by Ann Lawrence
She finally found Joseph cleaning Durand’s mail outside the armory. “His lordship must have a soothing bath for his injuries, but I don’t know how to accomplish it.”
“I’ll see to a tub for him, Mistress. Should I have it sent to the west tower?”
So, everyone knew where Lord Durand was. Cristina looked up at the impregnable stone walls. “Aye. If ‘tis not a burden to carry so much water so high.”
Joseph gave a laugh. “You’ll find that after last night’s battle with that barbarian Tillet, my lord’s pages will carry stones to the roof for him without complaint.”
“He was magnificent, was he not?” she said.
“Aye, Mistress. But I’ve seen him fight before and knew what he was capable of. It did the young ones good to see him, though, as they think him over-learned.”
Cristina tiptoed back into the book chamber. Durand had rolled to his stomach and flung off the furs. Despite her ministrations, his welts were beginning the transformation to livid bruises. She moved quietly to where he lay.
In the clear light of day, she saw scars that underlay the bruised flesh on his arms and legs. He had two ropy ones on his thigh and a long patch of skin someone with little skill had stitched, low on his back, near his hip.
Aldwin should be whipped for such poor work. Then she realized Durand had been on Crusade. Mayhap this was work done on the battlefield. He was lucky to be alive. The wound was as likely to have killed him as the poor tending afterward. None of the marks detracted from the strong warrior beauty of his body.
An urge to join with him swept over her. She badly wanted to wake him, arouse him, taste him. But she did not.
She could not continue in this vein. His words about caring for any child they conceived together told her what she needed to know. They had but a few moments together and that was all.
She drew the furs over him—for her sake, not his.
* * * * *
The clamorous noise of the boys who delivered the tub, and the many buckets of water they brought to fill it, woke him. His head pounded. Cristina was gone. When the tub was filled, she reappeared, slipping silently around the door.
“Where did you hide?” he asked.
“On the wall walk,” she replied, setting Felice on her back next to him on the pallet.
He tickled the babe’s chin and watched her try to capture his finger in her fist. Her little brow knitted into a frown, making her appear to be a wizened old woman. The instant she succeeded in her quest, she tried to put his finger in her mouth.
Cristina went to the mat where several fragrant earthenware bowls sat. She selected one, lifted it to her nose, then went to the tub. He watched as she sprinkled its contents into the bath water.
“What are you doing?” He sat up and groaned, then forced himself upright. He crawled over Felice, then limped to the tub.
“Certain herbs aid healing and do best in warm water.”
“I’m sure Aldwin approves.”
She smiled, and it lit her face with a subtle beauty.
He sank into the hot water. Just as it had been each time he had bathed since she had come to Ravenscliff, the water felt like fine silk against his skin. The heady vapors filled his head with the fragrance of the forest.
“You conjure such pleasure with your touch,” he said. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“Nay, any woman who knows her herbs could do the same.”
She tugged her hand away and went to the child. He slid down in the warm water, but not so far he could not see Cristina as she sat, the child within the protective circle of her arms.
Cristina kissed Felice’s cheek and traced her tiny ear.
Aye, she thought. Any woman could make him a fine soap or fill his bath with fragrant and healing herbs. Most assuredly Lady Nona would next do these honors—as his wife.
“Cristina, come hither and help me.”
Urgency filled his voice. She hastily placed Felice on her back and hurried to him. “Is something amiss?” She reached out.
He snatched her hand, tugged, and with a shriek she landed in the tub. “Durand!” she cried when he locked his arm about her waist. “Felice will—”
“Will what?” he asked, then licked up her neck with a tongue so hot it almost burned her skin.
“She…she—” Cristina could not think clearly. Her skirts were heavy with water, and she could no more move from his wet embrace than a captured animal could move from a bog.
Felice whimpered a moment, but then settled, sucking vigorously on her fingers, and Cristina felt a giggle bubble up in her throat.
Durand leaned forward and pulled her legs into the tub. “Did you know this is John’s tub? Quite large, is it not? He travels with it everywhere.”
“The king’s tub?” she squealed and tried again to rise. His grip was hard as iron about her waist.
Durand laid his lips against her ear and said, “As he is not in it with us, you can set your fears to rest. In fact, according to Joseph, he sent the tub with his blessings.”
There was little Cristina could do but lay back in his arms.
“When was the last time you bathed in a tub?” he asked.
“When I labored to deliver my babe. Lady Marion saw to it.”
Durand pulled the wet hair draped over her shoulders to one side. He took her chin and turned her face to his. “I’m pleased Marion saw to your care. She could be generous.”
“Aye, she purchased much from Simon, calling him often to the castle. I think she wanted us to prosper.” She ducked her head. “How far we have fallen.”
“Think no longer of Marion or Simon. Think of the joy of life given you this day.” He placed a gentle kiss on her lips.
She shifted in his arms until she was kneeling between his thighs. Propping herself on his chest, she cupped his face and kissed him. Her sodden garments took many moments to remove, but finally she lay in his embrace, wondrously warm and wet.
