Lord of the Mist

by Ann Lawrence

  “What men?” Cristina asked, but knew the answer.

  “Durand, Penne, and Luke. They came to rescue the boys and you, of course,” Oriel finished in a rush.

  Nona took Cristina’s arm. “The king does not intend to exchange the boys. You, too, are now hostage to his whims.”

  Cristina bowed her head. “I am a fool. What must Durand think of me?”

  “Oh, I imagine he will rail a bit, but in truth he loves you too much for one of his truly splendid tirades.” Oriel gave her a quick hug. “Now we must find the postern gate and let them in.”

  “Impossible,” Cristina said, “the king and his men are due here on the morrow. You cannot expect to use the gate.”

  “On the morrow? What should we do?” Nona asked Oriel.

  But ‘twas Cristina who answered. “You will do nothing. Seek your beds and leave at dawn. When the king arrives I’ll demand he keep to the bargain we struck.”

  Nona shook her head. “Now that is folly! We must find another way, Cristina. Durand’s sons depend upon us all.”

  “Let me think on it.” Cristina walked about the garden and pondered her fate and that of Durand’s sons. She knelt and plucked a few leaves of mint and nibbled their edges. The scent cleared her head. “I have it, ladies.” She smiled. “‘Tis like this mint.”

  Oriel and Nona looked blankly at her.

  Cristina explained. “This mint appears harmless, but if left unchecked will take over a garden. ‘Tis the appearance of harmlessness we need. And who appears harmless? Why women, of course.”

  Nona cocked her head. “Explain, please.”

  “Here is my plan. I know ‘twill work,” Cristina continued, pacing before her friends. “On the morrow, at dusk, de Warre has planned a mock battle to entertain King John. Surely there will be great confusion and men dashing all about. Even if ‘tis orderly, the king’s attentions will be on the battle. Could not a few extra soldiers join in? A few extra soldiers who have gained entrance as harmless women? And I know a way to obtain suitable garb for our men.”

  Nona clapped her hands, then slapped them over her mouth in regret of the noise she made.

  “I’ll send a serving girl to you with all the men will need. But please go early in the morn and remain hidden. If the king sees you he’ll know something is amiss,” Cristina warned.

  Nona took her hands. “We’ll do as you say, but keep safe, Cristina. Durand loves you very much and is as much out on that hill for you as for his sons.”

  “You will wed him knowing…” Cristina could not finish.

  “I will wed but one de Marle. And he is not Durand.”

  With that Oriel hooked Nona’s arm and hurried her into the shadows. Cristina stared after them. Nona loved Luke? She did not want Durand? Joy filled her, then slipped away. If their plans failed, the king would have his way.

  * * * * *

  Durand waited impatiently for the women to return as dawn broke over de Warre’s castle. The day was gray and looked as like to rain as not. When the women emerged from the castle gates, he felt a moment of elation. Soon he would have those most precious to him in his arms.

  But the news Nona and Oriel brought sent him into momentary despair. They would not be able to use the postern gate. A king’s arrival always heightened defenses.

  “Don’t look so long-faced,” Nona said, tugging open the straps on her saddle bags and pulling out a tied bundle. “Oriel and I have brought you the means of entering de Warre’s castle without suspicion.”

  Durand laughed when he saw what she held.

  * * * * *

  An hour later, Nona stared at the men with a finger on her chin. “You make most unattractive women—save Luke, and he looks like a tart, not one of the king’s laundresses.”

  Durand checked their weapons, concealed in what he hoped would be mistaken for the common baggage of women. He gathered his heavy skirts into his arms that he might mount Nona’s palfrey. “I do wish whoever wore this last had bathed more often.”

  Oriel tugged Penne’s headcovering lower on his forehead then skimmed the back of her fingers on his cheek. “You are all quite nicely smooth-cheeked now, but you, Durand, will not look so in a few hours.” Penne kissed her fingertips and climbed clumsily into the saddle.

  Luke hesitated a moment before mounting his mare, his eyes on his brother.

