Lord of the Mist

by Ann Lawrence

  The king and other men called encouragement, while bets flew between the spectators on the pavilion. Surely they must know only King John’s men would win?

  John was, himself, upon his feet. He scratched and shouted, cheering when one of his men felled one of Philip’s.

  Behind him, Cristina saw Lady Sabina talking to a man garbed in the king’s colors. There was something of the familiar in his stance and size, but his helm and mail also made him as anonymous as Durand and his friends.

  Returning her gaze to Durand’s sons, she almost cried aloud. For there was Durand—no other fought quite like him. She recognized the way he moved, the way he swept his sword across the blade of his opponent. Gold at his throat gleamed a moment in the torchlight. He engaged a swordsman of Philip’s army.

  Suddenly Adrian leaped to his feet and cried out something unintelligible.

  Had he recognized his father? Cristina’s heart raced. She rose. Durand would take his sons now—or never.

  “What is it?” the man next to her asked. His grip on her arm told her he was as much her guard as the brutes flanking Durand’s sons.

  “This mummery sickens me,” she said, subsiding to her seat.

  Adrian stood on tiptoe, his hand on Robert’s arm, pointing into the melee. The warriors before him sparred back and forth, but Durand no longer made much effort. Cristina realized Durand fought Penne who was garbed in French costume.

  Where was Luke?

  The drum pounded a mesmerizing beat. The melee shifted from one field to another. The figures moved within and without the swirls of haze.

  Another party fought close to the boys. One moment they were spectators, and in the next, the center of the conflict.

  Heart in her throat, she shot to her feet. Her guard gripped her wrist. Durand shoved his sons toward a man in English garb—Luke.

  When the boys and Luke were lost in the fog, Durand turned and rushed for the pavilion. Just as he skirted the corner, Sabina turned and looked straight at him. So did her companion. He rested his foot upon the step. It was then it burst upon Cristina. Here was one of the brigands. She recognized his spurs, enameled with blue. Her throat closed. She had seen other enameling just like it.

  On Roger Godshall’s blade.

  With a stifled gasp, she stood up. Godshall shifted his attention toward her, his eyes dark holes in the shadows of his helm.

  At that moment Sabina saw Durand. “Durand!” she cried, and pointed.

  The king turned at the name and missed the spectacular firing of the mock castles. Across the battlefield flickered clumps of flame, as if someone had fired hayricks in a farmer’s field.

  The fire painted Durand in a red-gold glow as he mounted the pavilion steps, discovered and uncowed.

  “Seize him,” Godshall ordered the king’s companions.

  Two men reached for Durand, but he lifted the tip of his sword…not the mock ones of the battle, but the fine blade given him by Gilles d’Argent.

  “Hold,” the king ordered. He looked from Durand to Godshall, then to Sabina. “You make trouble wherever you go, Sabina.”

  “Sire?” The lady placed a hand to her heart.

  But a rousing cheer in the melee turned the king’s attention. “Take him,” he ordered his guards. He swept out a hand in Durand’s direction.

  “Sire,” Cristina said. “Please, this man—” She pointed to Godshall.

  Godshall thrust himself between Cristina and the king. “Whores should know their place,” he said with a sneer.

  But John frowned and put up a staying hand. “You take too much upon you, Godshall. We would hear what Mistress le Gros has to say.”

  Cristina realized she was the favored woman of the moment and must seize it. She swayed in place, one hand at her throat. “I-I know this man.”

  “Aye. Roger Godshall. You saw him often enough at Ravenswood,” the king said.

  She wanted to go to seek the strength of Durand’s embrace, but a favorite of the king did not show affection to other men.

  “Nay, sire, I mean I know he’s one of the brigands who slew the bishop’s men.”

  “Lying whore,” Sabina spat.

  Cristina stood straighter. “Sire. This man, wearing these spurs and wielding a dagger with the same blue enamel, fought Lord Durand and others against the bishop’s party.”

  “Explain yourself,” the king demanded of Godshall.

  “She lies. As Sabina said, whores lie.” Godshall spat on the floor.

  The king’s face flushed. Godshall had gone too far.

