Lord of the Mist (13 page)

Her heart throbbing in her throat, she stood up, pulling her
hand from under his. “I must…if I may ask, my lord that is…I don’t know what to
do…Felice needs—”

“We’ll see to her,” he said. “But first, sit. I have
questions to ask you.”

She felt a cold chill down her spine. Clutching her
headcloth tightly, she sat on the edge of the stump.

Simon’s son could not be dead.

Lord Durand’s gray eyes were dark, his expression kind, but
also closed, like a coffer hiding its treasures. He remained on one knee by
her, but did not touch her this time.

“What questions, my lord?”

“You knew of Simon’s son?”

With a quick nod, she looked down at her hands. “I know he
has
a son.”

And Durand knew he must cause her pain, possibly
immeasurable pain. He could not ask the most important question, though he had
planned to be direct. She was too pale, her fingers crushing the fabric in her
hands, plucking at stitches.

“Let us assume for a moment that I’m right, that the boy is
Simon’s. Do you know how the boy could have come to be with the bishop?”

“Nay, in truth, I’ve never met Simon’s son. His name is
Hugh, my lord,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Named for Simon’s
father. He lived—lives—in Winchester with his mother, although I’ve never, that
is…Simon kept him separate.”

“How did you know of him?” Durand watched her milk pale skin
blotch red.

“Simon told me. After the death of our first daughter. The boy
was ten, I believe, at the time. I’ve been wed to Simon but nine years, so ‘tis
naught of my business to inquire beyond what Simon—”

“Thought you should know?” Durand asked sharply, rising and
striding to the edge of the clearing, his steps tearing the fog.

“Aye, my lord. Do not condemn him. Would you have shared
your bastards with Lady Marion?”

He whipped around. “I have no bastards, Mistress le Gros.
Now. Do you know how Hugh came to be with the bishop?”

“Was the young man not a guard?” She tipped her head back to
stare up at him, and he bit back some of his anger at the blank look upon her
face. “That surely proves ‘tis not Simon’s son. Hugh works for a baker in
Winchester, I believe. How could a baker’s boy rise to such a position with the
bishop?”

“A simple bribe would gain him a place if the boy was not
really with the bishop at all.”

Cristina rose. Her hair slipped over one shoulder as she
hastened to where he stood. “What are you saying?”

“The boy said his father had taken my Aelfric and sold it to
the bishop. The boy was delivering it.”

“The Aelfric?” She stared at him blankly for a moment, and
immense relief swept through Durand. If Simon had stolen the book, she had not
aided him.

“Aye.” Durand touched her lightly on the shoulder, her hair
silk beneath his fingers. “Did Simon know I had a copy?”

“He would not take your Aelfric!” she insisted. “Nay, my
lord. Nay. Why would he do such a thing? You’re wrong!”

“The sum the Aelfric would fetch might be very tempting. Did
Simon know about my Aelfric?”

“He saw it in my chamber,” she whispered.

“Should we ask Simon about his son in Winchester?”

Durand chastised himself for not saying what he thought. Why
did he dance about the point? Because she was near to fainting. She swayed on
her feet, and he clasped her shoulders to keep her upright. Her shoulders were
thin beneath his hands. “Come. I’ll take you to your husband.”

He lifted her onto Marauder’s back and climbed up behind
her. She felt small within the circle of his arms, not coming against him, not
seeking shelter or comfort in his embrace.

With no thought this time of lust, he wrapped one arm about
her waist and drew her against his chest. She shuddered once and then rested,
her soft hair grazing his cheek, and he kept his arm around her that she might
not fall. He sensed she was not really aware of her surroundings, the trees
that plucked at his mantle, the rattle of wood beneath the horse’s hooves as
they crossed the old bridge near the merchant’s cottage.

In the yard he dismounted and then reached up to clasp her
about the waist. She clamped her hands on his arms and allowed him to swing her
down. She had lost her headcovering somewhere along the way.

