Authors: Ann Lawrence
Cristina woke to the inky shadows of early morn. Opening the
shutters, she saw that stars filled the sky outside. It was clear. A fine day
for sailing.
The open window allowed an eddy of air to sweep out the
scent of boiled clothing. Returning to where Durand lay on their piled
clothing, she placed Felice between them and fed her. He woke and smiled.
Gently, he skimmed his fingertips across the babe’s cheek to her breast and
back again.
She reached out and linked her fingers with his.
“Could you be a mistress?” he asked.
She knew why he asked. A noble woman ofttimes tolerated her
husband’s concubines.
She shook her head. “I could never share you. When I was
tied to Simon, I could pretend what I felt for you was just desire, though you
filled my thoughts day and night, but now… Nay, I could never share you. I am
possessive of my love. It pains me that you could so easily do so—”
He rose on his elbow and interrupted her. “Nothing about
this is easy. Most especially this parting.” He then rubbed his hand over his
face. “Neither of us would be content with such an arrangement, but I had to
ask.”
Felice stirred between them at the rising voices over her.
“Is that what all men do when passion claws, Durand? Take a
mistress?” She wished that she could see his face clearly.
“I have never taken a mistress, for in truth, I thought I
had all I desired at Ravenswood.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Now I still
have all I desire right here, yet out of reach.”
His kisses were gentle, but filled her with a longing she
knew would go unfulfilled.
“I’m sorry, Cristina, that I made such a ruin of your life.”
She gripped his hand. “None of this is your fault!”
“Aye, I must admit that I brought you the Aelfric to tempt
you. I may not have realized it when I fetched it, but the result was the
same.”
She smoothed her fingers along his furrowed brows. “I was
tempted ere you brought the book, and Simon, I fear, was tempted by riches and
women long before we came to Ravenswood. He chose to steal the book. Please, do
not leave me with regrets.”
He enfolded her in his arms, the babe between them, and
kissed them both. “If I can regain Marion’s properties then I have no need to
wed, and might yet convince the king of such.”
Cristina said nothing. She knew in her heart that even if he
regained the properties, he would never be hers. If the king agreed to release him
from marriage to Nona, still he would not then allow him to align himself to a
penniless woman.
“Had I no children, I would give all I possess to Luke and
have him marry Nona!”
The trees became outlined against the brightening sky. “You
must go, Durand. Now. Ere your men seek you.”
Her words worked a devastating magic. He stood up. She could
just distinguish the beautiful lines of his body as he drew on his clothing.
There were no words to capture what lay in her heart. And if
there were, she did not know them. Instead, when he knelt by her and stroked
his fingers along her cheek, she turned her head and kissed his palm.
“Bar the door when I leave and expect some of my men to
arrive shortly; I’ll not have you here alone. And look for Father Laurentius—he’ll
have charge of your care,” he reminded her.
Awkwardly he bent down and kissed the sleeping babe’s head,
then cupped Cristina’s cheek. “I have desired you from the first moment I saw
you, but I think I fell in love watching you care for Felice.”
Then he was gone.
As she lay there, the white-washed ceiling overhead blurred
with her tears. Outside, his horse snorted and shook in a harsh jangle of
harness when led from the stable. She hastily rose to her feet and ran to the
window, Felice in her arms, to catch a final glimpse of him as he rode off.
Durand mounted and turned his horse to face the cottage. As
if he could see her in the shadows, he lifted his gloved hand.
Low mist lay across the ground. Morning stars filled the
sky. The wind was fresh and would blow the fog away. He would sail to Normandy,
and she would never see him again.
“Go with God,” she whispered when he was lost in the dawn
mist.
* * * * *
Durand shifted in the saddle as he pushed the horse to
quicker pace. Every muscle of his body still ached from combat, exacerbated by
a night on a hard wooden floor. He watched the dawn blush conceal the stars.
How clear the day would be.
How clear everything seemed in such air.
He must somehow have Cristina as his wife. He wanted to
watch her move about a chamber in the light of a fire. He wanted to call her to
him and see her face light with pleasure.
He wanted to know that such a woman valued him.