  Durand dropped to one knee before the king. “Sire, the ax thrown to your champion was likewise enameled. I shall never forget it.” He lifted his head, but his gaze and words were for Sabina. “Can you, sire, consider that if Godshall slew the bishop’s men it could only be to obtain the Aelfric? And how could he know of it or know its value unless someone close—Sabina—told him?”

  Sabina gasped. “W-w-why would I do such a thing?”

  Durand answered her. “Your father’s holdings suffer. You were told there would be no alliance with Ravenswood.”

  Cristina suddenly realized that if Sabina was involved in the theft of the Aelfric, the king’s friendship with Sabina’s father had protected her until now. Cristina’s hopes sank.

  Durand rose and took a step closer to Sabina. “And who met privately with Simon in my chapel? ‘Twas not a lover’s tryst I witnessed, was it? ‘Twas you handing off my Aelfric. You and Simon sold it to the bishop, did you not? Where’s the last of the bishop’s rings? In Portsmouth harbor, lest it incriminate you? Or hidden somewhere to be turned to coin when all this is forgotten?”

  Sabina’s face turned as pale as her ivory skirts. Her head trembled on her neck. “What nonsense. Why risk all for a simple ring?”

  Cristina spoke into the silence following her words. “Aye, the ring was too small a reward for all you risked. Did you send Godshall to take the book back from the bishop to sell to another greedy abbey?”

  The king slashed the air with his hand, then clawed at the red marks on his neck. His voice was cold. “Sabina, your father may be an honored friend, but I can no longer protect you.”

  And Cristina realized why the king had destroyed Luke and Simon’s lists. Sabina’s name must have been on both.

  Godshall shoved Cristina aside. “Sire, you cannot listen to them! She’s a whore, and de Marle defied your orders!”

  The king shrugged, then turned to his men. “Take them. We will judge this on the morrow.”

  Sabina stumbled away from the two men who reached for her. She turned and lithely leaped from the pavilion and ran.

  Godshall made to follow, but Durand stepped in front of him.

  Then Godshall cried out as if in pain. They all turned to look over the battlefield and saw what he had seen.

  Sabina, in her flight, had dodged through the fighting men, but run too close to a burning castle. Her skirts flamed.

  “Sabina!” Godshall struggled violently in his captors’ arms.

  Cristina watched in horror as Sabina turned and twisted, slapping her skirts. Men fought on around her.

  Durand ran to the pavilion steps, but two more of the king’s men blocked his way. They too wore very real swords, which they pointed at his chest.

  “Sire, save her,” Godshall begged with a violent twist, breaking from one man’s hold.

  “Let the witch burn,” King John said. Cristina felt ill.

  “Jesu.” Durand swore.

  Cristina whispered a prayer. Within but a moment, Sabina had floundered into the lake. She stumbled. Fell. Struggled to rise and fell again. This time she did not rise.

  Godshall shrieked Sabina’s name, then collapsed to his knees.

  “It seems you are wrong, Lord Durand. Her soul must have been pure.” John turned to where Godshall sagged between his guards. “It must have been you, then, who took the Aelfric from Lord Durand.”

  Godshall’s head snapped up. He surged to his feet. “
Nay. I demand you release me!” he cried.

  “You demand!” the king shouted. “We demand! You obey!”

  No one moved. Cristina’s throat dried. She could not look at the still, silent lake.

  Godshall moaned and tore away from his captors. He drew his dagger and charged the king.

  Durand stepped before John, and as Godshall attacked was borne to the ground beneath him.

  Cristina screamed. The king’s men fell upon Godshall and snatched him away. She dropped on her knees beside Durand.

  Godshall’s blade was buried in his stomach.

  Chapter Thirty

  The king knelt at her side. He helped her pull off Durand’s helm and coif as Durand struggled for air.

  A young boy’s reed-thin voice wailed his father’s name. Penne and Luke escorted Adrian and Robert to their father’s side. Robert burst into tears and fell on his knees at his father’s side. Adrian, more aloof, but white-faced, stood off to one side.

  “Cristina. My sons,” Durand said in a gasp.

  Cristina shoved both king and son aside. “Give him space. He needs air.”

