Lord of the Mist (21 page)

They alternated supremacy, first one, then the other.

But Durand had not known true combat for several years. He
fell back, no longer on the attack, half-blinded by splattered mud.

Tillet pursued him. One small step at a time, Tillet routed
him toward the pavilion. He’d be cornered there.

Durand took a deep breath, his lungs on fire. He felt firmer
ground under his feet.

He launched himself forward, smashed his shield into
Tillet’s, but lost his hold on his sword at the same time. It spun away,
tantalizingly out of reach.

Tillet rocked on his feet.

It gained Durand a precious moment that allowed him to slip
sideways and whirl away from Tillet’s sword and the pavilion. Unfortunately it
also placed him even farther from his sword.

“Are you ready to give up?” Tillet taunted, stalking toward
him with measured steps.

Durand drew the dagger from his belt in answer.

He sidestepped, but many more blows of the kind would take
his strength. He fell back again.

Tillet glanced toward the crowd, and Durand leaped close and
thrust his dagger past the lowered shield. But Tillet anticipated and took the
arm-severing cut on the edge of his blade instead.

For the next few moments Tillet hammered Durand with hard
blows. Durand’s shield arm grew numb. A particularly heavy blow tore the shield
from his hand, taking the gauntlet with it.

Tillet grinned, his teeth showing white in the small gap
twixt mail and helm.

Durand dropped low, snatched a handful of mud, and cast it
into his taunting face. With a bellow of anger, Tillet raced at Durand. He fell
to one knee and dropped his shoulder. In moments Tillet was sailing over
Durand’s body to fall like a turtle on his back. His shield flew several feet
away.

Durand leapt up and whirled around. But Tillet rolled and
recovered, rising quickly and leaping at Durand with a blood-curdling war yell.

Gilles’ dagger met the blade of the king’s champion. They
locked on each other’s blades, nearly hand against hand.

Durand gripped Tillet’s arm, but the mud-slick mail gave him
no purchase.

With a muttered curse Durand dropped back, surprising Tillet
and throwing him forward. He fell on his side in a wash of mud.

Durand stepped on Tillet’s sword.

He grabbed Durand’s ankle. They grappled for a moment until
Tillet triumphed and tossed Durand onto his back.

The mud sucked at his body, but he floundered to his feet.
They stood facing each other, the distance of Tillet’s sword blade apart. But
there was something wrong with Tillet’s hand. It shook with a tremor that told
Durand it was gravely injured. Durand kicked the sword from Tillet’s hand.

Tillet threw himself on Durand, bearing him to the ground,
one knee near his groin. The explosion of pain tore his breath from his chest.

He planted his hands on Tillet’s chest and heaved, but to no
avail. From all sides men and women shouted. He felt as if he were smothering
in pain and mud.

With his last burst of strength, he threw the man off and
snatched his dagger from his boot.

How paltry it looked compared to the doubled-headed ax now
lying close by Gregory’s feet.

Where had the weapon come from?

Tillet went for the ax. He whirled it on high.

A woman screamed—a long, shrieking cry of agony.

Tillet glanced toward it.

Durand did not. He charged in and embraced the man,
thrusting his long, thin dagger deep into Tillet’s exposed armpit.

He made not a sound as he crumpled. Durand rode the blade
and the body to the ground. Warm blood ran over his hand. Tillet stared at him.
He moaned. The ax fell from his outstretched hand, red blood mingling with the
blue enamel that graced the handle.

Durand staggered to his feet. The crowd whirled a moment.
Black spots filled his vision and a roar filled his ears. He swallowed and
forced himself to be still until his vision cleared.

The roar continued and he realized ‘twas the crowd—cheering.
Luke slogged across the field to him and gripped his arm. “Come. Walk, brother,
that no one may see any weakness.”

Durand did as bid, allowing Luke to take some of his weight.
He insisted on detouring and picking up Gilles’ sword. He sheathed it with a
quick thrust, then allowed Luke to lead him before the king.

“It seems God has decided Mistress le Gros’ fate,” King John
said with a hint of anger.

Aye, Durand thought. He rewarded the treacherous man with
death—and the sweetly innocent with life.

The crowd surged from the pavilions to the keep. Durand’s
men surrounded him, and within their protective phalanx, he was borne to the
armory. There Joseph and William stripped him of his muddy garments and doused
him in buckets of cold water. Every muscle in his body ached.

