Authors: Ann Lawrence
“If I understood your most kind and benevolent offer
properly, sire, you wanted me to share your bed.”
“You are blunt.” He raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t want to waste your precious time.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Then explain yourself.”
“I don’t know my worth, sire, but I would like to discuss—”
“Remuneration?” the king supplied.
“You are most understanding.”
“And what price do you set? Twenty marks? Fifty?” The king
smiled. A cask inlaid with ivory sat near him. The air was scented with
precious sandalwood.
Cristina took a deep breath. “Lord Durand’s sons.”
The king’s mouth opened, then closed, much like a fish in
Portsmouth harbor. “Lord Durand’s sons? How so?”
“I want to exchange myself for them.”
“Exchange? You for them?”
“Aye, sire. I want to offer myself as surety to Lord
Durand’s good behavior. That is what sons are for, are they not?”
“Again, mistress, you are very blunt.” His brows drew
together, and she feared she had made a grievous error.
“I’m no longer so happily situated, sire. So, as I was
concerned that—”
“Lord Durand might say or do something that would cause him
difficulties…”
She nodded. “I thought to better my own circumstances whilst
aiding him in some way. He is oft quick with his words and regretful later.”
She hoped Durand would never hear her portrayal of him.
“Ah, now we are at the heart of the matter. You wish to
better your circumstances.”
She had calculated correctly. The wish to better herself he
understood. “And with…with Lady Nona so ill and his wedding postponed, I
believe Lord Durand might find it more difficult than usual to hold his
temper.”
“Indeed.” The king rose and walked to where she stood. He
lifted her hair from her shoulders and skimmed a finger along her throat. “You
are lovely. You might still be young enough to steal a heart or two.”
She shivered beneath his touch.
“So in exchange for the volatile de Marle’s sons, you would
await your king’s pleasure at de Warre’s castle?” He made it a question. “It
may be a very long wait if winds remain favorable.”
“I would be ever at your service, sire,” she said, a shiver
of fear and illness coursing through her belly. “I would be at your pleasure
whenever you might need me.”
He snapped his fingers, and a cleric scurried from behind a
screen. She had not known someone was in the chamber, and her skin flushed hot
that this man, the same one who had approached her at Ravenswood, had heard her
sell herself to the king—in exchange for two children, but still, she had sold
herself.
The king and cleric moved away from her. Their murmured
conversation as the cleric scratched out a parchment directing de Warre was
inaudible to her, but she did not really care.
The missive was sealed with the king’s ring, along with her
fate. The king’s promise was tied and wrapped in oiled cloth.
Another flick of the king’s hand and the cleric scurried
back behind his screen. The king held out the parchment, but when Cristina
reached for it, he shifted it out of her reach. “When you take this, mistress,
you are ours. Never forget it.”
Cristina nodded, unable to speak. He truly was as capricious
as gossip painted him. One day he thought her a thief of little value and the
next he thought her worthy to share his bed.
He dropped the parchment into her palm. “Carry it hence to
de Warre yourself and see the deed done.”
She dropped into a deep curtsey and kissed his hand.
“Oh, one more matter,” the king called. “Practice your craft
on yourself, mistress, as a sweetly perfumed woman is at the apex of a man’s
pleasure.”
As a boy, Durand had come to just this spot overlooking the
harbor to seek comfort from either his father’s anger or his mother’s sharp
tongue. Now, as he looked over the many ships lying at anchor, awaiting John’s
decision to invade Normandy, he sought that comfort.
It did not come. He was not a child who might have his
innocent wishes granted. John’s decision to hang Guy Wallingford’s son told him
all he needed of the man he followed.
In service to King Richard, he had witnessed much of
cruelty. But the hanging of an innocent boy because a man was in a drunken rage
was not to be borne.
Regardless of his later fate, Durand determined to leave
when darkness fell and snatch his sons from de Warre’s hands. This, he knew,
was an action that also left his mother vulnerable. But she had made her own
way for more than a score of years and must continue to do so.
