Authors: Ann Lawrence
In the clear light of day, she saw scars that underlay the
bruised flesh on his arms and legs. He had two ropy ones on his thigh and a
long patch of skin someone with little skill had stitched, low on his back,
near his hip.
Aldwin should be whipped for such poor work. Then she
realized Durand had been on Crusade. Mayhap this was work done on the
battlefield. He was lucky to be alive. The wound was as likely to have killed
him as the poor tending afterward. None of the marks detracted from the strong
warrior beauty of his body.
An urge to join with him swept over her. She badly wanted to
wake him, arouse him, taste him. But she did not.
She could not continue in this vein. His words about caring
for any child they conceived together told her what she needed to know. They
had but a few moments together and that was all.
She drew the furs over him—for her sake, not his.
* * * * *
The clamorous noise of the boys who delivered the tub, and
the many buckets of water they brought to fill it, woke him. His head pounded.
Cristina was gone. When the tub was filled, she reappeared, slipping silently
around the door.
“Where did you hide?” he asked.
“On the wall walk,” she replied, setting Felice on her back
next to him on the pallet.
He tickled the babe’s chin and watched her try to capture
his finger in her fist. Her little brow knitted into a frown, making her appear
to be a wizened old woman. The instant she succeeded in her quest, she tried to
put his finger in her mouth.
Cristina went to the mat where several fragrant earthenware
bowls sat. She selected one, lifted it to her nose, then went to the tub. He
watched as she sprinkled its contents into the bath water.
“What are you doing?” He sat up and groaned, then forced
himself upright. He crawled over Felice, then limped to the tub.
“Certain herbs aid healing and do best in warm water.”
“I’m sure Aldwin approves.”
She smiled, and it lit her face with a subtle beauty.
He sank into the hot water. Just as it had been each time he
had bathed since she had come to Ravenscliff, the water felt like fine silk
against his skin. The heady vapors filled his head with the fragrance of the
forest.
“You conjure such pleasure with your touch,” he said. He
took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“Nay, any woman who knows her herbs could do the same.”
She tugged her hand away and went to the child. He slid down
in the warm water, but not so far he could not see Cristina as she sat, the
child within the protective circle of her arms.
Cristina kissed Felice’s cheek and traced her tiny ear.
Aye
, she thought.
Any woman could make him a fine
soap or fill his bath with fragrant and healing herbs
. Most assuredly Lady
Nona would next do these honors—
as his wife
.
“Cristina, come hither and help me.”
Urgency filled his voice. She hastily placed Felice on her
back and hurried to him. “Is something amiss?” She reached out.
He snatched her hand, tugged, and with a shriek she landed
in the tub. “Durand!” she cried when he locked his arm about her waist. “Felice
will—”
“Will what?” he asked, then licked up her neck with a tongue
so hot it almost burned her skin.
“She…she—” Cristina could not think clearly. Her skirts were
heavy with water, and she could no more move from his wet embrace than a
captured animal could move from a bog.
Felice whimpered a moment, but then settled, sucking
vigorously on her fingers, and Cristina felt a giggle bubble up in her throat.
Durand leaned forward and pulled her legs into the tub. “Did
you know this is John’s tub? Quite large, is it not? He travels with it
everywhere.”
“The king’s tub?” she squealed and tried again to rise. His
grip was hard as iron about her waist.
Durand laid his lips against her ear and said, “As he is not
in it with us, you can set your fears to rest. In fact, according to Joseph, he
sent the tub with his blessings.”
There was little Cristina could do but lay back in his arms.
“When was the last time you bathed in a tub?” he asked.
“When I labored to deliver my babe. Lady Marion saw to it.”
Durand pulled the wet hair draped over her shoulders to one
side. He took her chin and turned her face to his. “I’m pleased Marion saw to
your care. She could be generous.”
“Aye, she purchased much from Simon, calling him often to
the castle. I think she wanted us to prosper.” She ducked her head. “How far we
have fallen.”
“Think no longer of Marion or Simon. Think of the joy of
life given you this day.” He placed a gentle kiss on her lips.
She shifted in his arms until she was kneeling between his
thighs. Propping herself on his chest, she cupped his face and kissed him. Her
sodden garments took many moments to remove, but finally she lay in his
embrace, wondrously warm and wet.
They took turns soaping the cloth and rubbing it over each
other. “Your breasts are—”
“Too large,” she finished, spreading her hands over her
chest and frowning.
“Worthy of a troubadour’s song,” he continued. He soaped his
hands and rubbed her skin in a leisurely exploration. “If I had some talent, I
would compose a tribute to them.”