Gilles and Luke watched as his squire rubbed him down with a
length of linen, then forced him to eat several thick slabs of bread and honey.
The food restored some of his strength.

“Someone threw Tillet that ax,” Luke said. “If Cristina had
not screamed, Tillet would not have looked away. A fool’s mistake.”

Durand’s body was ice cold. He thought he might collapse,
but hoped he could remain on his feet until he thanked Cristina.

“I owe Cristina my life, it seems,” Durand managed. He could
barely make his lips move.

Gilles shrugged. “Or you owe God. I wish I had seen who
tossed the ax, but I was intent on the battle, and when I went later to fetch
it, ‘twas gone.”

“I’ll not rest until I get the man for you,” Luke said.
“Come, Durand,” he said. “You’ll be expected in the hall.”

“Cristina,” Durand said. “Where is she?”

“I saw the guards hustling her into the keep, so she’s
already there,” Joseph said, and helped Durand to pull on a linen shirt that
felt amazingly warm on his skin. In moments he was garbed appropriately, and
with more will than bodily strength allowed his friends and brother to lead him
to the hall.

Cristina was not there. He forced himself to walk to the
king. “Has Mistress le Gros been released, sire?”

“Oh, aye. Mayhap you would like to accept her thanks? We are
sure she will be suitably grateful for the service you have rendered her this
day.”

Durand bowed. Every muscle in his body screamed as he walked
slowly down the center of the hall to the steps leading to the west tower and
her
.

No guard stood before the door to the book chamber, and the
latch lifted without benefit of key. A brace of wax candles lighted the chamber
with a warm glow. It was redolent with heady scents. Cristina stood by the
window, the shutters open despite the rain outside. When he closed the door she
ran to him and threw herself against his chest.

“Oh, my lord. God bless you.”

He grunted and gripped her shoulders. Gently he set her
aside. “You’ll finish what Tillet began,” he said, and laughed at the stricken
look on her face.

“You’re in pain.” She took his hand and inspected it. “Come.
I’ve prepared a salve for your wounds.”

“In a moment; first I must thank you. ‘Twas your cry that
distracted Tillet. It was his undoing.”

“My fear got the better of me.” She squeezed his hand.

“And saved my life.” He touched her cheek with the back of
his fingers.

He had meant only to thank her and see that she was truly
released. He had meant to do no more than stand at the door and tell her he was
glad all was now as it should be.

Instead he followed her across the chamber to the hearth,
his hand in hers. “What is this you’re cooking?” he asked to avoid all other
topics that lay between them—the trial, the king’s caprice, his own desire for
her.

“The salve. ‘Tis best if warm.”

Durand used a horn spoon to stir a small pot wrapped in warm
cloth. Bringing the spoon to his nose, he drew in a deep breath. “This smells
wonderful…almost mesmerizing.”

She took the bowl from him. “If you will allow me, my lord,”
she began. “I would tend your wounds.” Her eyes were downcast, and he remembered
the time she had tended his hand, and the intense arousal he’d felt from her
mere touch.

Silence stood between them. The air was filled with more
than the seductive scents of her salve. It crackled with heated tension.

“Have you a need to see to the child?” he asked, glancing
about.

“She was brought to me ere you arrived.”

“Why is she not here then?”

Her face was suddenly blank of expression. “The queen
requested that Alice take her away. If Felice grows hungry, Alice will bring
her here.”

Durand put a hand on her shoulder. “On the morrow I’ll see
that everything is returned to how it was. But for now…I have not the
strength.”

Cristina covered his hand. All would never be the same. But
for now he was barely standing upright. He had defeated death and now deserved
peace.

“Come,” she whispered, and led him by the hand to her
pallet. She pulled back the furs and removed the stones that were warming its
surface, then sat back on her heels.

He looked down at the comforting bedding and, without any
thought save the succor it offered, he drew off his mantle, then his tunic and
shirt. She helped him with the rest. Finally he lay down on the warmed bedding.

He closed his eyes, stretched his arms over his head, and
groaned at the pull of his strained muscles.

Cristina had never seen a man so wonderfully made. The
chilly air tightened his nipples, and she felt her own tighten, not from the
cold but from arousal. She pulled the shutters closed and picked up the bowl of
salve. It lay warm and heavy in her hands as she bore it to the pallet.

As she drew near, she saw angry red welts on his legs,
though his chausses had protected him from more.

“Oh, my lord,” she said softly. She set the bowl on the
floor and touched his calf where the imprint of the links of mail stood out
clearly against his flesh.

