Lord of the Mist

by Ann Lawrence

  Fear shivered up her spine.

  The queen’s maids awaited her and may at this moment be reporting to the queen that she tarried in her departure.

  She kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them to his shoulder.

  He shifted, stirred, murmured, then settled. The sun lit upon the torque at his throat, tipped with ravens. She touched the warm gold, smooth from generations of wearing.

  Generations of men far above her.

  She rose and left the chamber without waking him. When she opened the door to Felice’s chamber in the east tower, she saw a wooden box on the table. The queen’s maids were locking it.

  One of the women was the maid who had entertained her lover, consigning Cristina to wander and end up at the postern gate.

  Nay, it was her choice alone that had sent her there.

  “What do you want done with all these things?” the woman asked, sweeping a hand out to encompass the many bowls and herbs of Cristina’s craft.

  She might need them to survive. “I’ll crate them up,” she said.

  “As you wish,” the other maid said, and sat down by the hearth on a bench, spreading her ivory skirts about her.

  Cristina endured their scrutiny as she worked. Some oils she must leave behind, as she had no bottles for them. Some herbs she knew might be ruined when lying in close proximity to others in the crate. There was little she could do about it.

  Her mind would not stay on her task. How could it? Her body still ached from the hours in Lord Durand’s embrace.

  No wonder Lord Durand had not answered her question. There was no place in his life for her.

  She murmured to Felice, so peaceful and watchful in her sling. Her heart ached for Felice’s possible fate—passed to a future husband’s family to be raised. Would he be a kind man? Was he in the cradle now?

  “Hurry, Mistress. I am sure Roger Godshall will grow impatient at the gate,” the maid with the lover said.

  “Roger Godshall?” Cristina paused in strapping the box closed. She knew that was the name of Sabina’s friend—the one she had offended at the trial. “What has he to do with me?”

  “He’s your escort to the village.”

  The thought chilled her. “Does Lord Durand know of this?”

  The one maid snickered. The one with the lover smiled. “He is lord here, is he not?”

  With burning eyes, Cristina finished securing the box.

  Durand knew of this?

  Had he known last night? This morn? Is that why he had not answered her when she had asked what she was to him?

  He must want a break that severed their ties with the swiftness of a blade to a man’s heart. Only it was her heart cut in two.

  She would not think ill of him.

  To do so would make him a man she did not know—or wish to.

  Cristina pulled on her mantle and cast a quick glance about the chamber. Ladies’ gowns and mantles lay in jumbled profusion. The chamber smelled of mingled perfumes.

  It was not her chamber—had never been.

  She wrapped Felice in the embroidered blankets she had stitched for her daughter who had not survived.

  Cristina could not seek out Oriel any more than she could Durand. That gentle lady would read every secret of her heart.

  Alice met her at the foot of the steps to the east tower. “Alice, will you tell Lady Oriel I’ll be in the village should she have need of anything?”

  “Aye. She likes that smelly stuff ye put in ‘er pomander. She’ll find ye, miss.” Then Alice buried her face in her hands and hastened away.

  Cristina almost begged the old woman to come with her to the village, but did not. As she crossed the great hall, she felt many eyes upon her. Her skin itched with discomfort. Several maids curtsied to her and smiled. One woman stopped her to kiss Felice. These few civilities warmed her.

  Men, the king included, stood by the hearth, maps before them. They were too intent upon their business to note her in any way. But as she walked by, she thought she felt the king’s glance upon her. How little she thought of him—a man who could show such public affection for his wife and invite another to be his mistress behind her back—one he thought to be a thief, no less.

  For a moment Cristina pitied the queen. Surely the king would make offers to other women, and how many would refuse.

  There were no ladies in the great hall, although Cristina glimpsed the bent head of Lady Nona in an alcove.

  Lady Nona was a beautiful and kindly woman. She would make Lord Durand a good wife. Although Cristina swallowed several times to still her misery, tears ran down her cheeks. She was thankful when, once she gained the bailey, rain fell in fitful squalls and hid her discomposure.

