Authors: Ann Lawrence
Tension radiated from Simon. He paced before her, his horse
nervously weaving behind him. “You should have seen it. Sir Luke is quick—nay,
very quick—but his lordship…he was magnificent. I watched him slice a man
through from shoulder to groin.”
“Simon, please,” Cristina tried to stem the flow of Simon’s
account, but his blood was up.
“You must do what you can for the injured. The bishop, of
course, and his guard—so young—do you hear?” He gripped her arm. “Prove
yourself of some use!”
She clamped her lips over a retort.
“How could you come out without your pouch? You go nowhere
without it. Now, when you could impress Lord Durand with your—”
“With my what? Flower garlands? I’m not a healer—”
“You are useless sometimes. Ofttimes! What if those men
die?”
Cristina bowed her head. His tirade continued until a cart
appeared. “Cease, Simon. I will tend the men as best I can.”
She accepted his hand up into the cart, where she knelt by
the bishop. His face was gray, his mouth open, and his breath puffing out with
a stench of sour wine. As the cart lumbered along the roadbed back to the
castle, Lord Durand rode to its side.
“Mistress, you’re not injured, are you?” His scowl swept
over her where she knelt. “This is not your blood, is it?”
She shook her head and wiped a trickle of sweat from the
bishop’s brow. “Nay, my lord.”
“How fares the bishop?”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I fear he is worsening. I don’t
think anything from my pouch—”
“Fear not, Cristina. Had I thought we were to encounter such
an attack I would have brought the leech myself.”
“You don’t blame yourself, my lord?” she said. “Surely, you
are not responsible for what occurred here.”
“I am responsible for all that occurs on my land.”
Lord Durand fell back. Cristina divided her attention
between the bishop and his guard. There was little she could do for either. The
youth—for surely he was little more than ten and five—had lost a great deal of
blood, but his wounds had ceased to bleed. In truth, the bishop was more likely
to die; his color was worsening and his breathing labored.
In the bailey, many came to greet their return, Aldwin among
them. He said naught, but the glare he gave Cristina told her he considered her
to be once again poaching on his territory. With a few terse commands, Aldwin
directed the removal of the bishop and his wounded guard.
Cristina took Felice, sought her chamber and, after washing
her bloody hands and face, attempted to feed the child, who promptly refused to
eat. Cristina forced herself to be patient. Her skin itched. She badly wanted
to rid herself of her soiled garments. By the time the child had consented to
be fed, Cristina was nodding in her chair.
Simon shook her awake. “I have come to tell you the bishop
is dead. The leech believes ‘twas some neglect on your part.”
“Simon!” She shot to her feet. Her entire body quivered in
reaction to the day and its horrors. “And you defended me to him, of course?”
He hesitated.
“Well, Simon, I see where your loyalties lie.” She clutched
the child hard against her breast and forced herself to face her husband. “How
is it you did not defend me? Surely a criticism of me is a criticism of you.”
Simon colored. “I could think of nothing to say. He—”
“Cristina?” Luke entered the chamber. “I’ll have need of
more potion—” He fell silent when he saw Simon; then as if seeing her, too, for
the first time, he came forward and clasped his hands on her shoulders. “What
is this? Blood?”
“Aye, not mine, though.”
Simon interrupted. “She is wanted in the hall, my lord.
Master Aldwin is—”
“Complaining of her,” Luke finished, and squeezed her
shoulders. She shivered in his hands. “Do not fear, mistress. I shall pluck the
old buzzard of his ire. He’s jealous, and the bishop’s death serves to give him
a stage for his grievances.”
“I did naught that could have harmed the bishop.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Simon piped in.
“I’ve no doubt of her veracity, but still, the man must have
his say.” Luke turned to the door.
Simon grabbed her arm and said in a hiss close to her ear,
“How dare you allow him to touch you so? What if someone had seen you—”
She tried to pull away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Are you coming?” Luke asked, holding the door for them.
“I’m not finished with you,” Simon said, and dropped her
arm.
With her stomach tied in knots as tangled as her hair, she
followed Luke, Simon a few steps behind, her cheeks hot from his foolish
accusation.