His teasing tone grew suddenly serious. She watched his
eyes, silvery in the sunlight, darken. “‘Tis a madness, this need I have to
touch you.” Beneath her hip, his manhood swelled. Without thought, she shifted
on him.
She did as he had and soaped her hands, disdaining the
cloth. When she placed her hands on his chest, he tipped his head back and
rested it on the edge of the tub. She might never use a cloth for bathing
again. The feel of his honed muscles beneath her hands, slicked with the soap,
was almost as lovely as when she had rubbed the salve on him. He groaned.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked.
“It will hurt only if you stop,” he said with a grin.
She stroked the soap on his nipples with her thumbs, moving
over and over them until he snatched her hands and hauled her into his embrace.
He shifted her and tried to pull her astride his hips. The
tub was too narrow for what he intended, and they ended with tangled legs,
laughing, water sloshing over the tub rim.
But laughter died when he touched her intimately between her
thighs. She covered his hand. “You raise such an ache within me,” she said
softly.
Will I ever know such a touch again?
she wondered only to
herself.
He watched her from beneath his dark, straight brows, his
gaze so intent she closed her eyes lest he see within her and know that she had
lost her heart and soul to him.
She shivered and trembled. His arm about her waist held her
still to his ministrations. Her control slipped. She whispered entreaties to
him—entreaties for release—over and over until the heat burst through her.
Durand felt the heavy thudding of her heart against his
chest and saw a flush rise on her breasts.
What was she to him? A lover? An ethereal spirit? A woman of
courage? Everything a man could desire?
How could he keep her?
Cristina felt the heat of embarrassment when Joseph brought
his lord’s clothing. Although she was gowned when the squire arrived, she was sure
he knew what they had been about by her wet braid and her blue wool, which a
few hours ago had been russet linen.
When Durand ignored his clothing and walked slowly to the
pallet, there to stretch out again, she forced herself to look away. She filled
a dish with an oil infused with thyme and lit a wick in it. As the scent wafted
about the chamber, Durand drifted to sleep.
She took the opportunity to slip from the chamber with
Felice on her shoulder and head for the east tower, where she found Alice spinning.
It was time to distance herself from Durand. In fact, a lewd question from one
of the king’s guards as she crossed the hall told her that whether the people
of the keep thought her Durand’s mistress or Luke’s, this man considered her
fair game. Others would, too, if she lingered.
“I were just goin’ to ask ifn ye wish me to take the babe,”
Alice said softly.
“Nay. She’s hungry again. ‘Tis baffling. One day she’s as
regular as Father Odo’s devotions, and others, as capricious as—”
“Any fine lady,” Alice supplied, plying her spindle with
dexterous fingers.
Cristina smiled and stretched on a pallet, Felice
contentedly curled in the crook of her body. The posture reminded her of how
Durand had looked with his daughter, her tiny body within the strength of his.
What was her place at Ravenswood now?
Was she a mistress? Nay. A few fevered moments did not make
her one.
Could she talk openly to Durand about seeking a new home?
Why had her tongue failed her last eventide when he had mentioned providing for
her if she conceived?
What was her place?
She stroked Felice’s head and thought of a babe from a man
such as Durand—it would be a gift. Then her throat closed. In nine years with
Simon, she had failed to produce a living child. Why should it be any different
with Lord Durand? It was but God’s will, and there was naught she could do to
change it.
One thing was as clear as the freshest well water: She could
not remain at Ravenswood and watch Durand seal his troth with Lady Nona—or see
her brought to bed with his child.
Nona’s offer that she go to her manor in Bordeaux was
tempting, whether ‘twas offered in kindness or from a desire to see her gone.
She hugged the child. It was as if she were losing another
daughter. There was something hollow and empty within her.
At that moment a pounding fist sent Alice scurrying to open
the door. One of the king’s men stood there. He walked through the chamber as
if he were marching on a battlefield. The scents of rain and the sea came with
him.
The old woman held out her arms for the child, but Cristina
waved her off. The man stood over her. “You are summoned to the queen,” he
said.
“Do you know why?” Cristina looked from Alice’s seamed face
to the blank countenance of the man.
They both shrugged.
Cristina eased Felice from her breast. She tucked the babe
into her sling and gestured for the man to lead on.
With a thumping heart, Cristina followed the man to Lord
Durand’s chamber—now the royal apartment. The queen sat by the hearth,
embroidering a delicate linen cap. No maids or ladies attended her.