  Where had happened to her vow never to weep?

  Cristina saw nothing and heard nothing as she walked through the inner bailey to the stable and the waiting men. She passed the empty pavilions with their extinguished torches.

  A groom boosted her into a saddle and slapped the palfrey’s rump to get her moving. Squalls of rain whipped Cristina’s mantle back and dampened her skirt.

  Three men rode before her and three behind. Roger Godshall led them. It was far too large an escort to the village. It smacked of the escort of a prisoner to her cell.

  As her party rode through Ravenswood’s gates, the chapel bells rang. The man directly in front of her looked back.

  Cristina did not.

  * * * * *

  The chapel bells woke Durand. The chamber stood empty, the tub gone—Cristina, too. He had slept the morning through.

  He stretched and groaned at the pulling protest of his muscles. Had there been something in the lush vapors of the scented oil to put him to sleep? Or was he just growing old? Soon his hair would be falling out.

  He went to the hall on a quest for the largest haunch of venison the cook could provide. John was poring over his maps, his men around him, and Durand decided it would make better sense to attend the king than fill his belly. He settled for a heel of bread and a slice of cheese, then joined the royal party.

  The king acknowledged him with a nod. “We’ll sail when Marshall arrives and the weather turns. This messenger from Dartmouth,” the king gestured to a man covered in mud, “assures us all is in readiness there as well.”

  Durand looked over the map. They would disembark at La Rochelle and drive through Poitou and thence to Anjou, Maine, and finally Normandy. And likely die on the road.

  Two of the king’s minstrels began to wander the hall, and the king ordered the maps rolled. Durand searched every face. Someone here had stood aside and allowed an innocent woman to be accused of theft. It was another kind of betrayal, one he needed to avenge.

  “Durand, over here,” Nicholas d’Argent beckoned him near. Several men-at-arms as well as Gilles’ son were sitting and dicing by the hearth.

  He straddled a bench and joined them. A boy offered him a goblet of wine. As he lifted the cup, he nearly groaned at the deep ache in his shoulder. Cristina must rub some more of her salve there. His thoughts dwelled a moment on Cristina. He wondered where she was hiding herself. And he knew she was hiding from this company’s scrutiny.

  As was the habit of men, they examined every aspect of the previous day’s combat. He was excused any faults by way of the mud. And triumph always sweetened the tale. The idea amused him. “Surely one of John’s jongleurs will immortalize me in song?” he asked the company.

  “Nay, they are scratching out something in honor of Luke’s cock,” one quipped. “They have no time for combat between mere mortals.”

  Durand could not help laughing along with the men. “How many of you have visited Mistress le Gros for one of her potions that you might be so revered?”

  Silence fell. Nicholas cleared his throat. “Surely you know she is gone?”

  “Gone?” Durand looked from one face to another, but all eyes slid away save Nicholas’.

  “Aye,” d’Argent said. “I have it from my groom that the queen ord
ered her gone early this morn—to the village, I believe.”

  Durand shot to his feet. He crossed the hall and took the steps to the east tower two at a time. He hammered a fist on Felice’s door. A maid opened it a scant inch and peered out.

  “Open this door,” he demanded, and she gave way.

  One of the king’s guards scrambled in the bed furs to cover his nakedness. The maid merely walked back to the bed, her hair hiding little of her slender body.

  “Where are the babe’s things?” Durand asked, not able to mention Cristina, for it was obvious she was not there. The table held no herbs. No bundles of drying flowers hung from string. Even the chamber’s scent was that of other women’s perfumed bodies.

  The maid leaned on the bedpost and ran her hand over the linen draperies in an invitational manner, but answered the question. “Are not all babes with their nurses, my lord?”

  * * * * *

  With mounting confusion he hastened down the tower steps. How could he not know so basic a thing in his own keep? The usual alcove for stitching ladies held one of his quarries—Lady Nona.

  “I understand Mistress le Gros is gone.” He tried and failed to keep his voice low and undisturbed.

