Lord of the Mist

by Ann Lawrence

  “Mistress le Gros?” He waited for her to look up.

  She turned. “My lord.” She dropped into a deep obeisance but kept her gaze on her basket of flowers.

  Two kitchen boys ran past, chasing one another. The scent of baking bread filled the air and yet, he thought he could smell the roses in her hands. He sensed a disquiet in her that told him she was not resistant to him or his touch of the night before in the chapel.

  Several knights, strangers, cut across the kitchen garden paths on the way to the stable. He waited silently until the men had passed, then cleared his throat. “The cook has little of use to you, as I now see.”

  “‘Tis enough, my lord,” she answered.

  “Nay, I believe I’ve been hasty in denying you the castle garden. It is quite overgrown, but should you succeed in making something of it, you’ll have my admiration.”

  He held out the key. She stared at it, but made no move to take it from his palm.

  “What changed your mind, my lord?” She bit her lip. Her hair no longer curled enticingly about her temples or lay loose on her shoulders. Instead, its glory was hidden beneath her headcovering. “My lord?” she prodded.

  He shrugged, unable to give her an answer that did not shout his desire. He’d tried to think of something to say should she or others ask just this question, and still after hours of thought had nothing logical, nor any quote from Aristophanes to offer. And because he had no answer, he said nothing.

  Finally, she reached out and touched the cold metal.

  “Take it,” he said softly.

  She raised her dark eyes to his face.

  “Do what you will,” he continued, the words a harsh rasp in his throat.

  Her fingers were warm as she drew the key across his palm. He shivered. Was it his imagination that her fingertips lingered a moment on his skin? Nay, he made what he wanted—nay needed—of the encounter.

  He strode away.

  * * * * *

  Lady Sabina lay in wait for him in an alcove off the great hall. He gritted his teeth as she stepped before him, blocking his way to his bedchamber. Exhaustion filled him with ire.

  “Ah, my lord, how pleased I am to find you alone. These barons, they occupy you to my disadvantage. Must you all jabber so on your lost holdings, the king?” She hooked her arm through his and with a gentle tug maneuvered him into the alcove. With difficulty, he concealed his impatience.

  “Is it not time we came to an agreement, Durand?”

  “An agreement?” He gently moved her hand lower on his thigh.

  “Aye. One of mutual benefit. I could oversee the keep for you whilst King John is in attendance. You must admit it is a demanding occupation, mistress of a castle overrun with courtiers.”

  “I have Lady Oriel to act for me,” Durand pointed out while parrying her busy fingers that crept up his arm.

  “Lady Oriel has expressed her concerns that she’s not able to see to the task. She’s never feted a king, whilst I have traveled with him on numerous occasions. He’s quite demanding, you know.”

  “Then pray help her.” Durand crossed his arms on his chest.

  Lady Sabina burst into laughter. “I’ve no intention of practicing good deeds, my lord. Whatever help I offer, ‘twould be foolish to give it without some reward.”

  “What reward would you require?” Her hand flattened on his thigh. He clamped his on hers.

  “It has been overly long since I’ve been under the care of a man such as you.”

  “There are many in the keep—or John’s court, for that matter—who would be pleased to offer you protection. I cannot do so.”

  “Cannot? Or will not?” She rose and paced before his bench. “We’re well suited; your properties would enhance mine.”

  He knew her father’s holdings suffered badly from poor harvests of late. “I’ve little without my French properties—”

  She waved the truth away with a sharp gesture. “You will soon regain it all. We have no husband or wife to say us nay. You’ve a cock that wants to crow and I wake at dawn. What holds you back?”

  Durand rose quickly. “Is there not a merchant cock you already possess?”

  “Merchant?” she knitted her brows. “Who wants a merchant when a lord is about?”

  “Indeed.” He pushed past her.

  * * * * *

  Penne rolled from bed. He hid the stone bottle Luke had given him. It would not do for servants to ask about it.

  “Penne?” Oriel murmured. “Where are you?”

