Lord of the Mist (7 page)

Ground cinnamon, so little left, so costly to obtain, all
lost in the rushes. Lavender mingled with comfrey. She concentrated on the
child and forced herself to put the disaster from her mind. Thank God Aldwin
had not seen the Aelfric volume laying open on the table but an hour ago.
Surely that would be evidence to him she intended to set herself to healing.

When Felice slumbered, sated, mouth agape, Cristina placed
her on the bed. How simple life was for Felice. Eat and sleep.

* * * * *

Alice found her on her hands and knees an hour later, her
bowls in a circle around her. “Mistress! What ails ye?”

Cristina poured tainted oil into a large basin and sniffed
to see if it could be salvaged. “I’m quite well, Alice. I had an accident.”

“Oh, ‘tis an ill omen! All yer precious things!” Alice
dropped to her knees and began to sweep seeds into a small pile with her hand.

“Alice, the sun is on the wane. Why do you not take a turn
in the cook’s garden? ‘Tis like to rain on the morrow.”

Alice sat back on her heels. “Ye do not fool me, miss. I’m
mixing them up, am I not?”

With a quick bob of her head, Cristina acknowledged the
truth. Hearing the babe wake, she patted Alice’s hand. “Take Felice and sit in
the sun.”

“Aye, I will, and on the morrow I’ll beg some space for ye
from the cook to grow yer flowers. ‘E owes me a favor or two.”

“Oh, Alice, what that would mean to me!”

Alice winked and rose with a groan. “I’ll see to it. Me
knees are too old for this work.” She departed.

Cristina worked for several more hours, sifting seeds and
herbs into their bowls. Costly spices were tainted with common herbs, some
hopelessly soaked in oils. She tried to imagine new uses for them.

Alice returned Felice for her next feeding. As the babe
nursed, Cristina’s mind drifted to thoughts of the kitchen garden and how long
it would take to harvest anything useful. Just a few rows was all she
needed—actually, many rows, but she would settle for a few to start.

The many scents that mingled without purpose offended her.
She contemplated the enemy she had made in Master Aldwin.

Would Lord Durand turn her out at Aldwin’s word?

She put Felice in her sling and went in search of Sir Luke.
But he sat at Lord Durand’s side amidst a group of lords and knights and their
ladies, making approach impossible.

The women were draped in gowns the colors of the flowers of
the fields; gold circlets studded with gems adorned their brows. Each woman was
tended by her servant, each lord and knight by his men. Then she saw a portly
man, a bishop, with several cassocked men at his side. What illustrious company
had gathered for King John’s visit. This is what she had missed when last the
king had visited Ravenswood. Then she had lived at the alehouse and come to the
keep not at all.

Lord Durand looked the finest of the men. He wore a tunic of
deep forest green. About his waist he wore a belt of leather, studded with
silver and amber. About his neck gleamed the golden torque. She had seen it
close now, the twists of metal old and worn, the terminals that embraced the
hollow of his throat, ravens’ heads.

She thought of how the old gold must feel, smooth where it
lay against his skin, warm from the throb of his pulse. Why was she having such
thoughts? Quickly she ran through the resisting potion. Had she made a mistake?
Forgotten something? There was no one to consult. The potion had come from her
mother’s mother.

A lady rose and went to Lord Durand’s side. As Cristina
watched, the woman slipped her hand along the back of his neck. She toyed with
the hair at his nape, then leaned down to whisper something in his ear that
caused him to smile.

Just then, Lady Oriel rose with elegant grace. “Cristina.
Come. Join us.”

With a quick shake of her head, she took a step back, but
Lady Oriel touched Lord Durand on the arm. “Command her here, Durand. Lady
Sabina, you’d like to see Marion’s babe, would you not?”

The woman draped over Lord Durand’s shoulder straightened
and turned to where Cristina stood. “Aye. Bring the child.”

Cristina walked slowly to the table, aware of many eyes on
her. The ladies gathered about. The Lady Sabina had flawless skin, gray-green
eyes, and thick lashes as black as her hair. Unkindly, Cristina also noted the
sharp nose and thin lips.

