Authors: Ann Lawrence
“I order it so.”
They stood in silence a moment—a silence heated with the
abruptness of his words.
“As you wish, my lord, but I cannot read it.”
“You don’t read Latin?” He damned himself for not guessing.
“Only French?”
“French and English. The languages of my father’s business.”
The disputed book was wrapped in its cloth and set upon the
table. Her words separated them as surely as her father’s business. “I shall
come back then and read it to you,” he said.
“That is most kind, but—”
He hurried over her embarrassed words. “You’ll show me the
book when ‘tis clean? I’d be most interested to see it. Then I shall share it
with you.”
She nodded, but did not look his way.
“How fares the child?” He glanced around for the babe and
saw the simple wooden cradle more suited to a child of Cristina’s than of
Marion’s. His sons had lain in gilded beds, carved with ravens, to remind them
of their duty as they slept.
“Felice is quite well. She’s the sweetest-tempered—”
“Felice? Did the priest baptize her thusly? I thought she
was to be called Elizabeth Margaret Iona, after my grandmother.”
“Lady Marion changed her mind, my lord. Lady Oriel was quite
angry with the good father over it, but he would adhere to our lady’s wishes.
But truly, in the confusion with our lady’s collapse, no one wished to argue
such a thing—”
“It matters not what the babe is called.” The child in the
cradle was but a tiny tuft of fair hair above the swaddling.
It was a blessing the child took after Marion—or was it a
curse? Would that the child’s hair or eye color cried out her father’s name.
Nay, it would also cry him a cuckold. He clenched his fist.
Had Marion decided it would be playing the hypocrite to name
the child for
his
grandmother?
Cristina knelt by the cradle’s edge and stroked her fingers
through the downy hair. “I confess, my lord, the name suits her. Felice means
good fortune, and surely she is most fortunate in having so many to love and
care for her.”
Cristina raised her large, dark eyes to him. Could she
possibly see inside his heart to know how little he cared what the child was
called? “She has good fortune in your care of her.”
He watched Cristina’s face light with a smile. The simple
look sent a shaft of sensation arrowing through him. With a physical struggle,
he forced himself to leave the chamber.
“Ah, Durand,” Luke called to him from the foot of the
stairs. “Why have you been hiding from me? Dare I suppose you fear another
session with the castle accounts?”
“I fear nothing, brother.” Durand clapped his brother on the
shoulder.
Nay, he lied. He feared many things: learning which man had
betrayed him just at this time when loyalty meant everything; watching Marion’s
daughter grow to resemble someone he trusted; showing how much he wanted the merchant’s
wife.
Thoughts of Cristina le Gros sent Durand’s reflections to
Simon, and from him to Old Owen and his words about betrayal. But when he
sought the elderly merchant, he found Father Odo instead.
Old Owen had died.
At Owen’s graveside, just after dawn, the priest spoke at
length of Owen’s virtues. Durand cursed himself. Why had he not sought Owen out
earlier? Too much occupied his mind. Now it was too late.
When the folk of the keep gathered to watch the old man laid
to rest in the chapel yard, Durand thought about what Owen had said.
Who would betray him?
Someone already had, he thought, looking over at Felice in
Cristina le Gros’ arms. Had Owen known Marion’s lover? The old man had known so
much of what went on twixt village and castle. Now he had taken it to his
grave.
* * * * *
“You should have come to Owen’s burial,” Cristina said to
Simon as he wandered about her little alcove, touching dried flower petals and
sniffing effusions. “He deserved your respect.”
“I cannot see every old man buried,” Simon snapped. “What
have you here, Cristina?” Motes of dust danced in the morning sunlight behind
Simon as he whirled about.
With guilty heat on her cheeks, she hurried to where he
stood at her worktable. But it was not the potion she was preparing that drew
him.
“‘Tis Aelfric’s
Nominum Herbarum
.” She discretely
covered the bowl of mallows with a linen cloth.
“
Mon Dieu
! How do you have such a treasure?” He
skewered her with a sharp look.