  She rubbed her hand across the bedding, and he imagined her hand on him. In a trice he was in her embrace.

  He kissed her breathless. She sat up and pushed him away. “Come, sir, I’m exhausted. Whatever was in the potion Luke obtained for you has made you more randy than Cook’s goat.” But she planted a kiss on his nose.

  “Do you feel different after you drink your love potion?” he asked.

  Oriel shook her hair from her shoulders. She took his hand and placed it on her belly. “Nay. You know, Mistress le Gros said I would do better to depend upon one sweet moment—”

  “How would you know one sweet moment from another?” he asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Are not all our moments sweet?” He pulled his hand away and rose. “If what we do does not please you—”

  Oriel leapt from the bed. She caught hold of the tunic he was about to pull over his head. “Nay, my love. I did not mean it that way!”

  “What way did you mean it? You said, you’d do better to depend upon one sweet moment. If they’re not all sweet then say so.”

  Her lip trembled. Tears flooded her eyes.

  “Oh, my love,” he pulled her into his arms. “Forgive me. I’m not thinking on my words.”

  “Nor I on mine,” she whispered at his ear. “Every moment we have is sweet. Pray, forget what I said. Come back to bed.”

  He kissed her forehead, but made an excuse and dressed rather than return to bed, and she knew he would not forget.

  * * * * *

  Durand lasted only one day before entering the castle garden. At first glance, it appeared as overgrown as always. But if one looked, one could see that certain plants stood clear of weeds, the earth loose about their bases, some trimmed or pruned.

  As he tried to appear to be just wandering, he noted those beds tended, the clove pinks, primrose—plants useful to Cristina’s business. If he inquired, he imagined he would find that Cristina commanded several of his men to do the work. If he came upon them, he’d offer his blessing to their tasks.

  He heard her before he saw her. She sang some tuneless air to the babe, he supposed. Ducking under a vine-tangled tree branch, he came to a patch of soft, scythed grass. The overhanging branches cast everything in a watery green. Cristina knelt by a flower bed, digging with a pointed stick.

  She did not look up. “Ah, you’ve finally arrived, Alice. I began to despair of you. Look, this lavender can be saved. ‘Tis as I thought. Bring the babe, my breasts ache she sleeps so long!”

  Durand grinned. He crouched down over the basket holding Felice and, with great awkwardness, lifted the sleeping child. Holding the babe as if she would bite—not sure she would not—he walked across to where Cristina knelt. She was jerking open her laces. Hastily, as the child squirmed and began to bubble with noise, and before Cristina bared herself too far, he held out the child and spoke. “Mistress le Gros.”

  “My lord!” Cristina scrambled to her feet, pulling her gown together at the throat. “I-I thought you were Alice.”

  He grinned. “The babe is heavier than I expected,” he said as she took the child from him.

  Cristina returned his smile. “She is, in fact, rather small, my lord.” The child rooted at her breast, and Cristina turned slightly away from him and sank to the grass.

  He walked to the lavender bed and went down on one knee to inspect it. “Hmm. I expected a babe would weigh about as much as a rather fat capon.”

  Her answering laughter
delighted him.

  “A capon, my lord? A fat pup, mayhap.”

  The child quieted and he assumed she fed, though he resisted the urge to see for himself.

  “Did you come to inspect my work, my lord?”

  “Inspect? Nay, I came to see if there was aught salvageable.”

  “Oh, ‘tis a great deal of worth, my lord. ‘Tis overgrown to be sure, but see—there before you is lavender, thyme, sage.”

  “Enough.” He held up his hand and turned to where she sat on the grass, the child discreetly at her breast. “I am pleased with your progress.” This time she drew the edges of her gown about the child. This time the small patch of creamy skin did not arouse the hammering lust he had felt the night before by the stable; this time he felt a different ache.

  “I never held my sons,” he said.

  “Never?”

  He sat at her side on the grass. “Nay. I was at Richard’s side when they were born. I first saw Adrian when he was,” he bent his head back and considered the blue sky overhead, “about three years. Robert, younger. About a year old or so. It is something I regret, not knowing my sons as I should.”