“Durand, she is a sweetling. She has the de Marle look. My
father will surely want her for my brother. What say you?” Lady Sabina asked
over her shoulder.

Lord Durand shook his head and rose. “Nay. I’ll settle only
for a prince.”

Lady Sabina laughed. “Mayhap King John will know of a little
princeling who’s dangling for a bride. Shall I ask him when he arrives?”

How easily they spoke of princes, Cristina thought. Did she
nurture a future queen? She thought of King John coming to Ravenswood Castle,
planning a marriage for Felice, sporting with these men and women just as he
had this past summer. How long until they all left for Normandy and war? Some
of the men in this hall would die. A shiver of fear, a sudden foreboding,
filled her.

“Please yourself, Sabina.” Durand swept her a bow. “What
brings you here, mistress?” He did not approach, but the look he directed at
her would melt metal. Had Master Aldwin already complained of her?

“I had need of a word with Sir Luke.”

A nearby knight made a remark aside to his lady. The lady
snickered. So did the bishop.

Cristina lifted her chin.

“Luke?” Durand turned to his brother.

“Ah, mistress, have you brought me some of your fine soap?”

“Nay, my lord. I have found my stores seriously depleted,
and I am unable to make your soap. Mayhap another time.” She curtsied deeply
and left the company. She did not belong here among these fine folk, and the
talk of soap merely informed the company at large where she stood among them.

Behind her several men laughed. They thought nothing of
embarrassing a stranger with their laughter. She held them in contempt. At the
first opportunity she left the hall.

* * * * *

Durand attended with great concentration to the sauced
partridges and fine wines that evening, but by the time the poached pears were
set before him, he could no longer contain himself. “Soap?” he demanded of his
brother. “What need have you for scented soap?”

Luke grinned and shrugged. “Fine ladies enjoy such trifles.”

“So ‘tis just to speed the shedding of a gown?” His relief
was unaccountable.

“Aye. I’ll play at sport in a warm tub—but not alone.”

The idea fascinated Durand. “Damn you, Luke.”

Luke wagged his eyebrows. “I can have a tub drawn for you,
brother. Mistress le Gros will supply the soaps; Lady Sabina will scrub your
back. What say you?”

“I’ve already said it. Damn you.” He speared a sliver of
pear, poached in the last of the wine from his wife’s estates. Sourly he sucked
the morsel of fruit off the tip of his blade.

Luke excused himself. “I believe I’ll find out why Mistress
le Gros lacks what she needs to make my soap. When I visited her this morn, her
work table groaned with smelly things.” He headed for the tower stairs and took
them two at a time.

Durand watched him go.
Visited her this morn
? He sat
for but a moment before rising and going after his brother.

Lady Sabina intercepted him. “Come, my lord. You promised to
look at my palfrey.” She hooked his arm and it would be the worst of insults to
set her aside.

* * * * *

“Mistress le Gros?” Luke knocked at her chamber door and
pushed it open. He followed her into the alcove where she did her work. “What
happened here?” He set his fists on his hips and surveyed her nearly bare
table.

“Master Aldwin got the notion I was poaching on his domain.”

“He didn’t discover you were making me a love potion, did
he?” He turned an alarmed face to her.

“Nay. He discovered that I’d mixed Lady Marion a drink. Not
a medicinal one, still, it seemed so to him.” She sighed when she contemplated
the few bowls left unscathed on her work table.

“Can you gather again what you need? My friend will pay you
well to do so.”

Cristina shrugged. “I know what I need. Savory and onion I
have,” she lifted a bowl, “but the rest is costly.”

Luke grinned and tossed her a heavy purse. “Pray, do not
consider the cost.”

After chapel the next morn, Cristina and Alice rode quite
comfortably to the village in one of Lord Durand’s carts. Moisture sparkled on
the leaves and grass, puddles lay in the rutted roadbed, attesting to the
previous night’s storm.

“‘Ave ye seen the cottage since Old Owen died?” Alice asked.

