by Ann Lawrence
“Why do you think that?” Cristina looked up at Alice.
“Lords marry for power, miss, ye know that. ‘E’ll sniff about for more land and pluck some innocent off the vine like a ripe plum so she can suffer for ‘is lust as well.” Alice tossed her head and wiped her tears on her sleeve. “‘Tis a blessing ye were ‘ere in the keep to take Lady Marion’s babe to yer breast.”
“Aye, a blessing. I suppose ‘twas God’s will.”
“Humph. God’s will. If God were a female, men would lie in childbed, sufferin’ and dyin’ fer lust. ‘Is lordship ‘asna even seen the babe.”
“Alice. Could you fetch me a cup of warm milk?”
The serving woman rose and hastened to the task, leaving Cristina in blessed silence. She did not wish to hear one more word of lust and death. She rummaged in a coffer and found soft, clean cloths to change the babe and marveled at the tiny toes and dimpled legs as she had at her own babe’s.
A child is all she had ever wished for. Was it not a woman’s purpose in life to give birth and nurture? She had failed at the one. At least, for a time, she could do the other. Already, holding and nurturing this child helped her wounds to heal. She planted kisses on the babe’s cheeks.
“I hope you resemble your mother, little one. If you develop your father’s stubborn chin and noble nose, you may find yourself without a suitor in all King John’s kingdom.” She tickled the child’s belly and received the wide-eyed squirm of a healthy babe. She wrapped her in clean swaddling.
The door creaked open and Cristina hastily pulled the edges of her gown together. “Alice?” She turned to the door.
“I see you’re still in your fine nest, Cristina.” Simon le Gros eased the door closed behind him and strode about the chamber. He rubbed his hands before the fire. “Aye. This is better than any scheme I could have devised. You’re surely in the lord’s good favor here.”
“What is it you want, Simon?”
“Why, Cristina, I merely wish to know how you fare.” He smiled. “You are hidden here with the babe, I have scarcely seen you since you brought Lady Marion her pomanders—let me think…the day you gave birth.”
Once his smile had intrigued her, his words had beguiled her, his handsome face had drawn her. Now she thought only that he had not come to see her but once since the death of their own babe, and yet, according to Alice, had inquired of Lady Marion several times each day as that fine lady lay near death.
He swept his hands out to encompass the chamber. “Had her ladyship survived the child’s birth, she would have recommended us to Lord Durand. We might have obtained Old Owen’s charter now he’s too sick to serve, and made our home here. But as Lady Marion is now dead and that fool Luke—”
“Hush, Simon. Don’t let the servants hear you speak in such a manner of Lord Durand’s brother. Luke is castellan here. It would not do to offend him or Lord Durand.”
“No one can hear me.” Simon waved off her objections. “You must ingratiate yourself to Lord Durand on the infant’s account. Each time he visits, smile and be agreeable. He has no need of your pomanders or lotions, but there is no other woman here in the keep who can nurture his child.”
Cristina did not tell Simon that Lord Durand never visited his child. Of course, he had arrived at Ravenswood Castle to find his wife dead of childbed fever. Mayhap his grief kept him from inquiring after the infant. She would not believe him as heartless as Alice painted him.
Mayhap he blamed the infant for his wife’s death.
“Lady Marion’s death is a sore trial to us,” Simon continued.
“Lady Oriel seems to enjoy my wares as much as her sister.”
Simon rubbed his palms together. “Excellent. She’ll have influence on Lord Durand.” Then Simon frowned. “If ‘tis suggested some village woman may nurse the child, can you give the infant some potion to sicken her?”
Cristina gasped and shot to her feet. “Simon! I would never do such a thing! I know nothing of such potions.”
Simon strode to where she stood, the child warm and now sleeping against her breast, tiny mouth agape. He skimmed his long fingers over the child’s head. “I did not mean you to harm her. But it would suit us all if the babe preferred your milk. You’ll do whatever I require of you, will you not? Your presence here deprives me of your services in my bed. You have birthed but two babes, females, by God, and dead before they saw a single summer. We know ‘tis through no fault of mine.”
