to the ground, one knee near his groin. The explosion of pain tore his breath from his chest.
He planted his hands on Tillet’s chest and heaved, but to no avail. From all sides men and women shouted. He felt as if he were smothering in pain and mud.
With his last burst of strength, he threw the man off and snatched his dagger from his boot.
How paltry it looked compared to the doubled-headed ax now lying close by Gregory’s feet.
Where had the weapon come from?
Tillet went for the ax. He whirled it on high.
A woman screamed—a long, shrieking cry of agony.
Tillet glanced toward it.
Durand did not. He charged in and embraced the man, thrusting his long, thin dagger deep into Tillet’s exposed armpit.
He made not a sound as he crumpled. Durand rode the blade and the body to the ground. Warm blood ran over his hand. Tillet stared at him. He moaned. The ax fell from his outstretched hand, red blood mingling with the blue enamel that graced the handle.
Durand staggered to his feet. The crowd whirled a moment. Black spots filled his vision and a roar filled his ears. He swallowed and forced himself to be still until his vision cleared.
The roar continued and he realized ‘twas the crowd—cheering. Luke slogged across the field to him and gripped his arm. “Come. Walk, brother, that no one may see any weakness.”
Durand did as bid, allowing Luke to take some of his weight. He insisted on detouring and picking up Gilles’ sword. He sheathed it with a quick thrust, then allowed Luke to lead him before the king.
“It seems God has decided Mistress le Gros’ fate,” King John said with a hint of anger.
Aye, Durand thought. He rewarded the treacherous man with death—and the sweetly innocent with life.
The crowd surged from the pavilions to the keep. Durand’s men surrounded him, and within their protective phalanx, he was borne to the armory. There Joseph and William stripped him of his muddy garments and doused him in buckets of cold water. Every muscle in his body ached.
Gilles and Luke watched as his squire rubbed him down with a length of linen, then forced him to eat several thick slabs of bread and honey. The food restored some of his strength.
“Someone threw Tillet that ax,” Luke said. “If Cristina had not screamed, Tillet would not have looked away. A fool’s mistake.”
Durand’s body was ice cold. He thought he might collapse, but hoped he could remain on his feet until he thanked Cristina.
“I owe Cristina my life, it seems,” Durand managed. He could barely make his lips move.
Gilles shrugged. “Or you owe God. I wish I had seen who tossed the ax, but I was intent on the battle, and when I went later to fetch it, ‘twas gone.”
“I’ll not rest until I get the man for you,” Luke said. “Come, Durand,” he said. “You’ll be expected in the hall.”
“Cristina,” Durand said. “Where is she?”
“I saw the guards hustling her into the keep, so she’s already there,” Joseph said, and helped Durand to pull on a linen shirt that felt amazingly warm on his skin. In moments he was garbed appropriately, and with more will than bodily strength allowed his friends and brother to lead him to the hall.
Cristina was not there. He forced himself to walk to the king. “Has Mistress le Gros been released, sire?”
“Oh, aye. Mayhap you would like to accept her thanks? We are sure she will be suitably grateful for the service you have rendered her this day.”
Durand bowed. Every muscle in his body screamed as he walked slowly down the center of the hall to the steps leading to the west tower and her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
No guard stood before the door to the book chamber, and the latch lifted without benefit of key. A brace of wax candles lighted the chamber with a warm glow. It was redolent with heady scents. Cristina stood by the window, the shutters open despite the rain outside. When he closed the door she ran to him and threw herself against his chest.
“Oh, my lord. God bless you.”
He grunted and gripped her shoulders. Gently he set her aside. “You’ll finish what Tillet began,” he said, and laughed at the stricken look on her face.
“You’re in pain.” She took his hand and inspected it. “Come. I’ve prepared a salve for your wounds.”
“In a moment; first I must thank you. ‘Twas your cry that distracted Tillet. It was his undoing.”
“My fear got the better of me.” She squeezed his hand.
“And saved my life.” He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers.
He had meant only to thank her and see that she was truly released. He had meant to do no more than stand at the door and tell her he was glad all was now as it should be.
Instead he followed her across the chamber to the hearth, his hand in hers. “What is this you’re cooking?” he asked to avoid all other topics that lay between them—the trial, the king’s caprice, his own desire for her.
“The salve. ‘Tis best if warm.”
Durand used a horn spoon to stir a small pot wrapped in warm cloth. Bringing the spoon to his nose, he drew in a deep breath. “This smells wonderful…almost mesmerizing.”
