by Ann Lawrence
Chapter Eight
Cristina rode in a cart decorated with greens to Turnbull Hill at the edge of the forest. Luke had organized a motley crew of men, women, and children. She saw both fine ladies and kitchen servants. Despite the threat of war, the party was festive.
Bishop Dominic and his men did not linger for the hunt. They sampled the sweetmeats and wines set out by servants, then mounted their horses and set off for home.
Children ran about the pavilions raised to shelter the ladies. Cristina wandered, amusing the children with plaited crowns of daisies. She found herself unable to tolerate the gossip that their capricious king had already bored of his young wife and taken—and discarded—several lovers. Her mind shied from talk of men and mistresses.
She had little to do once Felice was fed, as the female children were captivated by the babe and had taken on the care of her, pretending they were little mothers.
Amid the pastoral scene, disquiet filled Cristina. She had not slept the night before. Did her unease stem from the knowledge she had several lotions and dishes of scent to prepare yet sat here in idleness?
Nay, she must not pretend. He caused her disquiet, her sleepless night. She stroked her lips for mayhap the thousandth time—touched where his mouth had touched hers. She closed her eyes and could see his head bent over her hand, see the many fine colors in his hair, from almost black to deepest red. Worst, she felt the shiver of desire over and over as it coursed from his fingertips and warm mouth to her heart.
Her heart. It ached to know the man beneath the warrior lord. Impossible. Impossible.
Simon would set her aside if he knew how she had strayed; in truth, he might beat her for such errant thoughts of Lord Durand.
Yet she would never forget the moment or the taste of a kiss other than Simon’s.
A lick of desire moved from her breast to her groin.
She must gather morning dew, make new candles…double the strength of the resistance potion.
Her fate lay with Simon.
She looked over at the hunting men, seeking only one man, but her eyes rested on another. Her husband rode along the perimeter of those who raised their birds, the deep blue of his surcoat a dot of bright color against the green of the hills.
Alice had told her with a sly glance of his presence at the Raven’s Head each night. She must force herself to care.
Was her attraction to Lord Durand mere loneliness? Merely that of a woman who knew little of the passions of the body—or heart?
There must be no more kisses stolen in a garden. Surely for that alone God might punish her?
And surely next time she would grant Lord Durand everything he wished. Everything.
Simon rode close and dismounted. He sat at her side, full of the hunt, his face sunburned, his dark hair wind blown. He had never looked more handsome.
“Simon, I have a request.” She knotted her fingers tightly together.
“What is it?” He smiled warmly.
“I want to come home. Mayhap you could speak to Lord Durand. It is not uncommon for a nurse to take a child into her home—”
The smile froze on his lips. “Hush!” he said harshly. “What ails you? You are not coming home, do you hear me? You will do your duty there, at the castle. The king will be here in but a few days, and he will bring Queen Isabelle and her many, many ladies. You must be at hand to please them. Lady Oriel will recommend you, and what use will you be if you are in the village?”
“I see how it is. You want to attach yourself to the court.”
His handsome face fell into a harsh frown. He plucked up a nosegay she was working on. “And what is wrong with bettering ourselves? Ravenswood is a fine place, but there are better. If Normandy is lost to the king, de Marle will have little save this one manor. He will be hard pressed to feed his knights, let alone purchase soap for women!”
He leaned forward. She smelled the rich scent of Lord Durand’s wine on his breath. “Do you wish to spend your life making dainties for spoiled women? Well, I do not wish to spend mine selling fine saddles when I could be riding on them!”
“You promised we would settle. A king’s court is not settled.” She recoiled from his anger.
“I promised if you gave me a son.”
His words silenced her. He rose and threw down the nosegay. With an agile leap, he gained his saddle and cantered back to the hunting party.
She could not condemn him. He wanted what other men had—a son, a fertile wife.
* * * * *
Penne nudged his mount closer to Durand’s and lifted a dark brow. “I see Simon speaking with his wife. They appear to be in some disagreement.”
