Lord of the Mist

by Ann Lawrence

  Durand frowned. “Then rally and sink a few times. Surely you can devise something suitable?”

  “How will I effect this illness, my lord? Aldwin might see through the scheme.”

  “Refuse Aldwin. Ask for Mistress le Gros instead.”

  Nona rose stiffly to her feet. “Mistress le Gros? Is that what this is about? I much admire the lady, but I’ll not tolerate your mistresses. Is that clear?”

  He stood up as well. “If you are not wed to me, you will not have to tolerate anything. And I will not tolerate any discussion of Mistress le Gros; is that clear?” He fisted his hands on his hips. “Now what was it you needed to tell me?”

  “Nothing, my lord,” Nona said, subsiding to the bench. “Nothing.”

  * * * * *

  The king’s face suffused to a dusky purple as he stormed before the hearth. The hall was crowded with men awaiting the king’s pleasure and the tides. His fingers curled like claws. “Nona is ill? Near to death?”

  Durand muttered a hasty prayer for forgiveness for his lies, then said, “‘Tis more a question of her spreading her illness to you, sire, at this most vital time.”

  Father Laurentius added the weight of his support now the weight of his purse had doubled. “I have seen this before, sire. Once it gets among us, we will all be fighting for seats in the jakes. No one will be fit to sit a saddle.”

  “No more!” the king shouted. He roamed the hearth area. He had been ranting over every petty annoyance since dawn, according to Laurentius.

  Roger Godshall joined the king and murmured at his ear as he paced back and forth. Durand knew Godshall had wreaked the havoc on Cristina’s possessions. It had taken but one question of a trusted groom. He silently added Godshall to his list of those who deserved retribution for Cristina’s pain.

  Finally, the king halted. “We are seriously vexed,” the king said. Godshall stood with him. The king pointed at Durand. “You had better pray Lady Nona rallies ere we return or you will greatly regret it.”

  He next swung his attention to a trio of men who stood near, barons who had balked at this Normandy invasion. “You’ll each offer a son as surety of your service.”

  Offer? Durand knew ‘twas just the king’s way of saying the men would give up their sons as hostages. Should the fathers prove disloyal, the sons would suffer for it.

  Durand watched one man, Guy Wallingford, step bravely forward. There was a tremor in his voice when he spoke. “Please, sire—”

  “Silence,” the king shouted. “You will offer a son. Anything else can only mean you do not love your king.”

  Wallingford bowed and retreated to the group. They had all seen the king in a rage before and knew they had little influence to halt it.

  “And, you,” the king said, swinging back to Durand, “Where were you last eventide when we wanted you?”

  Before Durand could answer, the king continued. “You, too, shall offer a son. Nay, two sons, as you are of twice the importance of these leeching dogs.”

  Two sons.

  An icy finger touched Durand’s soul.

  “Get to Porchester—now,” the king ordered.

  * * * * *

  Nothing would prevent this hapless venture, Durand thought as he rode into the inner bailey of Porchester Castle with the king and his entourage. But there, on the keep steps stood one who might. William Marshall—a man revered and honored by three kings.

  “William, you don’t appear ready to make this journey,” the king said when the customary civilities were rendered.

  “I cannot go, sire,” Marshall said.

  A hush fell over the groups of men. Save the carters moving goods to Porchester’s water gate, no one spoke.

  “Explain yourself.” The king fisted one hand on his sword hilt.

  Durand imagined that Marshall felt as beleaguered as any other man who must deal with this capricious king.

  Marshall sighed. “You sent me to attempt peace with Philip. Whilst there I found I had no choice but to swear liege-homage to him. I cannot take arms against him.”

  Durand watched the king’s face darken. His fingers curled on his reins. Liege-homage meant Marshall was John’s man while in England and Philip’s while in France. He could take up the sword against neither of them. It was a move that left the king without the arms of the greatest warrior England had known.

  “You protected your properties! Not our interests!” the king raged. Durand thought the king would draw his sword and smite the old warrior.

  “Nay, sire. I did as you directed—made peace with Philip.”

  “To your benefit! Not ours!”

