A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3) Page 32

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.