Durand glanced toward the pavilions and scattered parties on the grass. He had no need to search about for Cristina le Gros. Without any intention to do so, he had kept track of her since first they had arrived on the hill. He saw Simon mount up and canter away from his wife. Her dark head was bowed.
“Gossip says he sees far too much of the innkeeper’s daughter.”
“Agnes?” Durand asked with a frown.
“Aye. Think you Oriel should drop a hint to Cristina? Joseph says Agnes has the pox.” Penne let his horse wander beside Durand’s. They watched a hawk rise and strike with majestic accuracy.
Durand shook his head. “Nay. I will tend to it.” He thought of how many of his men frequented the Raven’s Head. “Yet another matter for my attention. I cannot have my men soaking their cocks when I need them in the saddle.”
Unable to find any pleasure in the hawking, he hooded his bird and handed her off to his squire along with the heavy glove he wore to protect his hand from the wickedly sharp talons.
Penne did the same. “I suppose you have no need of Agnes with Sabina about,” Penne said.
“Sabina?” Durand jerked his reins and turned his horse away from the hawking party lest they hear Penne’s words. He saw Cristina tuck a wreath of daisies about a child’s head.
“Come. Sabina is after a new husband, is she not? She must be easy prey. Surely, you’ll be trying her?” Penne wagged his eyebrows.
“Not even with your cock,” Durand said with a smile. He allowed his mare to crop the sweet grasses. Children hovered about Cristina like bees about a hive.
“Why not?” Penne asked. “Sabina is lovely. As long as she thinks you might wed her, she’s ripe for the plucking.”
Cristina suddenly rose and began to run in his direction. She pointed off to the forest.
He caught the acrid scent of burning. Where Cristina pointed a thin thread of black smoke rose over the treetops. Trust her canny nose to scent the danger ere any other.
“Penne, the road. Gather the men,” he called, then wheeled his mare and kicked her into a gallop.
* * * * *
Few women paid any heed to the change in the men’s direction or their sudden disappearance into the forest. They continued to stitch in the sunlight or the shade of the pavilions, nibble at sweetmeats, and tease each other with gossip.
But when a lone rider, Lord Penne, whipping his horse to a lather, raced from the grove of trees, they all rose as one. Lady Oriel rushed forward, but he passed her by and skidded to a halt before Cristina.
“Come.” Lord Penne held out a hand. She did not hesitate, but put her hand in his and was swept onto the horse.
A wide path wound through the trees, and Cristina remembered following it when first she and Simon had come from Winchester to Ravenswood. “Bishop Dominic’s party has been attacked by brigands,” Lord Penne said over his shoulder. There was time for little more. The acrid smell thickened, filling Cristina’s throat as they rounded a small curve in the road.
Carnage met her eyes. A wagon’s contents burned, the source of the pungent scent and smoke. Several men were sprawled, bloody on the ground. Horses, likewise slain, lay in their blood beside their masters.
Lord Durand pulled her from Penne’s horse. “Come, you are the closest we have to a healer.” He stepped in front of her.
“I am sorry you must be subjected to this. Try not to look—”
“Please, my lord, if there is one living who needs aid, we waste time.”
He nodded, but kept his arm firmly about her so she had but a limited view of the dead. She tried to force her face to the calmness her words implied, but her heart pounded and her stomach heaved as they hastened past a disemboweled horse.
“Here. The bishop.” Durand knelt at the side of the corpulent man who so recently had dined at the high table with the other barons. Beneath Lord Durand’s mantle, the bishop’s bare feet pointed vulnerably to the heavens. The man could have been either a bishop or a thief. He was naked.
Cristina touched the bishop’s throat. His pulse beat but weakly beneath her fingertips; blood smeared his pale skin and face. Quickly she examined him.