  Durand licked his lips and put his hands to the blade handle protruding from his middle. “‘Tis the Aelfric.” To a moan from his son, he jerked the blade out.

  Cristina did not know whether to laugh or cry. She knew there was only one way to show Durand’s worried sons that he would be fine. She helped Durand open his tunic and pull out the herbal. No blood stained the book or Durand’s middle.

  She handed the book to Robert. The deep cut in the wooden cover showed where Godshall’s blade had embedded itself. Luke and Penne, along with the king, helped Durand to his feet.

  “You’ll have a bellyache for a few days,” the king said. As Cristina watched, the king put off his concern and donned his royal demeanor. “Bring him here,” he pointed to Godshall.

  Torches smoked. Fog wreathed the shore and obscured the smoldering ruins of the mock ships and castles. There was no sign of Sabina.

  “We have seen much this day, Godshall. You are accused in the attack upon Bishop Dominic’s party. How say you?”

  Godshall was a dead man. Cristina saw the man’s knowledge of it on his face. He had tried to kill a king.

  The man straightened his spine. “Aye. Sabina took the Aelfric for Simon le Gros. He told us he earned just two rings, one for her and one for him, the lying dog.”

  He struggled in his guard’s arms. “The fool told us the true value of the book, and she thought ‘twould be worth taking back and selling again. Churches are fat.” He slipped to his knees. “I had not the wealth to have her.” He began to sob. “I loved her.”

  “Then you must join her,” the king said. With a quick jerk of the royal hand, Godshall was dragged away.

  “Now, de Marle. Let us deal with your sins against us.”

  Penne and Luke ranged themselves at Durand’s side. His sons moved closer, too, their faces pale in the dying flames.

  “By rights, you should forfeit your life and the lives of your children.”

  Cristina put her hand in Durand’s. He squeezed it.

  “But we recognize the deed done this day in our service. We recognize, too, the injustice visited upon Mistress le Gros.”

  With that he swept back his mantle and scratched at the back of his neck. “Go free, Durand de Marle, and take with you whomever you please.” With a nod, he included Luke, Penne, and the boys. “But go without title or land, and never enter England or France again. What say you?”

  Durand went down on one knee. “I ask nothing, sire, but safe conduct for my family.”

  “Granted.”

  Edward De Warre rushed forward and made a deep bow. “Sire, I beg of you, do not allow this man to go. He’ll foment trouble among your barons. You’re too kind. Too easy.”

  The king turned to the crowd who had gathered. “Too easy?” he asked the people. “Is banishment easy?”

  De Warre impaled Durand with a hard look. “He came in secret to remove his sons whom we held as surety to his good favor. For that alone, he deserves death.”

  “Aye,” the king acknowledged with a nod, “but we recognize his bravery in saving his king’s life. As we know he has loved and served us well, we send him hence with safe conduct.”

  Cristina trembled. She knew King John was not known for a generous gesture. She clung to Durand’s hand for strength as de Warre protested anew.

  “Sire,” de Warre interrupted. “I fear—”

  The king began to laugh. “What fear have we of this man? He has no influence, no power. He is lord of nothing. Lord of naught but the mist.”

  * * * * *

  Durand’s sons rode behind Luke and Penne. Cristina rode in the shelter of Durand’s arms. When they reached the crossroads, Cristina could bear it no longer. “Stop, Durand.”

  He drew Marauder to a halt. The rest of the party also drew up. She shimmied from Durand’s arms and dropped to the ground.

  “I can go no further.” She smoothed her skirts down.

  The horses ringed her. Adrian and Robert, who knew her not, watched her with avid curiosity. Durand threw his leg over the front of the saddle and dismounted.

  “Let me guess,” Durand said. “You feared in some way we might leave without Felice.”

  She burst into tears. “I cannot go without her.”

  Durand smiled. “And I never planned to do so.” He held her tightly. “Trust me. We’ll make a camp here for the night.”

  The men helped the women to dismount. They led the horses into the depth of the woods, keeping the little stream on their right. The light grew purple and green the deeper into the forest they walked. The fog muffled their steps.

