Lord of the Mist (17 page)

The priest nodded. “I see. So this book was of little
worth?”

Cristina saw Luke hesitate. “It was of worth to some
people.”

“And anyone, Lord Durand included, could have come into the
counting room and taken the book.”

“Put that way, aye, they could have.”

“Sire.” The priest waved Luke’s list of friends in the air.
“I beg to have Master le Gros freed. As you can surely see, anyone could have
taken the book.”

But the king shook his head. “Aye, taken it and handed it
off to another such as Master le Gros. ‘Tis not enough. Bishop Dominic is dead
and the book found in his guard’s possession. The attack greatly sickened the
queen.” The king swiveled in his seat to Durand. “Is there more to be said? We
understand the bishop’s rings have been found.”

Was nothing secret in this place? Cristina’s hopes sunk like
a rock tossed in Portsmouth Harbor.

The king smiled. “Lady Sabina informed us.”

Lord Durand’s expression was stony, and she wondered where
the man who had embraced her had gone. This man was cold and hard. He bowed to
the king. “Two of the rings were found.”

Cristina’s stomach danced. How had Lady Sabina known of the
rings? The man with Lady Sabina spoke without concern that she could hear his
words. “The merchant is a thief, but will likely escape the hangman. One but
needs a lawyer these days.”

Her stomach turned. Everyone around her believed Simon to be
a thief. The tips of Simon’s ears reddened.

“The rings were found beneath the merchant’s pallet,” Durand
said.

“Ah,” the king said.

Father Laurentius strode to the table. “Sire. Anyone might
have placed the rings there. It was most likely done by the man sent to
retrieve them. Luke de Marle’s man, I’ll wager.”

“My man,” Durand said.

“It is as I thought, sire.” Father Laurentius folded his
arms. “‘Tis the same thing. One brother aids the other.”

“This is a serious charge, Laurentius,” the king said. “You
accuse one of my most trusted barons.”

Cristina thought Lord Durand controlled himself with
difficulty. A pulse beat at his temple.

Laurentius continued. “Many enter the merchant’s abode as
enter Sir Luke’s counting room.”

The king turned to Simon. “Do you need parchment and pen to
make
your
list?”

Simon and Laurentius put their heads together. Then
Laurentius demanded the same accoutrements that had been brought to Luke.
Simon’s hands were not released, and with awkwardness he wrote a few moments on
the vellum.

The king read Simon’s list. His eyes swept the crowd.
“Intriguing,” the king said, and Cristina could not imagine whose names were on
the list.

“Sire,” Lord Durand said, after reading the list passed to
him by the king, “it would seem many who had access to my counting room also
had access to Simon’s abode.”

He said nothing more. Lord Durand’s lack of further accusation
would help Simon greatly, and she knew it was a deliberate act. Was it for her
he held his tongue?

The king folded the list. He slipped it into his tunic. Who,
Cristina wondered, might be on the list? Then she realized it was not a list of
those who purchased his wares that Simon had given; it was the name or names of
his
lovers, just as Luke’s was. Her humiliation was complete.

The king waved Lord Durand to his seat and then rose to face
Simon. “There are many doubts surrounding the theft of this book
and
the
bishop’s death. We’ve not the time to examine this matter with our usual care.
We’ll trust in God to give us wisdom. You, Simon le Gros, will be put to the
test.”

“He wants to hunt, he means,” whispered a man standing
behind Cristina. She felt the weight of all eyes moving from her to Simon and
back. She straightened her spine.

I will not weep,
she vowed to herself.
I will not
faint.

Laurentius said something to Simon who gasped then choked it
off. A visible shudder swept his body.

The priest gave a curt nod and then returned to face the
king. “Sire, if any man is to be put to the test, it should be Sir Luke, who
conspires to have this good merchant hanged.”

“Enough,” the king barked. “We have decided. The merchant
will be tested.”

The hall fell silent.

“Let us see this woman so coveted Sir Luke wishes her
husband dead,” the king said into the quiet.

All eyes turned to where she stood.

Lady Sabina nudged her with her elbow. “Go,” the lady urged
her. “Stand by your
husband
.”

