Lord of the Mist (2 page)

Cristina closed off her thoughts from Alice’s tirade. She
shifted toward the hearth and hummed softly to the babe. She combed her fingers
through the silky fair hair that crowned the little head.

“Forgive me, miss.” Alice knelt at her side. “I forgot ye
lost yer own babe.”

“Aye, Alice.” Cristina bit her lip. Her own infant had died
on the very day this one was born. Only three days had her own daughter lived.
So sweet, so healthy, so quickly sickening and so quickly gone.

“And Lord Durand’ll wed ere the year is out, ye’ll see.
‘Twill be another in my sweet lady’s place, ‘twill be as if my lady never
lived.”

“Why do you think that?” Cristina looked up at Alice.

“Lords marry for power, miss, ye know that. ‘E’ll sniff
about for more land and pluck some innocent off the vine like a ripe plum so
she can suffer for ‘is lust as well.” Alice tossed her head and wiped her tears
on her sleeve. “‘Tis a blessing ye were ‘ere in the keep to take Lady Marion’s
babe to yer breast.”

“Aye, a blessing. I suppose ‘twas God’s will.”

“Humph. God’s will. If God were a female, men would lie in
childbed, sufferin’ and dyin’ fer lust. ‘Is lordship ‘asna even seen the babe.”

“Alice. Could you fetch me a cup of warm milk?”

The serving woman rose and hastened to the task, leaving
Cristina in blessed silence. She did not wish to hear one more word of lust and
death. She rummaged in a coffer and found soft, clean cloths to change the babe
and marveled at the tiny toes and dimpled legs as she had at her own babe’s.

A child is all she had ever wished for. Was it not a woman’s
purpose in life to give birth and nurture? She had failed at the one. At least,
for a time, she could do the other. Already, holding and nurturing this child
helped her wounds to heal. She planted kisses on the babe’s cheeks.

“I hope you resemble your mother, little one. If you develop
your father’s stubborn chin and noble nose, you may find yourself without a
suitor in all King John’s kingdom.” She tickled the child’s belly and received
the wide-eyed squirm of a healthy babe. She wrapped her in clean swaddling.

The door creaked open and Cristina hastily pulled the edges
of her gown together. “Alice?” She turned to the door.

“I see you’re still in your fine nest, Cristina.” Simon le
Gros eased the door closed behind him and strode about the chamber. He rubbed
his hands before the fire. “Aye. This is better than any scheme I could have
devised. You’re surely in the lord’s good favor here.”

“What is it you want, Simon?”

“Why, Cristina, I merely wish to know how you fare.” He
smiled. “You are hidden here with the babe, I have scarcely seen you since you
brought Lady Marion her pomanders—let me think…the day you gave birth.”

Once his smile had intrigued her, his words had beguiled
her, his handsome face had drawn her. Now she thought only that he had not come
to see her but once since the death of their own babe, and yet, according to
Alice, had inquired of Lady Marion several times each day as that fine lady lay
near death.

He swept his hands out to encompass the chamber. “Had her
ladyship survived the child’s birth, she would have recommended us to Lord
Durand. We might have obtained Old Owen’s charter now he’s too sick to serve,
and made our home here. But as Lady Marion is now dead and that fool Luke—”

“Hush, Simon. Don’t let the servants hear you speak in such
a manner of Lord Durand’s brother. Luke is castellan here. It would not do to
offend him or Lord Durand.”

“No one can hear me.” Simon waved off her objections. “You
must ingratiate yourself to Lord Durand on the infant’s account. Each time he
visits, smile and be agreeable. He has no need of your pomanders or lotions,
but there is no other woman here in the keep who can nurture his child.”

Cristina did not tell Simon that Lord Durand never visited
his child. Of course, he had arrived at Ravenswood Castle to find his wife dead
of childbed fever. Mayhap his grief kept him from inquiring after the infant.
She would not believe him as heartless as Alice painted him.

Mayhap he blamed the infant for his wife’s death.

“Lady Marion’s death is a sore trial to us,” Simon
continued.

“Lady Oriel seems to enjoy my wares as much as her sister.”

Simon rubbed his palms together. “Excellent. She’ll have
influence on Lord Durand.” Then Simon frowned. “If ‘tis suggested some village
woman may nurse the child, can you give the infant some potion to sicken her?”

