A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3) Page 49

A heaviness settled over Dirick’s chest. His breathing quickened, then slowed, then rose faster again. If another man loved her enough to warn his enemy of danger, just to ensure that Maris should be safe, what would he do to have her?

The chamber around him spun and swam as he lay there.

Could she love him?

Nay, of course not.

Could she?

Dirick frowned at his absurd thought, fighting to crystallize the murkiness of his mind. Damn that last jug of ale!

Her father. The words returned. I love her.

Ask yourself why Merle of Langumont did not return.

He slept, dreamt, slept.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Dirick’s head felt thrice as large as normal, his ears a hundred times more sensitive, and his belly like the ocean during a storm.

The barking of the dogs was enough to drive him mad, yet he gritted his teeth and managed to smile at Henry’s jest.

“What ails you, Dirick?” the king asked, obviously noticing his pained grin.

“Naught but enough ale to drown a village,” he admitted.

Henry chuckled. “’Twould be a pity were you not at your best this eve when you take your bride to bed.” He laughed outright. “Say the word if you cannot perform your duties and would wish some assistance.”

Dirick glared at the king, finding little humor in his liege’s jest. “Nay, your majesty, I assure you—I have waited long enough for this night, and I will have no problem performing as I should.”

The king laughed again, then turned his attention to the howling hounds. “They’ve scented a boar!” he cried in excitement. With a spur to his mount, he leaned forward and the stallion leapt into the wake of the frenzied dogs.

A party of twenty some men and their horses trampled through the forest, bearing down upon the hounds. The fresh air whipping about his face dissolved the brunt of Dirick’s nausea and he began to get into the spirit of the hunt. With a cry of delight, he brandished the spear he carried and urged Nick harder, so that they gained ground on the king.

At last, the howling of the dogs indicated that they’d cornered the boar. The hunters raced into the clearing, reining up on one side, readying themselves to take passes at the snorting animal.

The boar’s red eyes blazed from its long snouted face, and angry tusks curled with enough curve to rock a careless dog before tossing it into the air. Bristling, wiry hair sprang from the beast, and hot breath rasped from flaring nostrils as it cast frantically about for an escape route. Hound, horse, or man blocked all avenues of freedom, and the boar grew more frenzied as it readied itself to rush through the blockades

“Now!” cried Henry, nodding at the three bridegrooms, who’d been given the honor of the first strokes.

Lord Bartholemew readied his spear and dug his heels into his mount’s sides. They leaped forward, crashing through the clearing, passing by the boar in a flurry of hooves, flapping cloak, and a well thrust spear. A spurt of blood sprang forth from the beast’s shoulder, and a cheer erupted from the other hunters.

Lord Richard followed shortly after, missing his stab at the boar, but distracting the howling beast from the spear wielded by Dirick. His aim was true, and the boar received another telling wound in its belly.

As Dirick halted Nick to the side, watching as the boar pawed the ground, readying itself for a vicious pass through the ring of men that surrounded it, he had a moment to reflect upon his garbled memory of Bon’s warning from the night before.

Why did Merle not return from Breakston? If he were alive when Bon saw him last, and he was not felled during the attack upon the keep, then he must have died by the hand of someone else.

Michael and Victor d’Arcy?

The thought sprang to his mind, followed quickly by the question of why.

A shout from one of the hunters distracted Dirick from his thoughts, and he saw that the boar was wavering on its feet.

Her father.

Could Michael be Maris’s father? That could explain Allegra’s odd reaction when she greeted them back at Langumont. The hair prickled at the nape of his neck. Things were beginning to make sense.

Dirick turned to Lord Bartholemew, who watched the last thrust at the boar with rapt attention. “Bart, know you much of Lord Michael d’Arcy? Is he trustworthy?”

The other man turned, a look of satisfaction on his face as the boar crashed onto its side. “Lord of Gladwythe, you speak of? Verily, the man has an oddness about him. Mayhap ’tis because of his parents’ death…findin’ them like that would have to touch anyone’s mind.”

“What of his parents’ death?”

Bartholomew shook his head sadly, turning from the bloody scene of the boar’s demise and giving Dirick his full attention now that the hunt was over. “He was naught more than a boy when his papa and mama jumped to their death from a tower at Gladwythe.”

“He found them?”

“Aye. They’d jumped together, holding hands it looked, and landed thusly in the bailey at Gladwythe.”

