Authors: Ann Lawrence
Cristina left Lord Durand’s chamber and walked slowly to the
east tower. She was confused. Her lot lay with Simon, her chance for children
and a home. Yet her mind turned again and again to Lord Durand. She had made
him vow to her. Could she have so honestly vowed the same in his position?
Alice stopped her in the hall. “Mistress, may I go to the
village? The midwife says Rose, in the village, be due ere dawn comes, and I
may be needed there.”
“Of course you must go. I will pray for Rose.” She
remembered the midwife who had tended her and Lady Marion—a gentle woman who
had wept for her lady.
Alone in her chamber save for the sleeping Felice, Cristina
dropped her gown over a bench, then wandered about clad only in her shift. In
the alcove, she examined the bundles of flowers drying over the worktable.
The air was warm and the damp as it moved lazily through the
flowers. She would lose some to rot if the weather did not turn.
She shoved the bed curtains open a bit before lying on the
furs. She said her prayers, then closed her eyes as she rolled to her side and
drew up her knees. In her mind’s eye she saw Lord Durand’s hands, palm up on
the table. He had not the smooth, tended hands of Simon. Nay, Durand’s hands
were calloused and blistered, in need of care.
Not her care.
Her heart tapped a bit rapidly at the thought of how she had
touched him. Too long. Too intimately. She shifted uncomfortably on the soft
mattress.
The sound of men carousing came to her through the stout
door. Rain pattered on the stone walls in a soothing beat…
Metal scraped on metal as the door latch lifted. Alice must
not be needed. Cristina remained still that Alice might settle on her pallet
without engaging her in chatter.
A breeze curled mist through the open shutters. As she
watched with eyes half-closed, the mist moved like a spirit toward her. With it
came his scent. That indefinable forest scent. The scent that was only his. She
breathed deeply.
Someone moved quietly across the chamber. Not Alice.
The mattress behind her sagged as someone settled there. Her
heart tapped rapidly.
A hand touched her bare shoulder. The hand was callused,
rough.
His
.
He stroked down her arm to her hand and entwined his fingers
with hers. “I could not stay away,” he whispered at her ear, his breath warm on
her bruised cheek.
The heat of his body warmed her, thrilled her, drove all
conscience, all shame, away.
In answer, she drew their linked hands to her mouth. She
rubbed the back of his fingers against her lips.
Vows no longer mattered.
Nothing mattered but his touch.
He cupped her face and turned her so she had no choice but
to roll to her back. His mouth was hot, his tongue urgent to taste her. She
welcomed him, wrapping her arms about his neck and lifting her body to his.
He was naked. Her shift was as negligible as a cobweb
between them.
When he swept the shift up her hips and tugged, she lifted
that she might feel all of him.
And she did.
His skin was hot, his body aroused.
He tossed her shift to the floor.
A moan escaped her lips, taken into his mouth in that
instant as he kissed her. The kiss was gentle.
The kiss ended all doubts.
They lay completely still, his body covering hers. Every
touch of his tongue, every brush of his lips, stoked a fire in her body. The
fire smoldered, flamed, swept out of her control.
She ran her hands over the hard muscles of his back and
cupped his buttocks. He shifted against her, moving his hips to rub the most
sensitive parts of her with his own.
Thunder murmured. Rain sluiced down the stone walls outside
and within her. Heat ran liquid in her loins.
His mouth journeyed to her throat, her shoulder, the
sensitive tip of her swollen breast. He suckled her, lapping up the sweet milk
with his tongue as it trickled along her ribs.
“Durand,” she cried, filled with an insatiable ache when he
moved lower.
His teeth dragged along her arching hip, his fingertips
roaming the soft inner skin of her thigh. Each touch, each taste, fueled the
flames that licked through her body. She entwined her fingers in his hair,
urged him to the ache he raised.
But he heeded her not. He nuzzled her inner thigh, then
kissed her knee, and before she could beg for what she knew must be coming, he
slid up her body to claim her mouth again.
He tasted forbidden. Earthy. He tasted of hidden places
found deep in the forest.
She would know all of him before the night was ended—mayhap
for just this once, but still, know him she would. She urged him to his side
and explored every inch of his hips, thighs, ribs, and buttocks with her lips
and hands.