Cristina gasped and shot to her feet. “Simon! I would never
do such a thing! I know nothing of such potions.”

Simon strode to where she stood, the child warm and now
sleeping against her breast, tiny mouth agape. He skimmed his long fingers over
the child’s head. “I did not mean you to harm her. But it would suit us all if
the babe preferred your milk. You’ll do whatever I require of you, will you
not? Your presence here deprives me of your services in my bed. You have
birthed but two babes, females, by God, and dead before they saw a single
summer. We know ‘tis through no fault of
mine
.”

His words were tiny hammers on the anvil of her pain.

“Now, the king will surely come here when he embarks for
Normandy. The place will be overrun with ladies who may want your wares.”

“Here? The king is coming here again?” She bit her lip. “I
thought Lord Durand was to leave in a day or two.”

Simon smiled. “The gossips say Lord Durand will remain here
to await the king, so we must make our place now. You’ll do whatever it takes
to secure a position for us here at Ravenswood, will you not?”

Cristina rose. She placed the babe on the narrow bed and
quickly laced her gown tightly closed.

Simon pulled her around. “You’ll do whatever is required.
Kiss Lord Durand’s muddy boots if he should want it. Anything.”

Cristina looked up at her husband’s face. His dark hair
curled about his neck, fine as swan’s down. “I will do what duty requires,” she
said softly.

Simon nodded. “That’s better, more what I expect of you.
Ingratiate yourself and be quick about it. I want to be established with a
charter when the king arrives. If another secures it, it will be he who reaps
the wealth of John’s coffers.” He rubbed his palms together. “King John spends
freely. Lord Durand will have need to spend just as lavishly to please him. Do
what is needed.”

Simon swept out of the room.

Cristina sank to the bed beside the babe. She gathered the
child into her arms. “Oh, my sweet, how innocent you are. How unknowing of the
intrigues of men.”

Tears burned her eyes as she thought of her own babes who
lay in their graves, one beneath the lavender fields of home, one here in de
Marle land.

“Mistress le Gros?”

Lord Durand stood at the bedchamber door left open by
Simon’s departure. “Lord Durand.” She came around the draped bed and sank into
a curtsy. “How may I be of service?”

Lord Durand did not move from the doorway. His gaze traveled
slowly over her. She had to force herself not to touch her hair or assure
herself her gown was properly laced.

“It is I who may be of service to you.”

She tipped her head and considered him. “How, my lord?”

Finally, he entered the chamber, but only a few feet. He
looked fatigued, despite his sun-darkened complexion.

“You nourish the child, you adorn my wife; how may I reward
you?”

Cristina smiled. “I seek no reward, my lord. I want for
nothing. All is provided before I have need to ask, but I thank you for your
concern.”

“I’m glad of it. But you must come to me if you find some
lack here.” He glanced toward a deep alcove off the chamber.

Would that she had not tied back the drape that concealed
the sunny space.

“What are you doing?” he asked and stepped into the alcove.

She followed him to the table that held dried flowers and
the other assorted ingredients needed to practice her craft. “I’m preparing a mixture
of flowers for Lady Oriel’s soap.” Would he object to her working here?

One by one, he lifted each small bowl and sniffed it, then
extended one to her. “This is lavender, is it not?”

Cristina inclined her head. “English lavender seeds from my
father. Far finer than any found in France.”

He smiled. “Of course. This soap for Lady Oriel,” he said,
“what will be in it?”

“Lady Oriel misses the summer flowers of Mirebeau, her
former home, I believe. I will endeavor to mix something reminiscent of that
place.”

His gaze captured hers. “Your work brings more than a sweet
smell then. What would you mix for me?”

The scents of mist and forest
.

Aloud she said simply, “Whatever most pleases you, my lord.”
This close, she could see his deep-set eyes were the gray of a winter sea. A
white scar at the corner of his mouth was more responsible for his stern look
than any fault of temper, she decided. Another scar, a pale delta on a high
cheekbone, stood out starkly against his skin.

Conscious she was staring, Cristina busied herself with the
child’s swaddling. “Your babe will be a fine beauty.”

He turned abruptly and went to the chamber door. “Don’t
hesitate to come to me, mistress, should you have need of anything.”

Just as he reached the portal and she thought he might
depart, he turned back.

“The babe is most fortunate to have you.” He bowed to her as
one would a fine lady and left.

