Lord of the Mist (29 page)

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.

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.”