His words were tiny hammers on the anvil of her pain.
“Now, the king will surely come here when he embarks for Normandy. The place will be overrun with ladies who may want your wares.”
“Here? The king is coming here again?” She bit her lip. “I thought Lord Durand was to leave in a day or two.”
Simon smiled. “The gossips say Lord Durand will remain here to await the king, so we must make our place now. You’ll do whatever it takes to secure a position for us here at Ravenswood, will you not?”
Cristina rose. She placed the babe on the narrow bed and quickly laced her gown tightly closed.
Simon pulled her around. “You’ll do whatever is required. Kiss Lord Durand’s muddy boots if he should want it. Anything.”
Cristina looked up at her husband’s face. His dark hair curled about his neck, fine as swan’s down. “I will do what duty requires,” she said softly.
Simon nodded. “That’s better, more what I expect of you. Ingratiate yourself and be quick about it. I want to be established with a charter when the king arrives. If another secures it, it will be he who reaps the wealth of John’s coffers.” He rubbed his palms together. “King John spends freely. Lord Durand will have need to spend just as lavishly to please him. Do what is needed.”
Simon swept out of the room.
Cristina sank to the bed beside the babe. She gathered the child into her arms. “Oh, my sweet, how innocent you are. How unknowing of the intrigues of men.”
Tears burned her eyes as she thought of her own babes who lay in their graves, one beneath the lavender fields of home, one here in de Marle land.
“Mistress le Gros?”
Lord Durand stood at the bedchamber door left open by Simon’s departure. “Lord Durand.” She came around the draped bed and sank into a curtsy. “How may I be of service?”
Lord Durand did not move from the doorway. His gaze traveled slowly over her. She had to force herself not to touch her hair or assure herself her gown was properly laced.
“It is I who may be of service to you.”
She tipped her head and considered him. “How, my lord?”
Finally, he entered the chamber, but only a few feet. He looked fatigued, despite his sun-darkened complexion.
“You nourish the child, you adorn my wife; how may I reward you?”
Cristina smiled. “I seek no reward, my lord. I want for nothing. All is provided before I have need to ask, but I thank you for your concern.”
“I’m glad of it. But you must come to me if you find some lack here.” He glanced toward a deep alcove off the chamber.
Would that she had not tied back the drape that concealed the sunny space.
“What are you doing?” he asked and stepped into the alcove.
She followed him to the table that held dried flowers and the other assorted ingredients needed to practice her craft. “I’m preparing a mixture of flowers for Lady Oriel’s soap.” Would he object to her working here?
One by one, he lifted each small bowl and sniffed it, then extended one to her. “This is lavender, is it not?”
Cristina inclined her head. “English lavender seeds from my father. Far finer than any found in France.”
He smiled. “Of course. This soap for Lady Oriel,” he said, “what will be in it?”
“Lady Oriel misses the summer flowers of Mirebeau, her former home, I believe. I will endeavor to mix something reminiscent of that place.”
His gaze captured hers. “Your work brings more than a sweet smell then. Wh
at would you mix for me?”
The scents of mist and forest.
Aloud she said simply, “Whatever most pleases you, my lord.” This close, she could see his deep-set eyes were the gray of a winter sea. A white scar at the corner of his mouth was more responsible for his stern look than any fault of temper, she decided. Another scar, a pale delta on a high cheekbone, stood out starkly against his skin.
Conscious she was staring, Cristina busied herself with the child’s swaddling. “Your babe will be a fine beauty.”
He turned abruptly and went to the chamber door. “Don’t hesitate to come to me, mistress, should you have need of anything.”
Just as he reached the portal and she thought he might depart, he turned back.
“The babe is most fortunate to have you.” He bowed to her as one would a fine lady and left.
Cristina stared at the empty doorway. She hugged the babe to her pounding heart. “Aye, my sweet, Felice. You are as fortunate as your name. You have a mighty father, a fine and noble warrior to see to your care. ‘Tis blessed you are.” The child stretched in her arms. Her huge eyes opened. They were a soft, almost gray-blue. Would they become the stormy hue of Lord Durand’s?