  “For all our benefits.” Marshall swept a hand out to encompass the other barons. The barons with hostage children moved fractionally toward Marshall.

  The king’s face turned almost purple. He sat tall in the saddle, his body stiff, and addressed them all. “Are you with me or with Marshall?” John’s voice was low and deceptively calm.

  Durand felt as if he were being drawn and quartered. He forced himself to think only of Adrian and Robert. With silent watchfulness, he remained where he was, at the king’s side. Penne and Luke trotted to where he waited. Then all the king’s bachelors aligned behind themselves behind the king.

  The king did not turn to Durand or his brother or friend. He turned to Godshall and his cronies. “What is your belief? Is Marshall in company against me?”

  The young men who found their way by the king’s favor, concurred with him. Alone, however, they had not the means to defeat King Philip in either men or machinery.

  Durand had no need to think on his words should be need to choose between William Marshall or the king.

  He was never asked.

  William Marshall stood immovably with the other barons against the king’s departure.

  Abruptly the king wheeled his horse and rode off through Porchester’s bailey toward the water gate. His young men followed him.

  “Where do we stand now?” Penne asked.

  “Right here,” Durand said. “He is as like to return in a few minutes, and we will need to be ready to embark. But without the support of the great William Marshall, this effort is doomed.”

  And I am doomed to pursue it for my sons’ sake.

  “I’m back to Ravenswood,” Luke said.

  Durand found himself alone in Porchester’s hall, awaiting the king’s pleasure. Hours passed. When the tide turned, a king’s guard rode up to where he and his own men waited.

  “The king is for Winchester. He’ll remain there until he decides what to do with William Marshall.”

  Durand wearily shook his head.

  “Should we go to Winchester?” Penne asked.

  “Nay. The king has to return here to embark,” Durand said.

  “We could return to Ravenswood and sleep in our own beds,” Penne said.

  “And have John return to discover I’m not awaiting his pleasure?” Durand asked. “Nay, I’ll not put my sons at such a risk.” And in truth, he no longer cared where he slept.

  * * * * *

  Durand placed his pallet in a small chamber off Porchester’s hall. He lay awake. No matter how many arguments he gave himself against it, he came back again and again to the same thoughts—take Cristina and Felice and go after his sons. It meant the forfeiture of all he had, and might put a price on his head. But he could not allow his sons to be used in such a manner.

  Someone pounded on his chamber door. He struggled heavily to his feet, exhausted from combat and lack of sleep.

  Penne threw himself into Durand’s arms. Behind him, torches flickered in their iron brackets and cast his friend’s face in demonic shadow.

  “What is it?” Durand tried in vain to break from Penne’s fierce embrace. “Come. What is it?”

  Penne took a shuddering breath and stepped back. He retained his hold on Durand’s arms. “A messenger came. Adrian…Robert.”

  Whatever Durand had expected to hear, it was not his sons’ names. “Penne.”
He shook his friend. “Make sense!”

  “The king ordered Guy Wallingford’s son hanged.”

  “Sweet Jesu,” Durand whispered, staggering back as if struck.

  Penne could only nod. “The messenger said Guy was deep in his cups, as was the king. They argued over William Marshall’s pledge to Philip.” Penne gulped. “And the king…h-he flew into a rage. When Guy did not back down, the king…he ordered Guy’s son hanged.”

  Durand fell onto a bench. His stomach churned. “De Warre fostered Guy’s son, did he not?”

  “Aye. The king will do whatever he needs to see his plans carried out. You cannot say one word against him, do you understand? Nothing. Hold your thoughts to yourself.”

  Durand looked up at Penne. “I can keep my counsel.” His mouth was dry. He licked his lips.

  “Aye, most times, but when you’re angry…John will be return on the morrow. He’ll demand you display your loyalty; I know it. Make no false steps, else Adrian and Robert—”

  “Will be hanged,” Durand finished for Penne.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Cristina raked out the herb garden behind the cottage and rescued a few vegetables for a pottage with which to feed the men Durand had sent to guard her. She sat on the bench in the sun and watched the road. Would Durand ride by? Or was he gone to Normandy with the morning tide?

