Lord of the Mist (12 page)

“What’s it doing in here?” Penne asked.

“Come.” Durand strode back to where the boy lay. He drew the
blanket off the boy’s chest to assure himself that the wound was in the same
place as the rent in the tunic.

The boy licked his lips and opened his eyes. “Father?”

“I’ll fetch him for you in a moment.” Durand poured a cup of
water and, with Penne’s assistance, held it to the boy’s lips. The youth sipped
it, then fell back, his color gray and his breathing labored.

The blade thrust had missed the heart or lungs, else the boy
would be dead. Behind him, Aldwin bustled about with little purpose.

The boy mumbled and rolled his head. “What chance has he?”
Durand asked quietly of the leech.

“Eh, he wakes and sleeps, wakes and sleeps.” Aldwin
shrugged. “His wound festers.”

Durand gently tapped his fingers on the boy’s cheek. His
eyes fluttered open—blue eyes, the whites yellow. He licked his lips. A small
smear of blood stained his lips.

“Do you know what this is?” Durand asked, holding the
Aelfric before the boy.

His eyes widened. “The Bishop…‘tis the bishop’s.”

“The bishop’s?” Durand looked up at Penne.

The boy shuddered, raised a trembling hand to Durand, and
began to weep. “He bade me take it to him. He bade me.”

Durand took the dry, cold hand in his and thought of
Cristina’s recommendation that the patient should be warmed. The boy’s fetid
breath bathed his face. “The Bishop asked you to take the Aelfric to him?”
Durand exchanged a look with Penne. “I don’t understand.”

The leech gasped, hastened to the table, and looked with
avid interest at the book in Durand’s hand.

The boy clutched Durand’s tunic. He wept with great sobs
that shook his thin body. “Nay. My father. He bade me deliver the book…to the
bishop. Have you a priest? He…says I am dying. Can you fetch my father?”

Aldwin sputtered a protest, which Durand silenced with a
glance. “Get Father Odo,” he ordered. Aldwin scuttled off.

Durand tucked the boy’s hand beneath the blanket. “I shall
fetch the priest, but you must be sure to cleanse your soul. Tell the good
father all.”

It did not take long to summon Father Odo. Penne and Durand
stood by to discreetly hear the young man’s confession.

The young man was not, as they had believed, of the bishop’s
party, but instead had dressed as one of them in order to deliver the Aelfric
volume. The bishop had bought it, the boy sobbed, from his father for three
jeweled rings, worth a king’s ransom.

“I don’t understand,” Durand said after the priest anointed
the boy. “The bishop bought my Aelfric for three rings from your father?”

The boy’s lips were as pale as his skin; his hand trembled.
He shivered with fever. “Aye.”

Durand leaned over the boy. “Tell me who your father is.”

Father Odo said, “You must tell us, for he is a thief to
take our lord’s fine book.”

Durand scowled the priest silent, but it was too late.

The boy’s gaze jumped from the priest to Durand’s. “I-I will
not tell you.” He began to weep.

With great gentleness, for the boy looked as if he might die
in but moments, Durand tucked the blankets close about the boy as Cristina had
done.

The boy rolled his head. His eyes darted wildly about the
room. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he chanted.

Father Odo made a sign of the cross over the boy’s head and
when their gazes met, the priest gave a quick shake of the head.

Penne spoke at his ear. “Does he not look much like our
merchant?”

* * * * *

The boy died within the hour. Durand and Penne walked from
the herbarium to the counting room.

“Penne, did you not think the brigands too finely garbed for
mere men on the hunt for stray travelers?”

Penne nodded. “Aye. Their weapons were very good for men on
the road, and their horses were fat.”

“I’ve been thinking they did not idly pick their prey. I’m
sorry we didn’t capture one of the brigands and question him.”

“Was the bishop so influential he needed to be murdered?”

“This is not a war with the church. It is between John and Philip,
although kings at war are always of interest to the church. As with us, the
church must choose sides.”

His thoughts returned to the book in his hand. He opened the
coffer and stared into the neatly arranged parchments, tally sticks, and books.
He placed the Aelfric on top and withdrew the Aristophanes. Whoever had taken
the herbal knew what it was and knew its worth. For in truth, the gilded cover
of the Aristophanes made it look far more valuable.