He was molten hot. So was she.
Her hips arched off the bed as he used his strong hands to
spread her legs apart. The rain splashed on the stone sill and she felt the
mist envelop them, but it could do naught to cool the fever raging within her.
He bent his dark head. She threaded her fingers into his thick hair. When he
lifted her hips to his mouth, a luscious, liquid ecstasy cascaded through her.
He lapped with his tongue, nipped her with his teeth, then nuzzled his lips…
there
.
The pleasure coiled, grew, expanded, flooded from where he
feasted.
The chamber lit with lightning. He looked up and smiled, his
white teeth gleaming in the stark glare.
Simon.
Not
him
.
Lightning streaked across the sky, filling the room.
She screamed, struggled from hands that turned to claws and
raked her thighs. With another scream she scrambled from the punishing hands
and fell to her knees on the floor.
“Cristina!” Someone shouted her name.
A fist pounded her door.
She gasped for breath.
Felice wailed.
A hand to her breast, she sat back and stared around the
chamber and realized she still wore her shift. It was drenched with sweat. The
pounding grew urgent.
Felice’s mad cry was real.
On hands and knees, she crawled to the cradle and felt for
Felice. She swept the babe into her arms and buried her face against the soft
blanket in which she was wrapped.
There was no scent of mist and forest in the chamber, only
that of rain and wet stone. Her body trembled, icy cold as she knelt on the
wooden floor.
“Cristina! Open this door!”
The sentry. She rose on shaky legs and did as bidden,
opening the door but the span of three fingers.
The man pressed his face to the narrow opening. “Are you
ill? Hurt?”
“Nay,” she said, her voice a hoarse croak. “I had a dream.”
Heat rushed through her. “Nay. A nightmare. Forgive me for disturbing you,” she
finished.
“Shall I call Aldwin?” he asked.
“Nay. Nay. Go back to your post. I’m well now.” Despite the
rudeness of the action, she shut the door in his face.
She gripped the latch ‘til it bit into her palm. The pain
was real. Felice rooting at her breast was real. The warm trickle as her milk
let down was real.
She lay Felice on the bed, then stripped off her
sweat-sodden shift. With brisk motions as the child whimpered behind her, she
dried herself. In the meager light of the candle, she inspected her thighs. Her
skin was smooth and unblemished.
This time, when she curled on her side, she had the child
within her embrace. She cocooned them in blankets and a fur as the babe nursed.
Every inch of her throbbed. Her pulse beat to the rhythm of the rumbling
thunder outside.
How could she have dreamt such things?
Did her vows mean so little she could tear them to tatters
in her dreams but moments after declaring them aloud to
him
?
She slept not at all, even as the castle grew silent and the
rain stopped.
* * * * *
Durand slept little. He rose several hours before the dawn,
resolved to right one problem, at least. A stable boy, yawning and scratching,
chatted happily about Marauder’s mighty appetite. Durand could not help smiling
as the boy then waxed quite eloquently about the length of Durand’s sword, the
size of his boots, and the raven’s head on his dagger. It was the boy who
changed his mood from near murderous to something more manageable.
He did not knock on the merchant’s door, but threw it open.
After all, every building in the village was his—rented out, to be sure, but
still his.
He climbed the ladder to the second story. It was filled
with boxes and stores for the space below. A tallow candle flickered and filled
the space with scant light, enough that Durand could see a meager pallet
against one wall, a coffer nearby. The space smelled of the stores below and
something else—a night of passions spent in close quarters.
With the toe of his boot, he prodded the woman’s bare arm, which
poked from beneath the coverlet. The innkeeper’s daughter sat up. She did not
cover her full breasts as she rose and flicked a disheveled blonde braid over
one shoulder. “My lord,” Agnes said with a small smile.
“Out.” Her simper vanished. He tossed her gown to her. She
stood up, dragging on her gown, grabbing her clogs, and backing toward the
ladder.
“Aye, my lord. Aye,” she mumbled as her head disappeared
from view.
Simon woke with a jerk and scrabbled up on his knees.
Durand drew his dagger. He flipped it sharply, pinning Simon
by his linen shirt to the rough wall behind him.