Sabina’s companion took Cristina’s arm to lead her to the
king. She wrenched from his grasp. “I can find my own way.”

Several men nearby snickered, and the man’s cheeks flushed
an ugly red. The look he gave her at the deliberate snub chilled her. Why had
she spoken so sharply? She needed everyone’s goodwill.
Everyone’s.

Christina’s knees felt weak. As she went to Simon’s side, he
gave her a look she knew well. She was afraid.

“Sire,” she said, and dropped into a deep curtsy.

“Rise, mistress. Are you the wife of this man?” the king
asked.

“Aye, sire, I am.”

“Are you Sir Luke’s mistress?”

“Nay, sire. I am not.” She looked up at the king, then at
Lord Durand. He met her gaze and she saw something there—pity, mayhap—and knew
that Simon’s words had branded her as no others could have.

All would henceforth believe the Lord of Skirts had had her.

“As we stated, we can easily settle this,” the king said.
“And much more swiftly than hearing pretty speeches. We have no time to waste
on petty thieves. Put the man to the water test. If he’s innocent, so be it.
But, if ‘tis as we hear, this man not only stole the book, but had his son
deliver it hence into the bishop’s hands, he is equally guilty of leading his
son to crime.” A gasp ran through the hall. “Therefore, ‘tis our judgment he
should lose both hands if such is determined. We have heard enough. Let God
decide.”

“My liege, I must protest—” the priest began, but the king
interrupted him.

“You, a priest, do not believe in placing the question of
guilt or innocence in God’s hands?”

The priest bowed. “Of course I believe in God’s will and
judgment, but is there not doubt enough here, sire, that we should not be hasty
in condemning this man?”

“We do not condemn him, Father Laurentius. We leave that to
God.” He strode away, his queen on his arm.

Two sentries reached for Simon. The crowd behind Cristina
surged forward, shoving her aside, rushing through the oak doors.

Lord Durand came around the table to where she stood. He
placed himself between her and the crowd, but even he was buffeted by the
throng. He snatched up her hand when she took a step after Simon. “Stay,”
Durand said. “You don’t need to see this done.”

“What’s happening? I don’t understand.” When she fought
against his hold, he thrust her into the sentry’s hands.

“Simon will be tested, Cristina,” Durand said. “Surely you
understand a test? He will be thrown into water, and if he survives he is
guilty and will lose his hands. If he sinks…he is dead.”

Her teeth began to chatter. “My lord—”

“You will await me here,” he ordered. To the sentry he said,
“You’ll see she remains here, or I will have your sword.”

Durand reached out and touched her cheek. She moaned softly.
There was nothing he could do for her. He strode away.

* * * * *

Alone in the hall save for the sentry, Cristina waited impatiently
for some word of Simon’s fate. She held no hope of Simon’s innocence. That he
had contrived to take the book she was sure—and had been since seeing the
rings.

She searched her heart and felt, first and foremost, fear.
For herself. She also felt guilty. Guilty for her lack of love for Simon.

And she felt angry. She knew that after today, she would
spend her life looking after a man who had no means of supporting himself. All
who saw him would know by his disfigurement that he was a thief. Or Simon would
be dead, and she would find herself alone.

She had lied to Lord Durand. There would be no going home to
her father. As a merchant himself, he would not, could not, have a thief in his
household. They must go back to a single cart on the road. The thought was
chilling. And how would she bear the days ‘til Rose was ready to take Felice to
nurse? Even a simple walk through the village would be torment. She must
withstand the shame of not just Simon’s thievery, but of people believing she
was Sir Luke’s mistress.

And she would not have even the succor of a child’s love to
sustain her.

Who had aided Simon? Taken the Aelfric from Lord Durand’s
chamber and given it to him? Who, along with Simon, had ruined her life?

“Mistress le Gros?”

Cristina rose. One of King John’s guards stood before her, a
rope in his hand. She could look no higher than the narrow twine. “Aye.”

“Put out your hands.” She did as he bid. He quickly bound
her hands, ignoring the protests of Lord Durand’s sentry.

“Why?” It was all she could say. Her voice sounded far away,
as if it came from someone else.

