Lord of the Mist

by Ann Lawrence

  Nona pulled her hood closer about her head. “You must acknowledge he is also going after his sons.”

  Oriel nodded. “Aye, but don’t forget, she, too, must greatly love Durand to exchange herself for two boys she has never met.” They walked their horses back onto the roadbed when the rain abated. “Could you wed Durand now?” Oriel ventured. “Knowing he loves Cristina?”

  “The question is whether Durand will have Cristina once he learns what she has done. Such folly.” Nona’s words were matter-of-fact.

  Oriel persisted. “But will you want Durand?”

  Nona considered the sky. “I’ll wed a de Marle; doubt it not.”

  “I wish Penne loved me half so much,” Oriel said wistfully.

  “He adores you! Now stop sniveling and let us get along!”

  Nona kicked her horse into a canter and took to the road.

  * * * * *

  Edward de Warre was a balding man of about two score years. He was missing his left arm, which explained why he was not called upon to make the journey to Normandy. He held out his right hand. Cristina offered him the missive.

  He broke the seal with his thumb and shook out the parchment. “Latin?” de Warre said with a sneer. “For what purpose does the king write me in Latin?” He barked an order, and in a few moments a priest arrived.

  The young man scanned the king’s missive. “This is most private in nature, my lord.”

  The two men went to the hearth, where several ranks of candles cast a brilliant light on a table.

  Cristina shivered in apprehension. She was not invited to the light nor to the warmth of the fire, but if she had, it would mean standing near to de Warre. He murdered children. Just being in his presence frightened her.

  The priest used his finger to mark his place as he read aloud. Cristina couldn’t hear the king’s words, and didn’t need to. De Warre lifted his head and smiled at her when the priest finished.

  “Come, Cristina; come join me.” He beckoned her closer.

  De Warre helped her remove her mantle and pulled a roomy oak chair carved with his arms toward the fire for her ease. She sat gingerly on the edge. “Will the boys be returning in my cart?”

  De Warre shook his head. “I’ll provide a better conveyance when the rain lets up.”

  “Then might I meet them and ascertain they’re in good health?” She spread her damp skirts to the fire’s warmth.

  “But of course.” He nodded to the priest, who bowed and departed into the shadows at the end of the narrow hall. “After you have met them, we’ll see you are placed in a chamber suitable for the king’s pleasure.” He gave her a hard smile. “He comes here from time to time and much likes his pleasures ready and waiting.”

  The cold of the storm outside settled within her, and she suspected she would never be warm again.

  * * * * *

  Durand knelt on a small rise and watched de Warre’s gates. He pounded the ground with his fist. “We’re too late. That cart carried her in; I’m sure of it.”

  Luke and Penne, stretched at his side, agreed.

  “Aye,” Luke said. “‘Tis one of the king’s conveyances. Why not ride down there now and demand entrance? De Warre is not expecting us, and we can snatch the boys and Cristina before he raises an alarm.”

  “That was my first intention, but the rain has washed some sense into me.” Durand glanced up at the angry gray sky, then to the walled castle. He might never see his boys or Cristina again. “I’ll not put their lives in jeopardy with a foolish plan. We will wait to see if de Warre releases my sons now that he has Cristina.”

  Cristina had given herself for his sons. He owed her a debt not payable in this lifetime.

  Together they watched and waited for three hours. The gates remained closed. A powerful need to act swept over Durand.

  “I’m going after them.” Durand leaped to his feet, but Luke and Penne restrained him. “De Warre cannot muster many men,” Durand argued. “The most able are in Portsmouth ready for the offensive.” Durand tore from their grip. “I’ll not wait any longer.”

  “Mayhap de Warre will release them on the morrow, when the weather improves. Come, let us wait a bit longer.” Penne cajoled him back to their vantage point.

  But Durand knew de Warre would never release his sons.

  “The king will hang us all together, I imagine, when he learns we’re gone.” Luke adjusted his mantle closer about his neck.