She took the bowl from him. “If you will allow me, my lord,” she began. “I would tend your wounds.” Her eyes were downcast, and he remembered the time she had tended his hand, and the intense arousal he’d felt from her mere touch.
Silence stood between them. The air was filled with more than the seductive scents of her salve. It crackled with heated tension.
“Have you a need to see to the child?” he asked, glancing about.
“She was brought to me ere you arrived.”
“Why is she not here then?”
Her face was suddenly blank of expression. “The queen requested that Alice take her away. If Felice grows hungry, Alice will bring her here.”
Durand put a hand on her shoulder. “On the morrow I’ll see that everything is returned to how it was. But for now…I have not the strength.”
Cristina covered his hand. All would never be the same. But for now he was barely standing upright. He had defeated death and now deserved peace.
“Come,” she whispered, and led him by the hand to her pallet. She pulled back the furs and removed
the stones that were warming its surface, then sat back on her heels.
He looked down at the comforting bedding and, without any thought save the succor it offered, he drew off his mantle, then his tunic and shirt. She helped him with the rest. Finally he lay down on the warmed bedding.
He closed his eyes, stretched his arms over his head, and groaned at the pull of his strained muscles.
Cristina had never seen a man so wonderfully made. The chilly air tightened his nipples, and she felt her own tighten, not from the cold but from arousal. She pulled the shutters closed and picked up the bowl of salve. It lay warm and heavy in her hands as she bore it to the pallet.
As she drew near, she saw angry red welts on his legs, though his chausses had protected him from more.
“Oh, my lord,” she said softly. She set the bowl on the floor and touched his calf where the imprint of the links of mail stood out clearly against his flesh.
“They will be but bruises on the morrow,” he said.
But she shook her head, denying his words.
The salve was wonderfully warm when she drew it along his leg. Every muscle in his body tensed. He shivered in anticipation. She noticed and sat back. Wiping her fingers on a strip of linen, she picked up one of the furs from the pallet and made to drape it across his body.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse, and she laid it aside. He met her eyes, and then her gaze swept down his body to his leg. “Your glance is like a hand on my skin.”
With the grace of a forest sprite, she perched on her heels and tipped her head. “Would that I could heal this with a look.”
She spread her palm on his bruised leg, and a shudder ran from there to his spine. “Cristina,” he whispered.
With a hand so gentle not even his flights of fancy would conjure greater joy, she smoothed the salve across his skin.
This was what he had envisioned, her warm hands ministering to his body as she had once cared for his hands. His fingers curled into fists at the thought. He closed his eyes. Every muscle in his upper body hurt from swinging the sword and lifting the heavy shield. His testicles still ached from Tillet’s knee. Yet he craved her touch—everywhere.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” she whispered.
He did not answer. He was incapable of words.
She massaged his feet, his calves, and in long sweeps of her hands, his thighs. His body responded despite the twinges of sensation in his groin.
Every now and then, her hair grazed his skin as she moved by inches up his body. He opened his eyes when she shifted her attentions to his arms.
“How will I ever thank you?” she said by his ear, so softly he almost thought he had dreamed the whisper of a forest sprite.
The silk of her hair brushed over his chest. It was both a delight and an agony.
“Your cry evened the score,” he managed. “Think no longer on it.”
He looped his arms about her neck and drew her down to his mouth. Her tongue and lips were fever warm. He entangled his fist in her hair and held her close, but she ducked and evaded his embrace.
She dipped her fingers into the salve, and he put his arms over his head again to allow her to smooth it on his skin. He would be black and blue in a few hours without it.
This time she took even longer to spread the cream on his skin. She traced the shape of the muscles of his biceps and traveled gently along the veins that roped his forearms.
“You’re so strong,” she said. Her fingers touched his torque. “And this your symbol of power.”
“I’m weak where you’re concerned,” he returned. In fact, his body ached for release despite his weakness. Each touch, each sweep of her hands on him drew him ever closer to the precipice of his need.
She spread her hands on the insides of his upper arms and drew her fingers down the tender flesh to his shoulders. The massage there drew a gasp from him, yet he did not want her to stop. From his shoulders she ran her hands to his chest. She bent her head and touched her tongue to each of his nipples, her hair floating across his groin.
“I want you so much,” he said, thrusting his fingers into her hair. “Just once…It is…a promise I cannot keep.”
Her answer was silent and sent shivers of molten sensations rolling through him. As he had done to her the previous night, she kissed him from his chest to his belly. As he had, she continued, laving him with slow and tender licks and kisses. Her breath heated his manhood, and he drew up his knees in reflex to what would come next—her mouth on him.
