A Whisper of Rosemary

Chapter One

Eighteen Years Later

Langumont Keep

“Lady Allegra, a man has arrived below-stairs and wishes to speak with you.”

Maris looked up from the embroidery on which she had been trying to concentrate and eagerly dropped it to the table in front of her. “I’ll attend to the visitor, Mama. I’ve enough of needles and thread for the day.”

She rose, glancing automatically out the narrow window for a sign of approaching riders. There was naught on the horizon but snow-covered hills and sparse trees.

Her mother, Allegra, Lady of Langumont, gave her a vague smile and made no move to stir. “And if you continue to seize every opportunity to put your sewing aside, how will you finish your father’s surcoat by Christ’s Mass?”

“I’ll finish it in time, Mama,” Maris told her. And she would, too, for it was almost as if her father couldn’t return home in time for the celebrations unless she did. Yet, Maris glanced at the half-finished surcoat and wished she hadn’t chosen to embark on such a complicated project.

“Very well,” Allegra told her. “Greet our visitor in my stead and do what you can for him.”

It was the difference between she and her mother, Maris reflected as she hurried down the curving stone staircase. She moved with such alacrity that the tapestries billowed against the walls and wisps of her hair fluttered against her cheeks. Her mother had always preferred to wait for what would come, whilst Maris rode eagerly to meet trouble—or anything else of interest.

In the absence of Lord Merle, her father, Maris managed the fief, with the help of Langumont’s steward. Allegra was content to stitch on the many tapestries that decorated the walls, or to manage the sewing ladies. Mayhap, if roused, she would make selections of fabrics, or choose meats for the evening meals, but she did not bestir herself with managing the estate.

Such was gladly left to her enthusiastic daughter, the only child of Allegra and Merle, and the sole heiress to Langumont’s vast holdings. It was only right that a woman who was heir to such large holdings must clearly understand the management of them—from every home of each villein and tradesman, to which fields belonged to the overlord, and which were left to the villagers. She knew every inch of every acre of forest as well, and rode out with her father as often as he allowed.

When she was near the bottom of the stairs, Maris took a moment to adjust her headdress and wimple. The Lady of Langumont might be busy, but she never appeared rushed.

At this time of the day, mid-afternoon, when the winter sun sunk low to the trees, the hall was empty of men-at-arms and bustling with serfs preparing for the evening meal. A lone, stationary man dressed in fine clothing stood near the stone fireplace that stretched nearly the length of one wall. He appeared to be surveying the room, and when Maris came into his view, he turned to look at her.

She approached him with regal bearing. “I am Lady Maris Lareux. You are well come to Langumont Keep.”

He was not overly tall, but taller than she, and his small, sharp black eyes scored over her as if snatching in every detail in a large gulp. More of an age with Allegra than Maris, the man was mayhap one and a half score.

He was not unpleasing to look upon, with his gleaming black hair, fashionable moustache and neatly trimmed beard, and at first, he appeared neat and well dressed. Yet as Maris returned his bold gaze with one of her own, she noted the splotch of a stain on the midriff of his tunic and the frayed hem of the cross-garters on his left leg.

“I am Bon de Savrille, my lady. I had not expected...I was led to believe that the Lady of Langumont was called Allegra.”

“Lady Allegra is my mother,” Maris told him. “She has asked that I greet our guests and tend to their needs as she is otherwise occupied. May I offer you aught to eat or drink? If you have a message for my mother, I would be pleased to relay it to her.”

“Nay,” he returned, his gaze sweeping her again so that she felt the urge to look down and make certain the laces were tied at her bliaut’s bosom. “Nay, ’tis not she to whom I wish to speak.”

“But you did request to see the Lady of Langumont,” Maris pressed. “Do you bear a message of some sort? From my father?” A sudden fear seized her middle.

“Nay. I am merely in need of a pallet for the night, as I am traveling to my home. I asked only for Lady Allegra, as her name was familiar to me. I knew her once long ago, and had heard that she was lady here.” He smiled, and though he likely meant it to be a warm one, Maris thought it carried the greasiness of an undercooked hare.

The man was odd, but she did not fear him. Nay, she had no need to fear him, or any other man while in Langumont. At the slightest crook of her little finger, any number of men-at-arms would rush to her assistance or protection.

This single man who, even if he were armed could be wearing only a dagger or eating knife, posed no threat to her. Still. His expression caused Maris to step away, grateful for something to do other than to allow the man to rake her up and down with his eyes.

The look there was a mixture of complacence, interest, and cunning, and not for the first time did Maris wish she had Good Venny’s seventh sense for understanding people.

“You may have a seat at any of the tables, and there are pallets in the room below-stairs. If there is anything else you wish, please send for Ralf.”

Maris made a move to go, but the man stopped her. “My lady, there is one last thing. If you would give this to your lady mother, mayhap she will remember me.” She saw that he was working a tight ring from a middle finger that resembled a sausage more than an appendage.

At last it slipped free, and he dropped the heavy, warm gold into her hand. Maris closed her fingers around it. “I’ll give it to her and return with her message.”

“Indeed. And many thanks to you for your hospitality.” His gaze transferred from her to sweep the room, as if taking in its expansiveness and accoutrements.

Glad to be released from what had to be the oddest conversation she’d had since the daft miller Brander had passed on, Maris nodded and gave a brief bow before sweeping from the hall. Ralf would tend to Bon de Savrille if he had any further needs. She would take the ring to Allegra and see what her mother remembered of this bizarre man.

As Maris entered the room, she offered the heavy gold ring to her mother, saying, “Our visitor is named Bon de Savrille, and he sends this to you.”

To Maris’s shock, Allegra’s face drained of color. Her eyes grew round and her body stiffened. With fingers that shook, she took the ring from Maris’s hand, closing her fingers around it as if to imprison it.

“Mama, what is it? Shall I order him thrown out?” A wave of strength and protectiveness surged from Maris’s middle. If the man sought to hurt Allegra, or to threaten her in some way, he would be swiftly dealt with.

“Nay. Nay, my sweetling. ’Tis naught. I merely felt a bit light of head for the moment.” Allegra’s smile was a bit wobbly.

“But Mama—”

“Nay.” Allegra’s voice, rarely this harsh and strong, stopped the words from her daughter’s mouth. “’Tis naught, Maris. I am merely weary and wish to rest. You may leave me. Do you not give that man any further message or attention. I bid you leave him be. He is no one.”

As Maris left the chamber, Allegra’s heart was ramming so hard in her throat that she thought it might choke her. Her hands had become cold, and they were stiff with the chilling fear that filled her. She wanted naught more than to stay in this sunlit solar, to ignore the man from her past.

His arrival could mean nothing good.

But she knew she must speak with Bon. His summons had been implicit when he gave Maris the signet ring to show Allegra. She must find out why he’d reappeared after so many years, and what he wanted from her. And so she descended the stairs to the great hall, knowing he’d be waiting for her to appear.

Knowing that she’d come to him.

She wasn’t mistaken, for he was sitting on a stool near one of the smaller fireplaces, watching her from across the vast chamber. Ignoring him, Allegra sent Maris on an errand to the kitchen. She knew that her headstrong and directive daughter would be occupied for some time therein, for one of the cook’s children had taken ill. Before moving in the direction of her visitor, Allegra gave several more orders that would take most of the serfs, as well as the steward and the few men-at-arms from the hall as well. She wanted as few witnesses as possible.

Then, with great trepidation, she made her way to where he sat, taking care to appear that she merely wandered there by happenstance.

“What a lovely daughter you have,” were Bon’s first words as Allegra approached. He stood and gave a brief, mocking bow.

“I thought—’twas thought you were dead.” Allegra hated that her voice came out weak and thready. She sank onto the stool he’d just vacated, her knees trembling violently.

“I’ve come back to life, so it seems.” His dark eyes taunted her.

Allegra forced a smile over her stiff features. “You are well come to the home of Lord Lareux and myself.”

A soft, cruel laugh rumbled from deep in his throat. “Aye, Allegra, I am so well come that you did not greet your brother with open arms in view of your serfs and your daughter. In fact, you sent them on their way before you deigned to acknowledge me. Are you so certain I am well come?”

“Half-brother,” she reminded him, summoning a bit of spirit.

“Aye.” His laughter stopped abruptly. “I am indeed the son of a lord and his lady—unlike my sister, who was spawned by a whore.”

Allegra flinched and fought to keep her voice steady and out of earshot of the single serf across the room as she demanded, “Why are you here? What do you want?”

“Your daughter is lovely. Amazingly lovely,” he said, his attention boring into the orange flames next to them as he spoke with studied casualness. “’Tis hard to believe she is the daughter of a gruff and homely man as Merle Lareux.”

Darkness closed in on Allegra’s vision and she drew in a deep breath. His last words floated between them, threatening and knowing. Her cold hands fluttered in her lap, digging into the material of her gown, twisting and turning, hiding…. “Aye,” she whispered. Could he know?

“Or is she?”

Allegra’s insides collapsed into a mass of writhing, churning nausea. “What do you say?” she managed, despite the fact that the world was closing in on her.

Bon stepped back from her, turning to look across the empty hall. The cold confidence in his movements and the proprietary sweep of his gaze made Allegra feel even more ill. “Beyond is the beautiful maiden Maris of Langumont, heiress to the vast lands of Merle Lareux. She must be near a ripe age to wed…it has been nearly eighteen years, has it not?” He turned slowly to look at Allegra. “’Twould be a shame if the truth were found out, aye? Were the great Lord of Langumont to learn that the daughter he adores is not of his—”

“Enough,” Allegra cried softly, still taking care that none of the bustling serfs should see that aught was amiss. “Do you not speak such lies in my home.”

“Lies?” Bon rumbled from deep in his throat. “Aye. Lies that have such truth to them that the walls of Langumont Keep could come crumbling down about you.” His laughter was bitter. He looked at her calmly, seeming to enjoy the fear that ate into her. “Lady sister, I have returned—from the dead, if you wish—for my rightful inheritance.”

The numbness of fear was so great that Allegra did not comprehend him. “What?”

“Cleonis, Firmain…and now, thanks to your marriage to Merle Lareux—from which there is, quite remarkably, only a single issue in the form of your lovely daughter—I shall also be the heir apparent to Langumont, Edena and Damona.” His eyes took on a bright gleam. “I am the rightful heir to Father’s lands, Allegra, and I’ll have them.”

“Nay.” She found her voice at last. “Father disowned you, and you disappeared when he wed with Mother. My mother.” Though she knew little of the ways lands were enfeoffed and distributed, she knew enough that a woman could inherit should her father or the king allow it. Merle had arranged it for Maris, his only daughter. And Allegra knew that her father had done the same for her. That Bon had no claim to the lands she’d brought to her marriage to Merle.

“Nay,” Bon said, a smile stretching his beard and moustache. “I cannot claim Cleonis as a son. But as a husband….”

“A husband?” she breathed, the fear stifling her as the meaning of his words penetrated. He would claim Maris as his wife? His own niece?

He stood back, that smile turning colder and more calculating. “’Twould be a shame for Merle Lareux to learn the truth of his daughter…and the perfidy of his wife. However, that unpleasantness could be avoided were the beautiful heiress of Langumont entrusted to the right husband.”

“Nay. Never.” Allegra stood, turning away in a rush of fear and anger. Her hands trembled violently. “I will never give Maris to a dog such as you.”

His voice remained low and cold, drawing her to look back at him. “In time, you will come to see the advantage of my offer. I wed Maris, inherit Langumont and Cleonis, and you remain the healthy wife of Merle Lareux. If not…ach…I fear there will be a convent in your future. Or worse.”

“Never,” she repeated.

Bon’s eyes were sharp as they settled on her, raking over her with obvious disgust. “This is not the last you will hear from me.”

Without another word, Bon turned and strode from the hall.

Allegra eased herself slowly back onto the stool, her head light. The world was in a darkening spiral.

What could she do?

Bone-weary, dirty, and smelling of ripe horse, Dirick of Derkland hailed the guardsmen above the heavy portcullis of the Tower of London. At last.

Nick’s sure hooves clattered on the polished wood as they continued through the entrance into the bailey of King Henry the Plantagenet’s current residence. It had been a brutal two days’ ride in snow and sleet from the funeral of Dirick’s father at Derkland Keep, and he wished only to strip off his half-frozen, sweat-soaked sherte and chausses and slip into a steaming bath that smelled of some pleasing spice or other.

With one of the king’s maids attending him, of course.

Mayhap that, at least, would turn his mind from the grief and anger that had gnawed his middle this se’ennight past.

Fortunately, Dirick had visited Henry uncountable times and Nick knew the whereabouts of the stable without prompting. Dirick’s eyelids sagged, as did his shoulders, and when he slid to the ground, planting his boots in the snow, his knees buckled from weariness. One of the marshals took Nick’s reins, and Dirick stumbled gratefully toward the main keep where he would find food and warmth. The bath and the woman, he amended internally, could wait for the morrow.

He would search out a pallet on the floor in the below-stairs chamber for the men, and he would sleep. Sleep. He prayed he was too tired to dream, for the nightmare of what had befallen his father would surely haunt him.

Dirick managed the steps into the hall, but had barely begun his search for a spot at the long trestle tables when he was hailed from behind.

“Dirick! You are here.”

He turned toward the familiar voice. “Gavin. Aye, only just moments ago. I am in search of food and a pallet,” he responded, grasping the forearm of his friend in greeting.

Lord Gavin of Mal Verne was shaking his head, his stark features more sharp than usual. “I fear your rest must needs wait. Henry demands you attend him immediately.”

Dirick cursed, flexing his frozen fingers. “How can he know I am arrived? I have only just left the stable. I didn’t even take the time to unsaddle Nick myself.”

“We were in his private chamber when the news came you’d crossed the drawbridge. He bade me send you to him immediately, before you found yourself in the company of one lady or another.” A faint quirk of his mouth gave the words a humorous edge, but it slipped away at his next words. “I was aggrieved to hear of your father’s death. I am sorry that Madelyne and I could not attend the funeral, but the news did not reach us here until ’twas too late.”

“Aye. I learned the news in bare time to travel to Derkland myself,” Dirick replied, falling into reluctant step with Gavin as they left the hall. “I traveled two days with no rest from Kent, and then at the nonce of the funeral’s end, I remounted Nick and rode here with no rest.”

He’d felt more than a bit of guilt, leaving his brother Bernard—who was now Lord of Derkland—to deal with the grief of their mother, but it could not be helped. Joanna, Bernard’s wife, was a kind and gentle soul, and she would take good care of their mother.

“There is, at least, food with the king,” Gavin pointed out as they came to a fork in the passageway. Then he stopped and gave Dirick a wry smile. “Now that I have done my duty, I’ll bid you good eve and wish you luck on finding your pallet sometime before the dawn. I have been with Henry all the day myself—he is filled with the energetic humors all these last days and has kept me since dawn. And Madelyne awaits me.”

“Bid her well for me. I’ll speak with the king, then, God willing, find that pallet and sleep for two days. ’Tis that, or my knees will give out in his royal presence.” Dirick gave his friend a weak grin, then turned toward Henry’s chamber and strode rapidly down the chill, dark passage. The sooner he should learn of the king’s needs, the sooner Dirick could see to his own.

’Twas not as if his own requirements were great.

As the youngest son of Harold of Derkland, Dirick had neither lands nor an affinity for the Church—as his two elder brothers did, eldest and middle, respectively. Instead, he had made himself indispensable to the young King of England when he was merely the Count of Angevin and wooing his bride, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Henry had grown to trust and rely upon Dirick, and as he had naught to offer any woman but his company and his body, Dirick had enjoyed his time in Eleanor’s Court of Love whilst managing the variety of tasks Henry set before him.

’Twas just as well that he had not been seated in the hall, he reflected numbly, striding along the curving passageway. He was in no good mood to charm the ladies of Eleanor’s court, nor did he wish to offend any of them in his present state.

But to his dismay, when Dirick was shown into Henry’s private solar, his wife, Queen Eleanor attended him also.

“Your majesty.” He bowed first to Henry, pressing his forehead to the king’s outstretched hand, and then swiveled on his bent, aching knee to greet the queen. “My queen, I fear I offend you in my present state.”

“Dirick, you may get off the floor and rid yourself of that sword and cloak,” Henry boomed, standing to look down at him. “’Tis not as though Eleanor doesn’t understand the rudiments of traveling in haste. The woman leaves me in her tracks when we tour Aquitaine. ’Tis only when she is enceinte that she travels at a reasonable pace,”

“Indeed, Sir Dirick,” the queen’s languid tones forgave him, “’twould be unthinkable that you could offend me. Or any of my ladies, for that matter.”

Dirick murmured his thanks and pulled to his feet, smothering a groan from the ache in his knees, and unbuckled the sword from his tunic. Resting it on the floor near the door, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and dropped it atop the scabbard, then turned back to his liege.

“Sit yourself down,” Henry grumped, turning to pace across the room. “Your excessive height offends me—and in truth, you look as though you are ready to fall over.”

Dirick sank onto a stool near the crackling fire and tried to warm his hands. Henry’s sharp eyes surely did not miss the weariness and pain that lined his man’s face, but he said nothing save, “Your father is laid to rest?”

“Aye. He is laid to rest—yet I will not rest until I lay hand and sword upon the man who helped him to an early grave.” Dirick stopped his weary tongue from adding aloud the words that echoed in his mind: with or without your blessing.

“And well you should not, Dirick. I would expect no less from you. A younger son you might be, but bound with honor and determination you ever have been—at the least in my name.” Henry gestured to a wooden platter of cheese and bread. “Eat, man, before you tilt onto the floor, and I will tell you why I have summoned you.”

Eleanor thrust a goblet of ruby wine into his hand, and Dirick took it, mildly surprised that she would serve him. But he was left to reach for his own hunk of bread, and he did, tearing it from the brown loaf, and breaking off a piece of cheese as well. The wine, surely from Eleanor’s own lands of Aquitaine, went smoothly down his throat and warmed his limbs as Henry began to speak in his abrupt fashion.

“As I have heard it, your father Harold was found dead with his horse and one of his men near Derrington. ’Twas no ordinary scene of war or thievery.”

“Aye. On his belly and unshriven,” Dirick spat, heedless of the breadcrumbs that sprayed into his wine. “His throat was slit deep, through to the spine. Someone had arranged it so that his head pulled back, leaving his face to look up at the heavens.” Anger and nausea rolled deep within him, simmering and bubbling from where he’d kept it tucked away for days.

“And his body was arranged thusly with another victim, hand to hand, belly to ground, face to the sky, as well,” Henry continued. His voice had lost its friendly boom and become hard. “’Tis a madman, and your father’s death was the third such instance in two summers.”

Dirick swallowed hard, and the lump of bread stuck in his throat. He gulped wine to soften it and warm his suddenly shivering body again. “More? There are more of these slaughterings?”

“Aye.” Of a sudden, the king looked as weary as Dirick felt. “I have summoned you with such haste because I do not wish there to be a fourth instance. You may fulfill your need for vengeance and mine own desires at the nonce, and with my blessing.”

The realization that he did not have to beg to be released from Henry’s service to find his father’s killer lightened Dirick’s weary shoulders. His prayers had been answered. “Many thanks, my liege. You have granted me the only boon I should ask of you.”

Henry nodded once, as if to agree, and Dirick shoved a hunk of crusty yellow cheese into his mouth. “You will leave on the morrow—or the one following, if you desire a day of rest before setting out on your quest. You have my permission to travel where you wish to run this killer to the ground, but one small task you must first complete.

“I have long suspected my vassal Bon de Savrille, Lord of Breakston by some fool’s decision, of having something to hide from his king. He has not traveled to me in more than a score moons, and he always gives the excuse of aught such as a bad crop, or reavers on the loose, for why he doesn’t come. At the last, ’twas that he’d injured a leg and couldn’t ride the distance. I bid you seek him out and learn what you can of him, and whether he should be trusted. I do not wish him to know you are my man, however, so take care how you present yourself.

“And as you travel to Breakston, you will cross the lands of Langumont. Lord Merle Lareaux of Langumont, as you mayhap are aware, is the one who came upon the scene of your father’s death. You must speak with him.”

Dirick could barely contain his satisfaction and relief at being commanded by his king to do the very thing he’d planned to plead for. “Aye, my lord. And what of the other instances of this slaughtering mad man? Are there others I should speak with as well?”

“I shall have news sent to you at Langumont, as my man Dwain travels to Lederwyth to visit with a merchant who came upon the last scene. Of the first instance…’twas nearly two summers past, and the man who found the victims is dead of the pox. He will be no help to you.”

“Very well, my lord. Now, if you will, as you have provided me with satisfaction for belly and mind, I will beg leave and seek a pallet. It will be a long ride to Langumont and Breakston, and I am weary in both body and spirit.”

Eleanor’s dulcet tones interrupted any response her husband may have intended. “But Christ’s Mass is on the morrow, Dirick. By now the ladies have heard of your return, and they will be sore disappointed to be cheated of your dance and song at the feast.”

“Christ’s Mass?” Dirick shook his head, the weariness rushing over him again with full force. But he was not so fogged that he didn’t recognize her implicit command that he should stay and entertain her ladies. “I did not realize…aye, mayhap I will stay for the feast.” He was rewarded with a warm smile from the beautiful queen, and he considered for not the first time the challenge Henry must have, managing such a powerful woman as his wife.

It was a blessing Dirick would never have that cross to bear.

He staged a brief bow. “May I beg your leave, your majesties?”

“Aye, Dirick, only one more thing.” Something akin to grief brushed the king’s ruddy face, and Dirick recognized pain in his liege’s eyes. “You must know I am greatly grieved at your father’s passing. He was a good man, and a loyal friend and advisor. I will do whatever I can to help you bring his killer to justice.”

Chapter Two

It was late in the day of Christ’s Mass. Maris trudged through the new-fallen snow from the hall out into the bailey and over to the door that opened into the small structure that was her herbary. The little building was both her sanctuary and her liberation.

This day, the new miller’s wife was about to deliver her new baby, and Maris would be there as her healer. It was true that one of the village midwives or leeches could be there to help her, but Maris had tired of watching in vain for her father’s return and she didn’t wish to have idle hands.

Keeping her hands busy would keep her mind from stewing on the fact that Allegra refused to tell her anything more of Bon de Savrille.

The worry gnawed away in her mind.

As did the memory of de Savrille’s hungry expression as he looked at her in the hall.

A strange shiver—one of discomfort, mayhap of fear—whipped over her shoulders and had nothing to do with the cold.

And where was Papa? He had been gone over long, and it had been more than a moon since his last letter in which he was certain he’d be returned by Christ’s Mass. She missed him, and she could speak with him about her worries. Surely he would know whether this Bon de Savrille was a threat or nay.

Then, as if her deepest wish conjured him, Maris heard it: the bellows, the excited calls from the bailey.

“Riders approach! The lord’s standard!”

Hardly daring to hope, she dashed from the herbary on swift feet, allowing the door to smack into the wall as she flung it open.

“The lord! The lord returns!”

The bellowing shouts came from the guards as they raised the portcullis and lowered the drawbridge and spurred Maris’s excitement and relief.

But when she saw him, saw that he barely sat on the saddle and that his face bore a pasty expression the color of bad meat, her greetings dried in her throat. As she watched, as his eyes scored the bailey, over the masses of people welcoming his return, and finally settled on her person. She felt his relief from across the yard.

Terror surging in her chest, Maris started toward him, heedless of the danger of his war-trained horse, as he gave the barest of smiles with what seemed to be a last effort.

And then her papa slumped over, sliding off the saddle and into the snow.

It was well past the evening meal before Maris assured herself that her father would live. After the first numbness of terror, she’d galvanized into action, snapping orders and demands to serfs and men-at-arms alike.

Papa’s squire and Raymond Vermille, the master-at-arms, had carried him into the hall, up the stone-cut stairs that led to the private chamber he shared with Allegra. Maris preceded them, calling for warm water, strips of linen, broth, as well as array of herbs from her storeroom: woad leaves and comfrey roots, lavender and birch bark.

She’d soaked the linen of his sherte, which had dried into the blood of his wound, so that it could be pulled away with as little pain as possible. She mashed a paste of dried woad and comfrey root over the deep slice in his side—the mark of a sword, and not an unfamiliar sight to Maris. After wrapping it with cloth soaked in a birch bark tea, she watched for a long while until his breathing became regular and deep.

Only then was she able to settle back in her chair and look upon him with new eyes—realizing that this day, her world had shifted.

Her beloved father. The most important person in her world. He’d almost not come home.

And if he had not, she would be left alone, heiress to Langumont and vassal to King Henry—a ripe prize for any man to take.

Maris slid to her knees at that moment, sending prayers of gratitude to the Heavenly Father for sparing her earthly one. The rough stone of the floor cut through her heavy wool skirts, and the chill and dampness seeped into her knees, reminding her how different her life would be were her father not there to protect her.

Despite her array of responsibilities as lady of the manor, Maris suddenly felt young and small when she thought of being without her papa. Allegra had never had the inclination or the skill to manage the estates. Indeed, Maris tended to care for her mother more than Allegra cared for her. Her papa was her strength.

Maris rose from her knees and dashed away the single tear that had seeped from one eye.

It was foolish and a waste of time to cry over that which would not come to pass. Papa had returned and he would heal well. She would see to it. And she wouldn’t let him leave again until he was strong and able. She would also take Raymond of Vermille aside and impress upon the master at arms that if he allowed one hair on Merle’s head to be harmed, she would flay him herself, and—

Merle shifted, groaning softly, and Maris reached for his heavy hand. She sat on the edge of the bed and held his fingers in her lap, thanking God again that he was not so sore injured that he had fallen into a fever.

“Maris.” His voice was stronger than she’d expected and a surge of relief rushed over her.

“Papa, I have broth for you…and willow tea.” She helped him sit upright and saw that his eyes were open, gleaming and lucid. Aye, there would be no fever and for that she sent up another prayer of thanks.

“Aye, dearling I find I am quite hungry. Where is your mama?”

Maris brought him the bowl and dredged up a spoonful of the rich broth as she replied. “Mama came immediately, but at the sight of your gash, her head became light, and so she went to get some air. She bade me call her when you awakened—or if you worsened. So there you see, naught has changed in your absence.” She smiled with a bit of humor as well as satisfaction when she saw the way he gulped the broth.

Papa smiled back, easing her worry that much more. “But it’s not the truth, dearling, that naught has changed—for I have seen changes just in this chamber. You’ve grown more beautiful and more skilled in my absence. I told Raymond I wished to come to the place where I would be cared for the best. And I made the right choice.”

“Aye, indeed, Papa, none will care for you as I do,” Maris told him with a teary smile. “But you must rest now.”

“Aye. That I will. And on the morrow, I have much to say to you, my beloved daughter, and I will brook no disagreement from you.”

The morning after Christ’s Mass was a cold, clear one, and the sun was high in the sky. Maris shielded her eyes from the brilliance of the snow as she picked her way to the stables.

Her mare, Hickory, nickered softly from the last stall on the left. Maris crooned gently to her, petting the soft black nose that rooted about the folds of her brilliant blue cape for the dried apple hidden therein. She offered the treat to Hickory, then knelt in the stall to look at the injured leg.

Yesterday’s poultice was long dried, and Maris peeled the strips of cloth away. Gingerly feeling the length of the mare’s foreleg, she noted Hickory’s start when she pressed on the muscle that had been strained a week earlier. The swelling from an abrasion against rough stone had eased, but the mare was still in too much pain to walk easily.

Before the warm bruisewort poultice she’d prepared cooled, Maris pressed the cloth that held the herb onto the tender spot on Hickory’s leg. The horse nickered softly and butted her nose against the top of her mistress’s head. Holding the herbal mass firmly in place, she wrapped clean strips of cloth around, binding it firmly to the injured leg.

She was just pulling to her feet when the sound of running footsteps alerted her.

“Lady!”

Maris froze her heart surging into her throat. Papa?

She whirled to see who was dashing into the stables with such haste.

“Milady, you must come at once. Thomas the Cooper’s wife—she’us strainin’ to deliver her babe an’ ’tain’t comin’. I done all I ken,” Widow Maggie pleaded in earnest. She wasn’t nearly as old as the lines on her face made her appear, and today they seemed even deeper and more stark than usual.

“Of course I’ll come.” Relief coursed through her, and Maris, always glad to have something with which to occupy her hands and mind, started out of the stables, brushing past the older woman.

Outside of the keep, a chill wind had kicked up and flurries of snow blew raucously about her cape and Widow Maggie’s three layers of wrap. Maris knew the way to Thomas the Cooper’s home, and trudged along as quickly as she could in the knee-deep snow.

It never occurred to her to bring a man-at-arms with her on a visit to one of her villagers. Maris knew there wasn’t a person within Langumont who would dare or even wish to harm a hair on her head. And if anyone should attempt such a foolish thing, the punishment would be swift and fatal.

Aside of that, it would take much too long to send for one to accompany her in desperate situations such as this.

As she hurried along, Maris wondered not for the first time what Papa intended to speak with her about—but whatever it was would wait until she returned. Papa was just as concerned for the welfare of the residents of Langumont as she was. For without them, the lands wouldn’t be worked, the tradesmen wouldn’t conduct their businesses, and the entire manor would fall to ruin.

All thoughts of her father disappeared when Maris approached the dark, dank hut. She could hear the screams of the woman inside.

Drawing a deep breath—as much to calm her nerves as to dispel the stench of blood, urine and other waste—she ducked her head and, pushing aside the heavy door, entered the hut.

In one corner of the dwelling was a bed, with a prone woman twisting on it in agony. Her huge belly swelled up from under the old blankets. Thomas the Cooper sat next to her on a three legged stool and held her hand. A block of wood was clamped tightly between her teeth, but did nothing to stifle the moans and shrieks of pain.

The windows were shrouded, and smoke from the fire pit choked Maris’s vision. Within moments, she had Thomas and Widow Maggie opening the windows and chimney to let the stagnant air out of the room.

“Darkness only encourages the bad humors,” she explained, stating aloud one of the cardinal rules Good Venny, her mentor, had taught her.

She wasted no time and pushed the blankets up over the woman’s abdomen to see what was happening. Dried blood smeared her legs, but Maris could see the bloody skin of a babe erupting from her womb. It was not the head crowning betwixt the woman’s thighs.

Dear God. “’Tis the bottom that comes. Bring water,” Maris ordered, her lips tight. “And, Maggie, some of that lye soap. I will wash before touching her.”

The leeches and physicians of England did not always agree with the tenets of Good Venny’s homeland, Jerusalem, but Maris had been taught by him and rarely veered from his wisdom. Most of the local leeches would never dare consider what Maris knew she must do to save the woman. She washed her hands quickly—another of Good Venny’s rules—then wiped the legs of the woman so she could better see.

The babe was twisted and bent double as it tried to push from the womb. With no further thought—for if she allowed herself to hesitate, she might not act—Maris reached into the crying woman’s womb and felt the slick bottom of the babe. Fighting against nature, she pushed the infant back in and up. Hardly aware of the gaping stare of Maggie behind her, Maris struggled with the slippery babe, sliding her fingers in and around to turn it into the proper direction.

At last…at last, the baby moved and Maris felt the curve of a small foot. “Push!” she cried to the cooper’s wife. “Push!”

The woman’s muscles bunched and her stomach shifted. Then, with a long, keening moan, the mother forced the babe from her body. Maris guided the infant, feet first, as it erupted from the womb, and at last held the tiny infant in her hands.

The squall of a newborn filled the hut.

“’Tis a son,” Maris announced, handing the babe to Maggie. “Now, mistress, one more push to rid you of the afterbirth and you may rest.” But when she pressed the woman’s stomach and felt another bump and movement within, she realized she was wrong.

“There is another, mistress. You are blessed with two! Push,” Maris ordered, replacing the block of wood between the woman’s teeth. “Comes another babe.”

It took the rest of the woman’s strength to rid herself of her second son, and the afterbirth, mercifully, came shortly after.

“She’ll sleep,” Maris told Thomas. “’Tis likely the babes were tangled in the womb and thus became mixed up.”

She gave him a packet of herbs with instructions to boil them with water and have her drink it as often as she would. “Send for Widow Maggie if you need her. She will bleed some, but not overmuch.” Turning to Maggie, she asked, “Is there not a wet nurse in the village? What of the smith’s daughter?”

“Aye, my lady. I’ll fetch her.” Widow Maggie’s wrinkled face had smoothed a bit, and relief glowed in her eyes.

“Oh, my lady, thank’ee for coming.” Thomas was at her feet, tugging profusely at his forelock. “My lady, thank’ee for my sons.”

“Two strapping boys they’ll be,” Maris said with a smile, and made a mental note to send three chickens and a calf to them from her own stables. “What a good help to you in the shop. But your wife will be poorly for some time. Take care not to work her until Maggie gives the word. Keep the smith’s daughter for a wet nurse as long as you need.”

Then, because the dark room with its stench of blood had finally begun to close in on her, Maris had to get out. She said her last farewells and slipped from the close, smoky hut.

It was dark—Maris looked up in surprise at the moon and stars. She’d spent nearly the whole day in that tiny room. Weariness washed over her, followed by a burst of exhilaration at the realization that she had helped two new babes into the world.

Surely God would rather that she spend her time doing such things, rather than embroidering or even praying on her knees in the chapel—which was what many ladies such as her own mother preferred to do.

Maris’s feet crunched in the snow as she trudged along, considering this n. Clutching her pouch in one cold hand, she tucked the other inside her cloak. The moon was bright in the clear sky, lighting her way almost as if it were day.

The gate to the bailey was just ahead, lit invitingly with torches. Surely Papa would be in bed—and if he weren’t, as his healer, she’d have something to say about that. Thus, tomorrow would be soon enough for them to speak on whatever he meant to tell her.

All at once, Maris was jolted from her thoughts as a huge horse appeared from nowhere. He was coming too quickly down the narrow, deserted throughway, and Maris shrieked, holding up a hand to shield her face.

“’Sblood, woman!” cried the rider, jerking back frantically on the reins of his mount as soon as he saw her shadowed figure. “Do you not open your eyes when wandering at night?”

Maris’s initial fright turned to anger. No one spoke to the Lady of Langumont in that manner. She turned her face up to meet the eyes of the rider, drawing her shoulders back and lifting her chin haughtily.

The man was a stranger to her, but he was obviously one of high rank. He wore chain mail and rode a horse as valuable as her father’s. Even in the instant of her anger and fright, she took in the details of his appearance: he was tall and broad-shouldered with thick, shadowed hair curling wildly at the nape of his neck. One big hand waved his helm angrily at her while the other fought to keep his mount under control.

“It was your good fortune that I could stop Nick before we trampled you,” Dirick snapped, altogether too grateful that he had, in fact, seen her slender shadow before it was too late. His heart was thudding in his chest as he realized how close he’d come to trampling the wench.

Christ’s teeth, she’d been walking in the shadows of the narrow throughway, and it was only by luck that a silver of moonbeam had caught at something metallic in her hair, glinting and alerting him to the movement.

Looking down, he noted her dirt streaked face and sagging hair. In the bright moonlight, he could see her eyes flashing at him—rather like his mother’s cats when they were angry: spitting and hissing. Yet, despite her bedraggled appearance, the woman had an air of affront that did not befit a simple peasant wench.

A comely one, she would be, however, if she were cleaned up a bit, he realized suddenly, allowing his gaze to do a leisurely sweep over her from head to toe. Mayhap that was just what he needed after these days’ journey ahorse…and mayhap that was why she walked on the road alone so late at night.