“Lord Durand gave it to me to clean.” Why was she reluctant
to say his lordship had given her the herbal to keep? Nay, Simon would make
something of it—something worthy of chastisement.
“With such embellishments, ‘twould fetch a goodly sum.”
Simon treated the book as reverently as she, turning the leaves carefully,
examining the binding, stroking the cover bosses. “To the ignorant, fifty
pounds. To an abbey, possibly a thousand.”
A thousand pounds?
“We’ll not be the beneficiaries of
its sale.” She took the book and placed it squarely on the table. “I shall return
it to Lord Durand when ‘tis clean.”
Simon wandered to her bed, the book forgotten. He stretched
out and patted the coverlet next to him. “Come. Lie at my side.”
Her legs felt liquid, her chest tight. “I cannot. Felice
will wake soon.”
He glanced at the cradle. “She’s dead to the world. Come.”
It was said in a tone that brooked no disobedience. She sat
beside him. He cupped her breast. “You must give me a son.”
A noise at the door sent her flying from the bed, her heart
pounding. “Alice. How kind!” Cristina rushed to the door and took the tray from
the serving woman’s hands. The smell of roasted partridge filled the room.
“What ye doin’ wiv yer boots on the bed?” Alice jammed her
fists on her hips and glared at Simon.
He rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand.
“You’ve a tart tongue.”
“I say what needs sayin’. Lord Durand will not be best
pleased to find ye lollin’ about ere the sun has set.”
Simon rose slowly, straightening his tunic. “Lord Durand
will not be best pleased to find a serving woman is interfering with a man’s
pleasure.”
“Yer all the same,” Alice said as Simon went to the door.
“Rutting pigs. ‘Is lordship included. Tell ‘im what ye will.”
Simon’s face suffused with a deep red; he raised a hand.
“Alice!” Cristina darted between her husband and the
servant. “There’s no need for acrimony.” Behind her, Felice woke and burst into
a frantic wail. “Just go, Simon, ‘tis not a good time, as you can see.”
He relaxed. He placed his fingers beneath her chin and
lifted her face to his. “We shall continue this when
she
is not about.”
“Please, Simon. ‘Tis unseemly to come to me here.”
“Unseemly? Then hie yourself home to the village. Bring the
child if need be; then return when we’ve finished our business.”
He made of it a chore. “I cannot take—”
Felice’s wail became a frantic, hiccuping tirade.
Simon’s fingers tightened on her chin. “You’ll come when it
pleases
me
.”
Alice scooped Felice from the cradle and stomped to where
they stood. “His lordship’ll ‘ave some’at to say about that.” She thrust the
child into Cristina’s arms, effectively separating them. “Ye cannot be takin’
the babe into the evil air of night.”
“Evil air! Shut your mouth, hag.” Simon bowed at her. “After
Vespers, Cristina.”
“Rutting bastard,” Alice muttered.
Cristina frowned. This was a battle sure to become a war.
“It would not do to—”
“Anger ‘is lordship, mistress. Remain in the keep, else ‘e
will ‘ave yer ‘ead and another’ll be found to feed that babe.”
“Is there another in the keep who’s able to nurse her?”
Dread filled her.
“Nay. I know of none, but babes are born every day and babes
die. There be three ‘ore’s in the village what be nursin’ now, but his lordship
wouldna allow such as they to feed his sweetling.” Alice bustled about the
chamber, shifting a bench, adding wood to the fire. “I be thinkin’ ye’ll not
mind so much ‘ifn Lord Durand sends that one packin’.” Alice jerked her thumb
at the door.
“Nonsense,” she said, rocking and kissing Felice until she
quieted and fell asleep. She placed her back in her cradle.
“Oh, aye. Nonsense is it?” Alice settled on a bench and in
moments was snoring.
With a glance to the sleeping woman, Cristina drew the cloth
from the mallows she’d been mashing when Simon had interrupted her. She dripped
eight and twenty drops of morning dew into the mixture, one drop for each year
of her life. Next she lit a candle, newly made with strawberry and cobwebs from
the chapel.