“My lord, this blood is not his. He may have been felled with a blow to the head, but he has no pressing wounds to treat.” She raised her gaze to Lord Durand’s anxious one. “I can do nothing. He’s in God’s hands.”
Durand nodded, then called to his brother, who organized several servants to put out the burning cart. “Luke, fetch transport to the castle for the bishop and the two others who still live.”
He took her arm again and led her to two other men who lay side by side, one garbed in a plain wool cassock, the other in a guard’s mail.
She knew the cart would be carrying two, not three. “I’m sorry, my lord; this one man is dead,” she indicated the man in the cassock, “but this other one may yet survive.”
“He’s but a boy,” Durand said, reaching out to touch the youth’s cheek. “Word has spread of John’s arrival. It attracts birds of prey.” He rose and put out a hand to her. As he did, a wild cry tore the air.
A scream in her throat, Cristina froze. Dozens of men burst from the forest, swords and axes raised, hacking without order at the hunting party.
Lord Durand drew his sword. He leapt across the bishop. Cristina gagged as, with a quick thrust, Durand pierced a brigand’s throat.
He turned, still between her and the slashing men. She huddled between the living and the dead, unable to move, Lord Durand’s boots but inches from her hands, his sword slicing the air before her.
Metal clashed with metal. She could not raise her eyes from the confusion of feet trampling the ground about her.
One brigand wore spurs enameled with blue. They left a terrible wound on a dead man’s hand as he heedlessly trampled across the man to escape Durand’s relentless sword.
Where was Simon? She searched for him, but saw him not.
Then Cristina could watch only Durand. He moved with economy of motion, each thrust of his sword, each slash, drawing blood. It sprayed across Cristina’s lap, her hands, her face.
With a wild yell, the brigands turned, their numbers greatly diminished, and fled.
“After them; they head for our party,” Durand shouted, turning to where she knelt. He grabbed her arm, and in a moment, she was astride his horse, her arms about his waist. She felt the heat of his body, the tension through his back, as he kicked his horse to a gallop.
She hung on for her very life, her body jarred with every hoofbeat. The horse leaped a deadfall and plunged into the sunlit pleasure ground. The brigands milled about the edge of the field. The women screamed and ran in clumps to one pavilion, the servants taking a stand before them, too few to save them should the brigands descend.
At the sight of Durand and his men, the brigands swerved their horses, taking to the woods again. Durand did not charge the brigands, as she expected. He headed for the pavilion instead, then reached back, his fingers an iron grip on her arm. She was jarred from foot to head as he dropped her to the ground.
“Remain here,” he ordered.
Every bone in her body sang with tension. Her heart raced with him across the fields. His men formed up behind him. Within an instant, they had plunged back into the woods.
She never turned from where they had disappeared. Would he be wounded? Killed?
More than half an hour passed. An occasional shout or a blood-chilling cry was heard. The women stood mute, children hidden in their skirts. Lady Sabina paced beside Lady Oriel, their arms entwined, granting each other strength. Lady Oriel paled and trembled with every moment that passed.
Cristina almost cried aloud when a figure appeared in the shadows of the forest. Lord Penne. He moved slowly, but lifted his hand, and even from the distance a grin could be seen on his face. Lady Oriel raised her skirts and flew toward him.
As Cristina watched—and envied—Lord Penne slid from his horse and caught her up in his arms.
The rest of Lord Durand’s party came more quickly, passing the embracing couple. Lord Durand appeared, Simon at his side. They rode straight toward her. Her husband. Her lord.
Traitorous heart, she thought. You spared little thought for Simon, thought only of him. She forced her eyes to her husband, locking her gaze there as befitted a wife.
“You are well?” she asked Simon.
He nodded. “Aye. We have lost not a single man, but I have never seen such evil done.”
“Mistress?” Lord Durand interrupted Simon. “My men will bring the bishop and his guard. Will you see to them? This time without interruption, I most fervently hope.”
Simon answered in a rush, his face pale. “My lord, she will tend all the injured. Have you your pouch, Cristina?”
