languages of my father’s business.”
The disputed book was wrapped in its cloth and set upon the
table. Her words separated them as surely as her father’s business. “I shall
come back then and read it to you,” he said.
“That is most kind, but—”
He hurried over her embarrassed words. “You’ll show me the
book when ‘tis clean? I’d be most interested to see it. Then I shall share it
with you.”
She nodded, but did not look his way.
“How fares the child?” He glanced around for the babe and
saw the simple wooden cradle more suited to a child of Cristina’s than of
Marion’s. His sons had lain in gilded beds, carved with ravens, to remind them
of their duty as they slept.
“Felice is quite well. She’s the sweetest-tempered—”
“Felice? Did the priest baptize her thusly? I thought she
was to be called Elizabeth Margaret Iona, after my grandmother.”
“Lady Marion changed her mind, my lord. Lady Oriel was quite
angry with the good father over it, but he would adhere to our lady’s wishes.
But truly, in the confusion with our lady’s collapse, no one wished to argue
such a thing—”
“It matters not what the babe is called.” The child in the
cradle was but a tiny tuft of fair hair above the swaddling.
It was a blessing the child took after Marion—or was it a
curse? Would that the child’s hair or eye color cried out her father’s name.
Nay, it would also cry him a cuckold. He clenched his fist.
Had Marion decided it would be playing the hypocrite to name
the child for his grandmother?
Cristina knelt by the cradle’s edge and stroked her fingers
through the downy hair. “I confess, my lord, the name suits her. Felice means
good fortune, and surely she is most fortunate in having so many to love and
care for her.”
Cristina raised her large, dark eyes to him. Could she
possibly see inside his heart to know how little he cared what the child was
called? “She has good fortune in your care of her.”
He watched Cristina’s face light with a smile. The simple
look sent a shaft of sensation arrowing through him. With a physical struggle,
he forced himself to leave the chamber.
“Ah, Durand,” Luke called to him from the foot of the
stairs. “Why have you been hiding from me? Dare I suppose you fear another
session with the castle accounts?”
“I fear nothing, brother.” Durand clapped his brother on the
shoulder.
Nay, he lied. He feared many things: learning which man had
betrayed him just at this time when loyalty meant everything; watching Marion’s
daughter grow to resemble someone he trusted; showing how much he wanted the merchant’s
wife.
Thoughts of Cristina le Gros sent Durand’s reflections to
Simon, and from him to Old Owen and his words about betrayal. But when he
sought the elderly merchant, he found Father Odo instead.
Old Owen had died.
Chapter Five
At Owen’s graveside, just after dawn, the priest spoke at
length of Owen’s virtues. Durand cursed himself. Why had he not sought Owen out
earlier? Too much occupied his mind. Now it was too late.
When the folk of the keep gathered to watch the old man laid
to rest in the chapel yard, Durand thought about what Owen had said.
Who would betray him?
Someone already had, he thought, looking over at Felice in
Cristina le Gros’ arms. Had Owen known Marion’s lover? The old man had known so
much of what went on twixt village and castle. Now he had taken it to his
grave.
* * * * *
“You should have come to Owen’s burial,” Cristina said to
Simon as he wandered about her little alcove, touching dried flower petals and
sniffing effusions. “He deserved your respect.”
“I cannot see every old man buried,” Simon snapped. “What
have you here, Cristina?” Motes of dust danced in the morning sunlight behind
Simon as he whirled about.
With guilty heat on her cheeks, she hurried to where he
stood at her worktable. But it was not the potion she was preparing that drew
him.
“‘Tis
The disputed book was wrapped in its cloth and set upon the
table. Her words separated them as surely as her father’s business. “I shall
come back then and read it to you,” he said.
“That is most kind, but—”
He hurried over her embarrassed words. “You’ll show me the
book when ‘tis clean? I’d be most interested to see it. Then I shall share it
with you.”
She nodded, but did not look his way.
“How fares the child?” He glanced around for the babe and
saw the simple wooden cradle more suited to a child of Cristina’s than of
Marion’s. His sons had lain in gilded beds, carved with ravens, to remind them
of their duty as they slept.
“Felice is quite well. She’s the sweetest-tempered—”
“Felice? Did the priest baptize her thusly? I thought she
was to be called Elizabeth Margaret Iona, after my grandmother.”
“Lady Marion changed her mind, my lord. Lady Oriel was quite
angry with the good father over it, but he would adhere to our lady’s wishes.
But truly, in the confusion with our lady’s collapse, no one wished to argue
such a thing—”
“It matters not what the babe is called.” The child in the
cradle was but a tiny tuft of fair hair above the swaddling.
It was a blessing the child took after Marion—or was it a
curse? Would that the child’s hair or eye color cried out her father’s name.
Nay, it would also cry him a cuckold. He clenched his fist.
Had Marion decided it would be playing the hypocrite to name
the child for his grandmother?
Cristina knelt by the cradle’s edge and stroked her fingers
through the downy hair. “I confess, my lord, the name suits her. Felice means
good fortune, and surely she is most fortunate in having so many to love and
care for her.”
Cristina raised her large, dark eyes to him. Could she
possibly see inside his heart to know how little he cared what the child was
called? “She has good fortune in your care of her.”
He watched Cristina’s face light with a smile. The simple
look sent a shaft of sensation arrowing through him. With a physical struggle,
he forced himself to leave the chamber.
“Ah, Durand,” Luke called to him from the foot of the
stairs. “Why have you been hiding from me? Dare I suppose you fear another
session with the castle accounts?”
“I fear nothing, brother.” Durand clapped his brother on the
shoulder.
Nay, he lied. He feared many things: learning which man had
betrayed him just at this time when loyalty meant everything; watching Marion’s
daughter grow to resemble someone he trusted; showing how much he wanted the merchant’s
wife.
Thoughts of Cristina le Gros sent Durand’s reflections to
Simon, and from him to Old Owen and his words about betrayal. But when he
sought the elderly merchant, he found Father Odo instead.
Old Owen had died.
Chapter Five
At Owen’s graveside, just after dawn, the priest spoke at
length of Owen’s virtues. Durand cursed himself. Why had he not sought Owen out
earlier? Too much occupied his mind. Now it was too late.
When the folk of the keep gathered to watch the old man laid
to rest in the chapel yard, Durand thought about what Owen had said.
Who would betray him?
Someone already had, he thought, looking over at Felice in
Cristina le Gros’ arms. Had Owen known Marion’s lover? The old man had known so
much of what went on twixt village and castle. Now he had taken it to his
grave.
* * * * *
“You should have come to Owen’s burial,” Cristina said to
Simon as he wandered about her little alcove, touching dried flower petals and
sniffing effusions. “He deserved your respect.”
“I cannot see every old man buried,” Simon snapped. “What
have you here, Cristina?” Motes of dust danced in the morning sunlight behind
Simon as he whirled about.
With guilty heat on her cheeks, she hurried to where he
stood at her worktable. But it was not the potion she was preparing that drew
him.
“‘Tis
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