“Come, sit by me, Mistress.” The queen indicated a low stool
by her side.
Cristina did as bid.
“This storm prevents the sailing of our galleys to
Normandy,” the queen said. “But it will end soon and the men will go.”
All Cristina could do was nod.
“Our king wishes that our most beloved Nona should marry a
strong man who will be able to see to the care and maintenance of her
holdings.” The queen’s eyes were cold when she looked up from her work. “Do you
understand how difficult it is for a woman in this world? She is ofttimes the
pawn of men.”
“Aye, my lady. I understand.” Surely, the queen was baiting
her. Who else, save herself, was situated better to know the lot of a woman?
“Some women find it is more difficult than others,” the
queen said. “They must take care to align themselves with strength and honor.
Lady Nona is an example. Her father is not well, and she will know great wealth
and property upon his death. Even now our beloved friend has much from her
marriage to Lord Merlainy that might tempt others. It would not do for those
great properties of hers to go to one who is not inclined to love and obey our
king.”
Cristina became acutely aware of what the queen meant. “In
what way might I best serve, my lady?” she asked, although she knew the answer.
“One would most wish that you depart.”
Cristina stifled a painful gasp. It took several moments for
her to find her tongue. She swallowed hard. “I will endeavor to find a place,
my lady.”
The queen smiled, but again it did not reach her eyes. “It
may be difficult for you to leave Ravenswood.”
“Aye, my lady.” Cristina felt a burning in the center of her
chest. “I have come to love this child.” She stroked her hand along Felice’s
back.
“Then you must want the best for her. We are considering a match
for her in Aquitaine. If Lady Nona approves, Felice will go to her betrothed’s
home to be raised there. Do you approve?”
The words were said in a manner Cristina knew would brook no
disagreement.
“As it pleases you, my lady.” Aquitaine. A lifetime away.
Lord Durand’s name would never be mentioned between the
queen and her, of course. That he was the true subject of this conversation
would never be acknowledged. Durand was to wed Lady Nona and she, Cristina,
must be gone that no impediments to their felicity might exist.
“The king will be pleased with such a match for the child.
We will apprise you of the day you must relinquish the child, of course. Until
then,” the queen sorted through her silks and chose a new color, holding it
against the cloth, “you will remove yourself to the village. You may take
Felice for a few days.”
When the queen said nothing more, Cristina rose, curtsied,
and walked to the door. Her mind was numb with the swift ending of her time at
Ravenswood.
“Oh, and Mistress,” the queen said when she reached the
door. “Pack nothing that you did not bring to Ravenswood. I have sent my maids
to aid you.”
It was a blatant suggestion she was a thief in need of
watching. “You are most gracious,” Cristina said with a deep bow.
The walk to Felice’s chamber seemed two leagues long. She
wove her way blindly through the many who listened to the king’s minstrels. A
man in a cleric’s cassock stepped in front of her. She braced herself for
another blow. This man she had seen at the king’s side. He was of middling
height, middling coloring—an unexceptional appearance.
“Are you the wife of the dead thief?” he asked.
“I am Cristina le Gros,” she said. Would she always be known
by Simon’s sins?
“Might I beg a word?” the cleric asked. His fingers were
stained with ink where they clutched a sheaf of parchment.
“I’m to depart—”
“We understand as much. This will not take long.” The cleric
took her elbow and led her away to one end of the hall. “There is not much
privacy here, mistress, but we shall make the best of it.”
Cristina felt the scrutiny of many as she stood near the
doors to the bailey. “Please make haste, sir.” Felice struggled and fussed in
her arms. Could the child sense the fears within her breast?
“Our beloved king is most pleased at Lord Durand’s triumph.
He must hold you in great affection to offer to act as your champion.”
“Lord Durand is a man of honor, sir,” Cristina said
carefully.
“Your husband was not.”
To this, she had no response.
The cleric signaled a passing boy who carried a tray of wine
goblets. “Wine?” he asked, snagging a cup for himself and fumbling with his
pages.
She judged it best to take the proffered cup, but did naught
but hold it tightly in her hand.
“What are your plans, mistress? Will you return to your
family?” The man sipped from his cup. Drops of wine spilled across the front of
his cassock.
“I have not made plans yet, sir.” A thread of apprehension
coursed through her.
“The king maintains a most pleasant household near
Winchester which is much in need of your services.”
Affecting an air of innocence, Cristina kept her gaze down
and said, “They need perfumed soap?”
The cleric gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, I am sure
they have soap aplenty, mistress, but we think there is some special quality to
your work that others may merely aspire to.”