Before he could voice his thoughts, she snapped back at him. “It was no fault of mine!” she told him coldly. “I didn’t leap into your pathway; you came barreling upon mine with nary a care for anyone else who might be along the way. If you do not open your eyes while riding, sir knight, when in battle, you may find yourself in a more telling situation than nearly trampling a woman!”

Annoyance flashed through him at her scornful response, and he jerked Nick back around, glaring right down into her face. To his surprise, she didn’t back away, but instead glared back. Her furious eyes were an incongruity in a dirty face.

“I can think of much better things to do with a woman than trample her,” he replied, wheeling Nick in front of her to cut off her escape. Only whores walked the streets of a village at night, and despite her dirt-streaked cheeks, she was rather appealing—if one could overlook the haughtiness in her words. “Mayhap you would like to display your own horsemanship if you do not appreciate mine.” His voice gentled and deepened just enough to let it be clear he had something in particular she might care to ride…and it wasn’t Nick.

The wench drew her breath in sharply, obviously understanding his meaning all too well, and confirming his suspicion that she was no innocent. “Sir, you overspeak yourself,” she told him, backing away.

Dirick lunged from his saddle, half-heartedly snatching at her arm. But she was too quick and dodged into the shadows. He sat back and, after a moment, laughed at himself. ’Twas just as well. He had no time to waste with whores, and the very accommodating Lady Artemis had been most hospitable in a private alcove before he left London. His need could wait.

He gathered up Nick’s reins and urged his horse on down the street toward the center of the village. He expected to find an inn where he could sleep this night, and then present himself to Lord Merle Lareux on the morrow.

Dirick nodded to himself as he looked about. The streets of Langumont were lit only by the bright moon and stars, but clearly showed well built houses and a relatively clean center square. When he’d passed some men at arms at the edge of the village, they’d taken notice of him—a single rider on a good mount—but did not attempt to stop him from entering the town. Although they were sharp eyed enough to notice a stranger, they did not deem a single knight to be a threat.

It was true...Dirick beheld was only a threat to those who slayed his father.

Maris ran the last bit to the portcullis of the bailey, her long braid bouncing along her shoulder as she hurried into the safety of the keep.

That man was a mule’s behind! And a very large one at that.

Had he dared lay a hand on her, she would have called the guards down on him so quickly, he wouldn’t know what happened.

Suddenly, now that she was safely inside the bailey and able to think more clearly, a wave of unease settled over her. She’d only been challenged because she looked like a wench—in a simple cloak, without a wimple, her face dirty and her hair straggling about, trudging the village streets at night…indeed, what else was a man to think?

He’d thought exactly what anyone would have thought: only whores walk the streets at night.

She wondered who he was. Dressed so richly, riding a horse of that sort…surely he wasn’t a guest of her father’s. Nay, of course not. He would have approached the keep, rather than ride through the village. And—Maris turned to look back at the lowered portcullis—no one approached at this time of night, so he must be seeking a place at the inn.

Whoever he was, she doubted she’d see him again. And even if she did, the man would never recognize her as the weary, bedraggled woman on the road.

Maris let herself into the great hall and was surprised to find her father seated in his chair by a blazing fire. The serf who tended the fire during the night slept curled on his pallet in the corner, near enough to tell if the flames lowered.

“Papa!” she exclaimed softly, aware of the pallets for the men-at-arms that lay just on the other side of a screen of blankets. “What are you doing, still awake? You should be resting,” she lectured. Nevertheless, she was relieved and delighted to see him.

“Daughter,” he looked up from a chessboard. “I’d begun to worry about you, but Father Abraham’s servant sent to me that the birthing was difficult.”

Maris lowered herself into her mother’s chair and gratefully took the chunk of bread her father offered her. “Aye—’twas two babes. Two boys. They are well and squalling, and overjoyed to be in this world.”

“’Tis good work you do, Maris. You are good to the people here, and I’m proud of you.”

She felt herself swell with pride at her father’s words, and tears glinted at the corners of her eyes when she saw the smile on his face. “Thank you Papa. You know that I love Langumont, and its people, above all—save you, of course.”

Merle shifted in his heavy chair. “Maris, I nearly didn’t live to see you again,” he said, returning his gaze to her. “I was sorely injured, and were it not for the grace of God and the assistance of another man, I should have been left on the field to die. ’Tis why my return was so delayed.”

“But Papa, why did you not send word? I would have come—”

He smiled, patting her hand. “I know you would have, daughter, and I couldn’t have had a better one to nurse me back to health than you. I didn’t send word because I didn’t wish to worry your mother.” He sighed and released her hand to stroke his beard. “As I lay there, determined to live, I realized that had I perished, I should have left you and your mother alone and unprotected. And Langumont unprotected.”

Unease crept over her. What was he trying to say “We wouldn’t be unprotected, Papa. Sir Raymond is here, and….” She trailed off and folded her hands in her lap, looking at herb stained skin and scratched fingers. The hands of a maidservant, not a great lady.

“’Tis time you were wed, Maris,” he told her quietly, but with a firmness in his voice that brooked no disobedience.

Her gaze snapped up to him as horror shot through her. “But I do not wish to wed, Papa!”

“I know that,” he responded, his words steady, “but wed you will, Maris. And by Christ’s Mass next.”

“Nay!” The denial sprang from her lips in a whisper.

He appeared not to hear her. “I’ve sifted through the many suitors that have inquired for your hand—”

“You misspeak yourself, Papa, they inquire not for my hand but for my lands. Nothing more than that,” Maris said wryly, swallowing back the heavy lump in her throat. “Would that you had heirs other than me, that I could choose my husband.”

He gave a short laugh. “If you were to choose your husband, that occasion would never happen!”

“But Papa—”

Merle’s bushy eyebrows furrowed and he raised a silencing hand. “You’re the heiress to Langumont, Maris. Lady of Firmain and Cleonis. You cannot disown your heritage, and your husband must be worthy of you.” He leaned toward her, his blue eyes serious. “I have made certain that you are lady of the lands in your own right. ’Tis writ, and I would not wish to see you lose that power. You will rule in your own right, just as our queen yet does—but a husband is needed to ensure that you remain able to do so.”

“Papa, have you not allowed me to learn to ride and hunt as well as a man? Have you not insisted that I learn to read and write so I can keep my own accounts? Yet you feel that I am not able to retain hold of my own lands without a husband.” She looked imploringly at her father, her small hand resting over his big one. “Do not force me to marry yet, please, Papa.”

He was shaking his head slowly. “Aye, Maris, I insisted that you be as able to rule your lands as a man, yet never did I disallow the fact that you must marry. It is the best for Langumont, too, daughter. Langumont, which you purport to love as much as you do me. The people cannot be left without a strong liege to protect them, and, intelligent and brave as you are, my dearling, you cannot ride into battle and defend the lands. And there is the matter of your own heir, my dearling.”

Maris opened her mouth to argue, then closed it as she realized he spoke the truth. She had known, had she not, that this day would come. As much as she had ignored it, tried to believe it would never happen…nay, it had always been on the horizon. She bit her lip and swallowed, then looked at him. “Papa, at the least, do not force me to wed with a man I do not know.”

“Maris, I am not fond of the word ‘force’. You will do your duty, and you will trust me and accept my decision for your husband. Have I not always taken the best care of you? I cannot allow this matter to remain unsettled any longer.” He paused for a sip of his own wine. “The son of the man who saved my life in battle rides to Langumont,” he told her. “Take care that you do not offend him, nor drive him away as you flaunt your horsemanship and archery skills.”

“Who is he?” she asked, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. Her fate had already been sealed.

“You shall meet him,” he promised.

“Aye, Papa,” she said, staring studiously at the hands in her lap.

“Good girl, Maris.” He put his arm around her, pulling her shoulder to his. “Know that I want only what is best for you.”

“Aye, Papa,” she said again, struggling to keep the sadness from her voice.

After a few moments of silence, she rose slowly. “I’ll to bed now, my lord.” She kissed his cheek gently.

“Sleep well, child,” he said quietly, brushing her face.

Merle hoisted himself carefully into bed. His muscles ached, not to mention the wound in his side that was barely healed enough to sit ahorse.

Allegra sat in the bed next to him. She had dismissed her maid Maella after the woman brushed out her mistress’s long hair and braided it in its customary plait. Curls framed her face as her wide gaze fastened on her husband. He sensed her tension, and not understanding the reason for it, reached to take her cold fingers.

“’Tis glad I am to be home,” he told her, bringing them to his mouth for a soft kiss. “And back in my own chamber this night, at least.”

“And I too,” she murmured, pulling her hand away as she reached over to pull the draperies about the bed.

“Maris is grown to a beautiful lady,” he said, staring at the velvet draperies as she drew them together. “’Tis well past time for her to be wed.”

Allegra froze. “My lord?”

“Aye. She will be wed within the year. ’Tis not safe for her otherwise.”

“My lord, you—but my lord, you may not find a worthy man in the year.”

“Aye, yet I have found one. One that is worthy of my Maris’s hand, worthy to have Langumont.” He scratched his belly and looked at her slim form with interest. It had been a long while since he’d bedded his wife, and though she wasn’t the most receptive woman he’d coupled with, she was his wife, and she was there.

“Who is it?” she asked, her voice thin and tight.

“’Tis the son of a dear friend.” He struggled under the blankets to twist and show her the ugly wound in his side.

Allegra gasped and covered her face at the sight of the red, swollen gash, reminding Merle yet again how fortunate he was to have a daughter so well versed in healing. Otherwise, he’d have to allow the leeches to attend to his hurts, for his wife could not. “He is a dear friend who caused this not to be my last wound.”

“But, my lord, I beg you—do not make the decision to betrothe Maris in haste,” she said, reaching to touch the grey speckled hair on his scarred chest. “Mayhaps there is another—”

“Nay. Lady, know you this—Maris will wed with Victor d’Arcy on Midsummer’s Eve. He is well suited for her. He will arrive in short order to sign the betrothal agreement.”

“So soon?”

“Aye. She will marry Victor. For her own well being.”

Allegra twisted her fingers into the heavy fur that covered their bed. “But my lord, surely there are others—”

“Woman, do you not hear me?” Merle was irritated. “She will marry Victor d’Arcy and that is the end of it.”

“Aye, my lord.” Her voice was choked and her attention was turned away, fixed on the inside of the curtains by her.

Merle thought of one other thing, “Allegra. Do you not let Maris bathe Raymond Vermille any longer. He looks at her too admiringly, and it would not be good to inflate his infatuation. Send Maella or Verna to take care of him.”

“Aye.”

Weary of waiting, and in no mood to coax, he closed his hand softly over her breast and drew her close. “Come, woman, it has been nigh too long.”

Chapter Three

Bon de Savrille opened his swollen eyes slowly. Too much wine and wenching to celebrate Christ’s Mass—and the eve of. And the day following.

His head pounded and the daylight streaming into the inn’s room was too bright. Verna the Bountiful, as he’d come to think of her, stirred next to him. He swatted her hard enough to force a squeal as she started awake. She rolled over leisurely and gave him a long, deep kiss.

His hand grasped her large breast and squeezed until she sighed a moan of pleasured pain, then he nipped at the tight peak of flesh. Verna purred as Bon’s large hand swept over her belly and down between her legs. She closed work roughened fingers over his erection and proceeded to torment him until he threw her flat so he could drive fiercely into her body.

Rough nails scored his back and the pain and smell of blood only served to heighten his pleasure. The pounding in his head receded and passion ruled him now. Verna was quite the best lay he’d had for years. It was good fortune that had led him to her on the threshold of Merle Lareux’s keep.

In the afterglow of their angry, violent mating, he lay staring at the low, dark ceiling. He’d watched from a distance as Merle Lareux returned to his home, seen how the people greeted him—and, especially, how his daughter, Maris, attached herself to his side. ’Twas obvious that the man adored her—and that made Bon’s scheme all the more brilliant. Allegra, his stupid sister, would not dare chance driving a wedge between her husband and daughter. Not if she wanted to continue as Lady of Langumont Keep.

Satisfaction settled over him as his thoughts wandered on to the pleasure of having the young and beautiful Maris in his bed. He’d watched her follow the old lady into the village two days earlier. She’d spent the better part of the afternoon in a tiny, filthy hut ministering to some peasants. They would be good partners—she the figurehead, the beloved chatelaine, the healer, and he, the great lord, the meter of justice.

And in bed….His cock shifted with enthusiasm as he imagined her face slack with passion, her hazel eyes smoky with pleasure.

Verna felt him stir against her, and she lazily turned to look over her shoulder at him. “My lord, you are randy this morn,” she murmured, pressing her buttocks into his erection.

He said nothing, but when his hand felt between her legs, he found her ready for him as well. Bon thrust into her from behind, catching her off guard. She writhed with pleasure, and he pounded himself inside Maris of Langumont over and over until he filled her with his seed.

“Soon, my lady,” he promised softly, knowing he must ride from the gates of Langumont Keep this day. But he would return. “Soon.”

Merle Lareux sat opposite a stranger knight, listening to his story. The man, called Dirick de Arlande, had arrived at the keep early that morning. He’d requested a private audience with him in the name of the king, and Merle had no choice but to take the time to meet with him.

He was glad he’d done so.

Merle examined the figure standing confidently before him. The knight’s black and blue standard, which he did not recognize, was a sword and shield on the backdrop of a roaring yellow flame, and the young man’s figure was imposing yet unthreatening.

Merle felt himself being studied in return by a pair of cool grey eyes, and he sensed impatience and restlessness from the man. And, he thought, something else. Sorrow or grief.

“To account for my words,” Dirick concluded his explanation, gesturing to the thick parchment packet he’d just handed to his host, “I bring a missive from his majesty.”

Merle turned the parchment over in his hands, noting the red wax seal of his sovereign. The man before him was no mere royal messenger. Breaking the seal and unfolding the creased missive, he perused the king’s words carefully.

“The king speaks highly of you, Sir Dirick,” he said, refolding the parchment. Something niggled at the back of his mind, and it took a moment before he realized what it was. And then…ah. “You are Dirick of Derkland—Harold’s son? You are using a different name.”

“Aye.”

“You must be aware that I came upon your father’s death scene.” Merle tightened his fingers on the parchment, remembering the depravity pervading the glen where he’d found Harold’s mutilated body. It was like nothing he’d ever seen, even on the worst battlefield. A maniac had been there…and even as Merle attempted to see if there were any survivors, he felt the weight of evil suffocating the small, still glen. His eyes burned with tears a hardened man such as he would be loathe to shed. “I’m sorry that your father is dead, and in such a manner. It was unconscionable. Whoever did such a deed is surely already in hell.”

“Thank you,” Dirick replied, his gray eyes still somber with grief.

“The king writes that you are in search your father’s murderer,” Merle continued, gesturing with the parchment. “I would be happy to be of assistance in any way I can.” His offer was sincere, although he did not have any urge to relive the experience of coming upon that bloody scene.

Dirick nodded briefly, and now there was an element of rage flickering behind the grief. “Although it must be difficult for you, my lord, I should like to know every detail of what you found.”

“Of course,” Merle replied. “And it can be no more difficult for me to recount it than for you to hear of it. Again, I am sorry…and even more so for having to tell you what I will.”

He closed his eyes briefly to pull the scene back into his memory, and then began to describe how he’d come upon Derkland. “We traveled along the border of Maitland and the king’s forest— my man-at-arms, Raymond, my squires, and several other arms bearing men rode with me. ’Twas late in the day, near twilight, and we were weary, seeking Maitland Keep for the night. As we rode, a shrill, horrible cry met my ears. It was the cry of a horse in pain. My mount reacted as if he himself was in danger; but once given his head, he thrashed through the brush to the glen.” Merle swallowed as he remembered the heavy stench of blood that filled his nostrils before he even saw the horror there.

As if sensing his host needed a moment to collect himself, Dirick took a drink from his wine. “There were no survivors?” he asked after he swallowed.

“Nay. We put the horse out of her misery—she had three broken legs and was tied to a tree. I’ve never seen such carnage. And such torture.” Merle’s jaw tightened. “’Twas a waste and a travesty.”

“My father?”

Merle took a deep breath, recalling the last time he’d seen Lord Harold hale and hearty. “I would it had not been anyone, but particularly your father. I had met him on two occasions, and he was a very fine man. We talked of betrothing your elder brother to my Maris, but alas, it was not to be. Maris and Bernard did not suit. However, your father did favor the match.”

He sipped to moisten his parched throat and continued his description of the scene. “Your father was dead from stab wounds, yet the bastard had slit his throat as well. Very little blood drenched the ground, so it appeared clear he was dead when his throat was cut. And then…” He rubbed his temples with a forefinger and thumb. “I saw the imprint of a horse’s hoof in the back of your father’s neck. The force appeared to have snapped his spine, and was so strong that it drove his severed neck into the ground. And,” Merle swallowed hard, for this was the worst part. “His face was pulled back to face the sky.”

“By the hand of God,” Dirick murmured.

Merle looked over and saw that his guest’s handsome face had turned dark and stony, and he wished yet again that he had never come upon such a sight. But there was more. “Your father was not alone. He was arranged opposite another man, their hands joined at the wrist.”

“By God, I will find the monster.” His vow was soft and hard. “For my father to die unshriven…in such an unspeakable manner….”

“Nay, he was not unshriven, lad,” Merle told him. “A priest was in my party and gave last rites to your father and his companions.”

“Praise God for that, at the least,” Dirick said quietly. “Is there aught else, anything that will help in my quest?”

Merle was silent for a moment. “I can think of nothing. The men were divested of any coin and weapons they might have carried and some horses were missing…yet, I believe it was no mere robbery.”

“Nay. Slaughter is more like. God help the man who did this.”

“I questioned the nearby villages for news of a roaming party of bandits, but either they were too frightened to tell me, or they saw no one. That is all I can tell you, I am sorry.”

Dirick nodded, and at that moment, there was a knock on the door of Merle’s private chamber.

“Aye, enter,” he called.

The door opened and a page entered, bearing a folded parchment. “My lord, this arrived by messenger. He was told not to await your reply.”

“Thank you,” Merle took the missive, and, glancing at the seal, smiled in satisfaction. “Ah, good.” The paper crackled as he opened it to read.

Dirick was torn between banishing the images of his father’s murder from his mind and mulling over them in hopes of finding some answer in the details, somehow. As Lord Merle closed the document, Dirick returned his attention from taking in the details of the small, wood furnished room. “Good news is always well come,” he said with a nod toward the letter.

“Aye, indeed. ’Tis a message from the man with whom I hope to betrothe Maris,” the man explained. “He and his father Lord d’Arcy should arrive within a se’ennight.”

“Hope to betrothe?” he repeated, wondering what it was about the woman that kept his brother, and, obviously, numerous other suitors, from laying claim to her many lands through her hand. Dirick was curious in spite of himself. Mayhap she was impossibly ugly—still, few men would turn away the chance to hold as many lands as the Lord of Langumont regardless of what the woman looked like. Or perhaps she was yet still too young. Although it wasn’t uncommon for a girl of eight or nine to be betrothed and then wed when she was fifteen or sixteen.

“Maris is rather unusual,” Merle said with an indulgent smile. “She is seventeen summers, and to date I haven’t found a suitable man for her. But ’tis nearly done—just the papers need to be signed upon Victor d’Arcy’s arrival.”

“Unusual?” Was she ugly, or deformed in some way…or, perhaps, mad? No wonder Bernard had not “suited” with the woman. His wife Joanna was lovely in both form and character, and they had been wed only a bit longer than a year.

Merle dismissed Dirick’s question about Lady Maris, saying instead, “You will join us at the high table for dinner this night?”

“Aye. Yet, my lord, I must ask that outside of this chamber, I’m merely Dirick de Arlande—lately come from France. I’m not a man of the king, but I am an itinerant knight in search of work. I have another mission for his majesty that involves the fief of Breakston. Neither of us wish for Baron de Savrille to know of my identity before I arrive there.”

Merle nodded. “The king is watching Bon de Savrille? I’ve long suspected he might have other allegiances. He was to provide men and to be at my side in Wales. He showed himself for a mere three days, kept to himself, and eventually left his men to return to Breakston. He left word that he had problems at home that called him back. Methinks the man is merely a coward, yet, I wouldn’t be surprised were he to turn up as a supporter of the Welsh uprisings.”

“With your permission, I won’t leave immediately for Breakston. I intend to be sure he’s in residence before I make the journey, and ’twould do me some good to be nearby if you remember anything else about my father.”

“Aye, of course—stay as long as you like. Shall I put some work your way to help your tale and keep your mind and body occupied?”

Dirick smiled. “Aye, thank you, my lord. I’ll sit at table with you this evening and be most pleased to make the acquaintance of your daughter.” Dirick imagined telling Bernard of his meal with the lady who had rejected his suit.

That could be most interesting, and entertaining as well.

Early that morning when she heard that a man had arrived to see her father, Maris made her escape from the keep. Wishing to put off meeting her betrothed, she grabbed two apples and a hunk of cheese and went out to the village. There were several people she should visit, including Thomas the cooper and his wife, and she wanted to gather the last of the bruisewort leaves from her garden. It was her intention to be scarce for the entire day.

And so it was nearing dusk when she finally returned to the keep. Managing to avoid her father, mother, and probable suitor, she sneaked up the huge stone steps that led to the women’s quarters above the great hall. Verna was awaiting Maris in the chamber, ready to help her dress for dinner.

“’Tis late, my lady. My lord will soon be voicing his displeasure if you miss a third evening meal,” Verna commented as she helped Maris out of her work tunic.

“Aye.” Maris’s teeth chattered as she stood in the chill room clothed only in her shift. “I couldn’t find a reason to miss this meal as I have the last two. Nay, I think the gold bliaut, Verna.”

Her maid dutifully pulled the gold colored undertunic from her lady’s wardrobe. It was shot through with gilt thread, making the tight fitting garment look like the ocean under a sunny sky. Verna laced it tightly up the sides, then turned back to the trunks.

“The green tunic, my lady?” she asked, pulling out an overgarment trimmed with gold thread.

“Aye.” Maris would dress her finest for a man she should detest who sat below, waiting to slather all over her hand and her lands. Despite her curiosity, knowing that Verna would certainly have heard the gossip about the man whom her father had chosen for her, Maris deigned to ask anything about him.

She would learn aught soon enough.

Verna pulled the long, loose fitting tunic over Maris’s head. There were no sides to the tunic, merely a hole for her head with a deep neckline to show off the golden bliaut underneath. A gold girdle wrought in the shape of loose flowers and leaves cinched the tunic at her waist.

Maris was strangely nervous at the thought of descending the stairs to dinner. She knew that her father’s mind had been made up, and the man she was to marry awaited her below. As much as she might abhor the idea of marriage, Maris had come to realize that it was for the good of Langumont that she must wed …and that it would do her little benefit to anger her father by rebuffing her intended betrothed.

There was no time to redo her hair, so Verna left it in the heavy plait that hung down her back. Flyaway wisps of rich, chestnut brown had sprung from the braid, framing her face. Verna tucked them under the sheer, gold shot wimple that was draped over her mistress’s head and neck. A thin-filigreed headdress held the wimple in place, and Maris was dressed for dinner.

She inched her way along the hall and toward the steps that would bring her to her father’s table for dinner. Reluctantly, she started down the stairs, enjoying her vantage point of the hall.

The familiar sounds of preparation for the evening meal drifted up to her. Serfs bustled about, men-at-arms pulled the long trestle tables together and settled benches along each one. Female serfs stood aside, ready with trenchers and crudely carved wooden cups to place on the tables. The three dogs that were allowed in the hall slept next to the fire, knowing that their scraps would come much later. Maris allowed those three hounds in the hall only because they were her father’s favorite hunting dogs—or had been before one was blinded, one lost a leg, and the third got so old he couldn’t run any longer.

A group of men-at-arms sat in front of the blazing fire. Some were engrossed in games of chess or chance and others were drinking ale and sharing jests. Still others were flirting with the female serfs hoping to find one to share their bed, no doubt.

Maris’s feet brought her closer to the bottom of the stairs—directly across the room from her father’s table. She wove her way carefully between the tables, serfs, and men-at-arms toward the dais. As soon as the dais came into full view, she saw that her father was engrossed in conversation with a man who was undoubtedly her unwanted suitor.

Her stomach gave a little lurch of disappointment. It had to be the man Papa was expecting. Her betrothed. Praise God, at least he seemed close to her in age, and he had all of his hair. If she were truly fortunate, he’d be in possession of a full set of teeth as well. And even sitting next to her broad-shouldered father, the guest was solid and imposing.

Maris straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and drew a deep, steadying breath. She had no choice in the matter, so ’twas best that she begin this on her own terms: strong and with confidence.

Just then, the dark-haired man looked up, directly at her, and in that horrible instant, she recognized him.

The man who’d nearly run her down last night.

From his seat at the high table, Dirick was struggling with the same shock and chagrin that was reflected in the woman’s face—albeit briefly. For, no sooner had their eyes met than the surprise disappeared from her expression.

Thus, he attempted to talk himself out of it—perhaps he’d imagined the flash of recognition there. There was the faulty light in the hall, and the distance…surely she wasn’t the woman from last night. The one whom he’d nearly trampled, insulted and then propositioned?

He’d lost track of what he’d been saying to Lord Merle and as she made her way closer to the dais, he found it impossible to look away. Whether it was because of the young woman’s beauty—which was undeniable, even from half across the hall—or because it was as if an impending doom was coming his way like a rolling black storm, Dirick wasn’t certain.

She seemed to sparkle gold: from the gossamer veil on her head to the long, wrist length sleeves of her gown. As she drew closer, he scrutinized her closely—absentmindedly rejoining the conversation with Merle as he held onto the rapidly disintegrating hope that he was mistaken. But, no, the nearer she came the clearer his error was. A warm flush began to settle over Dirick’s features as he recalled the rude and angry words he’d shouted at her the night before. The fact that he’d nearly flattened her.

His next question—who was she?—was soon answered, but not before he privately agonized over whether he’d insulted his lord’s wife, his mistress, or—God help him—the daughter, Maris.

When she reached the dais, her gaze flitted over him with impersonal coolness before settling on her father.

“Ah, my love,” Merle stood to take her hand. His affection for her was evident in the tone of his voice as well as the gleam in his eyes.

That Dirick even more uncomfortable. He rose stiffly beside his host, trying desperately to think of something to say in defense of his actions. After all, what the hell had a noble lady been doing dressed in peasant clothes, wandering through the town alone—in the middle of the night?

Then the thought struck him. Mayhap she no more wished for Dirick to acknowledge their meeting than he did. What had she been doing out in the night alone?

“Sir Dirick de Arlande, may I present you with my daughter, Maris Lareux, Lady of Langumont,” Merle said.

His daughter. God’s teeth, of all the women he could have accosted….

“’Tis a pleasure, my lady,” he managed to say, pressing a light kiss to her fingertips, wondering what on earth had possessed Bernard to reject the beautiful creature standing before him. He noticed the stains and scratches on what should have been a lily white hand with interest and wondered what she did other than embroidery.

“Good evening, Sir Dirick,” she said steadily.

Her refusal to meet his gaze fueled Dirick’s suspicion that she wished to ignore their previous meeting and he relaxed slightly.

As she took a seat on the far side of her father, Merle said, “Sir Dirick is lately arrived from France—Paris, I believe. I knew his father quite well, and he’ll be staying with us for some time.”

Lady Allegra, Merle’s wife, arrived at that moment. Dirick was immediately struck by the difference between the two women who now sat at the high table. Other than the same sensual shape to their mouths and a similar creamy complexion, ’twas hard to recognize that they were mother and daughter.

While the lady of the manor was certainly beautiful, it was in a soft, almost faded way that was only partly due to her age. Her daughter, however, sparkled not only through her choice of clothing and jewels, but also in her eyes and countenance. She was vibrant whilst her mother was soft-spoken and demure.

Dirick shared a bread trencher with Lady Allegra, and as his mind raced, he occupied his hands by serving her as elegantly as the fine courtier he was. No sooner had she sipped from her wine than he refilled it. Her meat was cut swiftly into bite sized chunks with the knife that he kept at his waist. She had the choicest pieces of bread, the sweetest smelling pieces of fish. And she had charming, lightly flirtatious conversation—something at which Dirick was highly skilled.

He didn’t realize until near halfway through the meal that he’d been holding his breath, waiting to hear the roar of fury from Merle as Maris told him of their encounter. When it didn’t come, he began to relax and enjoy Allegra’s company. Though she didn’t talk much, she asked several questions and giggled like a girl at his jests. Her eyes lit up a bit then, and she ceased looking quite as faded as he’d previously thought.

“’Tis said the king will cross the channel to deal with Geoffrey now that Christ’s Mass has passed,” Merle said to Dirick as one of the pages brought a new platter, this one with stuffed turbot.

Dirick nodded, chewing his bread slowly. While he had to take care what he said—after all, he was newly come from Paris, not from the king’s side at Westminster—much of what they spoke of would only be heard between the four of them. Neither of the ladies would take much from his words, so he needn’t be overly cautious.

“Aye,” he replied. “I hear that Geoffrey is stocking his estates for war—claiming that Old King Henry meant for his son to relinquish Anjou to Geoffrey when he succeeded the throne of England.”

“Matilda is still at Westminster with Henry?” asked Merle.

“Aye. ’Twas she that kept him from heading off to Ireland to conquer the lands for his brother William. With Geoffrey stirring the pot in Anjou, the king has trouble enough across the channel that he doesn’t need to make more war here. The rumors are that the queen’s vassals do not much like him either.”

Merle tsked into his cup of wine as he took a long draught. “The king has his hands full,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “But he is a man who loves his war and action.”

“Aye. And whilst Aquitaine seethes for her mistress, Eleanor, Anjou is about to be gobbled up by Geoffrey.” Dirick wiped his hands on a damp cloth proffered by a page. “And the queen is enceinte once again,” he offered in a low voice.

“Then she will not accompany her husband across the channel?” asked Maris, leaning around her father to look at him.

Dirick started, assuming that his conversation had been between himself and Merle, but he recovered quickly. “Nay, lady. She stays at Westminster—so the rumors say—because of her condition.”

Maris quirked her eyebrow in a most becoming manner. “It might be worthwhile for the king if her majesty visited Aquitaine if ’tis in such an uproar.”

“It’s not so bad as that…and Henry has enough problems with Geoffrey in Anjou. The king will cross the channel and leave Richard of Luci as official administrator of England. But the queen will still be here.”

Maris made a soft sound of comprehension. “The king might appoint Luci officially, yet the queen is certain to hold her own. She will be the one truly in control.”

Dirick almost choked on a chunk of bread, taken by surprise at her grasp of the situation, and her accurate assessment. Women didn’t talk politics—at least, women other than Matilda and Eleanor—and they were queens, for God’s sake. “Aye, my lady, I do believe you are correct. The queen stands back to none but her husband.”

Turning back to Merle, Dirick asked, “How fares the king’s chancellor? ’Tis said he takes the court by storm.”

“Aye, Thomas à Becket is the king’s friend as well as his chancellor. To think that it was the Archbishop who forced Henry to take him on as chancellor…now the two are nearly inseparable,” Merle replied.

“’Tis said the chancellor holds court rather than the king,” Maris interjected. “The king goes to Becket’s court, rather than the chancellor coming to his. Even the diplomats attend Becket, rather than the queen—which I cannot imagine she appreciates.”

“Nay, I would not expect it thus,” Dirick said. He cast a brief glance at his host, wondering whether the man was merely indulgent of his daughter’s vocal tendencies, or whether he encouraged it. And he wondered where Maris got her information—by listening in on such conversations, or from her father.

Or mayhap from whomever she was meeting in the village a night.

All at once, Lady Maris didn’t seem quite as naïve and innocent as one might think.

“Becket dresses in all frippery and serves the most gluttonous meals,” Maris continued. “’Tis said the king even rode his horse into Becket’s hall one evening for dinner!”

She paused to wipe daintily at her mouth, and Dirick’s attention followed her hand as it brushed over a pair of full, pink lips. He found his eyes caught there for a moment and his mouth went dry.

A surprise heat swept over him at the thought of tasting that sensual mouth—despite the fact that it hardly seemed to cease speaking. Tearing his eyes away while focusing on that wry thought, Dirick turned to his trencher and took a long swallow of wine. He had obviously been too long without a woman—a state he would rectify tonight. Until then, he would he would firmly steer his thoughts away from the daughter of his host.

“Maris, do you not carry tales,” Merle was admonishing her good naturedly.

“Aye, Papa,” she conceded with a smile. “Though ’twas only yourself who told me the same story last night.”

Merle chuckled and changed the subject, continuing to speak to his daughter—which gave Dirick a moment to redirect his base thoughts from the lovely woman sitting next to her father. “How fare the cooper’s wife and babes?” Merle asked.

“The woman is a bit weak, for she has lost much blood,” she said. “The babes thrive, and I’ve sent Bernice, the smith’s daughter, to wet nurse for them whilst Thomas’s wife recovers. Her own babe died this se’ennight past, and she was glad to do it.”

“Maris has the gift of healing and she spends much of her time in the village, caring for the people,” Merle explained to their guest.

“The cooper’s wife bore two babes?” Dirick asked, keeping his attention upon her hazel eyes instead of allowing it to drop lower.

“Aye. Both hale and hearty boys, though it was a horrific birthing,” she replied. “She was nearly lost herself and will have a long recovery.”

“You’ve done all you can for the cooper, and with the smith’s daughter to keep the babes, verily the mill will continue to function. I will visit him on the morrow to express my own felicitations,” Merle said as the last platters were cleared from the high table.

Dirick remembered how much it meant for him when his lord showed sympathy for his recent loss, and his admiration for Merle Lareux grew, knowing that he would do the same for a lowly peasant. Then all at once, a great yawn surprised him, nearly cracking his jaw with its violence. Dirick muffled it with a large hand and said, “Pardon, ladies, ’tis not your company which wearies me. I’d a long journey, and the day was even longer.”

“Of course,” Merle agreed. “Maris, will you not show Sir Dirick where the men-at-arms lay their pallets? And any other comforts he may need? Come, Allegra, let us go abovestairs.”

Maris stood reluctantly, dismay by her father’s innocent command. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with this man. She’d felt his attention returning to her again and again during the evening, and had been unable to ignore the interest in his stare. Try as she might, she’d been unable to keep her mouth closed and her mind on her food—as her mother had admonished her many a time. Nay, if the man was to wed her, he’d know from the beginning that she had her own thoughts and opinions, and an interest in the world beyond Langumont’s walls.

“Of course, Papa,” she said in a voice that disguised her discomfort.

Obviously, Sir Dirick did not miss her mislike of the situation, for as soon as Merle and Allegra were out of earshot, he said, “Lady Maris, I am perfectly able to find my own pallet.”

“Nay, ’tis my father’s wish. I should not put a guest out,” she smiled at him, swallowing the resentment she felt for being pressed into a marriage she did not want. In all honesty, it was not this man’s fault—and he seemed pleasant enough now that he was not ahorse. “Have you bathed?”

“Nay,” he shook his head, surprise flashing in his gray-blue eyes.

“May I offer you a warm bath before I direct you to your pallet?” she asked. “Gustave will bring the water. I won’t take long, and you will soon be for bed.”

“You?” Those eyes turned on her with a sudden intensity, and he looked at her for a moment, a very faint smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.

Maris’s throat went dry and she nearly stepped away from him and the unexpected stirrings in her middle. The sudden image of this man, devoid of his chausses and tunic, settled into a tub that would hardly fit his large body, filled her mind. His dark hair, which now curled wildly about his face and jaw, would be sleek and dripping, his broad shoulders bare and steam rising from dark skin—

Maris bit her lip as her cheeks flushed with warmth. What was wrong with her? She’d never had such lewd thoughts over such a mundane chore. “Aye, of course,” she managed to say in response to the question she’d nearly forgotten.