  “You were at the king’s command.”

  “Aye, I have served both Richard and John as a justice and have traveled much.”

  “It must be a great honor to do so.”

  “There are costs to all honors.” He watched her discreetly move the child from one breast to the other. “I must make a match for her.”

  “Already?” Cristina tucked her gown about the child.

  Durand sensed alarm in her voice. “‘Tis necessary. She’ll draw high, for the king needs to curry the favor of his barons now and may not feel so a year from now—or two years. And I must look to what may soon be lost.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Durand rose and went to one of the paths. He scooped up a handful of white stone. Dropping back at her side, he scattered a few of the smaller stones in the grass. “These represent my holdings here in England. Save for Ravenswood, they are small, scattered.”

  “Scattered?” She touched one stone after the other as they lay near her.

  “From the time of William, kings have scattered lands that no one baron may become too powerful in one place.” He tossed the larger stones in his hand with a quick flick of his wrist a few feet away. “There are my holdings in Normandy, from my marriage.”

  “They’re in King Philip’s hands, are they not? Is this why there will be war?”

  “Aye and nay. I owe fealty to Philip for my properties in Normandy and to John for those here, but ‘tis tradition that I fight at the side of the king who holds the majority of my honors.”

  She looked from one scattering of stones to the other. “Then ‘tis Philip for whom you fight? How can this be?”

  “I’m one of John justices. Therein lies the problem. I’m here, he expects my loyalty, and I have in the past fought at Richard’s side, on crusade. I’ve never fought with Philip, but always paid him due homage for that which came to me through Marion.” He rose and paced the swath of grass. “I’m caught in a coil. If John fails, my sons lose all you see here.” With his toe, he nudged the larger set of stones. “If John wins, I’ll have it all, of course.”

  “You worry for your sons. They’ll suffer if you lose their mother’s properties. It must be as if you are pulled by each arm, in two directions.”

  He sank to her side on the grass. “You understand.” Marion had not understood the problems in serving two masters. She only wanted the earl’s belt denied him when Richard died. “Penne wants a swift fight to take back what is ours, but if we war on Philip, we deny the homage we owe him.”

  “And how does your brother feel?”

  “Luke believes I should counsel the king to a peaceful settlement—offer myself, if need be, to go to Philip and try to negotiate a peace if the great William Marshall should fail.”

  “Did not one of King John’s envoys have his eyes put out?”

  “Nay, you are thinking of Philip’s treatment of prisoners during his war against Richard.”

  “How can men be so cruel?”

  Her own dark eyes watched him. Should he tell her Richard acted in kind, putting out the eyes of his prisoners when Philip began the practice? Or how John’s counselors had urged him to blind his rival for the throne and castrate him so no heir could threaten in the future? “Life is cruel.”

  She shook her head and held the child closer. “I suppose I cannot understand. One can only be in one room at a time.”

  “One may collect rents from many properties at a time. I have many mouths to feed.”

  The sky overhead was azure blue. Soft was the warm breeze on his skin. How easy it was to sit here in this peaceful place with her and forget the world beyond. But John’s packhorses and carts had arrived and with them all peace must end. Even deep in the garden, he could hear a commotion in the bailey, the cries of men at their work unloading King John’s household goods.

  “In truth, I’m a justice here, and it is John that I’ll serve, hoping he will act boldly, as he did when he rescued Queen Eleanor. Then mayhap all will be well.” He took a deep breath. “But John has no trust, and I’m vulnerable to persuasion from both kings.”

  She gently laid the child in her lap and closed her gown. This time he did not avert his gaze. “How are you vulnerable? I don’t understand. If you’ve decided, why are you still at risk?”

  “Kings take hostages. My sons are at de Warre’s castle under John’s control, my mother in Paris under Philip’s.”

  “So King Philip could use your mother to bring you to his side against John.” She idly twisted the ends of the lacing of her gown as she contemplated the stones. When she looked up, her soft expression was gone. “You must protect your children and your mother. It is a coil, but you will know what to do and you will do it.”