“Nay, but I know just what I shall find. Everything shall
march in orderly rows, each item set out to best advantage. It was always so
with our cart. No matter how long it took, each time we moved from a village,
the cart must be put to perfect order again. I hated moving from place to
place.”

“Humph. I prefer Owen’s jumble.”

So did I
, Cristina thought traitorously. Her few
forays into Owen’s cottage had delighted the senses and involved many moments
of happy exploration after treasures. “Old Owen seemed a kindly man.”

“Aye. We’ll miss ‘im. Beggin’ yer pardon, but what possessed
ye to wed wiv Simon?”

“‘Tis an easy question to answer. He is—”

“Pleasin’ to the eye. Flattered ye, too, and yer father, I
wager.”

“Aye. ‘Twas just as you say.”

They drew up before Simon’s cottage. Cristina clambered from
the wagon and thanked Lovell, one of Lord Durand’s grooms, for his kind
attentions to their needs. He nodded and joined Alice in the cart. Felice sat
in Alice’s lap, sucking on her tiny fingers.

The long cottage was built of dressed stone, the front
entrance decorated with tiles pilfered from some ancient Roman edifice. The
wide wooden door gave entrance into the room used to house and sell the
merchant’s wares. On the right stood a ladder that led to the upper story where
she would reside once her time with Felice was done—or until Simon demanded she
give up the chore and come to her new home.

How would it feel to leave the babe? It was what must be if
she were to have a child—Simon’s child.

She looked about and saw her husband, oblivious to her
presence, head bent over a roll of parchment at an old battered table. As he
did not see her, she took a moment to walk about.

She frowned. Simon must have laid out a sizable sum to have
such stock. Had he been borrowing again? He had once gotten into difficulty
with such folly, but her father had set it right.

All about her were the usual goods any villager might need,
but there were finer goods more suited to the manor as well: silk thread on
small cards, silver needles, citron for a lord’s table.

Beyond a marvelous selection of linen and wool sat a leather
saddle. This must be the one destined for the king. She ran her hand over the
smooth, fragrant leather; the deeply incised patterns of mounted men with
couched lances and brandished swords that graced the skirt reminded her of what
was to come.

Simon looked up from his ledger. “Cristina! Is something the
matter? Why are you here?” He did not rise.

“Sir Luke gave me a purse to purchase a few necessaries,”
she said, abandoning the saddle and confronting her husband. She held out the
purse, but Simon did not take it.

His eyes narrowed. He yelped and leapt to his feet. He
shoved past her to push open a shutter and lean out. “Hag! What are you doing
here?”

“Simon, she accompanies me.”

Her husband drew back into the room and pointed at the door.
“If she sets foot in here, I shall take a stick to you. That woman is a plague
on me. She told two men in Guy Wallingford’s service I—” His face flared red.
“Never mind what she said. ‘Tis enough to know she is a slandering hag!”

“What did she say, Simon? You’ve gone too far to retreat;
you slander
her
if you cannot put evidence to your complaints.”

Cristina drew her mantle close about her middle. What lie
would he concoct? For she saw on his stony face she would not have the truth.
“Think you I’ll not ask Alice myself when we are away from here?”

“A man need not give his wife an account of himself.” With
an attitude of great importance, Simon hastened to his desk and took up his
quill. “Now, you disturb my work. Lord Durand’s man is due to collect the
king’s saddle, and I’ve not yet written the charge. I repeat, what is it you
want?”

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, she
found she did not care what he had done. She dropped the purse with a thump on
the table by Simon’s elbow, along with the list to make not only Luke’s potency
elixir, but also Lady Oriel’s sweet pillows and a wrinkle cream for Guy
Wallingford’s lady.

“Cinnamon? Ginger?” Simon murmured as he read the list. He
looked up, one brow raised. “This is a sizable purchase. What became of the
ginger I gave you last week?”

“Master Aldwin used it.” That was certainly not a lie.

“Hmmm. If Master Aldwin needs to replenish his stores, he
should pay for them. Do not allow it to happen again.”

He handed back the list and, with a wave of his hand
indicating she should search out the items herself, went back to his
accounting.

