Lord of the Mist (16 page)

“Cristina,” Durand said, but the door closed with a bang and
she was gone. He wanted to go after her, but could not.

Luke placed Felice on her back on his pallet and then took a
stool by the table. “That was not so very well done.”

Durand stared at the door. “I could not let her beg for him.
He’s a blight on her life.”

“Still, he’s her husband and mayhap there is affection
there. Could you not treat her more gently?”

With a sigh, Durand sank into his chair. “Luke. I’m about to
find a reason to let a thief go.”

“What? John sees the theft of the Aelfric as tied to Bishop
Dominic’s death.” Luke leapt to his feet. “If you let Simon le Gros go, John
will suspect
you
of God knows what. Treachery? The brigands’ attack?
Penne said they were far too finely garbed and mounted for mere thieves—”

Durand surged to his feet. “You don’t tell me anything I do
not already know.” He stood over Marion’s child. “I cannot let Cristina
suffer.”

“You can find another nurse!” Luke swept a hand out to where
Felice lay.

But Durand shook his head. “Is that what you think this is
about? I’ve been thinking for days on what will become of us all when we go to
France. If I die, who will look after this child? You? You’ll be lying dead in
France with me, I fear.”

Or would Luke betray him? Remain behind at the last moment
with some plausible excuse?

Luke strode from one corner of the chamber to the other.
“Oriel will see to her. And this nonsense. You survived a Crusade, for Christ’s
sake.”

Durand knelt by the child and put out his hand. The babe
snatched and held his finger. Her grip was very strong for one so tiny, but yet
so easily broken.

Aye, Oriel could guard Felice’s interests. But the child
must serve as his excuse to aid Cristina. He could not tell Luke that he also
much wanted to see Cristina at peace, even if it meant she would be somewhere
else with Simon.

* * * * *

The sky was beginning to lighten as Durand walked across the
bailey to the chapel.

Cristina knelt beside Father Odo at the fore of the chapel.
“Seeking sanctuary, Mistress?” he asked.

Felice lay heavily on his shoulder. Now, when she should be
eating, she slept. She was as contrary as every other woman he knew. He saw the
babe’s basket by Cristina and was relieved. Surely, the basket meant she
intended to take the child from him.

“Mistress le Gros was praying, my lord.” The priest patted
Cristina’s hand. “I will leave you now. God will decide all.” He bowed to
Durand and left.

Durand settled Felice in Cristina’s arms. She sat back on
her heels and unlaced her gown. He paced. Behind him, Cristina whispered to
Felice, and when he turned back, the child nursed.

He wished for an itinerant painter to capture this moment
for him, the child at Cristina’s breast, the chapel candles bathing them both
in a golden glow. It took his breath away. “You must face what will be this
day.”

“What would you do if someone betrayed you?” she asked.

He took a deep breath. “I would run him through.”

She nodded. “Men can do that—draw a sword and strike down
those who harm them.”

Unless it was one you loved. Then you were powerless to lift
a hand.

Pale light seeped through the chapel entrance. The bailey
stirred as day broke.

She kissed Felice’s fingers. “She’s a sweet babe, my lord.
I’ve been with Alice, and she and I have thought of a plan for when I must
leave.”

“You may stay as long as you wish—”

She interrupted him, speaking quickly. “I cannot stay and we
both know it. It would be a shame beyond any of my imagining!” She paused to
take a deep breath. “Rose, the baker’s sister, had a babe yestereve. She’s an
honorable woman much in need of a few extra pennies and has twice before taken
a child to nurse along with her own. If you’ll allow it, my lord, I’ll stay
with Felice until Rose is ready, mayhap a sennight; then I’ll go to my father
in Norwich. I’ve enough pennies put by to make the journey.”

“As you wish, but you need not go,” he repeated.

Denial came with a quick shake of her bowed head.

She would go, and he would mourn the loss of her as he had
not mourned Marion. If Simon was released, they would not—could not—remain
either. They would be tainted by suspicion of theft. No one would buy from such
a merchant.

He stood by until Felice was fed, then took her from
Cristina’s arms, and placed her in the basket.