Retrieving his sons with Cristina and Felice in tow would
take all his powers of imagination.
Luke rode up behind him. He left his horse to crop the grass
and came to Durand’s side. “I thought I might find you here.”
Even his quarrel with Luke seemed somehow unimportant
against the lives of his sons. “I’m leaving,” Durand answered.
“Oh? Where are you off to? Winchester, to try to talk sense
into John? Without Marshall and his army this offensive is off, is it not?”
“Nay, I’ll not be going to Winchester.” Durand turned to his
brother. “There’s little hope of you retaining Ravenswood after what I’m about
to do, but should John not seize it, I want you to have it.”
“So,” Luke said. He leaned against an outcropping of rock.
“You will hie yourself off to de Warre’s stronghold and lay siege to it by
yourself.”
“If necessary.” Durand nodded. “And Mother will need to look
to herself if Philip wants to bring pressure to bear in that direction.”
“She’s like a cat. She’ll land on her feet; she always has.”
Durand acknowledged the truth of Luke’s words, though he
knew his conscience would prick him.
“Being your brother is a trial,” Luke snapped. His horse
lifted its head at his sharp tone. “We both know you’ll be killed, Ravenswood
will be forfeit, your sons in de Warre’s care forever—or worse, hanged.”
“Enough,” Durand said. “You have no right to criticize what
I do. You who have no—”
“No what?” Luke stood very straight and met Durand’s hard
glare. “Let us have it out between us here. Here, where no one will witness our
words, if that is what holds you from speaking.”
“Aye. Who might hear is what holds my tongue.” Durand could
not stay the words from spilling from his mouth. “Your face, your evasive
glance, betray you daily. Each touch of your hand to her declares your guilt.”
Luke bowed his head. “We fought it, but—”
“Did you? Not hard enough, it appears.” Durand swung from
his brother to the harbor. “What does it matter? I’ll claim her no matter her
circumstances. I’ve no other choice, for, in truth, she has laid claim to a
part of my heart.”
“Your heart? You are cold as ice! You may lust after a
woman, but you have nothing to offer a—”
Durand swung around. “Lust? A woman? What are you talking
about?”
“Nona. You cannot love her. Your every word is sharp-edged
or you ignore her completely!” Luke fisted his hands on his hips.
“Nona? I’m speaking of Felice.” Durand stared at his
brother.
“F-Felice? I don’t understand. What has Felice to do with
you and Nona?”
“Nothing. But I don’t wish to speak of Nona.” Durand
approached his brother. “Do you deny you are Felice’s father?”
“Felice’s father?” Luke shook his head. “Are you mad? You—”
He broke off, his mouth agape. Luke stumbled back against the rock. “You
question Felice’s parentage?”
Durand could not bear the gently spoken question. And it was
too late to withdraw the accusation. “I don’t question her parentage. I
know
her parentage. She is Marion’s without doubt, but not mine—equally without
doubt.”
With the admission, some part of the festering wound was
lanced. He went to his horse and hid some of his emotion in tightening his
girth and checking his stirrups.
“Sweet
Jesu
.” Luke stormed to where he stood. “You
believe Marion and I…that we…” He snatched up his reins. “You think I have so
little care of you I would trespass on your wife?”
Durand looked away. “Aye. I trust no one.”
“Then I pity you.” Luke leapt into the saddle. In moments,
he was gone.
A roiling confusion filled Durand. If Luke’s guilt was over
Nona, then his attentions to Felice were merely those of an uncle—and similar
to how he had always treated Robert and Adrian. It was an ugly parting. And he
didn’t expect to ever return.
* * * * *
Father Laurentius entered Ravenswood’s armory behind Durand.
He nodded stiffly to the priest as he belted on the sword given him by Gilles
d’Argent. He placed several daggers into a leather roll which he then tied up
and stuffed into a saddlebag. In another he placed bread and cheese, a sack of
coins, the two rings from the king, and the Aelfric.
