Lord of the Mist (9 page)

“Oh, ‘tis a great deal of worth, my lord. ‘Tis overgrown to
be sure, but see—there before you is lavender, thyme, sage.”

“Enough.” He held up his hand and turned to where she sat on
the grass, the child discreetly at her breast. “I am pleased with your
progress.” This time she drew the edges of her gown about the child. This time
the small patch of creamy skin did not arouse the hammering lust he had felt
the night before by the stable; this time he felt a different ache.

“I never held my sons,” he said.

“Never?”

He sat at her side on the grass. “Nay. I was at Richard’s
side when they were born. I first saw Adrian when he was,” he bent his head
back and considered the blue sky overhead, “about three years. Robert, younger.
About a year old or so. It is something I regret, not knowing my sons as I
should.”

“You were at the king’s command.”

“Aye, I have served both Richard and John as a justice and
have traveled much.”

“It must be a great honor to do so.”

“There are costs to all honors.” He watched her discreetly
move the child from one breast to the other. “I must make a match for her.”

“Already?” Cristina tucked her gown about the child.

Durand sensed alarm in her voice. “‘Tis necessary. She’ll
draw high, for the king needs to curry the favor of his barons now and may not
feel so a year from now—or two years. And I must look to what may soon be
lost.”

“I don’t understand.”

Durand rose and went to one of the paths. He scooped up a
handful of white stone. Dropping back at her side, he scattered a few of the
smaller stones in the grass. “These represent my holdings here in England. Save
for Ravenswood, they are small, scattered.”

“Scattered?” She touched one stone after the other as they
lay near her.

“From the time of William, kings have scattered lands that
no one baron may become too powerful in one place.” He tossed the larger stones
in his hand with a quick flick of his wrist a few feet away. “There are my
holdings in Normandy, from my marriage.”

“They’re in King Philip’s hands, are they not? Is this why
there will be war?”

“Aye and nay. I owe fealty to Philip for my properties in
Normandy and to John for those here, but ‘tis tradition that I fight at the
side of the king who holds the majority of my honors.”

She looked from one scattering of stones to the other. “Then
‘tis Philip for whom you fight? How can this be?”

“I’m one of John justices. Therein lies the problem. I’m
here, he expects my loyalty, and I have in the past fought at Richard’s side,
on crusade. I’ve never fought with Philip, but always paid him due homage for
that which came to me through Marion.” He rose and paced the swath of grass.
“I’m caught in a coil. If John fails, my sons lose all you see here.” With his
toe, he nudged the larger set of stones. “If John wins, I’ll have it all, of
course.”

“You worry for your sons. They’ll suffer if you lose their
mother’s properties. It must be as if you are pulled by each arm, in two
directions.”

He sank to her side on the grass. “You understand.” Marion
had not understood the problems in serving two masters. She only wanted the
earl’s belt denied him when Richard died. “Penne wants a swift fight to take
back what is ours, but if we war on Philip, we deny the homage we owe him.”

“And how does your brother feel?”

“Luke believes I should counsel the king to a peaceful
settlement—offer myself, if need be, to go to Philip and try to negotiate a
peace if the great William Marshall should fail.”

“Did not one of King John’s envoys have his eyes put out?”

“Nay, you are thinking of Philip’s treatment of prisoners
during his war against Richard.”

“How can men be so cruel?”

Her own dark eyes watched him. Should he tell her Richard
acted in kind, putting out the eyes of his prisoners when Philip began the
practice? Or how John’s counselors had urged him to blind his rival for the
throne and castrate him so no heir could threaten in the future? “Life is
cruel.”

She shook her head and held the child closer. “I suppose I
cannot understand. One can only be in one room at a time.”

“One may collect rents from many properties at a time. I
have many mouths to feed.”

The sky overhead was azure blue. Soft was the warm breeze on
his skin. How easy it was to sit here in this peaceful place with her and
forget the world beyond. But John’s packhorses and carts had arrived and with
them all peace must end. Even deep in the garden, he could hear a commotion in
the bailey, the cries of men at their work unloading King John’s household
goods.

“In truth, I’m a justice here, and it is John that I’ll
serve, hoping he will act boldly, as he did when he rescued Queen Eleanor. Then
mayhap all will be well.” He took a deep breath. “But John has no trust, and
I’m vulnerable to persuasion from both kings.”