He held out his arms. Cristina came into them as if she
belonged there. He enfolded her. He knew the answer, but still the words
spilled from his lips. “Come to my bed, Cristina. Now. This moment. Just once
before you go.”

A tremor ran through her body, but she said nothing.

“Just once, Cristina,” he whispered by her ear, breathing in
the sweet scent of her hair.

Her arms tightened at his waist, and he ached at the soft
feel of her against him.

Then, with agonizing slowness, she slid from his arms until
they stood connected only by the tips of their fingers. She broke away and
picked up Felice. “Nay, my lord, I cannot. I have enough sins on my soul as
‘tis.”

* * * * *

Cristina did not have to wait long for Simon to be judged.
The call came just before noon. She braved the hall, Alice trotting behind her
with Felice. Whispers followed them as they made their way to where Lord Durand
sat in judgment. She wanted to turn and run away to the deepest part of the
forest, pull leaves over herself until she lay hidden in the dark silence.

Two priests, pens scratching across vellum, sat by Lord
Durand’s side as he rendered decisions on the matters of his manor: a moved
field marker, a lost pig, a man who contested damage caused by his mother’s
cow.

The king wandered about the hall. Occasionally, he usurped a
case, sitting down and listening intently, and rendering a decision. Lord
Durand deferred to the king each time, except in the matter of the cow, and then
Lord Durand’s words were sharp and the king bowed his head in acquiescence.

Cristina wished she could hear every word, but they spoke
for themselves, not the audience. Did Lord Durand wield enough power to sway a
king? Cristina did not know if the king was fair. Alice said he was subject to
whims and fancies.

She could not think straight. She fastened her gaze on the
great paintings that flanked the hearth. The queen and the other courtiers were
gathered there to watch the proceedings. Cristina edged through the crowd to be
where she could hear better, but felt heat run through her body as she realized
she stood but a few feet from several ladies, Nona and Sabina among them. The
young man upon whose arm Sabina leaned, looked too long and familiarly back at
her.

Lady Sabina instructed Lady Nona in loud, condescending
tones. “The king will listen to anyone’s case. Some folk might offer up to one
hundred marks for such a privilege as having a king render their verdict, but
he asks nothing.”

A shiver ran down Cristina’s spine. She desperately wanted
Lord Durand to hear Simon’s case. If mercy was to be granted, it would not come
from such a volatile man as King John.

Simon, his hands bound, ignored her though he came within a
few feet of her as he was led before Lord Durand. His head was high, his manner
uncowed.

“Simon le Gros,” Durand said. “You are accused of stealing
Aelfric’s
Nominum Herbarum
from my keep.”

“I will speak for Master le Gros,” said a tall man in
ecclesiastic robes who strode down the center of the hall.

“Father Laurentius!” the king cried. “You are here to plead
this man’s case? Merchants have highborn lawyers these days!”

The crowd of onlookers laughed. Simon’s spine stiffened even
more.

The priest bowed. “I’m brought here by Lord Durand, as he
believes the merchant thinks himself ill-used. His lordship wished to render
unto him all fairness in the law.”

Had Lord Durand brought this illustrious personage to aid
Simon? Cristina looked down at her hands. How could she—they—ever thank him?

“Begin then, Laurentius,” the king said.

Father Laurentius stalked back and forth before the king,
his robes flapping about his ankles. “I’ve spoken at length with Master le Gros
and believe he has been most grievously harmed.”

The king waved his hand through the air. “Lawyers’ words. We
have heard them before. All you speak for are grievously used.”

“I may have been called forth by Lord Durand, but it is
against him I must speak,” the priest said, unperturbed by the interruption.

The king stroked his mustache, then turned to where Durand
sat. “We’ll hear this case, de Marle. If Father Laurentius is to speak against
you in some way, we think it best you step aside. And we much enjoy a good
joust of wits with Laurentius.”

Durand bowed. “Sire, if I may, this case is important to me.
It was my book taken, I grant you, but I’ve a great interest in the outcome—”

“Do you doubt we will fairly render a decision?” the king
asked.

Cristina watched a vehement conversation take place between
Lord Durand and the king, though she could not hear the words, merely the sharp
tones. When the king stopped speaking, Lord Durand bowed his head and then
moved his chair back.