  “You are correct,” Nona said, rising and bowing. “The queen gave the order, and it took little to see it done. But she has only gone to the village.”

  “I see.” He realized he was speaking to the wrong woman on this matter.

  Lady Nona wore a dark wine-colored gown trimmed with gold. Her hair was loosely held at her nape with wine and gold braided ribbons. Her finery bespoke her station—far above Cristina’s.

  “My lord,” Nona said. “Before you go, might I say that the queen has asked my opinion of a match between Felice and William of Aquitaine and whether Mistress le Gros should accompany Felice to her new home.”

  Jesu. Cristina and Felice in Aquitaine.

  “Although…” Here Nona paused and glanced away. “The queen did, again, bring up the matter of a child’s nature being formed through the milk she is fed.”

  “I see.” And he did. Alliances had naught to do with lust. They served one purpose only—securing power. He had married Marion for her connections regardless of how his heart had later been touched by her. “If it pleases you, I have much to do,” he said abruptly.

  She curtsied and then spoke. “I don’t mean to interfere, but if you seek to change the queen’s mind about Mistress le Gros, you might do better through the king.”

  “What does that mean?” He retraced his steps to stand before Lady Nona.

  “It means the king has noticed Mistress le Gros.”

  Durand understood. Lady Nona was trying to tell him that the queen was motivated by her jealousy, not by care of Felice.

  “My lord?” Nona touched his sleeve.

  “What?” He had not meant to be rude, but felt impatient to see the queen.

  “Allow Mistress le Gros some time to settle herself in the village.”

  Without a word of parting, he wheeled away.

  Cristina had not come to him.

  Anger burned through him. At the queen. At Cristina.

  * * * * *

  Roger Godshall halted the party at the cottage. One of his men helped Cristina dismount, an awkward business with a child in arms. When she moved to the packhorse holding her belongings, Godshall drew his dagger.

  It was an elegant weapon, with a handle inlaid with blue enamel. It sliced through the ropes holding her boxes as if they were but embroidery thread.

  Her boxes crashed to the ground and split open at her feet.

  Felice burst into a wailing cry to match her own. Godshall grinned at her. When Cristina bent toward her boxes, Godshall lifted his dagger. She froze.

  “Mon Dieu, what have I done?” Godshall asked his friends with a lift of his hands and a wide-eyed grin. They merely smiled, and Cristina realized these were the same men before whom she had embarrassed the spiteful Godshall.

  She swallowed. It was too late to wish she’d spoken and acted with more care.

  Godshall kicked the contents of her boxes. Wood and clothing scattered. She watched his boots, not his face, nor his blade.

  She could not take her eyes from his feet as he crushed her life’s work into the muddy puddles in the yard.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  No matter Durand’s intentions of riding into the village after Cristina, the king commanded him and the other barons to Porchester Castle at the head of Portsmouth harbor to inspect the galleys and merchant ships that would transport their force to La Rochelle. The royal castle, about ten miles from Ravenswood, teemed with seamen and soldiers. They, at least, seemed avidly in favor of the offense. Passing through the lengthy bailey of Porchester to the water gate, Durand saw the many masts of John’s assembled fleet.

  ‘Twas best to be here, he decided as he stood with his face to the heavy winds. It allowed some of his anger to wash away.

  Durand had never seen so many vessels in one place. The sight of the fleet, composed of both newly made and commandeered merchantmen, reminded him as nothing else could that the matters within his keep were of little weight against that of a king and his kingdom.

  Salt air stung Durand’s cheeks as he contemplated the caprices of life. Now, when he needed every hour in England to make sense of the coil of his life, God provided the means through unfavorable winds. Were they also responsible for delaying the arrival of William Marshall?

  The king’s men roamed Porchester’s bailey for hours, retiring finally to the hall.

  Durand felt little inclination for an indifferent ale. He stood at the water gate and looked out at the ships. Gilles d’Argent came to his side. They watched the angry water slap the stones near their feet and hiss away in a timeless rhythm.

