A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3) Page 2

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.