  “Did you know the ravens are gone from Ravenswood?” Durand watched Luke and Penne exchange a glance.

  Penne cleared his throat. “This damnable rain set us back but a few miles, else we would have had Cristina on the road and been back to Ravenswood ere John discovered we were gone,” Penne noted.

  “The boys would still have been hostages,” Durand pointed out. He dug in his saddle bag and drew out the Aelfric which had caused so many difficulties in their lives.

  “What need have you of that?” Luke asked.

  Durand turned the book about in his hand to be sure the oiled cloth in which it was wrapped protected it still. “It was the source of all this trouble. I thought, as it is so valuable, it might serve as a bribe.”

  Penne shook his head. “To a heathen such as de Warre? Never.”

  * * * * *

  Durand’s sons were brought to her in the hall within an hour of her arrival. Adrian, at ten and five, showed all the markings of a handsome man. Save his vivid blue eyes, he was enough like his father to bring a huge lump to Cristina’s throat.

  Robert was still a gangly, awkward boy of ten and two, and resembled his mother with his softer blue eyes and light, golden brown hair. His features were still childlike, and Cristina could not imagine what had shaped de Warre that he could so mercilessly hang someone so innocent.

  The boys did not bow to her, but she was not a fine lady to be insulted by their omission. Nay, she was now a king’s mistress and deserved no such respect.

  “Thank you,” she said to de Warre when they were escorted to a table far from hers.

  “They’re quite well, as you can see.” De Warre’s hand was hot where he pressed it to her back as he led her to a table at the fore of his hall.

  “When do they leave?” Cristina asked again. The many who sat at the tables were curious about her, their gazes following her every step. They were de Warre’s men or other young boys being trained as knights. Their glances were as wary as those of Durand’s sons.

  De Warre lifted his hand and one of the servants hurried away. “We shall have some music to celebrate your arrival,” de Warre said. “My minstrels are not as talented as the king’s, but you’ll not be disappointed, I think.”

  “When will the boys leave?” she persisted.

  “Mayhap you would give me your opinion on the entertainments I have planned for John’s arrival on the morrow.”

  “On the morrow?” She dropped her goblet, and the wine spilled across the table to drip to the stone floor.

  De Warre snapped his fingers. A serving boy rushed forward to clean up the mess. “Aye. ‘Twas in the king’s message. I was to prepare for him. I’ve been waiting for such an honor since he last visited, and can now put to action some fine plans. You shall certainly add something sweet to end the entertainment.”

  The king was coming on the morrow? What had become of his plans to sail to Normandy? Then she heard the drumming of rain on the roof overhead. It must be the weather, she thought. She had expected to have several months before the king claimed her.

  “When will the boys leave?” she asked again.

  De Warre rubbed her hand. “In a few days. They’ll want to see the king and enjoy the festivities, will they not?”

  Cristina suddenly understood. The boys would never leave. And now she was another hostage to Durand’s cooperation. She forced herself to contain her fears of betrayal. De Warre must not know what she was thinking.

  “What’s the nature of your entertainment?” Cristina asked hastily.

 
De Warre leaned forward with avid enthusiasm. “A mock battle to honor John’s prowess in war. He shall be greatly pleased.”

  Or heartily annoyed, since his own war plans were in abeyance, she thought.

  “And when John is pleased, he likes something sweet at the end of an evening. That part of the plan eluded me, but here you are, and now all is complete.” He pressed her hand and smiled.

  * * * * *

  Luke kept watch on the road whilst Penne and Durand argued over a means of breaching de Warre’s gates. He opened his eyes wider and shook his head. He must be dreaming.

  “Penne. Durand. Look!” He pointed to the road.

  “Oriel,” Penne cried.

  Durand abandoned his vantage point overlooking the castle and strode to the small hillock on which could be seen the greater part of the road. “Jesu! And who’s that with her?”

  The men mounted up and angled their way through the trees to the road. Durand hissed a warning. “Wait in the trees until they draw near lest there be some trickery in the offing.”