Old Owen’s cottage was still a delight to her despite the
loss of its haphazard nature. She poked in every box and barrel and bin and put
aside thoughts of the debts incurred to stock it so. She breathed deeply of the
ginger and added some fennel seeds to her heap of purchases for a wrinkle cream
for Lord Guy’s wife. She placed them in the back of her cart. Felice now lay
sleeping in Lovell’s lap. He shrugged with a sheepish grin. “I’ll be but a
moment more,” she told him.

But a well-trimmed goose quill tempted her and she thought
of the months of work it took to make the Aelfric herbal. The sound of a party
of horses arriving in the lane distracted her from her contemplation. On
tiptoe, she peered out the front window. ‘Twas Lord Durand, himself, with the
Lady Sabina and several other men—come for the saddle, she heard Lord Durand
say to Simon, who was gushing a welcome to the lady.

Cristina’s heart banged in her chest. She put a frantic hand
to her head. Her headcovering was askew, hair straggling from its confines.
Hastily she tucked in the errant strands and tugged her gown straight.

Lord Durand entered the cottage, bringing with him the scent
of leather and horses, accompanied by Lady Sabina and Lord Penne. Cristina
curtsied, but it was to
him
she looked.

His wintry eyes looked as pale as silver pennies in the
sunlit cottage; his dark hair was swept back from his brow. He drew his gloves
off and tucked them in his belt, but remained at the door whilst the others
spread out to examine Simon’s wares. His gaze ran over her in a lazy perusal
that felt like a flame licking over her skin.

She nodded to him and he inclined his head.

“Cristina, serve Lady Sabina,” Simon called her to the far
end of the cottage. She went and, with clumsy hands—clumsy for
he
had
come to stand at their side—showed the lady several lengths of fine linen dyed
the color of the sea.

He stood within a foot of her, leaned his arm on a tall
shelf, and listened to her description of the cloth, its tight weave, the
likelihood it would fray when washed, as if he were going to stitch up a gown
himself. The thought of him, so large, so male, needle in hand, his men and
hounds about him at the hearth, made her nearly choke on a giggle.

“Purchase it for me, Durand, will you? I have naught in my
purse save dust,” Lady Sabina said, placing a proprietary hand on his arm. “And
trim, if it’s to be had.” She led him away. “Where have I seen the merchant’s
wife before? I cannot remember, yet she is very familiar.” Lady Sabina made her
query without lowering her voice.

Cristina folded the cloth and selected several ribbons for
trim. They had met but the night before.

“In my hall, Sabina. She brought Marion’s babe to you.”

“Oh, aye. I remember. She has the sweetest face.”

Lord Durand’s words, a low murmur, brought a loud cry of
amusement from Lady Sabina. “Nay, Durand, I meant the babe! She will be as
lovely as Marion one day.”

Heat filled Cristina’s body. Lord Durand’s answer was lost
to her as Penne called out to him to hurry, for they wasted the best part of
the day.

The linen in her hands was glossy, fine, finer than any she
would use to make up a gown for herself. But she was happy in her old wool. It
was soft and sturdy and suited to her work. She could not mix a salve for dry
hands in such a linen, nor could it take a washing to remove a stain from
mother’s milk.

She turned around. Lord Durand stood before her, a wall
blocking her way. A turmoil of sensations roiled through her.

“You returned the Aelfric to my brother. Why?”

She could not go around him. Did not wish to. “Forgive me,
but Simon apprised me of its value and I could not keep it.”

His dark straight brows drew together in a frown. “Is not
its true value the use made of it?”

“Aye, some would say so. Mayhap it would better serve Master
Aldwin.” Her throat felt tight. What if Master Aldwin had complained of her?

“Aldwin! You may not be able to read Latin, but he cannot
read at all. He cares only to bleed a man’s blood into his little bowls and
mumble over it later. For all I know he drinks it after ‘tis bled.