She gently laid the child in her lap and closed her gown.
This time he did not avert his gaze. “How are you vulnerable? I don’t
understand. If you’ve decided, why are you still at risk?”

“Kings take hostages. My sons are at de Warre’s castle under
John’s control, my mother in Paris under Philip’s.”

“So King Philip could use your mother to bring you to his
side against John.” She idly twisted the ends of the lacing of her gown as she
contemplated the stones. When she looked up, her soft expression was gone. “You
must protect your children and your mother. It is a coil, but you will know
what to do and you will do it.”

There was no hint of doubt in her words. How young she was,
how unspoiled.

She was so close, but inches away. He reached out and put
his fingers under her chin. She did not resist the pull of his hand nor move
when he bent his head to hers. Her lips were warm, soft, yielding. He brushed
his lips across hers, once, twice, three times, tasting her.

She sought his kiss, turned as he grazed his lips across
hers, following, her breath warm against his skin. A low sound, almost a moan,
escaped her throat. He caressed her cheek, so smooth beneath his fingertips,
stroked down to the rapid flutter of her pulse. Her hand came up to cover his.
He took it, turned it, bent his head and kissed her palm.

“Cristina!” a voice called.

He pulled away, saw the dazed look upon her face, was
recalled to where they were.

“Alice has arrived.” He stated the obvious. He would not be
ashamed of the kiss, nor hide his presence. Cristina ducked her head.

She looked up, a look not of shame but of confusion on her
face. “My lord?” Her voice trembled slightly.

Alice burst through the rough foliage. “Ah, Cristina,
milord.” She dropped into a hasty curtsy. “‘Tis a glorious smell, is it not?”
She swept a hand out to the lavender bed. “‘As she not made a good job ‘o it,
milord?”

“Excellent. I’ll expect to reap the benefits of all Mistress
le Gros has done here.”

Cristina’s head jerked up. Her ale-dark eyes impaled him
with questions. She stood up. “His lordship has never held a babe, Alice.” She
placed Felice in his arms.

The child was tiny, warm, a gleam of milk on her lips. She
squirmed a bit. “She’s wet!” He thrust her back at Cristina.

But she merely turned away to adjust her gown. “Babes are
frequently wet. Another experience you’ve missed, my lord.”

“I greatly value this tunic,” he said.

Alice grinned a gap-toothed smile and took the child. “I
shall see to her, milord.”

As Alice began to unwrap the babe’s swaddling, he turned.
Cristina turned at the same time. They walked side by side along the weedy
path. “Luke wants a final festivity before we leave with the king and is making
up a hunting party to Turnbull Hill. You’ll join the party.” He made it an
order.

“As you wish, my lord.” They stopped at the gates. There was
a frown on her face. “At your manors in Normandy, a kiss is considered
adultery. I’m under no illusions of my status here. Please don’t interpret my
indulgence—”

“You were indulging me?”

“Nay…that is, please, my lord, do not interpret my
lapse
to be more than that. I’ll not be made a mistress.”

He leaned on the garden wall to feign a relaxed attitude he
did not feel. Every muscle in his body ached to take her into his arms. He
sensed she was at sea how to respond—much as he was. If she needed to retreat,
so be it. “Who says I wish you for a mistress?”

Her eyes widened, her cheeks flooding with color. He held
his breath. She was magnificent when angry. He saw her only in the best of
moods. This fiery manner beguiled him. The heave of her breast enticed him.

A sudden clatter of men and horses told him too many walked
about the bailey, just inches away behind the closed garden gate, for such intimate
discussion. She whirled away, her shoes smacking down against the stones, her
skirts twitching from side to side. Only a few steps away, she stopped. In
moments she was before him again.

“I don’t know what it is you want, my lord, but I thought
you sought the hand of Lady Sabina, so there can be no other reason for your
attentions to me save to make me your mistress.”

“Lady Sabina?” He frowned. “I—”

“I know one thing of you, one thing every man and woman of
Ravenswood would swear to: you are a man of honor. And I trust you will deal so
with both the good lady and me.”

She chastised him! Then her words cut him.

A man of honor.

Where had his honor gone?