  Durand spoke first. How clear all seemed to him now after a night of vigil over de Warre’s fortress. The walls of doubt within him were of his own making.

  “I do trust you, Luke. And you, Penne. I must beg your forgiveness for doubting you. ‘Tis my nature and not easily controlled. But henceforth I vow to try. Now.” He nodded in Nona’s direction. “Kiss her quickly and let us be gone.”

  Luke held out his arms. Nona glanced at Durand, then turned to Luke. She stepped into his embrace, and Durand knew she had been there before. Her unkempt look the other morn now needed no explanation. He sighed. There was much he did not know…or had ignored.

  * * * * *

  The women were condemned to await the outcome from the hollow. They were not capable of controlling Durand’s or Penne’s warhorses, so escape by horseback was impossible should they be discovered. Luke had brought his favorite mare instead of a destrier, and so with that mount, and the women’s palfreys, the men had made their way to the castle gates.

  Durand had a terrible moment as the guards inspected them, but found easy entrance when they said they were the king’s laundresses come to see to his linens ere he arrived.

  Laundresses were not blessed with the attention as were servants. The men were left to their own devices, which allowed them to carry their baggage themselves and thus conceal their weapons and mail within a convenient distance of de Warre’s lakeside battle.

  Men and women servants ran to and fro in preparation for the king’s arrival. On the shore of de Warre’s lake, small fishing boats were lined up and painted to look like the galleys of war.

  As directed by Nona, the men, heads down, hastened to a place a warrior would not likely go—the kitchens.

  Cristina sat in the corner, stirring something in a bubbling pot. Durand walked to her side and leaned over to sniff the mixture. “It smells like a summer garden,” he said in a whisper.

  “‘Tis a soothing cream for the chapped hands of de Warre’s laundresses,” she said with no sign she knew who he was, but her hand began to shake. “I’m making it in exchange for your garb.”

  “Take us somewhere private.”

  With a nod Cristina directed a small girl to stir the lotion. “Pour it out when ‘tis cooled.” She pointed to a row of clay pots.

  Cristina led them from the kitchens to a ramshackle building behind an abandoned dovecote. She dug in a pile of old straw and drew out a sack. Within was a mix of mantles and tunics in both John’s and Philip’s colors. “You will need mail, helms, swords—”

  Durand snatched her into his arms. She answered his kiss with the intense passion and love of her heart. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I so feared you would despise me,” she whispered lest Penne and Luke, who hovered in the shadows, hear her.

  Durand squeezed her tightly and kissed her brow. “Why did you do it?” His words were gentle, not angry.

  She stared up into his silvery gray eyes and touched the hard, cold torque beneath his women’s garb. “I could not have you—”

  She did not finish. He stopped her words with his lips.

  Luke hissed like a cat with a mouse, breaking their embrace in an instant. Her heart pounded.

  “You need not worry about our weaponry,” Durand said, his voice suddenly rough. “Our horses were heavily laden with baggage, as ‘tis fitting for vain women. We have what we need.”

  The men stripped their gowns and, as Cristina kept watch by the entrance, donned the garb of John’s soldiers.

  When they were ready, she held out a mantle to Durand and helped him pin it closed.

  “If you are able,” he said, “tell my sons I�
�m coming.”

  “They have guards,” she said. “But I’ll try.”

  He touched her cheek. “Where will I find you?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said lightly. “I’ll keep my eyes on your sons, and when you effect their rescue, I’ll follow.”

  “I’ll not leave it to providence.” He wrapped his arms about her.

  “You will,” she insisted, squeezing his waist. “I may not be able to leave the king’s side. You must take your sons when you have the chance and go!”

  “I’ll not leave without you.”

  Each touch of his lips chipped away at her resolve. But he must leave when the chance arose. “What is this?” She turned his attentions, placing her hand over something lumpy he had concealed beneath his clothing just above his heavy leather belt.

  He covered her fingers with his. “The Aelfric. It might serve as a bribe, and after all the trouble it has caused, I’ll not let it out of my sight.”