Last, she set the dew mixture to heat over the special
candle. When the aroma told her it was ready, she lifted the bowl, stood in the
morning sun, and drank. As the heated drops slid over her tongue, she closed
her eyes tightly and fixed her mind’s eye on Lord Durand. She conjured every
line on his face, every shade of gray in his eyes, the small scar by his mouth.
“May I resist him,” she whispered.
* * * * *
“Lord Durand, I insist you do something. Alice is a menace.”
Durand crossed his feet at his ankles. He examined his toes.
The hall stretched nearly empty behind the merchant, save for servants. It
would fill again that evening. Oriel had planned music and song for Lady
Sabina, who had arrived within the hour. He yawned. “Surely, Simon,
menace
is a bit strong?”
“A menace? A witch!”
“I cannot send Alice away. She was my wife’s favorite nurse.
There was some deathbed promise made.” Durand hoped God was busy listening in
on someone else’s conversation. Yet the lie did not trouble him overmuch.
“But my lord! She keeps me from my wife.”
“Hmmm. Still, she cannot be moved.”
The merchant paced before his chair. It gave Durand ample
opportunity to examine him. The man was certainly handsome. He was as finely
garbed as a courtier, but his wife wore mended gowns. His irritation edged
toward ire.
“I’m sure I need not tell you that a wife has duties!” Simon
drew to a halt before him.
Durand rose. He was as tall as Simon; they stood eye-to-eye.
“I understand that your wife is Felice’s wet nurse. Those are the
only
duties I concern myself with.”
For an instant Durand thought Simon might protest. “Of
course, my lord. Forgive me for implying your daughter’s needs come after mine,
but—”
“But?” Durand lifted one brow and crossed his arms on his
chest.
Simon’s gaze dropped to the torque about his neck. “But
nothing, my lord.”
“Is there aught else I might do for you?”
“Nay, nay. All is well. That saddle has arrived, if you wish
to see it.”
“I’ll ride over on the morrow.” Durand lifted one hand in
dismissal. Simon bowed deeply and strode away.
“Goodness, brother, what was that all about?” Luke asked.
“Must you sneak up on me?” Durand felt the heat in his face.
How much had Luke heard?
“One hears no gossip if one stomps about like a shod horse!”
“
Jesu
. What possible gossip was there to be had from
le Gros?”
“He feels some need to have you think his wick needs dipping
at the hands of the ethereal Cristina.” Luke gave Durand a toothy smile. “I
happen to know he has it regularly trimmed at the Raven’s Head. But one must
pity the man the loss of the fair Cristina’s favors. I wager she handles the
wick most gently.”
Durand’s lifeblood pooled in his groin. He dropped into his
chair behind the table.
“Care you for a ride to the village?” Durand ventured.
But Luke did not answer. He had hooked a serving wench about
the waist and was whispering in her ear, Simon and Cristina forgotten.
Durand could not so easily forget. His thoughts turned to
her
,
just a few rounds up the stairs, conjuring some seductive soap or lotion. How
much longer could he resist her?
* * * * *
Musicians strolled the hall, strumming and singing as
servants dodged them with trenchers of roasted swan and partridge.
Cristina approached the hearth where the ladies sat
stitching. Several men, Lord Durand prominent among them, stood nearby. She
took a seat far to one side.
“Mistress le Gros. Why do you perch like a sparrow in the
shadows here?” It was Sir Luke who approached her.
“Would you return this herbal to Lord Durand?” She handed
Luke the newly cleaned Aelfric, an ache in her middle that she had had but two
days to peruse it. Yet she could not keep such a gift. If Simon knew its worth,
surely Lord Durand did as well. The implications of the gift frightened her.
Did not a man want something in return for such value?
She had naught to give.
“Most certainly,” Luke said. “Come along with me, if you
have the time, as I find I have need of your services.”