In moments they stood in the hall before Durand. Aldwin
stood at his right hand. Luke took Felice from her.
“This woman takes too much upon herself—” Aldwin began.
“I assure you, my lord—” Simon began.
But Lord Durand raised a hand, instantly silencing both men.
“I have listened to you, Aldwin, but I watched Mistress le Gros minister to the
fallen. She did what any good wife would, naught more. Now let us all see this
wounded boy. Mayhap, Aldwin, you could give Mistress le Gros some advice on
caring for the sick should you be unavailable, as you were today.”
The leech pursed his lips. “As you wish, my lord.” He bowed
stiffly and led them all—Simon, Cristina, Durand, and Luke, Felice still in his
arms—from the hall. They descended to the cooler levels of the castle
storerooms, but heat prickled Cristina’s scalp.
After what seemed like ages to Cristina, the leech turned a
key and entered a room lit with several torches.
Smoke blackened the ceiling from years of such illumination.
The young man lay on a table, pale as death, naked, several leeches on his
breast near a long wound shiny from cauterization. The stench of roasted meat
filled the air. They ranged themselves about the table.
Simon cried out and fled down the corridor.
“Weakling,” Aldwin said, plucking off one leech and placing
it in a shallow dish.
Cristina picked up the boy’s hand. It was icy, his nails
blue. “Should he not be kept warm?” His nakedness offended her. A person should
die with dignity, and death, she imagined, was not far off for the youth. Luke
and Durand stepped to the foot of the table and considered him.
Her heart ached for the boy’s mother, wherever she was.
Gently, and in defiance of Aldwin, she draped a blanket over the youth, then
moved around the table and tucked the blanket close about his thin body. Aldwin
sniffed derisively as she tended the boy.
“Does he not remind you of someone?” she asked the men.
Lord Durand nodded. “Aye. My son Adrian’s friends. What can
you tell Mistress le Gros about your care of him so far, Aldwin?”
The man bristled, but finally his need to display his
abilities outweighed his annoyance with her. “I have a very special paste of
goose grease and pitch, cooked just so, stored in a stone crock—not
earthenware, mind you. It must be stone.” He tapped the boy’s chest. “I’ll lay
it on the wound, just so thick, and no thicker,” he splayed his thumb and index
finger to indicate the amount, “then apply leeches to the swelling and pray to
God, of course.”
With a glance at Lord Durand, she asked a tentative
question. “Will you not feed him? Warm his hands and feet?”
“Nay! Food would merely purge itself and foul my herbarium.”
The herbarium was already foul, the rushes old and dirty.
“What of some sweet water?”
“Water! You know nothing of healing.” Aldwin shook his head
at her ignorance. With a curtsy, she left the room. The others, save Aldwin,
followed her.
Luke shifted Felice from one shoulder to the other when he
caught up with her. “Do you think the boy should be fed?”
“Aye, but I’m not the healer,” she said, conscious Lord
Durand listened and not sure Aldwin did not eavesdrop at his door.
“Nonsense,” Luke said. “Even I know from the battlefield
that a weak man is like to die.”
“Then you must make the point to Master Aldwin yourself.”
She would not be bait between these men.
“Come.” Lord Durand took her arm. “I shall see the boy is
fed and warmed. You shall bathe.”
They reached the hall and Simon met them. His face was white
as new milk. “Forgive me, my lord. The smell of burning flesh…I am not used
to…that is…”
Durand laid a hand on Simon’s shoulder. It quivered like a
bowl of jelled eels beneath his hand. “Say no more. You’re my merchant, not one
of my soldiers. Take your wife and see to her.”
When Durand glanced at Cristina, he saw Simon take her arm
and lead her in the direction of the tower steps. He thought of what his
emotions would be if the blood on her gown were her own.
He would need to kill the man who’d drawn it.
“Luke, find Penne,” he said, turning.
“What for?” Luke bent his head and kissed Felice’s cheek.
Luke. Lord of Skirts.
He thought of Marion’s affection for his brother, a man who
laughed, who took pleasure in all things. A man who made love with little
thought for consequences.
An arrow of pain shot through Durand’s middle. Was Luke the
father of Marion’s child?
