Lord of the Mist Read Online Free PDF

mussed and his tunic rumpled. Cristina heard a
feminine giggle.
    “Forgive me, sir, for disturbing you. I wished only to
obtain permission to leave the keep and gather a few plants.”
    “You’re not a prisoner here; you may leave when the spirit
moves you.” He leaned in the opening, his grin settling into a kind smile.
    She dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll need
several strong men to accompany me. I would like to have some plants dug and
potted for my use. I’ve no authority to command even a groom to lead my horse.”
    With a wistful look over his shoulder, Luke left the
chamber, shutting the door firmly behind him. “Come. I’ll see to it for you.
There are many lazy louts about who have need of such occupation.”
    * * * * *
    Durand, accompanied by Penne, rode into the village. He
inspected the baker’s ovens, the mill, the village well, and finally arrived at
the house that would soon be home to his new merchant. The long stone building
stood at the edge of the village on the road leading to Portsmouth.
    Pilfered stone from an ancient Roman temple formed a
decorative face to the door. Ducking his head to enter, Durand smiled. It had
always been thus—a profusion of goods tumbled in happy disorder from shelves
and coffers. The myriad scents of Old Owen’s stock filled the front room that
served to house his shop.
    The living quarters were overhead. The ladder to the second
floor was no longer negotiable by the old man, who now lay on a pallet near his
hearth. There Durand found him with Simon le Gros.
    “Shall I see to your horse, my lord?” Simon inquired.
    Durand nodded.
    “I have no liking for illness,” Penne said quietly and
followed the merchant out.
    Durand wandered the crowded room and noticed the many
spiderwebs and dirt that indicated the extent of Old Owen’s illness. The man
had once been as fastidious as a vestal virgin. “What may I do for you, Owen?
Is there aught you would like to see taken to the keep for your comfort?”
    “There is naught I need, save me bed,” Owen said in a low
rasp that deteriorated into a hacking cough.
    Durand poured ale from a pitcher and supported the man’s
shoulders as he drank. “I’ll see there’s a strict accounting of all that
remains here, and my brother will dispose of it to your satisfaction.”
    Owen curled his gnarled fingers in Durand’s tunic. “I’ve
some’at as needs saying. S-s—” A paroxysm of coughs shook his body. “Betray
you.”
    “Betray me? What are you saying?” Durand helped the old man
lie back. Did Owen know something of Marion’s perfidy?
    Simon and Penne entered the cottage.
    “At the keep, my lord,” the old man said, “At the keep. I’ll
tell ye there.”
    Durand nodded, concerned for the old man, whose color was
gray, the whites of his eyes yellow. “Simon, would you see Owen to Ravenswood?”
    “As you wish, my lord.” Simon nodded. “I shall remain here
until Owen feels fit enough to ride, then convey him to the keep.”
    Durand spoke a moment longer to the old man of their
arrangements; then, with Penne at his side, left. As they mounted their horses,
Durand considered the long, low building. “I remember sneaking down here as a
small boy. Owen was a god to me. He would allow me to sit by his fire for half
a day, sometimes. The tales he told! I knew which wives ground flour behind the
miller’s back, which man would move a field marker. Now,” he looked off into
the distance, “I know the number of men King Philip might muster, but not how
many men plow my fields.”
    “Marion complained often of your many absences.”
    “Aye, she had much of which to complain.”
    “You were not free to do as you pleased. I know ‘tis wrong
to speak ill of the dead, but she was petty and childish to expect you to drop
the king’s business to tend her needs.”
    Durand urged his horse to a canter. He followed an old deer
track into the woods, which bordered a lazy stream. “Do not let Oriel