“If you have no interest in the herbal, then say so and the
matter is done, but if you can find in it even one page to aid you, then you
must have it.” He reached out and skimmed his thumb across her cheek. “Have you
been head-down in a barrel? You’ve smudges on your nose and—”

“My lord!” Lady Sabina called from the doorway. He jerked
his hand back.

The same color that must be on her cheeks rushed into his.
His frown altered to a flat, cold stare. With a shrug he took a step back. “Say
what you will, Mistress. Can you find even one page in the herbal of use to
you?”

Cristina became aware that the cottage was empty. They stood
alone in a pool of shadow behind a cask of salted herring.

When he had briefly touched her, she had frozen in place as
if a statue, words caught in her throat, words of begging to have the book, and
aye to have him read it for her. But his cold countenance, the flat sound of
his offer now—now he had been recalled by his friend—stirred her resolve.

“Nay, my lord, there’s naught in the book I can use.” The
lie lay on her tongue like salt on a wound. She blessed the resistance potion
that surely aided her now.

He gave her a stiff bow and swung away. She hastily wrapped
Lady Sabina’s linen and rushed out in time to hand it up to a maid who waited
for it. The others, Lord Durand at the fore, cantered away up the lane.

Simon rubbed his hands together. “Did you see? Lord Durand
was using the saddle himself! He’ll find it so easy a ride, he will order
another for himself when the king is gone. Come. Take what it is you came for
and be gone. I want to get along to the Raven’s Head and see if someone there
is willing to go to Winchester and fetch another saddle.” He shook Luke’s
purse.

* * * * *

Two days later, Cristina delivered the elixir for Sir Luke,
still warm from the pot. She placed the stone bottle on his table, anchoring a
scrap of vellum lying there. The words on it drew her eyes.

12 chapel S

The writing was that of a fine lady, each letter beautifully
formed, the S larger than the others and finished off with a sweeping curlicue.

So, Luke would be wooing Lady Sabina in the chapel this
night, for she could not think of any other Lady S.

Of course, it could be that twelve chapel stones needed
repair. Then a dreadful thought flitted through her mind: Lord Durand used this
chamber. She had found him reading here. Mayhap the missive was from Sabina to
him, and they met in secrecy because of Lady Marion’s recent death. Her hand
went to her cheek, where he had touched her. With a frown, she set the bottle
of hope on the scrap of vellum.

Before leaving the chamber, Cristina went to the coffer
where Luke had placed the herbal and lifted the lid. The Aelfric was not on
top, and she had not the courage to rummage through the rolls and other books.
How she wished to have the Aelfric. It was a finer treasure to her than any sum
of gold. “If I had ink and paper, I would make my own
Nominum Herbarum
,”
she said aloud.

When the door opened, she just had time to whirl away from
the coffer and snatch up her basket before Lord Penne entered. He glanced at
the table. “Forgive my intrusion.”

“Nay,” she said. “Forgive mine.” She left quickly.

Was it Lord Penne who intrigued with Lady Sabina? The
thought grieved her. If the Lady Oriel sought her potion for herself, she was
wrong that her husband did not yet stray.

* * * * *

The lords and ladies returned from a day of hunting in high
spirits, the scent of the outdoors on their clothes. There would be a high
demand for her lotions tomorrow if the red cheeks of the ladies were any
indication. Cristina listened from her bench with half an ear as Luke and
several men, the bishop included, argued about the hunt.

“They shall all be put to shame when King John arrives with
his hawks,” Luke said, ending the discussion.

“His wagons come on the morrow,” Durand said. “His party
will eat us out of our winter stores in less than a fortnight. We’ll need every
penny in our coffers to replenish them.”

Lady Sabina leaned over the back of his chair and whispered
something in his ear.

Who would meet with Lady Sabina at the hour of twelve? Lord
Penne? Or did he but collect the message for another? Sir Luke? Lord Durand? Or
had Penne only wanted the love potion?

Cristina ate quickly and returned to the babe, who fretted
and refused to nurse. With the child in her arms, she paced the small alcove,
past her worktable. There was nothing to do there. The mixture of freckle
cream, if stirred, lost its effectiveness. The rose oil was perfect, ready to
add to small pots of skin lotion.