There must be an answer to this coil. He had all of his time
in Normandy to think of a way out of marriage to Nona. What if her father could
be persuaded the match was an ill-conceived venture? He could don a reputation
as a drunken lout so that no father would have him… Nay, many a father in
search of a wealthy connection would give away a daughter no matter the man’s
reputation.
When Durand reached the bailey, a man waved him down. His
mews-master.
“My lord. The most strange thing has happened.” The man
wrung his hands. “The ravens are gone. I swear to you, I did naught—”
Durand circled his mare about the man. “I have not time for
this. They’re birds, they’ll be back.”
He cantered straight to the chapel. Dismounting, he threw
open the door and stood there, hands on hips. He saw Father Laurentius, head
close with Father Odo. With great impatience he waited for the two holy men to
notice him.
Laurentius saw him first. “Thank God, my lord. The king was
quite piqued to find you ‘missing’ last night. He wants you joined with Nona
ere you leave for France.” The priest hurried toward him, his already austere
features pinched with anxiety.
A fire ignited in Durand’s chest. “Now? What in all of God’s
kingdom is served by that?”
“Your cooperation, I’m sure, my lord. Last night, John said
he was sailing today whether William Marshall was back or not, and three barons
balked over the decision. Now come. Let us wake the lady and see to the
business. I do dearly wish to get back to Winchester.”
“I need a moment,” Durand said, extricating his arm from
Laurentius’ sharp grip.
He walked to the fore of the chapel and sank to his knees.
The two priests would never disturb a man at prayer. Clasping his hands, he set
his mind to a scheme to prevent this hasty wedding.
When he finally arose, the two priests waved anxiously for
him to go. “Come, come, we must see to the wedding,” Laurentius said.
Durand shook them off. “Delay in some way.” He strode to the
chapel doors.
“But my lord! Where shall we say you are?” Father Odo
called.
“Tallying up my bridal gifts,” he replied as he stepped from
the chapel into the clear, fine day.
* * * * *
Nona’s delicate features were pinched with anxiety. She
stood in the counting room, Luke by her side. Her hair was down, her rich blue
gown in disarray. It was obvious she had been given as little time to compose
herself before the wedding as he.
“Leave us, Luke,” Durand said. When would he ever look upon
his brother without a cold anger coursing through him?
“Durand,” Luke began. “There is something I must tell you.”
“Luke, if you don’t leave within the next few moments, I’ll
tear your head from your shoulders, spit it, and roast it.”
Lady Nona gasped. Her hand went to her throat. Luke said
nothing. His face flushed to the roots of his hair. “As you wish,” he finally
said. He bowed to Nona and walked stiffly to the door.
“Set a guard,” Durand ordered.
“As you wish,” his brother repeated coldly, and left.
“Sit, my lady.” Durand gestured to the hearth bench. “Father
Laurentius informs me the king wants our wedding to take place ere we sail
today.”
She nodded. Her fingers were tightly woven together. “My
lord, I—”
He interrupted her. “I don’t care what you think of what I’m
about to say, but I ask simply that you hear me out.”
“I will hear you, my lord, but then I ask that you hear me.”
“Certainly.” He nodded. “You come from an illustrious
family, and any man would be flattered to be aligned with it. But I find I have
enough ancestors and alliances already, and, having so recently suffered the
loss of a wife, I don’t yet wish to wed.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Nona’s mouth dropped open.
“However, as much as I do not wish to wed, the king has
demanded the forfeiture of all you own, and all I own, should we refuse this
match. ‘Tis my belief that he’ll care much less about it if he’s victorious in
Normandy. Therefore I ask that you cooperate in a scheme to put off the wedding
until we return.”
Durand watched Nona open her mouth and close it several
times. She must feel like unwanted baggage.
“What scheme is that, my lord?” she finally managed. “I have
no wish to be consigned to the king’s dungeons or a convent for reluctant
brides.”
“This is not a time for levity,” Durand said sharply. “I ask
that we postpone the wedding. Should John still insist when we return, then
I’ll honor the bargain.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Durand thought he detected a touch of vinegar in her tone.
