Lord of the Mist Read Online Free PDF Page B

hear your
opinion of Marion.”
    “Oriel would agree. You’d be an earl now if Richard had
lived. Your absences suited Marion as long as she could see an earl’s belt at
the end of it. She only complained when all knew you must prove yourself again
to John. ‘Tis simple spite on the king’s behalf.”
    “All men must prove their loyalty.”
    Penne drew his horse even with Durand’s as the beaten path
widened. The horses slowed to pick their way over the ruts left by heavy carts.
“Oriel and Marion argued often about John and Richard.”
    “And Philip’s confiscation of our holdings in Normandy—”
Durand lifted a gloved hand to silence Penne, and pointed to a small clearing
near the stream bank.
    Penne followed the direction of his hand and raised his dark
eyebrows. Together they halted their horses and stared.
    Cristina le Gros danced in the clearing—a woodland sprite
come to life. She danced to some fairy music only she could hear over the flow of
the water and the sough of the wind in the trees. Heat rushed through Durand’s
body.
    She swayed and skimmed over the soft green grass, turned and
twirled. Her drab mantle formed a bell about her legs. In her arms she cradled
a babe. Marion’s .
    Slowly Durand urged his horse toward her, Penne behind him.
They were upon her before she noticed them.
    “Oh, my lord.” Her cheeks colored as she fell still. Her
plait, half undone, straggled over one shoulder. The hem of her mantle was
spotted with mud. Her pattens were thick with it.
    “Mistress le Gros, what the devil are you doing here in
these woods?” He swept a hand out to indicate the dense forest about them.
Penne’s horse whickered a protest at his sharp words.
    “Gathering, my lord. These men protect me.” She swept a hand
out as he had.
    “I see no men.” Durand dismounted. She stood her ground,
although her color rose even higher the closer he approached.
    “They were here a moment ago. I but stepped away to this
seat to feed the babe.” She pointed. A smudge of dirt marred one of her soft
cheeks.
    “Seat?” He expected to see an elfin throne. Instead, he saw
only a smooth stump. “You defy sense. And what is that bundle you carry?” He
pointed to her middle.
    “Your daughter.”
    “So I assumed. What the devil is an infant doing in the
woods? What of fever? What of brigands?”
    “I assure you, my lord, I do not endanger your daughter. She
is warm and snug here.” As if to protect the child—or herself—from his wrath,
she wrapped her arms about the babe.
    “Where are your men?” he asked.
    “Here, Durand.” Luke stepped into the clearing.
Incongruously, he held an ax. “Your wet nurse is quite well protected. In fact,
she’s a Tartar. Even I have bowed to her wishes. Have you ever chopped a tree?
It is damned hard work.” Luke took Cristina’s elfin throne. “I would rather
fight the heartiest of warriors than dig plants and chop branches for Mistress
le Gros. Nettles she wants, and hawthorne! Naught but thorns and rashes.”
    “I have need of many plants, my lord,” Cristina said hastily
lest they suspect she made a love potion. “I thought to bring a few back to the
castle.”
    Somehow the grin on Luke’s face only nourished Durand’s
anger. Three men stepped into the clearing, arms filled with potted plants,
their fingers black with the rich loam of the forest. Able men. Two more
appeared, Luke’s men. Seven more stepped from the shadows. An ample guard.
    He felt the fool. “Get yourself back to the keep. Now.” He
spoke only to Mistress le Gros. He mounted and wheeled his horse, and clots of
mud flew in all directions as he galloped into the trees.
    Cristina immediately headed for the horses, a cold chill
filling her, despite Sir Luke’s assurance that his brother was not so very
piqued. “I cannot think what he must be like when truly angry then,” she said.
    “Oh, ‘tis a sight to behold. Fire streams from his nostrils,
steam issues from his ears. He sprouts