They took turns soaping the cloth and rubbing it over each other. “Your breasts are—”
“Too large,” she finished, spreading her hands over her chest and frowning.
“Worthy of a troubadour’s song,” he continued. He soaped his hands and rubbed her skin in a leisurely exploration. “If I had some talent, I would compose a tribute to them.”
His teasing tone grew suddenly serious. She watched his eyes, silvery in the sunlight, darken. “‘Tis a madness, this need I have to touch you.” Beneath her hip, his manhood swelled. Without thought, she shifted on him.
She did as he had and soaped her hands, disdaining the cloth. When she placed her hands on his chest, he tipped his head back and rested it on the edge of the tub. She might never use a cloth for bathing again. The feel of his honed muscles beneath her hands, slicked with the soap, was almost as lovely as when she had rubbed the salve on him. He groaned.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked.
“It will hurt only if you stop,” he said with a grin.
She stroked the soap on his nipples with her thumbs, moving over and over them until he snatched her hands and hauled her into his embrace.
He shifted her and tried to pull her astride his hips. The tub was too narrow for what he intended, and they ended with tangled legs, laughing, water sloshing over the tub rim.
But laughter died when he touched her intimately between her thighs. She covered his hand. “You raise such an ache within me,” she said softly. Will I ever know such a touch again? she wondered only to herself.
He watched her from beneath his dark, straight brows, his gaze so intent she closed her eyes lest he see within her and know that she had lost her heart and soul to him.
She shivered and trembled. His arm about her waist held her still to his ministrations. Her control slipped. She whispered entreaties to him—entreaties for release—over and over until the heat burst through her.
Durand felt the heavy thudding of her heart against his chest and saw a flush rise on her breasts.
What was she to him? A lover? An ethereal spirit? A woman of courage? Everything a man could desire?
How could he keep her?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cristina felt the heat of embarrassment when Joseph brought his lord’s clothing. Although she was gowned when the squire arrived, she was sure he knew what they had been about by her wet braid and her blue wool, which a few hours ago had been russet linen.
When Durand ignored his clothing and walked slowly to the pallet, there to stretch out again, she forced herself to look away. She filled a dish with an oil infused with thyme and lit a wick in it. As the scent wafted about the chamber, Durand drifted to sleep.
She took the opportunity to slip from the chamber with Felice on her shoulder and head for the east tower, where she found Alice spinning. It was time to distance herself from Durand. In fact, a lewd question from one of the king’s guards as she crossed the hall told her that whether the people of the keep thought her Durand’s mistress or Luke’s, this man considered her fair game. Others would, too, if she lingered.
“I were just goin’ to ask ifn ye wish me to take the babe,” Alice said softly.
“Nay. She’s hungry again. ‘Tis baffling. One day she’s as regular as Father Odo’s devotions, and others, as capricious as—”
“Any fine lady,” Alice supplied, plying her spindle with dexterous fingers.
Cristina smiled and stretched on a pallet, Felice contentedly curled in the crook of her body. The posture reminded her of how Durand had looked with his daughter, her tiny body within the strength of his.
What was her place at Ravenswood now?
Was she a mistress? Nay. A few fevered moments did not make her one.
Could she talk openly to Durand about seeking a new home? Why had her tongue failed her last eventide when he had mentioned providing for her if she conceived?
What was her place?
She stroked Felice’s head and thought of a babe from a man such as Durand—it would be a gift. Then her throat closed. In nine years with Simon, she had failed to produce a living child. Why should it be any different with Lord Durand? It was but God’s will, and there was naught she could do to change it.
One thing was as clear as the freshest well water: She could not remain at Ravenswood and watch Durand seal his troth with Lady Nona—or see her brought to bed with his child.
Nona’s offer that she go to her manor in Bordeaux was tempting, whether ‘twas offered in kindness or from a desire to see her gone.
She hugged the child. It was as if she were losing another daughter. There was something hollow and empty within her.
At that moment a pounding fist sent Alice scurrying to open the door. One of the king’s men stood there. He walked through the chamber as if he were marching on a battlefield. The scents of rain and the sea came with him.
The old woman held out her arms for the child, but Cristina waved her off. The man stood over her. “You are summoned to the queen,” he said.
“Do you know why?” Cristina looked from Alice’s seamed face to the blank countenance of the man.
They both shrugged.
Cristina eased Felice from her breast. She tucked the babe into her sling and gestured for the man to lead on.
With a thumping heart, Cristina followed the man to Lord Durand’s chamber—now the royal apartment. The queen sat by the hearth, embroidering a delicate linen cap. No maids or ladies attended her.
“Come, sit by me, Mistress.” The queen indicated a low stool by her side.
Cristina did as bid.
“This storm prevents the sailing of our galleys to Normandy,” the queen said. “But it will end soon and the men will go.”
All Cristina could do was nod.
“Our king wishes that our most beloved Nona should marry a strong man who will be able to see to the care and maintenance of her holdings.” The queen’s eyes were cold when she looked up from her work. “Do you understand how difficult it is for a woman in this world? She is ofttimes the pawn of men.”