“They will be but bruises on the morrow,” he said.

But she shook her head, denying his words.

The salve was wonderfully warm when she drew it along his
leg. Every muscle in his body tensed. He shivered in anticipation. She noticed
and sat back. Wiping her fingers on a strip of linen, she picked up one of the
furs from the pallet and made to drape it across his body.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse, and she laid it aside.
He met her eyes, and then her gaze swept down his body to his leg. “Your glance
is like a hand on my skin.”

With the grace of a forest sprite, she perched on her heels
and tipped her head. “Would that I could heal this with a look.”

She spread her palm on his bruised leg, and a shudder ran
from there to his spine. “
Cristina
,” he whispered.

With a hand so gentle not even his flights of fancy would
conjure greater joy, she smoothed the salve across his skin.

This was what he had envisioned, her warm hands ministering
to his body as she had once cared for his hands. His fingers curled into fists
at the thought. He closed his eyes. Every muscle in his upper body hurt from
swinging the sword and lifting the heavy shield. His testicles still ached from
Tillet’s knee. Yet he craved her touch—everywhere.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” she whispered.

He did not answer. He was incapable of words.

She massaged his feet, his calves, and in long sweeps of her
hands, his thighs. His body responded despite the twinges of sensation in his
groin.

Every now and then, her hair grazed his skin as she moved by
inches up his body. He opened his eyes when she shifted her attentions to his
arms.

“How will I ever thank you?” she said by his ear, so softly
he almost thought he had dreamed the whisper of a forest sprite.

The silk of her hair brushed over his chest. It was both a
delight and an agony.

“Your cry evened the score,” he managed. “Think no longer on
it.”

He looped his arms about her neck and drew her down to his
mouth. Her tongue and lips were fever warm. He entangled his fist in her hair
and held her close, but she ducked and evaded his embrace.

She dipped her fingers into the salve, and he put his arms
over his head again to allow her to smooth it on his skin. He would be black
and blue in a few hours without it.

This time she took even longer to spread the cream on his
skin. She traced the shape of the muscles of his biceps and traveled gently
along the veins that roped his forearms.

“You’re so strong,” she said. Her fingers touched his
torque. “And this your symbol of power.”

“I’m weak where you’re concerned,” he returned. In fact, his
body ached for release despite his weakness. Each touch, each sweep of her
hands on him drew him ever closer to the precipice of his need.

She spread her hands on the insides of his upper arms and drew
her fingers down the tender flesh to his shoulders. The massage there drew a
gasp from him, yet he did not want her to stop. From his shoulders she ran her
hands to his chest. She bent her head and touched her tongue to each of his
nipples, her hair floating across his groin.

“I want you so much,” he said, thrusting his fingers into
her hair. “Just once…It is…a promise I cannot keep.”

Her answer was silent and sent shivers of molten sensations
rolling through him. As he had done to her the previous night, she kissed him
from his chest to his belly. As he had, she continued, laving him with slow and
tender licks and kisses. Her breath heated his manhood, and he drew up his
knees in reflex to what would come next—her mouth on him.

“Sweet Cristina,” he said in a gasp when she gently touched
him with her salve-slick fingertips. Each small movement of her fingers, each
touch of her tongue on him, each caress of her breath tugged him closer and
closer to the precipice.

Just when he could bear no more, she drew away and stood up.
She removed her russet gown and shift, folding them neatly, and he fed his
arousal with the sight of her as she moved.

She knelt at his side, blessedly naked. “I don’t want to
hurt you,” she said.

“I cannot imagine any pain more powerful than the pleasure
you have wrought with your hands and lips,” he said, and reached for her.

His arms were warm and slick with the salve as he drew her
astride him. The candles guttered and one went out. The shadows intensified and
lent the hard lines of his face a gentler aspect.

The heat of his body made the scent of her salve more
pungent. Dill was considered an aphrodisiac, and she feared for a moment that
it was that which caused the heat within her and the hardness pressing between
her thighs.

Nay
, she thought,
I’ll not allow it to be the
salve that kindles this flame in him. If I’m to have no other night save this,
no other to remember when I’m old and alone, I’ll not allow it to be one
tainted by magic or medicine
.

She licked along the line of his lower lip. He captured her
mouth for a kiss whilst his hands ran down her spine to cup her buttocks. She
arched away from him that his mouth might come against her breast.