“Nay. I brought only my stitchery.”
“Stupid woman. Then you must do the best you can without.”
Lord Durand looked about to speak, but Luke called his name and he wheeled his horse and rode away.
Tension radiated from Simon. He paced before her, his horse nervously weaving behind him. “You should have seen it. Sir Luke is quick—nay, very quick—but his lordship…he was magnificent. I watched him slice a man through from shoulder to groin.”
“Simon, please,” Cristina tried to stem the flow of Simon’s account, but his blood was up.
“You must do what you can for the injured. The bishop, of course, and his guard—so young—do you hear?” He gripped her arm. “Prove yourself of some use!”
She clamped her lips over a retort.
“How could you come out without your pouch? You go nowhere without it. Now, when you could impress Lord Durand with your—”
“With my what? Flower garlands? I’m not a healer—”
“You are useless sometimes. Ofttimes! What if those men die?”
Cristina bowed her head. His tirade continued until a cart appeared. “Cease, Simon. I will tend the men as best I can.”
She accepted his hand up into the cart, where she knelt by the bishop. His face was gray, his mouth open, and his breath puffing out with a stench of sour wine. As the cart lumbered along the roadbed back to the castle, Lord Durand rode to its side.
“Mistress, you’re not injured, are you?” His scowl swept over her where she knelt. “This is not your blood, is it?”
She shook her head and wiped a trickle of sweat from the bishop’s brow. “Nay, my lord.”
“How fares the bishop?”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I fear he is worsening. I don’t think anything from my pouch—”
“Fear not, Cristina. Had I thought we were to encounter such an attack I would have brought the leech myself.”
“You don’t blame yourself, my lord?” she said. “Surely, you are not responsible for what occurred here.”
“I am responsible for all that occurs on my land.”
Lord Durand fell back. Cristina divided her attention between the bishop and his guard. There was little she could do for either. The youth—for surely he was little more than ten and five—had lost a great deal of blood, but his wounds had ceased to bleed. In truth, the bishop was more likely to die; his color was worsening and his breathing labored.
In the bailey, many came to greet their return, Aldwin among them. He said naught, but the glare he gave Cristina told her he considered her
to be once again poaching on his territory. With a few terse commands, Aldwin directed the removal of the bishop and his wounded guard.
Cristina took Felice, sought her chamber and, after washing her bloody hands and face, attempted to feed the child, who promptly refused to eat. Cristina forced herself to be patient. Her skin itched. She badly wanted to rid herself of her soiled garments. By the time the child had consented to be fed, Cristina was nodding in her chair.
Simon shook her awake. “I have come to tell you the bishop is dead. The leech believes ‘twas some neglect on your part.”
“Simon!” She shot to her feet. Her entire body quivered in reaction to the day and its horrors. “And you defended me to him, of course?”
He hesitated.
“Well, Simon, I see where your loyalties lie.” She clutched the child hard against her breast and forced herself to face her husband. “How is it you did not defend me? Surely a criticism of me is a criticism of you.”
Simon colored. “I could think of nothing to say. He—”
“Cristina?” Luke entered the chamber. “I’ll have need of more potion—” He fell silent when he saw Simon; then as if seeing her, too, for the first time, he came forward and clasped his hands on her shoulders. “What is this? Blood?”
“Aye, not mine, though.”
Simon interrupted. “She is wanted in the hall, my lord. Master Aldwin is—”
“Complaining of her,” Luke finished, and squeezed her shoulders. She shivered in his hands. “Do not fear, mistress. I shall pluck the old buzzard of his ire. He’s jealous, and the bishop’s death serves to give him a stage for his grievances.”
“I did naught that could have harmed the bishop.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Simon piped in.
“I’ve no doubt of her veracity, but still, the man must have his say.” Luke turned to the door.
Simon grabbed her arm and said in a hiss close to her ear, “How dare you allow him to touch you so? What if someone had seen you—”