  There was no hint of doubt in her words. How young she was, how unspoiled.

  She was so close, but inches away. He reached out and put his fingers under her chin. She did not resist the pull of his hand nor move when he bent his head to hers. Her lips were warm, soft, yielding. He brushed his lips across hers, once, twice, three times, tasting her.

  She sought his kiss, turned as he grazed his lips across hers, following, her breath warm against his skin. A low sound, almost a moan, escaped her throat. He caressed her cheek, so smooth beneath his fingertips, stroked down to the rapid flutter of her pulse. Her hand came up to cover his. He took it, turned it, bent his head and kissed her palm.

  “Cristina!” a voice called.

  He pulled away, saw the dazed look upon her face, was recalled to where they were.

  “Alice has arrived.” He stated the obvious. He would not be ashamed of the kiss, nor hide his presence. Cristina ducked her head.

  She looked up, a look not of shame but of confusion on her face. “My lord?” Her voice trembled slightly.

  Alice burst through the rough foliage. “Ah, Cristina, milord.” She dropped into a hasty curtsy. “‘Tis a glorious smell, is it not?” She swept a hand out to the lavender bed. “‘As she not made a good job ‘o it, milord?”

  “Excellent. I’ll expect to reap the benefits of all Mistress le Gros has done here.”

  Cristina’s head jerked up. Her ale-dark eyes impaled him with questions. She stood up. “His lordship has never held a babe, Alice.” She placed Felice in his arms.

  The child was tiny, warm, a gleam of milk on her lips. She squirmed a bit. “She’s wet!” He thrust her back at Cristina.

  But she merely turned away to adjust her gown. “Babes are frequently wet. Another experience you’ve missed, my lord.”

  “I greatly value this tunic,” he said.

  Alice grinned a gap-toothed smile and took the child. “I shall see to her, milord.”

  As Alice began to unwrap the babe’s swaddling, he turned. Cristina turned at the same time. They walked side by side along the weedy path. “Luke wants a final
festivity before we leave with the king and is making up a hunting party to Turnbull Hill. You’ll join the party.” He made it an order.

  “As you wish, my lord.” They stopped at the gates. There was a frown on her face. “At your manors in Normandy, a kiss is considered adultery. I’m under no illusions of my status here. Please don’t interpret my indulgence—”

  “You were indulging me?”

  “Nay…that is, please, my lord, do not interpret my lapse to be more than that. I’ll not be made a mistress.”

  He leaned on the garden wall to feign a relaxed attitude he did not feel. Every muscle in his body ached to take her into his arms. He sensed she was at sea how to respond—much as he was. If she needed to retreat, so be it. “Who says I wish you for a mistress?”

  Her eyes widened, her cheeks flooding with color. He held his breath. She was magnificent when angry. He saw her only in the best of moods. This fiery manner beguiled him. The heave of her breast enticed him.

  A sudden clatter of men and horses told him too many walked about the bailey, just inches away behind the closed garden gate, for such intimate discussion. She whirled away, her shoes smacking down against the stones, her skirts twitching from side to side. Only a few steps away, she stopped. In moments she was before him again.

  “I don’t know what it is you want, my lord, but I thought you sought the hand of Lady Sabina, so there can be no other reason for your attentions to me save to make me your mistress.”

  “Lady Sabina?” He frowned. “I—”

  “I know one thing of you, one thing every man and woman of Ravenswood would swear to: you are a man of honor. And I trust you will deal so with both the good lady and me.”

  She chastised him! Then her words cut him.

  A man of honor.

  Where had his honor gone?

  “I had no intention of dishonoring you or myself,” he said softly.

  “Then let us forget this moment, my lord.” She made a deep obeisance and walked away.

  “I want you, Mistress le Gros,” he said softly when she had disappeared from view into the depths of the garden. He lifted his face to the sun and watched a pair of the castle ravens course the sky. “But I forgot for a moment you belong to another. And that I have sons to see settled in this world.”