“Nay,” Sir Dirick rumbled after what seemed like forever. His smooth, low voice carried easily to her ears, even over the noise of the servants as they cleared off the tables and stacked the benches. “I do not believe I should put myself through such torture.”

Her heart in her throat and her mind whirling—unsure as to what he meant by such a comment—Maris spun away to hide her discomfiture. “Then if you would follow me,” she murmured and blindly began to make her way between the nearly empty tables, anxious to be rid of her charge.

As they approached a group of rowdy knights, Maris paused, resting her hand on the shoulder of a burly, red headed one. They quieted almost as if she’d commanded it. “Sir Raymond, how fares your shoulder? Is the pain lessening?”

The man’s face nearly matched the color of his hair when he turned it up to look at her. “Aye, my lady. The pain is nearly gone.” He moved his arm as if to demonstrate.

“You will come to the herbary on the morrow and I will check it again,” she ordered. It wouldn’t do for her father’s best man to have an injured arm. “The last I dressed a wound for you, ’twas only once that you came to me—and look what has happened to it because of your carelessness!”

He grinned up at her, “Aye, my lady. On the morrow, I will allow you to torture me yet again. ’Tis only because your touch is so sweet that I can sit through the pain,” he teased in the manner of a big brother.

Maris, who’d grown up with Raymond pulling at her pigtails and chasing her through the keep with spiders, planted hands on her hips as the other men laughed. “Aye, and you should keep such sweetness on your tongue, or I will put you through more tortures if you spread tales. Did I not warn you that some day you would pay for the frog in my bed?”

There wasn’t a hint of guile in her actions, Dirick thought as he watched. She had no concept of what she did to a man, with those teasing golden green eyes and vibrant smile—particularly the redheaded knight, whose besotted expression was not quite brotherly. Whatever reason she’d been in the village at night, it hadn’t been for a tryst—he was now certain of it.

Dirick’s skin still prickled at the memory of her innocent offer to bathe him, and he wondered if her father knew she’d made such a gesture. A sudden streak of heat shot through him at the thought of her scratched and stained hands soaping his body…but he thrust the thought away immediately. He’d do well to find a woman this night. Mayhaps one of the maidservants would oblige him.

Not for the first time that evening, he wondered why he’d heard nothing of the beautiful heiress of Langumont—from either his brother or the court. Certainly a well landed maid as comely as Maris Lareux wouldn’t escape the notice of the unmarried, land-greedy barons at court.

Lady Maris’s voice broke into Dirick’s thoughts as she led him around into the area reserved for the men-at-arms and other important visitors. It was a large room, cordoned off from the rest of the hall by a heavy oaken door—much nicer than many of the men’s quarters he’d slept in throughout England and France. A fire roared in the corner, and a serf slumped against the wall, snoring, with a stack of wood within reach.

“You may place your pallet anywhere you like, Sir Dirick,” Maris offered. She handed him a pile of blankets, more than generous enough to keep one warm—especially with a blazing fire in the same room.

“Thank you, my lady,” he took the bundle.

She paused for a moment as if contemplating her next words, and when she spoke, a small grin tickled the corner of her enticing mouth.

Her words, however, when they came, eliminated any hint of innocence. “Papa bade me see to your comforts. If your need is as great as ’twas yestereve, I will send a woman to you.”

Dirick felt his face flush hot as he ground his teeth together in an attempt to maintain his dignity. Words escaped him, and before he could gather his wits, the little minx took his silence for dissent and whirled away down the dark corridor.

Chapter Four

Maris dressed without Verna’s assistance the next morning. She’d wakened earlier than usual and found too many thoughts trundling through her mind to make more sleep likely, so she rose. It was a frigid morn, and the sun had not even begun to peek over the edge of the earth to warm it.

Down the stone steps she went, breezing through the hall where several men-at-arms were sprawled in a corner. Obviously, they’d not made it to the knights’ quarters where she’d left a dumfounded Sir Dirick the night before.

A bemused smile quirked her face at the memory of his shocked expression, and, engrossed as she was, Maris misstepped and trod upon the cat’s tail. The tabby emitted a yowl of protest (the sotted men still did not stir) and the feline stalked off through the matted rushes, refusing to accept Maris’s apologies.

She tsked at herself, fearing that the cat’s reaction was merely a foreshadowing of what her father would say if he heard of her unladylike gibe at Sir Dirick. She couldn’t keep from glancing again toward the common sleeping area, where he was likely sprawled out on his pallet.

For a moment, she imagined his thick dark hair tufted and curling where he rested his head, his pleasing face lax and smooth in his rest. Mayhap an arm would be thrown out, away from his blanketed body…or a leg might be lying atop the woolen blanket whilst the rest of him slumbered in comfort. His disturbing grey-blue eyes would be closed in sleep—those eyes that looked at her with such intensity that her heart dodged about in her chest. Yet, when they were not focused on her, she’d noticed that they were a soft, cloud like grey, flecked with blue. The color of Langumont Bay on a winter day, and fringed with the longest, darkest lashes she’d ever seen, or noticed, on a man.

Maris started, realizing in confusion that she had paused in the hall and stood, staring toward the sleeping area as these thoughts danced through her mind. Though no one was about to see her actions, her cheeks warmed and she turned resolutely away. Although there was no harm in mooning over one’s betrothed, she had balked against marriage for so long that it felt odd for her to relish the thought of knowing all aspects of a man’s body. Maris gathered up her heavy wool tunic and draped it over her arm as she stepped over an up ended bench.

The kitchen was deserted except for Bit, the daughter of the cook, who slept in the corner on empty flour sacks. One large blue eye opened as Maris approached, and a yawn cracked across the pudgy, dirty face.

“Milady!” she started awake and jerked to her feet.

“Go back to your bed, Bit,” Maris told her. “’Tis well before matins, and all are sleeping soundly but myself and the cat.”

She turned to root about in an apple barrel, and, finding a barely bruised one, she polished it against the soft blue wool still draped over her wrist. She broke her fast with a piece of day old bread, found wrapped in cloth under a board, and a large swallow of watered down ale.

She made her way out into the bitter morning, crunching the apple. It was nearly as dark as the night she’d trudged home from Thomas the cooper’s wretched home. Stars lit the dark blue heavens, and a large moon still hung in their midst. Despite the cold, Maris stopped for a moment to look up. She drew her squirrel lined cloak tighter about her shoulders as she stood in the center of the silent bailey. The only other creatures stirring were her father’s midnight watch, posted on the north and south walls of the bailey. Sir Richard, on the north wall, saw Maris and waved in greeting and recognition.

She waved back, and, finishing the last of her apple, pocketed the core for Hickory. A shiver took her by surprise, and she hurried on her way to the stable where the presence of the horses would make it warm.

It was indeed warmer in the old building, but much darker. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but then she could just make out the moving grey shapes of the horses. Maris clicked her tongue hello and moved down the length of the stable to where her mare nickered in greeting.

She buried her hands in Hickory’s warm brown mane, to warm them as much as to say hello. Stroking the mare’s neck, she spoke soothingly to her as the horse poked her velvety nose into the folds of Maris’s cloak. Her mistress never visited without a treat, and the rest of her apple was discovered and quickly munched down.

“How is your leg?” Maris asked her friend softly, kneeling in the stall. She pushed the hood of her cloak back from her face and ran sure hands along Hickory’s foreleg. The mare didn’t wince, and she unwrapped the bindings to find the swelling nearly gone.

“Ah, you are feeling much better,” she crooned. “We’ll be off to hunt the wild boar on the morrow, sweet Hickory,” Maris whispered as she stood to caress the velvety nose that bumped her head. “We’ll tear the beastie into little pieces, aye, will we not?”

“And what says your father of this plan to snare the wild boar?” The voice behind startled her and she whirled about, heart lodging in her throat.

“Sir Dirick, that was not very nice,” she told him indignantly as she tried to slow her thumping heart. “I could have been talking about you!”

He gave a short laugh. “And mayhap it would have served me right if you had,” he said with better humor than she’d expected.

Awakened much too early by the terrible, haunting dreams of his father’s death, Dirick had been in the corner of the hall and seen Maris slip from the keep in her brilliant blue cloak. Looking for an excuse to escape from the darkness of those dreams, Dirick had taken the opportunity to follow her.

He must spend another day or two at Langumont while he waited for word as to whether Bon de Savrille was in Breakston, and Dirick intended to keep his mind and body occupied so that he didn’t fall into the despair of grief and anger over his need to find Father’s murderer. Lord Merle had promised him some training to keep his body active, and the puzzle of his daughter would serve to intrigue his mind. Soon, he would be on his way on the king’s business…and then to his own matters.

“It seems much too early for a lady to be about her business, whatever that may be,” Dirick commented, squinting in the dim light.

“Aye,” she replied. “But ’tis the quietest part of the day, and I wished to see about Hickory’s foreleg.”

It was starting to get lighter, and the dark grey shadows began to take on muted colors and details as they stood in the stable. Dirick could see that Maris’s hair was uncovered, hanging in a fat braid over one shoulder. He felt a strange intimacy with her, seeing her hair. Although many maids at court had begun to disdain the covering wimples, it was obvious that in Merle’s household they were standard ware, for both ladies had worn them last night. He couldn’t tell what color Maris’s braid was, though, and for some reason, he needed to know.

“And the night?” Dirick asked pointedly. “Is that also a quiet time for a noble lady to go about her business?”

She had cocked her head like a falcon, as if trying to read the second meaning in his words. “Aye, there are times my tasks take me out in the night.”

“And what is it that brings the Lady of Langumont to walk the streets—alone—in the darkness?” He held her gaze steadily in the dimness, determined to receive an answer as to what she’d been doing on her own in the village in the middle of the night.

To his surprise, she laughed. “Ah, Sir Dirick, are you so protective of my reputation that you refuse to go to Papa with your evil suspicions? But of course you do not wish your betrothed to be seen wandering the streets at night—at the least, if you do not know the reason why.” Her hand came to rest lightly on his arm as she became serious. “Do you not fear for my reputation, Sir Dirick. I but came from the bedside of the cooper’s wife, after that long, difficult day of birthing her sons. I fear I was not in the best of tempers when you bore down on me.”

The dawn broke over Dirick so that he almost missed the detail one of her comments. “Please accept my apologies for my rude behavior,” he said with chagrin, then, as his mouth caught up with his brain, he repeated incredulously, “Betrothed?”

Maris had returned to stroking Hickory’s nose, turning her back to him as if to hide her expression. “Aye, sir, ’tis not a secret that you are here to speak on my hand. ’Tis—”

“How came you by such a notion?” Dirick exclaimed. To speak of a marriage contract only the day after meeting Lord Merle and his daughter was, to the least, embarrassingly rude. Beside that, marriage was the last thing on his mind—he had no lands to bring a wife, nor any wish to be saddled with one woman when God had put so many beautiful ones on His earth. “My lady, ’tis not at all the purpose of my visit.”

“Forgive me,” Maris broke in, relief and mortification in her voice. “I meant not to be—I bethought you were the man to which Papa means to betrothe me.”

“Your papa did say you are not yet betrothed,” he told her, regaining his faculties. Now he recalled Lord Merle’s missive from the day before, and the imminent arrival of the betrothal candidate. ’Twas an honest mistake on the lady’s part.

“Nay, I am not yet betrothed, nor am I desirous of having my person bartered over,” Maris replied tartly. She looked up at him, and he was surprised to be able to make out the shape and the flecks of green in her eyes now, in the dawning light. “Papa has stopped urging me to find a man to my liking.” Her face fell, and she returned to stroking Hickory’s velvet nose, “Because I have not made a decision, he has chosen my husband.”

Dirick was taken aback by her forthright opinions. Most maids were at the least betrothed by age fifteen, and a good majority of them wed, and before him stood a woman of more than seventeen summers calmly declaring she had not found a man to her liking and was unlikely to do so. It was unnatural.

Maris interrupted his thoughts. “What, then, do you here at Langumont if not to look me over, check my teeth, and set a dower price?”

Dirick managed to neither smile nor grimace at her words, which made the whole process sound callous. “As your father said last evening, I am lately come from Paris and travel through the area, looking to work for a lord such as your father.”

“Aye?” she asked, an odd tone in her voice. “It seems you have much knowledge of Henry’s court for one come so newly from France.”

“King Louis keeps many eyes on the court of the man who stole his wife,” Dirick replied smoothly.

“Such beautiful horseflesh you have for an itinerant knight,” she said.

Dirick looked at her, certain that the innocence in her voice was feigned, but unwilling to believe that she could be suspicious of him. What did a woman know of horseflesh? He decided to divert her attention. “Aye, I have an eye for good horseflesh…among other pleasures.”

Maris flushed and turned away. “Did you partake of such pleasures last night?” she threw back without looking at him.

Dirick was rendered momentarily speechless by her blunt question. “Lady Maris—” A noise behind drew his attention. “Who goes there?” he called, stepping in front of her with a sudden, graceful movement, hand going to the sword buckled at his waist.

“’Tis Peter the Marshal,” replied a voice, matching Dirick’s in warning. “An’ who be ye?”

Maris brushed past Dirick, and the scent of her, fresh and lemony, filled his nostrils as she stepped into the walkway. “Peter, good morrow to you. Hickory’s leg is near healed,” she said. “’Tis Sir Dirick de Arlande with me,” she explained as the stooped old man peered at Dirick over her shoulder. “Peter has been Langumont’s marshal for near three score years—and his sons and grandsons after him.”

“Aye, I see—you have the same look as the young man who took Nick’s reins upon my arrival. He had a gentle touch with my stallion, a definite way with horses,” Dirick replied.

Peter nodded with pleasure. “Aye, my lord, ’twas my oldest grandson, Percival. I vow, ’e ’as ’orseblood in ’is own veins!”

Dirick chuckled, and his attention turned back to Maris when she knelt to show Peter the mare’s foreleg. By now the stable was fairly light, and the shades of grey had turned to muted color. The fat braid that roused his curiosity had been flipped back over her shoulder when she stooped and he nearly reached out to touch its glossy darkness. Chestnut hair. Chestnut hair and green and gold flecked eyes and full pink lips.

Dirick jerked his thoughts back from where they skittered into impropriety just as Maris stood. They were nearly on top of each other. Her nose almost bumped his chest when she turned quickly and he took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest.

She ignored him. Peter had her full attention and her eyes snapped golden while her cheeks flushed pink as she explained the healing process of Hickory’s leg as proudly as if the mare’s steps were her own child’s first ones.

When at last the marshal turned to go about his business, Maris turned to Dirick. “Well, sir, do you intend to stand there supporting the stable wall all the day? I assure you, my Papa would not allow any building on his lands to come to that state in which a well paid man should spend his time holding it up.”

He couldn’t help but grin at her saucy tongue. “Nay, lady. I but wait for you to finish trilling with the marshal and leave to go about your business.”

“Trilling, indeed.” She stamped her foot indignantly, and even in the soft dirt floor he could hear the thud.

“God’s bones, lady, do you sound like my destrier when he seeks a mare in season.” He cocked an eyebrow and widened his grin.

Maris turned in a swirl of cloak to stalk out of the stable. Dirick followed, hands clasped innocently behind his back. His long legs gave him the speed to catch up with her, and he stepped into her stride just as they came out of the stable. “Why do you nip at my heels like a starving pup?” she demanded.

“I am interested, ’tis all,” he said with all sincerity. “I was intrigued by your story this morrow about the cooper and his wife…and your gift of healing.”

Maris stopped and turned to face him full in the bailey. A huge ball of the sun peered over the wall of the courtyard, and her resulting squint was most unladylike—yet endearing—as she looked up at him. “Interested, you say?” she asked.

“Aye. I know many noble ladies, and many well landed ones such as yourself, and I have yet to meet one who stays out till all hours of the night to midwife a cooper’s woman. ’Tis true, my lady mother will see to the ills of her people, aye, and I’ve met others that do the same—but, all too often, ’tis only at their convenience.”

“People do not become ill to convenience their healers,” Maris said with disdain, those full lips flattening. “’Twas near the first thing I was taught—after which plant is deadly hemlock, of course,” she smiled at him. Her nose was red with cold and her cheeks soon to follow and she looked quite lovely as she jested with him.

He grinned down at her, suddenly light hearted for the first time since he heard the news of his father. “It was, I’m certain, an informative bit of knowledge.”

“Aye, yet not as important as creating a draught to rid one of arrogant knights who tear down upon one like a demon in the dark of night,” she said dryly, turning away and pulling up her hood to cover her shiny reddish-brown hair.

“Aye, well, I would pay well the woman who could create a draught to whittle away the tartness of a particular Lady of Langumont. I vow, my mouth puckers less at the taste of a lemon than at her wit.”

“You dare to speak of my mother in such a manner?” A little giggle escaped from her lips, and she looked up at him, her eyes dancing. “I should toss you out on your ear for taking such liberties!”

A thick strand of hair blew in her face and caught at the corner of her mouth. She brushed it away and sobered. “In truth, Sir Dirick, your sincere interest is unfamiliar to me. More oft than not, men of your ilk turn tail or the subject, rather than hear the extent of my duties at Langumont.” She brushed her heavy cloak over her torso, “And, now, ’tis well past time for me to tend to those duties. I have kept you from your own work long enough.”

“Nay, my lady, you have kept me from naught,” Dirick was quick to respond, tightening his hands deep in the warmth of his tunic. It was quite frigid on this side of the bailey, where the slightest breeze seemed to catch and swirl brazenly about.

Maris smiled. “Very well, sir. But I am off to Mass and then about my duties.” She turned to make her way toward Langumont’s tiny chapel.

“My lady.” He was in her footsteps as if pulled by a rope. She turned and he felt foolish. “Lady Maris, I do not know where the chapel is and I am in need of absolution,” he said.

She gestured him forward, “Come, then, to Mass and Father Abraham will see you after.”

“Aye, my lady, and thank you.”

~*~

Verna crept up the dim, cold steps that led to the upper chambers of the keep. The sounds of busyness from below drifted up to her keen ears. And though she listened for the sound of her mistress’s voice, she knew that Lady Maris was gone about her work in the village and would not return for several hours.

On the floor above the great hall, several chambers were set into the tall stone walls. There was Lady Allegra’s solar, where the seamstresses worked, the private chamber of the lord and lady, several smaller chambers for important guests, and, finally, Verna’s destination.

Lady Maris’s chamber was the last along the narrow, dimly lit hallway. Attached was an antechamber where Verna slept when she was not with a man, for Maris did not require that she attend her every night as Lady Allegra would.

Verna passed silently through the small antechamber, skirting the small pallet piled generously with three pillows and an array of blankets, and opened the heavy door into the main chamber.

A large bed sat in one corner, its curtains drawn back to show a thick fur coverlet and many more pillows than Verna’s meager pallet. To the left of the bed, along the wall, was the narrow slit of a window—just wide enough to pass a hand through. A second window was staggered at the other end of the room. Both slits were covered with heavy tapestries to keep the harsh winter from entering the chamber.

A fireplace carved itself into the corner opposite the windows, and a small blaze crackled within. One of Verna’s many tasks each night was to build the sparks to a roar just as her mistress mounted the steps to her chamber. A large trunk rested at the foot of the bed, and a second one acted as a table near the fireplace. A stool and a straight backed chair completed the room’s furnishings.

Verna padded across the chamber, her feet rustling through the soft rushes that covered the stone floor. She poked briefly at the fire, adding two small logs to the protesting flames, then turned to the trunk at the foot of the bed.

Kneeling, she raised the lid of the heavy wooden trunk. Inside mounded piles of silks and velvets, wools and linens of the brightest colors and the most intricate embroideries. She passed a hand slowly over them, crushing an emerald silk bliaut in her fingers. A strange curl twisted her mouth and she stood, pulling the bliaut with her. It fell in a cascade of silk to her feet. She knew the green would complement her pale blonde hair and catlike green eyes.

For a moment, she stood thus, smoothing the silk down the front of her body, imagining how she would look garbed in the riches of Lady Maris of Langumont. Then, the twist of her mouth deepening, she carefully refolded the garment and replaced it in the trunk.

Now Verna dug carefully through the piles of clothing to the very bottom of the trunk and rummaged gingerly there. Holding a candle close to the shadowy depths, she peered into the depths of the fabric, mindful of dripping wax, and at last extracted the object of her search.

It was a headdress, woven of cloth of gold that often confined Lady Maris’s thick locks during the summer months. Verna examined the snood closely in the candlelight and was pleased to find several strands of rich brown hair trapped in the intricacies of the headdress. With a small sound of satisfaction, she folded the cloth carefully and pushed it up into her sleeve.

Maris had an audience as she peeled the dressing off Raymond of Vermille’s shoulder. Her father’s squires watched closely, hoping for a sign of the gore they’d been told they’d see. Unfortunately for them—and quite happily for Sir Raymond—the green pus that had oozed from his wound a mere two days earlier was gone, and the swelling had decreased greatly.

“See you, Sir Raymond,” she began for what seemed the hundredth time, but in this case, with the intent of teaching the young boys as well, “it is no great feat to keep soil from an open cut and ’tis much easier on the skin, so it heals nicely. If you keep mashing dirt and wool and lice from your tunic into the wound, it swells greatly as the humors grow.” She was finishing with a clean wrap around his shoulder.

“My thanks, my lady,” Raymond told her, winking at the squires.

“I saw that,” she remonstrated, pulling the binding tighter. At his exaggerated grunt of pain, she released it slightly. “If you do not listen to me, Sir Raymond, and cease your jesting, you’ll soon be without your sword arm.” Then she smiled and patted his good shoulder, “But if you listen to my commands, you’ll be wielding a lance in a week’s time.”

“Thank you my lady,” he said again, this time seriously.

She urged him off the stool on which he’d perched. “On the next you ride with Papa, I will send some of my green salve with you to put on a cut such as this until you are home for me to treat.”

She gathered up the rest of her medicines, packing some dried leaves and berries into a pouch to carry in her basket. “Off with you before cook puts you to work,” she said, shooing the young boys out of the herbary.

Outside, the air was just as brittle as it had been early that morning. The sun was so bright that Maris found herself blinded at the change from the darker chamber, and walked full faced into a warm body.

“Do you not watch where you are going?” came a deep, amused voice. “Lady Maris?”

“Sir Dirick,” she was beginning to make out shapes now. She looked up where his face would be and her eyes immediately watered from the brightness of the sun. Blinking the tears back, she looked back down and saw his scuffed brown boots in the compressed snow of the bailey. “I’m sorry, it was so dark in the herbary and the sun is so magnificently bright, I could not see for a moment. I trust your confession was well received?”

He grinned. “Aye, my lady, and well deserved, also.”

“And did you manage to obtain absolution for all your great sins?” she teased.

This time he laughed. “Aye, but for that I had to work a bit harder.”

“Indeed. I hadn’t expected to see you emerge from the chapel so quickly,” she returned, now able to look up at the face that blocked the sun. “Father Abraham is not known for his simple penances—and with a confession such as yours, I should think you’d be saying paternosters until Judgment Day and selling your fine Nick to pay for all your pardons.”

“Nay, lady, my penance is much heavier than you could think.” His eyes twinkled like the brilliant snow, “Father Abraham bade me accompany a headstrong lady healer on her visits to keep her from getting trampled under the hooves of any more horses.” Before she could react, he relieved her arm of the herb filled basket and asked, “And since I myself have nearly been flattened by a lady healer, ’tis fitting that I take up my penance now. Where are you off to, Lady Maris?”

“Do you not have aught to do but dog along my footsteps?” she asked, yet unable to keep back a smile. “Does not Papa have work for you?”

“Aye, lady, ’twas he who sent me to find you—and ensure that you are back to the keep for this evening’s meal. He says you have missed too many suppers as of late. Now, again, where are we off to?”

“To visit the cooper,” she told him automatically. Her father had sent a strange knight to be her chaperone? A chaperone in Langumont?

“Ah, the cooper.” Dirick sobered, “Have you heard any news?”

“Nay. Widow Maggie—the village healer—would have sent to me if there were cause for concern. Yet, I still wish to see how the babes fare, and see that the smith’s daughter is still wet nursing them.”

They trudged along the well packed snow through the gate of the bailey, over the drawbridge and into Langumont Village. Dirick watched in amazement as Maris greeted every person they encountered, by name and in their simple English language. She even ventured into the smoky, dark houses to see to a child with the ague, or show a woman how to make a draught for pain. Well accustomed to accepting the hospitality of the peasants that dwelled on his father’s lands, Dirick was still quite surprised at the ease with which Lady Maris did the same.

He plodded along in her wake as a mere fixture to the lord’s daughter. This was the first he’d seen of Langumont Village in the light of day, and he took note of its condition with a watchful eye.

There was one main throughway that led up to the iron portcullis of the bailey of Langumont Keep, and ran through the length of the generous village. Small structures of roughly hewn logs lined the road. The homes of the villagers were topped with thick thatching, and curls of smoke drifted up from crude chimneys. Most structures had at least one small window that was covered with well greased linen to keep the wind out while letting the light in. All of the doors seemed sturdy enough that they wouldn’t blow open in even the fiercest wind.

Dirick noted a smithy, a weaver, a baker, a prosperous looking silversmith, the inn he’d lodged in two nights earlier, and various other merchants and workshops. He picked out a butcher and a shoemaker, and his nose eventually pointed out the mart where the fishermen brought their wares from the nearby Langumont Bay. Outside of the village, he knew, were acres and acres of farmland—some belonging to the villagers, but a good portion belonging to Merle Lareux. Those fields were worked in turn by the villeins to produce the barrels and barrels of food that fed the lord’s household and its guests.

As he noted the prosperity of the village, Dirick could not help a twinge of envy. Such would never be his, he knew.

He was destined to a life of travel and war, with no lands or title of his own. Though he was well regarded by the king—even so well thought of as to be Henry’s confidante and advisor—the most he could expect or even aspire to was the fortune of marrying an unimportant heiress with a single fief. He would pay fealty to a liege lord with a great many lands, such as Merle of Langumont…or, mayhap, even Dirick himself might be awarded the position of castellan at a small fief such as Cleonis or Firmain.

As a youngest son, such was his fate—and ’twould only be altered should Bernard die without issue. And even in his deepest heart, in his most private thoughts, Dirick did not wish for that to come to pass.

He had ever known that this would be his destiny…and never before had he questioned it. Dirick turned a covert glance onto the woman who walked next to him, suddenly forced to subdue a pang of regret. The man who was to wed her was fortunate indeed, and not merely because of the lands he would obtain.

Dirick returned his thoughts to the scenery and peasants as they continued through the village. At last they reached a structure near the south side of the village. A man whom Dirick assumed was the cooper greeted them at the door, his face full of hope.

But as soon as he saw the scene within, Dirick knew the man’s hope was truly misplaced.

Chapter Five

Propelled by dismay and anger, Maris brushed past Dirick, pushing her way into the hut. Contrary to her previous commands, the windows had been resheathed, and old smoke clung to the air. Two babies squalled in the corner, and the woman was eerily silent.

“Uncover the windows,” Maris snapped, moving quickly to the bedside of the patient. Widow Maggie, who had been tending to the mother with a damp cloth on her forehead, stepped away, looking abashed at her lady’s entrance.

“But, my lady, the leech said—”

“Leech?” she exclaimed, turning on Maggie. “What said the leech?”

Quailing at his lady’s anger, Thomas nevertheless spoke haltingly. “The leech said the humors need darkness and heat from the fire. He said Mary’s blood must be let to rid her of the poison that draws her life.”

“Nay.” Maris clenched her fingers to keep from screaming in frustration. Maggie knew that as far as Maris was concerned, leeches should be banned from the village of Langumont. But there were many in the village who believed in the ways of the leeches.

Offering a swift prayer to the heavens, Maris threw back the blankets to reveal the pitiful figure of Mary, seeing immediately that it was too late. There was too much blood, and it still flowed freely, bright red and fresh. “Good Venny says leeches have little use—and oft cause more damage! God’s teeth, what have you done?” This last she managed to keep to a hiss of despair, knowing that the cooper had acted in fear and ignorance.

“‘Twas Thomas, my lady,” Maggie whispered. “She bled the night through, and he didn’t know what to do. We didn’t wish to spoil your Christ’s Mass celebration now that the lord has returned. The leech promised to save her.”

Maris looked at the terrified cooper and swallowed her anger as well as she could. He could not have known—leeches were famous for promising the moon if they were paid enough. She noticed that Dirick, who’d followed her inside, had moved quickly to tear the heavy, cloying blankets from the windows. Oiled cloth covered the openings, and he made a slit in the top of one near the fire so that the smoke would wend its way out of the hut.

Grateful for his help, she transferred her gaze to the seven black slugs that sucked away the lifeblood of her patient. “Remove the leeches,” she told Maggie shortly, then turned to Thomas. “Leeches do not come into Langumont Village. I do not know how he came, but if you see this man again, you will send for me immediately.”

“Aye, lady,” he whispered. “My lady, my Mary…will she…?”

Maris spared a look at the grey faced woman, and her fears were confirmed. She hadn’t stirred since her arrival. Blood soaked the bed beneath her as the leeches drew even more from her arms and legs. “I will do all I can, but likely ’twill not be enough.”

The babies were screaming in the corner. “Where is the smith’s daughter?” Maris asked, gritting her teeth at the sound.

“She went home this morrow,” Thomas told her, his hands wringing in front of him. “The leech thought Mary would suckle the babes this night.”

“Fetch her,” she said tightly. “She is not to leave until I say.”

Thomas scurried for the door as Maggie pulled the last reluctant leech from the woman’s flesh. Again, Maris noted out of the corner of her eye that Dirick had moved silently to where the babes lay. Suddenly, silence reigned and she breathed a deep sigh.

She worked quickly to mix a paste from dried yarrow to press over the open wounds from the slugs, and ordered Maggie about to steep a decoction of peppermint and clove to dribble down the woman’s throat.

Maris lost track of time. She vaguely remembered Thomas returning with Bernice, the smith’s daughter, and hardly took note of when Dirick stepped over to assist her or Maggie. The silence that hovered as she worked became monotonous and hung like death over the small, bleak house.

Time blurred. Maggie brewed a draught from herbs meant to ease the pain, and Maris helped her choke it down Mary’s parched throat. The woman breathed ever so slowly. Her hands remained cold and clammy while her face suffused with heat. Soft groans of pain emitted from her dried and cracked lips. The other women bathed her and found too much blood still coming from between her legs.

At last, she had no choice. “Sir Dirick,” Maris said as she turned to him, brushing the hair from her eyes. He looked down at her, comprehension in his face. “Go you to seek Father Abraham.”

Thomas’s eyes widened, then his stare dropped to the dirt floor of the hut. “My lady,” he whispered, moving to the bed to grasp his wife’s lax hand.

Maris didn’t know what time it was when Mary finally stopped breathing. With a muffled exclamation, she fell on the bed next to her patient, frantically feeling her chest for the beat of a heart, then put her cheek near Mary’s mouth in hopes of feeling the soft, labored breath that had kept the woman alive. Nothing. She looked slowly up at Maggie, struggling to keep her tears in check.

Dirick arrived with the priest moments later. Maris stood wearily and stepped back from the bed to allow Father Abraham to shrive the woman. She leaned against the wall, passing a grimy hand over her cheek, and her gaze was caught by Dirick’s. His face was grim and his eyes soft as they looked at her with admiration and regret.

She shook her head, turning away, feeling as though she’d failed miserably—and in front of him. Had she or Maggie been aware of Mary’s condition before the leech was brought in, perhaps she could have prevented the bleeding that most assuredly cost her her life. The struggle to give birth to two large boys, and the subsequent loss of blood was simply exacerbated by the bloodletting.

What does it matter now? she thought, wiping away a tear that suddenly appeared. She had done what she could and the woman had died.

Good Venny told her that when God called someone there was naught she could do to prevent that person from going. There would be many times when she would succeed, but she could not work against God’s will.

“’Twill be a hard lesson to learn, Maris,” he’d told her somberly. “You may learn it early, you may take years to learn it. But you must never question your gift of the ability to heal. You are blessed to be chosen, to save God’s people when ill befalls them. Use your gift, but do not seek to play God.”

She wished he were here now.

Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, and she blinked them back before Sir Dirick saw them. Plucking at Maggie’s sleeve, she whispered, so as not to disturb the prayers of the priest, “I must go.”

With that, she slipped quickly from the hut.

Dirick found her not far from the cooper’s hovel, leaning against a tree, staring at the ground. He approached without speaking, knowing that the sound of his boots crunching through the icy snow would announce his presence.

Standing to the side, he took a moment to observe the woman, allowing his gaze the leisure of absorbing every detail. The hood of her brilliant blue cloak had fallen back, leaving her head bare and thick strands of rich brown hair fluttering in the breeze. Her nose and cheeks were red, whether from the chill or from weeping, he did not know. She stood motionless, like a tree herself, her chest rising and falling under the heavy cape.

Dirick felt something warm seep through his limbs, warming him even in the coldness. He’d never seen a woman act so decisively, so magnificently in the face of such strife and danger. She’d worked so hard to save the dying woman, and he had been able to do naught but stand back and watch. Doubtless she’d known from the instant she stepped foot within that the woman would perish, but Maris had worked urgently to save her.

Even now, he could see the results of her efforts in a rusty streak of blood across her cheek, and the disheveled look of her hair and shiny dampness of her face. He had never seen a noblewoman look so unkempt…so work roughened…and yet, so noble.

It was no wonder her father adored her.

Maris turned suddenly, surprising him in his study of her. Her eyes were red rimmed and faintly bloodshot, and the tip of her nose quite scarlet. She looked at him with a mixture of resignation and embarrassment, and Dirick struggled to find something to say. Words of comfort usually sprang easily to his lips when he was faced with consoling a woman whose gown had been stained, or one whose feelings had been hurt by another…and all at once, those moments seemed as superficial as the veneer of ice over snow when faced with a woman such as Maris of Langumont.

“You have a great gift,” he spoke finally, his words rough, rumbling from a throat tight with emotion.

She sighed. “’Twas not enough of a gift this day, I fear.”

She stepped away from the tree and started toward him. A tremulous smile quirked her mouth, and a small dimple echoed it in her chin. “I have yet to learn, as my mentor tried to teach me, that despite many lives saved, there are others that I cannot turn from God’s will.” Her face saddened and her eyes took on a faint sheen. She blinked quickly and brusquely turned to pick up her pouch of medicinals, starting off toward the keep’s walls.

Feeling clumsy and inarticulate, Dirick was moved to action. He took Maris’s arm and gently propelled her so that she looked up at him. For a moment, he stilled, looking down into her beautiful face, streaked with tears and blood, her chin quivering as she valiantly tried to hold back her emotions. Her eyes seemed to beg for him to speak, and he groped mentally for something that would cause the pain to melt away.

“’Tis amazing to me, Lady Maris, that we men should spend our lives seeking war, when you should work so hard to save a simple life. The wars are fought for lands and riches, yet you would spend all of the day slaving to save the life of a simple peasant. It shames me, and at the same time, I’m filled with admiration for you.”

Snow drifted lightly down from a graying sky. Maris tilted her face up, catching one of the filigree flakes on her pink cheek, and blinked quickly. “Thank you, Sir Dirick.”

“Aye, and I know the pain of losing a loved one,” he added, his sensitivity allowing the grief of the loss of his father to bubble to the surface.

She looked at him. “Praise God, I cannot say the same. Though ’tis nearly as bad if a patient dies,” she added. “Was your loss recent?”