Durand went directly to Luke’s counting room. He ignored
Oriel there by the fire, stitching a tunic for Penne. He threw open the coffer
and began to search.
Outside, it began to rain gently. Not so gentle was the
storm within him.
Why did he want to know the child’s parentage?
To punish
.
Could he punish his brother?
He tossed a score or more rolls onto the table. They dated
back to Luke’s first assumption of the position as castellan at Ravenswood.
Durand had thought the position beneath his brother, but Luke had begged for
it, as he knew Ravenswood was meant to be his one day. Now Durand combed the
rolls of parchment for some clue to Luke’s assumption of more than just charge
of the castle.
“What is it you seek?” Oriel abandoned her mending, sat
beside him, and took his hand, turning it over.
He shrugged.
Her fingers were gentle on his. “These blisters may fester.
How came they?”
“I fought without gloves.”
“Men are fools. I’ll call for Mistress le Gros.”
“Don’t.” He jerked his hand from hers.
“Why ever not?” She rose and threw open the door before he
could prevent it.
“Oriel—”
“Fetch Mistress le Gros with a salve for Lord Durand’s
hands,” she ordered the sentry who stood there.
“I have no need of—” Durand began, but Oriel overrode him.
“Nonsense. You are just as Marion said. Stubborn.” She
resumed her seat and picked up the tunic.
“What else did she say?” he asked, flexing his blistered
hand, knowing that in moments Cristina would arrive.
“She said you made love like a warrior besieging a castle,
and that she imagined my gentle Penne would have suited her better.”
Durand stared at her bent, fair head, her quick fingers on
her needlework, his cheeks hot. “Penne would have suited her better?” He wanted
to snatch the words back into his mouth.
When Oriel raised her eyes, they were flooded with tears.
“We both know Penne wanted to wed Marion, but settled for me. And she wanted
someone to fawn on her.”
“Oriel. Penne would never fawn on anyone, and he is with me
more than away from me.”
“Not in this last year. We have been here, thanks to Philip.
And you have scarce visited but twice in this last twelvemonth.”
Durand swallowed. “Penne is well contented with you. He has
nothing of which to complain.”
“Save I am childless. With Marion, he would have had sons, a
daughter.” A tear rolled down her cheek to stain the bodice of her scarlet
gown.
A daughter?
Penne.
Mon Dieu
. Must he suspect his best
friend too?
“My lord?” A sentry stood at his door.
“Aye?” Durand threw the roll he held to join its fellows
among the rushes. He resisted the urge to pitch the entire pile into the
flames.
“Mistress le Gros, my lord.” The sentry stepped back and she
stood in his doorway.
“Excuse me, Cristina.” Oriel bolted through the door.
It was all Durand could do not to run after her and shake
out of her whatever suspicions were in her mind. But he could not—ever.
“Enter.” He leaped to his feet and glanced about at the
castle rolls. “Enter,” he repeated when Cristina merely remained in place.
“The sentry said you are wounded, that I was to come.”
Durand forced his face to hide his inner turmoil. “Lady
Oriel is overly concerned.”
“I shall go then,” Cristina said, turning to the door.
“Nay. Stay,” he said before he could prevent the words. Her
dark hair was plaited and wound with ivory ribbons. They matched her undergown.
Her overgown was the color of ripe butter, unadorned. He needed her presence,
whatever succor she offered—the peace that always surrounded her.
“You wounded your arm again?” Her gaze skimmed from his face
to his hand. The glance was as tangible as any touch could be.
“Nay.” He held out his left hand, turning it to the light.
“It is my hand this time.”
She hastened across the room, nodding at the sentry who
remained at the door. He could not afford to dismiss the man.
“Blisters can fester, my lord. You should wear gloves.” She
did not touch him, but glanced again at the guard. “I believe Master Aldwin
would better serve your purpose.”
“Aldwin tends the wounded boy,” he returned.
“I cannot do this, my lord. Master Aldwin closely guards his
place at Ravenswood,” she said, shaking her head. She placed a pot of salve on
the table as if it were a serpent that might strike her. “He resents my every
foray into his domain.”
“Master Aldwin holds his position at Ravenswood at my
pleasure. He has not your touch.”