  “We must go,” Luke insisted, pushing past them to peer from the entrance.

  Durand kissed her. Quickly. Hard. “I love you.”

  “And I you.” She held him close, sure it would be the last time.

  “Durand, now!” Penne urged.

  Durand cupped her face. “If you don’t break away from here by this time on the morrow, I will be back for you!”

  * * * * *

  There was no mistaking the fanfare of an arriving king. The midday meal had ended an hour before, and Cristina wished she had indulged in the roast boar and savory cheeses. Her stomach ached with emptiness and fear. Would the king come directly to his chamber or give de Warre an audience?

  She slipped into the king’s tub. If need be, she would sit there all day until he came to his chamber. It must appear she had used this selfsame water. She shivered in the cold water as she could not afford to waste the hot water buckets steaming by the hearth.

  Her heart thundered in her chest. “I will bear it,” she said to herself. “I will.” But her knees were weak.

  Boots and men’s voices could be heard on the steps, John’s among them. Cristina called out to the serving girl, who mended a deliberately torn shift in the other room. “Maud, come help me add more hot water to this tub; the king comes.”

  Maud ran into the room. “I’ll do it, miss,” she said. In moments the tub was steaming. Durand must never know her plan. If he did, he would surely have one of his splendid tirades.

  Her body trembling, she shook her wet hair to lie in a tumble about her shoulders, then stirred the seductive paste of herbs and oils into the hot water. “The king will greatly enjoy this scent,” she said to the maid.

  “Aye, miss,” Maud said just as the king opened the door.

  He froze in the doorway. Cristina dropped into as respectful a curtsy as she could and still remain fully covered by the length of linen the maid discreetly held before her.

  “Be gone!” he ordered Maud and his own manservant, who stood behind him.

  Cristina trembled. Her wet hair and the drops of water on her shoulders would point to her having just bathed. “Sire!” She feigned a blushing-maiden stance. “Forgive me. I was just indulging in a bath.”

  “Please, Cristina.” The king bowed as if to his queen. “Our bath is your bath.” He walked toward her. Only the tub and a drying cloth stood between her and dishonor. His heated gaze raked her scantily covered breasts and hips.

  “The water is still hot, sire,” she said, frightened by the tremor in her voice.

  He drew his fingers through the scented water. “‘Tis as the women say: you are mistress of all that grows.”

  “‘Tis naught but simple lavender and oil of bay.” With a sweep of her hand, she indicated a beautiful silver bowl on a nearby table. Other, more important ingredients had no odor.

  “Come.” He beckoned her near. Her relief that he only expected her aid in disrobing almost buckled her knees. She acted the maid while fighting to keep her wrap of linen in a decorous position. When he settled with a sigh into the warm, seductive water, she crossed her fingers and prayed the king would not blame the bath for the rash he would surely have in several hours. She prayed he would see her unblemished skin and exonerate her for what he was soon to experience.

  Set near to hand was also a salve for use as a last resort should the bath oil fail. The salve would raise a nasty, blistered surface wherever rubbed. She intended to slather it between her thighs if necessary to keep the king at bay.

  As John reclined with his eyes closed, she took the opportunity to pull on a shift.

  “Come tend me, Cristina,” he said, rousing himself from a near doze. She did as any good wife would—scrubbed his back and washed his hair. The instant she was finished she surreptitiously washed her hands in clean water and rubbed them with an ointment of betony and comfrey.

  When he rose from the tub and donned a fur-lined bed robe, she stifled the unkind thought that if kings wished to remain imposing beings, they should never allow their enemies to see them at their bath.

  John invited her to a seat by the fire. There, on the table, she had set out a sampling of delicate temptations. John poured them each a goblet of wine. Before she could raise it to her lips, he began to scratch. By the time he had finished his honey cakes, he was raking his skin with vigor.

  It was far too early!

  “Sire, is something wrong?” she asked.

  He scratched at his neck. “This damnable robe. It must be jumping with fleas.” With a stronger oath, he flung it off.