He nodded but remained silent, looking at her and then needing to tear his eyes away. “The sun is lowering. We must return.”

With a short nod, she slipped the strap of her pouch over her shoulder and gestured toward the river. “I must find a bit of bearberry before we return,” she told him apologetically. “’Tis for my father.”

“Of course.” With an effort, Dirick threw off the heaviness of grief and sobriety that had cast a pall over them and summoned a smile. “Lead on, my lady.”

They were nearing the edge of the village and the huge stone wall of Langumont Keep loomed ahead of them when she stopped and crouched on the ground.

Dirick watched as she knelt to dig in the icy snow with a stick. Maris made a comely picture—squatting near the snow, her deep blue cloak a swirl on the brilliant white, her dark head silhouetted against a nearby drift. Thick locks of hair had fallen from her braid during the day, and now light wisps of it blew about her face, dancing against a pink cheek and catching at the corner of her mouth. In the clear light of day, despite the waning sun, he could see that the color of her hair was a mixture of many shades of brown and rich with red, gold and topaz—just as vibrant as she was.

When Maris looked up at him, she caught him by surprise and he blinked to recover his normal expression. She didn’t seem to notice his besotted look, and she gestured to the patch where she’d cleared away the snow.

“Look you here,” she pulled at his cloak, and he kneeled down next to her. Shiny, dark green leaves clustered under the snow, cluttered with dried leaves and branches. A few red berries still clung tenaciously to the sturdy mahogany stems, but she ignored those and began to pluck the leaves.

“’Tis called bearberry?” he asked.

“Aye,” Maris explained, stuffing the leaves into a leather pouch that she’d pulled from the folds of her cloak. “It’s a wonder the leaves are still here under all this snow,” she remarked.

Dirick started to pull some of the berries from the plant. “Need you the berries as well?” he asked, proffering a small handful.

“’Tis only the leaves are good for steeping in a draught. They help fluids pass easily from the body. The berries are beautiful, but I know of no use for them.”

“Ah, I see,” he tossed the dark red berries onto the snow where they scattered like drops of blood.

He turned to clearing away more ice while she picked as many fresh leaves as they could find. Their heads were bent together and he was close enough that a light lock of her hair tossed daintily against his cheek. The fresh scent of lemon and another smell he could not identify reached his nose above the crisp cold of winter. It was so very different from the thick floral scents favored by the ladies at court.

“’Tis pretty,” he said without thinking, sniffing lightly.

Maris turned and the smell became stronger. “Pardon?” she asked, her green and gold eyes so close that he could count the thick lashes that framed them.

“’Tis lemons. I smell lemons and another scent,” he said quickly, moving away from her.

Dirick felt her smile all the way to the pit of his stomach. “’Tis a soap for my hair,” she told him, “It cleans it well and makes it smell fresh. Lemon verbena and mint and rosemary,” she explained.

“I find it very unusual,” he told her, trying not to be obvious as he sniffed again.

The tiny dimple on the left corner of her chin appeared. “Ah, Sir Dirick, ’tis quite the diplomat you are,” she brushed the errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I know ’tis unfashionable, as my mama tells me. I shouldn’t smell of utilitarian herbs, and I should be embarrassed ere ’tis noticed.”

“Nay,” he told with a warm smile, “’tis but uncommon—as you are, my lady. After all,” he said, trying to ignore the heaviness singing through his veins, “it has never happened before that a lady has me digging in the snows for shiny green leaves!”

Maris looked up at him so quickly that she almost lost her balance. “Marry, Sir Dirick, I did not think…oh, what you must think that I have involved you in the tasks of an old midwife!” The tinge of pink from the cold flared into a darker, rosy flush over her face. Obviously flustered, she began to struggle to her feet, but her cloak had become wrapped around her foot and she lost her balance, tilting backward into the damp snow.

“Nay, my lady, ’twas a jest!” Dirick grasped her hand to help her regain her balance. “And a poor one at that.” He smiled as he faced Maris, squatting in the ankle deep snow as he steadied her by holding both of her hands.

Their faces were near each other, as near as they’d ever been, and his breath misted in the chilling air. “Lady Maris,” he said quietly, then was caught by her gaze. Her lips parted slightly and he felt the slight shift in her breathing. “It’s been a pleasure to be in your company all the day, throughout the time at the cooper’s as much as assisting you in this simple task. ’Tis only as a compliment that I call you uncommon…and you are uncommonly beautiful as well.” Those last words came as a surprise to him, and he found himself caught in a very warm, trusting, golden gaze.

Dirick swallowed heavily, knowing that he was going to kiss her and fearing that her reaction might be a heavy hand across his cheek. Pushing that aside, he tugged gently on her hands and she came forward—easily—and he met her lips halfway.

They were sweet lips…so sweet….

His mouth was tentative at first, but when she didn’t pull back, he pressed more firmly against her lips. They were chilled from the winter air, but melted warmly, softly against him. One of his hands freed her fingers and slid to cover the back of her head, digging into her braid. He fingered the thick rope of hair, touching its fat smoothness, his rough skin snagging it as he slid his hand down its length. A charge of desire swept through him with such force that he made a soft noise in the back of his throat, surprised, wanting more. The scent of lemon verbena and rosemary caught in his nostrils, mingling with the crispness of the cold air, dancing through his being with the nearness and the taste of Maris.

She was responsive, warm, taking him into her mouth and kissing him back with a passion he hadn’t expected. He felt a tiny shiver race through her body and knew it was not the cold. Nevertheless, he slipped his mantle over her shoulders, pulling her closer and into his arms. She was small and delicate and he sighed, sliding his hands down her waist and over her hips.

At last—though it seemed like hours, it was a mere few seconds—Dirick regained his senses and pulled away quite suddenly. His breath was coming in faster, whiter puffs now and he forced himself to set her away from him. He was heavy and hard with arousal, and when she looked up at him with glazed hazel eyes and swollen pink lips, he nearly reached for her again.

Instead, he pulled away from the temptation, resting his hand against the smooth bark of a birch tree as if to keep it from doing any further damage. “My lady,” he said, trying to speak coherently when all he wanted to do was pull her to him again, “that was unforgivable. I hope you will find it in your heart to allow my escort back to the keep. I’ll return you to your father’s care and you need not be bothered by my presence again.”

“Nay, Sir Dirick,” she said, struggling to her feet with a dazed look on her face. “Have no worries that I’ll bring tales to my papa,” she said, brushing two fingers lightly over her full mouth. “I allowed you leave to kiss me only to have some questions of my own answered.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, ignoring the throbbing between his legs and trying to act as cool as she. “And did you have your questions answered?” he replied.

“Aye,” she breathed, still touching her mouth unconsciously, “aye, that I did.”

Chapter Six

At dinner that evening, Maris avoided looking at Sir Dirick.

He sat on the far side of Merle, sharing a trencher with Lady Allegra. The two men, seated next to each other, were engrossed in conversation regarding the latest news that had come in from Westminster—the king’s call to arms for his battle to subdue Geoffrey of Anjou.

Though he sat away from her, and she couldn’t see him unless she leaned around her father, Maris was as aware of Dirick’s presence as if he’d brushed against her. His hands, serving Allegra and himself, moved in and out of her view, and she found herself watching them, noticing their tanness, the short, clean fingernails, the molding of muscle and tendon and sprinkling of dark hair, the way the sleeve of his tunic fell back to expose a narrow, tanned wrist.

She heard him laugh—a low, masculine, husky laugh that heightened her awareness of him. His conversation carried over the noise of the meal, collecting in her consciousness, as close to her as if he whispered in her ear. The cadence of his voice, rising and falling as he alternately admired and charmed Allegra, and debated and argued with Merle, was soothing and exciting and haunting.

A simple kiss…a simple kiss had made her as aware of him as she’d become aware of herself.

Even now, her fingers trembled when she remembered the heat, the shock of pleasure that took her by surprise and made her body come alive. Warm, demanding lips and the hard strength of his body were enough to steal her breathing and pool desire into the center of her being.

Even now, she felt the stirring of desire, the flutter of arousal in her middle.

The memory of his lips still burned on her mouth as she sipped from her wine. She wanted to taste him again. She wanted to know if the kiss they had shared could be duplicated, if it would be the same charge of energy should it happen again.

Casting a covert look in his direction, she saw him leaning flirtatiously toward her mother, a smirk curling his mouth, and realized suddenly, with a cold shock, that he was most likely well accustomed to kissing maidens in the wood. That knowledge settled in her middle like a large chunk of bread and she turned away to sip from her goblet.

It was her own doing, she reprimanded herself, for she had wanted to kiss him, and had known he wanted to kiss her when he helped to pull her to her feet. She’d welcomed the chance to see if kissing was any better now that she was older than when her father’s squire Raymond of Vermille had stolen a kiss from her years ago.

It was.

“Daughter, are you ill?” her father asked suddenly, turning his attention to her, and startling her from her own thoughts. “You are no louder than a mouse this night.”

“Nay, Papa,” she gave him a soft smile. “’Twas a long and wretched day, for I could not save the cooper’s wife.”

His face sobered. “Ah, aye, Father Abraham’s servant sent word to me.”

Maris pushed back the sadness that threatened to bring tears back to her eyes and replied, “There was naught I could do.”

He smoothed a comforting hand over her arm. “I know you did all you could, dearling.”

“They had a leech in!” she said, her grief replaced by anger. “It was the cause of it, and still the villagers won’t listen.

He shook his head. “Maris, I know Venny taught you well, and he knows many things, but there are others—leeches—that know medicine as well. They are not always bad.”

“I have yet to meet one that has not worsened the situation,” she told him defiantly.

Her father tsked, for they had had this conversation many times. Obviously knowing that neither of them would win the argument, he said, “I am sorry that she died. I will send three chickens to the cooper on the morrow, and visit on Justice Day. Is the smith’s daughter still wet nursing the babes?”

“Aye. She will do a fine job, and mayhap the cooper and she will marry. She is of an age, and lost her own husband to the fever several moons ago.” She flickered a glance at Dirick, who was mooning over her mother’s slim hand, then looked back at her father. “I’ve brewed some fresh tea from the bearberry bush for you this night.” She patted his arm lightly. “I know you’re in need of it, for Mama told me this morn in Mass. The leaves are fresh and the tea is strong. I’ll have Verna bring it to your chamber when you retire.”

“Thank you, dearling. Though I despise the taste of it, I cannot complain about the good your bearberry tea does for my pains. Have Verna bring it to me anon, and I vow I’ll drink it.”

“Very well, Papa. I shall hold you to that vow,” Maris said as she stood. “I must see to Maisie’s daughter, for she’s not feeling well, and then I will brew your tea,” she explained, carefully avoiding any more than a brief glance at Dirick. “Good night, Sir Dirick, good night, Mama.” She bent over to kiss her father on his cheek, then she turned to walk from the hall.

Dirick watched her go. He’d spent the entire meal alternately cursing and congratulating himself for seizing the opportunity to taste those lovely lips. He was not an impulsive man when it came to women. He took his time, wooing and flattering, teasing and titillating a woman until she was like a ripe peach falling into his hand. There were plenty of willing women, ladies and whores alike, that made themselves available and giving him no cause to take chase. That was the way he preferred it.

Nevertheless, not only had he enjoyed his day at Maris’s side, but he knew he would kiss her again—betrothed or nay.

She had just disappeared into the kitchen and the hall was beginning to quiet down when the messenger made his appearance.

Most of the men-at-arms had retired from bawdy conversation and raucous story telling to the beds of whores, chess and dice games, or the night watch. Dirick himself was ready to find his own pallet when the seneschal approached Merle.

“My lord, a messenger at the gate brings tidings to our guest, Sir Dirick de Arlande.” The man stood silently, waiting permission to call the messenger within.

All thoughts of sleep and of Lady Maris’s luscious mouth fled Dirick’s mind to be replaced by anxiety. The news must be bad indeed for a messenger to track him whilst on a secret mission for the king. Fresh from the experience of having news of his father’s death brought in the same way, he was immediately concerned.

Merle nodded his assent to the seneschal, who disappeared to retrieve the messenger. The moments that passed until his reappearance seemed an age to Dirick as he forced nonchalance, sipping more ale. At last the messenger appeared, and Dirick’s concern was heightened when he recognized a man-at-arms of his brother Bernard, now the Lord of Derkland.

“The message I bear is best given in private,” the messenger said as he approached the high table.

“Then let us step to a private corner.” Dirick stood, his mouth compressed and his middle roiling.

The man followed him to a dark, chilly corner of the room and Dirick rounded on him as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “What is the news, Sir Ivan?”

“Lord Bernard sent me thus—”

“He is well then? Bernard is well? Is it Thomas? Speak, man!”

“Aye, your brothers are well, and—”

“Mother! ’Tis not Mother?” Dirick’s body turned cold. Her grief over the loss of her husband had been deep and long. Had her broken heart weakened her?

“Nay, nay Sir Dirick—all is well.” The emphasis on these last words at last penetrated and Dirick’s tension eased.

“Well, man, you nearly affrighted me into an earlier grave than I should wish! What news is it that Bernard should send you to find me whilst on the king’s business?” He held his hand out for the missive.

“’Tis not writ,” Ivan told him. “Lord Bernard didn’t wish to chance the wrong eyes to see it and alert them of your assumed identity. He learned a story from a traveling knight who stopped at Derkland en route to the king. Upon hearing the details of your father’s murder” —Ivan crossed himself— “this man, Samuel of Lederwyrth, told the tale of another murder thus.”

Ivan began to speak from memory, his eyes glazing over as he recited the message:

“He came upon a terrible sight near London, nearly two leagues south of the city. It was obviously the scene of a robbery. There were two men dead and picked bare of their valuables. Both lay on the ground, facedown, in the most odd position: with their arms positioned as if their hands had been joined or clasped as they died. One of the men, knights they were both” —Ivan crossed himself again— “had been stabbed so as to leak blood for hours, and his throat cut. He was placed in the ground with his face in the dirt—”

“And his neck broken by the hoof of a horse, and his face pulled back so that his forehead touched the sky?” Dirick felt his heavy meal surge in his stomach.

Ivan shook his head, his eyes coming into focus again. “Nay, though a there was the imprint of a horse’s hoof deep in his back.”

Dirick closed his eyes as the image of his father’s similar fate swam into his memory. Nay, he hadn’t been tortured by seeing it himself, but he could imagine it all too well.

“My lord Bernard bade me also tell you of the horse found on the scene. ’Twas a fine horse with two legs broken, and it was hobbled to a tree. The horse had died thus.” Ivan’s face mirrored the horror that Dirick felt—but there was still more to tell. He drew forth a small bundle from the deepest folds of his cloak and offered it to Dirick. “The knight also showed Lord Bernard this, which was found embedded in a tree above the horse.”

Dirick’s hands trembled slightly as he held them out to catch the object rolling from the cloth.

The item was a wicked looking dagger. Dirick caught it easily in his hands, measuring the blade against the length of his hand from wrist to the tip of his longest finger.

The blade was silver, and the tip had been nicked off so that instead of a perfect point, it ended in a jagged edge. The dagger’s handle was wrought of silver filigreed roses intertwined with serpents, the blooms as true to life as the sharp thorns, as wicked as the slithering serpents. A small crystal was set in the end of the handle and it glittered in the light of the blazing fire.

“I’ve seen naught like this workmanship,” he murmured, gazing at the dagger for a long moment. He turned it over and over in his hands as if willing it to speak. At last, looking up at Ivan he asked, “What said my brother—shall I send this back with you to go to the king?”

Ivan shook his head, “Nay, my lord—Lord Bernard wished you to keep the dagger if you thought it of use to you. The king bade him send it to you.”

“Good.” Dirick wrapped the knife in its cloth and tucked it into his tunic. “This Samuel of Lederwyth—where did he come from? I should like to speak with him.”

“He hails from the southern lands—near London. Lord Bernard sent word to the king, who ordered him to tell you.”

Dirick was nodding. “Aye. This dagger will do me more good than his majesty, and mayhap soon I will have an identity to this mad killer now that we have something of his.” He looked down at the elegant, murderous weapon.

A wave of rage flooded him and his determination to find his father’s killer settled in the forefront of his mind.

Dirick suspected he would sleep ill this night.

Chapter Seven

Verna pulled the mantle more closely about her face, pushing back the hank of hair that threatened to obscure her vision. She trudged through the drifts, stepping carefully over the branches of the deepest part of the forest bordering Langumont Village. Her burden was secured tightly at her waist with a heavy cord, and she patted it several times to assure herself of its continued presence.

After a very long walk, Verna at last came upon a tiny hut nearly hidden in the trees. She shivered, but, gathering her courage up with her wrap, she approached the hovel. The forest was deathly still. Even the birds were silent. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting a red eyed wolf to be watching.

Something touched her leg through the long cloak that caught in the snow. Verna leapt back before she could catch herself, nearly tripping over a huge black cat.

It hissed at her, then eased through a crack into the hut as Verna stilled in frozen trepidation. Her eyes wide, she stared at the hut, wondering if the cat had been the old crone herself.

Her fears were justified when, moments later, without her even raising her hand to knock, the door swung silently open. No one was there. She didn’t move except to clutch at the packet hanging from her side.

At last she took a hesitant step forward, and then another, until she could see into the dark, cavern like interior. The only light came from a blazing fire in the far corner.

“Are ye comin’ in er not?” a voice suddenly shrieked.

Verna started, but was galvanized to move forward. “Dame Marthe,” she whispered, crossing the threshold into the meager hovel.

Inside, she found a room filled with an assortment of tables and stools, and each stick of furniture was cluttered with crude wooden bowls and utensils. A heavy odor pervaded the room, and she saw what looked like the remains of several animals on a nearby table. The huge black cat was nowhere to be seen.

At first, Verna didn’t see the tiny, wizened lady ensconsed in a corner chair. But when her eyes finally rested on Dame Marthe, they were held there by a cold, rheumy blue pair. The crone’s face had more lines in it than a linen altar cloth, and her mouth was yet one more deep line. Spidery wrinkles radiated from the place her lips would be, and when she opened the lipless orifice to speak, Verna caught a glimpse of one stump of a tooth.

“My, my! A pretty lady has come to call!” the hag cackled with poorly concealed distaste. “And who might ye be?”

Verna swallowed, but forced herself to speak with confidence. “Verna of Langumont,” she answered. “Lady of Langumont.”

Overcome with mirth, Dame Marthe nearly fell off her rickety stool. “Lady of Langumont in a pig’s eye, ye are!” she returned harshly. “Ye’re no more The Lady than I am the Blessed Virgin!”

Verna nearly winced at the blasphemy. She’d deviated too much to devote any thought to such mundane cares as blasphemes. “I shall be Lady of Langumont, old woman—my time will come. My time will come with help from you.”

The hag contained her laughter; then her runny eyes narrowed. Mucus spilled out of them, running into the deep crevices in her cheeks. “Verna, ye say? Verna of the miller, might ye be?”

The maidservant nodded slowly, “Aye, dame. If you know of me…then you know of my plight. I have brought something to you. I am in need of assistance, old woman. You will be well rewarded upon completion of this deed.”

She pulled from her waist a cloth wrapped package. With a swift flick of her wrist, she opened it and a cloth of gold snood tumbled onto the dirty table. “And when we are through today,” she looked expectantly at Dame Marthe, “you shall tell my future.”

It was more than a se’ennight past Christ’s Mass and Lord Merle’s return to Langumont. One afternoon, shortly after the midday meal, Merle sighed and adjusted himself in his chair.

Allegra looked up, wondering if his wound still pained him. “Husband, may I pour thee more ale? Thy cup is near empty.” She was seated in the chair next to him, working on her embroidery. The dais on which they sat was near the fire, yet not near enough to be well lit. Merle had had torches and candles on tall stands set about so that his wife did not have to strain her eyes.

“Aye, love, more ale. And mayhap some cheese?”

“Of course, my lord husband.” Allegra provided him with his wishes as he watched Maris and Dirick play a game of chess.

Allegra didn’t play chess; she found it too daunting to keep in mind all of the pieces and they way they marched across the board—let alone planning one’s moves several steps in advance. But based on the number of pieces collected on each side of the table, their daughter was giving the handsome knight a bit of a challenge in the game.

Just settling back in her chair, Allegra was startled by a quiet voice in her ear. “My lady Allegra.” Turning, she found Maris’s maidservant, Verna.

“Aye, Verna?”

“You are needed in the kitchen,” Verna whispered, tugging at her mistress’s sleeve.

“I am needed in the kitchen?” she repeated.

As they walked away from Merle, Verna spoke in a humble voice, “Aye, my lady, there is someone that has asked to speak with you. He did not wish Lord Merle to know of it.”

Fear gripped Allegra’s chest and she felt her heart thumping uncontrollably behind her ribs. She had hoped and prayed that Bon had forgotten his threat, or had given up when she had not responded.

In sooth, she had not had the courage to broach Merle on the subject of Maris’s betrothed, for she could not fathom a solution to the problem. If Maris married as her husband wished, Bon would make good on his threat to expose her true parentage. But Allegra could not allow her daughter to wed with her own half uncle—most especially to a man such as Bon de Savrille.

Nor, did it seem, that she would be able to sway her husband in a decision he had already made. Only this evening had Merle commented that the man he awaited should arrive on the morrow, and the contracts would shortly be signed.

In despair, Allegra recalled the day of her own wedding and the private vow she’d made that her daughter should never marry against her will. In all these years, Allegra had not forgotten Michael, nor had her love for the man she remembered dimmed.

Someday, she vowed, she would be with him again, or may God strike her dead. She had never grown to love Merle as she should. Although she’d been a good wife to him, and served him well, she did not feel the passion and blind love that she still harbored for Lord Michael.

The maid stopped just near the kitchen door, gesturing to the entrance to the bailey. “My lady, the man awaits near the stables. I did not wish to alarm you in Lord Merle’s presence.”

The wind was cold and Allegra had not pulled a cloak around her. Her dread grew, causing her stomach to churn, and she forced herself to walk across the courtyard, head bent. She shivered and stumbled to the stables, aware that Verna was no longer in her wake.

Stepping hesitantly inside, she breathed a sigh at the inherent warmth from the building filled with whuffling horses. The stable was dark, but a shadowy figure stood near the rear.

“What do you wish?” she asked in a quivery voice.

“My Lady Allegra,” a slight man stepped forward so that she could make out the barest of his features. “I bring you a token from my master.” He reached out, and she stepped back in alarm. He was, however, too quick for her reaction, and his fingers closed around her hand. Something heavy was pressed into her palm, then he closed her fingers tightly around it. Metal pressed into her tender palm and Allegra cried out at the pain.

The man laughed and leaned forward. “My master insists that if you do not heed his warning, you will be in much more pain. Good eve, my lady.” He pushed roughly past her and suddenly she was alone.

Allegra stumbled out of the dim stable moments later, still clutching the heavy metal object. The light of the moon led her through ankle deep snow to the chapel. Leaning on the heavy door, she nearly fell into the haven.

Candles flickered along the altar and at each corner of the chapel. Allegra slowly unfurled her clenched fingers. Even in the varying light, she was able to make out the markings on the heavy metal brooch. De Savrille.

The next day was unusually fair for January. The sun glared high in the sky, and the serfs and men-at-arms disdained cloaks and gloves alike as they went about their business.

Merle was in the bailey watching his men practice their swordplay when the visitors arrived. Dirick, who had just put his own sword down, looked up curiously as Gustave approached.

“My lord,” announced the seneschal, “the Lords d’Arcy have identified themselves at the portcullis. I shall show them to the great hall, and have them take their ease, but you wished to be informed upon their arrival.”

“Thank you, Gustave. Dirick, do you come with?”

“I’m certain you have much to discuss that does not concern me. Surely I can occupy myself until the evening meal so that I don’t interrupt your business.” Dirick wiped an arm across the sweat that trickled down his forehead, brushing his hair back in one slick motion.

“Nay, nay,” Merle said heartily—and so firmly that Dirick did not argue, “Come with me and meet my dear friend and his son. At the least, they shall have news, for they come from south of London, and will bring the latest from there.”

Merle led the way to the huge entrance of the keep, beckoning for Dirick to follow. Resigned, he pulled on his tunic and followed, wondering why Merle was so insistent that he meet his guests.

Inside the hall, Dirick sheathed his sword and rested it on one of the heavy oaken benches that lined a trestle table. Merle had already greeted the two men that were settled on stools in front of a blazing fire. Dirick approached, scrutinizing the Lords d’Arcy.

The elder—presumably the father—was comfortably sprawled on a three legged stool on which he sat tilted so far that his back rested against a nearby table. Pale, wheat colored hair hung in a cap just to his ears, cut straight across his forehead, and looking like a silvered helm. Pale blue eyes darted quickly to Dirick as he approached, then to Merle, then back to Dirick.

The younger visitor was definitely related to the elder: he had the same pale blue eyes that were colorless as ice, and thin wheat colored hair hung raggedly to his shoulders. He was a fairly large man—easily as tall as Dirick—with a tanned, square face and full lips.

As Dirick extended his hand to the father, he felt the gaze of the younger d’Arcy boring into him. An unaccountable sense of mislike swept over him and in a bald moment of self-recognition, Dirick understood why.

This man was to have Maris.

“Sir Dirick de Arlande, meet Lord Michael d’Arcy of Gladwythe and his son, Sir Victor.”

Dirick clasped the proffered wrist of Michael d’Arcy, feeling a renewed trickle of unease at the strange light in his pale eyes. Had the man a fever, or was he merely tired from travel?

Then he turned to greet the son, hiding his reluctance and sudden dislike. “Sir Victor,” he said, taking his time to observe the other man while he tried to place the familiar name.

“Sir Dirick de Arlande,” mused Lord Michael, running a finger slowly over his full lower lip. “I do not believe I have heard mention of you at court.”

“Nay,” Dirick’s lips thinned in a cool smile, “’tis not likely, as I am lately come from Paris, and have not spent time in the court of your Plantagenet.” His words carried the authentic French accent he’d become accustomed to while serving the queen in Aquitaine. He was determined not to divulge his true relationship with the king and queen.

Merle stepped in. “Sir Dirick has pleaded succor during his journey through England. I have kept him quite busy at Langumont for the past fortnight.”

Michael drank from a warmed goblet of wine, then, daintily wiping his lips and the tips of his fingers, glanced around the hall. “And where might the fair Lady Maris be? I am keen to meet her. As, I am certain, is Victor.”

Dirick accepted, and acknowledged, the little tic of annoyance at the reminder of the impending betrothal—then ruthlessly dismissed it. Why should he waste any thought or concern that the man was to wed Maris of Langumont?

The lady was not hard on the eyes—and quite delicious on the lips—but Dirick had no further interest in her, even if he wished to wed. Aye, she was a fair chess player and quick of wit, but it was of no difference to Dirick. He had a task to complete, for both his king and his father—and he’d wasted more than enough time here at Langumont.

Just then, Merle called across the room, “Allegra, wife, come attend our guests!”

The frail woman had just entered the hall, likely having been drawn from her solar at the arrival of the honored guests. She glided across the rush strewn floor.

Merle reached out for her hand and drew her into the circle of men around the fire as she looked up. “Wife, do you meet Sir Victor d’Arcy and his father, Lord Michael of Gladwythe.”

Dirick’s attention was on Allegra as she curtsied and nodded to her future son by law. She turned to Michael, and Dirick saw her eyes go wide, her mouth open in a silent gasp, and he watched as she crumpled slowly to the floor.

Instantly, the room was astir. Merle leapt to his feet, bellowing, staring down helplessly at the small heap at his feet. Michael’s face had registered no shock, and, in fact, Dirick noticed that he was the calmest of the bunch, leaning forward to ease Allegra by loosening the ties of her bliaut.

By the time Dirick had taken in these jumbled facts, Widow Maggie and Maella had scurried to their mistress’s side. The healer waved a small bouquet of herbs in front of Allegra’s nose, and Dirick was gratified to see her stir.

Allegra’s eyes fluttered open and her gaze rested upon the face that was nearest hers, one that was bent over her in concern.

Her lips moved and although he couldn’t hear the syllables, Dirick read the word on her lips.Michael.

Michael D’Arcy’s name. Dirick felt a prickle of interest and foreboding, and glanced at Merle. But the elder man’s face showed only concern as he assisted Lady Allegra to her feet.

“Allegra, are you ill? Is there aught can be done?” he was saying solicitously.

“Nay,” she replied. “Nay, my lord, I—’twas just a spell of dizziness.” She drew a shuddering breath and pulled herself to her full height, stiltedly keeping her eyes from Lord Michael.

The maid, Maella, had a stricken look on her face, and Widow Maggie was pressing a steaming draught upon her lady. “Shall I call for Lady Maris to attend our guests?” asked Maella.

“Nay. Nay,” Allegra forced herself to sound calm, forced the spots that danced before her eyes to disappear. She could not bring Maris into this mess until she thought how to handle it. “Maris is in the Village,” she explained, “And the ache in my head has gone.” She made a smile of her lips, and bravely turned to look at Michael.

Oh, God, it’s Michael. After so many years, how have You delivered him to me?

“May I offer my lord to bathe?” she said, trying not to sound too eager. “You are likely weary from your long journey.”

“Aye, a bath would be more than I could hope for!”

Allegra remembered their other guest and turned to the younger man. “I cannot attend thee myself, Sir Victor, but a bath will be prepared for you as well.”

“’Twould be most welcome. Mayhaps Lady Maris could attend me,” Victor suggested.

Merle spoke. “Maris is in the village, tending to the sick. I’ve sent a man at arms to fetch her, but likely she will not return until the evening meal.”

“Very well,” Victor replied, his disappointment obvious.

But Allegra gave little care to young man’s discomfort. One of the maids could see to him; there were plenty who would do. She had only one thought in her mind, and that was of Michael.

Here. Now.

Praying that her face didn’t show the high color that heated it, and that her husband had noticed nothing untoward, she led their guest out of the great hall to one of the large guest chambers.

Moments later, they were alone except for the serfs, bringing buckets upon buckets of steaming water for his bath.

Allegra could not stop her fingers from shaking as she unlaced Michael’s cross garters. She had to force her attention to the task, else her fingers would travel up the curve of his calves to relearn their strength.

To touch him.

How can this be? How can this be? Her mind chanted the phrase, echoing the incredulity that swept through her each time she looked at the man she had pined for, fantasized about, and begged God for since marrying Lord Merle more than seventeen years ago. How could he come here, be here…and plan to marry his son to his own daughter?

Allegra tamped back the panic and instead centered her thoughts on the fact that he had finally come to her. That he was here.

For of course. Michael did not know that Maris was his daughter. She’d tell him and then all would be well. And then, mayhap she could find some way to suggest Bon as a husband…. Nay. That she could not do. There would be another solution.

Michael would see to it.

A maidservant bustled about the small chamber, laying out a tunic and hose from Merle’s trunks to clothe Michael after his bath. Boys from the kitchen came and went with buckets of steaming water. Maella sprinkled dried lavender over the filling tub. The room was busy and crowded, so much so that it played upon Allegra’s nerves and it was all she could do to keep from screaming at them all to leave…to leave her alone with Michael.

“Maella, go you to see that Verna has found the other tub and is serving Sir Victor,” she said at last, uncaring of the shrewd look her maidservant flashed at her.

“Aye, my lady.” Maella reluctantly turned to leave, glancing at the two other maidservants who still assisted her mistress.

No sooner had Maella brushed out the doorway than Allegra found other contrived excuses to send the remaining servants away…and at last she found herself alone with Michael.

He rested comfortably in the tub that had been fashioned to hold a body as large as Merle’s, eyes closed restfully. A wad of soft linen propped his neck up from the rough wooden edge of the oval tub. Allegra knelt, folding his tunic, and watched as steam rose from the water. His fine blond hair was plastered to his neck, and the fine features she’d never forgotten were flushed with the heat. He breathed easily, and she allowed herself the luxury of remembering the warmth of his smooth, muscular chest.

As she watched, one ice blue eye slowly opened and his gaze rested knowingly upon her. “At last,” he murmured as a smile quirked his generous mouth. “I’d given up hope that we should be alone.”

“Aye,” Allegra breathed, clasping her hands in her lap to keep from stroking a thick lock of hair from his forehead.

His eyes, both fully opened now, greedily looked over his former lover. She knew she was still a very beautiful woman, and when he shifted in the tub, turning slightly to the side she was gratified that his response to her was as obvious and immediate as it had been eighteen years ago. “You’ve not changed much at all, Allegra,” he said quietly.

“Nor have thee.” Her chest swelled with love and affection, making it quite difficult to breathe.

“Come, soap my back,” he invited, and sat fully upright.

Allegra’s hands trembled as she drew a fine linen cloth from the water and over the large expanse of his back. There were more scars that marred its golden surface, and the ridges of muscle that she remembered were not as pronounced. But it was Michael.

The strong lye soap that was usually used for bathing had been replaced by one of Maris’s specialties: a rosemary basil scented soap. Its minty smell pervaded the air, accented by the steam rising from the scented bathwater. Michael eased back into the tub so that Allegra could massage his hair with the same soap. And when he closed his eyes, she wanted nothing more than to lean over and press a kiss to his lips.

She didn’t speak to him until she was nearly done scrubbing his body. Relearning every area, finding every new scar and marking.

At last she broke the silence. “Michael, did you—did you not know that Merle is my husband? Did you not know whence you came that I would be here?”

He stood at that moment, water cascading down the length of his slim, wiry body. Allegra’s breath caught in her throat, and she turned quickly to retrieve a cloth that had been warming by the fire. As he stepped onto a thick wool rug in front of the fireplace, he spoke, “Aye, my love, I’d hoped to see you again.”

Her hands, wrapped in the towel, smoothed over his legs and upward to his buttocks. She could not think, could not make sense of what he was doing here….

When she reached his chest, she caressed his shoulders with the towel. “Allegra,” he said softly.

She tilted her head up and his arms suddenly wrapped around her waist, pulling her up against his body as he lowered his mouth to hers. With a moan of relief, she dropped the towel and found herself in his embrace. His damp body pressed into her bliaut and left marks at her breasts and thighs, and his arms slid into a taut band around her waist.

She’d felt nothing like this in her years of marriage to Merle. Aye, he’d been patient and slow when he thought she was a virgin, and, aye, he’d been tender with her and passionate during the nights they coupled…but he’d not been able to spark her insides as Michael had ever done.

His hands were on her breasts now, and his mouth left a moist trail on her neck. She felt his need pulsing against her thigh, and her hand slipped to touch him. Suddenly, they were on the floor in front of the fireplace, and she felt his hands moving up her legs. Michael’s weight pressed her head back onto the floor as he kissed her thoroughly. She was raising her hips to him even as he pushed her bliaut up to take two handfuls of bare breast and bring a nipple to his mouth. Allegra nearly screamed at the pleasure of it, her breath coming in small little pants.

At last. At last.

At the urging of his wicked fingers, she spread her legs and suddenly he filled her as he’d done eighteen years earlier. He breathed her name as his fingers threaded through the mass of curls that was her hair. Allegra raked her fingers down the length of his back, gouging his skin when she felt him climax, shuddering against her.

Tears shimmered in her eyes when they opened as he pulled away to sit up moments later. “Michael…I have missed thee so,” she told him.

He didn’t have a chance to answer, for at that moment Maella burst into the room, stopping short at the sight that greeted her. Allegra had rolled to her knees as Michael left her body, but her hair and clothing were disheveled and there were wet marks on her bliaut.

“Aye, Maella?” Allegra asked sharply to hide her guilt. She hadn’t thought to bolt the door, it had all happened so quickly. Her lips tight, she struggled to her feet. Knowing that her maidservant was loyal to her above all gave her the courage to act as if nothing had happened.