“You think the boy resembled Simon?” he asked Penne.

“Aye.” Penne poured himself a cup of wine from a skin
hanging by the hearth. “But mayhap I’m dreaming. He has no children that I know
of.”

“A bastard, mayhap?” Durand had had enough of bastards. “But
how would Simon come into possession of the book or know where to find it?”

“Someone gave it to him.”

Cristina.

He thought of her immediately. She knew the book’s worth.
But she had given it back to Luke.

He straddled the bench and stared into the hearth flames.
The thought that she might have contrived to steal his Aelfric pained him as
much as thoughts of Luke and Felice.

* * * * *

Durand did nothing to challenge Simon on the identity of the
dead youth. Instead, he found himself but moments later on his knees in his
hall, accepting the greetings of his king.

“All omens are good,” King John said when Durand rose. “The
weather is fine for hunting and our ships are almost ready. We but await the
arrival of William Marshall to know what offensive we must launch.”

The king then turned and held out his hand to a small woman.
“But before we inspect our galleys, let me present Lady Nona, Lord Jean de
Braisie’s eldest daughter, Lord Merlainy’s widow.”

Durand bowed.
De Braisie’s daughter
. Her holdings
were immense, dotting England in the south and France in the Aquitaine.

“My lady,” he said, lifting her hand and kissing the back.
She was slim and young, no more than a score in years. Her skin was rosy pink
with good health. Her eyes were as green as peridots, the hair peeking from the
edges of her headcovering a soft fawn brown.

“You may go,” the king said to the widow, and when she was
out of earshot, being led by Oriel to the woman’s solar, the king gestured that
Durand should take a seat. “Accept our condolences on the loss of our dear
Marion. We loved her.”

Durand inclined his head. The king handed him a ring.

“Give this to your son Adrian.” The small circlet of gold
was studded with fine blue stones. John much loved jewels.

“With thanks, sire,” Durand said, slipping the ring on his
finger. “Is Lady Nona under your protection?”

“Aye, until she is under another’s.”

So, it was as Durand had thought. Lady Nona was a candidate
for his hand.

“Ah,” cried the king, rising quickly, “one of our favorite
little birds!” He held out his hand and Lady Sabina knelt to kiss it. “What brings
this nightingale here? Nay, say nothing, child; you are on the hunt for a
husband.” When Lady Sabina colored and glanced at Durand, he merely arched a
brow. The king pulled Sabina to his side, and a servant hastily placed a stool
for her by John’s side. “You will make a lovely wife, Lady Sabina, but we doubt
of this worthy baron here.” The king swept out a hand to Durand. “We have other
uses for you. Luke is not wed, and he is surely creaking with age to be so
unencumbered.”

They all laughed with the king.

When finally King John had finished with Sabina, Durand
endured a lengthy meal and an evening of song and music by the king’s side. The
royal musicians were the best in the realm, and Lady Nona’s voice sweet, but
not quite sweet enough to rival the young Queen Isabelle’s.

Durand found himself unable to do more than nod to most of
the king’s conversation. Too much filled his mind: the dead youth in the
herbarium, the theft of the Aelfric, Marion’s betrayal, two females vying for
his hand, a hammering lust for Cristina le Gros.

Did he see the resemblance in the boy to Simon, as claimed
by Penne? In truth, Durand could not say either way. Was there aught else but
hair and eye color there?

Would Felice one day betray
her
father’s blood by the
turn of her cheek or the color of her hair?

His gaze fell on Lady Nona. He nodded to her. He found the
possibility of marriage to Lady Nona created a terrible conflict in him. If one
counted the wealth of her French and English properties combined, they would
more than compensate for all his sons might lose if the king’s plans for
Normandy failed. But it would also place great power in his hands.

John’s choice of bride for him raised myriad questions in
Durand’s mind. Why choose a woman of such power if he questioned Durand’s
loyalty? And as long as John withheld the earl’s belt, he was under suspicion.