“Sweet Cristina,” he said in a gasp when she gently touched him with her salve-slick fingertips. Each small movement of her fingers, each touch of her tongue on him, each caress of her breath tugged him closer and closer to the precipice.
Just when he could bear no more, she drew away and stood up. She removed her russet gown and shift, folding them neatly, and he fed his arousal with the sight of her as she moved.
She knelt at his side, blessedly naked. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said.
“I cannot imagine any pain more powerful than the pleasure you have wrought with your hands and lips,” he said, and reached for her.
His arms were warm and slick with the salve as he drew her astride him. The candles guttered and one went out. The shadows intensified and lent the hard lines of his face a gentler aspect.
The heat of his body made the scent of her salve more pungent. Dill was considered an aphrodisiac, and she feared for a moment that it was that which caused the heat within her and the hardness pressing between her thighs.
Nay, she thought, I’ll not allow it to be the salve that kindles this flame in him. If I’m to have no other night save this, no other to remember when I’m old and alone, I’ll not allow it to be one tainted by magic or medicine.
She licked along the line of his lower lip. He captured her mouth for a kiss whilst his hands ran down her spine to cup her buttocks. She arched away from him that his mouth might come against her breast.
He kneaded her against his arousal as he kissed her breasts. Each touch of his tongue raised such a heat within her, she thought she might cry out at the pure pleasure of it.
This was not the salve. This was something between them that had existed from the instant they had met. It entwined them more strongly than any vine entwined an ancient tree.
It would wither in the sunlight.
When their lips met again he moaned, for as they joined their mouths, they joined their bodies. They moved in concert, his body buried so deeply within her she felt him to her heart. He linked his fingers with hers and stretched their arms overhead, drawing her down on him, kissing her hard, arching his hips to bring himself even more deeply within her.
He tasted of honey and heat.
She could no longer tolerate the ache between her thighs. He gasped when she shifted on him and bore down. With great waves of rapture, she lost all reason, and pressed her face to his throat. The hard metal of his torque showered her ecstasy with a chill.
Durand felt the clench of her body on his and continued to arch beneath her. He sought and yet tried to stay the madness so close upon him. Her breasts filled his hands to overflowing as she abruptly rose up on him, the action settling her so firmly on him, his body so deeply within her, he bucked off the pallet in a final, exquisite release.
He lay panting on his back for several moments just watching the sweet rise and fall of her breasts. Then he drew her down to hold her as close as he could, to know each breath she drew. Her hair tangled on his fingers as he stroked his hands through it again and again. Desire cascaded from his groin with each tiny shift of her body.
“I’ll see to the care of any child you might bear,” he said.
Her body tensed, but she said nothing.
“I’ll see you settled in comfort should such be the result of our time together. You and your babe will never want for anything. I’ll see it written that should I die in Normandy the result will be the same.”
She withdrew. Cold ai
r swept over his sweat-slicked body as she stood up. Her hair swayed across her buttocks as she went to the hearth.
He groaned as he sat up. Had he erred in speaking so boldly? “I have bruises on my bruises,” he said.
Her hair cloaked her when she knelt to build up the flames.
“Have you nothing to say?” he asked.
She shook her head. It was an effort, but he stood up and went to her. “Allow me to do that,” he said.
“I can build a fire, my lord. Any servant can.”
He placed a gentle hand on her chin and lifted her face. “You’re not my servant. Did I think you one, I would not offer to do the task.”
Her dark eyes were warm amber with reflected firelight. Golden streaks filled her hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he said.
“If I’m not your servant, what am I?”
Her breasts were ivory, tipped with dusky brown. He cupped their fullness in his palms. “You are intoxicating, like fine wine.” He touched his lips to hers. “You are healing, your kiss inspiring.” They knelt knee-to-knee before the hearth, heated on one side, cold on the other.
She stretched out on the wooden floor, atop a mattress of naught but rushes, and took him in. Arms about his neck, she ignored the cold press of his torque against her cheek and thought only that he had not really answered her.
* * * * *
When the castle stirred to life, and sentries called out one to another as they changed from night watch to day, Cristina left Durand deeply asleep.
She sought Alice and the babe, then looked about for Joseph. ‘Twas a difficult task with so many in the keep, and she did not want to draw attention to herself. She knew not her status.
She was free, of course, but that did not mean she was welcome anywhere in the keep. If one went by the icy looks from the maids in Felice’s chamber when her care of the babe disturbed their rest, she was no longer welcome there. They probably coveted the Lord of Skirts and resented her as a rival.
Against Alice’s advice, she had put Felice in a sling and taken her off to the privacy of a bench by the stable, away from prying eyes and the light drizzle.