For a brief moment they remained that way, his hands on her
waist, her hands on his arms.

“I will help you,” he said, not sure what he meant, only
knowing she needed someone at this moment for he was about to take her world
apart.

In his heart, he knew she would hate him for it on the
morrow.

Cristina preceded Durand into Simon’s abode. He stood before
the hearth talking to a young woman dressed in a simple kirtle and gown of gray
wool. Cristina recognized her as the innkeeper’s daughter and felt Lord Durand
stiffen beside her.

“Ah, my lord,” Simon said. He flushed a deep red. “It is
good of you to escort my wife.” He cleared his throat. “This is Agnes. She’ll
see to the cooking and scrubbing from now on.”

“That’s good, Simon,” Cristina said, unable to look at Lord
Durand, who stood by the door. Tension radiated from his body.

“Agnes, see that a boy tends my horse and remain in the yard
until we call for you,” Lord Durand said abruptly, and the girl made a quick
curtsy and slipped out the door. “Now that we’re alone, le Gros, I’ve a matter
of grave importance to discuss with you.” His voice was hard, but when he
placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch was gentle. “Would you like to wait
outside?”

Cristina stepped from his touch. “Nay, my lord. I’ll not be
sent away like a child.” Her face felt wretchedly hot, but she would know every
word Simon spoke, see his face when Lord Durand asked his questions. Know that
Lord Durand was wrong.

“What is this about, my lord?” Simon shoved his hands up
into his sleeves.

“Do you know the youth who died under Master Aldwin’s care?
The boy from the bishop’s party?”

There was something of a threat in the way Lord Durand’s
hand rested on the hilt of his raven’s-head dagger.

“I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I’ve never seen the
young man before.” Simon shook his head.

“Your wife said there was something familiar about the boy,
and I agree. I believe he looks like you.”

Cristina watched her husband pace before the hearth. His
lips were as pale as his face. His hands, thrust up his sleeves, shed no light
upon his agitation. He did not meet her gaze.

“I know him not. And if the boy looks like someone of
Cristina’s acquaintance, then she is wandering beyond
my
knowledge and
must answer for it.”

“Simon!” She made to go to his side, but Lord Durand held
her still with a quick shake of his head.

“Can you deny you were greatly affected by the sight of the
wounded boy?” Lord Durand crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’ll not deny that, my lord. I’ve never seen such a wound,
nor smelled one. It sickened me. I was moved by pity, my lord, nothing more.”

Lord Durand turned to her. “Did you not see something
familiar in the youth?”

“Aye. But I thought of Felice, my lord.”

She felt Simon’s emotion as tangibly as if he had raised the
stick he threatened her with so often and actually struck her.

“Felice! You waste our lord’s time with your nonsense! You
will shut your mouth and speak only when I bid you do so, wife.”

“I beg your indulgence, le Gros.” Durand lifted a staying
hand. “Penne saw a resemblance as well, though not to the babe your wife
nurses. He saw you. Is the dead boy your son Hugh?”

“Hugh’s with his mother in Winchester. Cristina has never
even seen the boy. She’s not his mother and knows nothing of him at all.”

Cristina bowed her head. She had heard those words so
often—that she knew nothing. But Lord Durand was wrong. The boy could not be
Simon’s. Simon would never lie about such a thing. When she looked at the two
men, Lord Durand met her gaze, his eyes filled with pity. She turned from him
to her husband.

He looked away.

Lord Durand shrugged. “It is of little moment, and the
question easily answered. Fetch your son from Winchester.”

“But my lord,” Simon protested. “I have several men coming
on the morrow for a millstone—”

“They can wait.” Durand strode from the cottage into the
yard. “You’ll come to the keep with me, mistress. Felice misses you, I’m sure.”

In the yard, the boy Simon had hired to tend the old horse
was standing with Lord Durand’s destrier, patting the great horse’s neck. Agnes
sat on a bench, her back against the wall beneath the window, likely eavesdropping
for what tidbits she could share at the well.