  A clatter of horses made her rise. The queen and her ladies, Sabina among them, rode into her yard. Durand’s men went forward to greet their queen. Cristina dropped Isabelle a deep curtsy.

  “You’re still here?” Lady Sabina looked down her sharp nose.

  “I’m making plans,” Cristina answered carefully. Father Laurentius had come with the guards and detailed a plan that would keep her well cared for all her days. Laurentius had said it was merely a safeguard should she not be able to sell her soaps and sweet scents. It helped to know Lord Durand would never let her starve.

  “And you still have Felice, I see.” Lady Sabina lifted a gloved hand and pointed to the sling Cristina wore.

  Cristina dipped a small curtsy in answer.

  “You’ll take the child to Rose, the baker’s sister. Then you’ll depart this place. You try the queen’s patience.”

  There was no expression on the queen’s young face. Her ladies smirked or outwardly smiled. Sabina, garbed as finely as the queen in a gray gown stitched with silver thread, patted her palfrey’s neck and gave Cristina a tight smile.

  “If ‘tis the queen’s will,” Cristina said.

  The queen inclined her head, then lifted her hand, and the party cantered down the road toward Portsmouth.

  For several long moments, Cristina could not breathe. She was aware of the warmth of Felice’s body against hers and of the cool breezes on her cheek.

  This, then, was how it would end.

  * * * * *

  Rose took a sleeping Felice from her arms and placed her in the basket. The woman’s small cottage in the village was warm and scented with roasting partridge, spitted over the hearth. Rose’s babe lay on a pallet in the corner. Her husband sat at a table, a delighted expression on his face. Lord Durand’s child represented a great increase in their income, in addition to which, the queen had sent the family a fat purse.

  “She’ll like it ‘ere just fine. You watch; she’ll settle soon enough,” Rose said.

  Cristina fought her tears and held out her shawl. “This surely carries my scent. Keep her in the sling, which is familiar, and I’m sure when she is hungry enough, and tired—”

  “Leave ‘er to me,” Rose said, rising and embracing Cristina. “My man and I’ll do just fine by ‘er.”

  “Parsley will encourage your milk,” she instructed. Then, when there was no more to be said, and she could not insult Rose by repeating herself yet again, she gave Felice a final kiss and squeeze and tore herself away.

  The long walk back to the cottage seemed to last forever. She hardly noticed her surroundings. Durand’s men bowed to her as if she were a fine lady, but she barely registered their presence.

  The hearth fire was low, and after she built it up she sat there and stared into the flames. She was, for the first time in her life, completely alone. She had no one to care for…and no one to care for her.

  She almost did not hear the tap at her door, and felt little energy to speak to anyone. It was surely just another man seeking the potion she had made for Luke.

  “Lady Oriel,” Cristina said when the door revealed her visitor.

  “May I?” Oriel asked.

  With a listless nod, Cristina stepped back and allowed Oriel to sweep forward into the cottage.

  “Have you heard?” Oriel asked, wrapping an arm about Cristina’s waist.

  “My lady?”

  “Durand’s sons are made hostage with de Warre. He can make no false steps or the boys will be hanged.”

  “Hanged?” Cristina staggered in Oriel’s embrace. “Hanged?”

  Oriel burst into tears. “We thought ‘twas just another of John’s threats, but he has ordered Guy Wallingford’s son hanged as an example.” She looked at the window. “It must be done by now,” she said softly.

  They stood there in silence for a brief moment, then Oriel began to tremble. “I don’t want to remain alone whilst Penne is gone. I’m sick each morning.”

  “Oh, my lady. Are you with child? Did the potion work?”

  “‘Tis more like the other, Cristina, the sweet moment. I know it here.” She touched her breast. “‘Twas after the bishop’s attack. Penne was so—” Her ashen cheeks colored.

  Cristina hugged Oriel and kissed her cheeks. “I’m so glad for you. I did believe in such a moment. And now you have proved it. Penne will be so pleased.” She led Oriel to a bench. “But how are you alone at this time? What of Lady Nona? Can she be no comfort to you?”

