Lord of the Mist

by Ann Lawrence

  “Oh, ‘tis a sight to behold. Fire streams from his nostrils, steam issues from his ears. He sprouts claws and—”

  “Enough!” Cristina burst into laughter. Felice protested, setting up a howl. She patted her back until she quieted. “I still don’t have the plants I require.”

  Luke threw up his hands. “Nay. I’ll not dig another moment.”

  She smiled. “You did not dig at all. And you lied to Lord Durand. You chopped nothing. I believe you used the ax to shape a better seat to that stump.”

  “Aye. And to my rump.” Then he bowed. “Forgive my levity. What is it you’re asking, Mistress le Gros? For I can tell you want something,” he said.

  “Lady Oriel and Father Odo have placed several orders with me. I cannot fill them with what plants I have at hand. I need more than violets and primroses.”

  “I am castellan here and give you my consent to gather what you will. Do as you wish. Who else will care?” He made an impatient gesture toward the trees about them.

  “Lord Durand, I imagine.”

  “Ah. You imagine.”

  She met his gaze. His sardonic expression shamed her somehow. Could he read her thoughts, know how Lord Durand haunted her every thought, crept into her musings? Nay, he could not. And lustful dreams they were, to her shame. Her thoughts should be on Simon, no matter his neglect of her. “I thank you, but my husband would be most displeased if his orders are not filled promptly. He depends upon me to see to the needs of the ladies of the keep.”

  They reached their carts and horses. Without thought, she handed Felice to Sir Luke and accepted a groom’s aide to mount a small palfrey.

  “Tell me how I may help.” Luke handed up the child in her sling.

  She looked down on Sir Luke’s handsome face. She saw little of the hard features of Lord Durand. Luke left her unmoved. Lord Durand churned her insides. “The walled garden in the outer bailey would suit me most admirably. Much of what I need is likely there in abundance, but Lord Durand has forbidden it.”

  “He’ll come around. I’ve found he always says nay when first you ask him anything, but upon later reflection, he ofttimes sees the other side. I think the garden would be perfect for you. ‘Tis quite extensive, you know. One side is a small grove of fruit trees. It was lovely, I remember, in flower. And there is no need to sit on stumps. There are benches aplenty.

  “When we return, I’ll take you into the garden. I cannot give you permission to use the garden, but I can show you around it. I have the key.”

  * * * * *

  Durand climbed the ladder leading to the roof of the south tower. Damaged by fire in his father’s day, it had never been adequately repaired. It had been on an inspection to figure the cost that he had realized one could see into a tiny corner of Marion’s garden.

  Now, elbows propped on the edge of the tower parapet, he stared down at that small corner of lush greenery. Once it had been tame; now it ran wild. The marble bench was overgrown with vines. Then it had held two lovers, his wife one of them.

  His anger had known no bounds, but his pride had kept the knowledge silent in his breast until that night. Then he had unleashed it. The next day, Marion had joined him on a trip to Winchester, and the gardener had been sent to one of his manors in Normandy.

  He watched Mistress le Gros cross the bailey, Marion’s daughter in her arms.

  Cristina. He enjoyed the sound of her name, the feel of the syllables on his tongue. It was a name to whisper in a lover’s ear. Lovers reminded him of Marion’s betrayal.

  “Nay. I must be honest with myself,” he said as he watched the merchant’s wife. “I care less of Marion’s betrayal than of the man’s. What treachery do I harbor when I now most need loyalty?” Then all thoughts of Marion and her possible lovers fled from his mind. Luke appeared at the garden door, unlocked it, and held it open to Cristina.

  “Jesu,” he said softly. He straightened, a fierce pulse rising in his temples and throat. The torque at his neck felt as tight as a noose.

  Only one tiny corner of the garden was visible to the world outside the garden walls, so Cristina and Luke disappeared from view once inside the gate. But not for long.

  Cristina very quickly found the little corner in the late-day sun. Where she had placed the child he did not know, but she busily jerked away the vines to expose the marble bench.