What had Lord Durand wanted? Why had the king ordered him to
withdraw? What, sweet Mother of God, was Simon going to say?

“My lord. Sire,” the priest began. “It is Simon le Gros’
position that Sir Luke contrives to have him hanged.”

Silence fell over the hall; then a quick buzz of
conversation broke out. Cristina felt dizzy. The noise faded, then settled.

Nay, Simon, nay
, she thought desperately.
Do not
shame me
.

“In what way?” the king asked.

Lord Durand’s jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might
crack.

“Sir Luke wishes to have Mistress le Gros for himself and
therefore contrives to have Master le Gros hanged, thereby freeing her.”

An arm went about her waist. Lady Nona’s. “You look very
ill, Cristina. Would you like to leave?” the lady whispered.

Cristina shook her head and forced herself to stand
straighter and lift her chin. She was not ashamed of anything between herself
and Luke. It was difficult, but she ignored the many eyes turned her way.

“We would hear more of this.” The king looked about the
crowd. “Come forward, Sir Luke, and answer this charge.”

Luke walked to the fore and stood by Simon. He, too, looked
fiercely angry. Every inch of him was noble from his fine-boned face to his
blue tunic trimmed in gold thread. Simon, whose hair hung in dirty hanks and
who had straw sticking to his brown surcoat, looked far less than even a
prosperous merchant.

The two men bowed to the king at the same time.

“Have you conspired to take this man’s wife?” King John
asked Luke.

“Nay, sire,” Luke said with a shake of his head. “I have no
taste for married women.” The man with Sabina made a rude noise in his throat.

The priest stalked back and forth between the table and
Luke. “Is it not true the Aelfric was taken from
your
coffer?”

“Aye. But many visit the chamber,” Luke returned.

“They do? Who, if I may ask?” The priest tapped his finger
on the table.

“Some…friends.”

“Name them.” The priest smiled. He had yellow teeth and a
long nose.

“Sire,” Luke began. “I’ll happily do so, but privately.”

The king smiled as well. Snickers ran through the
spectators. “Write the list down and we shall read it,
privately
.”

The agony of watching Luke transcribe his list nearly
brought Cristina to her knees. He wrote and paused and wrote, tapped his chin
and wrote, scratched his head and looked about the hall. Wrote and wrote,
considered and wrote. The hall grew restless. Murmurs started. Lord Durand
lifted his gaze from his brother to her.

She held his gaze, but read naught to aid her there. It
would not do to hope. Sweat dripped down Simon’s cheek.

Someone began to laugh; others joined in. Luke glanced about
the hall, then finally stopped writing. He slid the list to the king.

Lady Sabina leaned near her companion and whispered, “His
mattress is surely worn to the ropes.”

Lady Nona whipped around and disappeared into the crowd.
Without her support, Cristina suddenly felt naked of friendship. She was alone
in a sea of men and women who cared naught of her fate or Simon’s.

The king silently read the list, and his brows arched almost
to his hairline. “Sir Luke,” the king said. “We wish to have our physician
examine you. We are humbled.”

The crowd burst into laughter. Luke merely shrugged.

Father Laurentius’ face suffused a deep red. “Sire. We beg a
word.” The priest approached the king’s seat. A debate ensued, and finally the
king nodded.

The priest moved to where Simon stood, his back stiff and
his chin high. “I do not like to make a mockery of these proceedings. This
man’s life is being considered.”

“Proceed, Laurentius. But make your point quickly. This
delays a good day’s hunting,” the king said. Lord Durand’s only reaction was a
nod to his brother.

The hall hushed and returned to its former sobriety.

“Have you ever seen Master le Gros in your counting room
when it was not appropriate that he be there, my lord?” Laurentius asked.

“Nay,” Luke said.

“Do you lock the room or the coffer?”

Luke shook his head. “I do not.”

“Is a guard posted?”

“Nay. ‘Tis naught there but common records I might wish to
consult from time to time—and a bed.” The crowd snickered. “Those records of
great import are moved to another chamber that
is
kept locked and
guarded,” he continued, as if no interruption had occurred.