Lord of the Mist

by Ann Lawrence

  Cristina shook her head. “Nay, I have no part in this business. I wish I still had the key to Lady Marion’s garden. It would be quicker to get what you need there than from the village.”

  “Oh, I know where to find the key.” Nona jumped up from her pallet and dashed to the coffer that had once held the Aelfric. She tossed Durand’s Aristophanes onto the table and rummaged about. She withdrew a small chest and flipped open the lid. “Surely, ‘tis one of these?” She held out the box.

  Cristina thought it very telling that Nona knew where Luke kept his keys. She found the one to the garden and then lifted the Aristophanes from the table. She smoothed her fingers along the gilded cover and remembered the time Lord Durand had offered her his books to read. Gently, she placed it in the coffer.

  Quickly, lest one of the queen’s men or ladies saw her, she hastened to the garden. There she used an empty sack from Durand’s storeroom to gather herbs to cause a harmless purging when Nona felt it necessary.

  Other plants she gathered were to remain her secret. As she gathered, she prayed for the power of the greenery and God’s mercy on her tasks. With a last look at the lush space, she locked the gate and went to the chapel. There she learned from Father Odo that she need not send a message to Winchester for Father Laurentius. The priest was still at Ravenswood. The queen found gentle Father Odo’s Masses ill-suited to her tastes and had commanded the illustrious Laurentius to serve her needs. It seemed that everyone must bow to the royal wishes.

  * * * * *

  Father Laurentius stared at her. “You wish me to arrange an escort for you take you to the king at Winchester?”

  Cristina curtsied and nodded. “Aye. He made a proposition to me through one of his clerics, and I have reconsidered it.”

  The priest leaned on the scarred wooden table in the cottage. He had come when summoned as Durand had told him to see to her every need. “I must say I’m greatly disappointed in you.”

  Many would say the same words in the next few days. She must harden herself to the criticism. She shrugged and attempted to look and behave as Lady Sabina would in the same situation. That lady cared naught for a priest’s opinion.

  “Is not Lord Durand’s offer lucrative enough? It will not cease upon his disinterest, I assure you,” the priest said carefully.

  “I thank you for your concern, but it is important to me that I get to the king. This night if possible.”

  “You understand that Lord Durand will be most enraged at this turn of events. He might withdraw his offer. Even now he does not know you are no longer his daughter’s nurse.”

  She would never forget she was no longer Felice’s nurse. Her breasts ached to be emptied. Her heart ached as if she had again lost a daughter.

  “Will you provide me with my escort to Winchester?” she asked again.

  “Oh, aye. Lord Durand said to grant your every wish.”

  * * * * *

  Cristina waited patiently in a small chamber to be summoned before the king. The room, off a larger bedchamber in the king’s hunting lodge outside Winchester, was bare save for several benches for petitioners. The lodge was filled with men. The few serving women about were greatly beleaguered by groping hands.

  Cristina had almost turned and run when she saw Roger Godshall among them. But a page’s terse order for her to follow had drawn her on.

  What she was about to do frightened her. But, in truth, once thought of, the idea would torture her ‘til it was done. She could think of no way to set the idea aside and live with her conscience.

  Just as it made sense to send the man with nothing to lose onto the battlefield, so it made sense that the woman with nothing to lose should sacrifice herself for the one with everything.

  Felice was lost to her, as was Durand, and everyone thought her a whore already. She had naught left to lose.

  The same page summoned her before King John after little more than a quarter hour’s wait. He sat in a deep chair by a long table strewn with maps and documents.

  “Mistress le Gros,” the king said. “You are as fickle as the wind that will carry my ships to Normandy.”

  “Sire,” Cristina began, a hitch in her voice. “‘Tis but the nature of woman to change her mind.”

  “A quality that twists mortal man in knots, mistress.”

  “I would not wish to cause you any discomfort,” she continued carefully, mindful of the royal rage Oriel had described.

  Her hesitation was quickly interpreted by the king. “Say whatever you wish within these walls.”