She remained unmoved.
“Sit.” He made it an order. When she sat, something tight
and coiled loosened in his chest.
He lifted the lid on the small pot. “What’s in it, besides
mint?” he asked as she dipped her fingers into the pale green goo.
“Dock, almond oil.” After only a moment of hesitation, she
took his hand. A shiver of desire and molten need coursed through his body as
her fingers smoothed the salve across his blistered palm. Her fingers were
gentle, barely touching, yet still sending sensations, nearly unbearable,
through his body.
I will never wear gloves again
, he thought.
Is this what drove Marion? A touch of desire from someone
forbidden?
With what he hoped was indifference, he watched the fire,
not their hands, but soon turned to the scattered rolls when the fire in his
blood matched that of the hearth. The rolls of parchment merely served to
remind him of what he sought.
Luke. Penne. He must know who had sired Felice.
One of them might have betrayed him. Could he ride into
battle with a man who was a betrayer? Was this what Old Owen had wanted to warn
him about?
Cristina clasped his hand more firmly, stroking her thumbs
in his palm. All thoughts of Penne, Luke, and Marion fled.
He felt her touch to the soles of his feet. He no longer
resisted her, nor thought of betrayal.
Only her touch, her scent, her luminous skin held him… He
frowned. “Where did you get the bruise?” he asked.
“Bruise?” she asked. “I-I didn’t know I had a bruise.”
He raised his free hand and touched her cheek just beneath
her eye. “Were you struck by one of the brigands?”
The look on her face told him she was about to lie. Her gaze
slid from his, to the torque about his throat. “I must have been, my lord.”
“I would kill the man for you if he were not already dead.”
Her face paled, but she said nothing. Then she bent her head
and set herself to her work. She tortured him, skimming and smoothing the salve
on his skin. Each touch seduced.
She would soon stop. He placed his other hand on the table.
Without looking up or saying a word, she dipped her fingers
in the salve again and began the same torture on his right hand.
Of course…the bruise was the work of Simon. For forgetting
her pouch? Or for angering Aldwin? Regardless, Simon would know before the sun
set that if he laid a hand on her again, he would rue the day.
But thoughts of Simon also vanished as she drew her fingers
down the center of his hand, from wrist to fingertips, gently, slowly. He
imagined just such devoted attention to the rest of his body. His manhood
filled at the thought, his heartbeat thundered in his chest.
She neatly rolled his shirt to his elbow. Every turn of the
fabric stripped away his composure.
“Your wound healed nicely,” she said. Her fingertips
wandered along the mark she had tended so recently, lingering on the sensitive
new skin. She returned to his hand. There was no longer a need, but still, she
again rubbed salve into his palm and fingers. Skimming, soothing, arousing.
Every nerve of his body flashed to fire.
“Cristina,” he said.
She shot to her feet. Her body quivered.
“Go,” he ordered the sentry.
When the door closed behind the guard, her words tumbled out
in gasping syllables. “My lord. I beg of you. Order me…home.”
He rose and shoved the table away so nothing stood between
them. “Send you home? I’m not sure I could sleep at night thinking of you in
his
bed.”
Her pale face flooded with color. “Please, I beg of you. I
have never broken my vows. Do not ask such a thing of me.”
“I would never ask such a thing. You misunderstand me,” he
lied. “I have spent my life abiding by vows I have made—to my liege, my wife,
God.” This, at least, was perfect truth. “But I do not want you within his
reach.” He lifted her face to the light. “This is his work, is it not?”
Her eyes met his, but she said nothing.
“Many a husband has struck a wife, but I somehow… I will not
send you home. I want you here. Felice needs you, and Marion would never have
countenanced the child’s placement outside the keep.” Why had he fallen back on
the child as an excuse? Why not speak the truth and damn the consequences?
She kept her intent gaze on his face.
Damn the consequences
.
“I want you. But you need never fear I’ll ask you to break
your vows,” he said and found he meant it. There was something gentle and sweet
about her that guile would destroy.
He turned his hand over and held it out.
She stared down at it. Hers shook when she slipped it into
his. “Would you take a vow on it, my lord?”
“Aye. I vow it.”