Durand was challenged by Penne to a game of dice. He used
the pretext to escape the king’s notice and discuss the dead boy’s resemblance
to Simon. But Penne turned his thoughts elsewhere.

“So we have two prospective brides for your hand. You should
be flattered. Lady Nona is quite a match.”

“Aye. But why? It is as if the king is dangling something
before me. No doubt when I reach for it, he will snatch it back.”

“Will you reach for it?”

Durand glanced at the king. He was a small man, mean of
mouth and surrounded by his bachelors, men not of royal rank, but much within
his confidence. “He is as changeable as the wind, but I’m not a fool.”

“Nona’s a fetching little morsel.” Penne rocked the dice cup
in a manner imitative of a woman’s swaying skirts.

“It matters not if a wife is fetching.” Durand frowned at
his friend. What was behind Penne’s approval of Lady Nona? The marriage might
allow him to offer a bribe and avoid taking up the sword against Philip
himself. But did Penne not need him negotiating for the return of their
properties? If he remained in England with a well-dowered wife, he could do
none of those things for his friend. He hated suspecting every word his friend
spoke.

Penne tapped the table to gain his attention. “You could
negotiate Mistress le Gros into your marriage contracts, if you are shrewd
about it. ‘Tis been done before, a wife’s agreeing to tolerate a mistress.”

Durand frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

“Come. You look at our merchant’s wife as if you would
devour her. If Marion were alive, she would dismiss the woman the instant she
saw you and her in the same chamber. There is heat in your look. Hunger. You
would do well to conceal it before Lady Nona.” The dice rattled across the
tabletop.

Durand throat dried. Was he as transparent as the glass in
Penne’s chamber windows? “I’ve no intention of—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Penne said, leaning close.

Durand recoiled from his friend. If it was Penne who had
betrayed him, what right had he to make sport of Cristina? “I admit only that
she is a taking woman to look upon.”

“Take her then, for I suspect our Cristina wants you as much
as you want her, but see,” he pointed with the dicing cup, “she’s sitting with
Luke. Do you not think it will be he who charms her into his bed if you do
not?”

Durand looked from Penne to Luke. From Luke to Penne. Marion
had oft berated him for qualities found in abundance in his brother—and
friend—and sadly lacking in himself.

Humor. Patience.

He remembered le Gros’ accusation that Luke had handled
Cristina. Was there aught between them? She was taking. Any man would think her
so. “Think you Luke pursues her?” he asked with studied indifference.

Penne shrugged. “She invites no liberties that I see. The
perfect picture of gentle modesty. But she’s damned well made, if you ask me,
and ‘tis sure she finds a cold bed with le Gros. In fact, offer le Gros a few
marks for her. He slavers to increase his importance so, I imagine he would
probably lift his wife’s gown for you and help her into your bed, if asked.”

“How can Oriel abide you?”

“How can I do what?” Oriel asked. She plucked the dice from
the table and kissed them before giving them back to Penne.

“Abide this man here,” Durand said, attempting a manner of
levity.

“
All
women find him ‘abidable’, Durand. ‘Tis his
lovely blue eyes, I wager. Was I not saying just today that Penne was Marion’s
first choice?” Oriel perched on Penne’s knee. “I believe she envied me. Not to
belittle
your
worth, Durand.”

Penne smiled. “‘Twas I who had not Durand’s worth.”

Oriel tugged on Penne’s hair in a playful manner, but there
was little playful in her tone. “Which, thank God, made you perfect for me, the
younger, less important daughter.”

“You could never be unimportant,” Durand said. “I am blessed
to have you here.”

“You are kind.” Oriel rose and kissed Durand’s cheek, then
went back to Penne’s knee. “But I’ve always felt a need to watch Penne every
moment, else Marion might have stolen him away.”

“Or I her.” Penne kissed Oriel on the neck. Tension underlay
Oriel’s bantering tone.

Hastily Durand rose. “Excuse me,” he said, almost knocking
his chair over in his haste to rise. “I must find where Joseph has placed my
pallet.”

