by Ann Lawrence
“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.
Chapter Five
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 c
orner 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.
Ground cinnamon, so little left, so costly to obtain, all lost in the rushes. Lavender mingled with comfrey. She concentrated on the child and forced herself to put the disaster from her mind. Thank God Aldwin had not seen the Aelfric volume laying open on the table but an hour ago. Surely that would be evidence to him she intended to set herself to healing.
When Felice slumbered, sated, mouth agape, Cristina placed her on the bed. How simple life was for Felice. Eat and sleep.
* * * * *
Alice found her on her hands and knees an hour later, her bowls in a circle around her. “Mistress! What ails ye?”
Cristina poured tainted oil into a large basin and sniffed to see if it could be salvaged. “I’m quite well, Alice. I had an accident.”
“Oh, ‘tis an ill omen! All yer precious things!” Alice dropped to her knees and began to sweep seeds into a small pile with her hand.
“Alice, the sun is on the wane. Why do you not take a turn in the cook’s garden? ‘Tis like to rain on the morrow.”
Alice sat back on her heels. “Ye do not fool me, miss. I’m mixing them up, am I not?”
With a quick bob of her head, Cristina acknowledged the truth. Hearing the babe wake, she patted Alice’s hand. “Take Felice and sit in the sun.”
“Aye, I will, and on the morrow I’ll beg some space for ye from the cook to grow yer flowers. ‘E owes me a favor or two.”
“Oh, Alice, what that would mean to me!”
Alice winked and rose with a groan. “I’ll see to it. Me knees are too old for this work.” She departed.
Cristina worked for several more hours, sifting seeds and herbs into their bowls. Costly spices were tainted with common herbs, some hopelessly soaked in oils. She tried to imagine new uses for them.