The guard shrugged and tested the rope to be sure it was
fast. “The king commands you into custody until you can be tried for theft.” At
those words, Lord Durand’s sentry turned and dashed off, leaving her alone with
the king’s man.

“Tried?” She stumbled after the guard as he tugged on the
rope. Why should she be tried? “There must be some mistake. I don’t
understand.”

The guard said nothing. He pulled her relentlessly toward
the steps to the lower levels of the keep.

To the punishment cells.

“Halt!” Durand strode toward her across the hall, the sentry
on his heels. “Where are you taking Mistress le Gros?”

“Below,” the king’s guard said.

“I’ll take charge of her.” Durand drew his dagger and sliced
through the twine at her wrists.

“Thank you,” she managed to stammer as black spots filled
her vision. She swayed in place, but forced herself to remain upright. Calm.
All would be well now.

“The king will be displeased,” the guard said.

“The king will not care where Mistress le Gros is
imprisoned, only that she is.” Durand took her arm and led her toward the west
tower.

Imprisoned
. There was no error. She stumbled along,
unable to speak.

In silence, they climbed the steps to the book chamber. At
the door, Durand halted and addressed the king’s man who huffed along behind
them. “Stand guard if you wish, but remain without unless I command you
otherwise.”

Cristina forced herself to walk into the chamber. It was
flooded with sunlight in mockery of the blackness sweeping over her. She
clasped her hands tightly. Her wrists were red from the guard’s rope. Heart
racing, she offered up a whispered prayer for strength.

With a harsh rasp, the key turned and she was alone with
him.

“Cristina.” Durand said her name almost gently.

“My lord?” She took a step toward him, then hesitated. “Why
am I imprisoned here?”

He held out his hand. “I must tell you…come here.”

She stared from his hand to his face. “Is the king finished
with Simon?” Her words were barely a whisper in the small chamber.

Still, Lord Durand held out his hand and did not speak. It
took all her courage to walk to him and put her hand in his.

He drew it to his mouth and pressed his lips to her fingers.
“May God forgive him,” he said.

Her heart thumped rapidly. “Please. Tell me.”

He pulled her close. She wanted to burrow into his body and
hide. For she knew he would tell her something terrible.

“Simon accused you of taking the book for him. He claimed no
other aided him.”

The room spun for a moment, tipped, and grew dark at the
edges. She heard her name, said from afar.

She became aware that Lord Durand had lowered her to the
bench. “Cristina. Cristina,” he said again. His face wavered above her as if
seen through water.

Slowly, his features gained clarity—along with her own sense
of what had happened.

She was doomed.

Lord Durand smoothed the hair from her brow. “I’ve asked
Father Laurentius to help you. So all will be well, I promise.”

“But Simon has but to tell the king the truth. He knows I
had nothing to do with it. He must tell the truth. Please…make him tell the
truth.”

He shook his head. “Simon is dead, Cristina.”

Durand watched as her body went stiff. Her breathing changed
to rapid pants as if she had run a great distance. Her lips went white.

He could do naught but speak quickly. “Simon was cast into
the mill pond. I have no need to say he was pulled out alive.” He wanted to
embrace her, but hesitated. “The king ordered the rest…done immediately.”

She gave a small moan, and he felt a surge of great anger
against her husband.

He forced himself to be gentle with her. “Before judgement
was rendered, the king asked Simon again who aided him and he named you. If God
is just, it is only in that Simon did not survive his maiming, Cristina. It happens
sometimes.”

“Nay. Nay.” She covered her face with her hands.

“He seemed to stand the first…punishment well. He said
naught, even as Aldwin cauterized his wound. Then he had a seizure.”

With a gasp, she stared up at him—and through him.

Durand touched her hair, her cheek. “I entreated Simon to
speak the truth from the outset. I thought he was about to when…I am sure had
he lived…”

She gripped her knees and gasped over and over. He feared
for her. He went down on his knees and took her into his arms. She began to
shudder. When he stared into her face, no tears filled her eyes, but he could
not help thinking of the dark, liquid ones of the hart when she was run to
ground and knew the bolt would take her life.

She stared at him with shock etched on every feature. “Do
not make excuses for him. He betrayed me.”

Durand squeezed her hands. “You need not fear this. I will
help you. The king will call you soon, and I’ve instructed Father Laurentius to
be there.”