Durand praised the boy’s care of his horse, then mounted and
put out his hand to her.

When she looked at Simon, he turned away and beckoned the
boy, leaving her to be pulled up by Lord Durand. “Saddle my horse,” Simon said
to the boy. “I must get to Winchester.”

This time she did not ride before Lord Durand on his horse,
but behind him, her arms about his waist. She found it almost impossible to
bear. How hard and unyielding his body was against hers. Not like that of her
dreams.

Fear filled her. This man held such power over her—not just
in physical temptation, but in his dealings with Simon.

The instant the horse came to a halt by the keep steps, she
slid off and ran up the steps, two at a time, heedless of what Lord Durand
might think.

Instead of heading for Felice, she darted down to Aldwin’s
lair. He was stirring something black and noisome.

“Oh, ‘tis you. What do you want?” he asked, and went back to
his task.

“The bishop’s guard? Where is he?”

Aldwin gestured vaguely to the soot-blackened ceiling. “At
the chapel, being readied for burial.”

“Thank you.” She curtsied, then ran back through the keep,
out the door, and across the bailey to the chapel. Inside, she found Father Odo
and the tightly wrapped body of the boy.

It was too late. She could not see those waxen features for
herself, could only conjure them in her imagination.

“Mistress le Gros!” Father Odo rose off his knees with a
groan. “How may I help you?”

“Oh. That is…I came to pray for the boy.”

Father Odo took her arm and led her to the bier. How
different it all looked from when Lady Marion had lain here, flower-bedecked.
“He needs our prayers. There’s no one to mourn him, and the others will be
buried at the abbey. No one from the abbey claimed him, I’m afraid.”

No one from the abbey claimed him
. She knelt on a
soft cushion and folded her hands. The good father faded away and she tried to
pray for the boy’s soul, but her mind kept returning to Lord Durand’s
suspicions. He must be wrong. Simon would fetch his son and prove him wrong.

No one from the abbey had claimed him

* * * * *

Durand offered Joseph a small purse. “Use what you need. The
man may try to disappear, and I would be most grievously angered if he
succeeds.”

“I’ll see where he goes. He’ll not escape from me, my lord.
Ye know me well enough to know that.”

“Aye, ‘tis why I’ve chosen you. Take a good horse and stay
in the shadows.”

Durand walked Joseph to the stable. When his squire was gone
to follow Simon le Gros, he wandered about. He had no private space in which to
brood. His chamber was now the royal apartment. Other chambers overflowed with
barons and their men. He turned to the chapel. He would pray he was wrong, that
Simon would appear with his son, that Cristina was not wed to a thief.

Did her pale face and anxious defense of the man bespeak
love? She had not spoken of love in the garden, he thought as he entered the
chapel.

The boy’s body lay on a bier, a fragrant garland of dried
flowers draped over it. He recognized Cristina’s work. A simple rose lay on the
boy’s breast.

Was it his imagination that he could catch her scent on the
air? Somehow, her care of the boy tightened his throat. He put his hand there
and his fingers encountered his torque. If Simon ran, or if Simon could not
produce his son, Durand knew he would pursue the man for theft of the Aelfric.
He had judged other such crimes and enacted heavy penalties.

And if Cristina loved Simon, would she ever forgive him?

From a bench in the hall, Cristina watched the evening sun
slip away. One of the queen’s waiting maids was making love to a knight in
Felice’s chamber, and all assigned a sleeping space there must await their
pleasure. In truth, Cristina dreaded sleep. Would her dreams betray her again?
And when would Simon return?

Her throat was scratchy; her head pounded. Felice had fussed
all evening and finally fallen asleep in her arms. Each time she tried to set
her in her basket, she woke and set up a howl. There was naught to do about
preparing Luke’s hair salve while the child fussed and waiting maids made love.