“I have some news you may wish to hear,” the priest said.
“I have no time for gossip.” Durand pulled on his mantle and
secured it with a gold pin incised with ravens in flight. Every part of his
garb bore ravens, from his daggers to his surcoat. He wanted de Warre to have
no doubts who came to claim his sons.
Durand hefted his shield and helm and strode from the armory
to where Marauder waited. The priest trailed after him. Next to the destrier
was a gentle mare, also saddled.
“‘Tis not gossip. I must tell you that against my advice,
Mistress le Gros took herself to Winchester this morn.”
“Cristina went to Winchester?” Durand paused in the act of
strapping the bags to his saddle. He had been about to collect her from the
village. “Why?”
“It seems John had made an offer to her and she decided to
take him up on it.”
Durand stared at the priest. “John? What kind of offer?”
“Please, we are well aware of what kind of offer our king
would extend to a woman such as Mistress le Gros.”
“Make sense.” Durand restrained himself from shaking the
aged priest.
“You see.” Laurentius moved closer and dropped his voice to
a whisper so that those who moved about the inner bailey might not hear his
words. “There’s a very sweet young clerk in John’s service who oft shares
gossip with me—for a small remuneration, of course, but nothing harmful, mind
you.”
“Get on with it!” Durand bit out.
“Well, this young man told me Mistress le Gros traded
herself for your sons.” Laurentius dusted his hands together. “There, I have
said it all. My conscience is clear.”
Durand snatched Laurentius by the cassock. “What in God’s
holy name are you saying?”
“Contain yourself, my lord!” Laurentius said in a hiss.
“Eyes are upon us.”
Durand dropped the priest as if his hand burned. He lowered
his voice. “Explain the meaning of this tale.”
“Your mistress became the king’s mistress in promise of the
release of your sons. She is, at this moment, traveling to de Warre’s castle.”
Durand ran past the priest and leapt into his saddle. He
jerked the reins and in moments was through the inner bailey. At the outer
gates he reined Marauder in. Luke and Penne waited there, fully armed.
It struck him with the force of a blow; despite his harsh
words with Luke, his brother was prepared to risk his life and livelihood on
his behalf. Penne, too. Durand felt humbled.
“De Warre has Cristina as well,” Durand just managed.
Without another word the men turned and followed him across the bridge and onto
the road.
* * * * *
The sky was black with clouds as de Warre’s castle came into
view. It was more a fortified manor house than a castle, but still its high
palisades and formidable gates looked impregnable to Cristina.
Sheets of rain filled the ruts in the road to overflowing.
The enclosed wagon in which she sat slowed to a near crawl. Water dripped in
the small opening that offered a bit of air to the wagon’s occupants along with
the limited view.
Each step of the horse toward the manor house on the horizon
was a step closer to her new life. De Warre’s property lay on the road halfway
between Winchester and Marlborough. The castle itself was said to sit on a lake
crafted by fairies and inhabited by dragons. She stroked the seal on the king’s
missive.
Durand’s sons would be safe.
He would not want her once she had lain with the king.
He would be wed to Nona and lost to her no matter her
circumstances.
She had made her choice. Verily, there was truth in
Aristophanes’s words. “
There was nothing so shameless as a woman…“
She
would not be ashamed.
* * * * *
Nona led her horse and Oriel’s into the sheltering arms of a
stout English oak. Rain streamed from their mantles and steam rose from their
mounts. She turned to Oriel. “This was beyond foolish, was it not?”
“We could not let them go off on their own!” Oriel offered
up a silent prayer that her child would not suffer from this headlong dash
after Penne and Luke.
Nona sighed. “Nay, we could not. But I would trade two of my
manors for a warm fire just now.”
The women huddled closer together.
“Father Laurentius is sure this is where they are going.”
