A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3) Page 30

He had to find a way to get her out of Breakston. But first, he had to get her to trust him, and in light of the dark, loathing looks she’d sent his way…it wasn’t going to be easy.

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?”

Allegra moved her head in affirmation. “I dared not tell Lord Merle, Maella. I dared not,” her voice trailed off weakly. “God forgive me.”

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!”