Chapter Two
Following the lengthy service for Marion’s interment, Durand watched his sons depart for de Warre’s castle, northwest of Winchester. He had not seen them in almost six months. Adrian, soon to be fifteen, was growing tall. Robert, at ten and two, had supplied the tears so lacking in himself.
Durand returned to the crypt with Luke and knelt for a last time by his wife. Still prayers eluded him. He touched the cold stone walls and shuddered. “I want to die on a battlefield and be buried there, not here in darkness and damp.”
“You’ve lingered here long enough,” Luke said. “May I offer you some distraction? Could you read over a few accounts? Penne says you might leave on the morrow to join the king. I wish he would stop this infernal scurrying from one end of the kingdom to the other.”
Durand walked at Luke’s side from the old crypt and out into the wan sunlight. “I’ve changed my plans. The thought of the ride to Warwickshire wearies me. I believe I’ll await John’s arrival here.”
“Then forgive my intrusion on your privacy. The accounts can wait.” Luke touched his brother’s shoulder.
“In fact, I have something for you from le Gros which I neglected to pass on, so we may as well see to your accounts now. In a snarl, are they?”
This time Luke laughed. “Nay, Durand. Penne says ‘twas you who suffered Father Leo’s tongue-lashings when called upon to figure. My sums were always perfect. As was my Latin.”
“Ignotum per Ignatius.”
“Ignotum per ignotius,” Luke corrected with a grin.
When they reached the chamber which served as the counting room, Luke stretched out on a bench while Durand sat in a carved oak chair behind a long table. Despite Luke’s casual demeanor, the table held neatly arranged parchments and tally sticks.
Durand pulled le Gros’ accounts from the purse at his belt. He unrolled them and tossed them to Luke. “Why have you not granted le Gros a charter?” he asked. “He’s been in the village for nigh on ten months. You said his prices are fair, and Old Owen will not likely last until August, if Penne’s tales are correct. There’ll be no merchant in the village once Owen is gone, so offer le Gros the same terms and be done with it.”
Luke tapped the items Durand was examining. “I would, save one reason: there is something about the man I do not like.”
Durand examined his younger brother. The only resemblance they bore each other was in their height and quick tempers—those they had from their father. Luke, ten years his junior, resembled their perfidious mother in outward appearance. He had hair the color of fire—dark gold shot with reds. Women adored his slumberous eyes and generous mouth.
However, their mother would have become confused when asked how many eggs made a dozen. Luke had a lightning-quick wit and mind. There was no one more trustworthy than his brother.
“I, too, find le Gros a bit…snakelike? But these figures indicate he deals fairly. I cannot abide the baker, but I trust him not to give short weight. You say le Gros’ merchandise is of good quality, and Oriel swears she’ll not bathe without a soap from Mistress le Gros’ hands. Why drag out the matter? Resolve it. Draw a charter and have it signed. If he cheats us, the raven will devour the snake.”
“Shall I see Old Owen about it?”
Durand rose and added a few sticks to the fire. “Of course consult Old Owen, but has he not been hoping for just such relief since his son’s death? Why not bring Owen to the keep, make him comfortable in his illness, and allow le Gros to take the house in the village?” He poked the fire. “This room is cold and dank.”
“I love it.” Luke grinned at him. “‘Tis close to the kitchen…wenches.”
Durand could not help smiling back.
“What of Mistress le Gros?” Luke rolled up the accounts and secured them with leather thongs. “Should she not remain at the keep until another nurse may be found?”
The fire smoked a bit, and Durand avoided responding for a moment by tending it. “Oriel claims the child thrives under Mistress le Gros’ care. Why not have le Gros settle himself and see to his stock? His wife may join him later.”
“She allows no liberties,” Luke said.
Durand surged to his feet. “Liberties? Have you been trying to get beneath her skirts already?”