“I thank you,” she whispered, covering his hands with hers.
“He will not succeed, but I thank you.”

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. He could
not bear to think of her maimed. It would not happen.

Father Laurentius was all he had to offer her.

Her voice was dull when she spoke, and her gaze fixed on the
window. “Will I be permitted to see him buried?”

He put out a hand to touch her hair, but changed his mind at
the last moment. “Nay. The king has ordered the gibbet.”

When she did not respond, he repeated, “I’ll send Father
Laurentius to speak with you.”

* * * * *

Cristina liked Father Laurentius little better now than she
had that morning, but he had one quality she much admired; he seemed to have no
awe of the king.

“I fear,” the priest began, “that you have need of better
circumstances than these if we are to speak in comfort.” He sat gingerly on the
end of the bench near her.

She frowned. “I’ll have no need of furniture after the king
calls for me.”

The priest sniffed. “I’ll ask you to be honest with me. From
there we shall concoct a tale most appealing to the king.”

“I have no need of tales,” she retorted. “I did not take the
book for Simon!” She paced the chamber for a few moments. “Father, I must ask
you something of grave importance—as a priest, not a lawyer.”

Father Laurentius set aside his haughty attitude for a
moment, and she saw a gentleness in him that reassured her. “Sit, child and ask
whatever you desire.”

Cristina perched on the bench and folded her hands tightly.
“I’m concerned if I should be condemned that I’ll die with a certain sin within
my heart.”

“Is this a confession? I’m not much of a confessor—”

“Nay, I but wish an opinion. I fear the king will put me to
the test as he did Simon. I want to know if I would drown if I were innocent of
the crime of theft, but still guilty of another.”

“Hmmm. Frankly I suspect you of no crime more weighty than
envy.”

She looked up in astonishment. “How perceptive of you. ‘Tis
envy I am guilty of. I have envied someone’s position here and aspired beyond
my rank.”

“Is that it?” the priest asked. “If that is all, you will
sink like a stone.”

Acid rose in her throat. “So, I am to die today or I will
lose a hand or both?”

The priest patted her clenched hands where they lay in her
lap. “Nay, child. Not if I can help it. Lord Durand—”

She shot to her feet. “Please, do not bring his lordship
into this matter.”

“I must. He has offered his most grave assurances that you
are innocent of the theft of the Aelfric. He is a justice known across the
kingdom for his fair and honest dealings. If he had not importuned me, I would
not be here.”

“How will I thank him?” she mused quietly.

“Who do you think took the book?”

“Truly, Father, I know not. What of the lists Simon and Luke
wrote? Could they—”

“I fear they may have held some information the king thought
it ill-advised others might see. He kept them, and when I asked to compare
them, he said he had burned them.”

So,
Cristina thought, the king did not care to see
justice done. She had only God to help her now. “It must be someone who can
enter and leave the counting room with impunity, as well as someone who is of
some value to the king, then.”

“His laundress is of value to him. Do not see too much in
his actions. And take heart that God will punish whoever it is, though we may
not.” He joined her at the window as a clamor of noise came from the bailey.

“Forgive me, Father, but I cannot mourn my husband as I
should,” she said. Below, the king’s party was leaving for a hunt. How could
life move so idly by as if nothing were wrong? Why was the sky not black and crashing
with the anger of lightning and injustice?

“I fear Simon is not worthy of your sentiment. Waste no more
time on one who offered you naught but public humiliation.” The priest touched
her shoulder. “Mayhap the king will be merciful.”

“I am doomed.”

* * * * *

The queen, weary from the hunt, implored the king to
postpone the judging of the merchant’s wife that she might enjoy the event
without a yawn. Durand’s teeth hurt as he clenched his jaw to refrain from a
retort that a woman’s life was in the balance and should not be weighed against
a queen’s fatigue. But he said naught when the king agreed to hold the judgment
at first light.

Father Laurentius met him on his way to the tower to see
Cristina. He hooked his arm. “Come with me, young man. I seek a private word.”