Cristina stared at the empty doorway. She hugged the babe to
her pounding heart. “Aye, my sweet, Felice. You are as fortunate as your name.
You have a mighty father, a fine and noble warrior to see to your care. ‘Tis
blessed you are.” The child stretched in her arms. Her huge eyes opened. They
were a soft, almost gray-blue. Would they become the stormy hue of Lord
Durand’s?

Following the lengthy service for Marion’s interment, Durand
watched his sons depart for de Warre’s castle, northwest of Winchester. He had
not seen them in almost six months. Adrian, soon to be fifteen, was growing
tall. Robert, at ten and two, had supplied the tears so lacking in himself.

Durand returned to the crypt with Luke and knelt for a last
time by his wife. Still prayers eluded him. He touched the cold stone walls and
shuddered. “I want to die on a battlefield and be buried there, not here in
darkness and damp.”

“You’ve lingered here long enough,” Luke said. “May I offer
you some distraction? Could you read over a few accounts? Penne says you might
leave on the morrow to join the king. I wish he would stop this infernal
scurrying from one end of the kingdom to the other.”

Durand walked at Luke’s side from the old crypt and out into
the wan sunlight. “I’ve changed my plans. The thought of the ride to
Warwickshire wearies me. I believe I’ll await John’s arrival here.”

“Then forgive my intrusion on your privacy. The accounts can
wait.” Luke touched his brother’s shoulder.

“In fact, I have something for you from le Gros which I
neglected to pass on, so we may as well see to your accounts now. In a snarl,
are they?”

This time Luke laughed. “Nay, Durand. Penne says ‘twas you
who suffered Father Leo’s tongue-lashings when called upon to figure. My sums
were always perfect. As was my Latin.”

“
Ignotum per Ignatius
.”

“
Ignotum per ignotius
,” Luke corrected with a grin.

When they reached the chamber which served as the counting
room, Luke stretched out on a bench while Durand sat in a carved oak chair
behind a long table. Despite Luke’s casual demeanor, the table held neatly
arranged parchments and tally sticks.

Durand pulled le Gros’ accounts from the purse at his belt.
He unrolled them and tossed them to Luke. “Why have you not granted le Gros a
charter?” he asked. “He’s been in the village for nigh on ten months. You said
his prices are fair, and Old Owen will not likely last until August, if Penne’s
tales are correct. There’ll be no merchant in the village once Owen is gone, so
offer le Gros the same terms and be done with it.”

Luke tapped the items Durand was examining. “I would, save
one reason: there is something about the man I do not like.”

Durand examined his younger brother. The only resemblance
they bore each other was in their height and quick tempers—those they had from
their father. Luke, ten years his junior, resembled their perfidious mother in
outward appearance. He had hair the color of fire—dark gold shot with reds.
Women adored his slumberous eyes and generous mouth.

However, their mother would have become confused when asked
how many eggs made a dozen. Luke had a lightning-quick wit and mind. There was
no one more trustworthy than his brother.

“I, too, find le Gros a bit…snakelike? But these figures
indicate he deals fairly. I cannot abide the baker, but I trust him not to give
short weight. You say le Gros’ merchandise is of good quality, and Oriel swears
she’ll not bathe without a soap from Mistress le Gros’ hands. Why drag out the
matter? Resolve it. Draw a charter and have it signed. If he cheats us, the
raven will devour the snake.”

“Shall I see Old Owen about it?”

Durand rose and added a few sticks to the fire. “Of course
consult Old Owen, but has he not been hoping for just such relief since his
son’s death? Why not bring Owen to the keep, make him comfortable in his
illness, and allow le Gros to take the house in the village?” He poked the
fire. “This room is cold and dank.”

“I love it.” Luke grinned at him. “‘Tis close to the
kitchen…wenches.”

Durand could not help smiling back.

“What of Mistress le Gros?” Luke rolled up the accounts and
secured them with leather thongs. “Should she not remain at the keep until
another nurse may be found?”

The fire smoked a bit, and Durand avoided responding for a
moment by tending it. “Oriel claims the child thrives under Mistress le Gros’
care. Why not have le Gros settle himself and see to his stock? His wife may
join him later.”

“She allows no liberties,” Luke said.

Durand surged to his feet. “Liberties? Have you been trying
to get beneath her skirts already?”