Luke led her to his counting room, where he placed the
herbal in a coffer filled with rolls of parchment and other books. She longed
to see them, but the lid fell shut on the treasures.
“Sit.” He indicated a stool by his fire. “I’ve a friend who
has come to me.” Luke cleared his throat. “Ah. It seems, that is…
Mon Dieu
,
this is difficult.”
“Take your time, my lord.” Cristina tucked her skirts about
her knees and tried to ignore her aching breasts. Felice had nursed little and
then fallen deeply asleep as if she had feasted on the stuffed swan from the
high table.
“I’ve a friend who is most distressed that he’s unable
to…that is, he feels himself not quite adequate…
Mon Dieu
!” Luke began to
pace. He finally halted at the fire, back to her. “This friend feels himself
inadequate in the bedchamber. There I have said it!”
He turned around. His face was as red as the streaks in his
golden hair.
Cristina swallowed. “I see. Why are you telling me this?”
She knew his reputation. Lord of Skirts, they called him. Was it not true? She
didn’t believe in the friend of Sir Luke any more than she believed in the
friend of Lady Oriel.
“I’d hoped you could conjure up a salve or something.”
She almost giggled at the thought of where Luke would need
to rub it. “I see.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not a healer, my lord.”
“This is not something for the leech, mistress.” Luke raked
his fingers through his hair. “He’d have it about the castle in the time it
took me to spit twice.”
“Mayhap I can mix something for your friend. But…” She
swallowed her mirth and gulped. How to ask this next question? Her own face
heated. “But in what manner does the man feel—”
Luke frantically waved his hands. “Nay, nay, say no more. He
is, shall we just say, distressed he has no children.”
No children
? Whatever did Sir Luke want with a child?
Mayhap he did have a friend in need. Then she thought of Oriel who also wanted
a potion to conceive. “I understand. Your friend wishes something to aid
conception.”
Luke smiled. “You understand. Make it something strong. Very
strong. He’s most anxious for an heir.”
Cristina rose. Her breasts were as hard as millstones. She
ached to rub them. “Shall I leave the potion here, my lord?”
“You’re an angel.”
Cristina returned to Felice’s chamber. Within the curtained
alcove, a spare, gray-haired man sniffed at the bowls on her work table. The
leech. His dusty embroidered robes dragged about his ankles as he clucked and
mewed over her hanging bunches of drying flowers.
“May I help you, Master Aldwin?” she asked.
The leech turned to her and blew a long breath from his
fleshy lips. “I’ll not abide your trespass, Mistress le Gros.”
She went to the cradle. The babe lay on her back, hands in
tiny fists, and made small puffing noises—sound asleep. With a sigh, Cristina
tried to ignore her discomfort and the whine in Master Aldwin’s voice. “I
intend no trespass, sir.”
“What need have you of betony or dock?”
“I keep some herbs for my own use, sir, as does any wife.
Surely, you cannot object to that? I trade only in pretty scents.”
“Humph. You prepared an herbal drink for Lady Marion, did
you not?”
“Nay, ‘twas honey in warm milk. It had no healing
properties. ‘Twas what any cook would prepare if asked!”
Master Aldwin sniffed. “I’ll complain to his lordship if I
find you are
healing,
Mistress le Gros.” He swung about to her table and
swept out an arm. In moments, her bowls and oils crashed to the floor.
She could not stifle a strangled cry of dismay.
Aldwin pressed his hands to his cheeks. “Ah, me. Forgive me,
mistress. How clumsy of me!”
From the corner came a sudden shriek. Felice pawed the air
and wailed. Aldwin turned to where the babe lay and pointed a quivering finger.
“Tend to your work and I’ll tend to mine, else Lord Durand shall put you out!”
Weeks of gathering lay in ruins, purchased spices mingled
with lowly mint. She scooped Felice up and held her close. The babe rooted at
her breast; Cristina’s eyes burned. She would not weep! She had vowed years ago
to never weep, had broken that vow only to mourn her daughters. She would not break
it now.