“My lord Merle wishes to see you in the hall,” her servant told her pointedly. “He bade me finish bathing Lord d’Arcy and send you to speak with him.”

“My lord Michael’s tunic and hose rest by the fire,” Allegra said with as much grace as she could muster as she fled the room.

Maella, in turn, gave Michael a hard look as she proceeded to clothe him in silence.

That evening, Maris returned from the village in just enough time to change from an herb stained over tunic to a well laced bliaut of cinnamon colored wool with gold embroidery.

Her day had been a fine one for the sun had shone gloriously, melting the snow into wet, sticky masses. She’d spent the morning in the herbary, preparing tonics and poultices for her first trip into the Village since her near drowning. Then, her leather bag filled with dried herbs and small bottles of medicines and tonics, she slipped out of the dark keep into the sharp, clean air.

Drawing a deep breath, Maris started across the bailey with brisk steps. The morning sun in her eyes, she nevertheless noticed her father’s men gathered to practice their art of warfare. She would have passed them by with naught but a bare glance except that her gaze was drawn to one mock battle.

Maris stopped, curious, and recognized Dirick matched against Raymond of Vermille. Dirick had tossed his dark tunic aside and wore only a sleeveless linen pelisson and close fitting woolen chausses. The swords flashed, catching the rays of the sun with each twist and thrust, arms and legs moving in perfect accord.

In spite of her other tasks, Maris’s attention focused on Dirick, admiring his grace and relentless power as he drove her father’s best swordsman back into the crowd of bystanders.

She leaned against the stone wall, watching from the shadows. She couldn’t help but study every fluid motion as Dirick’s breeches clung and loosened, embraced and released his powerful legs. When the chausses tightened over his thighs during one forceful lunge, she swallowed deeply, her hand clutching the leather sack.

Sweat gleamed on his tanned arms, trickling over the ridges of muscle and tendon to fling into the air as he parried Raymond’s skillful sword. Sun and shadow played over his huge arms and glistened on hair sprinkled forearms. Maris’s throat grated when she tried to swallow. He was beautiful, godlike, graceful…masculine.

She could not pull her attention away, even when she felt her father’s gaze shift briefly to her. The dark haired warrior fought on, ignoring the bystanders, unaware of Maris’s own presence—even disregarding the thick hank of hair that dripped sweat into his eyes. Intensity furrowed his face. His eyes, hooded from the sun, did not waver from his opponent. Dirick’s full lips—those same ones that had so sweetly kissed her—were now tight with concentration, perfectly sculpted in his granite face. Chin thrust forward, he pushed a grunt of exertion from his chest, and veins and tendons coursed his neck as he rounded ferociously upon Raymond, driving him back, back, back—in one powerful pass.

A sword clattered to the ground and with a bellow of triumph, Dirick raised his own weapon aloft, then dropped his arms to his sides and stood, breathing heavily. A victorious grin lit his face and he swiped the hair out of his eyes amid the whoops and hollers of the spectators.

As he turned to acknowledge the ring of men clustered around him, Maris spun on her heel, hurrying away before he could notice her goggling at him. She rushed out of the bailey, barely greeting the guards at the portcullis, and hastened into the Village.

Though she busied herself for the rest of the day by visiting the ill and making suggestions to the village goodwives, Maris’s thoughts returned again and again to the powerful, agile knight. She’d spent time with him, teasing and conversing as if he were little but a squire or an ordinary man-at-arms…but now…now she could see him as naught but a fierce warrior, harsh and ruthless, relentless…formidable…manly.

Her breaths became shallow. A warrior had kissed her with gentleness. ’Twas impossible to reconcile the tenderness and warmth of that kiss after seeing what great strength he owned.

Maris brushed her fingers over her own lips, remembering the surprise of desire welling inside her on that crisp, cold day. Even the memory of it made her fingers tremble. And she knew he would kiss her again, given the chance. That truth had been evident in his gaze yesterday, when she sat to play chess with him. She swallowed, remembering the heat smoldering in those thick lashed, silver black eyes.

Another truth became known to her, suddenly and with a shock of heat. Should he try to kiss her again, she would not deny him. Maris shivered.

A noise behind her jerked Maris’s thoughts back to the present, back to her chamber, where she was dressing for dinner.

Verna stood beside her, offering a wimple and looking at her with an odd expression. Pulling to her feet, she took the wisp of cloth and started from her chamber.

Hurrying down the dark stone stairs, she tucked her thick hair into the sheer wimple, and entered the hall just as the meal began. As she pushed her way among the serfs that served the food, and between the rows of trestle tables, Maris saw the two strange men sitting with her parents and Sir Dirick on the dais. Her heart leapt into her throat and she almost stopped in the center of the hall. Could the man her father intended for her have arrived so soon?

Merle rose as Maris approached the table. “Ah, at last, my daughter joins us.”

“I’m sorry to be late, Papa,” she said as she made a neat curtsey. Although she didn’t look up, she felt the absence of Dirick’s attention on her, and at the same time, the weight of attention from the newcomers.

“Come dearling, let me make you known to Lord Michael d’Arcy of Gladwythe,” and he continued, “…and his son, Sir Victor.”

The emphasis Merle placed on those last words was enough to confirm her suspicion. Victor d’Arcy was the man he’d chosen for her betrothed. The band of discomfort tightened around her chest and she found herself hardly able to swallow past the lump in her throat.

When she glanced at her father before turning to greet the men, she saw a hint of warning in his eyes, an expectation that she should act accordingly.

Maris masked her anxiety and extended her hand first to Lord Michael and then to his son. The elder d’Arcy seemed to hold her fingers longer than necessary before pressing a kiss to her palm.

Victor clasped her hand lightly, and his lips brushed the inside of her wrist. “My lady, I have already prepared the most tender pieces of capon and removed all bones from the fish,” he told her, patting the seat between himself and her father.

Maris leaned over before taking her seat to greet the other guest at table. “Good evening, Sir Dirick,” she said.

“My lady,” he replied. His gaze was cool and flat, as if they were strangers and had never even spoken.

Stung by his curtness, Maris sank onto her seat next to Victor and forced herself to smile at him. Steeling all of her composure, she gathered her wits and courage and dutifully began to play the part in which she’d been cast.

Edwin Baegot entered the great hall of Breakston’s keep to find his friend and lord, Bon de Savrille, in an uproar.

“At last he deigns to grace us with his presence!” Bon bellowed drunkenly when Edwin was announced.

The man was sprawled on a heavy oaken chair that would have rivaled Henry Plantagenet’s throne had someone the urge to move them side by side. His buff colored tunic, embroidered with red stags and stallions, was stained and hung haphazardly over his broad shoulders. The cross garters that should have kept the hose fitted to his legs had drooped into a pile just above his ankles.

“Greetings, my lord,” Edwin gave a short little bow, then turned to help himself to a cup of ale.

“What news of my bride have you?” demanded Bon, sitting straighter in his chair. “It has been a se’ennight since I left you in Langumont.”

“My lord,” Edwin paused and swallowed. The news he bore would not be well-received. He looked about to see what might be within arms’ reach of his friend and could be flung at him.

But before he could speak, Bon shouted, “My lute, Agnes, fetch me my lute!”

A curvaceous young woman with a long purple scar on her face hurried to do his bidding. She brought the instrument forward and knelt at his feet, rubbing her head against his leg as a kitten.

“Ah, my lady love…” Bon sighed, his bleary eyes gazing into the distance. “How I pine for her! Edwin, by my troth, I cannot wait for much longer to have my hands on that delicious piece.” He strummed a chord on the lute, his face taking on a mournful expression. “’Twas, at the first, her lands—my lands—that I wished to regain. But now” —another chord accompanied his wistful words— “’tis more than mere wealth.”

There was silence as Bon slopped another long gulp of wine down his throat, nevertheless taking care not to spill any on the beautifully carved lute. He pulled the goblet away with a gusty sigh. “My lust for material goods has grown to full, mature love, Edwin,” Bon told him earnestly, his lips and tongue thick with drink, his gaze foggy. “I cannot live without her….”

Edwin rolled his eyes and finished off more ale. He might as well drink and relax, for the bad news would wait on the morrow.

Although, come to think of it, telling Bon that Lady Maris was to be wed to a man of Merle Lareux’s choice on the morrow when the man was recovering from tonight’s overindulgence could be painful.

Edwin looked up. God’s bones, his master was a pussy when he imbibed in too much wine. He would have to ask the castellan to stop importing that red wine from Bordeaux—it made Bon impossible to live with. He was glad English brewed ale did not affect his master in such a way.

“Do ye hear what I say, Edwin?” Bon’s words were hardly discernible and his hand flopped awkwardly on the table. “Listen you, I have written a song for my beloved. I shall play it for her on my wedding night.”

Drunk as he was, Bon’s short fingers stumbled agilely over the strings of the lute and the resulting melody was surprisingly moving. He sang in a careful, off key voice, obviously making up the words as he went along:

O, Lady of the Fairest, I praise thy beauty…The clouds will cry for thee, for they see not such grace in heav’n….Thy face, thy voice make my heart swell with joy, and on thy wedding day, thee shall have my love for’er more….

“She would make more than my heart swell,” Edwin mumbled into his ale. Fortunately, Bon didn’t hear him, for he was well into his second pitiful verse.

As Bon continued his tribute to his intended, the men-at-arms crept one by one from the hall. His verses became more and more redundant, and of the worst poetry, and Edwin was forced to be subjected to the poor musicality of his master. Once, he dared to rise from his seat, hoping to follow suit of the other cowards that had since left him alone in the room, but a look from Bon froze him in his tracks. Edwin sank onto a cushioned chair, and, refilling his ale cup yet again, prepared himself for a long night.

And an even longer morrow, when, with dawn, he must break the ill news to his master.

Merle strode across the parapets of Langumont Keep.

His breath blew like white smoke from the bristling hair that lined his mouth, and a winter breeze brushed his thinning hair. The men at arms that stood at the north and south ends of the roof of the keep stoked small fires to warm their hands, nodding to their lord as he walked past them.

A sliver of moon cut the deep blue sky, and hundreds of stars twinkled above. Merle stopped at the southeast corner of the parapet, looking into the darkness over the vast lands that he was blessed to rule. They stretched as far as one could see from this vantage point. Lands that he loved nearly as much as his daughter.

He drew in a deep breath that was so cold it hurt the deepest part of his lungs, then exhaled strongly. Somewhere, out in that darkness, was the great channel he’d crossed once to France. If he listened closely, he’d hear the crashing waves upon the cliffs. He stopped breathing, just to hear the sound.

A movement from the corner of his eye drew Merle’s attention. Turning, he found that Sir Dirick had come pell mell around the corner, then came to a stop when he caught sight of his host.

“My lord,” Dirick said, clearly uncomfortable.

“Nay, Dirick, you do not disturb me. Come.” Merle smiled at a sudden thought. “Unless ’tis you who does not wish to be disturbed.”

“Nay, my lord. ’Tis just that I did not expect to come upon you. I…wished…thought to be alone. I am glad for your company.”

Merle beckoned him closer, gesturing out into the darkness. “See you here, Dirick…. See you all of the blessings that have been bestowed upon me.”

Dirick looked out into the dark, though Merle knew he was unable to see far in the dim, starry night. “You’re worthy of them, my lord,” he said quietly.

“Listen and you can hear the sea…it has been the cause of the wealth that has come to me. My father’s grandfather was a Saxon thegn, betrothed to the daughter of a Norman lord in great favor with The Conqueror. My great grandfather’s land, here near the sea, was a most important fief. Since the day my great grandfather wed with Lord Humphrey’s daughter, Margaret, this keep and this fief have served the King of England with no regret, and no hesitation—even when Stephen of Blois ruled, and ruined, this land.”

Merle was silent for a moment, aware that he’d thrust his pensive mood and meandering thoughts upon his companion. Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. “Forgive me, Dirick, but my solemnity comes from the knowledge that my beloved Maris will soon belong to another man….and these lands will someday be ruled by another.” He took a deep breath, shaking himself from his melancholy. His decision was good. It was the best he could wish for Maris.

Yet, of the man whom he’d come to know and respect, and one who was clearly a confidant of the king, Merle nevertheless felt compelled to ask, “What think you of my guests?”

“They seem pleasant dinner companions…full of much news…confident and brave.” In the faulty light, Merle saw his companion’s hands close over the roughness of the stone half wall.

“Yet you do not sound convinced,” he pressed. Then gave a wry chuckle. “Has my daughter complained to you?”

“My lady does not seem overfond of the idea of marriage,” Dirick admitted in dry tones.

“And you, ever the chivalrous knight, do not wish to see a damsel in distress.” Merle grinned, then sobered. He was full aware of the way Dirick’s eyes often settled on his daughter, and the way she tended to avoid looking at him…unless the man was turned in the other direction. “Aye, Maris has a way of manipulating even her father with her sad stories. ’Tis the best for her, I believe, Dirick. The world can be an unfriendly place, and I’ll not have her alone and vulnerable should aught happen to me.” His voice softened at the last.

“She may not understand my decision,” Merle continued, “but ’twill stand. I owe a great debt to Michael d’Arcy…for ’twas because of him that I was able to return to my own once again. I was grievously wounded and Michael saved my life. For that blessing, I will bestow upon his son the greatest gift I have to give.”

Dirick nodded in acknowledgment, but remained silent.

Thus the men stood in the dark for a time, not speaking. A cold, brisk breeze ruffled their hair and the cloaks that huddled about their shoulders, yet each was lost in thought and ’twas as if the other were not present.

The world was quiet but for the breeze, and when he heard the sound of voices below, Dirick looked down into the courtyard. He stood near the edge of the crenellation and peered over the waist high stone.

Voices drifted up to him, and he watched as two figures trod through the snow to the stables. Even in the low light, Dirick recognized the brilliant blue cloak. ’Twas Maris, and with her, the silvery-blond Sir Victor, his hair gleaming like a beacon in the moonlight. The two disappeared into the stables and Dirick turned abruptly from the view to find Merle watching him closely.

“My lord, I feel my pallet beckoning to me,” Dirick said. He bowed slightly—not one to forget his courtly manners even when there were other things that preyed on his mind. “I beg leave of you, now, Lord Merle, and for the morrow. I’ll leave early in the morn for Breakston. I thank you for your great hospitality now, and for all of the assistance you’ve given me in my quest for the murderer of my father. But I’ve dallied too long here, enjoying your hospitality and your pallet.”

“’Tis sorry I am to see you go,” Lord Merle said slowly.

“I must be on my way,” Dirick said, as if to reaffirm for himself the need to leave. He’d delayed his duty to move on to find Bon de Savrille long enough, merely to stay in the presence of the beautiful Lady Maris…and, in sooth, to be near a man who reminded him of his own father.

Grief swept over him, pushing away the resentment he felt toward Sir Victor, and mayhap a bit of self pity. Dirick couldn’t covet a woman such as Maris, and he had known that since he’d been old enough to know what a woman was. ’Twas a hard truth, but one he had lived with forever. Naught had happened to change that but for his heart softening toward what he could not have. Yet, soon as she was out of his sight, she would be out of his mind as well.

Thus, he must return to his duty, and redirect his energies from a woman who was beyond him to finding the man who’d taken his father from him. How foolish he’d been to waste a se’ennight here when he could have been following the trail of the creature who’d wrought such horror.

Dirick’s fingers closed around the broken dagger deep in the pouch attached to his tunic. He squeezed its handle, allowing the rage at his father’s murderer to resurface…to replace his self pity and grief.

“You do not wish to bid my lady Allegra…or Maris farewell?” Merle asked.

“Nay. I’ve enjoyed the ladies’ company, yet I wish for an early start on the morrow.” It would be best if he were to leave without seeing her again.

“Then fare thee well, my son,” Merle said. He clapped a hand upon the younger man’s shoulder. For just a moment, it was as if some unusual connection flowed between them. “I bid you well wishes in your quest, and if I can be of further assistance, please let me know. If I can think of aught else to help you, know that I will send for you.”

“Aye. Thank you.” Dirick felt unaccountably sad leaving Lord Merle.

The sky hadn’t the merest tint of light to it when Dirick rolled up his pallet. He stood, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, then walked over the other prone bodies in the chamber housing other itinerant men at arms.

The few belongings he’d brought with him—including the broken dagger—were wrapped and stuffed in a leather satchel. He shifted the weight of this baggage and pulled his fur lined cloak about his shoulders. The edges of the cloak rustled against the sweet herbs and rushes that covered the floor of the great hall, stirring them among his booted feet. All was silent—even the boy who tended the fire overnight dozed nearby. Only an orange tomcat prowled among the other snoring bodies, doubtless hoping to catch an unwary mouse among the rushes.

Dirick felt an odd sense of sadness as he stepped from the hall for the last time, and found himself under the dark blue, starred sky. He had enjoyed his stay here at Langumont, and the unhappiness he felt at leaving pushed into him like an annoying toothache. Mayhaps, he thought as he trudged through the powdery snow to the stables, ’twas because Lord Merle seemed to be the closest link he had to his father and his father’s murderer.

The whuffling of the horses greeted him as he pressed the door into the stables. Nick was near the front, and he nickered as he sensed his master’s scent. “Aye, boy, ’tis nigh time we were away from here,” he said, leading the destrier from his stall. Nick pranced spiritedly within the small enclosure, obviously eager to get on his way, and Dirick patted his nose to calm him. “’Tis happy I’ll be to see this place behind,” he said aloud.

He heard the noise behind him and whirled, hand clapping to his sword, just as her words reached his ears. “Then ’tis happy we shall be to see you go.” Maris stood there, holding a tallow candle, looking ethereal in the glow of the shining beacon.

The annoyance in her eyes did not, however, bespeak of celestial bearing. Her head had been covered with a wrap, but as the woolen veil slipped, her rich hair showed and gleamed in the candlelight. Her little chin was pointed in annoyance and her full lips were firmed into a thin line. The blue cloak trailed in the rushes on the stable floor, effectively covering her from shoulder to toe.

Dirick recovered from his surprise and dropped his hand from the sword upon which it rested. “Maris—my lady,” he amended quickly, “what do you here?”

Her frown did not dissipate. “Papa told me that you planned to leave early this morrow, and I did not—I thought you must not go without something for your journey. But I see that my consideration is unwanted.” He noticed now that she held a packet under the opening of her cloak. “So happy are you to see Langumont behind you that surely you wouldn’t wish to take any remembrance of this place.”

She turned to go, her back straight as a sword and her shoulders thrown back.

“Nay, my lady.” Dirick, annoyed at having been caught speaking such nonsense to his horse, spurred to action and reached for her arm. “Nay, ’tis not that I wish to leave Langumont…believe you me.”

At his tug, she pivoted back, her eyes a hard, flat brown in the flickering light. “I am not hard of hearing, Sir Dirick.”

He eased her toward him, now taking both shoulders and turning her so that she faced him fully. So close that her cloak’s hem nudged his boots. She felt small and soft beneath his fingers. “And so you heard the nonsense I spoke to Nick. I suppose it serves me right—for did I not overhear your private conversation with Hickory?” His smile felt forced. “I must leave, and that I have no desire to do so the reason I spoke thus.”

She looked up at him as if trying to determine whether he was merely being gallant or whether the words actually were truth. “I could not fathom that you would leave without a word of farewell….”

“I bid your father good-bye,” he told her, releasing her shoulders. They stood much too close. The smell of lemon and rosemary from her hair caught at his nostrils, mingling with the feminine scent of her. Dirick closed his eyes for a moment and forced himself to take a step backward. He turned into the stall to gather Nick’s bridle. “But I must leave now, my lady. I have spent—I have used your father’s hospitality much too long.”

Maris worked the candle into a cup appended to the wall of the stable, leaving it to light their way, and stepped toward him, unwittingly blocking him into the stall. She proffered the leather wrapped packet from under the folds of her cloak. “I’ve brought you cheese and bread, and there is a bit of salted venison here. I…did not know how long your journey would be.”

He took the packet, warmed by her thoughtfulness and tempted by her presence. “Thank you my lady. I was not able to break my fast and this will be a good meal for the road.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I am a traveling knight, my lady, and I go where I can find work,” he said. “I do not know where my next place of rest will be.”

Maris frowned, a charming line crinkling around her nose. “Then why do you leave? Papa has work for you. I’m certain he would hire you for as long as you wished.”

A sudden flare of anger twisted his insides. Verily, she saw him only as a charity case. A man who could not make his own way.

Despite the fact that he’d led her to believe just that, it rankled that she saw him in such a lowly light. “Nay.” He turned his back to her, taking his time to loop up the reins and bit, hoping she would leave before he mortified himself again.

Or before he gave in to the base temptation she presented.

“Sir Dirick, I vow, you make little sense of anything. You need work, and there is work to be had, but you must leave nevertheless. I vow, ’twill be good to have you gone!”

“Aye,” he said as he turned, his hands brimming with the leather bridle, “I am sure you will not miss my company now that your betrothed has arrived.” As soon as he spoke those bitter words, Dirick wished he could cut out his tongue. Foolish.

“He is not my betrothed,” she said tightly, the spirit draining from her voice.

“He will be anon, and well you know it. When that happens, I am quite sure Victor will be pleased to trail you on your treks through the wood, digging in the snow for berries and watching as you nurse to the ill.” He knew he should stop speaking, but the words continued to flow. “I saw you come in here with him last night. Your father and I were watching from above. Mayhap you didn’t realize you were seen?”

Maris’s expression altered, but he couldn’t read her thoughts. “Aye. He wished to meet Hickory.”

Dirick quirked one eyebrow and managed to look sardonic even as a barrage of unwanted images assaulted him. He well knew how comfortable the warmth of a stable could be when one’s arms were filled with the warmth of a woman. Hay might be a bit prickly against bare skin, but it was springy and warm. “And was there nothing more that he wanted? Mayhap he wished to taste the lips of the woman he is to wive.”

“Mayhap he did,” she replied, lifting her chin smartly.

“Foolish girl. What if he had wanted more than a taste? Did you not think to have a chaperon with you? ’Tis not meet for a lady to have assignations alone with a man in the stable of all places, particularly if she is not yet betrothed to him.”

Maris’s eyes snapped. “But here I stand with you, then. Alone in a stable, with no chaperone…and my virtue has never been safer.”

His resolve at an end, he dropped the bridle, reaching for her more roughly this time. “I would not say that your virtue is safe with me, my dear lady,” he said, pulling her flush against him. “In fact, Maris, I should say that you are treading upon very thin ice.”

He looked down at her and saw no fear in her eyes, only surprise, and he felt the warmth of her breath touch his face. His hands on her shoulders, he eased her backward until she felt the wall behind her and he imprisoned her there, holding her with his muscled legs.

Maris’s eyes sank closed as his tanned hands smoothed up the sides of her neck to cup the line of that stubborn chin. His thumb traced over her lips and her heart pounded madly beneath his fingers, pulsing in her long neck so that he could feel her unrest. Lifting her hair from the nape of her neck, he carefully pulled the long sweet-smelling tresses from the confines of her cloak. It was warm and silky and it twined like vines around his wrists and about her arms.

Dirick let his breath out slowly as his hands ran through her hair. She was not afraid, he noted, although if she had any sense, she would be. It was all he could do to keep from tearing off her clothes and tossing her onto the bed of hay in the next room.

When his hands stilled on her shoulders, and he eased back on the pressure from his thighs, she opened her eyes to look up at him. “Maris,” he said softly as their gazes met. He would never see her again, and she was not yet betrothed. It was a moment of madness, but not a sin. “I cannot leave without kissing you once more.”

He did not wait for a response, pressed her into the wall, his mouth descending to hers.

When his mouth closed on hers, Maris felt the same tide of pleasure wash over her as the day in the woods. Her lips opened beneath his and suddenly his tongue was in her mouth, sleek and strong, exploring and tasting her. She was as hungry to sample him and responded with fervor, tasting the faint mint of his mouth, sliding her own lips over his soft, slick ones.

Dirick dragged his lips away, kissing the corner of her mouth, nibbling at her lips and chin. She sighed, her arms creeping around his neck as she leaned into him. She felt a rush plunging through her body, and the responding shudder that came through him, the heat burning into her from where they pressed together. Hurried fingers worked the clasp at her throat as he covered her mouth again as if to stifle any cry of protest she might make. The fur lined cloak fell into a heap at their feet and his hands smoothed down the sides of her body in its trail, resting on the curve of her hips.

Maris was barely aware of the divestment of her cloak, but the pressure from his warm hands as they brushed the sides of her breasts caused her to draw in a sharp breath. Her nipples surged hard and she felt a heaviness descend upon her lower abdomen, a pleasant, insistent twinge. She dug her fingers into his hair, surprised at its silkiness. He pulled her hips flush with his and she was startled to feel a hard length pushing against her as the rough wall scraped her from behind. The pleasure grew and a tiny groan erupted from the back of her throat. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck to his warm mouth and sleek tongue. Dirick’s hands smoothed over the curves that had been hidden in the bulky cloak, and he held the swelling of her breasts and the roundness of her hips.

Suddenly, he realized where he was, what he was doing, and he jerked away, nearly sending her spinning to the floor. “’Sblood!” he groaned, staring at his trembling hands. His breath rasped harshly, as if he’d just felled a man in battle, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he realized how very near he’d come to taking her right there.

Maris had pulled back as if she too had just become aware of herself and her comport, and she stooped quickly to retrieve her cloak.

Dirick found his voice, hoarse as it was, and attempted an apology, “My lady, I cannot—”

“Enough, my lord,” she cut in flatly. “Have we not been through this act before?”

Pushing a hand through his tousled hair, he stood, attempting to regain some semblance of order within. He could not understand why he made a living fool out of himself in front of this woman. “Aye we have—but that doesn’t change the fact that my conduct was inexcusable. Mayhaps ’tis best that I do be on my way.”

She looked up at him, an indefinable emotion flickering in her gold and green eyes. “Aye. ’Tis best that you do.”

He brushed past her, accidentally catching her hair on a nail in the wall, and paused to free the curl. His fingers slid down the shiny brown length and he brought it to press a light kiss to his mouth.

Then he turned away, annoyed at his sentimentality, and bridled the neglected Nick. She watched in silence. Feeling her gaze on him made his fingers clumsy beyond belief, causing him to hurry and thus tangle it up even more. At last, he led the destrier from the stable, aware that she followed behind, watching in an unusual silence.

Outside, where their breaths showed white puffs under the starlit morn, he swung up on Nick and looked down at Maris. She’d covered her hair once again, drawing the veil closely about her neck. Dirick reined in and gave her a nod of farewell.

“Go with God, Dirick,” she whispered.

“Fare thyself well, my lady. I am certain Victor d’Arcy will be a fine husband to you,” he forced the words from between bitter lips, making them sound sincere. “Your father wishes only the best for you, know you this, my lady.”

“Aye.”

“May the Lord keep you,” he said, turning Nick to ride away. “Adieu, my lady.”

And then he was off, giving Nick his head to unleash his stored power, feeling the green gold gaze that followed him into the darkness.

The village, again smaller, was filled with peasants that veered from Nick’s path and peeked out from behind closed doors as Dirick rode through. Most of the roofs seemed to be in decent condition, but the silence of the village ate right through to his bones.

The journey had not been long. He’d spent the full day riding hard, spending Nick’s pent up energy. Now that he approached the portcullis and the sun was sinking, Dirick was well ready for his pallet. Cold wind was bitter upon his face, and the food that Maris sent with him was long gone.

Maris.

She had been much on his mind the day through. Too much.

Dirick reined in abruptly at the huge iron gates looming above him.

“Who goes there?” called a voice from above.

“Dirick de Arlande, begging for succor,” he called back, tilting his head to see.

There was a long moment, then the voice returned, “From whence come you, Sir de Arlande?”

“I am originally come from Paris and most recently, Dover,” he replied. “I have traveled for days, looking for work. I am quite skilled in arms.”

Again, there was a long pause. Then, “You are French?”

“Aye. I hail from near Brest,” Dirick replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Most often, unless there were unusual circumstances, questions such as these were saved for after a lone knight was allowed entrance.

At long last, the portcullis began to creak and shake violently as the gate was raised. Dirick urged Nick forward, uncertain that the ailing gate was in good enough repair to ensure his safe passage. Once inside the bailey, he was greeted by a stocky, pock marked man that held himself in high importance.

“You are well come to Breakston, Sir de Arlande,” he said. A man hovered in the background until he was urged forward, “Take this man’s mount, Severn.”

Dirick relinquished Nick with some hesitation, yet the man seemed to know what he was doing and led the destrier away with little effort. “Many thanks for allowing me entrance,” he told the first man.

“I am Sir Robert, castellan of Breakston. My lord, Bon de Savrille, awaits your presence within.” That was it. No smile, no friendly greeting—just a barely disguised order that Dirick draw himself within.

He grimaced inwardly and followed Robert across the small, cluttered bailey, feeling even more certain that Henry was right. At the very least, de Savrille had allowed his fief to fall into disrepair—which meant lower revenues and taxes for the king.

Dirick noted that the keep was in need of some repair, but it was by no means falling down about him. There weren’t many serfs, nor were there many men at arms about. It was a much quieter, sullen place than his home and that of Langumont.

Sir Robert led the way across the smoky hall strewn with rushes so old and rotted that they ground away under their mailed feet. Several dogs greeted them, sniffing at their heels until Sir Robert lifted a foot to kick them away. Then they slunk off to a spot under one of the tables. Smoke hovered much too low in the air, along with the stench of old grease and rotting food. Breathing carefully through his nose, Dirick hoped that he would not be a guest of Breakston overlong.

Bon de Savrille, Dirick assumed, was the stocky, bearded man sitting in a heavy chair near the fire. The blaze, at the least, was in marvelous condition. De Savrille’s dark eyes bored into him as he approached, slitted with mistrust. Immediately, Dirick allowed his features to relax and slip into a vacant expression.

“My Lord de Savrille,” he greeted upon reaching the warmth of the fire. He made a fine bow, and upon the upsweep, was gracious enough to add, “Many thanks to you for a spot to sleep for the night.”

“Aye,” Bon returned, sipping from a goblet.

Dirick inclined his head to the other man at the fire, a shorter, well freckled one with a shock of red hair. His paunch was nearly the size of Lord de Savrille’s, and his eyes not nearly as sharp. But there was a hint of suspicion within his countenance as well. “My lord,” he greeted the other man, uncertain of his title.

“Meet Edwin Baegot,” Bon explained carelessly.

“Well met, sieur,” Dirick replied, then settled himself easily on a roughly hewn stool near Bon de Savrille.

“Agnes!” barked Bon, “Bring this man some food and more ale for me!”

A shadow moved from a nearby corner, transforming into a skittish, gown draped woman, and hurried out of the room. As Dirick’s eyes followed her, he noticed that the great hall was nearly empty of men-at-arms, serfs, and any other form of life with the exception of the mangy dogs that had followed them into the room. Feeling the weight of Edwin’s suspicious gaze on him, Dirick kept his face blank despite the fact that his mind was racing. At the very least, Henry must find another vassal for Breakston.

Edwin asked about his journey and Dirick filled the silence with superficial babble about the roads and the holes in them, along with comments about the weather.

“Ah, at last you have returned you worthless creature!” Bon greeted Agnes, who nearly stumbled over one of the dogs. “Clumsy bitch,” he muttered as she carefully poured a healthy portion of ale into his goblet, spilling nary a drop in the process.

When she turned to offer Dirick a piece of hard bread and pale yellow cheese, he noticed the long purple scar that marred an otherwise pretty face. Her hair normally would cover it, but it swung out of the way as she stepped forward. “Thank’ee milady.”

“Lady?” scoffed Bon, nearly spewing ale in Dirick’s face. “If ye take a liking to her, she’ll spread her legs fast enough to knock you over. Lady, indeed!”

Agnes ducked her head and her hair obscured her face once again. She turned away to her corner, drawing the folds of her gown so that she did not stumble again. Dirick turned to his food, stifling any outward signs of compassion for the woman.

Ale dribbling into his neatly cropped beard, Bon slugged a hand across his mouth and asked, “How fares the Earl of Chantresse? Is it true that his daughter was to marry Enrique du Mathilde?”

Dirick idly scraped a bit of mold off the last bite of cheese, aware that de Savrille was likely attempting to confirm his guest’s story of being French. The fact that he felt the need to do so was quite interesting. “Aye, my lord, they were wed Midsummer last. ’Twas said that the daughter, Elisabet, was near dragged to the altar and that her papa said her ayes.” He gave a short bark of laughter, certain that Bon would find the story amusing.

“God willing ’twill not be such a trial on my wedding day,” Bon mused behind the hand that wiped again at his beard. The words were soft and not meant for his ears, but Dirick discerned the comment with little trouble.

“’Tis fair unlikely to happen any different here,” muttered Edwin more loudly.

Bon shot him a glare, but that didn’t suppress Dirick’s ingenuous question. “Is there to be a wedding here then?” He made it a point to not look around the quiet hall.

“Aye, if the wench’ll have me,” Bon replied. He and Edwin exchanged pointed looks followed by deep guffaws of laughter.

“And the lucky wench? Does she bring a great dowry, then?” Mayhap de Savrille needed more funds to set the place to rights and meant to get it from his wife.

Bon’s eyes narrowed to slits as if he suddenly realized that the turn of the conversation was not to his liking. “’Tis a love match,” he snapped.

This set Edwin to coughing. He began to choke on his ale and was forced to spit onto the floor. The dogs rushed forward with enthusiasm, then slunk away when they realized it was only ale.

Bon glared at his amused companion and stood abruptly. “There is a place for your pallet there. You will join us in a hunt on the morrow, Sir Dirick.”

With that, he turned and, barked at the lump in the corner. “Agnes! Come!”

Dirick watched them leave, then, under Edwin’s sharp stare, gathered his belongings and trudged to the corner indicated by de Savrille. There were no more than five other men snoring in what he took to be the knights’ quarters, and as he shook out his blanket, a small furry creature darted from between them. Rats.

His stomach turned and he almost cursed his sovereign for sending him to spy on what seemed to be no more than two bumbling idiots who lived amongst rats. But he stopped himself in time, for cursing his God given sovereign, his brother the monk would warn, would result in either hanging for treason if done aloud, or damnation if done in private.

Instead, Dirick eased his travel worn body onto the only clean surface in the entire keep and closed his eyes.

Maris sat primly in her saddle, golden skirts fluttering lightly. The brilliant blue cloak that Dirick de Arlande had so admired covered her from shoulder to toe, and much of Hickory’s rump as well. Maris’s chestnut hair was modestly covered by a heavy golden wrap, edged in mink, and her hands wrapped in the folds of the rabbit lined cloak.

She looked every inch the proper, controlled lady of the manor.

Inwardly, she was seething.

“Are you certain that you do not yet tire, milady?” asked Sir Victor for perhaps the dozenth time since they’d left Langumont Keep’s portcullis behind.

“Nay,” she replied, for the dozenth time, from between clenched teeth. In sooth, she was wearier from holding Hickory back from the spirited canter—or even full gallop—that the mare, as well as her mistress, desired.

Maris slanted a glance to the man who rode comfortably next to her. He sat tall and straight in the saddle, loosely holding the reins, allowing his gaze to cast about over the villagers and the town buildings.

Victor’s straight cap of hair, as pale as the wheat grown in Langumont’s fields, barely shifted as he was jounced along in his saddle. He was not an unhandsome man, she admitted to herself—in fact, he was not at all hard on the eyes. He seemed to have an even temper, although he tended, like her mother, to protect her as if she were a child. It was Victor who had suggested the ride, and Maris, anticipating a great race across the northwest field toward the forest, had agreed with alacrity. Alas, when she’d given Hickory her head and they moved into a canter just outside the wall of the keep, her companion had actually reached over and reined her mare into a trot.

