Free Lord of the Mist by Ann Lawrence Page A

asked!”
    Master Aldwin sniffed. “I’ll complain to his lordship if I
find you are healing, Mistress le Gros.” He swung about to her table and
swept out an arm. In moments, her bowls and oils crashed to the floor.
    She could not stifle a strangled cry of dismay.
    Aldwin pressed his hands to his cheeks. “Ah, me. Forgive me,
mistress. How clumsy of me!”
    From the corner came a sudden shriek. Felice pawed the air
and wailed. Aldwin turned to where the babe lay and pointed a quivering finger.
“Tend to your work and I’ll tend to mine, else Lord Durand shall put you out!”
    Weeks of gathering lay in ruins, purchased spices mingled
with lowly mint. She scooped Felice up and held her close. The babe rooted at
her breast; Cristina’s eyes burned. She would not weep! She had vowed years ago
to never weep, had broken that vow only to mourn her daughters. She would not break
it now.
    Ground cinnamon, so little left, so costly to obtain, all
lost in the rushes. Lavender mingled with comfrey. She concentrated on the
child and forced herself to put the disaster from her mind. Thank God Aldwin
had not seen the Aelfric volume laying open on the table but an hour ago.
Surely that would be evidence to him she intended to set herself to healing.
    When Felice slumbered, sated, mouth agape, Cristina placed
her on the bed. How simple life was for Felice. Eat and sleep.
    * * * * *
    Alice found her on her hands and knees an hour later, her
bowls in a circle around her. “Mistress! What ails ye?”
    Cristina poured tainted oil into a large basin and sniffed
to see if it could be salvaged. “I’m quite well, Alice. I had an accident.”
    “Oh, ‘tis an ill omen! All yer precious things!” Alice
dropped to her knees and began to sweep seeds into a small pile with her hand.
    “Alice, the sun is on the wane. Why do you not take a turn
in the cook’s garden? ‘Tis like to rain on the morrow.”
    Alice sat back on her heels. “Ye do not fool me, miss. I’m
mixing them up, am I not?”
    With a quick bob of her head, Cristina acknowledged the
truth. Hearing the babe wake, she patted Alice’s hand. “Take Felice and sit in
the sun.”
    “Aye, I will, and on the morrow I’ll beg some space for ye
from the cook to grow yer flowers. ‘E owes me a favor or two.”
    “Oh, Alice, what that would mean to me!”
    Alice winked and rose with a groan. “I’ll see to it. Me
knees are too old for this work.” She departed.
    Cristina worked for several more hours, sifting seeds and
herbs into their bowls. Costly spices were tainted with common herbs, some
hopelessly soaked in oils. She tried to imagine new uses for them.
    Alice returned Felice for her next feeding. As the babe
nursed, Cristina’s mind drifted to thoughts of the kitchen garden and how long
it would take to harvest anything useful. Just a few rows was all she
needed—actually, many rows, but she would settle for a few to start.
    The many scents that mingled without purpose offended her.
She contemplated the enemy she had made in Master Aldwin.
    Would Lord Durand turn her out at Aldwin’s word?
    She put Felice in her sling and went in search of Sir Luke.
But he sat at Lord Durand’s side amidst a group of lords and knights and their
ladies, making approach impossible.
    The women were draped in gowns the colors of the flowers of
the fields; gold circlets studded with gems adorned their brows. Each woman was
tended by her servant, each lord and knight by his men. Then she saw a portly
man, a bishop, with several cassocked men at his side. What illustrious company
had gathered for King John’s visit. This is what she had missed when last the
king had visited Ravenswood. Then she had lived at the alehouse and come to the
keep not at all.
    Lord Durand looked the finest of the men. He wore a tunic of
deep forest green. About his waist he wore a belt of leather, studded with
silver and amber. About his neck gleamed the golden torque. She had seen it
close now, the twists of