* * * * *

The next morning the hall filled as everyone clamored to see
and hear the king conduct business. He did not, as he had the previous autumn,
lie abed with his young wife in neglect of his duties. Nay, he had been first
to the hall after Lord Durand, and now, several hours later, he was still
there. The long table was filled with barons and other men.

Cristina took her place with the women of lesser importance,
stitching diligently and nursing Felice as she demanded. She should have been
well rested, as Felice had blessedly slept through the night, but instead
Cristina felt weary to her bones.

She tried—and failed—to ignore the chattering women who
surrounded the very pretty, very young queen.

“Mistress?” Luke sat at her feet. “What so occupies you that
you must ruin your lovely face with a frown?”

She could not help smiling down at him. “This stitch is
difficult.”

“I’m not a lady to know needlecraft, but it looks to me like
simple mending. Why are you not truthful?”

“Forgive me,” she said softly. “I am much concerned of this
talk of war.”

“Aye. We await the arrival of William Marshall and the
king’s new galley; then we’ll be off.”

“So soon?” Her throat felt tight. “You will—” She broke off
when one of the queen’s ladies came to their side.

“Let me present Lady Nona,” Luke said. Cristina rose and
made a respectful curtsy. “And Lady Nona, please meet a woman who fills our
lives with sweet scents—Cristina le Gros.”

“Is this Lord Durand’s daughter?” Lady Nona asked, dropping
to her knees in a pool of bronze wool skirts.

“Aye, my lady,” Cristina said.

“She is a sweetling,” Lady Nona said, peering in the basket.

Luke pulled Felice from her swaddling. He set her in Nona’s
arms. “She’s plump as a stoat and pretty as her mother was. Thank God she has
naught of Durand!” He paused, then peered closely at Felice. “Is she losing her
hair? She’s almost bald.”

“Luke, you are hard on the poor child.” Lady Nona laughed.
“In a few years, you will wish for such a thatch!”

Luke touched his head and frowned.

Lady Nona took the child and held her close. The lady’s
cheeks were soft as a summer peach. She wore her golden brown hair held back by
a circlet of silver and gold entwined and decorated with small squares of blue
enamel. Her bronze gown covered a fine linen undergown of a deep blue. The
embroidery was inches thick about the sleeve and hem. Her girdle repeated the
richness of her circlet.

“Have you children of your own?” Luke asked, leaning
negligently on a nearby table. He crossed his arms over his chest. He had never
looked more handsome, his red-gold hair, thick enough to last a score of years,
agleam in the sun streaming in the solar window. His brown tunic and heavy
leather belt emphasized his slim waist.

“To my great regret, I don’t, my lord,” Lady Nona said. “May
I take this sweet one away whilst I walk about the castle grounds?” She
directed her question to Cristina.

What could she say to this companion to the queen? “As it
pleases you, my lady.” The lady smiled and turned away.

“The king wishes Nona to wed Durand,” Luke said, staring
after her.

Wed Durand?
An impossible ache lodged somewhere near
Cristina’s heart. What right had she to feel anything?

She stared at the empty basket by her feet.
It was as it
should be,
she thought.
Lord Durand’s wife-to-be must learn the place
and his daughter.
Her throat burned, as did her eyes.

Lord Durand was naught but the substance of dreams.

“Cristina? Have you something for my hair?” Luke asked.

“Your hair?” She forced herself to concentrate on his words
and the frown upon his face.

“Aye. Is there something to grow new or prevent its loss—”

“Prevent its loss?” Cristina watched Lady Nona leave the
hall. “I believe the lady but teased you.”

Nothing could prevent the loss of Felice, she thought as the
babe who had come to take the place of her own in her heart left the hall in
the arms of Lord Durand’s future wife.

“I have noticed some change here.” Luke tapped his brow.

She needed to escape this place in which she was so much a
servant. “I’ll mix you something, but it smells so ‘tis likely you’ll need to
make a choice twixt your hair and your bed partners.”

She left him frowning and rubbing his temples and sought out
Alice, who sat with Lady Sabina, sorting the woman’s silks.

They remarked not at all when she excused herself, telling
Alice she would work in the garden.