They walked about the bailey, the older man leaning on him
with unnecessary weight. Durand suspected it merely allowed him a closer access
to his ear. “We must offer the king some alternative to that foolish water
test. If one believes in its ability to reliably predict guilt or innocence,
this is Mistress le Gros’ last night on earth.”

“
Jesu,”
Durand muttered.

“But take heart. I believe we can confuse the issue and
offer an alternative to the water test or her maiming. Mistress le Gros cannot
practice her craft if she is so punished.”

“What do you suggest?” Durand asked. “There is little left
save arguments and—”

“Combat,” the priest finished for him. “‘Tis what I am
thinking. We need to ask for the divine intervention of God to fight for her
through a champion.”

“Who will champion her, Father? She’s alone in the world.”

“No one is alone in the world. Someone will step forward.”
Father Laurentius patted his arm. “If not, she is doomed.”

* * * * *

Father Laurentius’ words chilled Durand more than any winter
wind. If only he had left the Aelfric lying at the bottom of his coffer. If he
had not used it as an excuse to seek Cristina’s attentions, she would be free.

He was as guilty as Simon for involving an innocent woman in
this crime, unwittingly or not.

Heat ran through him. His palms were sweaty. He rubbed them
on his thighs and stood up abruptly.

* * * * *

The guard Durand had placed in the west tower was William, a
trusted, discreet man. “I see one of the king’s men is set at the foot of the stairs,”
Durand said to William with a nod below.

“Aye, my lord, and above,” William said with a jerk of his
chin in the direction of the ramparts.

“I suppose that means Mistress le Gros will not be fleeing
tonight.”

William shook his head. “The king must think me incapable of
a simple watching.” But they both knew the king had set the guard because he
did not trust Durand or his men.

“Lock me in,” Durand said.

William nodded. If the king’s guards were not about, Durand
thought, he would simply open the door, give Cristina a heavy purse and send
her home to her father—and damn the consequences.

Taking a deep breath, he shut the door behind him and
listened for William to do as bidden.

She leaned in the window, head propped on her hands. She did
not turn. “I’m not hungry, William.”

“But you must eat,” Durand said.

“My lord.” Her voice was colorless as if she was fading away
like a plant deprived of sun. She left the window and sat on the edge of the
bench. Only her fingers betrayed her agitation as she pleated the fabric of her
skirt. He went down on one knee by her.

“Do not fear. I will help you.” He took up her hand, bent
his head, and kissed her palm.

She slipped her fingers into his hair and forced him to look
up at her. “I thank you. But there is naught that you can do. Distance
yourself.”

Her words chilled him.

Her eyes were huge in her face, flecked with gold as the
last of the sunlight scattered its gleam across the wooden floor. He could feel
the trembling of her body.

“Cristina.”

“Distance yourself.” Her fingertips lingered on his cheek.

With a groan, he wrapped his arms about her and pulled her
from the bench, rising, hauling her hard against him. She clung to him and in
the time it took to draw one breath, she touched her mouth to his.

It was a hopeless, helpless kiss.

“All will be well,” he said. He kissed her mouth, her
cheeks, her eyes, her temples, then buried his face in her hair. Her scent was
as sweet as a field of wildflowers, her breath warm upon his throat.

Her breast was swollen, the tip hard when he set his palm
against her heart. He pressed gently and brought his mouth to hers. She kissed
him back. Frantic, quick touches of lips and tongue.

All the desire he felt for her roared to life.

He gathered her hard against his body. They stumbled back
against the shelves. She moaned and closed her eyes. He opened his mouth to
her, and she plundered his as if ‘twas the last and only kiss she might be
given.

Her buttocks fit perfectly into his palms as he pressed the
most sensitive parts of his body to hers.

She shifted on him and gave a soft cry. The sudden touch of
her warmth to his sent a jolt of desire through him that almost brought him to
his knees.

Her hands swept down his chest to his waist.

His belt hit the floor with a thud. He stripped off his
tunic and flung it aside. When he reached for her this time, she leaped into
his arms, her kisses on his mouth and face frantic. He thrust his hands into
her hair and held her still. For long moments he feasted on her mouth; then he
trailed kisses down her throat to her shoulder, sweeping aside the fabric of
her gown, pulling apart laces, exposing her swollen breast to his mouth.