Cristina could not avoid looking up, nor could she pretend
she did not understand. “Be clear, sir.”
“Come, Mistress, you are not a simpering virgin to cavil
over a lucrative offer.”
“I have much to occupy me here at Ravenswood.” Cristina
tried to still the pounding of her heart.
With another burst of laughter, the cleric thrust his empty
cup at a passing serving maid, then reached out and touched her wrist. His hand
was warm and moist.
He gave her a gentle squeeze. “He, of whom we speak, would
be most generous in his appreciation of your services.”
She twisted from his grip. “The babe, sir. Forgive me. I
must feed her.”
The cleric folded his arms over his documents and leaned his
shoulder on the wall. “But of course. Feed the babe. But as you do, think
kindly on Winchester.”
Cristina hurried to the west tower. It took her but a few
moments to return to Durand. The scented oils had done their work. He lay
heavily asleep on his stomach beneath a pile of furs.
She knelt by him and considered his face and shoulder, just
visible at the edge of the bedding.
Should she wake him and tell him of the strange interview
with the king’s man? Or of the queen’s hasty wish that she depart?
Would he feel a need to rush again to her rescue? Or would
her heart be torn asunder when he did nothing—or worse, weighed the advantages
of each offer and gave her advice on which to take?
Fear shivered up her spine.
The queen’s maids awaited her and may at this moment be
reporting to the queen that she tarried in her departure.
She kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them to his
shoulder.
He shifted, stirred, murmured, then settled. The sun lit
upon the torque at his throat, tipped with ravens. She touched the warm gold,
smooth from generations of wearing.
Generations of men far above her.
She rose and left the chamber without waking him. When she
opened the door to Felice’s chamber in the east tower, she saw a wooden box on
the table. The queen’s maids were locking it.
One of the women was the maid who had entertained her lover,
consigning Cristina to wander and end up at the postern gate.
Nay, it was her choice alone that had sent her there.
“What do you want done with all these things?” the woman
asked, sweeping a hand out to encompass the many bowls and herbs of Cristina’s
craft.
She might need them to survive. “I’ll crate them up,” she
said.
“As you wish,” the other maid said, and sat down by the
hearth on a bench, spreading her ivory skirts about her.
Cristina endured their scrutiny as she worked. Some oils she
must leave behind, as she had no bottles for them. Some herbs she knew might be
ruined when lying in close proximity to others in the crate. There was little
she could do about it.
Her mind would not stay on her task. How could it? Her body
still ached from the hours in Lord Durand’s embrace.
No wonder Lord Durand had not answered her question. There
was no place in his life for her.
She murmured to Felice, so peaceful and watchful in her
sling. Her heart ached for Felice’s possible fate—passed to a future husband’s
family to be raised. Would he be a kind man? Was he in the cradle now?
“Hurry, Mistress. I am sure Roger Godshall will grow
impatient at the gate,” the maid with the lover said.
“Roger Godshall?” Cristina paused in strapping the box
closed. She knew that was the name of Sabina’s friend—the one she had offended
at the trial. “What has he to do with me?”
“He’s your escort to the village.”
The thought chilled her. “Does Lord Durand know of this?”
The one maid snickered. The one with the lover smiled. “He
is lord here, is he not?”
With burning eyes, Cristina finished securing the box.
Durand knew of this?
Had he known last night? This morn? Is that why he had not
answered her when she had asked what she was to him?
He must want a break that severed their ties with the
swiftness of a blade to a man’s heart. Only it was her heart cut in two.
She would not think ill of him.
To do so would make him a man she did not know—or wish to.
Cristina pulled on her mantle and cast a quick glance about
the chamber. Ladies’ gowns and mantles lay in jumbled profusion. The chamber
smelled of mingled perfumes.
It was not her chamber—had never been.
She wrapped Felice in the embroidered blankets she had
stitched for her daughter who had not survived.
Cristina could not seek out Oriel any more than she could
Durand. That gentle lady would read every secret of her heart.
Alice met her at the foot of the steps to the east tower.
“Alice, will you tell Lady Oriel I’ll be in the village should she have need of
anything?”
“Aye. She likes that smelly stuff ye put in ‘er pomander.
She’ll find ye, miss.” Then Alice buried her face in her hands and hastened
away.
Cristina almost begged the old woman to come with her to the
village, but did not. As she crossed the great hall, she felt many eyes upon
her. Her skin itched with discomfort. Several maids curtsied to her and smiled.
One woman stopped her to kiss Felice. These few civilities warmed her.