It had taken every ounce of control that she possessed not to loosen a torment of fury upon him. Instead, Maris, thinking of her father’s wishes, swallowed her angry words at his presumption and meekly settled into a trot. Mayhaps, she thought as they wound their way carefully down the main street of the village, he did not know of any woman as comfortable on a horse as she.

“Good day, Mistress Beth,” she called in English to the smith’s wife with a wave.

“Good day, milady,” the other woman responded with a bright smile. She had her youngest child by the hand, and nudged the toddler to wave also to the grand lady who rode past.

“You are much too familiar with the peasants, my lady,” murmured Victor with distaste. “And why on earth would you learn to speak their coarse language?”

Maris stared at him in shock. “And how else would I communicate with them if I did not speak their language?” she sputtered.

Victor turned to her in surprise, “As I—and all other nobility—do: through an interpreter. ’Twould be in your interest when you go to court that you forget your knowledge of English…else you will make of yourself, and me, a laughing stock.”

Maris turned an annoyed glare upon him. “Then my papa must not be nobility in your eyes, as he is the same one who encouraged me to learn the language. He himself does better than I!”

Victor flushed ever so slightly; in fact, it may have been just a stinging wind that caused his cheeks to pinken, and looked taken aback. “My lady, I—”

“’Tis in my best interest, Sir Victor, to rely on no one but myself as to what is spoken to me. Interpreters have been known to twist words into their own. Even the king and his queen read and write their own words, speak the language of their people as well as their own.”

“Lady Maris—”

She would not let him finish. Her temper had snapped and her father’s wishes thrown to the birds for the now. “And I am Lady of Langumont,” she drew herself up in the saddle to her full, diminutive height. “I care not what the ladies—or even the men—at court think of me. And I particularly should not care if you are a laughing stock because I choose to communicate with my people. And,” she leaned out of her saddle toward the now silent Victor to drive her point home, “you, sir, presume overmuch, as a betrothal has neither been announced nor signed!” She sat back and drew a deep breath, ready to do more battle.

“Ah, but my lady, ’tis where you err.” Victor’s voice was silky…too silky, and a surprise shiver sang along her spine. “Even as we trot along at such a sedate pace, our fathers are finalizing the betrothal arrangements. The agreement is to be announced at dinner, and we shall seal the contract two days hence.”

As Victor’s words sank in and Maris realized that her betrothal was truly going to happen, she gave in to the urge to run away.

With a swift movement she’d perfected years ago, she gathered her skirts and brought her right leg over the saddle so that she was straddling the mare in a most unladylike but practical fashion. All in one instant, she gave a sharp kick and loosed the reins. Hickory shot forward. She heard Victor’s shout of surprise behind her, and, looking over her shoulder, saw that he’d started after them.

Containing a cry of joy at the freedom of tearing across a pristine field of white snow, she urged Hickory on, fully enjoying the risk she took of angering her soon to be betrothed. ’Twould be worth the inevitable lecture, she thought, grinning into Hickory’s mane.

They easily cleared the stone fence that marked the end of the Lord of Langumont’s grain field, heading straight for the dense forest. Maris’s head covering jounced loose and landed on a low bush. Her long braid flew free, the end bouncing off Hickory’s rump with the rhythm of the mare’s strides.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Victor, bent over his mount’s neck, racing across the field. With a mental sigh of capitulation, she slowed Hickory just as they reached the beginnings of the forest. Turning about, Maris watched as Victor roared up beside her, nearly trampling them both. Either he was overcome with rage and did not care if he injured her, or he did not handle his mount as well as a he should.

Before she had a thought to speak, he grabbed the reins from her hand and drew Hickory’s head around toward the rear of his stallion so that he and Maris were very close and facing each other. His eyes were nearly black and his mouth compressed in a firm line. “Are you a madwoman?” were his first words. “Am I to wed a madwoman?”

“Nay, I—”

“Silence!” he thundered so furiously that she reconsidered finishing her sentence. His eyes closed into slits, and, still holding tightly to her reins, he slid off his horse, landing in snow to his mid calf. Looping his own reins over an arm, he reached up and grabbed her wrist. “Let me help you down, milady,” he said in a voice that brooked no disobedience, nearly yanking her off the saddle. She came down gracefully, landing in the circle of his arms.

Dropping the reins, he yanked her closer, and the other hand reached up to close tightly over her chin. The expression on his face was dark and determined, and for the first time, Maris had a sense of real trepidation and she reflexively stepped back, twisting her face away.

“Oh, nay,” he whispered, jerking her close, his fingers tightening on her arm. “Do you not step away from me, wife.”

“I am not your—”

Her words were stifled as he crushed his mouth to hers. At her involuntary gasp, his hand went to the back of her head, his fingers curling roughly into her hair, dragging down on it to hold her steady. He held her immobile as his lips and tongue brutally invaded her mouth. The hand on her wrist loosened to move around her waist and pull her close to his hips while the fingers of his other hand pressed into the back of her skull.

Maris fought the nausea that rose in her throat at his angry onslaught. Her eyes closed and she pushed against him fiercely. She should have known better than to anger him thus.

At last he pulled away from her mouth, breathing heavily, and looked down at her with eyes glazed with desire. “Aye, you’ll be a fine wife,” he breathed frost into her face, “once you have learned that I am to be obeyed in all things.” As she stood frozen, he reached up to fumble with the ties of her cloak.

“What—”

“I told you to remain silent.” His hand shot up to pinch her chin, and he gave it a vicious twist. “I would learn what other treasures I win along with the lands of Langumont.” Before she could protest, her cloak fell to the snow in a pool of blue. With horror, she realized what he was about. Surely he did not mean to disrobe her…here.

“Nay,” she cried, clutching her overtunic to her neck.

He grabbed her wrists, forcing them behind her back, and settled his hand into a vee beneath her chin, holding her by the throat. Maris felt the rough bark of a tree behind her, rasping over her hands, as he forced his mouth onto hers. As the kiss deepened, his hand slipped from her chin to cover one of her breasts. She jolted in shock, pulling her mouth away with a desperate twist.

“Release me,” she demanded, her voice unsteady with shock. To her horror, she felt the warm trickle of a tear down her cheek.

Victor ignored her command, pressing his hips into hers. She felt the rise of his desire, hard and threatening against her thigh and Maris struggled to keep her breath steady. Surely he wouldn’t…here. Surely. Those thoughts were the only things that kept her from going mad with desperation.

Victor smiled with cold satisfaction as he kneaded her breast through three layers of wool, pinching and fondling her thoroughly. “’Tis well that you are not used to this kind of touch, else there might be other things you will learn.” He pressed an almost tender kiss to her bruised lips.

Maris twisted away. “Release me,” she said again, trying to slip free.

“You are soon to be my wife,” he said, his voice hard, his hands tightening over her breast and around her wrists. “And I am determined that we shall suit well, my lady. In fact, I shall ensure that we will suit.”

This last was said conversationally as his fingers found and teased the nipple that had stiffened with cold. He pinched it enough to bring a gasp from her throat. Bending his knee, he pressed his groin into her thigh as he forced her mouth open once again with his teeth. A low moan escaped from him as he ground his throbbing erection into the joint between her torso and thigh.

He pulled back and looked down at her. Still holding her wrists, he used his other hand to comb through her loosened braid. “Beautiful,” he breathed with satisfaction. “When we are at court, you shall cover this with naught but a net of jewels.” With a sudden twist of the wrist, he grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked hard enough to bend her head back so that she looked into his face.

Victor met her wide eyes. “You angered me, my lady. You angered me with your sharp tongue, and your disregard for your person—tearing across the fields as you did. Take care not to anger me in the future, Maris, and we shall do well together.”

With that, he turned and clomped away through the snow. Gathering up the reins of his mount, he swung himself into the saddle, and, without a backward glance, urged the horse into a loping canter back toward the keep.

Shaken and numb, Maris stiffly gathered up her cloak. As she draped it around her trembling shoulders, she tried to hold back the tears. The Lady of Langumont would not cry. Turning to look about, she saw Hickory and whistled for her mare.

A heavy weight settled over her as she climbed into the saddle, her trembling hands fumbling with the reins. He would be her betrothed two days hence. As her wedded husband, he owned her—owned her—and could do as he wished. He could beat her, rape her, even kill her if he chose. Maris had met and cared for a young woman just a little more than a year ago, Lady Joanna, who had been beaten nearly to her death by her husband.

With a fearful, shuddering sigh, she urged Hickory into a slow trot. Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she held onto the reins so tightly that her nails bit into the palm of her hand.

Never in her life had Maris been subjected to violent anger such as Victor’s. Her father had never raised a hand to either her or Allegra—though the rage in his voice threatened to bring the timbers of the roof down upon them at times. Her heart was slowing its crazy pace, and now Maris began to get over her fright and become angry.

Much of the anger was directed at herself, for though she might be impulsive and headstrong, Maris knew that she owned faults enough to make a man mad.

She was furious with herself partly because she’d chosen to enrage a man before knowing his temper and disposition…but she was mostly disappointed in herself for submitting to his actions without fighting back more violently. She’d been stunned at Victor’s anger and the humiliating form it had taken…and had not had the presence of mind to bite the hand that held her chin, or raise her knee into his pulsing groin.

Michael d’Arcy stifled a belch and wiped his hand over his mouth, his gaze scanning the hall. ’Twas empty of all but a few serfs preparing for the evening meal, and he took this moment to savor the knowledge that it would all soon be his…his and his son’s.

Merle had agreed to the betrothal contract only that morning, and would make the anticipated announcement at dinner that evening. They would sign the contract after a ceremony two days hence, and all would be his.

Taking another gulp of ale, Michael fought to keep a complacent smile from curving his face as he contemplated the power that Langumont would bring him. His own lands weren’t nearly enough to give him leverage with the king, but with Langumont, Edena and Damona behind him, even Henry must listen to him.

At that moment, a movement near the stairwell caught his eye, and Lady Allegra walked into view. As always, his body responded to the mere sight of her and he shifted languorously in Merle’s chair. Jesù, but the woman had him by the stones.

He’d never forgotten her over the years, for she’d warmed his bed and tended to his needs better than any whore, noblewoman, or even his own wife. He supposed he loved her, for even now, after eighteen years, he could not get enough of her body. Just this morrow, they’d met in the far corner of the stables as Victor and Maris saddled their mounts for a ride…and Michael had had a pleasant ride of his own.

He wasn’t able to keep the self satisfied smirk from his lips now, but hid it behind the goblet of ale.

Since their arrival at Langumont, he’d not had any of the raging aches in his head, and that, too, was cause for satisfaction. Those aches frightened him with their intensity, and with the black memories and images that came with them. He sought ways to expel the fury that clawed inside him when those spells incapacitated him, but it was becoming more and more difficult to do so as time passed.

Michael pushed such minor nuisances away as he saw Allegra passing nearby. He wanted her again. “My lady,” he called, raising his goblet, “come you and serve me.”

It was an interesting group that was assembled at the high table that evening: an evening of utmost importance to all involved.

Lady Allegra’s face, to anyone who passed even the most cursory glance over her, was drawn and tight. Her eyes were ringed with the purple of sleepless nights, and her usually neat coiffure was loose, leaving several straggling strands of hair about her face.

Lord Michael, seated next to Allegra, looked obsessively pleased with himself. He was particularly attentive to the woman beside him—but she seemed oblivious to everything and spent most of the meal staring into nothing with a haunted look in her eyes.

Sir Victor could barely keep his burning gaze from his soon to be betrothed. There was a proprietary air of complacency about him as well.

Maris was subdued. She concentrated on her meal, accepting the choice tidbits of capon and goose from Victor without comment.

When the meal was nearly finished—just before the final, sweet course was brought from the kitchens—Lord Merle stood, stepping carefully to stand behind the long bench on which he and his guests were seated. He called for attention, although gossip had spread throughout the keep and all had been waiting for the announcement of their lady’s betrothal.

“Two days hence,” he began jovially, with a full cup of ale in his hand, “we shall celebrate a most auspicious event. It has taken many years for this decision to be made, and tonight I wish to make known to you the betrothed husband of my daughter, Maris of Langumont.”

Beaming behind his silver beard, Merle helped his daughter to her feet as the room erupted in loud cheers—at the prospect of a day of celebration as much as the announcement of a wedding.

“Two days hence,” he repeated, smiling down at his daughter—who managed a tremulous curving of the lips in response, “the castellans from Cleonis, Firmain, Shawdon, Edena, and Damona, shall arrive to once again pledge their fealty to me, and to my heir, Lady Maris. At that time, they shall also witness the betrothal covenant of my daughter to Lord Victor d’Arcy of Gladwythe.”

The room erupted with joy, and Lady Allegra slid to the floor in a dead faint.

Chapter Ten

Dirick was seated comfortably in the corner of Breakston Hall that was the darkest and most unobtrusive, but close enough to the roaring fire that warmth emanated to his very toes. It was after the evening meal—if one could call the fare that had been set before him food—and there were fewer people than usual in the hall.

His mail hauberk, one that was of such quality that it would certainly be remarked upon as to how an itinerant mercenary knight had come to own it, had one taken a close look at it, lay draped over his crossed knees. He sat in rushes that were so old that he dared not contemplate what might be living among them, polishing the mail, and silently observing the lord of the hall.

There wasn’t much to observe.

Dirick had been at Breakston for nearly three days, and he’d come to the conclusion that de Savrille and his comrade Edwin Baegot were merely sloppy, stupid men who had no business calling themselves knights, let alone land-owning lords.

There was, he intended to remind his sovereign, no law against having a lack of common sense…and although Henry Plantagenet had good reason to feel slighted that Bon had not graced his presence, Dirick intended to inform the king that it was no great insult. In fact, he planned to leave on the morrow to make a full report to his king, along with the recommendation that Bon de Savrille be disseissened from Breakston. There could not be another fief in all of Henry’s kingdom that was in such disrepair.

And then, God willing, Dirick would be free to follow the lead on the other task he’d set himself to.

“My lord, Berkle has returned. He has news of great import,” proclaimed Sir Robert as he burst into the hall.

Even from his shadowy corner, Dirick could see Bon’s head snap up from his ever-present goblet of ale. “Send him in immediately,” was the reply.

Curiosity and instinct had Dirick melting into the shadows, attempting to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

Moments later, a tall, thin man dressed in a heavy black cloak was ushered into the hall. He hurried over to Bon and Edwin, and muttered something that, try though he might, Dirick could not understand. He caught the words “betrothal” and “two days hence” before Bon erupted from his huge chair with a roar.

“The bitch!” he snarled. “How dare that cock licking whore ignore me!” He flung the tankard of ale across the chamber. It splattered all over before it hit the stone wall with a loud clang. “I will have her! I will have her if—”

Bon suddenly stilled as if he realized there were other ears in the room. He glanced over his shoulder at Dirick.

But Dirick had prepared himself for such an eventuality. He was propped in a far corner, head back against the wall, jaw relaxed…certain that even Bon could hear the snores that rose from an obviously drunken man-at-arms.

Yet Dirick watched through slitted eyes as, red faced with rage, Bon sat back down on his stool and gestured Edwin and Berkle to pull their seats closer. And then he began to give orders in a low, urgent voice.

The day after her betrothal was announced, Lord Merle was in his receiving room, going over the accounts with Gustave, Langumont’s seneschal.

It was a large chamber on the same floor as the women’s solar, but much smaller than that woman’s chamber. It was, however, comfortably furnished, with two heavy chairs, a table for the scribe, and several stools. A large abacus graced the table, along with sheets of vellum, writing utensils, and wax candles for sealing documents. Bright tapestries hung on the walls and candles lit every corner of the room.

Merle looked up from the table where he and Gustave were perusing the account books when Maris walked in. He couldn’t help but note how very elegant and ladylike she looked in a pale blue overtunic that trailed behind her. Her eyes were wide and dark in her set face, and immediately he knew that this would not be a pleasant conversation.

“Gustave, please excuse us. I believe my daughter would like words with me.”

Ever since the evening before, when he’d stood and announced that she would marry Victor d’Arcy, Merle had been expecting this moment. In fact, he’d been surprised it had taken nearly a whole day for his daughter to approach him. After all, he’d finalized the contract and made the announcement without warning her in advance.

She’d taken it stoically the night before, he admitted to himself.

“How fares your mama this morrow?” he asked, gesturing for the person he loved the most in the world to sit on a cushioned chair next to him.

Maris’s pretty face creased in a frown. “She has been awake since last evening, but she mumbles and raves on about things I do not understand. She speaks of a ‘great sin,’ and of ‘damnation,’ and in great despair of ‘halting this mistake’. She will not explain to me. Her body is fine, ’tis her mind that worries me.”

“I do not understand this,” Merle stroked his beard as he was wont to do when confronted with such a problem. “My lady has never been as energetic and strong as you, daughter, yet she has not been prone to such fainting spells either.”

“Perhaps she is with child?” Maris suggested, then shook her head before Merle was able to react. “Nay, Papa, for you have just returned home. I do not understand it myself.”

“But that is not why you have cornered me in my chambers, is it, my sweeting?” Merle asked. “Methinks you have come to share with me your displeasure for the announcement I so rudely surprised you with last eve.” His gaze was soft, but his words were firm. “I shall tell you now, daughter, that I will brook no arguments from you in this.”

“’Twas not as much of a surprise as you may have anticipated, my lord,” she told him primly. “You did make a warning to me when Victor and his father arrived.”

“Aye, that is true. I confess, I expected more of an argument from you on this. Have you then come to terms with my decision?”

“Lord Victor made it very clear to me that I was soon to belong to him,” Maris told him without trying to hide the bitterness in her voice. “As we rode through the village, first he deplored my knowledge of English, telling me I will be a laughing stock when he takes me to court…and then he attacked me.” Tears welled in her eyes and she wiped them away with sharp movements.

Merle stilled, shocked at the presumption of the young man, and yet, at the same time, he knew how provoking his daughter could be. “He attacked you for no reason?”

Maris had the grace to drop her eyes from his steely gaze. “N nay, Papa. I could not bear to listen to his pompous words and hold Hickory to a mere trot, so I let her go and we raced across the north field. We stopped at the wood, and he caught up to us there. He was not in good humor.” Her face had gone pale.

“Did he strike you? I see no bruises,” Merle asked, more disturbed at the expression of revulsion on her face than her words.

“Nay. He did not strike me.”

“’Tis a man’s right to strike his wife,” Merle reminded her, though his concern was heightened. “Although I do not believe it is seemly for a stronger one to exert his power over a weaker one in such a way.”

He sighed. “Mayhaps I have not done right by you, Maris, in keeping you not only from court and those who live there, but also in protecting you from the harshness of this world. You’ve not been raised to expect anger or violence from your hoydenish ways…yet outside of Langumont, many would be appalled at your actions, and your disregard for propriety.”

“Papa—” Maris’s eyes filled with tears.

He stopped her by drawing her into a tight embrace. “Maris, love, you must know that it is above all important to me to provide for you, and ensure that you are cared for. I know that you do not wish to marry, but you must know that I love you, above all things on this earth, and that it is only the recent reminder of my mortality that has prompted me to finalize your betrothal. I know that I will not always be here to protect you, sweeting, and that is the only reason that I would send you away to wive with any man. Lord Victor will care for you, and for Langumont.”

“But Papa.” Her voice was choked with tears. “He hurt me, Papa, and I fear what he will do when we are wed.”

Merle turned cold and he set her away from him. “Did he violate you?” Rage began to build from his core.

He well remembered the broken, bruised Joanna of Swerthmore, whom Maris had helped with her healing salves. The girl was now wed to Bernard of Derkland, but her first marriage had been one of violence and fear.

He would never allow such a thing to happen to his own daughter.

Maris swallowed heavily, “N nay, Papa. He was rough, and he groped about….” She shuddered.

Merle forced a kindly smile for his daughter, and though he was more disturbed than he let on, his words were jovial. “My love, you are a beautiful woman…and I am certain it was merely that he was overcome with passion for you. Remember, you are soon to become his wife. Do you not fret, love, he will be good to you.” Or I shall peel every piece of skin from his body. “Now, go you and see to your mother. Tell her I will visit anon.”

When Merle was left alone in his chamber, he found himself unable to concentrate on the tasks at hand. His daughter’s fearful, yet resigned, face haunted him. Truly, was he doing right by her? Had he made the right decision?

His mind wandered back to the evening he’d spent wandering the battlements of his beloved Langumont…and the conversation he’d exchanged with Dirick Derkland. Harold must have been very proud of his son, Merle thought to himself.

Merle thought for a long time, all that day and for the remainder of the evening. He watched with a hawk’s eye the others at table with him: his wife and daughter, Michael and Victor d’Arcy.

Maris braved the evening meal as she imagined her father would stand in battle. She was polite, if a little reserved to their guests, solicitous to her mother, who had insisted upon rising from her bed, and warm to her father.

Yet the time to retire did not come too soon for her. She was anxious to be away from Victor’s proprietary gaze, anxious to have time to plan her next strategy. The betrothal ceremony would take place the next afternoon, and at that time, she would truly belong to Victor d’Arcy as completely as if she’d wed him. Maris was realistic enough to know that while she couldn’t stop the betrothal, or change her father’s mind, she might be able to delay it.

Or, if she truly had no other choice, she thought, gnawing at her lower lip as she gathered her skirts to climb over the bench, she would find a way to make peace with Victor.

“Good night, Papa,” she stopped behind her father’s chair at the fireside.

He looked at her with sad, old eyes. “Daughter, I vow, all will be well. Know that I love you above all.”

Tears skimmed the corners of her eyes: she loved and trusted her father. “Aye, Papa,” she said softly, trying to regain her composure. “I love you.”

He pulled her nearly onto his lap in a bear hug, making her feel as if she were but three years of age. “I want only the best for you,” he told her yet again. “Believe you this. Good morrow, my daughter.”

“Good morrow, Papa,” she pressed a kiss to his bristling cheek and swept from the room, dashing back the tears that once again threatened.

In the privacy of her chambers, Maris found Verna strangely jumpy. “Go on,” she told her maid tiredly. “Get you to the man who waits you.”

“Thank you, milady,” her servant told her, slipping from the room with undue haste.

Maris collapsed on her bed, drawing thick furs up to cover her from head to toe. The fire that had been laid was burning merrily, and the chamber was not cold at all—still, she felt the need to hide from the world.

She must have slept, for suddenly she was being shaken awake.

“Milady,” whispered Verna urgently, shaking her shoulders rather too roughly. “Milady, you must come—Ernest of the hillock has been grievously injured.”

Maris’s mind cleared of sleep instantly. She nearly leapt from the bed. “Please, Verna, my green overtunic,” she said, fumbling to draw her shoes on.

“Nay, milady, there is no time,” Verna told her, pulling Maris’s blue cloak from a trunk. “Widow Maggie says you must come at once.”

Maris tied her long hair into a knot and stuffed it into an enveloping scarf. Her servant moved closer to wrap her in the cloak. Quickly, she pulled the basket with her herbs from the nearby trunk and whisked from the room in Verna’s wake.

The keep was fairly silent, and very dark. Even the boy who tended the fire in the Hall was nodding off at his post. Maris did not have the heart to waken him on such a chill, dark night—although upon her return, she’d have a few words with him.

“Come, milady,” Verna urged, reaching for her arm to pull her through the hall.

Maris did not care for the strength of the other woman’s grip—nor her familiarity—and she shook the tight fingers from her wrist. Her servant scarcely noticed, so quickly was she skirting through the Hall, and then out into the bailey.

At the gates to the portcullis, Maris hailed the guards—who were not, fortunately, following the example of the fire tender—and explained her mission. They waved her on through, misliking her intent to wander through at the darkest part of the night, but following her commands to remain at their post. “You need not rouse a guard for me,” she told them. “I have Verna, and we are going only to Ernest Hillock’s home.”

Verna, for her part, barely stopped as Maris greeted the guards. “Come, milady,” she urged again. “He is not well.” She led her mistress through the dark streets of the village, through the center square and to the south side.

“Widow Maggie awaits within,” Verna told her, opening the door to a dark hut and gesturing Maris to go ahead.

Maris stepped incautiously through the doorway and instantly, two strong hands grabbed her. One covered her mouth tightly, smothering her instinctive scream, and the other banded around her arm as she struggled against a forceful grip that dragged her up against a solid body. The cloak fell from her shoulders, leaving her only clothing the light chemise she’d worn in bed.

A man grunted as he felt a well placed kick, and he retaliated with a blow to her face that sent her head snapping aside. The pain stunned her for a moment, and the next thing she knew, a thick cloth was shoved into her mouth, gagging her. She tried to bite at the fingers that pressed it in there, and succeeded in tasting dirty flesh. Before she knew what was happening something rammed her knees from behind, sending her buckling to the ground.

“Take care, ye idiot,” came rough voice. “He wants her alive and well!”

She gasped in pain and fear, struggling weakly now as her hands were bound behind her back with heavy rope. Lying on a cold dirt floor, she was suddenly overcome by violent shivering and a rising swell of nausea. Her cheek throbbed from where she’d been hit and though she twisted and fought, she was held tightly.

“Make haste!” someone whispered.

A heavy cloth was thrown over her head, and she felt herself rolled loosely in the burlap from head to toe.

“I’ll take the cloak,” came a voice she recognized as Verna’s, and Maris’s struggles began anew at the realization that her own maid had betrayed her.

“Oh, aye?” sneered a man’s voice.

Maris, shocked, but still able to hear, focused on the sounds that followed. There was a surprised gasp from her maidservant, then the sounds of slaps against flesh, then thuds and and grunts. Verna gave a stifled shriek, moaning throughout the struggle. There were at least three men, Maris’s fogged mind decided, and through the sounds that ensued, she had an ugly suspicion as to what they were doing to her.

One of the men groaned loudly, and there was a particularly harsh whimper from the maid.

Finally, there was silence but for the sounds of harsh breathing. Maris, truly terrified, held her breath, wondering if she was next. Rough hands plucked at the enveloping burlap, and she felt herself being lifted into the air, over someone’s shoulder.

“Hide her,” said the voice closest to her. “I’ll take this on ahead. Make haste, for the alarm may be sounded at any time.”

Maris felt herself being carried, and then felt herself flying briefly through the air as she was tossed into some type of platform. She landed heavily, bumping her head and hips against the floor, and then the vehicle began to move thereafter. The cold was beginning to seep through the cloth, and her fingers and toes felt the worst of it. Though the smelly, rough burlap was thick, she had not been rolled too tightly. Although her breathing was labored, she was able to draw it in some air.

After a time, she either lost consciousness or slept, for it must have been later that she was jostled from the cart. Her head pounded and the side of her face still hurt from where she’d been struck. Still wrapped in the burlap, she shivered as she was placed over what must have been the back of a horse. Something warmer covered her then, and then she felt a rope over her back, securing her to the mount. Fear gripped her again as the horse was urged to a canter and then a hearty gallop, for she had no way to hold on, and if the rope gave, she would be trampled beneath the horse’s hooves.

Up until now, her kidnappers had been relatively silent, except for short, terse directions from the one who gave the orders.

Who could have done this? she asked herself, willing her mind to focus. Earlier, someone had mentioned a “he”, and obviously this “he” didn’t want her to be harmed.

Her first thought was Victor—but that she dismissed immediately. Why would he abduct her if she was about to be betrothed to him?

She forced her mind to remain clear and work through the events slowly. Verna was involved—although from the sounds of the struggle that had taken place—it seemed that she was also somewhat expendable, for she’d been left behind. In what condition she’d been left behind, Maris, didn’t know. She shuddered at the thought.

Whoever it was, then, wanted her alive and for his own purposes. Ransom was a probable cause, or, mayhaps someone wished her powerful father to bend to his will in a political matter. At any rate, Maris tried to put her fears of being harmed to rest: obviously, if it were for a ransom, she would be returned unharmed.

They traveled for an interminable length of time, it seemed to her. In reality, she had no idea of day or night. Once, she was yanked off the horse and roughly unrolled from her covering then allowed to relieve herself in the nearby brush. Her arms were kept tied and her captor, whom she did not recognize, stood with his back to her. Embarrassed but desperate, Maris tried not to think of his proximity as she crouched in the snow.

Then she was made to sit near a small fire with the three men, and they fed her a hunk of cheese and a small crust of bread. One of them poured ale into her mouth, heedless of the streams that ran down her chin and throat. At one point, Maris tried to ask them who they were and what their purpose was, but she was silenced by the threat of a gag.

She was rolled back up into the burlap and loaded on the back of the horse again, and the journey continued.

Chapter Eleven

Dirick sopped up the last of the juices from his bread trencher of bread with a hard crust. The Great Hall of Breakston was as loud and dirty as usual, and the food had not improved in the five days he’d spent there. He’d intended to leave the day before, but after witnessing the scene in which Berkle delivered his bad news to Bon, Dirick changed his mind. He sensed something was afoot, and decided to remain under Bon’s roof for another day or two.

He’d chosen an unfortunate day to remain at Breakston, however, for ’twas cold and snowing out side of the keep, and there were few amusements other than sitting near the stilted fire, or trading stories with the other men-at-arms. Dirick ached to be outside, exercising his swordplay and perhaps riding Nick, who was as eager as his master to be away from Breakston. As it was, it was barely past midday, and the time stretched before him.

Shoving away from the crude table, he ambled through the moldering rushes. One of the other mercenary knights who was in Bon’s employ hailed him to a chess table, and Dirick gratefully accepted. They’d just arranged their pieces when a great commotion erupted in the bailey.

Bon leapt to his feet from the bench on which he’d partaken of the midday meal. Dirick could see the glitter of excitement in his dark eyes, even from the corner where he sat. Excusing himself from the chess game, he stood slowly and unobtrusively made his way to stand near the high table. A group of men led by Berkle burst through the large oaken door carrying what looked like a long, rolled tapestry. As Dirick watched in amazement, a dozen of the men-at-arms gathered around. The serfs hovered in the background, staring with wide eyes.

With a quick flick of the wrist, Berkle yanked the tapestry roll, dropping it to the floor. It unrolled and a person—a woman—tumbled out, landing in the putrid rushes in a swirl of white gown and long, dark hair. Her hands were tied behind her back and she lay in the midst of her thick hair and the rushes, wincing as one of the dogs loped up to sniff at her. She wore a light chemise that had ruched up past the knees when she landed in her ignominious heap.

The gathered men reacted loudly with hoots and whistles, but the woman didn’t move. “Silence,” shouted Bon angrily at his men. “You shall show respect to my bride.” The jeers and laughter quieted momentarily.

Her long hair hid her face, but when Bon leaned forward to brush it back, thus revealing a pert nose and sensual lips, Dirick froze.

It was Maris of Langumont.

Stunned, Dirick barely refrained from leaping forward to shield her from the men that gathered around. The moment that he paused, and thus remained anonymous, likely saved his life. There was naught he could do at this moment. ’Twas best to stop, watch, and listen before acting.

As Dirick struggled to master his horror—while at the same time, praising God that he had decided to stay longer at Breakston—Bon solicitiously helped Maris to her feet and sliced through the rope that bound her wrists.

“You are well come to my home, my lady,” he made a short bow.

Maris stood as straight as her stiff, trembling legs would allow. She was frightened and exhausted, her heart thumping so loudly she was sure it echoed throughout the hall. The trembling of her limbs made it nearly impossible to maintain what little composure she could draw to her defense. The chemise she wore was of the lightest linen and did not afford much protection from either cold or prying eyes, so she was thankful for her long hair.

“Why have you brought me here?” she asked in a hoarse voice. She recognized him immediately from his visit to Langumont.

As of yet, she had not turned her attention from Bon de Savrille, and had not looked closely at the crowd of gawking men. Instead, though she was overwhelmed by fear, she forced herself to hold the dark gaze of the bearded man standing before her.

“My lady, I have brought you here to do you the honor of making you mistress of Breakston,” Bon de Savrille told her as he reached for her hand.

But he froze, pushing back a thick lock of hair to look at what must be a large, purplish bruise on her left cheek.

He whirled on Berkle, the man who’d been the leader of the group who’d abducted her. “You have allowed my wife to be ill used!” de Savrille screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. “You were not to harm a hair on her head were my very words to you, you low lying, cat sucking whoreson! Throw him in the dungeon,” he screamed at a nearby guard.

A violently protesting Berkle was dragged from the hall, and immediately after issuing that command, a calmer Lord de Savrille returned his attention to Maris. He made a surprisingly subservient bow. “I pray you will accept my apologies, my lady, for your abuse at the hands of my loyal knights.” He leered at Maris, leaning forward to capture one of her hands in his and raising it to his mouth for a damp kiss.

Maris had been struggling to focus, to make sense of her predicament at the same time as keeping her composure.

Just as her thoughts began to separate and to clear, her gaze swept the group of men surrounding her. They rested on a face that was familiar, but out of place…and as the realization that Sir Dirick de Arlande stood in the crowd with her enemy, the world went blank.

She slid to the floor in the first swoon of her life.

“My lord!” exclaimed Ernest of the hillock as he was ushered to the dais in the great hall. Merle, along with his guests and wife, was breaking his fast after attending mass that morning.

“My lord Merle,” began Gustave, who approached with the horrified serf, “Ernest begs an audience.”

Ernest fairly trod upon the seneschal in his excitement to reach his lord’s table. Executing a brief, but respectful bow, he stammered in his guttural English that he’d found not only the body of Lady Maris’s maidservant, Verna, but also his lady’s brilliant blue cloak crumpled in the snow.

“What say you?” Merle bellowed, standing in his alarm. His words, too, were in English, and thus the meaning was lost upon the other nobility at the high table.

“Aye, my lord, ’twas a fright to me, my lord, whenst I came upon the bloodied, ravaged body of Verna of Langumont. Her’s not breathing or moving and sure as I stand, the wench is dead. And my lady Maris,” his eyes grew round, “’twas nawt sign of her’n but for her cloak, ’round the bend from mine own home.”

“Gustave, send for the guards of last eve,” Merle roared in French to the hovering seneschal.

“My lord, what is it?” cried Allegra, standing with a horror-stricken look on her face. Victor and Michael d’Arcy had stopped eating as well.

“Know you where Maris is this morn?” asked Merle fiercely of his meal companions. “Have ye seen her yet this morrow?”

They each in turn shook their heads. Allegra’s eyes had grown wide and her face pale as the snow beyond.

The guards from the watch of the night before rushed into the hall, startled out of their sleep, half dressed and with mussed hair.

“My lord,” bowed the captain of the night watch. “What is amiss?”

“Did my daughter leave in the company of her maidservant during your watch?” Merle fired the question before the man rose from his bow.

“Aye, my lord, she said on as she were called to the side of Ernest of the hillock,” explained the captain. “He was gravely injured.” His eyes swiveled to Ernest and realization washed over his face. He looked back at his lord, “She is gone missing?”

“Aye,” said Merle. Then, his voice rising in supplication, he bellowed, “Has no one seen my daughter?”

Silence greeted him.

“Á Langumont!” he cried, standing and nearly toppling the large table in his haste. “We must search while the trail of her abductors is fresh! Á moi!”

“My lord husband,” Allegra’s voice wavered, barely heard above the roar of men calling to arms. “My lord!”

“I shall return her to you safely, fear not,” Merle told his wife, worry creasing his face even as he gave orders to his men.

“But my lord, I—I believe I may know whence she has been taken.” Allegra plucked at the sleeve of his tunic. “’Tis my—my brother—my half brother, Bon de Savrille.”