She kissed the babe and closed her eyes, listening to the
hum of conversation between the ladies surrounding the queen in the hall.

“Who is that magnificent man who just entered?” Lady Sabina
whispered to Oriel. Cristina had not the strength to look up.

“Gilles d’Argent,” Oriel said, laying aside her stitching.

“I’ve heard much of him,” Sabina said, smoothing her skirts.

“Aye, Penne and I wagered he would come late. His wife is
said to have just birthed their fifth son.”

“I’d birth ten sons for such a man.”

“He’s a hard-looking man,” Oriel said. “He frightens me.”

As the party of men who had just arrived in the hall
approached the king, Cristina saw whom it was they discussed. The baron was tall
and black-haired, bearded, hard of face and unrelenting in his manner. Even the
king seemed to be honored by his presence. The baron had an entourage of seven
knights. One was his son, she heard as the king greeted each man. The son,
Nicholas d’Argent, was a handsome man.

Oriel nudged Cristina’s side. “Now, the son has none of the
harshness of the father. He would appeal much more to me.”

“You’ll be able to test his appeal,” Sabina said. “Your
husband brings him.”

The ladies rose to greet Lord Penne and the newly arrived
Nicholas d’Argent. He bowed over each lady’s hand and even Cristina’s, which
she considered a kindness.

Sabina drew the newly arrived man’s attention to her. “You
and your father come late to the king, do you not?” Sabina chastised, one hand
on d’Argent’s arm.

“My father’s wife was lying in. You could not peel my father
from her side.”

“So we understand. The troubadours make much of your father
and his
weaver
wife,” Sabina said with a bit of a sneer.

Cristina stroked Felice’s back, but paid more attention to
the conversation. Gilles d’Argent had married a weaver? She found the idea
ludicrous. Men so high did not marry women so low.

“Aye,” Nicholas said with a slight bow. “My father’s
weaver
wife is a beautiful, talented woman. He would give his life for her. Other
women can only envy his devotion.”

Oriel caught Cristina’s eye and winked. Lord Nicholas had
certainly told Sabina he cared naught for her opinion.

“Have you a wife?” Oriel asked.

Nicholas smiled. “Aye. My wife is a gifted healer and it is
only her promise to care for my father’s wife that persuaded him to heed the
king’s command.”

“He would defy a king?” Cristina wanted to snatch the words
into her mouth. The ladies and their maids turned in her direction. She saw
concern on Oriel’s face and contempt on the others’, but Nicholas d’Argent
merely smiled.

“Oh, aye. ‘Tis why I am here. To see he does not have
himself cast into a dungeon or say something to start a baronial war. And you
are?” he asked.

But Lady Sabina waved a hand. “She is naught but a wet
nurse.”

Lady Nona joined the group. “This is Cristina le Gros,
Nicholas.” She linked her arm through Cristina’s. “A woman as talented as your
own Catherine with herbs, but not in the healing vein. She makes soaps that
would have you think you were bathing in a pool in Eden.”

Cristina felt her face heat with the compliment.

“Lady Nona!” Nicholas d’Argent did not kiss Lady Nona’s
hand. He engulfed her in a swift hug and kissed each of her cheeks. “You are
more lovely than ever.”

“And you flatter well. Come, Nicholas, Oriel, Penne, sit
here by me. And Cristina, bring that sweet babe with you.” She turned toward an
alcove with two cushioned benches. As much as Cristina appreciated the lady’s
defense of her, she could not abide their banter one moment more.

“Pray, excuse me,” Cristina said, and hurried across the
hall. The king and the newly arrived men were drinking ale and wine and
speaking in hard tones with little levity today.

She had nowhere to go, no place to call her own here in the
keep. She could not leave, could not go to Felice’s chamber.