  “Ah, Mistress le Gros,” he said bitterly. “You see a charming seat, one where you might bask in the sun on a cool day or enjoy a sheltered spot on a hot one. Or do you, too, see it as a place to woo a lover?”

  She moved out of view, then returned with the child. He wished in that instant to be the raven of his banner that he might swoop down and perch on the pear tree whose branches hung so close by, for she sat so quietly, face to the sun, rocking the child.

  The child. Not his.

  And yet, even this far above, he felt a stirring of something unfamiliar as he watched the merchant’s wife.

  Luke joined her. In moments Durand was down the ladder, through the tower, and across the bailey. He strode through the open garden gate and across the weed-choked paths in the direction of the marble bench in the far corner.

  Luke’s laughter filled the air. Durand took a deep breath when Cristina’s joined in, each note thrilling down his spine. He ducked under the low branch of the pear tree and halted.

  There, within but a few feet, sat Luke next to Cristina, head bent in conspiracy toward his avid listener. Both were oblivious to his presence. Luke, Lord of Skirts, was charming yet another female.

  What am I doing here?

  Slowly, lest they look up and see him, Durand backed into the trees. Once out of sight, he turned and strode away. No woman would make a fool of him. Ever again.

  Chapter Three

  Durand crossed the bailey with Father Odo on his way from the chapel. It took a conscious effort not to look at the securely locked garden gate. He had not yet confronted his brother about his defiance in opening it to Cristina the day before.

  By the stables, his mare’s bridle in his hand, Simon le Gros stood talking to his wife. He called out, “Ah, Lord Durand and Father Odo. I’ve settled Owen in the keep.”

  “How do you find the cottage?” Father Odo asked.

  “The house is magnificent, quite dry and sturdy. Old Owen had some interesting wares, but I’ll soon clean them out. In fact,” he turned to Durand, “I’ve a saddle arriving soon you must inspect.” He gestured in the general direction of the great gate that guarded the castle entrance. “I imagine it would make a most fit gift for our sire when he arrives.”

  “Send me word when you have it in hand.” Durand looked from husband to wife. The sweetly gentle manner of Mistress le Gros had disappeared. Her back was as stiff as Old Owen’s knees on a winter night.

  “I wonder if I might ask your indulgence, my lord?” Simon gave his reins to a groom. “My wife makes a most sweet-scented lotion much treasured by ladies—Lady Oriel in particular. But to make it, she must—”

  “Is this another plea to allow wandering about in the forest?” Durand looked from husband to wife. “Are you so dependent upon a few lotions you cannot do without the flowers?”

  Simon bowed. “I just did not wish to disappoint the ladies, my lord. But Cristina is quite imaginative; she will find another flower, will you not, Cristina?”

  Cristina le Gros looked at him, not her husband. She met his gaze quite squarely. “If that is what his lordship wishes, I will endeavor to comply.”

  Durand felt as if his heart was being squeezed. The sight of her dancing in the clearing suddenly came to his mind and startled him. Nay, the vision aroused him. Damn all ladies and their vanities. He turned and strode away to find a place of peace.

  * * * * *

  An hour later, a tentative knock on Luke’s counting room door disturbed Durand’s reading. “Another wench looking for Luke,” he muttered. “Come,” he called.

  Cristina le Gros entered, a familiar basket over her ar
m. “Oh, my lord. I did not expect to find you here.” She dropped into a deep curtsy and began to back away.

  He rose from his bench, marking his place in the book with his finger. “My brother has gone to the village, but he should return at any moment. May I help you?”

  She lifted her basket. “I have come to scatter some rosemary in the rushes.”

  With a shrug, Durand indicated she should do as she wished. He straddled the bench and opened his book in a futile attempt to ignore her, the herbs she strewed about the room, and her own scent, which drifted to him along with the other. With a glance in her direction, he caught her looking at him. Nay. Lower. At his dagger with its gold raven’s head? His lap?

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said when her basket was empty. “What do you read?”

  He almost laughed. So much for her contemplation of his body or dagger. “Aristophanes.” He put the book into her hands.