  The room, paneled in fine English oak, and lighted by wide windows with real glass, was as long as the lodge itself. A high screen at one end shielded the necessaries, she assumed. Below, men reveled and minstrels sang. There was little of the king’s anger and disappointment on display.

  “If I understood your most kind and benevolent offer properly, sire, you wanted me to share your bed.”

  “You are blunt.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “I don’t want to waste your precious time.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Then explain yourself.”

  “I don’t know my worth, sire, but I would like to discuss—”

  “Remuneration?” the king supplied.

  “You are most understanding.”

  “And what price do you set? Twenty marks? Fifty?” The king smiled. A cask inlaid with ivory sat near him. The air was scented with precious sandalwood.

  Cristina took a deep breath. “Lord Durand’s sons.”

  The king’s mouth opened, then closed, much like a fish in Portsmouth harbor. “Lord Durand’s sons? How so?”

  “I want to exchange myself for them.”

  “Exchange? You for them?”

  “Aye, sire. I want to offer myself as surety to Lord Durand’s good behavior. That is what sons are for, are they not?”

  “Again, mistress, you are very blunt.” His brows drew together, and she feared she had made a grievous error.

  “I’m no longer so happily situated, sire. So, as I was concerned that—”

  “Lord Durand might say or do something that would cause him difficulties…”

  She nodded. “I thought to better my own circumstances whilst aiding him in some way. He is oft quick with his words and regretful later.” She hoped Durand would never hear her portrayal of him.

  “Ah, now we are at the heart of the matter. You wish to better your circumstances.”

  She had calculated correctly. The wish to better herself he understood. “And with…with Lady Nona so ill and his wedding postponed, I believe Lord Durand might find it more difficult than usual to hold his temper.”

  “Indeed.” The king rose and walked to where she stood. He lifted her hair from her shoulders and skimmed a finger along her throat. “You are lovely. You might still be young enough to steal a heart or two.”

  She shivered beneath his touch.

  “So in exchange for the volatile de Marle’s sons, you would await your king’s pleasure at de Warre’s castle?” He made it a question. “It may be a very long wait if winds remain favorable.”

  “I would be ever at your service, sire,” she said, a shiver of fear and illness coursing through her belly. “I would be at your pleasure whenever you might need me.”

  He snapped his fingers, and a cleric scurried from behind a screen. She had not known someone was in the chamber, and her skin flushed hot that this man, the same one who had approached her at Ravenswood, had heard her sell herself to the king—in exchange for two children, but still, she had sold herself.

  The king and cleric moved away from her. Their murmured conversation as the cleric scratched out a parchment directing de Warre was inaudible to her, but she did not really care.

  The missive was sealed with the king’s ring, along with her fate. The king’s promise was tied and wrapped in oiled cloth.

  Another flick of the king’s hand and the cleric scurried back behind his screen. The king held out the parchment, but when Cristina
reached for it, he shifted it out of her reach. “When you take this, mistress, you are ours. Never forget it.”

  Cristina nodded, unable to speak. He truly was as capricious as gossip painted him. One day he thought her a thief of little value and the next he thought her worthy to share his bed.

  He dropped the parchment into her palm. “Carry it hence to de Warre yourself and see the deed done.”

  She dropped into a deep curtsey and kissed his hand.

  “Oh, one more matter,” the king called. “Practice your craft on yourself, mistress, as a sweetly perfumed woman is at the apex of a man’s pleasure.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As a boy, Durand had come to just this spot overlooking the harbor to seek comfort from either his father’s anger or his mother’s sharp tongue. Now, as he looked over the many ships lying at anchor, awaiting John’s decision to invade Normandy, he sought that comfort.

  It did not come. He was not a child who might have his innocent wishes granted. John’s decision to hang Guy Wallingford’s son told him all he needed of the man he followed.

  In service to King Richard, he had witnessed much of cruelty. But the hanging of an innocent boy because a man was in a drunken rage was not to be borne.