  The women appeared to be completely alone. Nona and Oriel both screamed when the men emerged like phantoms from the wood.

  Penne snatched Oriel’s reins from her hands and, without ceremony or word, hauled her horse along behind him, into the safety of the trees.

  Nona waited in the road—alone. Neither Luke nor Durand claimed her. She turned her horse and followed Oriel. Within moments the five of them found themselves back in the hollow where the men had lain.

  “Explain yourself!” Penne demanded the instant Oriel’s feet hit the dirt, but gave his wife not one moment to speak. “You, who are with child, risk your health! For what?”

  “How did you guess?” Oriel threw herself into his arms. She clung to his neck and kissed his cheek.

  “A husband knows,” he said. His arms went around her and with a sheepish look in his friends’ direction, he patted her back.

  Nona rolled her eyes. “Let me explain, my lords. We knew you were going after Cristina and thought you might need our help.”

  Luke tucked his gloves into his belt and threw his mantle over one shoulder. “You, lady, are mistaken. We need no help from you. When you are rested, you will return to Ravenswood ere some harm befalls you.”

  Durand watched Nona’s face set into stubborn lines. She was just what Luke needed. “What made you think you could aid us, my lady?” Durand asked her. “And what will John think when you’re no longer too ill to wed, but well enough to dash about the country?”

  “Oh, my maid is putting it about that Oriel has caught my illness, and I left orders that only my maid may tend me. My chamber will be avoided lest we have the plague.”

  Durand acknowledged the sense of that with a slight bow, but doubted the ruse would stand up for more than a day or two.

  Nona continued as she tugged off her gloves. “This maid of mine makes love to Laurentius’ groom. It seems he heard some gossip that the king has no intention of exchanging Cristina for your sons.”

  Durand felt no surprise, only an inner chill.

  “So,” Nona said, taking a seat on a fallen branch. “We’re here to help you.”

  Luke snorted in derision. Penne was too busy kissing his wife to pay them any mind.

  Nona lifted her chin and impaled Luke with a haughty stare. “And women can ofttimes go where men cannot.”

  Durand stared down at the silent fortress. The gates were shut. The rain had diminished to a light mist.

  Durand nodded. “I believe, Lady Nona, you are the answer to our prayers. Thankful I am you’ve arrived, for I was about to despair of ever seeing my sons—or Cristina—again.”

  An hour later, Durand had outlined a plan for the women to enter de Warre’s castle and determine the whereabouts of the postern gate. Once they had the information, they were to open it, if possible, or leave immediately.

  Oriel hooked her arm through her husband’s and tried to reassure him. “We’ll not be harmed, my love. De Warre knows us not. We’ll be just Nona and Oriel, sisters lost on the way to the Abbey at Ludgershall, seeking shelter for the night. We’ll certainly be warmer there than out here. You men must trust us.”

  Durand rose hastily and left them.

  “What did I say?” Oriel asked the company.

  “Nothing amiss. ‘Tis just you have asked the impossible. Durand trusts no one,” Luke said bitterly.

  * * * * *

  Cristina sat at de Warre’s side for the evening meal. She did not need to see shackles on Durand’s sons to know they—and she—were prisoners. Did Adrian and Robert understand their status had changed from fostered sons to hostage ones? Two large men accompanied the boys to the hall and sat on either side of them as they ate.

  She had her own guard in de Warre, who touched her arm each time she shifted in her seat. His constant references to the king’s pleasure turned her stomach. The row of charred partridges before her did naught to tempt her appetite either.

  “Might I seek my bed? I’m exhausted from the journey.” She smiled her warmest smile at her host.

  De Warre plucked up her hand and kissed the back. Her skin crawled as if a serpent slithered up her hand. “As you wish.” He directed a sullen girl to take her to her chamber.

  Once out of de Warre’s sight, Cristina cast off her fatigue. “Can you show me to the jakes? And, if I may say, you have very pretty skin. I have a fine cream that would bring out the rose bloom on your cheeks.”