“My lord!” Simon shrieked. He reached back and screamed
again as his palm met the razor edge of the blade. “Sweet Mother of Mary!” he
cried.
Durand stood over the kneeling man.
“My lord! What’s wrong? What have I done?”
“Done?” Durand crouched down on his haunches. He placed one
hand on the blade handle, and with his other encircled Simon’s throat. “What
have you done? Beyond breaking your vows? Beyond abusing your wife? I know of
nothing, Simon.”
“Please, my lord, please let me explain.” He was as still as
if confronted by a wild boar. His pulse ran wild beneath Durand’s hand. “I can
explain, I swear it.”
But Durand merely squeezed his throat, cutting off his
protests. “Nay, Simon, you have no need to explain. You’re merely my merchant,
one who has recently signed a lucrative charter, worth a fortune if you deal
well with me and mine.” Simon nodded vigorously. “Ah, I see you understand. Let
me say just this—the innkeeper is my tenant, a man I imagine wishes to remain
in my good graces.”
Again Simon nodded. He licked his lips.
“Do not touch your wife again. Do you hear me?” He tightened
his fingers. “‘Tis said Agnes has the pox. If you have been with Agnes but this
one time, you may be lucky. If you are in the habit of playing night games with
her, you will soon know the truth of my words. You’ll not pass this illness to
your wife. She cannot serve the ladies of my keep if she is ill.”
Durand jerked the dagger from the wall and stood up. He
stroked his thumb across the blade as if in idle contemplation. “Do not abuse
what is mine or your charter is void.”
Simon remained as if still pinned to the boards. “Aye, my
lord, aye, but you have to hear me. Cristina is no virgin angel. She allowed
Sir Luke to handle her—”
Durand froze. “Luke?” He thought of how Luke might have
charmed Marion. Had he also charmed Cristina?
Never. She held herself aloof.
Simon must have seen something of his thoughts on his face.
“Aye, ‘tis truth. I could say naught to Sir Luke for ‘tis a woman’s place to
guard her virtue, is it not, my lord? Nigh on to an embrace it was, before my
very eyes, my lord,” Simon said as Durand leapt down the ladder to sweeter air.
He did not look back to see if Simon followed, nor did it
matter if he heeded the warnings. There would be pleasure in killing him if the
man disobeyed, and acceptance if he did as required so that Cristina remained
unblemished and unashamed.
* * * * *
Durand avoided the hall, where he might run into Luke or Penne.
Instead he headed back to Aldwin’s lair. His mind tangled on the prospect of
betrayals—Luke’s, possibly, but less likely Penne’s, and now Simon’s.
Numb, he forced himself to think only of the brigands’
attack and what they might have been after. Certainly a bishop’s fine clothing
and jewels were obvious bait.
The boy lay in the same place he had the day before. His
head rolled restlessly and he mumbled through dry lips.
“What have you done with the boy’s clothes?” he asked of
Aldwin.
With a bony finger, the man pointed to the door. “In the
empty storeroom with the belongings of the other dead.”
“Have Father Odo see to the burials of the other victims.”
He left the sickening air of the herbarium and walked deeper into the bowels of
the castle. Water dripped down the wall of the empty storeroom. There was a
large pile of assorted clothing and saddle bags cast against one wall.
He went through each piece, more to occupy his mind than for
any real purpose. Anything of worth had been stripped by the brigands from
their victims. What remained was mostly the mundane uniforms of the guards and
humble coarse cassocks of the lesser clerks. Saddle bags held little beyond
bread and other foodstuffs.
With a thud, an object fell from a tunic. Durand lifted the
woolen garment. Beneath it lay a linen wrapped bundle, stained with blood. The
tunic must have belonged to the youth. There was a blood-soaked rent over the
heart where a blade had done its near-lethal duty.
Slowly, a throb beginning in his temples, he unwrapped the
bundle. There in his hands lay the Aelfric he had given Cristina.
“What have you there?” Penne asked, coming across the
storeroom.
“My Aelfric,” he said, stunned. He leafed through it. “I
know ‘tis mine. Look here, where this page is loose.” He saw it in his mind’s
eye floating to the floor in Cristina’s chamber. “And here, this small cut in
the leather, and here where the gilding is worn off.”