  Cristina averted her gaze from the rash o’er spreading his entire body.

  “I have a salve that is particularly effective against fleas,” she offered.

  “Fetch it,” he said from within a long linen shirt he pulled over his head.

  When she returned with an innocuous salve, his manservant was in attendance. The man plucked the salve from her hands and hissed a warning that she get out. The royal lust was not so strong as the royal rash.

  Cristina fled to the antechamber and donned a soft ivory underdress and russet gown embroidered with scarlet and gold thread. It was far finer than any she had heretofore worn, and a gift from the king. She quickly plaited her hair, then darted from the chamber lest the king change his mind and call for her.

  She hid among the laundresses. They were in a twitter that the king variously blamed his rash on their work or a dirty mattress.

  At dusk, Cristina crept from the washing shed to a scene of confusion. Within the small bailey, men formed up into two armies, some garbed as John’s soldiers, some as Philip’s. She scanned each face for Durand’s, but saw no one she knew.

  The weather had deteriorated. The sky was as dark a gray as Durand’s eyes. A light rain tapered to a drizzle that wreathed the battlements of de Warre’s castle in a soft haze.

  When de Warre found her, he gripped by the arm. “Get to the royal pavilion and soothe his temper, else you’ll find herself on your back serving my men instead of the king.”

  She jerked from his grasp and walked the long distance to the shore of the lake. Torches lined the pebble beach. The boats, anchored on a small island at the center of the lake, were no longer visible, as the haze enveloped the water.

  Those who would act the English were out there, Durand among them, playing John’s army, ready to embark. Their landing site was a clearly marked patch of land set out with flags before the king’s pavilion. Within the designated area, men garbed in Philip’s colors waited. Dotted about the field so men could seek some form of shelter during the melee were wooden structures painted like castles. Cristina also surmised they represented territory to be taken back from Philip.

  She took a place behind the king. The spectators were all men of the king’s party or de Warre’s. Several she recognized from Ravenswood. They gave her curious glances. Several acknowledged her with a bow.

  Cristina watched the king. He scratched incessantly at his neck and hands. Angry red marks stood out against his skin.
He snapped at all who spoke to him. Surely a man of such canniness must soon suspect the bath?

  Then she froze. Making her way to the king’s pavilion was Lady Sabina.

  What was Sabina doing here? Truly, Cristina thought, the woman was a festering thorn in her side.

  Cristina turned slightly away. She did not need the lady’s notice. It had never occurred to Cristina that the king had brought more than just his men. Sabina climbed the two steps of the pavilion as if she were John’s queen, then sat by his side.

  Drums sounded. All turned toward the lake. Decorated to look like the galleys of war, the boats coalesced, one by one, from the wall of fog. Torches flamed at the bows, their smoke rising to wreath the masts.

  The soldiers bore only weapons of wood to denote the nature of the melee to come. It was entertainment, not death, the royal guest would watch.

  And he would want something sweet after…

  Her heartbeat rose in time to the ever-escalating thud of the drums.

  De Warre climbed up on a high platform to laud his king and offer an introduction to the festivities. With a sudden insight that turned her stomach, she realized de Warre stood on a platform whose use could only be for hanging.

  As he spoke, the wind rose and flapped his empty sleeve. The heavy fog in the near dark and the emerging boats, crowded with men, stole her breath. It was like watching a real invasion.

  She looked about for Durand’s sons and saw them standing off to one side with other fostered boys. Their two brutish companions flanked them.

  The boats seemed to come from a mystical place as they each slid ever closer. They touched the shore.

  The English representatives leaped from their boats with all speed and clashed with the waiting “French”.

  Recognizing Durand, Penne, and Luke would be impossible. Instead, she locked her gaze on the dark and light heads of his sons that she might see the very moment Durand took them.

  It might be the last time she ever saw him.

  She clasped her hands tightly to still their trembling.

  The battle was all too real in appearance. Blood flowed as enthusiastic men plied their mock weapons. Several men fell and were summarily trampled.