A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3) Page 23

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.

The memory of that hard length pressing into her thigh caused bitterness to well up into her throat, and she gagged, swallowing it back. How could she allow him to touch her again? How ever would she submit to his husbandly demands?

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.”