Lord of the Mist (26 page)

“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.

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?”

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.