  “Nay, my lord. ‘Tis too valuable.” She thrust it out at him as it were a snake he offered, but he pressed it into her palms.

  “Valuable, aye, but not for its leather and parchment. ‘Tis the words that are of value. Take it.”

  She sank to the edge of the bench, scant inches from his knees. Several strands of her hair defied her plait and curled against her neck. He regretted his sharp words in the bailey, but didn’t know how to retract them.

  “Who is Aristophanes?” she asked, lifting her eyes to his.

  He thought of the dark, peat-stained waters of the northern lands that stood ice-cold, gleaming in winter sunlight. There was nothing cold in her expression. “A Greek. He wrote over a thousand years ago. I much admire his work.”

  “A thousand years,” she said softly. She smoothed her delicate fingers over the book as reverently as she might God’s word, then opened it and read, “‘There is nothing worse in the world than shameless woman—save some other woman.’”

  As color ran over her cheeks, he felt heat flush his. He cleared his throat. “Who taught you to read?”

  “My father. He wanted his children to be as educated as a lord’s, and our priest much appreciated the oils my mother made for his altar in exchange for the lessons.” Gently she closed the book and handed it back. “It is lovely. Thank you.”

  Before he could think of something else to say, or locate some line of Aristophanes less damning of womankind, she was gone.

  “Jesu.” He rose, wrapped the book in linen, then put it into Luke’s coffer with a few other minor manuscripts, manor records, and books he liked to have at hand. Those of greater value were locked and guarded in the west tower. He drew out the tally sticks from the winter harvest. “Mayhap I shall find some peace in counting oats and barley.”

  * * * * *

  Luke wandered through the great hall, stopping repeatedly to speak to those who had gathered to break their fast. Finally he flung himself into the chair at Durand’s side.

  “It has begun,” Luke said at his ear.

  “What?” Durand speared a slice of heron with his dagger.

  “Lady Sabina is to arrive before dusk. Be sure John will bring a few marriage proposals for you to consider as well.”

  Durand shrugged. “Sabina comes in vain. She needs a far better alliance than I can offer her. Her father may be a close friend of King John’s, but he has little to show for it. As for proposals, if the offer is worthy, I’ll consider it. I must. Should we fail to regain what we’ve lost in France—”

  “Your sons will still have Ravenswood.”

  “I want you to have Ravenswood.”

  Luke shrugged. “I’ll find my way,” he said, but his eyes scanned the hall, and he bit his lip.

  “Luke, I’ll regain what I’ve lost and more; I vow it. Ravenswood should be yours. If a wife is the swiftest way to that end, then I’ll wed.”

  But Luke was no longer listening. “I was in error, Durand.” He pointed with his dagger. “Mistress le Gros is not floating about on a cloud.”

  Cristina le Gros drifted across the hall then settled at a far table.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nay. She is not a cloud-dwelling spirit. She’s a forest sprite. Can you not see her, deep in a forest glade somewhere, hair loose over those luscious breasts, kneeling naked—”

  “Enough! You could make a priest rue his vows.” Aye, he thought, I can imagine it.

  Luke left, laughter on his lips. Durand could summon no laughter. He strode to the steps leading to the south tower and his bedchamber. Once there, he tore off the fine blue surcoat he wore but left on the ancient torque each ruling de Marle had worn to remind all of their right to power. As with his ancestors, he never took the torque off.

  In moments, he was garbed for battle. Returning to the hall, he bellowed a challenge to his men to gear themselves and meet him in the bailey.

  * * * * *

  Three hours later, sweat-soaked and aching with fatigue, he again climbed to his chamber. Rain soaked his garments, but the demons of his wife’s betrayal were exorcised, as well as the images of Mistress le Gros darting naked amid tree trunks.

  He threw open his chamber door and the images swept in again. His chamber smelled like the very forest glades he wished to banish. The room tilted a moment.

  A tub steamed before the hearth. This, then, was the source of the wonderful fragrance. He trailed a finger through the water before submitting to his squire’s attendance.

  Finally he sank into the depths of the steaming water and leaned back in the silky water that caressed him with each breath he took. His squire handed him a scrap of linen and a block of soap, then bustled about gathering up wet clothes.