Without thought, she found herself at the garden gate. She
turned the key and wandered the paths, holding Felice in her arms. This space
was not hers either. The garden’s design reflected a desire for beauty but no
knowledge of what plants needed. Sun-loving blossoms lingered in shady corners;
delicate blooms withered in sun. It brought no comfort to wander here. This was
where
he
had kissed her, and in doing so, torn apart her comfort, her
ease, so that even her pillow betrayed her.

Stars filled the ink-black sky overhead, but instead of
filling her with awe, they reminded her of the gems in Lady Nona’s circlet and
stitched onto Queen Isabelle’s gowns.

Locking Lady Marion’s garden, she headed for the stable
area, but the arrival of d’Argent had also meant the arrival of many more
horses and men. The heat of the forge drew many to stand about and talk of the
coming offensive against Philip.

There must be privacy somewhere. She found herself near the
postern gate. Cristina knew it was meant to be a secret exit for use in times
of siege. Alice’s idle tongue had informed her of the gate’s location. A man
lolled on a bench there, not obviously a guard, but one nonetheless.

Cristina was about to head back to the inner bailey when the
sentry rose, ambled a few steps away, lifted his tunic, and began to relieve
himself. She turned with some embarrassment and took a step into the shadows. A
hand reached out and grabbed her.

* * * * *

The king’s personal guard had said not a word as he dragged
her unceremoniously to the bowels of Ravenswood Castle and a damp cell. She had
stared at the dish of oil and the smoking wick for more than an hour before she
heard footsteps followed by a key turning in the lock.

The Lord Durand who released her was not the Lord Durand who
had kissed her. There was no gentleness in his manner as he swung the key on a
large iron ring.

“Mistress le Gros. This way.” He gestured her out of the
cell.

“I cannot,” she said, touching Felice, who was greedily
nursing at her breast.

His jaw clenched. He turned to the guard. “When Mistress le
Gros is able, escort her to me,” he said. The door clanged shut behind him.

Cristina heard the angry words Lord Durand directed at the
guard once the door was locked behind them. “Are you mad? You imprison a
child?”

“I am duty bound to protect the king,” the guard said
stiffly.

“Even from babes?” Durand demanded.

The guard sputtered an excuse, but Lord Durand accepted
none. “I’ll hold you responsible if even one cough issues from the child’s
lips. Do you understand?” Lord Durand snapped. The men moved off, and in a few
moments silence fell.

At least he cared for the babe’s welfare.

She took her time with Felice, delaying Lord Durand’s wrath.
How could she soften it? What ill luck to have been found by the king’s man.
The Ravenswood guards would most likely have just bantered a few words with her
about the weather or the war.

Finally there was not a drop of milk left, and Felice was
nodding and kneading her breast, a sure sign of imminent sleep. With dragging
footsteps and a heavy heart, Cristina followed an anxious Ravenswood sentry
when he opened the cell. She ignored his nagging inquiries after Felice’s
health.

Lord Durand was in the counting room, a roaring fire at his
back. He stood with his hands locked behind him, his legs spread.

“You may leave Mistress le Gros with me,” he informed the
sentry.

“You were running away,” he accused as soon as they were
alone.

“Running away? Nay, my lord. Why would I do such a thing?
Where would I go?”

“How do you come to know where to find the postern gate?”

“Alice. But I pray, my lord, do not punish her; she gossips
from time to time, but I would not have her suffer for it.”

“So. You did know you were at the postern gate. Now explain
why you were there.” His gray eyes were stormy. Even his hair seemed angry.

Cristina looked down at his boots. Mud stained them, as it
did the hem of his black surcoat. “I needed solitude, my lord.”

“What of your chamber?”

“I have no chamber, my lord,” she said, anger rising to
color her words.

“
Felice’s chamber
, then, mistress.” He bowed slightly
in acknowledgment of her assertion.

“Felice’s chamber was occupied by lovers.”

“The garden?” he countered.

“It is not mine either.” She would not say it was memories
of him that had driven her from that green space.

“You were running away to join your husband.”