Dirick stared at him for a moment, a chill creeping down his back. The pieces slipped into place and he felt the blood drain from his face.

“Ludingdon, are you well?” asked Bartholomew as if from very far away.

“I must go.” Dirick wheeled Nick around, his heart slamming in his chest. He drove his heels into Nick’s sides, leaning forward over the stallion’s neck, urging the horse on. “Tell the king I’ve found him!” he shouted over his shoulder as horse and man thundered through the brush.

He felt the saddle slip as Nick leapt over a tree trunk, and before he could think, its girth loosened, then gave way and suddenly, he was falling, falling.

His last thought before he hit the ground was that he had been sabotaged.

Maris opened the heavy gold box and gasped, sinking onto her bed.

“’Tis beauteous!” she exclaimed, pulling a rope of fine gold links from the small chest. Topazes and emeralds dangled randomly from the necklet that would wrap around her neck at least thrice. Each jewel was set in an ornate, filigreed hasp, each one different and a work of art in its own right.

“’Tis a wondrous bride’s gift,” said Madelyne with a twinkle in her eye. “Lord Dirick is a generous groom.”

“Aye.” Maris looked down at the small chest that rested in her lap. The box itself was a lovely gift, and along with the bejeweled necklet it held bespoke of the value Dirick placed upon his bride. She could not hold back a smile of pure joy. Mayhap he did care for her as much as he desired her lands.

She poured the gold rope back into the chest. Delivered by one of her own men from Langumont, the box had been tied with a golden ribbon and sprigs of rosemary, lemon verbena, and violets. Maris sniffed the small purple flowers and placed them, along with the herbs, on top of the necklet, and closed the chest. Her stomach fluttered and she smiled again.

Tonight, she would lie with Dirick, would feel his lips and hands over her body, would mate with him and feel his skin next to hers, would become his. Anticipation sent a shiver down her spine.

Today, she would marry the man she loved.

The fear and hesitancy were gone, and in their place was comfort, love, and happiness that she would belong to Dirick, with Dirick, and would live with him, bear his children and rule their lands at his side. Maris took a deep breath, hardly able to credit the fact that she was welcoming—even embracing—the event of marriage after having fought against it for so long.

An urgent knocking on the door drew her from her woolgathering, and Maris and the other ladies watched expectantly as a maidservant went to answer it.

“My Lady Maris,” Michael d’Arcy nearly burst into the room when the door opened. “There has been an accident! ’Tis your betrothed husband!”

Maris jumped from her stool. “What is it? Is he badly hurt?” Her heart lodged in her throat, and she was dimly aware that Madelyne was drawing a cloak around her shoulders.

Michael shook his head soberly. “Maris, I do not know. They are summoning the physicians to him, for he fell from his horse during the hunt. They are afraid to move him. You must come with me.”

“Of course.” She moved quickly toward the door, trying to quiet the tension and fear thrumming through her veins. “I must fetch the medicines from my chamber,” she told Michael as they started down the hall.

“Nay, there is no time. He has called for you to come to his side, and ’tis best that you come with me now…Maris, ’tis no small hurt, and he wishes to speak with you.”

The fear in her middle grew and she found herself hardly able to breathe. To lose love so soon after finding it would be more than she could bear…especially coming so closely upon the heels of her father’s death.

Maris clenched her fist in the folds of her skirt as she was propelled along by Michael’s very firm grip. She would not think about that possibility. She would not.

At the stables, she was faintly surprised to find Hickory saddled and ready, with Victor holding the reins. “Come, lady, before ’tis too late,” he urged, helping her into the saddle.

Michael mounted his own horse and nudged Maris and Victor ahead of him through the bailey. They trotted quickly through the entryway, over the drawbridge, and away from the keep.

Bon de Savrille emerged from a corner of the bailey just after Maris and her escort passed by. His face was creased with concern as he hurried into the stable and selected a horse under the watchful eye of the marshal.

“Hurry, man,” he demanded, looking in the direction in which she’d disappeared.

At last, he was given the reins and he vaulted into the saddle. With a loud “Hah!” he whipped the stallion and thundered through the bailey and across the drawbridge, following the path of the two men and the woman he loved.

Dirick forced his eyes open from the darkness that beckoned him with a soothing aura. There was something…something urgent….

Voices reached his ears, as if from far away. He thought he moved…aye, he must have, for pain ricocheted up his leg and curled in the low part of his back.