“I had no intention of dishonoring you or myself,” he said
softly.

“Then let us forget this moment, my lord.” She made a deep
obeisance and walked away.

“I want you, Mistress le Gros,” he said softly when she had
disappeared from view into the depths of the garden. He lifted his face to the
sun and watched a pair of the castle ravens course the sky. “But I forgot for a
moment you belong to another. And that I have sons to see settled in this
world.”

Cristina rode in a cart decorated with greens to Turnbull
Hill at the edge of the forest. Luke had organized a motley crew of men, women,
and children. She saw both fine ladies and kitchen servants. Despite the threat
of war, the party was festive.

Bishop Dominic and his men did not linger for the hunt. They
sampled the sweetmeats and wines set out by servants, then mounted their horses
and set off for home.

Children ran about the pavilions raised to shelter the
ladies. Cristina wandered, amusing the children with plaited crowns of daisies.
She found herself unable to tolerate the gossip that their capricious king had
already bored of his young wife and taken—and discarded—several lovers. Her
mind shied from talk of men and mistresses.

She had little to do once Felice was fed, as the female
children were captivated by the babe and had taken on the care of her,
pretending they were little mothers.

Amid the pastoral scene, disquiet filled Cristina. She had
not slept the night before. Did her unease stem from the knowledge she had
several lotions and dishes of scent to prepare yet sat here in idleness?

Nay, she must not pretend.
He
caused her disquiet, her
sleepless night. She stroked her lips for mayhap the thousandth time—touched
where his mouth had touched hers. She closed her eyes and could see his head
bent over her hand, see the many fine colors in his hair, from almost black to
deepest red. Worst, she felt the shiver of desire over and over as it coursed
from his fingertips and warm mouth to her heart.

Her heart. It ached to know the man beneath the warrior
lord.
Impossible
.
Impossible
.

Simon would set her aside if he knew how she had strayed; in
truth, he might beat her for such errant thoughts of Lord Durand.

Yet she would never forget the moment or the taste of a kiss
other than Simon’s.

A lick of desire moved from her breast to her groin.

She must gather morning dew, make new candles…double the strength
of the resistance potion.

Her fate lay with Simon.

She looked over at the hunting men, seeking only one man,
but her eyes rested on another. Her husband rode along the perimeter of those
who raised their birds, the deep blue of his surcoat a dot of bright color
against the green of the hills.

Alice had told her with a sly glance of his presence at the
Raven’s Head each night. She must force herself to care.

Was her attraction to Lord Durand mere loneliness? Merely
that of a woman who knew little of the passions of the body—or heart?

There must be no more kisses stolen in a garden. Surely for
that alone God might punish her?

And surely next time she would grant Lord Durand everything
he wished.
Everything
.

Simon rode close and dismounted. He sat at her side, full of
the hunt, his face sunburned, his dark hair wind blown. He had never looked
more handsome.

“Simon, I have a request.” She knotted her fingers tightly
together.

“What is it?” He smiled warmly.

“I want to come home. Mayhap you could speak to Lord Durand.
It is not uncommon for a nurse to take a child into her home—”

The smile froze on his lips. “Hush!” he said harshly. “What
ails you? You are not coming home, do you hear me? You will do your duty there,
at the castle. The king will be here in but a few days, and he will bring Queen
Isabelle and her many, many ladies. You must be at hand to please them. Lady
Oriel will recommend you, and what use will you be if you are in the village?”

“I see how it is. You want to attach yourself to the court.”

His handsome face fell into a harsh frown. He plucked up a
nosegay she was working on. “And what is wrong with bettering ourselves?
Ravenswood is a fine place, but there are better. If Normandy is lost to the
king, de Marle will have little save this one manor. He will be hard pressed to
feed his knights, let alone purchase soap for women!”

He leaned forward. She smelled the rich scent of Lord
Durand’s wine on his breath. “Do you wish to spend your life making dainties
for spoiled women? Well, I do not wish to spend mine selling fine saddles when
I could be riding on them!”

“You promised we would settle. A king’s court is not
settled.” She recoiled from his anger.

“I promised if you gave me a son.”

His words silenced her. He rose and threw down the nosegay.
With an agile leap, he gained his saddle and cantered back to the hunting
party.