“Aye, my lady. I understand.” Surely, the queen was baiting her. Who else, save herself, was situated better to know the lot of a woman?
“Some women find it is more difficult than others,” the queen said. “They must take care to align themselves with strength and honor. Lady Nona is an example. Her father is not well, and she will know great wealth and property upon his death. Even now our beloved friend has much from her marriage to Lord Merlainy that might tempt others. It would not do for those great properties of hers to go to one who is not inclined to love and obey our king.”
Cristina became acutely aware of what the queen meant. “In what way might I best serve, my lady?” she asked, although she knew the answer.
“One would most wish that you depart.”
Cristina stifled a painful gasp. It took several moments for her to find her tongue. She swallowed hard. “I will endeavor to find a place, my lady.”
The queen smiled, but again it did not reach her eyes. “It may be difficult for you to leave Ravenswood.”
“Aye, my lady.” Cristina felt a burning in the center of her chest. “I have come to love this child.” She stroked her hand along Felice’s back.
“Then you must want the best for her. We are considering a match for her in Aquitaine. If Lady Nona approves, Felice will go to her betrothed’s home to be raised there. Do you approve?”
The words were said in a manner Cristina knew would brook no disagreement.
“As it pleases you, my lady.” Aquitaine. A lifetime away.
Lord Durand’s name would never be mentioned between the queen and her, of course. That he was the true subject of this conversation would never be acknowledged. Durand was to wed Lady Nona and she, Cristina, must be gone that no impediments to their felicity might exist.
“The king will be pleased with such a match for the child. We will apprise you of the day you must relinquish the child, of course. Until then,” the queen sorted through her silks and chose a new color, holding it against the cloth, “you will remove yourself to the village. You may take Felice for a few days.”
When the queen said nothing more, Cristina rose, curtsied, and walked to the door. Her mind was numb with the swift ending of her time at Ravenswood.
“Oh, and Mistress,” the queen said when she reached the door. “Pack nothing that you did not bring to Ravenswood. I have sent my maids to aid you.”
It was a blatant suggestion she was a thief in need of watching. “You are most gracious,” Cristina said with a deep bow.
The walk to Felice’s chamber seemed two leagues long. She wove her way blindly through the many who listened to the king’s minstrels. A man in a cleric’s cassock stepped in front of her. She braced herself for another blow. This man she had seen at the king’s side. He was of middling height, middling coloring—an unexceptional appearance.
“Are you the wife of the dead thief?” he asked.
“I am Cristina le Gros,” she said. Would she always be known by Simon’s sins?
“Might I beg a word?” the cleric asked. His fingers were stained with ink where they clutched a sheaf of parchment.
“I’m to depart—”
“We understand as much. This will not take long.” The cleric took her elbow and led her away to one end of the hall. “There is not much privacy here, mistress, but we shall make the best of it.”
Cristina felt the scrutiny of many as she stood near the doors to the bailey. “Please make haste, sir.” Felice struggled and fussed in her arms. Could the child sense the fears within her breast?
“Our beloved king is most pleased at Lord Durand’s triumph. He must hold you in great affection to offer to act as your champion.”
“Lord Durand is a man of honor, sir,” Cristina said carefully.
“Your husband was not.”
To this, she had no response.
The cleric signaled a passing boy who carried a tray of wine goblets. “Win
e?” he asked, snagging a cup for himself and fumbling with his pages.
She judged it best to take the proffered cup, but did naught but hold it tightly in her hand.
“What are your plans, mistress? Will you return to your family?” The man sipped from his cup. Drops of wine spilled across the front of his cassock.
“I have not made plans yet, sir.” A thread of apprehension coursed through her.
“The king maintains a most pleasant household near Winchester which is much in need of your services.”
Affecting an air of innocence, Cristina kept her gaze down and said, “They need perfumed soap?”
The cleric gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, I am sure they have soap aplenty, mistress, but we think there is some special quality to your work that others may merely aspire to.”
Cristina could not avoid looking up, nor could she pretend she did not understand. “Be clear, sir.”
“Come, Mistress, you are not a simpering virgin to cavil over a lucrative offer.”
“I have much to occupy me here at Ravenswood.” Cristina tried to still the pounding of her heart.
With another burst of laughter, the cleric thrust his empty cup at a passing serving maid, then reached out and touched her wrist. His hand was warm and moist.
He gave her a gentle squeeze. “He, of whom we speak, would be most generous in his appreciation of your services.”
She twisted from his grip. “The babe, sir. Forgive me. I must feed her.”
The cleric folded his arms over his documents and leaned his shoulder on the wall. “But of course. Feed the babe. But as you do, think kindly on Winchester.”
Cristina hurried to the west tower. It took her but a few moments to return to Durand. The scented oils had done their work. He lay heavily asleep on his stomach beneath a pile of furs.
She knelt by him and considered his face and shoulder, just visible at the edge of the bedding.
Should she wake him and tell him of the strange interview with the king’s man? Or of the queen’s hasty wish that she depart?
Would he feel a need to rush again to her rescue? Or would her heart be torn asunder when he did nothing—or worse, weighed the advantages of each offer and gave her advice on which to take?