Luke touched his heart in feigned indignation. “I have no interest in married women. I am merely conjecturing. In fact, I’m not sure Mistress le Gros dwells in our world. Mayhap a cloud somewhere is her home. She barely touches the ground as she walks. But have you noticed how enticing is her form?” Luke spread his hands before his chest. “Her breasts are—”
“You’re a dog.” Durand did not want to admit he, too, had noticed the enticing swell of the woman’s breasts and how they pressed against her gown, or how the cold of the chapel this morning had… “Have you considered taking a wife, Luke?” he asked hastily.
“Each day I consider taking a wife, but each night as some pleasing pair of warm thighs embraces me, I reconsider.”
Durand dropped a heavy fist to his brother’s shoulder. “Do not sow too many bastards about the keep.”
“Nay, I will not. ’Tis the de Marle women who seem to have difficulty in that direction.”
Durand froze. “What are you saying?” The words were shards of ice in his throat. What did Luke suspect? Or know?
Luke arched a brow. “Why, I am speaking of Mother, of course. Have you heard from her lately?”
The tightness of Durand’s chest eased. “Nay, but I hear this and that from John’s spies. Count Bazin keeps her now—in Paris. Father would gnaw his winding sheet if he knew.”
“Aye. Though he could hardly complain as he set her aside—”
“After tolerating her many affairs.”
Luke shook his head. “Is not Bazin an old roué? And paying homage to King Philip?”
Durand nodded. “I imagine John will once again question our loyalty, with Mother so situated.”
He separated himself from his brother and went to the stables. Ravenswood Castle had fared well under Luke’s care. He ordered his mare and rode from the bailey.
The lane to the village was shrouded in mist before him. He let the mare amble along. Many of the villagers were still returning from the castle and Marion’s service. Their devotion pleased him. The men looked well garbed, not ragged, as they had been under his father’s care. Luke was a fine castellan.
Once outside the village, Durand rode hard to the river’s edge from which he could view Ravenswood. Built on Roman ruins, it had served as a Saxon hill fort at one time.
From Ravenswood’s towers he could view the roads to both Portsmouth and Winchester. Until Philip’s confiscation of his holdings in Normandy, he had meant to pass Ravenswood to Luke. Now it, and a few minor holdings scattered thr
oughout Sussex, must go to Adrian and Robert.
The same mist that lay heavy on the road also wreathed the base of the castle walls. The four square towers gleamed with the light of many torches. His banner, the raven pecking out the eye of a serpent, flew from every corner.
His land was not yet suffering from the famine sweeping the rest of England. He was affected in only one respect—the draining of his coffers to support John’s efforts on the continent. It would not be long before he felt the pinch.
Two small boys rolled down a hillock, squealing with delight. For a moment he imagined them as his sons. Nay, they would not be rolling about. They would be hard at work polishing armor or bent over sums as he and Luke had done, each in their turn.
They were fine, handsome boys, and would grow to be a credit to the de Marle name. They, at least, were his sons. Here, by the river, away from Luke’s too clever eyes, he allowed himself to dwell on Marion’s infant. Not his. Nay, not his. He probed the thought as one probes a sore tooth.
“Who was your lover, Marion?” he asked aloud. “Why did you betray me?” But he knew the answer. He had left her too much alone. He was at once mournful, angry, jealous, and vengeful.
The last time Marion had strayed, she had chosen one of the men who tended her garden. He had sent the man to one of his Normandy manors and locked Marion’s garden. Who was it this time? Another servant? One of his knights?
Someone close?
* * * * *
Cristina enjoyed the brisk walk through the outer bailey, her first free exploration of Ravenswood’s extensive environs. She watched the mews-master feed the captive birds that graced Lord Durand’s banner. Beside her, Alice complained of the hour, the temperature, the mud, the carts delivering goods for war—barrels of nails for horseshoes and quarrels for crossbows.
In truth, the bailey was as busy as a small town. Cristina shifted the infant Felice in her arms and continued on until she came upon a thick wooden door in the castle wall with a tiny window formed of an iron grill. The hinges and latch were cleverly fashioned to resemble vines. “What’s through here, Alice? Surely, this is not a postern gate?”