But it was not to the peace of Lady Marion’s garden she
went. That space was not hers either, just as Felice and this life were not
hers. She found herself alone on the road to the village save for a boy and his
goat. At the fork she stood a moment, contemplating the many directions to be
taken: Portsmouth, where the men would go to embark for war; the village and
thence to Winchester; or the forest. She turned to the forest.

In moments she had stepped from the work of man to that of
God. The deep green, the coolness of the air, embraced her. She felt at home,
welcomed. Her breasts told her it would be hours ere Felice needed her, and
heeding a basic need of her own, she hurried through the trees.

A furlong from the road, she came to the clearing where Sir
Luke had hewn himself a smooth seat. She sat there and lifted her face to the
meager sunlight weaving its way through the boughs overhead. All about was
silent of man’s intrusion. Only the rush of the river and God’s creatures could
be heard.

She pulled off her plain leather circlet and headcovering,
then let down her hair, combing it out with her fingers.

Clouds obscured the sun; the wind rose, teasing her skirt
hem. It swirled the mist over the river bank and slowly toward her. She reveled
in the peace of the concealing fog, the caress of its intangible fingers on her
skin, the deadening of sound.

The jingle of a harness made her turn. Lord Durand sat there
atop his terrible black horse, as if a spirit come from the mist.

She rose and faced him. “Are you real?” she asked. “Or have
I conjured you?”

He swung his leg over the front of the saddle and slid to
the ground, then looped his reins about a low branch. “I’m real, but can I hope
you would conjure me if I were not?” he asked.

She sat down, then remembered her hair; but her headcovering
was a tightly creased mess and could not be quickly donned.

He walked about the clearing, the fog moving from his boots
as if running away. She watched him in silence. His dark green surcoat made him
almost a creature of the forest, blending with shadows, at one with his
surroundings.

Then he came to stand before her. “Have you forgotten the
danger of brigands?”

“Aye, my lord, I must confess I’ve other matters on my
mind.”

“What matters are of such import you would endanger
yourself?”

His cheeks were shadowed with beard, his brows drawn
together with concern or anger—she knew not which.

Cristina shifted on the stump and sought to deflect the
heavy weight of his scrutiny. “Ones of little interest to a man such as yourself,
my lord.”

To her astonishment, he let it rest, only stepping closer.
He wore a jeweled ring on his left hand, one too fragile for a man such as he.
It would make a lovely gift for a new bride.

“I have a difficult question for you, Cristina.”

“A question?” She saw a softening in the harsh lines about
his mouth. “Ask me whatever you wish.”

Her throat felt tight. Would he ask her to be his mistress?
Or would he honor the promise made between them? And if he did ask…what would
she answer?

Praise God, she had taken two doses of the resistance potion
that morn and had added crushed thorns of hawthorne to make herself less
amiable in temperament as further discouragement. She readied herself to
resist.

He didn’t speak, but paced the clearing, his steps almost silent
on the many layers of pine needles.

Finally he went down on his haunches before her and touched
her knee. “Has your husband a son?”

Heat filled her cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean. We have
no children.” She hated the compassion she saw on his face.

“I didn’t mean issue with you, but with another. Has Simon a
son?”

Cristina ducked her head to hide from his direct gaze and
nodded. “He has a son. He would be ten and four or five now.”

“I see.” Lightly, he placed his hand over hers. “I believe
the youth who died from the brigand’s wound is Simon’s son.”

She looked up and saw a terrible truth in his eyes. “Nay.
Nay. ‘Tis not possible. He resides in Winchester—”

“Had he not the look of your husband?”

She shook her head. “Nay, my lord.”

“You asked if he did not remind us of someone.”

“Aye. As you thought he reminded you of your son’s friends,
so he reminded me of an innocent child. I thought of Felice, no one else, my
lord.”

His hard expression softened. “Aye. He did have the
beardless cheeks of an innocent, but that’s not who he resembled. He resembled
your husband.”

She could not accept what he said. “You’re wrong, my lord.
It could not be.” She twisted the linen cloth in her hands. “Oh, ‘tis a misery,
if you are right. Simon…” She could not finish. The boy had meant so much to
Simon. It was the boy Simon held up to her as proof that their childless state
was not his fault.