  They found a small hollow with a sheltering canopy of branches. It would serve for the night, but Oriel needed the warmth of an abbey house, at least. Durand thanked God he had a heavy purse to see her comfortable until they were far from John’s reach and retribution should he renege on his generosity.

  With great awkwardness, Durand introduced Cristina to his sons. They bowed to her, but Adrian watched her with wariness, and Robert with open confusion.

  “Luke,” Durand said. “You have no need to be a part of my punishment. Go back and offer your services to the king. Mayhap one day he will reward you with Ravenswood.” He then turned to Nona. “You, too, have no need to suffer from this. John does not yet know you aided me. Return with me when I get Felice and make some excuse for your absence.”

  “I go with you,” Luke said. “Ravenswood is naught but stone and wood—replaceable.”

  Penne lowered himself to the ground on a mantle he had spread out for Oriel. “Don’t tell me to leave. I knew what I risked by aiding you. We’re content to make a new start somewhere else, are we not, Oriel? And without William Marshall, John will never triumph over Philip.”

  Durand put his arm about Robert’s shoulders. The boy leaned against him. “Are you sure, Penne? You’ll soon have your own child to see to.”

  Oriel drew Penne’s hand to her waist. “We’re sure. I was so sure he would die in Normandy. Now—” She broke off and buried her face against Penne’s neck.

  “Then I want you to wait here. I’ll be back in a few hours.” He set his son aside with a quick ruffle of his hair. Then he walked to where Cristina stood alone. He kissed her fingers. In moments he had mounted up.

  “Go with God,” Cristina whispered as he disappeared into the shadows. She sat on a fallen log and watched the boys. They skirted around her, finally perching near Luke and Penne. The men and boys recounted the events of the mock battle, the shock of Godshall’s attack on the king. Their words became a drone. Fear and fatigue put her to sleep.

  * * * * *

  The snort of a horse and jangle of harness woke her. Leaping to her feet, she dashed blindly into the trees. ‘Twas him, a bundle in his arms. She grabbed Durand’s reins.

  “Are you looking for this baggage?” he asked, smiling down at her. He bent near to place
Felice, wrapped in thick blankets, into her outstretched arms. She whirled away and sank to the ground on her knees.

  Durand dismounted and knelt at her side. He watched Cristina pull open her gown. He touched the back of his fingers to her cheek. “I love you,” he said.

  Cristina pressed against his hand. “She will be mine, will she not? I mean, I could act as her mother. I could—”

  “Hush,” he said, laying a finger to her lips. “As my wife, you will be mother to my children. And she is mine.”

  She lay her head on his shoulder and he embraced them both.

  When Felice was fed, Durand lifted his daughter into his arms. “I wondered if you could still feed her.”

  She put her arm about his waist. “I worried about it day and night, but I chewed parsley to keep my milk, so see, everything has worked as it should. Was Rose much disturbed when you took her?”

  Durand laughed. “Oh, Rose was more startled than concerned. Felice was shrieking her head off, and I merely lifted her up and she stopped instantly. I gave Rose a very courtly bow and left.”

  “Oh, my,” Cristina said. “Rose will miss the extra pennies.”

  “By the expression on her husband’s face, he’ll not miss the noise!”

  Durand and Cristina entered the clearing. Nona was preparing a simple meal of bread and cheese from her saddle bags. Food might become a difficulty, Durand thought.

  He sent his sons to fish in the little stream. When they were out of earshot, he called for his friends’ attention.

  “Luke knows of what I am to say, but as I rode back to this place with Felice in my arms, I thought I must tell everyone of this child here, for she represents much to me—betrayal, love, lust, and even forgiveness.

  “When the king and I visited Ravenswood last summer, Marion and I fought over her flirtations. We slept apart. And thus, I am not Felice’s father. Who is has tortured me in many ways. Not the least of which is knowing I had failed my wife. Pride would not allow me rest. I had to know Felice’s sire.”

  No one spoke. Only Nona and Penne’s faces registered surprise.

  Durand lifted Felice and kissed her cheek. “But Cristina showed me that if not in blood, still this babe is mine to care for and before you all, I claim her as mine, daughter in name, and now, close to my heart.”