must have retrieved the note for Lord Durand so he’d not be
seen to receive it, and Luke merely cleared the chapel for his brother. They
work in concert to aid their master.” A tangle snagged her fingers. “Of course
his friends would see their lord was not disturbed. Of course ‘tis Lord Durand
who meets with Lady Sabina. Lady Marion is not long enough dead to allow him to
openly court her.” She rose hastily to her feet. “Oh, this wretched hair. Ugly
as old wool!”
Cristina tossed back the lid of a small box that contained
all she owned: precious sewing needles, a length of ribbon from Lady Marion, a
horn comb which she plucked up and yanked through her snarled tresses. “What
concern of mine is it that Lord Durand makes love in the chapel?”
She threw the comb on the table, where it landed in the rose
oil. The dish tipped, spilling the oil across the table. “Oh, a plague on fine
ladies,” she muttered. Tears pricked at her eyes. “Look what I’ve done! Hours
of work wasted! The oil’s ruined!” She dropped a length of linen on the mess to
prevent it from dripping off the table.
Her hair still damp and tangled, she threw herself on her
bed. The canopy overhead had a rent, chewed by a mouse she imagined. She rolled
to her side, punched her pillow, sat up, climbed out of bed. In two steps she
was at her table and had retrieved the comb and wiped it clean. With
painstaking care, she mopped up the oil and tidied the worktable. She scrubbed
the top, then folded the rose oil-soaked cloth and placed it exactly in the
center of the table.
With her agitation’s abatement, the wind outside died. The
sudden silence drew her to the window. She flung open the shutters and stared
down into the bailey, but saw naught but shrouds of mist. At last, she
stretched out on her bed atop the coverlet, the damp air stirring across the
chamber and over her heated skin.
“Get to sleep, Cristina. You shall be gathering roses
tomorrow at dawn whilst finer ladies rest from a surfeit of lovemaking.”
Chapter Seven
Durand crossed his arms over his chest and tried to ignore
the water dripping down his neck. “How do you come to be here, Simon? Were you
somehow occupied that you did not heed the closing of the gates?”
“Ah, my lord.” Simon licked his lips. “I did not expect to
meet you here. I’m to…that is, I’m to meet…” Simon dipped his head and thrust
his hands up into his capacious sleeves.
“You may as well say who you’re to meet, as I’ll know in but
a moment.”
“Then I must confess I’m to meet a woman.”
“A woman? When you’ve a wife as pleasing as yours, you’re
seeking after another?” Durand took a quick glance behind him to be sure
Cristina was gone. He heard nothing to indicate she lingered, and he hoped
she’d not heard Simon’s words.
Simon glanced about. “My lord, we’re both men who have
traveled much. You must know that ‘tis ofttimes necessary to seek some solace
with another. After all, my Cristina is quite occupied with your daughter.”
“If her duties are a burden to you, I shall release her.”
“Nay! Please. We strive only to serve you. Don’t be hasty!
Cristina would be heartbroken to be set aside as nurse!”
“Is not the setting aside by a husband—” Durand broke off.
Lady Sabina stood in the chapel entrance. He knew her by the embroidered mantle
she wore. Rain glistened off the scarlet hood in the meager light of the chapel
candles.
“Forgive my intrusion,” Durand said. He stepped past Lady
Sabina and strode out into the rain. It poured in icy discomfort down his
shoulders. He made a search of the bailey, but Mistress le Gros was long gone.
He headed for her tower to see if she was injured from her
fall, then hesitated. Would she read the knowledge on his face that her husband
strayed?
What ailed le Gros? And what had he to offer Sabina?
“I am a hypocrite,” he whispered with a glance up at the
light that gleamed through Cristina’s
seen to receive it, and Luke merely cleared the chapel for his brother. They
work in concert to aid their master.” A tangle snagged her fingers. “Of course
his friends would see their lord was not disturbed. Of course ‘tis Lord Durand
who meets with Lady Sabina. Lady Marion is not long enough dead to allow him to
openly court her.” She rose hastily to her feet. “Oh, this wretched hair. Ugly
as old wool!”
Cristina tossed back the lid of a small box that contained
all she owned: precious sewing needles, a length of ribbon from Lady Marion, a
horn comb which she plucked up and yanked through her snarled tresses. “What
concern of mine is it that Lord Durand makes love in the chapel?”
She threw the comb on the table, where it landed in the rose
oil. The dish tipped, spilling the oil across the table. “Oh, a plague on fine
ladies,” she muttered. Tears pricked at her eyes. “Look what I’ve done! Hours
of work wasted! The oil’s ruined!” She dropped a length of linen on the mess to
prevent it from dripping off the table.
Her hair still damp and tangled, she threw herself on her
bed. The canopy overhead had a rent, chewed by a mouse she imagined. She rolled
to her side, punched her pillow, sat up, climbed out of bed. In two steps she
was at her table and had retrieved the comb and wiped it clean. With
painstaking care, she mopped up the oil and tidied the worktable. She scrubbed
the top, then folded the rose oil-soaked cloth and placed it exactly in the
center of the table.
With her agitation’s abatement, the wind outside died. The
sudden silence drew her to the window. She flung open the shutters and stared
down into the bailey, but saw naught but shrouds of mist. At last, she
stretched out on her bed atop the coverlet, the damp air stirring across the
chamber and over her heated skin.
“Get to sleep, Cristina. You shall be gathering roses
tomorrow at dawn whilst finer ladies rest from a surfeit of lovemaking.”
Chapter Seven
Durand crossed his arms over his chest and tried to ignore
the water dripping down his neck. “How do you come to be here, Simon? Were you
somehow occupied that you did not heed the closing of the gates?”
“Ah, my lord.” Simon licked his lips. “I did not expect to
meet you here. I’m to…that is, I’m to meet…” Simon dipped his head and thrust
his hands up into his capacious sleeves.
“You may as well say who you’re to meet, as I’ll know in but
a moment.”
“Then I must confess I’m to meet a woman.”
“A woman? When you’ve a wife as pleasing as yours, you’re
seeking after another?” Durand took a quick glance behind him to be sure
Cristina was gone. He heard nothing to indicate she lingered, and he hoped
she’d not heard Simon’s words.
Simon glanced about. “My lord, we’re both men who have
traveled much. You must know that ‘tis ofttimes necessary to seek some solace
with another. After all, my Cristina is quite occupied with your daughter.”
“If her duties are a burden to you, I shall release her.”
“Nay! Please. We strive only to serve you. Don’t be hasty!
Cristina would be heartbroken to be set aside as nurse!”
“Is not the setting aside by a husband—” Durand broke off.
Lady Sabina stood in the chapel entrance. He knew her by the embroidered mantle
she wore. Rain glistened off the scarlet hood in the meager light of the chapel
candles.
“Forgive my intrusion,” Durand said. He stepped past Lady
Sabina and strode out into the rain. It poured in icy discomfort down his
shoulders. He made a search of the bailey, but Mistress le Gros was long gone.
He headed for her tower to see if she was injured from her
fall, then hesitated. Would she read the knowledge on his face that her husband
strayed?
What ailed le Gros? And what had he to offer Sabina?
“I am a hypocrite,” he whispered with a glance up at the
light that gleamed through Cristina’s
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