If she was insulted that he did not treasure the match, that was unfortunate,
but unavoidable. “The scheme is this—you will become gravely ill, so ill you
cannot possibly wed. Your illness will be a catching one, and you’ll remain ill
until our return.”
An incredulous look overspread her face. “What if the
campaign takes months?”
Durand frowned. “Then rally and sink a few times. Surely you
can devise something suitable?”
“How will I effect this illness, my lord? Aldwin might see
through the scheme.”
“Refuse Aldwin. Ask for Mistress le Gros instead.”
Nona rose stiffly to her feet. “Mistress le Gros? Is that
what this is about? I much admire the lady, but I’ll not tolerate your
mistresses. Is that clear?”
He stood up as well. “If you are not wed to me, you will not
have to tolerate anything. And
I
will not tolerate any discussion of
Mistress le Gros; is that clear?” He fisted his hands on his hips. “Now what
was it you needed to tell me?”
“Nothing, my lord,” Nona said, subsiding to the bench.
“Nothing.”
* * * * *
The king’s face suffused to a dusky purple as he stormed
before the hearth. The hall was crowded with men awaiting the king’s pleasure
and the tides. His fingers curled like claws. “Nona is ill? Near to death?”
Durand muttered a hasty prayer for forgiveness for his lies,
then said, “‘Tis more a question of her spreading her illness to you, sire, at
this most vital time.”
Father Laurentius added the weight of his support now the
weight of his purse had doubled. “I have seen this before, sire. Once it gets
among us, we will all be fighting for seats in the jakes. No one will be fit to
sit a saddle.”
“No more!” the king shouted. He roamed the hearth area. He
had been ranting over every petty annoyance since dawn, according to
Laurentius.
Roger Godshall joined the king and murmured at his ear as he
paced back and forth. Durand knew Godshall had wreaked the havoc on Cristina’s
possessions. It had taken but one question of a trusted groom. He silently
added Godshall to his list of those who deserved retribution for Cristina’s
pain.
Finally, the king halted. “We are seriously vexed,” the king
said. Godshall stood with him. The king pointed at Durand. “You had better pray
Lady Nona rallies ere we return or you will greatly regret it.”
He next swung his attention to a trio of men who stood near,
barons who had balked at this Normandy invasion. “You’ll each offer a son as
surety of your service.”
Offer
? Durand knew ‘twas just the king’s way of
saying the men would give up their sons as hostages. Should the fathers prove
disloyal, the sons would suffer for it.
Durand watched one man, Guy Wallingford, step bravely
forward. There was a tremor in his voice when he spoke. “Please, sire—”
“Silence,” the king shouted. “You will offer a son. Anything
else can only mean you do not love your king.”
Wallingford bowed and retreated to the group. They had all
seen the king in a rage before and knew they had little influence to halt it.
“And, you,” the king said, swinging back to Durand, “Where
were you last eventide when we wanted you?”
Before Durand could answer, the king continued. “You, too,
shall offer a son. Nay, two sons, as you are of twice the importance of these
leeching dogs.”
Two sons
.
An icy finger touched Durand’s soul.
“Get to Porchester—now,” the king ordered.
* * * * *
Nothing would prevent this hapless venture, Durand thought
as he rode into the inner bailey of Porchester Castle with the king and his
entourage. But there, on the keep steps stood one who might. William Marshall—a
man revered and honored by three kings.
“William, you don’t appear ready to make this journey,” the
king said when the customary civilities were rendered.
“I cannot go, sire,” Marshall said.
A hush fell over the groups of men. Save the carters moving
goods to Porchester’s water gate, no one spoke.
“Explain yourself.” The king fisted one hand on his sword
hilt.
Durand imagined that Marshall felt as beleaguered as any
other man who must deal with this capricious king.
Marshall sighed. “You sent me to attempt peace with Philip.
Whilst there I found I had no choice but to swear liege-homage to him. I cannot
take arms against him.”
Durand watched the king’s face darken. His fingers curled on
his reins. Liege-homage meant Marshall was John’s man while in England and
Philip’s while in France. He could take up the sword against neither of them.
It was a move that left the king without the arms of the greatest warrior
England had known.