  “She’s very ill—some fever or other. ‘Tis why I’ve come. She’ll not see Aldwin and insists on having you at her side. She was too ill to wed Durand before they departed for Porchester Castle.”

  “Wed? So soon?” Cristina whispered. She stared at Oriel. She felt suddenly ill herself.

  “It did not happen as Nona was so ill.”

  “When did the men sail?” Cristina asked.

  “They have not yet gone. The king argued with William Marshall. Marshall would not accompany the king, and John called for all to take his side. So many of the barons aligned with Marshall that the king was furious. He took hostages, and Guy persisted in his support of Marshall and… Oh, that poor boy.”

  Cristina led Oriel to the hearth. She poured her a cup of ale. “Drink this, my lady.” Next she went to a small cask and measured out some fennel and sweet violet—left from Simon’s wares. She put it in a small pomander and handed it to Oriel. “Breathe this, my lady; ‘twill ease your discomfort.”

  Oriel raised the pomander to her nose. “What will Durand do?”

  Cristina’s hands were ice cold. She tucked them beneath her arms. “Oh, my lady…” Moments later Cristina collapsed into Oriel’s embrace. “What will Durand do?”

  * * * * *

  Cristina knew the queen might take umbrage at her presence at Ravenswood, but Oriel had insisted she tend Nona.

  They skirted the great hall, entering through the main doors, but quickly taking the way of servants to storerooms below. From there Oriel led her to Luke’s counting room, where Nona lay on a pallet.

  Nona’s color was good for one so ill she could not wed a great lord.

  Cristina touched Nona’s brow. She held her hand. The women said little. Durand stood between them as surely as if he was there in the flesh.

  “What ails you?” Cristina asked.

  “I have a very catching fever and must visit the chamber pot every few moments.”

  The room was scented with sweet herbs, strewn by her own hands only a few days before. “You’re not so afflicted you can make it to the jakes each time?” she asked.

  “I stay here. ‘Tis a catching illness.
Oriel was so kind to fetch you, though she endangers herself.”

  “Hmmm.” Cristina sat by Nona’s side. There was a tray on the table with remnants of a substantial meal.

  Oriel perched anxiously on a stool. “Do you wish privacy? Shall I go?”

  Cristina nodded. “I think Lady Nona and I should be alone.”

  When Oriel was gone, Cristina confronted the lady. “You look plump as a well-fed stoat. Why do you not tell me the truth? I have come at some risk, as the queen holds me in displeasure, and don’t wish to play games.”

  Lady Nona sheepishly stared at her hands. “Lord Durand felt a need to postpone our nuptials. As I’m not so anxious to marry yet, I agreed to a small deception. You’ll tend me, will you not? Or else Aldwin might suspect something. I’ve told the queen I cannot abide a man to touch me. And she will not come near, as I am catching.”

  “Anyone who enters this chamber will know you’re not ill. This chamber is scented like a lady’s bower.”

  Nona studied her, then leaned back on her many cushions. “Have you something to change that?”

  “Oh, just leave the chamber pot full now and then.”

  Lady Nona wrinkled her nose.

  “Borrow Lady Oriel’s pomander, if need be.” Cristina paced the chamber. The question spilled from her lips ere she could stop them. “You don’t wish to wed Lord Durand?”

  Nona shrugged. “I’ll do as bid by the king—as will Durand. But we don’t wish to wed in haste at the king’s caprice.”

  They would do as bidden by the king…

  “I cannot promise to tend you as you wish. The queen has taken Felice from my care and wishes to see me gone.” Cristina went about the chamber arranging a basin and towels, drawing the chamber pot near the bed, and building up the fire as one would for an invalid.

  “I’m sorry,” Nona said. “Isabelle is very young, and the king has noticed you. She’s just jealous, you know. Don’t think of me again. See to yourself.”

  Cristina nodded. And she desperately hoped the king’s attention would serve her well. “I’ll send you a few herbs, but then, my lady, I’ll be gone from here.”

  Nona pleated her skirt with her fingers. “You’ll not wait for the men to sail?”