Free Lord of the Mist by Ann Lawrence

Gros. Why do you perch like a sparrow in the
shadows here?” It was Sir Luke who approached her.
    “Would you return this herbal to Lord Durand?” She handed
Luke the newly cleaned Aelfric, an ache in her middle that she had had but two
days to peruse it. Yet she could not keep such a gift. If Simon knew its worth,
surely Lord Durand did as well. The implications of the gift frightened her.
Did not a man want something in return for such value?
    She had naught to give.
    “Most certainly,” Luke said. “Come along with me, if you
have the time, as I find I have need of your services.”
    Luke led her to his counting room, where he placed the
herbal in a coffer filled with rolls of parchment and other books. She longed
to see them, but the lid fell shut on the treasures.
    “Sit.” He indicated a stool by his fire. “I’ve a friend who
has come to me.” Luke cleared his throat. “Ah. It seems, that is… Mon Dieu ,
this is difficult.”
    “Take your time, my lord.” Cristina tucked her skirts about
her knees and tried to ignore her aching breasts. Felice had nursed little and
then fallen deeply asleep as if she had feasted on the stuffed swan from the
high table.
    “I’ve a friend who is most distressed that he’s unable
to…that is, he feels himself not quite adequate… Mon Dieu !” Luke began to
pace. He finally halted at the fire, back to her. “This friend feels himself
inadequate in the bedchamber. There I have said it!”
    He turned around. His face was as red as the streaks in his
golden hair.
    Cristina swallowed. “I see. Why are you telling me this?”
She knew his reputation. Lord of Skirts, they called him. Was it not true? She
didn’t believe in the friend of Sir Luke any more than she believed in the
friend of Lady Oriel.
    “I’d hoped you could conjure up a salve or something.”
    She almost giggled at the thought of where Luke would need
to rub it. “I see.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not a healer, my lord.”
    “This is not something for the leech, mistress.” Luke raked
his fingers through his hair. “He’d have it about the castle in the time it
took me to spit twice.”
    “Mayhap I can mix something for your friend. But…” She
swallowed her mirth and gulped. How to ask this next question? Her own face
heated. “But in what manner does the man feel—”
    Luke frantically waved his hands. “Nay, nay, say no more. He
is, shall we just say, distressed he has no children.”
    No children ? Whatever did Sir Luke want with a child?
Mayhap he did have a friend in need. Then she thought of Oriel who also wanted
a potion to conceive. “I understand. Your friend wishes something to aid
conception.”
    Luke smiled. “You understand. Make it something strong. Very
strong. He’s most anxious for an heir.”
    Cristina rose. Her breasts were as hard as millstones. She
ached to rub them. “Shall I leave the potion here, my lord?”
    “You’re an angel.”
    Cristina returned to Felice’s chamber. Within the curtained
alcove, a spare, gray-haired man sniffed at the bowls on her work table. The
leech. His dusty embroidered robes dragged about his ankles as he clucked and
mewed over her hanging bunches of drying flowers.
    “May I help you, Master Aldwin?” she asked.
    The leech turned to her and blew a long breath from his
fleshy lips. “I’ll not abide your trespass, Mistress le Gros.”
    She went to the cradle. The babe lay on her back, hands in
tiny fists, and made small puffing noises—sound asleep. With a sigh, Cristina
tried to ignore her discomfort and the whine in Master Aldwin’s voice. “I
intend no trespass, sir.”
    “What need have you of betony or dock?”
    “I keep some herbs for my own use, sir, as does any wife.
Surely, you cannot object to that? I trade only in pretty scents.”
    “Humph. You prepared an herbal drink for Lady Marion, did
you not?”
    “Nay, ‘twas honey in warm milk. It had no healing
properties. ‘Twas what any cook would prepare if