  The girl flushed and smiled tentatively. By the time they had walked to the jakes, they were the best of friends. Cristina’s next request, that she be shown about the castle, was quickly granted.

  As the serving girl shared the castle secrets, Cristina shared her mother’s directions for removing freckles and adding shine to hair.

  * * * * *

  “We need to put some of our anger behind us,” Luke said to Durand as they watched the women make their way to the castle. Penne, who stood a bit aside, gnawed his thumb in anxiety for his wife’s safety.

  “How?” Durand strode to his brother and stood inches from him. “How do I put aside a betrayal?”

  “No one here betrayed you.” Luke did not back away. His words were heated. “I’m not Felice’s father any more than Penne is.”

  “How can I know that?” Durand was tired of the whole business. It sapped his energy that was better set to rescuing the woman he loved.

  “You do know that! You know me! Has a lifetime of brotherhood meant nothing?” Luke gripped his sleeve.

  Trust the history you have with a person. Durand heard Cristina’s words as if she was there at his side. Grief that he might never hear her again swept over him.

  “Cristina said much the same thing.” He placed his hand on his dagger. His fingertips traced the raven’s head. “She also said sometimes one must make a leap of faith.”

  “Marion and I kept each other company whilst you were gone, but I never touched her. I have never lain with a married woman—ever. Their husbands have swords.” He gave a lopsided smile.

  Durand could not respond to the levity.

  “And Penne,” Luke pointed to where their friend was chewing his thumb bloody over his wife, “he can see no farther than Oriel’s fingertips.”

  “Then who fathered Felice?” Just saying the words aloud further lanced the wound. “Am I left with only the king as suspect?”

  “Marion had no love of John,” Luke said, but Durand watched his gaze slide away.

  “What do you know?” Durand demanded.

  With a sigh, Luke answered. “I only know Marion much loved to flirt. She was lonely, and lonely women sometimes stray.”

  Nona and Oriel reached the gate, ending Luke and Durand’s discourse. In moments, as Nona had predicted, the gate opened and they rode inside.

  Luke put out his hand. “Know this. I pledge myself to your service at any time or any place, save this—I want Nona. And we’ll take Felice from your care, if that is what you wish.”

>   How had he doubted his brother?

  “You’re welcome to Nona.” Durand clasped his brother’s hand. “But Felice is mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cristina paced within the silence of the king’s richly appointed apartment. Might he ride through the night as de Warre hinted? She shuddered. Quickly she looked through the few herbs she had brought. If she was careful and clever, she might postpone the consummation of her folly.

  But first she relieved the engorgement of her breasts. As the milk flowed, so did her tears. Had Felice accepted Rose yet? She dearly wished for Felice’s happiness, but had to stifle jealous desires that the babe miss her.

  Next she pummeled a few leaves into a paste. They would blend well with water and raise a rash within a few hours.

  Finally Cristina lay on her pallet in the anteroom to the king’s chamber. Her bed was thinly stuffed with straw. John’s was draped in silk, tied with gold cord, his mattress stuffed with goosedown. She prayed she would never know its softness.

  A tentative scratching at the door set her heart to drumming in her chest. But it was only the serving girl, Maud, who’d shown her about the castle.

  “Miss,” Maud said, “there’s two in the hall that looks like fine ladies, but they’re cold and might need a bit o’ yer care.”

  Cristina nearly fainted when she saw who sat in abject misery in the corner of the hall, their mantles soaked, their hems bedraggled. She strode quickly to them ere the men who still lingered at their ale and dice might accost her.

  “Come,” she whispered with scarcely a look at them. She hastened down a gallery, then out into the kitchen gardens.

  Luckily Oriel and Nona followed without demur.

  The women walked in the light rain among the rows of vegetables, safe from even the cook’s gaze at this late hour.

  “What possessed you to come here?” Cristina demanded.

  “We had to deliver a message to the men,” Nona said.