Luke touched his heart in feigned indignation. “I have no
interest in married women. I am merely conjecturing. In fact, I’m not sure
Mistress le Gros dwells in our world. Mayhap a cloud somewhere is her home. She
barely touches the ground as she walks. But have you noticed how enticing is
her form?” Luke spread his hands before his chest. “Her breasts are—”

“You’re a dog.” Durand did not want to admit he, too, had
noticed the enticing swell of the woman’s breasts and how they pressed against
her gown, or how the cold of the chapel this morning had… “Have you considered
taking a wife, Luke?” he asked hastily.

“Each day I consider taking a wife, but each night as some
pleasing pair of warm thighs embraces me, I reconsider.”

Durand dropped a heavy fist to his brother’s shoulder. “Do
not sow too many bastards about the keep.”

“Nay, I will not. ’Tis the de Marle women who seem to have
difficulty in that direction.”

Durand froze. “What are you saying?” The words were shards
of ice in his throat. What did Luke suspect? Or know?

Luke arched a brow. “Why, I am speaking of Mother, of
course. Have you heard from her lately?”

The tightness of Durand’s chest eased. “Nay, but I hear this
and that from John’s spies. Count Bazin keeps her now—in Paris. Father would
gnaw his winding sheet if he knew.”

“Aye. Though he could hardly complain as he set her aside—”

“After tolerating her many affairs.”

Luke shook his head. “Is not Bazin an old roué? And paying
homage to King Philip?”

Durand nodded. “I imagine John will once again question our
loyalty, with Mother so situated.”

He separated himself from his brother and went to the
stables. Ravenswood Castle had fared well under Luke’s care. He ordered his
mare and rode from the bailey.

The lane to the village was shrouded in mist before him. He
let the mare amble along. Many of the villagers were still returning from the
castle and Marion’s service. Their devotion pleased him. The men looked well
garbed, not ragged, as they had been under his father’s care. Luke was a fine
castellan.

Once outside the village, Durand rode hard to the river’s
edge from which he could view Ravenswood. Built on Roman ruins, it had served
as a Saxon hill fort at one time.

From Ravenswood’s towers he could view the roads to both
Portsmouth and Winchester. Until Philip’s confiscation of his holdings in
Normandy, he had meant to pass Ravenswood to Luke. Now it, and a few minor
holdings scattered throughout Sussex, must go to Adrian and Robert.

The same mist that lay heavy on the road also wreathed the
base of the castle walls. The four square towers gleamed with the light of many
torches. His banner, the raven pecking out the eye of a serpent, flew from
every corner.

His land was not yet suffering from the famine sweeping the
rest of England. He was affected in only one respect—the draining of his
coffers to support John’s efforts on the continent. It would not be long before
he felt the pinch.

Two small boys rolled down a hillock, squealing with
delight. For a moment he imagined them as his sons. Nay, they would not be
rolling about. They would be hard at work polishing armor or bent over sums as
he and Luke had done, each in their turn.

They were fine, handsome boys, and would grow to be a credit
to the de Marle name. They, at least, were his sons. Here, by the river, away
from Luke’s too clever eyes, he allowed himself to dwell on Marion’s infant.
Not his. Nay, not his. He probed the thought as one probes a sore tooth.

“Who was your lover, Marion?” he asked aloud. “Why did you
betray me?” But he knew the answer. He had left her too much alone. He was at
once mournful, angry, jealous, and vengeful.

The last time Marion had strayed, she had chosen one of the
men who tended her garden. He had sent the man to one of his Normandy manors
and locked Marion’s garden. Who was it this time? Another servant? One of his
knights?

Someone close?

* * * * *

Cristina enjoyed the brisk walk through the outer bailey,
her first free exploration of Ravenswood’s extensive environs. She watched the
mews-master feed the captive birds that graced Lord Durand’s banner. Beside
her, Alice complained of the hour, the temperature, the mud, the carts
delivering goods for war—barrels of nails for horseshoes and quarrels for
crossbows.

In truth, the bailey was as busy as a small town. Cristina
shifted the infant Felice in her arms and continued on until she came upon a
thick wooden door in the castle wall with a tiny window formed of an iron grill.
The hinges and latch were cleverly fashioned to resemble vines. “What’s through
here, Alice? Surely, this is not a postern gate?”

“Nay, ‘tis ‘er ladyship’s garden.”