  Lathering the cloth, Durand breathed deeply of the scented soap. His mind conjured rain-swept trees and ferns curling from dark loam. The soap was a beautifully formed block, stamped with the image of a raven. “See to your growling stomach, Joseph.”

  “Can I not make order here first, my lord?” Joseph asked.

  “I like everything just as it is. I can lay my hand on whatever I need, when I need it.”

  “As you wish,” Joseph said, and sighed deeply as he departed.

  Durand slid down until his chin touched the water. Every muscle in his body ached, but as he soaked, the heady scents soothed him. He allowed himself to revel in the texture of the water, the satiny feel of the soap.

  His arousal was intense. “I need a woman,” he muttered.

  Cristina le Gros.

  Had he said her name aloud? He held up the block of soap. Had she made it? For him?

  His door opened, sending a cold draught through the room. “What is it?” Durand asked of Penne, who entered.

  Penne grinned. “How are you enjoying your bath? Oriel sent the soap.”

  “Oriel?”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed. Who else would care how you smell? Certainly not I. And this habit you’ve picked up from our king, this constant bathing, is dangerous.”

  Penne draped himself in one of the two chairs flanking Durand’s hearth. “Oriel wishes to know if we may have music this evening. Is it too soon?”

  “Nay. Marion loved music. She would not have wanted the hall silent.”

  When Durand rose and dried himself with a length of linen, blood streaked the cloth. He frowned at a long graze on his forearm.

  “You’ve wounded yourself?” Penne offered Durand a small cloth which he folded into a bandage.

  “Aye. It seems so.” He dabbed at the cut.

  Penne took the bloody cloth. “How could you not feel this?”

  “Mon Dieu. I have much on my mind. I’m bedeviled by King John. My wife is dead—”

  “Interesting the order in which you place your wife and your king.”

  Durand ignored Penne and continued to dry himself, donning a long linen shirt and braies. He had need to roll his sleeve to prevent marring it with blood. “Jesu. Can you fetch some strips of cloth? Mayhap a salve?”

  “Do I look like your squire?” Penne left
with a smile on his face. It had always been so between them. There was no better friend than Penne. Not even Luke was as close to him as Penne.

  Oriel rushed into the chamber, Penne entering with a rueful smile behind her. She swished her scarlet wool skirts aside and took his arm.

  “This is nasty. How did you do it?” She replaced the bloody cloth he had pressed on the graze.

  He shrugged. He could not say his mind was occupied with Mistress le Gros. “I only noticed it whilst I was dressing.”

  Oriel bit her lower lip as Marion would have had she been there to tend the wound. “It has no need of stitching, but still, should be tended. The leech is in the village. Shall I call Mistress le Gros instead? Surely, she knows much of plants. Mayhap she has some salve to put on it.” Oriel headed for the door without awaiting an answer. She looked back. “Your legs are quite beautiful, Durand, but I suggest you finish garbing yourself ere Mistress le Gros arrives.”

  Durand did as bid, casting aside two tunics before settling on one of forest green. It matched the scents of his chamber and seemed perfect for greeting a woodland sprite. Ignoring Penne, he moved quickly to right the chamber, heaving his weapons into his coffer, sweeping parchments in haphazardly after them.

  “Queen Isabelle is not visiting,” Penne said from his seat at the hearth.

  “Have you something to say?” Durand said in a growl. He held the cloth to his wound and looked about for somewhere to place his dicing cups. He upended a bowl over them.

  “I’m sure Mistress le Gros has seen dice before.”

  “Remind me to have Oriel stitch your lips closed.”

  “If Mistress le Gros thinks you a slovenly, gambling wretch, who is to care?”

  “Her husband is merchant here now. I don’t need her gossiping on my ability to lose my coin in games of chance, else he might hang me out for more silver with every purchase I make.”

  “Ah. I see. You wish to appear to be scraping by on a pittance?” Penne laughed, then swallowed it as Oriel entered with Cristina le Gros.

  Durand held out his arm like a simpleton.