He kneaded her against his arousal as he kissed her breasts.
Each touch of his tongue raised such a heat within her, she thought she might
cry out at the pure pleasure of it.

This was not the salve. This was something between them that
had existed from the instant they had met. It entwined them more strongly than
any vine entwined an ancient tree.

It would wither in the sunlight.

When their lips met again he moaned, for as they joined
their mouths, they joined their bodies. They moved in concert, his body buried
so deeply within her she felt him to her heart. He linked his fingers with hers
and stretched their arms overhead, drawing her down on him, kissing her hard,
arching his hips to bring himself even more deeply within her.

He tasted of honey and heat.

She could no longer tolerate the ache between her thighs. He
gasped when she shifted on him and bore down. With great waves of rapture, she
lost all reason, and pressed her face to his throat. The hard metal of his
torque showered her ecstasy with a chill.

Durand felt the clench of her body on his and continued to
arch beneath her. He sought and yet tried to stay the madness so close upon
him. Her breasts filled his hands to overflowing as she abruptly rose up on
him, the action settling her so firmly on him, his body so deeply within her,
he bucked off the pallet in a final, exquisite release.

He lay panting on his back for several moments just watching
the sweet rise and fall of her breasts. Then he drew her down to hold her as
close as he could, to know each breath she drew. Her hair tangled on his
fingers as he stroked his hands through it again and again. Desire cascaded
from his groin with each tiny shift of her body.

“I’ll see to the care of any child you might bear,” he said.

Her body tensed, but she said nothing.

“I’ll see you settled in comfort should such be the result
of our time together. You and your babe will never want for anything. I’ll see
it written that should I die in Normandy the result will be the same.”

She withdrew. Cold air swept over his sweat-slicked body as
she stood up. Her hair swayed across her buttocks as she went to the hearth.

He groaned as he sat up. Had he erred in speaking so boldly?
“I have bruises on my bruises,” he said.

Her hair cloaked her when she knelt to build up the flames.

“Have you nothing to say?” he asked.

She shook her head. It was an effort, but he stood up and
went to her. “Allow me to do that,” he said.

“I can build a fire, my lord. Any servant can.”

He placed a gentle hand on her chin and lifted her face.
“You’re not my servant. Did I think you one, I would not offer to do the task.”

Her dark eyes were warm amber with reflected firelight.
Golden streaks filled her hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he said.

“If I’m not your servant, what am I?”

Her breasts were ivory, tipped with dusky brown. He cupped
their fullness in his palms. “You are intoxicating, like fine wine.” He touched
his lips to hers. “You are healing, your kiss inspiring.” They knelt
knee-to-knee before the hearth, heated on one side, cold on the other.

She stretched out on the wooden floor, atop a mattress of
naught but rushes, and took him in. Arms about his neck, she ignored the cold
press of his torque against her cheek and thought only that he had not really
answered her.

* * * * *

When the castle stirred to life, and sentries called out one
to another as they changed from night watch to day, Cristina left Durand deeply
asleep.

She sought Alice and the babe, then looked about for Joseph.
‘Twas a difficult task with so many in the keep, and she did not want to draw
attention to herself. She knew not her status.

She was free, of course, but that did not mean she was
welcome anywhere in the keep. If one went by the icy looks from the maids in
Felice’s chamber when her care of the babe disturbed their rest, she was no
longer welcome there. They probably coveted the Lord of Skirts and resented her
as a rival.

Against Alice’s advice, she had put Felice in a sling and
taken her off to the privacy of a bench by the stable, away from prying eyes
and the light drizzle.

She finally found Joseph cleaning Durand’s mail outside the
armory. “His lordship must have a soothing bath for his injuries, but I don’t
know how to accomplish it.”

“I’ll see to a tub for him, Mistress. Should I have it sent
to the west tower?”

So, everyone knew where Lord Durand was. Cristina looked up
at the impregnable stone walls. “Aye. If ‘tis not a burden to carry so much
water so high.”

Joseph gave a laugh. “You’ll find that after last night’s
battle with that barbarian Tillet, my lord’s pages will carry stones to the
roof for him without complaint.”

“He was magnificent, was he not?” she said.

“Aye, Mistress. But I’ve seen him fight before and knew what
he was capable of. It did the young ones good to see him, though, as they think
him over-learned.”

Cristina tiptoed back into the book chamber. Durand had
rolled to his stomach and flung off the furs. Despite her ministrations, his
welts were beginning the transformation to livid bruises. She moved quietly to
where he lay.