She could not condemn him. He wanted what other men had—a
son, a fertile wife.

* * * * *

Penne nudged his mount closer to Durand’s and lifted a dark
brow. “I see Simon speaking with his wife. They appear to be in some
disagreement.”

Durand glanced toward the pavilions and scattered parties on
the grass. He had no need to search about for Cristina le Gros. Without any
intention to do so, he had kept track of her since first they had arrived on
the hill. He saw Simon mount up and canter away from his wife. Her dark head
was bowed.

“Gossip says he sees far too much of the innkeeper’s
daughter.”

“Agnes?” Durand asked with a frown.

“Aye. Think you Oriel should drop a hint to Cristina? Joseph
says Agnes has the pox.” Penne let his horse wander beside Durand’s. They
watched a hawk rise and strike with majestic accuracy.

Durand shook his head. “Nay. I will tend to it.” He thought
of how many of his men frequented the Raven’s Head. “Yet another matter for my
attention. I cannot have my men soaking their cocks when I need them in the
saddle.”

Unable to find any pleasure in the hawking, he hooded his
bird and handed her off to his squire along with the heavy glove he wore to
protect his hand from the wickedly sharp talons.

Penne did the same. “I suppose you have no need of Agnes
with Sabina about,” Penne said.

“Sabina?” Durand jerked his reins and turned his horse away
from the hawking party lest they hear Penne’s words. He saw Cristina tuck a
wreath of daisies about a child’s head.

“Come. Sabina is after a new husband, is she not? She must
be easy prey. Surely, you’ll be trying her?” Penne wagged his eyebrows.

“Not even with your cock,” Durand said with a smile. He
allowed his mare to crop the sweet grasses. Children hovered about Cristina
like bees about a hive.

“Why not?” Penne asked. “Sabina is lovely. As long as she
thinks you might wed her, she’s ripe for the plucking.”

Cristina suddenly rose and began to run in his direction.
She pointed off to the forest.

He caught the acrid scent of burning. Where Cristina pointed
a thin thread of black smoke rose over the treetops. Trust her canny nose to
scent the danger ere any other.

“Penne, the road. Gather the men,” he called, then wheeled
his mare and kicked her into a gallop.

* * * * *

Few women paid any heed to the change in the men’s direction
or their sudden disappearance into the forest. They continued to stitch in the
sunlight or the shade of the pavilions, nibble at sweetmeats, and tease each
other with gossip.

But when a lone rider, Lord Penne, whipping his horse to a
lather, raced from the grove of trees, they all rose as one. Lady Oriel rushed
forward, but he passed her by and skidded to a halt before Cristina.

“Come.” Lord Penne held out a hand. She did not hesitate,
but put her hand in his and was swept onto the horse.

A wide path wound through the trees, and Cristina remembered
following it when first she and Simon had come from Winchester to Ravenswood.
“Bishop Dominic’s party has been attacked by brigands,” Lord Penne said over
his shoulder. There was time for little more. The acrid smell thickened,
filling Cristina’s throat as they rounded a small curve in the road.

Carnage met her eyes. A wagon’s contents burned, the source
of the pungent scent and smoke. Several men were sprawled, bloody on the
ground. Horses, likewise slain, lay in their blood beside their masters.

Lord Durand pulled her from Penne’s horse. “Come, you are
the closest we have to a healer.” He stepped in front of her. “I am sorry you
must be subjected to this. Try not to look—”

“Please, my lord, if there is one living who needs aid, we
waste time.”

He nodded, but kept his arm firmly about her so she had but
a limited view of the dead. She tried to force her face to the calmness her
words implied, but her heart pounded and her stomach heaved as they hastened
past a disemboweled horse.

“Here. The bishop.” Durand knelt at the side of the
corpulent man who so recently had dined at the high table with the other
barons. Beneath Lord Durand’s mantle, the bishop’s bare feet pointed vulnerably
to the heavens. The man could have been either a bishop or a thief. He was
naked.

Cristina touched the bishop’s throat. His pulse beat but
weakly beneath her fingertips; blood smeared his pale skin and face. Quickly
she examined him.

“My lord, this blood is not his. He may have been felled
with a blow to the head, but he has no pressing wounds to treat.” She raised
her gaze to Lord Durand’s anxious one. “I can do nothing. He’s in God’s hands.”