  Regardless of his later fate, Durand determined to leave when darkness fell and snatch his sons from de Warre’s hands. This, he knew, was an action that also left his mother vulnerable. But she had made her own way for more than a score of years and must continue to do so.

  Retrieving his sons with Cristina and Felice in tow would take all his powers of imagination.

  Luke rode up behind him. He left his horse to crop the grass and came to Durand’s side. “I thought I might find you here.”

  Even his quarrel with Luke seemed somehow unimportant against the lives of his sons. “I’m leaving,” Durand answered.

  “Oh? Where are you off to? Winchester, to try to talk sense into John? Without Marshall and his army this offensive is off, is it not?”

  “Nay, I’ll not be going to Winchester.” Durand turned to his brother. “There’s little hope of you retaining Ravenswood after what I’m about to do, but should John not seize it, I want you to have it.”

  “So,” Luke said. He leaned against an outcropping of rock. “You will hie yourself off to de Warre’s stronghold and lay siege to it by yourself.”

  “If necessary.” Durand nodded. “And Mother will need to look to herself if Philip wants to bring pressure to bear in that direction.”

  “She’s like a cat. She’ll land on her feet; she always has.”

  Durand acknowledged the truth of Luke’s words, though he knew his conscience would prick him.

  “Being your brother is a trial,” Luke snapped. His horse lifted its head at his sharp tone. “We both know you’ll be killed, Ravenswood will be forfeit, your sons in de Warre’s care forever—or worse, hanged.”

  “Enough,” Durand said. “You have no right to criticize what I do. You who have no—”

  “No what?” Luke stood very straight and met Durand’s hard glare. “Let us have it out between us here. Here, where no one will witness our words, if that is what holds you from speaking.”

  “Aye. Who might hear is what holds my tongue.” Durand could not stay the words from spilling from his mouth. “Your face, your evasive glance, betray you daily. Each touch of your hand to her declares your guilt.”

  Luke bowed his head. “We fought it, but—”

  “Did you? Not hard enough, it appears.” Durand swung from his brother to the harbor. “What does it matter? I’ll claim her no matter her circumstances. I’ve no other choice, for, in truth, she has laid claim to a part of my heart.”

  “Your heart? You are cold as ice! You may lust after a woman, but you have nothing to offer a—”

  Durand swung around. “Lust? A woman? What are you talking about?”

  “Nona. You cannot love her. Your every word is sharp-edged or you ignore her completely!” Luke fisted his hands on his hips.

  “Nona? I’m speaking of Felice.” Durand stared at his brother.

  “F-Felice? I don’t understand. What has Felice to do with you and Nona?”

  “Nothing. But I don’t wish to speak of Nona.” Durand approached his brother. “Do you deny you are Felice’s father?”

  “Felice’s father?” Luke shook his head. “Are you mad? You—” He broke off, his mouth agape. Luke stumbled back against the rock. “You question Felice’s parentage?”

  Durand could not bear the gently spoken question. And it was too late to withdraw the accusation. “I don’t question her parentage. I know her parentage. She is Marion’s without doubt, but not mine—equally without doubt.”

  With the admission, some part of the festering wound was lanced. He went to his horse and hid some of his emotion in tightening his girth and checking his stirrups.

  “Sweet Jesu.” Luke stormed to where he stood. “You believe Marion and I…that we…” He snatched up his reins. “You think I have so little care of you I would trespass on your wife?”

  Durand looked away. “Aye. I trust no one.”

  “Then I pity you.” Luke leapt into the saddle. In moments, he was gone.

  A roiling confusion filled Durand. If Luke’s guilt was over Nona, then his attentions to Felice were merely those of an uncle—and similar to how he had always treated Robert and Adrian. It was an ugly parting. And he didn’t expect to ever return.

  * * * * *

  Father Laurentius entered Ravenswood’s armory behind Durand. He nodded stiffly to the priest as he belted on the sword given him by Gilles d’Argent. He placed several daggers into a leather roll which he then tied up and stuffed into a saddlebag. In another he placed bread and cheese, a sack of coins, the two rings from the king, and the Aelfric.