She was hardly able to choke out the words. Merle froze and turned, giving her his full attention as she stammered a wary description of his visit, including his threat to have Maris to wive.

Maris regained consciousness as she was carried up a long staircase.

Having never swooned before, she felt a momentary pang of shame that she’d succumbed to such a feminine weakness…and then dismissed the misbegotten feeling immediately in light of her predicament.

Strangely, her blind fear had ebbed with her faint, and now she was able to think more calmly.

The buffoon who carried her none too gently up the stairs misjudged a corner, and one of her hands—still ice cold—slammed into the heavy stone wall. She could not hold back a moan of pain, but, mercifully, no one was behind to notice that her eyes had flown open at the shock. She determined to feign unconsciousness long enough to gain her bearings and make some sense of her situation. Assess the situation, her father told his pages and squires during their long training in the art of war, before developing a strategy.

It was, however, more difficult than she’d anticipated to fake an extended faint…especially when she was dumped unceremoniously onto a bed of some sort. Through slitted eyes, she recognized that the clumsy oaf who’d carried her jerkily up the stairs was none other than her intended husband—at the least, it was his intention that he be her husband.

“Agnes!” he bellowed suddenly, and Maris nearly jumped at the loud noise.

Then there was a rustling sound, followed by a voice, squeaky with fear. “Aye, my lord.”

“See to my betrothed,” ordered Bon in a rough voice. “She is weak after her long journey. I would that she were bathed and dressed and prepared to sup with me at the evening meal.” There was a short silence, then, “And see to it that she is cared for as befits her station. Do you not forget she is to be my wife.”

Maris held her breath as she felt his presence near her face. A large hand took hers and raised it to dry lips and a brush of prickly moustache. “Until later, my lady,” he murmured. She felt the air stir as he whirled and left the room, bellowing for hot tubs of water for her bath.

She was to be his wife. Maris held back a shudder at the thought. Not bloody likely!

She listened carefully, eyes still closed, as Agnes bustled about the room. She heard calm, efficient orders were given to the servants who brought sloshing buckets of water, along with linens and other rustling items, into the chamber.

As she lay in repose, listening, her mind whirled, uncontained.

The biggest shock of all was no longer her abduction—for Bon de Savrille’s purpose was clear—but that Dirick de Arlande was here. In the home of her captor.

The pit of her stomach—mostly empty, for the fare on her unexpected journey had been little more than hard bread and old cheese—twisted in fear and anger. Had he merely wooed her, and her father, too, in order to plot her kidnapping for Bon de Savrille?

Many things made sense now, she thought, trying to keep her lips from twisting bitterly. His destrier was much too fine and expensive to belong to a mere mercenary knight…and his knowledge about Henry’s court had been so pat that she’d wondered how a traveling knight from France knew such detail. And Papa—and she—had taken him at his word, invited him into their home, and treated him as an honored guest all the while he plotted to snatch her for his master!

Maris swallowed, holding back tears. And he’d even kissed her, making her feel as if—

Nay. She would not think on that.

At the last, there was silence. Maris heard the door close, and the unmistakable sound of a bar sliding into place across it. She was just about to open her eyes when the barest of sounds told her that someone was still in the room.

“My lady, you may open your eyes,” came a quiet voice. “All have gone save myself. But be yourself ware, my lord has stationed a guard outside your chamber.”

Maris’s eyes snapped open in surprise. They rested on a woman, similar in age to herself, with thick honey colored hair and a long purple scar that ran from the corner of one eye to the edge of her jaw. It was old enough to be healed, but it had done so by misshapening her eyelid.

Agnes tilted her head shyly. “’Tis oft I have feigned the same faint, my lady. I knew you were aware.” She drew near the bed as Maris’s gaze traveled the chamber for the first time.

It was larger than she’d expected, and while not as luxurious as her own chamber at Langumont, the bed was fairly comfortable and there were tapestries—threadbare though they were—over the slitted windows to keep out the drafts. The fire, at least, was enthusiastic, although the rest of the chamber left little to on which to comment.

“Would you like to bathe, my lady?” asked Agnes. “The warm water will ease your hurts.”

Indeed, Maris could smell the comforting scent of rosemary wafting from the tub that had been placed before the fire. “Aye, I think that I should do that, at the least.”

She struggled up from her repose on the bed, and Agnes, though less quick than her own maid Verna, was just as efficient in pulling off her filthy, stained shift and helping her into the tub.

Verna.

The thought of her maid shot into Maris’s mind and a well of fear and anger erupted within. How dare her own maid betray her in this manner! There was no doubt that Verna had lured her from the comforts of her own bed to the waiting arms of her kidnappers. Maris felt ill. She’d been betrayed by two people she trusted.

Then Maris recalled the violent sounds of Verna’s own fate. Swallowing back a lump in her throat, she tried not to think about what those sounds had meant.

Agnes, though awkward, was gentle as she washed the tangled mass of Maris’s long hair and bathed her with a faintly scented rosemary soap. In fact, Maris felt lulled by these familiar comforts as she struggled to determine a strategy. She must have a plan, for she had no intention of wedding the coarse, greasy Bon de Savrille.

Verily, her father had noted her disappearance by now. That realization gave her some ease. If anyone could rescue her, her father could. All Maris had to do, she realized, was delay Bon’s intent—for it didn’t make sense that he’d plan to hurt his intended bride—until her father could get there. He’d besiege the keep, take it apart stone by stone, brick by brick, to get to her.

Maris drew in the first easy breath since her abduction two days ago. She must stall and delay and play along with Bon de Savrille and his game.

Agnes helped her out of the tub and to a stool that sat before the fire. Maris, wrapped in a woolen blanket, stared into the flames as the maid tugged a wooden comb through her hopelessly snarled hair.

“Yer hair is beautiful, my lady,” said Agnes, breaking the silence.

Although Maris did not feel inclined toward conversation, she responded, “Many thanks, Agnes.”

“My lord wishes for you to sup with him this eve,” Agnes told her. “Do you wish for me to say you are still ill?”

Maris was silent for a moment, considering. How she would love to remain ensconced in this chamber, away from the prying, greedy eyes of her kidnapper…yet, the start of a plan had already begun to formulate in her mind, and she needed more information to know if ’twould work.

“Nay, Agnes,” she replied after a moment. “I shall sup with Lord Bon, as he wishes. It does not seem prudent to anger him, aye?” Hoping to learn more about her captor, and as yet unsure whether Agnes would be a help or a hindrance to her, she craned her head to look back at the maid.

“Oh, aye, my lady, my lord has a brutal temper,” agreed Agnes. “An’ one ne’er knows when ’twill break.” She could not suppress a shudder. “Yet, my lady, he seems overly fond of you…in fact, I have heard stories that when he is in his cups, he sings love ballads in your honor.”

“Indeed?” Maris could not hide the shocked expression on her face.

“My lady,” began Agnes, hesitating. She took a deep breath and began again, “My lady, you did not come here of your own will, I trow.”

Maris gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Nay, Agnes, of course I do not. I would wed with no man under my own will. Yet, I have a betrothed of my father’s wishes that I have been snatched from…though he is hardly no more a prize than is Lord Bon.”

“My lady, I would—I would do all I may to help you…an’….” Agnes swallowed, trembling, her eyes fearful as she looked up at Maris. “I would ask a boon, my lady. I know ’tis unseemly to ask, my lady,” her words now tumbled out as if she could not stop them, “but I would wish to leave here in exchange for—for helping you.”

Maris turned a cool gaze on the frightened maid before her. A prickle of mistrust niggled up her spine. “How might I help you leave as I am my own prisoner here?” she asked.

“My lady, you are the daughter of a powerful lord, ’tis certain that he or your betrothed will come for you,” Agnes whispered, yet cowering as if waiting for a hand to strike her face. “An’ I would go with you when they come.”

“You are mistreated?” Maris asked mildly.

Although she’d never been approached by a servant requesting aid, it was not an uncommon occurrence. The serfs that were bound to a land were also bound to its master, and even though she may escape with the help of her father, stealing a serf was another matter entirely. “I cannot take you from your master.”

“My lady.” Agnes swallowed heavily, then continued, “I am a freewoman, my father a merchant near York, when I was taken from him. I wish only to be free from Lord Bon.” She unconsciously touched the purple scar. “’Tis but a reminder of his anger.” Tears welled in her eyes, and despite her misgivings, Maris felt sympathy washing over her.

“As you shall help me, I vow repayment in kind,” she told the other woman, who, by mere misdirection of the Fates, was serving her rather than living the life of a merchant’s wife. Ofttimes, the family of a merchant was even wealthier than those of the nobility, whose wealth lay in the land rather than commercial goods. She could not leave Agnes here.

“Thank you my lady!” Agnes fell to her knees, the tears tumbling forth. “Praise God and thank you!”

“Now, then.” Maris became business like and drew the maid to her feet. “We must have a strategy. You must tell me all that you know about my lord and his plans, and we shall decide how to proceed from there.”

As the women plotted in the abovestairs chamber, taking care to keep their voices at a low level, a different scene unfolded below.

Dirick had not missed the look of shock, and then loathing, that had flitted across Maris’s face when she saw him. Fortunately, she’d slumped to the floor before announcing thus to the entire great hall, and he considered that not a small bit of good fortune.

And though no one else seemed to notice her reaction, he felt her anger slice through him, followed by a stifling fear when Bon de Savrille gathered her up in his arms to carry her above. Dirick almost started after them, determined to do whatever he had to in order to protect the lady’s virtue.

He would have, in fact, done so if he’d not noticed Edwin Baegot watching him carefully. Despite his urgent desire to protect her, Dirick forced himself to remain still. He would be no help to Maris of Langumont if Bon learned his true reason for being there.

When Dirick heard the lord of the keep bellowing for hot water to be brought to the above stairs chamber, and then the heavy footsteps of Bon himself returning to the hall, he realized he had some time yet before Maris and her maidenhead were in danger—assuming that Victor d’Arcy hadn’t already helped himself to it.

Sinking onto a short stool, Dirick stared into the fire that snapped viciously in its enclosure.

First, he must send a message to Merle of Langumont. Finding someone in the village that could be trusted would be a battle in itself, but a healthy palm of coin would ease the way.

Then, he mused, plucking at a string on his tunic, he must find a way to delay the imminent wedding while protecting Maris’s virtue: all without arousing his host’s suspicion.

Dirick was just returning from his sojourn to the village—ostensibly to visit a whore—when the keep’s inhabitants were shoving and jostling for place for the evening meal. He’d paid a heavy coin to a young man to carry the message to Langumont, as well as promising him that Merle would place him in his household as reward for defying Bon de Savrille.

Pushing his way between two men at arms who were arguing about the most desirable quality in a destrier—its weight or its thirst for blood—Dirick was able to find a place on the third bench from the dais. Hoisting a leg over the crude bench, he nudged at one of the hounds that slept beneath the table, moving the dog so he could take his seat.

Glancing at the high table, he saw Bon sitting in his large, throne like chair. The bearded man sent expectant looks toward the stairs between strains of his conversation with Edwin, who sat at his left. Dirick was surprised to note that Bon seemed to have tidied his appearance. His beard was trimmed for the first time in three days, and the tunic he wore was not despoiled with any stains or tears. Even the man’s dark hair had been subdued, brushed back from his high forehead and leaving wings of gray at his temples.

There was a murmur at the back of the hall, and, the nape of his neck prickling with expectancy, Dirick turned to see Maris descending the stairs. Voices quieted and Bon’s attention snapped to the woman who wended her way between the benches and tables. A tall, fierce looking man with a hooked nose followed in her wake.

The hall seemed to have frozen in time, all conversation dying, as Maris passed through. She did not at all look like a maiden who had been kidnapped from her beloved father, wrapped in a tapestry for a day, dumped into a room of gawking men, and threatened with an unwanted marriage. She looked regal, confident, and incredibly beautiful.

Someone—Dirick assumed that it was the scar faced Agnes—had combed through the length of rich brown hair, coiling a huge mass of it intricately at the back of her head. She wore no wimple, and a great length of it, glinting gold and chestnut in the candlelight, fell from the coil, brushing the backs of her thighs as she walked. The gown she wore, though not as fine as one she might have worn at Langumont, was more than appropriate for this ramshackle hall. The blue of the gown was so deep it shone like the midnight sky, and bright yellow embroidery trailed along the edges of long sleeves that nearly brushed the floor. A girdle encircled her waist and she wore a heavy chain of gold links around her neck.

Dirick took a deep steadying breath. How could she look so beautiful and unconcerned when she was in so much danger? Had she realized by now that he would help her, that she had naught to fear from him?

Maris took her time making her way to the high table where Bon awaited her. The hook nosed man that trod upon the train of her gown was Sensel, the guard appointed to watch over her. She breathed easily, keeping her pace slow as she fought to maintain her composure.

Papa is on his way. Papa is coming. She repeated the chant over and over in her mind.

When she reached the high table, Maris almost lost her nerve. But then, steeling herself, she took the last step and swept into a beautiful curtsey at Bon’s feet. “My lord,” she murmured, looking at the battered boots he wore.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then she heard a rumbling voice. “And see you, Edwin, the honor my wife pays me.” Bon stepped down from the dais, taking Maris’s hand and raising her to her full height. She modestly kept her eyes downcast until he said, “My lady, ’tis I who am honored at your presence. Come you and sup with me.”

Maris barely restrained a nervous giggle. Honored at her presence, indeed. As if she’d found her own way to Breakston—wherever that was. “Thank you, my lord.”

Bon was solicitous as he assisted her onto the bench next to his place. “I had half expected to drag you kicking and screaming down to sup with me,” he said, filling her goblet with thin wine. “Sensel had my orders. ’Tis glad I am that you chose to obey my wishes.” His steely blue stare fastened upon her.

Maris looked at him from under her long lashes, refusing to be intimidated by his glare. “Aye, my lord, your wish that I join you—and not only for supper—was quite evident,” she said demurely. “Yet, I beg that any future travel arrangements you make for me will have more care to my comfort than these last.”

Surprised, Bon laughed, turning every head in the hall back to the dais. He cocked his head to one side, taking a large gulp of wine. “And have you any other requests regarding your comfort, my lady?”

One of the serfs approached with a wooden platter of food, followed by another with several bread trenchers. Bon, as gallantly as any courtier, chose bits of meat and potatoes for them, placing the choicest pieces of rabbit on her side of the trencher.

Maris favored him with a brilliant smile, and its brightness seemed to be enough to stun even the sour Edwin, for he smiled in return.

“My lord, how kind of you to ask after my comfort,” she said sweetly, dragging a crust of hard bread through the meat’s juices. “There are a few suggestions I might make, my lord. For I am to be your chatelaine, am I not? I should not wish your hall to seem lacking to any visitors.”

Bon stilled, turning to look at her. She could almost see the suspicion darting through his mind, like a rabbit through its warren. “You are to be my chatelaine, and my wife,” he said darkly. “You seem to be much too well accustomed to this notion, my lady. What game do you play?”

Maris wondered if perhaps she’d gone too far, but ’twas too late now and she must dodge his blow, thrusting with her own. “My lord,” she looked at him without wavering, “it appears that I have no choice in the matter. And in truth, as I must wed, methinks I’d sooner wed with a man whose desires for me are such that he should risk everything to whisk me away under my own father’s nose—rather than wed the sop eyed man chosen by my papa.”

Bon looked surprised for a moment, and then a pleased smile settled over his features. “I do believe I have received my first compliment from the lady,” he said to Edwin.

“Aye, my lord,” Maris agreed, “and now, may I ask a boon of you?”

“Ask, my lady.”

“May I be given charge of your steward and your cook?”

The expression on his face would have been comical if she’d been in the mood to appreciate it. “My steward and my cook?”

“Aye, my lord. The state of this hall is deplorable…and this food is not fit for the dogs that crowd about my feet.” Her words, for the first time that evening, were truly in earnest.

Maris did not think she could survive until her father arrived to rescue her if she had to partake of what passed for food in this keep. “When was the last time these rushes were changed?” she asked, kicking at them under the table and landing her pointed toe in the ribs of a well fed hound. “And though my chamber is comfortable enough, it could use a good cleaning as well. It must be done before we are wed, my lord.”

“We are to be wed on the morrow, my lady.”

“On the morrow?” Maris managed to turn an expression of shock into one of joy before he could note the difference. “My lord, how you honor me!” Then, as if ashamed, she ducked her head.

After a quick, sharp prick of her fingernail at the corner of her eye, Maris raised her face and fixed him with a wide eyed look pooled with manufactured tears. “But, Lord Bon, I have naught to wear…and surely you would not wish to dishonor me by inviting our guests to a hall in such a state. Why, and if we are to wed on the morrow, I cannot have the time to prepare a proper meal for your vassals and your men. I do not know what the stores hold, nor the talents of your cook.”

He fixed her with a shrewd look and her heart stopped. Had she gone about it too obviously? “Methinks you are inventing excuses, my lady,” Bon said. “I shall not be dissuaded from wedding with you.”

“Nay, my lord, I am most aware that we shall wed upon your word…yet, I implore you…please do you not dishonor me in this way.” She wiped another tear away. “I should at the least want the bedchamber prepared for our wedding night.” Maris had to work to make the words sound convincing, hardly believing that those words could issue from her mouth without nauseating her. She caught his gaze shyly from under her lashes, then turned away, lest he think her too bold.

“Ah…aye, our wedding night,” he responded thoughtfully. “Mayhaps I shall make tonight our wedding night, my lady, and delay our nuptials as you ask.”

Maris felt the blood drain from her face. “My lord, you would not dishonor me such!” she replied carefully, trying to sound only frightened and not as desperate as she was. “If we do not have the blooded sheets to display after the eve of our wedding, there will no doubt be questions as to whether we are truly wed. All will cast aspersion on our vows, and mayhaps I shall be taken from you and returned to my betrothed.”

Bon did not reply immediately. She knew she was right, though he may be loath to admit it. Taking a bride by force was one thing, and being able to prove the validity of the wedding and its consummation was the crux of its success. It all came down to the one in possession of not only the bride, but her maidenhead as well.

After what seemed like forever, Bon replied. His words were magnanimous, as if he were doing her a great favor. “Aye, my lady, as you argue so prettily, I shall grant your wishes and allow you to order my kitchen and steward. However, I will not delay the wedding more than one day hence, my lady, so mark me well and be efficient in your work. On the day after the morrow, we shall be wed.” His face leered close to hers, “And I shall anticipate that evening greatly.”

Maris took a large swallow of wine. Folding her hands in her lap, she asked demurely, “May I then beg your leave, my lord, as I have much with which to occupy myself on the morrow. And, truly, I cannot partake of this meal.”

“Aye, Lady Maris, hie yourself to your chamber. Sensel will guard your door this night so you may sleep in peace.”

Head held high, Maris gathered her skirts and stepped over the bench, and off the dais. She made her way carefully through the hall, aware not only of the man dogging her footsteps, but also of the many pairs of eyes that followed her.

There was one countenance that she recognized among the sea of faces. And upon that familiar face, she turned a look of such loathing and disgust that Dirick de Arlande could barely hold her gaze before returning to his goblet of ale.

Chapter Twelve

Maris found her chamber a welcome refuge after a meal at which she poised on tenterhooks. Agnes was waiting for her when Sensel swung the door open, gesturing for Maris to enter.

As the great oaken door closed ominously behind her, Maris resisted the urge to sag weakly onto the bed. Instead, she stood in front of the fire that roared in the grate and tried to calm the tremors that shook her hands. Although she’d hid it well, her heart had been lodged in her throat during the entire meal, making it nigh impossible to choke down the smallest bits of food. That, at the least, she had not had to lie about.

She seemed to have fooled Bon, however, and for that she was thankful.

“Agnes, know you whither herbs are kept here at Breakston?” she asked, sinking onto a three legged stool next to the blazing fire. She shivered.

“Aye, my lady, there are some still in the kitchens. Methinks the midwife in the village may have some as well.”

“I am in need of as much pennyroyal as you can locate,” Maris told her wearily. “Can you gather it without arousing suspicion?”

“Aye. I shall say ’tis a tonic for myself.”

“Good.” Maris stared into the fire for a long moment, watching as the orange flames curled about the logs. “We must not give Lord Bon or Sensel any reason to believe you will assist me. Come you, sit near the fire—here, Agnes, turn your face so that your cheek reddens. I shall make as if you have displeased me, and then you must leave quickly to fetch the pennyroyal. Be certain to show Sensel your reddened cheek so that he believes I have struck you.”

“Aye, my lady,” Agnes agreed. She turned her unscarred cheek as directed, and as the warmth spread to her face, she watched in shock as Maris began to play act.

“Stupid wench!” cried Maris suddenly, knocking over a tankard of ale. “Do you not have any more sense than a dog?”

With a loud shriek, she dropped a piece of wood near the fire. Just as the door swung open, Maris slapped her hands smartly together, creating the same sound as hand meeting cheek, and in a swift movement, grabbed Agnes’s arm and jerked her away from the fire. “Go you and do not come back until you have learned not to be so clumsy!”

Giving the startled maid a shove toward Sensel, who glowered at the door, she added, “I must have my tonic immediately!”

Then Maris whirled angrily on Sensel, for he had no business bursting into her chamber unannounced. “How dare you enter my chamber without my leave?” She planted her hands on her hips and stared up at him.

By this time, the altercation had caught the attention of the residents of the hall. Great clomping footsteps hurried up the stairs, and Bon, followed by several other men-at-arms, including Dirick de Arlande, crowded into the doorway of the chamber to see the interesting sight.

Apparently unaware of the witnesses behind him, Sensel’s face darkened and he leaned threateningly toward Maris. “My lord has commanded that I guard you day and night, my lady, and I answer only to my lord Bon.”

“You may guard my door all you like, Sensel,” Maris continued imperiously, “but you will not enter unless you are bid.”

Then, as if she had just caught sight of her intended husband, who stood watching the scene, she swept into a curtsey. “My lord, I am sorry if I interrupted your meal. ’Tis only that clumsy girl pulled on my hair and overturned a goblet of ale. It nearly stained my gown. I’d as lief take a switch to her if she does not attain some grace!”

“If Agnes does not please you, my lady, I shall find another maid to serve you,” Bon told her, taking her hand to his lips. He stared at her as if bewitched, and Maris knew she must take advantage of her success.

Maris paused as if to think on his suggestion. “Nay, my lord, as I have already begun her training. I should not wish to start again. I shall try her for a time. And if she does not improve, she will feel the back of my hand until she does.”

Thus assured that his lady was satisfied, Bon turned on Sensel, his face darkening. “Never did I bid you leave to enter my lady’s chamber. You are dismissed. You shall take the night watch at the south tower until you are bid otherwise.” His gaze scanned the gawking group of men and rested on Dirick. “You, sir, will replace Sensel. And know that if you should displease my lady, you will find yourself in a less desirable duty.”

Dirick nodded smartly. “Aye, my lord.” His eyes flickered to Maris, whose heart sank at the man’s new appointment. He was the last man she would want guarding her door, for she suspected he would be more efficient than any of the other slothful ones. Likely, Bon had the same opinion of his men, and that was why he’d selected Sir Dirick.

Before she could react, the chamber door slammed shut, leaving her in the chamber with Bon. He turned to her. “At last, my lady, we are alone.”

Not for long, I pray. She eyed him with trepidation. “Aye, my lord, that we are. And what will be your pleasure? Wine, my lord?”

“Bon. I wish for you to call me Bon when we are private.” He was still looking at her as if besotted.

She used that opportunity to pour him a goblet of warm wine, wishing that she had a store of herbs in her chamber. “Did you have ought you wished to speak with me on, my lord—Bon?”

His dark eyes glinted dangerously as he looked at her in the dim light. “Nay, my dear Maris. ’Tis only your company that I wished.”

His heavy gaze did not waver from her, and Maris was beginning to feel discomfited. She carefully took a seat on the three legged stool closest to the fire, watching him warily.

“My lord,” she began, wanting to keep the conversation going so that his thoughts would settle on the fact that she was alone with him and helpless, “it would please me greatly to have use of the large chamber betwixt this and the garderobe. I will need such a chamber for a solar, where I and my women might work.”

Bon’s eyes, which had drifted to her bosom, snapped back to her face. “Your women?”

“Aye, my lord. How else shall I keep you in tunics, and tapestries on the walls?” She looked guilelessly at him. “You are in need of a new tunic for our wedding…and do you not think me shallow, my lo—Bon, yet I should like other than this to wear for that day.” She gestured to the gown that fit rather too snugly through the bosom, and whose sleeves were the merest too long to be considered a perfect fit.

His dark eyes gleamed. “And for such a boon as that, my love, I wish a token of your affection in return. Come hither, dearling.” He gestured to the floor near where he sat.

Maris hesitated, then, gathering her skirts, sank into a kneel next to his stool. Keeping her head lowered, for now she was truly fearful for her virtue, she made a great play of arranging her gown about her ankles. Bon reached down and grasped one of her hands, pulling it firmly to his lips. She concealed a shudder as moist lips smoothed over the back of her hand, then over the tender, inner side of her wrist. His tongue flicked out, like that of a snake, tracing the pale blue vein beneath her skin and she nearly jumped at the sensation. It was not pleasant in the least, reminding her of the way one of the hounds licked her hand when she had liniment on her fingers.

“My lord,” she murmured, trying to pull away. His grip tightened and he chuckled quietly. The lips continued to trail along her wrist, his fingers sliding her sleeve back, as he pressed moist kisses on the inside of her elbow.

“Bon, please,” she looked up at him. “Please do not…tempt me so.” Maris swallowed the clot of fear in her throat and managed a tremulous smile. “’Tis only one more day and we shall be truly wed.”

“Aye, ’tis one more day…an’ two more nights,” Bon agreed, his voice rough. His eyes glittered darkly, and she felt that same well of fear that she had when Victor slammed her against the tree. “I would have a taste of what it is I’ll wed, Maris.”

His fingers like iron bands, Bon pulled her to the front of his stool. Placing a hand under each elbow, he lifted her so that she was between the crux of his legs and half risen on her knees. One hand reached to hold the back of her head, his thick fingers sinking into the intricate coils of hair, as his bearded face leaned toward hers, blocking out the light from the candle behind him.

The hair on his face was rough over her smooth skin, and his lips were damp and sloppy. She tried in vain to twist her head away, but Bon’s strength prevailed, and he succeeded in lifting her onto his lap even as his mouth smothered hers. Heavy, rough breathing rasped into her mouth as his kiss coaxed and demanded in turn.

Maris curled her fingers into his tunic to keep from scratching his face. Then she tried to push him away, and, at last, was able to free her mouth from his. His arms were around her waist, pinning her onto his lap, and, gasping for air, he looked down at her own heaving chest.

“Do not be affrighted, my love,” he said in what he must have thought was a seductive voice. “I’ll not hurt you.”

Just then, there was a loud knocking at the chamber door. Maris leapt to her feet, but was jerked back onto a solid lap. “Nay, sweeting. I’ll not be interrupted.”

“But, my lord, ’tis no doubt Agnes with my tonic.”

“Your tonic can wait,” he growled, seeking her lips once more.

With a cry, she managed to slide her face from his mouth, gaining a good scrape of beard across her cheek. “Nay, please my lord, if we do not answer the door, there will be much talk of what is happening herein, and then we shall be in quite a fix if there is any question as to our marriage.”

The knocking became louder, sounding almost as desperate as she felt.

Bon’s hand slipped down the front of her bodice, closing around her breast through the thin chemise under her bliaut. The other hand plucked at the lacings that held her bodice together.

Suddenly, the door swung open. Bon’s head snapped up from Maris’s bosom.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, my lady…did you not bid me entrance?” Dirick had a surprised look on his face, but he strode boldly into the chamber. “It looks as if the fire needs to be stoked.”

“My fire does not need to be stoked,” Bon said meaningfully to Maris, his palm sliding down her back, all the way to the curve of her rump.

She squirmed in his lap, her face hot and her breathing unsteady. What was Sir Dirick doing? Then she saw Agnes hovering in the doorway. She pulled firmly from Bon’s hands. “There you are, you lazy fool!” she exclaimed. “Have you brought my tonic?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Dirick jolt in surprise.

“A aye, my lady,” Agnes was obviously so accustomed to being spoken to in that manner that it was not difficult for her to feign fear. “A tea of pennyroyal and chamomile, to help you sleep, my lady…and peppermint leaves to chase the ache from your head.”

“And about time it is,” Maris snapped, taking the pitcher from Agnes more roughly than necessary. She turned, curtseying to Bon. “My lord, as we have been interrupted, I pray you will allow my maid to prepare me for bed. I have much to accomplish on the morrow to prepare for our wedding, as I wish to make you proud.” She fairly held her breath, waiting to see if he would acquiesce, or if he would order Dirick and Agnes from the chamber and continue with his hands down her bliaut.

Bon swaggered to his feet and she gave a silent sigh of relief. “As you wish, my dearling,” he said, as if granting her the moon. “But know that the taste I have had will barely suffice until we are well and truly wedded.”

With the last press of a kiss to her hand, he turned to make his way from the chamber. After two steps, he halted in his tracks, turning toward Dirick—who was still meddling with the fire. “Dirick, you belong on the outside of this chamber, and do you not forget that. Come now—the fire is blazing.”

“Aye, you are dismissed.” Maris turned regally away from him.

She felt Dirick still behind her, and then sensed it as he pulled himself to his feet with careful deliberation. For an instant, she felt him towering behind her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she fancied she felt the spear of his stare driving into her back. Keeping her head high and her face averted, she walked over to the bed, untying the curtains that would keep the drafts out during the night.

Maris didn’t turn until both men quit the chamber and the door shut behind them. At last she was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Oh, my lady, are you—are you untouched?” Agnes asked in a low voice, pouring the pennyroyal tea into a goblet. “I hurried as quickly as I could. Did my lord—did he hurt you?”

“Nay.” Maris took a long drink of the lukewarm tea, then refilled the goblet and drank again. “Though ’twas a near thing.”

“My lady, what is the purpose of the pennyroyal? Is it not for Lord Bon, that you planned to poison him in some way?”

Maris shook her head and forced herself to drink more of the bitter tea. “Nay, for were he to be poisoned, would I not be the first at which the fingers would point? ’Tis to bring on my monthly flux. Bon will not touch me while I am unclean, and I pray my Papa will arrive before ’tis through. Bring me as much as you are able, as I must drink a good portion to ensure that it begins on the morrow. I must needs find some other way to keep him from me tomorrow night, as ’twill surely not start ere then.”

“Mayhap there is something to put his lordship to sleep early,” Agnes suggested.

“Mayhap, yet that is bound to be discovered. Is it not common for a bridegroom to spend the eve before his wedding fasting and doing penance?” Maris asked with a smile.

“I’ve not heard of such a thing, my lady,” Agnes shook her head.

“Methinks I’ll make such a suggestion to my lord Bon, and I’ll pray he swallows it.” Maris took a final draught of pennyroyal tea, then, looking ruefully under the bed, added, “I’m certain to be up in the night to use this” —she pulled a chamber pot from under the high bed— “after drinking so much of this tea, but it cannot be helped. Here, Agnes, climb you into bed, and we shall keep the other warm.”

Outside the chamber door, Dirick leaned against the rough stone wall, trying to erase the mental picture of the helpless Maris sprawled on Bon’s lap, her breasts spilling from her gown.

He snorted. Helpless? Maris of Langumont was anything but helpless. She already had her abductor wrapped neatly around her little finger, and the ease with which she’d done so was both admirable and frightening. Bon would probably set her free if she begged prettily enough.

Yet, he thought there’d been more than a trace of fear in her eyes when he burst unannounced into her chamber. Maris was definitely not out of danger yet.

Dirick did some quick calculations: he’d sent the messenger to Langumont just before the evening meal. The man would not reach his destination until late on the morrow…and then it would no doubt take Merle some time to gather his forces before they were on their way to Breakston. He estimated two days at best, more likely three, until Dirick would have help from that quarter. Unless by some miracle Merle had already discovered the identity of his daughter’s abductor.

But he didn’t have the luxury of three days, for Bon was determined to wed the day after the morrow.

Dirick leaned against the wall, considering his options. It wasn’t the marriage itself that would be so much the problem: a forced marriage could easily be annulled, and he was a clear witness to the forced aspect of it. Nay, what concerned him the most was the harm that could be done to Maris in the meanwhile. The loss of a maidenhead, so crucial to a profitable marriage, could not be rectified, but it was the manner it which it would be taken that troubled Dirick. His insides soured at the thought of the stocky, hirsute Bon poised over Maris’s delicate, white body.

Maris awoke with a start to find her mouth muffled by a large hand, and a great weight pushing her into the bed. She panicked, thrashing frantically beneath the figure above her, ignoring his urgent whispers. Her eyes bulged wide open above the firm hand, trying to see her tormenter.

The chamber was still dim, although the fire, which had quieted during the night, gave off a low light, and a hint of dawn peered around the tapestries that covered the windows. She kicked and clawed viciously, forcing him to capture a wrist with his free hand.

“Maris, calm yourself,” the voice urged, coming altogether too close to her ear.

She was as startled as he when, with one lucky thud, she placed a heavy kick near his groin and in the ensuing confusion, tumbled him off the bed. Then she let loose a blood curdling scream.

“God’s blood, Maris!” Dirick scrambled to his feet, tangling in the rumpled bedclothes. “Do you want me killed that badly?” He stood, staring down at her, hands on his hips, breathing heavily, his dark hair wild and his face furious.

“Sir Dirick!” she exclaimed, her heart pounding madly and her knees still weak. “How dare you—Where’s Agnes?”

“Be still and listen to me,” he spoke rapidly and urgently. “By God, I mean you no harm. I will help you escape if you will only trust me—”

“Trust you!” she spat, pulling the bedclothes up to cover her bare thighs. “Pah! You were here to welcome me to this—this serpent’s lair!”

“Maris.” In the interest of time, Dirick resisted the urge to throttle her. In fact, he could hear the stomping of feet drawing near. “Dammit, woman, I mean you no harm! I am sent by the ki—”

The door flew open and Bon burst in, followed by Edwin and two other men-at-arms.

“What goes on here?” Dressed only in a long loose shirt and sagging chausses, he brandished a sword and immediately set its point at Dirick’s throat. “I shall kill you as you stand for daring to enter my lady’s chambers!” The other men surrounded Dirick as he froze in place.

“Nay!” Maris’s commanding voice stopped the final thrust of the sword. “My lord, this man—er, Sir Drake? I cannot recall his name—but entered the chamber in response to my scream.”

She took on an expression of mortification. “I am sorry, my lord, I could not sleep, and as I prepared to rise to stoke the fire, I saw a mouse skitter across the floor.” She ducked her head in embarrassment as one of the men-at-arms snickered.

Before Bon could question why he had had to open her chamber door if, indeed, Dirick had rushed in to her rescue, Maris put a pout of indignation on her face, even thrusting her lower lip out a bit as she’d seen the little girl Bit do when she wanted aught from her father. “An’ I see, my lord, that the rodents are yet another matter to which I must attend in this keep. Do you not think I could find a cat in the village and keep her in my chamber—our chamber—until we are well rid of these mice?” She widened her eyes innocently, all the while heavily aware of Sir Dirick’s attention on her and the sword-point at his throat.

Slowly, Bon dropped his blade and made the slightest bow to Dirick. “My apologies, sir. I am well pleased that you have taken my lady’s well being to heart.”

Then he turned to Maris. “Alas, my lady, I do not care for cats…however, I shall think on your request.” He said these words with such sincere formality that she had to swallow back a nervous giggle.