His words struck her silent. An expression flitted across
his face. Compassion? Then it disappeared.

“Aye. Running away to your husband,” he repeated.

“S-Simon is on his way to Winchester, my lord. What need
have I to go there? I don’t know what you are saying.”

He tossed a scrap of parchment he had been holding behind
his back onto the table. “This says differently.”

Her hand shook as she took up the much creased vellum. She
scanned the words. “I don’t understand. This says Simon took the east road…I
don’t understand.”

“I understand completely. I asked Simon to fetch his son,
and since his son lies dead in my chapel he had no choice. He fled.”

She sank to a stool. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest.
“Nay,” she whispered. “Nay.”

“He lied. Can there be any other reason for him to take the
east road, not the north?”

Cristina examined his face. He looked every inch a warrior
lord, someone with the power to crush others in his hands and beneath his muddy
boot. “I have no reason to offer for his behavior.”

“I’ve sent my men to collect him.” The words seared through
her. “What were you doing at the postern gate?”

“I sought some privacy and just wandered in that direction.
The guard there started to relieve himself, so I stepped away.”

“Or you sought to leave whilst he was occupied.”

“Nay, I did not!” She stood up. She wanted to reach out and
touch him, but could not bring herself to raise her hand.

“Think you there is but one guard for the gate? The other
saw you step to the door.”

“I stepped into the
shadows
so the guard would not
see me. He was relieving himself.”

He said nothing. His face was as hard as one carved in
stone. This was not the tender lover of her dreams.

She tried again. “Would you suspect Lady Sabina or Lady Nona
of some perfidious act if they had done the same? Would the guard have
imprisoned them?”

“They don’t have husbands I suspect of theft!”

She ached inside and out. “What would you have me do, my
lord?” He would imprison her in the damp cell again, but this time Felice would
not be with her. Her throat burned.

“Return to your duties.”

“My lord?” she whispered, rising, Felice tight against her
chest. But he had turned his broad back on her. She stood a moment looking at
him, but he did not acknowledge her.

Without another word, she left. Climbing the tower steps,
she tentatively touched the latch to Felice’s chamber. This time it was not
barred against her. This time she would not be alone. This time no lush dreams
would keep her from sleep.

Myriad smells and sounds came to her from the dark. The
banked fire cast enough light that she could see her way to an empty pallet,
one near the door and offering no warmth at all.

Her hands were shaking as she tucked Felice against her
side, not even removing her mantle or shoes. Simon had not gone to Winchester.
Lord Durand thought him guilty of theft and—worse—suspected her as well.

She would not weep! But her eyes burned and some moments
later she felt tears slip over her cheeks.

* * * * *

Luke snorted and tossed the note Cristina had so recently
held onto the table. “You think she had a part in this?”

“What am I to think?” Durand said in a snarl, slamming his
fist to the table. “She was
leaving
.”

“That I cannot deny, but if she witnessed this side of you,
then no wonder she fled.”

“
Mon Dieu
. What does that mean?” Durand balled
Joseph’s note and cast it into the flames.

“I’ve never seen you so angry. She’s a thorn in your palm,
and it festers.”

He could not deny it. “She was at the postern gate!”

“What did she say again?”

“She said she needed to be alone.”

“What of her chamber?”

“It held lovers.”

“Did you look into it?”

Durand nodded. “Aye, one of the queen’s maids was with a
lover, but that does not excuse her! She could have walked in the garden! She
had the key on her person.”

“Searched her, did you?”

Luke grinned and something inside Durand snapped.

He reached across the table and snatched his brother by the
tunic. “And how many times have you searched her?”

Luke wrenched the fabric away from his grasp. “Durand! Take
hold of yourself. You know I never dally with married women. I believe Cristina
had no motive beyond what she said.” He straightened his tunic.

Durand unclenched his fist.

“I’ll speak with Cristina for you, if you wish. Mayhap I’ll
not frighten her so she cannot think straight.”