Durand nodded, then called to his brother, who organized
several servants to put out the burning cart. “Luke, fetch transport to the
castle for the bishop and the two others who still live.”

He took her arm again and led her to two other men who lay side
by side, one garbed in a plain wool cassock, the other in a guard’s mail.

She knew the cart would be carrying two, not three. “I’m
sorry, my lord; this one man is dead,” she indicated the man in the cassock,
“but this other one may yet survive.”

“He’s but a boy,” Durand said, reaching out to touch the
youth’s cheek. “Word has spread of John’s arrival. It attracts birds of prey.”
He rose and put out a hand to her. As he did, a wild cry tore the air.

A scream in her throat, Cristina froze. Dozens of men burst
from the forest, swords and axes raised, hacking without order at the hunting
party.

Lord Durand drew his sword. He leapt across the bishop.
Cristina gagged as, with a quick thrust, Durand pierced a brigand’s throat.

He turned, still between her and the slashing men. She
huddled between the living and the dead, unable to move, Lord Durand’s boots
but inches from her hands, his sword slicing the air before her.

Metal clashed with metal. She could not raise her eyes from
the confusion of feet trampling the ground about her.

One brigand wore spurs enameled with blue. They left a
terrible wound on a dead man’s hand as he heedlessly trampled across the man to
escape Durand’s relentless sword.

Where was Simon? She searched for him, but saw him not.

Then Cristina could watch only Durand. He moved with economy
of motion, each thrust of his sword, each slash, drawing blood. It sprayed
across Cristina’s lap, her hands, her face.

With a wild yell, the brigands turned, their numbers greatly
diminished, and fled.

“After them; they head for our party,” Durand shouted,
turning to where she knelt. He grabbed her arm, and in a moment, she was
astride his horse, her arms about his waist. She felt the heat of his body, the
tension through his back, as he kicked his horse to a gallop.

She hung on for her very life, her body jarred with every
hoofbeat. The horse leaped a deadfall and plunged into the sunlit pleasure
ground. The brigands milled about the edge of the field. The women screamed and
ran in clumps to one pavilion, the servants taking a stand before them, too few
to save them should the brigands descend.

At the sight of Durand and his men, the brigands swerved
their horses, taking to the woods again. Durand did not charge the brigands, as
she expected. He headed for the pavilion instead, then reached back, his
fingers an iron grip on her arm. She was jarred from foot to head as he dropped
her to the ground.

“Remain here,” he ordered.

Every bone in her body sang with tension. Her heart raced
with him across the fields. His men formed up behind him. Within an instant,
they had plunged back into the woods.

She never turned from where they had disappeared. Would he
be wounded? Killed?

More than half an hour passed. An occasional shout or a
blood-chilling cry was heard. The women stood mute, children hidden in their
skirts. Lady Sabina paced beside Lady Oriel, their arms entwined, granting each
other strength. Lady Oriel paled and trembled with every moment that passed.

Cristina almost cried aloud when a figure appeared in the
shadows of the forest. Lord Penne. He moved slowly, but lifted his hand, and
even from the distance a grin could be seen on his face. Lady Oriel raised her
skirts and flew toward him.

As Cristina watched—and envied—Lord Penne slid from his
horse and caught her up in his arms.

The rest of Lord Durand’s party came more quickly, passing
the embracing couple. Lord Durand appeared, Simon at his side. They rode
straight toward her. Her husband. Her lord.

Traitorous heart
, she thought.
You spared little
thought for Simon, thought only of him
. She forced her eyes to her husband,
locking her gaze there as befitted a wife.

“You are well?” she asked Simon.

He nodded. “Aye. We have lost not a single man, but I have
never seen such evil done.”

“Mistress?” Lord Durand interrupted Simon. “My men will
bring the bishop and his guard. Will you see to them? This time without
interruption, I most fervently hope.”

Simon answered in a rush, his face pale. “My lord, she will
tend all the injured. Have you your pouch, Cristina?”

“Nay. I brought only my stitchery.”

“Stupid woman. Then you must do the best you can without.”

Lord Durand looked about to speak, but Luke called his name
and he wheeled his horse and rode away.