  It was prophetic, Durand thought, that d’Argent should seek him out when he most needed an ear.

  “My sword did little to aid your efforts, Durand,” Gilles said.

  “‘Twas the man who wielded it that was inadequate, not the blade.” Durand shook his head. “Joseph will return it.”

  “Keep it,” Gilles said. “You may need it another day, and I have others.”

  Durand bowed in acknowledgment of the fine gift. “The sea gods are discontent,” he said. And truly it seemed so in the scudding movement of the green-tinged clouds and whipping winds.

  In silent accord, Durand and Gilles walked along the perimeter of the castle walls. “I’m to depart in a few hours for the north.”

  “To raise more support for John’s efforts?”

  D’Argent nodded. “Nicholas will go with me.”

  “Would that I could as well,” Durand said lightly, then cleared his throat. “You wed one of your weavers.”

  “I wed the woman I love,” Gilles said, drawing in the edges of his mantle against the rain that escalated along with the winds. “It matters not what skills she has.”

  “And you survived a king’s wrath.” Durand watched a cart lumber by to deliver pigs and geese for the kitchens.

  “Richard was not best pleased, but a thousand pounds soon relieved his ire,” Gilles said wryly.

  “A thousand pounds?” Durand stared at d’Argent.

  “Oh, a bride can go for much more when John is concerned in the matter.”

  “So much?” Durand shook his head. “John already demands a vast amount of me. I can just pay my knight fees.”

  “You know ‘tis John’s means of control. He keeps his barons on the edge of penury with fees and taxes. Should you fail to meet your obligations, your lands are forfeit,” Gilles said. He crossed his arms on his chest.

  “Then to get them back, one must pay again,” Durand said. Or marry where bidden.

  “We are not catching our death in this miserable air that you might seek my advice on your knight fees, are we?” D’Argent smiled, but it did little to relieve the sternness of his dark looks.

  “Nay,” Durand said, pacing. “I’m filled with uncertainty. I
n my hall sits a most comely and well connected woman—”

  “Nona.”

  “Aye, Nona. She’s a pleasant enough woman, but I find I do not think of her from one hour to the next. And in the village is a woman I cannot forget for even one moment.”

  He shrugged and gave his friend a sheepish grin. “Nona or Cristina? Such are the trials of a well-connected man.”

  Gilles put out his hands, palm up. He moved them like a merchant’s scales. “Nona and wealth, Aquitaine and Normandy connections. Or Cristina le Gros, accused—but vindicated—thief and herbalist, and probably barren.”

  Durand straightened. His jaw felt locked. He clenched his fists. “I don’t need an heir,” he managed. “It seems you have thought on this already.”

  “Nay, you alone think on this. I care not one whit which woman you wed, but I know from previous experience that a king will care.” Gilles dropped his hands. “I’m merely pointing out what John will think of your choices.”

  “You did not let a king’s thoughts control you.”

  “Nay. But my king was not named John.” Gilles shook his head. “You must do that which sits best here.” He prodded Durand in the chest with his finger. “But use this,” he tapped his forehead, “when you do so.”

  They walked back to water gate where their horses were tied.

  Durand halted by his mare. “I don’t understand why Cristina did not come to me when the queen sent her away.”

  “Ask her. If I know but one thing about women, it is that they are unaccountable.” Gilles shook his head. “You think they’ll do one thing, but trust me, they’ll do the exact opposite. I’ve discovered it is best to just ask and then give every indication you think their reasoning right and just.”

  “And if I don’t care for her answer?” Durand swung into the saddle.

  Gilles grinned. “I’m not sure that will matter a whit, either.”

  Durand bid his friend good journey. He envied him the opportunity to escape the king’s caprices.

  At that thought, the king and a coterie of men rode up. Durand was invited to inspect the royal galley. With little joy in the task, he joined the king’s party being rowed out to board the well-fitted ship that would bear John to France. As was usual with the king, he traveled with every comfort.