“Now, if you please,” she said, the imperiousness returning to her voice, “I fear I am much exhausted from all of this excitement and should seek my bed.” Her eyes fastened purposely on Bon. “Until the morrow, my lord.”

“Until the morrow, my wife.” And for the second time that night, Bon de Savrille meekly led his men from her chamber.

Chapter Thirteen

Allegra had not risen from her bed since Merle led his army of men at arms to Maris’s rescue. Maella fussed worriedly over her mistress, but the frail woman did nothing but clutch at a worn wooden crucifix and pray.

“Milady, ’t has been nearly two days. You must eat!” The maidservant thrust a bowl of broth under her lady’s nose. “Lord Merle will bring the lady home safely.”

“Nay.” Allegra’s voice was hoarse from overuse in cantations to the saints. “I have not much chance for life when he returns to Langumont. My lord Merle will kill me.”

Maella’s face grew soft at her mistress’s confession. Pulling a stool near the bed, she smoothed a worn hand over the furrowed forehead of the woman she had served since birth, noticing the new white streaks throughout her soft brown hair. They had appeared over night. “My lord is just and fair. He holds no anger toward you for the actions of your brother, my lady.”

“Nay.” Allegra’s hand curled around the hand that stroked her forehead. “Nay, Maella, ’tis not for that that I fear my life. ’Tis that I—I have told Michael that he is Maris’s true father, and begged him to release her from the betrothal.”

The maidservant drew back sharply. “My lady, you did not.”

“My daughter cannot wed with his son!” Allegra’s voice was stronger.

“Aye, my lady, but you did not tell the lord of the truth—yet you told Lord Michael?”

Maris had a plan.

She spent the day ordering the serfs about in the Great Hall, poking into the foodstuffs in the kitchen, and finalizing her plans to escape. Sir Dirick trod, it seemed, in her every footstep so that she was unable to turn without barreling into his large frame, and despite her mistrust of him, she found herself almost—almost—relieved to have him near.

Lord Bon sat for much of the day in his throne like chair, watching in astonishment as Maris took the reluctant serfs to task. If either man noticed the absence of Maris’s maid, Agnes, they did not comment on it.

At the midday meal, the preparation of which had been supervised by Maris, Bon dug heartily into the excellent fare—as did the other diners.

“Ahh,” he belched, patting the hand of his intended wife. “I’d not realized the lacking of my cook! If you continue to feed me thus, I’ll not be able to sit a horse.” He laughed as if ’twas impossible to imagine this coming to pass.

Maris, noticing his already considerable girth, chose not to comment. Instead, taking a last drink of ale, she poked the venison in her trencher to the side. “My lord, there was a stink to some of the meat hung in your kitchens,” she told him. “I do not believe any of it was prepared for the meal, yet I cannot be certain. Much of the venison had been stewing before I came upon it. In any case, I rid the kitchens of what was left of the bad meat, but, my lord, there is naught for our wedding feast on the morrow.”

“Do you not fret, my lady,” Bon stroked her fingers, heedless of the grease that slicked his own. “’Twill not be the first I’ve eaten bad meat…an’ I have already planned a hunt on the morrow for our wedding feast.”

“My lord, you have astonished me yet again with your foresight!” Maris fluttered her eyelashes at him as she pulled her hand away. Wiping it surreptitiously on the edge of his tunic, she clambered over the bench, noting with satisfaction that there was nary a crumb of food left for even the dogs to nibble on. “Pray excuse me, as I must see to the evening meal, now, my lord,” she hurried away.

“It was an excellent meal, my lady,” Dirick’s deep voice came behind her as she crossed the hall.

Her back stiffened even as her heart leapt. She had not forgotten his rude awakening of her the night past, and the way his warm, solid body had pressed into hers. Thus, Maris studiously ignored the man as she entered the kitchens. After giving rapid direction to the cook, she gathered her skirts and returned to the hall to order the rotting rushes to be removed.

By the time new rushes were being spread upon the floor, Maris’s stomach was churning. ’Twill begin any time now.

“My lord, I will withdraw to my chamber,” she approached the dais. “I do not feel well.” The queasiness that stole over her was not entirely fabricated. “I will nap and join you for supper.”

Bon nodded graciously, “Of course, my lady. I shall send Agnes to you ere I see her.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Maris turned and walked steadily toward the stairs, aware of Dirick’s dark gaze boring into her back. He must not suspect anything, she thought, pulling herself slowly up the steps. Desperate, knowing that his gaze had held a hint of suspicion at her excuse, Maris jammed a finger down her throat as she rounded the corner at the top of the steps.

She managed to gasp a convincing, “Sir D—” before she turned and retched up her dinner—right onto Dirick’s leather boots. Sagging against the rough stone wall, she struggled for breath against what was actually a laugh at the horrified look on his face.

“Pardon,” she managed to make her voice sound embarrassed and contrite. “I must lie down.” She fled from his presence and into her chamber as quickly as her “illness” would allow.

Once behind the closed door, she allowed her mirth to escape, smothering her giggles with the heavy pillows on her bed. It was several moments before she heard Dirick take up his post outside her door—just enough time for him to have wiped off his boots and called for someone to clean up her mess.

Maris dozed whilst she waited for Agnes to join her…and for all chaos to begin belowstairs. She would need all of her faculties about her later that night.

When the maid arrived at the bedchamber, she was in good spirits. “My lady, ’tis happening,” Agnes announced as the door shut heavily behind her. “Just as you said!”

“Excellent.” Maris smiled complacently. “How does our guard seem to be faring? ’Tis he who concerns me the most…besides my lord Bon.”

“Sir Dirick has not become ill yet, though from the very look on his face, verily he will be reaching for a chamberpot soon.”

“Or rushing for the garderobe.” Maris stifled a giggle.

“What did you put in the food, my lady?”

“’Tis a plant called broom,” she explained. “’Twas all good fortune, really, Agnes, for one of the old brooms in the kitchen had bristles made from the plant. The dried branches, with leaves and flowers, may be steeped and used for medicinal purposes. Yet, my mentor, Good Venny, always warned that ’tis an herb that must be used with care, for it has great power. It causes the body to—ah—dispose of its contents in a violent manner. Though it won’t kill them, it will likely cause more than one to wish for death. It was a much better choice than elder bark, which I had thought to use until I saw the broom.”

“Do you not think Lord Bon will suspect ’twas you that poisoned the meal?” asked Agnes.

Maris rose from her prone position on the bed. “Nay, for I told him that the meat stank, and that mayhap some of it was prepared for supper. Then, I made myself sick upon Sir Dirick’s fine leather boots.” She drew the tattered tapestry back from the window slit, noting with satisfaction that the sun had nearly set. “Is all in readiness?”

“Aye. I have hidden the foodstuffs I purchased in the village with your ring, my lady, and a mount awaits us near the hidden entrance to the keep.”

Maris turned in surprise, delight spanning her face. “A mount, you say? Agnes, how on earth…?”

“The stable master bears no love for Lord Bon, my lady, and ’twas no great feat to convince him that I plan to escape with a lover now that my lord has found a bride!”

“Very well, then. ’Tis nigh time that we should leave.” She scrabbled through a trunk and pulled a large leather pouch from its depths. Inside were two heavy cloaks she’d found in the piles of clothing Bon had made available to her, as well as a dagger she’d sneaked into her sleeve earlier that day.

As the two women moved toward the heavy door, they heard a loud groan from without. Maris looked at Agnes and carefully opened the door.

Dirick was doubled up on the floor, his face pasty with pain and glistening with sweat. When he heard the oaken door creak open, he struggled to sit, but the pain that wracked his abdomen had obviously weakened him. There was a pool of vomit nearby, proving that he had not chosen to leave his post when the sickness struck.

Maris tried to slip past him, but Dirick gathered enough strength to snatch under the hem of her gown and grasp her ankle. “You are not ill!” he grated, comprehension in his face. “By God, woman, you have done this!”

Agnes hurried past, but Maris, still caught by the ankle and not wishing to make a great disturbance, struggled to free herself. “I had no choice,” she told him, confident that he was too weak to stop them. Indeed, his strong arm trembled with the effort to hold her and she saw a ripple of pain cross his face. “Papa would not be here soon enough.” With her other foot, she kicked at his hand, but his grip did not loosen. “Release me,” she hissed, bending to claw at the arm that held her firm.

Dirick’s other hand shot up to grab her wrist. “Have you poisoned me, then?” his eyes glittered. “Have you poisoned the whole keep in your haste to escape?” He could barely force the words forth and he yanked her down to her knees next to his prone body.

Her face was nearly in his, and her long hair caught in the sweat on his cheek. For a moment, a brief instant, regret washed over her that he should be in such pain because of her doing.

Then sanity reigned, and she pulled with all of her strength. Dirick, weakened beyond measure, could not hold her and she came free, tumbling backward onto the floor. Scrambling to her feet, taking care to pull her skirts out of reach from his fingers, she stared down at him as a spasm shook his body. He groaned aloud, breathing a foul curse as his arms crossed over his belly as if to hold the pain at bay.

“Witch….” The word was more a breath than a curse.

Gathering her skirts and the leather pouch, Maris forced herself to turn from the agonized man and hurry to the steps in Agnes’s wake.

Then she stopped, whirling at the top. “You are not poisoned,” she told him. “I am a healer, do you not forget. All will be well ere the morn. Adieu, Sir Dirick, and mark you well: though I doubt to see your deceitful face again, if I do, I shall see you pay for this treatment of my person!”

With that, she whirled again and hurried down the narrow stone steps, leaving him in a heap behind her.

The last thing Dirick remembered before he succumbed to the pain was Maris’s caustic words.

And that defiant threat was the first thing to come to mind when he regained his faculties many hours later. He knew it was much later because a stream of light came up the stairs, indicating that it was daylight.

Struggling to his feet with the rough wall as his prop, Dirick tried to swallow to moisten his bone dry throat. He’d lost count of how many times he’d vomited and otherwise expelled the contents of his body through the night. From the stench that greeted him as he made his way to the steps, others afflicted with Maris’s poison had not found their way to a garderobe either.

Cursing the woman who’d caused this havoc, Dirick carefully picked his way down the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall. If he could sit a horse, he and Nick would be out of this bloody place and on the trail of Maris and her maid as soon as he could walk to the stable.

In the great hall, prone bodies strewn about bespoke of the effects of whatever Maris had done to the food. Even the dogs were in heaps amongst the men. Dirick tried to swallow again and managed to choke up enough saliva for his throat to convulse. It made a harsh, grating sound.

Nary a soul stirred as he picked his way toward the outside entrance to the hall, bent on reaching the fresh air. Dirick wondered, fleetingly, if Maris and Agnes had actually made it safely past the guards at the drawbridge…and then he dismissed the question. Of course the woman had succeeded—every man in the place had been incapacitated, thanks to her meddling.

His empty stomach roiled painfully, and he cursed Maris. Again.

Out in the crisp, cold air, the fog lifted from his head and he felt stronger. The bailey was relatively quiet—some of the men-at-arms were stirring, groaning and complaining about their sickness of the night before—and even the guards posted at the drawbridge sat slumped against the crenellated walls.

God’s blood, he thirsted!

Dirick bent heavily to scoop a mass of clean snow to his mouth. The wet coldness felt like life to his cracked lips and swollen tongue. Another handful followed, and then another, and then he realized that he was hungry.

Maris had been right. She had said all would be well ere morning. There had been a time, many times, during the night when he’d doubted her words, certain that he’d be standing before God before long.

His stomach roiled again, this time indicating its emptiness. He turned to make his way back to the hall—’twould be best not to leave with an aching belly, but froze in his tracks at the sound of a bellow from within. Weak though the shout was, Dirick recognized Bon and what must be his fury at the disappearance of his bride.

Making a swift, prudent decision, he swung back to his path toward the stables, hobbling as quickly as possible to their refuge. Once inside, he wasted no time finding Nick, and, slipping the bit into the destrier’s willing mouth, Dirick vaulted onto his back, sans saddle.

The shouts from the hall were getting louder, spilling out into the bailey, and he knew he’d be hard pressed to make his escape now. Weakness made his knees tremble and his head light, but he forced himself to keep his mind clear and to find a way to get out of Breakston.

Nick was eager to go, and Dirick gave him his head once out of the stable. The scene in the bailey was one of chaos: men stumbling to their feet, sluggish and bewildered. Bon stood in the doorway of the hall, screaming orders, even as he leaned heavily against a feeble Edwin.

As the only man ahorse, Dirick immediately caught Bon’s attention and was the recipient of an enraged bellow. Wheeling Nick, Dirick gathered all of his bravado and urged the stallion to the Lord of Breakston.

“My lord,” he gasped as if in a hurry, “I caught sight of them over the hill yonder!” He gestured in a northeasterly direction, realizing in the back of his mind that he actually had no idea in which direction they’d gone, and hoping that he wasn’t sending the forces onto their trail. “I’ll catch them! Send after me!”

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, and praying that Bon would accept his actions and not order arrows to be loosed at his back, Dirick kicked Nick and let him go. Men jumped from their path, rightfully wary of the fierce destrier, who, true to his nature, sensed a battle to come.

Bon screamed in his wake—what words, Dirick did not care to find out—and some of the men tried to spring their weakened bodies to action. None dared grab at the destrier, however, and man and horse easily plowed through them. The men at the drawbridge were just reaching for the winches to lower the portcullis when Nick and Dirick tore past them, kicking up snow and narrowly missing a clumsy man.

Dirick bent low over his mount’s neck, urging him on. The hair stood at his nape as he waited for a shower of arrows to engulf them. The ragged drawbridge began to rise slowly as they thundered across, but Nick, who had not been ill, made a beautiful, flying leap. They soared easily to the ground on the far side of the moat.

The first arrow landed in the crusty snow not far from them and Dirick cursed. Glancing back, he saw the drawbridge lowering again and was just in time to duck when a cross bolt whizzed past his head. “Aye, Nick, go! Go!”

The arrows were falling further behind, and the men swarming over the bridge were not moving with enough energy to pose a threat. Dirick saw the haven of the forest ahead and knew he’d succeeded in putting Breakston behind him.

Now, God willing, he’d have luck and would find Maris and take her to safety.

Chapter Fourteen

Merle had been driving his small army of knights at a ferocious pace. Still, it was nearly two days since Maris had been taken before they approached Breakston.

Though they’d stopped both nights, Merle had slept little. The grinding fear in his middle kept him staring at the stars for the few hours he’d allotted his men for rest. On the second night, when they were within hours of Breakston, a dream had pulled him from the restless sleep that his body finally accepted, and the content of that dream brought him fully awake.

Terrible foreboding lingered as he struggled to still his pounding heart. He sat upright. The rest of the camp lay still, many of the men snoring, as Merle reached for a leather sack. From the sack’s depths, he pulled parchment, writing utensils and ink, along with his wax and seal.

The moon was bright, and its reflection on the snow covered hills lent enough light to find what he needed for a letter, but ’twas not enough illumination to see to write. Merle lit a candle, his insides having settled slightly, but the horrible apprehension that had seized him in his dream did not abate.

He wrote for a long while.

When he had at last finished the missive, and having no sand to sprinkle on the wet ink, he waved the parchment in the cool air, praying that the words would not run. He hadn’t the time to write another.

Once satisfied that the words were dry and affixed to the paper, he folded it, sealed it with the seal of Langumont, and crept between the sleeping men until he found the one whom he sought.

“Raymond, attend me.” Merle pulled firmly at the shoulder of the man.

With barely a groan, the knight came fully awake, his eyes unglazed though moments earlier he’d been fast asleep. “Aye, my lord!” he nearly leapt to his feet, hand reaching for his sword.

Merle drew Raymond of Vermille away from the watchmen clustered about the fires to give him terse instructions about the delivery of the missive. “Well I know that you are the greatest asset I may have should we be forced to battle at Breakston,” he concluded, “yet ’tis this which I place the greatest import upon. Ride fast and hard and place this in my liege’s hands if you do no other task for me on this earth.”

“Aye, my lord.” Raymond nodded solemnly at the trust that was being placed upon him.

“Godspeed to you.” Merle placed a heavy hand on his man’s shoulder, then watched in satisfaction as he mounted a powerful destrier and charged through the crisp snow.

It was dawning, then, and once Raymond of Vermille had disappeared into the distance, Merle returned his attention to the sleeping army. “À moi!” he shouted, “To me, to Langumont!”

The well trained knights sprang to their feet, instantly awake and wary. Lord Michael and Sir Victor were among the first to mount their horses, and all drew near Merle as he barked out orders.

“On to Breakston!” he announced after splitting the group into two smaller parties, placing Michael as leader to one and pulling Maris’s betrothed to follow in his steps. “God willing, we’ll have my daughter in our hands by noon tide!”

’Twas good fortune, Dirick thought hazily, that Nick had been well sated with food and had rested comfortably ere they began their journey, else he may have found himself in more dire straits than he did now.

True, he and his mount had been following what appeared to be the trail of Maris and her companion Agnes for much of the day, but they’d not yet come upon the two women, and the sun was beginning to sink into the far trees.

Upon leaving Breakston with such haste, Dirick had presumed to catch up with them by mid morn. But he’d not anticipated that they’d be ahorse. Ahorse. Even his befuddled mind grasped the incredulity of that fact. How, on God’s earth, had they managed to sneak a mount from the keep?

There was no doubt that the trail he was following was that of Maris and Agnes: his mind had been functioning well enough at the start to recognize the unmistakable sweep of two skirts in the snow before the women had mounted the horse.

His abused stomach tightened painfully and a flash of lightness made the earth tilt. Dirick’s only sustenance had been handfuls of snow when he’d cared to stop, and, once, a few red berries he’d spied in the crusty white. Fervently praying that they were not poisonous, Dirick had munched on what he could find. They tasted minty and did little to fill his stomach, but were enough to take the staleness from his mouth.

Thus, he thought he was hallucinating when he saw smoke curling through the trees. Urging Nick closer, Dirick caught sight of some type of structure. It was a small building with a neatly thatched roof and well fitting door. Ignoring the fact that the trail he was following veered well away from the building, Dirick coaxed Nick toward the hut, hoping at the least for a bit to eat.

He stumbled to the door, taken by surprise at the violence of his weakness. His vision seemed to spin in slow circles as he banged a fist upon the sturdy oak.

It wasn’t until that door opened, and the elderly woman’s presence registered in his mind, that Dirick allowed his ravaged body to succumb to its infirmity and he sank to the ground.

Maris drank deeply of the rich venison broth set before her. Its warmth flowed through her body and she sighed with a smile. “’Tis wondrous, Mother Abbess,” she told the bewimpled nun.

“An’ you have your fill,” the woman with the stern, wrinkled face told her. “‘Tis glad I am that the Lord saw fit to lead you here, my lady. We’ve enough passersby that certainly some will come to lead you back to Langumont in safety.” The face wrinkled more to express a smile. “I’ve heard of Langumont, my lady, and of the beauty of the ocean that can be seen from its highest towers. And of its richness, and the skill of its tradesmen.”

Maris stifled a smile. Her welcome had been warm, of course, but the intensity of the abbess’s friendliness, and her personal attention, indicated her hopes for a generous donation to the sisters and their work. The older woman was as shrewd as Lord Merle when it came to bettering her estate and caring for her charges.

“Tis certain my papa will express his gratitude for your hospitality on my return to Langumont,” Maris told her. Then she turned her attention to more pressing matters. “My maid, Agnes—where have you settled her for the night?” Of the two of them, it had been Agnes who’d succumbed more readily to the elements, and she’d been nearly frozen when they were lucky enough to come upon the abbey just before sunset.

“Sister Gracia made a pallet for your woman in the infirmary. She’ll be cared for there until we are certain the dangers of frostbite are nil. I’ve had a chamber prepared for you, my lady, and you may bathe before retiring. You may wish to join us in the chapel for the evening vigil. ’Tis announced by the tolling of the bells.”

“Many thanks, Mother, yet I’d prefer to say my confession in my chamber and bathe before I sleep. I fear I’m more exhausted than I realized!”

“Of course, my dear,” the abbess patted her hand. “I’ll call for Father Alphonse to see to your confession now, if you’ve eaten enough, while your bath is prepared.”

Maris rose and followed the black gowned woman as she wound her way through the corridors of the abbey. Though not much lighter than the keep at Breakston, the building was warmer and more inviting than that dreary place.

And, indeed, Maris’s chamber, though not richly furnished, held more welcome than hers at Bon de Savrille’s home—mainly because no guard was stationed outside of the door. The bed was smaller, and not as plush, but the bedding was clean and thick and promised heavenly warmth after a long, frigid day of wandering through the countryside. A fire nearly burst through the grated fireplace, easily heating the room, and Maris sighed as she sank onto a stool nearby.

Father Alphonse, summoned by the abbess’s servant, arrived to hear her confession. When that was done, and her penance given (Maris did not blink at the large number of paternosters that was her penance. In light of the many lies to Lord Bon and the pain she’d inflicted upon the folk of Breakston ’twas a small enough penalty) a tub and buckets of steaming water paraded into the room, carried by quiet and efficient servants.

When the priest had left and one of the servants had assisted Maris with disrobing, she sank gratefully into the generous wooden tub. One of the women sprinkled chamomile flowers over the warm water and Maris inhaled the sweet, calming scent as they steeped in her bath.

As she rested her head back, she felt a folded cloth being inserted between her head and the rough stone wall. The vapor from the tub swirled about her face and she could feel the fear and tension of the last few days easing away as tiny rivulets of sweat trickled down her cheeks. She was safe at last. She sighed and closed her eyes.

They popped open as an image of the agonized face of Dirick de Arlande intruded into her thoughts.

She firmly turned her mind toward the thought of seeing her father again, refusing to let the face of the man who’d betrayed her encroach upon her peace. Nor did she allow herself to think long and hard about the fact that she’d saved his life when Bon de Savrille would have slain him. Maris might despise the man, mistrust and dislike him, but she would not have his death on her hands.

Dirick’s face, and the fury in his voice as he’d cursed her “witch,” would not be banished, however. Maris shivered, remembering the glint of anger in his grey eyes as she’d yanked free of his grip and swept past him to the steps. She’d felt something akin to remorse as she left him behind, knowing the pain her herb was capable of inflicting. He’d always appeared so large and strong that it disturbed her to see him laid low. An odd thought, she allowed. For should she not have been glad to see such a threatening man laid weak and slow?

He’d been grey with fatigue and breathing heavily against the agony in his middle. Thick hair clung to the sweat on his face and neck, and Maris remembered how his hand, though gripping her ankle tightly, trembled with the effort. She could not dismiss the memory of the lines of pain that radiated from his eyes and mouth. His lips had been thin and taut…not at all like the full, soft ones that had closed upon her mouth in the stables.

For a moment, she was back there, his arms around her and that mouth devouring hers. She remembered the feel of his fingers grasping handfuls of her hair, pushing up through her scalp…the warmth of his hard body in the chill of the early morning…and the spiraling pleasure curling up into her belly.

Maris jerked her thoughts from their pathway so violently that her body moved in the tub, splashing water onto the floor and startling the servant who sat silently in the corner. Must she call her confessor back so soon?

Pulling upright in the tub, she gestured for the maid to attend her. As the sure fingers of the servant massaged her scalp, spreading a rose scented soap in her damp hair, Maris allowed her eyes to ease shut again.

Lulled by the fingertips stroking her head, she found herself back in Dirick’s arms. His eyes were a silvery grey flecked with black and blue, and fringed with dark lashes, half closed with desire, his soft, smooth lips moving closer to hers…she could not block the image from her mind.

Instead, she focused on the expression of loathing in his face. The fury and disgust. And the abject pain and misery.

When the maid gently pushed, Maris bent her head so that the soap could be rinsed into the tub in front of her. The water trickled down her neck and the sides of her face, spilling into the water.

All at once, fear struck. Had she given too much of the broom? Mayhap he’d not survived, as she’d promised. Mayhap she’d risked overmuch in using the potent plant…and even now, Dirick and other innocents could be lying in their death pools.

She shuddered, pushing the thought away. Nay, she’d taken care so as not to make the dose too strong. But the look of agony…and the hatred in his eyes….

Maris swallowed deeply as she was made to stand in the shallow tub. Careful hands soaped her body as she struggled to dismiss the fears and regrets that plagued her mind now that it was not occupied with thoughts of escape.

Nay, she decided firmly, she’d not worry over it. Her papa may not have arrived in time, and she could not give pause to regret. What she’d done, she’d done. She’d escaped Breakston and would return home to her family.

Banishing the lingering thoughts of Sir Dirick, Maris stepped from the tub and allowed the maid to towel her dry. The fire still roared in the grate, keeping her warm until a borrowed night shift was slipped over her head. The maid braided the long dark hair then helped Maris climb into the high bed.

Just as she began to slip into sleep, a menacing thought prodded her wide awake. Returning home to Langumont meant returning home to her betrothed.

For an instant—a brief one—Maris contemplated returning to Breakston and accepting Lord Bon’s offer of marriage. At the least, he was malleable and would do her bidding. Sir Victor was naught but a rough bully.

But, nay, she’d return to Langumont and find some way to dissuade her father from finalizing the betrothal.

Chapter Fourteen

Dirick’s head swam.

He closed his eyes, then reopened them carefully. Aye, the room was still shifting, tilting to one side.

Then a face bent over his.

It was a woman’s face, aged and covered with the fine, soft hair of the elderly.

“Ah, milord, you’ve come back to this world at last.” The voice was gentle and its accompanying smile the same. “Ye gave me quite a scare, lord, for how was I to explain how a dead knight came to be in me home?” Old eyes sparked with humor, but Dirick was too weak to acknowledge it with more than a grunt. “Drink this.” She firmly shoved a crude wooden mug of something warm and heavenly smelling at his mouth and he accepted it gratefully.

She held the cup long enough for him to take several sips, then eased it back.

“My horse,” he was able to ask now that his mouth was moistened.

The woman nodded. “Aye. He’s well tended. He’s had more to eat than ye have in the day past.”

“A day?” Dirick croaked, struggling to a seated position on his low pallet.

“Aye. Ye came to me yestereve, lord, an’ ’twas a struggle to get ye in here when ye chose me doorway to collapse in.” Again, the eyes glinted with humor. “But I coulden leave ye there, now could I? ’Twould get to be horrible cold in here for me auld bones if the door weren’t shut.”

“Maris.” Hell. He’d surely lost her by now if he’d been bloody sleeping for a day.

“Ah, aye, ye called for her last evenin’, lord. There weren’t no one with ye, that I could see.” The head tilted to one side as she looked down upon him. “But she weren’t with ye, were she, lord? Ye were after her, for what I know not, but the leaves will tell me. Here ye, drink all of this now as yer sittin’ up.” She pushed the mug into his face and brought his hand up to hold it.

Dirick drank the rest of the brew, thankful that the room had righted itself. The old woman, who wore a long, heavy gown that dragged the floor, took his empty cup and peered into its depths. “Ah, aye, I’ll look at these in a moment.”

He watched as she trundled over to the fire and stirred something in a large pot. She ladled its contents into a bowl modeled in the same crude fashion as the mug and brought it to him, accompanied by a piece of hard bread and a wooden spoon. Dirick smelled rabbit stew, and his mouth began to water when the food came into his presence.

Knowing that he was in need of sustenance before continuing his search for Maris, he would have eaten eagerly even if the food were barely palatable. However, the stew tasted just as delicious as it smelled, and he was so engrossed that he barely noticed that the old woman. She was clucking over his empty tea mug, peering with a tallow candle into its depths.

“Ahh, aye….Ye’ve some grief of late, milord . . .’tis sad I am to see it.” She glanced up at him, then back at the mug. “Yer Papa, ’twas, aye?”

Dirick swallowed a chunk of rabbit meat and stared at the woman. How could she have known? “Aye.”

Her white head shook sadly. “Much blood, I see ’t…an’ much evil ’round, too…spreadin’ ’round this land. ’Tis a madman’s hand is in ’t, I warrant.”

“I’ll find him,” Dirick told her fiercely, no longer shocked that she seemed to understand what she could not know.

She nodded. “Aye, Godspeed to ye in that task. I pray ye’ll find it afore more bloodshed.”

The woman turned her attention back to the herb leaves plastered over the bottom of the mug. “An’ what of this Maris ye was callin’ fer?” The woman spoke more to herself than to Dirick as she frowned into the mug. “Ahh…mmm….The lady’s bound fer some hardship herself, ’though it don’t ’pear that ye’ll be the one to bring it to her.” She slanted a knowing look at him.

“Hardship?” Dirick asked. “She’s hurt? Lost?” He struggled to pull himself from the bed, hardly daring to credit the fact that he was not only believing the words from the old crone’s mouth, but asking for direction as well.

“Sit yerself, if ye please, milord…yer jarrin’ the tea leaves an’ I cannot read them,” grumbled the woman. “She ’pears to have no evil ’bout her now. Fact is, I see naught but calm amongst her in th’leaves. Fer now. She’ll soon have a bad time, milord, but ’tis naught ye, nor any man, can shield her from. An’ ye won’ be seein’ her to prevent it, so don’ be harin’ yerself off when yer so weak ye can barely move yerself. It’s all over and done with, lord, an’ ye won’ be seein’ ’er,” she repeated, waving her hand as if to dismiss him into the bed. “Mmmm…an’ I see that she’ll soon be safe in the company of many armed men…so ye’ve naught to worry yerself ’bout, milord.”

“I—will I not see her again?” he asked. Something hollow settled in his fully belly, and then he dismissed the thought. Even if he should care to see Maris of Langumont again, how would the old crone know of the future? How did she even know of the present?

The woman frowned at the mug, angling the tallow candle over its depths. “Pah!” she spat suddenly.

“What see you?” Dirick demanded.

“Ahh, nay, ’tis only that I dripped a bit of wax onto the leaves.” She waved the offending candle in disgust, nearly splattering Dirick himself with hot tallow. “I s’spect ye’ll see the lady again, milord, but not fer many moons an’ ’t may not be to yer likin’ when ye do. But if ye go easy with the lady, mayhap…mayhap ye’ll win her.”

Win her? Even if he desired to try, the likes of a third son could not win a powerful heiress such as Maris of Langumont.

Dirick snorted and shoved the tattered blanket from his thighs. Go easy with her? He dropped his bare feet to the dirt floor. He had every intention of throttling the life from the wench at the next he saw her…which, if he could stand enough to mount Nick, would be very shortly.

“Milord,” chirped the woman in surprise, “ye cannot be well enough betimes to be up an’ about!”

“Good woman,” Dirick said, dismissing her concern as he groped for the boots resting near his pallet, “I am much thankful for your kindness, but I must be on my way. I must see to Lady Maris and get her to safety.” He stood, pausing to see if his legs would hold him and if the world had stopped, and then started toward the doorway with a fair amount of stability.

He stopped short, realizing that he had little to thank her with. “Good woman, I’ve only this to leave you with for my gratitude.” He dug into the small leather pouch that always hung from his tunic. There was only the cloth wrapped dagger—the clue to his father’s murderer—and a very few small coins. Pinching one from the bottom of the pouch, he pressed it into her hand, promising, “I’ll send to you with more as soon as I’m able. I give you many thanks, woman, for caring for me. I’ll see that ’tis not forgotten.”

The woman took the coin, admonishing, “Milord, ye needn’t be in any such hurry. Ye’ll not see the lady in the murderous mood yer in…and ’tis just as well, else ye’d be prone to do or say as ye shouldn’t!”

“Again, good woman, I thank you, and I thank you even for your dire predictions,” Dirick said, flashing a brief grin, “but I’ll be on my way.”

Tsking to herself, the woman followed in his unsteady footsteps to the doorway, and leaned against the wall as he let himself into the cold air.

“Have a care, milord,” she called as he mounted upon Nick. “An’ most especially, be yourself ware of the dagger!”

Though it had been nearly a full day since Dirick collapsed at the old woman’s hut, it wasn’t difficult to pick the trail left by a tired horse carrying two women. Since there’d been no snow, and the winds were low, he was able to see faint hoof prints and, more than once, the sweep of a skirt in the powdery white. Thank God women were prone to stop more often than a man for relief.

It was not long before he came upon an abbey. He rode to the entrance gate, hailing for entry. A robed sister accompanied a male serf to the gate and invited him inside.

“Sister, I seek a noble woman and her maidservant with only a single horse between them,” Dirick told her, declining to dismount until he learned if Maris was within.

The nun bowed her head. “You must speak with the Mother Abbess, my lord, an’ you seek information about any of our guests. Please come within.”

Gritting his teeth, Dirick slid from Nick and handed the reins to the serf. He forced himself to retain a grip on his patience as he followed the calm sister. She trudged so slowly he was tempted to take her arm and yank her along in his wake, but that would certainly not endear him to the Abbess.

In fact, once in front of the stern looking woman—whose disposition reminded him more than a little of his father’s hawk-faced mother—he managed to state his query in a calm, unhurried manner. He felt the Abbess’s look keenly upon him. She did not appear to be fooled by his seeming nonchalance.

“A lady such like you describe did just leave our gates early this morrow,” the woman told him. “A party of traveling monks and their escort did pledge to see the lady safely to her lands, as they rode in that direction.”

Dirick felt a keen sense of disappointment. Maris was in good hands to be returned to Langumont and he no longer had reason to be involved. As it was, Lord Merle’s lands lay in the opposite direction as Westminster, and ’twas well past time for Dirick to report to Henry on his findings about Bon de Savrille.

Alas, he’d not see Maris of Langumont again. It was only as he was drifting off to sleep on a pallet in the abbey that he remembered that the old crone had predicted just that.

Nearly a sevennight after she’d been abducted from Langumont, Maris and her escort rode up to the gates of the imposing keep.

“Hail, guard!” she called, urging her mount to the raised portcullis and separating herself from the rest of the travelers. “Do you raise the gate for me!”

She heard the shout of surprise from the watchman and the sudden scrambling to comply with her wishes. The portcullis rose quickly and easily as the drawbridge came down, and Maris, not waiting for the monks behind her, eagerly cantered across the slanted bridge.

“My lady! My lady!” The greetings and men at arms surrounded her so that her horse could go no further.

“We thought you dead, my lady!” cried one of the knights she recognized from her father’s retinue.

“My lady, ’tis horrible bad!” another man called, grabbing the bridle of her horse.

Maris slid from the saddle unassisted, smiling with relief, and patting the shoulders of the men she recognized. “But I am here and now all is well,” she told them, looking toward the keep. Verily her mama had been informed of her arrival, but there was no sign of anyone coming to greet her except the men in the bailey.

“Nay, nay, my lady!” Bern of Tristoff, the captain of the men-at-arms, urged her forward. “Nay, my lady, all is not well. You must see to your mama, as she is distraught and will not rise from her bed.”

“Aye, Bern, I’ll see her and she will regain her life, for I am safely returned.” She smiled gaily, so glad to be returned home…but none of the men and serfs seemed to share in the joy of her homecoming. “Send to me a messenger and I’ll see to Mama.”

She hurried toward the keep, noting that it seemed oddly quiet for the normal bustle of Langumont. She’d need to send a messenger to find Papa and relay the news that she was returned; their paths must have missed each other as he was on his way to find her. But first, she’d kiss her mama and show her that all was well.

“Lady Maris!” Bern dogged her heels, an urgent frown creasing her face. “Lady Maris, ‘tis the lord!”

“Aye, I must send to him that I am returned—”

“My lady!” The frustration in his voice was not to be ignored and he was at last gratified by his lady’s full attention. “Lady Maris, ’tis because of Lord Merle that the lady rises not!”

“Papa? He is here?” Maris’s heart leapt for joy. “I’ll not need the messenger, then.”

“My lady, the lord—he is dead.”