  “I have some news you may wish to hear,” the priest said.

  “I have no time for gossip.” Durand pulled on his mantle and secured it with a gold pin incised with ravens in flight. Every part of his garb bore ravens, from his daggers to his surcoat. He wanted de Warre to have no doubts who came to claim his sons.

  Durand hefted his shield and helm and strode from the armory to where Marauder waited. The priest trailed after him. Next to the destrier was a gentle mare, also saddled.

  “‘Tis not gossip. I must tell you that against my advice, Mistress le Gros took herself to Winchester this morn.”

  “Cristina went to Winchester?” Durand paused in the act of strapping the bags to his saddle. He had been about to collect her from the village. “Why?”

  “It seems John had made an offer to her and she decided to take him up on it.”

  Durand stared at the priest. “John? What kind of offer?”

  “Please, we are well aware of what kind of offer our king would extend to a woman such as Mistress le Gros.”

  “Make sense.” Durand restrained himself from shaking the aged priest.

  “You see.” Laurentius moved closer and dropped his voice to a whisper so that those who moved about the inner bailey might not hear his words. “There’s a very sweet young clerk in John’s service who oft shares gossip with me—for a small remuneration, of course, but nothing harmful, mind you.”

  “Get on with it!” Durand bit out.

  “Well, this young man told me Mistress le Gros traded herself for your sons.” Laurentius dusted his hands together. “There, I have said it all. My conscience is clear.”

  Durand snatched Laurentius by the cassock. “What in God’s holy name are you saying?”

  “Contain yourself, my lord!” Laurentius said in a hiss. “Eyes are upon us.”

  Durand dropped the priest as if his hand burned. He lowered his voice. “Explain the meaning of this tale.”

  “Your mistress became the king’s mistress in promise of the release of your sons. She is, at this moment, traveling to de Warre’s castle.”

  Durand ran past the priest and leapt into his saddle. He jerked the reins and in mome
nts was through the inner bailey. At the outer gates he reined Marauder in. Luke and Penne waited there, fully armed.

  It struck him with the force of a blow; despite his harsh words with Luke, his brother was prepared to risk his life and livelihood on his behalf. Penne, too. Durand felt humbled.

  “De Warre has Cristina as well,” Durand just managed. Without another word the men turned and followed him across the bridge and onto the road.

  * * * * *

  The sky was black with clouds as de Warre’s castle came into view. It was more a fortified manor house than a castle, but still its high palisades and formidable gates looked impregnable to Cristina.

  Sheets of rain filled the ruts in the road to overflowing. The enclosed wagon in which she sat slowed to a near crawl. Water dripped in the small opening that offered a bit of air to the wagon’s occupants along with the limited view.

  Each step of the horse toward the manor house on the horizon was a step closer to her new life. De Warre’s property lay on the road halfway between Winchester and Marlborough. The castle itself was said to sit on a lake crafted by fairies and inhabited by dragons. She stroked the seal on the king’s missive.

  Durand’s sons would be safe.

  He would not want her once she had lain with the king.

  He would be wed to Nona and lost to her no matter her circumstances.

  She had made her choice. Verily, there was truth in Aristophanes’s words. “There was nothing so shameless as a woman…“ She would not be ashamed.

  * * * * *

  Nona led her horse and Oriel’s into the sheltering arms of a stout English oak. Rain streamed from their mantles and steam rose from their mounts. She turned to Oriel. “This was beyond foolish, was it not?”

  “We could not let them go off on their own!” Oriel offered up a silent prayer that her child would not suffer from this headlong dash after Penne and Luke.

  Nona sighed. “Nay, we could not. But I would trade two of my manors for a warm fire just now.”

  The women huddled closer together.

  “Father Laurentius is sure this is where they are going.” Oriel bit her lip. “Thank God your maid told you of the king’s intentions. If she were not enamored of Laurentius’ groom, we would never have discovered it.” Oriel cleared her throat. “Durand must love Cristina very much to go after her this way.”