Cristina stood on tiptoe and peered through the grill.
Before her was a garden left long untended. Paths of white stone wound in what
appeared to be concentric circles. The edges were thick with weeds. Tufts of
grass marred the pristine paths. A stone bench, perfectly placed to catch the
morning sun, sat in the center of the walkways.

And between…between lay heaven. Flower beds, wild and
untended, filled the gaps between each path. She saw roses and broom, hawthorn
and violets. She caught the scent of sage and marjoram—and rotting wood.
Trellises trailed browning ivy. How she wished for her own garden, her own
small patch to grow what she needed. “Why is this garden not tended, Alice?”

“Oh, ‘twas often so with Lady Marion. She took it into ‘er
‘ead to do a thing, then once it were done, she would lose interest. This be
some imitation of some queen’s garden. Eleanor’s? Mathilda’s? I cannot
remember.”

“Did her ladyship bore easily?”

“Aye, miss. She were as changeable as the sunset. One moment
laughin’, the next in tears. God love ‘er.”

Cristina looked down at the heavy iron lock. “Can we find a
key, Alice?”

“Best ye mind yer own business, Miss.” Alice nodded to the
babe in Cristina’s arms. “Don’t be putting yer nose where it were like to be
cut off. Lord Durand be mighty frightening when ‘e’s in a temper.”

“Why should he care if I walk in this little garden?”

“‘Twas her ladyship’s, ‘tis why,” Alice said.

With great reluctance, Cristina followed Alice to the keep.
She found herself gazing back at the small door in the high wall. What other
delights were there, out of sight? Since leaving home as the wife of an
itinerant merchant, she had wished for a garden of her own. Seeing such neglect
was like seeing a wound untreated.

They were admitted to the keep by a sentry, and Cristina
kept her gaze down as she walked through the hall. There were far too many men
about, strangers here to join King John, men who had naught to do but drink and
dice. Several lingered on the second story gallery, watching all those below.

Then she saw him—Lord Durand. He stood before the mammoth
hearth with its whitewashed chimney-piece. Floor to ceiling on either side, the
walls were painted to depict the seasons. On the right winter changed to spring
and on his left summer faded to autumn. The scenes were as familiar as the
daily devotions.

Lord Durand still wore the black tunic from the morning
burial services. Fine gold and silver embroidery trimmed it. His belt was
heavily chased in silver, his dagger’s hilt a raven’s head in gold. His dark
hair gleamed with hints of the color of summer plums. His gray eyes settled on
her.

She felt the rush of her blood to her face. He nodded,
barely, just a slight movement, almost missed save for the lock of hair that
fell over his brow and necessitated him raising his hand to sweep it aside. He
wore the heavy gold torque as he had that day in the forest so many months
before.

Not often in her twenty-eight years had she ever acted on
impulse, yet she handed Felice to Alice and found herself approaching him.

Several men were seated in great oak chairs near the hearth.
One was Luke de Marle, the castellan and Lord Durand’s brother. The other was
Lord Penne Martine, Lady Oriel’s husband, a landless baron now that Philip had
usurped his possessions, a man said to be but half as ruthless as Lord Durand.

Lord Durand nodded to her. “Mistress le Gros.”

“My lord.” Her voice was barely a whisper. What had
possessed her to approach him?

The vision of brown ivy, the scent of rotting wood.

Looking up at him, she saw naught but a stony mask. She read
neither pleasure nor displeasure on his countenance.

“I noticed a small garden behind a door just beyond the
dovecote, my lord.”

“Did you?” Lord Durand frowned and Luke rose.

“Aye. The garden is woefully in need of care.”

“Is it?” Lord Durand held her gaze. Luke stepped closer.

She felt as if she were a dove being scrutinized by a
raven—nay, two ravens. “I thought I might be able to restore it and cultivate
some plants for my work.”

He frowned. “Nay. The garden will remain locked. ‘Twould be
a waste of my men’s time to restore it.”

“I could do the work myself, my lord.”

His frown deepened. “I forbid it. You have other duties to
occupy your time.”

She shivered at the harshness of his tone. “Forgive me, my
lord; I intrude.” She hurried away, gripping her skirt in her fists. “I am the
veriest fool,” she said beneath her breath.

The bedchamber was cold. She built up the fire, shook her
head at Alice who already nodded by the child, then went to the alcove and
snatched up a pestle. In moments, she had pummeled away the worst of her
concerns on hapless lavender seeds.