Oriel bit her lip. “Thank God your maid told you of the king’s intentions. If
she were not enamored of Laurentius’ groom, we would never have discovered it.”
Oriel cleared her throat. “Durand must love Cristina very much to go after her
this way.”
Nona pulled her hood closer about her head. “You must
acknowledge he is also going after his sons.”
Oriel nodded. “Aye, but don’t forget, she, too, must greatly
love Durand to exchange herself for two boys she has never met.” They walked
their horses back onto the roadbed when the rain abated. “Could you wed Durand
now?” Oriel ventured. “Knowing he loves Cristina?”
“The question is whether Durand will have Cristina once he
learns what she has done. Such folly.” Nona’s words were matter-of-fact.
Oriel persisted. “But will you want Durand?”
Nona considered the sky. “I’ll wed a de Marle; doubt it
not.”
“I wish Penne loved me half so much,” Oriel said wistfully.
“He adores you! Now stop sniveling and let us get along!”
Nona kicked her horse into a canter and took to the road.
* * * * *
Edward de Warre was a balding man of about two score years.
He was missing his left arm, which explained why he was not called upon to make
the journey to Normandy. He held out his right hand. Cristina offered him the
missive.
He broke the seal with his thumb and shook out the
parchment. “Latin?” de Warre said with a sneer. “For what purpose does the king
write me in Latin?” He barked an order, and in a few moments a priest arrived.
The young man scanned the king’s missive. “This is most
private in nature, my lord.”
The two men went to the hearth, where several ranks of
candles cast a brilliant light on a table.
Cristina shivered in apprehension. She was not invited to
the light nor to the warmth of the fire, but if she had, it would mean standing
near to de Warre. He murdered children. Just being in his presence frightened
her.
The priest used his finger to mark his place as he read
aloud. Cristina couldn’t hear the king’s words, and didn’t need to. De Warre
lifted his head and smiled at her when the priest finished.
“Come, Cristina; come join me.” He beckoned her closer.
De Warre helped her remove her mantle and pulled a roomy oak
chair carved with his arms toward the fire for her ease. She sat gingerly on
the edge. “Will the boys be returning in my cart?”
De Warre shook his head. “I’ll provide a better conveyance
when the rain lets up.”
“Then might I meet them and ascertain they’re in good
health?” She spread her damp skirts to the fire’s warmth.
“But of course.” He nodded to the priest, who bowed and
departed into the shadows at the end of the narrow hall. “After you have met
them, we’ll see you are placed in a chamber suitable for the king’s pleasure.”
He gave her a hard smile. “He comes here from time to time and much likes his
pleasures ready and waiting.”
The cold of the storm outside settled within her, and she
suspected she would never be warm again.
* * * * *
Durand knelt on a small rise and watched de Warre’s gates.
He pounded the ground with his fist. “We’re too late. That cart carried her in;
I’m sure of it.”
Luke and Penne, stretched at his side, agreed.
“Aye,” Luke said. “‘Tis one of the king’s conveyances. Why
not ride down there now and demand entrance? De Warre is not expecting us, and
we can snatch the boys and Cristina before he raises an alarm.”
“That was my first intention, but the rain has washed some
sense into me.” Durand glanced up at the angry gray sky, then to the walled
castle. He might never see his boys or Cristina again. “I’ll not put their
lives in jeopardy with a foolish plan. We will wait to see if de Warre releases
my sons now that he has Cristina.”
Cristina had given herself for his sons. He owed her a debt
not payable in this lifetime.
Together they watched and waited for three hours. The gates
remained closed. A powerful need to act swept over Durand.
“I’m going after them.” Durand leaped to his feet, but Luke
and Penne restrained him. “De Warre cannot muster many men,” Durand argued.
“The most able are in Portsmouth ready for the offensive.” Durand tore from
their grip. “I’ll not wait any longer.”
“Mayhap de Warre will release them on the morrow, when the
weather improves. Come, let us wait a bit longer.” Penne cajoled him back to
their vantage point.