A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3) Page 5

Then, because the dark room with its stench of blood had finally begun to close in on her, Maris had to get out. She said her last farewells and slipped from the close, smoky hut.

It was dark—Maris looked up in surprise at the moon and stars. She’d spent nearly the whole day in that tiny room. Weariness washed over her, followed by a burst of exhilaration at the realization that she had helped two new babes into the world.

Surely God would rather that she spend her time doing such things, rather than embroidering or even praying on her knees in the chapel—which was what many ladies such as her own mother preferred to do.

Maris’s feet crunched in the snow as she trudged along, considering this n. Clutching her pouch in one cold hand, she tucked the other inside her cloak. The moon was bright in the clear sky, lighting her way almost as if it were day.

The gate to the bailey was just ahead, lit invitingly with torches. Surely Papa would be in bed—and if he weren’t, as his healer, she’d have something to say about that. Thus, tomorrow would be soon enough for them to speak on whatever he meant to tell her.

All at once, Maris was jolted from her thoughts as a huge horse appeared from nowhere. He was coming too quickly down the narrow, deserted throughway, and Maris shrieked, holding up a hand to shield her face.

“’Sblood, woman!” cried the rider, jerking back frantically on the reins of his mount as soon as he saw her shadowed figure. “Do you not open your eyes when wandering at night?”

Maris’s initial fright turned to anger. No one spoke to the Lady of Langumont in that manner. She turned her face up to meet the eyes of the rider, drawing her shoulders back and lifting her chin haughtily.

The man was a stranger to her, but he was obviously one of high rank. He wore chain mail and rode a horse as valuable as her father’s. Even in the instant of her anger and fright, she took in the details of his appearance: he was tall and broad-shouldered with thick, shadowed hair curling wildly at the nape of his neck. One big hand waved his helm angrily at her while the other fought to keep his mount under control.

“It was your good fortune that I could stop Nick before we trampled you,” Dirick snapped, altogether too grateful that he had, in fact, seen her slender shadow before it was too late. His heart was thudding in his chest as he realized how close he’d come to trampling the wench.

Christ’s teeth, she’d been walking in the shadows of the narrow throughway, and it was only by luck that a silver of moonbeam had caught at something metallic in her hair, glinting and alerting him to the movement.

Looking down, he noted her dirt streaked face and sagging hair. In the bright moonlight, he could see her eyes flashing at him—rather like his mother’s cats when they were angry: spitting and hissing. Yet, despite her bedraggled appearance, the woman had an air of affront that did not befit a simple peasant wench.

A comely one, she would be, however, if she were cleaned up a bit, he realized suddenly, allowing his gaze to do a leisurely sweep over her from head to toe. Mayhap that was just what he needed after these days’ journey ahorse…and mayhap that was why she walked on the road alone so late at night.

Before he could voice his thoughts, she snapped back at him. “It was no fault of mine!” she told him coldly. “I didn’t leap into your pathway; you came barreling upon mine with nary a care for anyone else who might be along the way. If you do not open your eyes while riding, sir knight, when in battle, you may find yourself in a more telling situation than nearly trampling a woman!”

Annoyance flashed through him at her scornful response, and he jerked Nick back around, glaring right down into her face. To his surprise, she didn’t back away, but instead glared back. Her furious eyes were an incongruity in a dirty face.

“I can think of much better things to do with a woman than trample her,” he replied, wheeling Nick in front of her to cut off her escape. Only whores walked the streets of a village at night, and despite her dirt-streaked cheeks, she was rather appealing—if one could overlook the haughtiness in her words. “Mayhap you would like to display your own horsemanship if you do not appreciate mine.” His voice gentled and deepened just enough to let it be clear he had something in particular she might care to ride…and it wasn’t Nick.

The wench drew her breath in sharply, obviously understanding his meaning all too well, and confirming his suspicion that she was no innocent. “Sir, you overspeak yourself,” she told him, backing away.

Dirick lunged from his saddle, half-heartedly snatching at her arm. But she was too quick and dodged into the shadows. He sat back and, after a moment, laughed at himself. ’Twas just as well. He had no time to waste with whores, and the very accommodating Lady Artemis had been most hospitable in a private alcove before he left London. His need could wait.

He gathered up Nick’s reins and urged his horse on down the street toward the center of the village. He expected to find an inn where he could sleep this night, and then present himself to Lord Merle Lareux on the morrow.

Dirick nodded to himself as he looked about. The streets of Langumont were lit only by the bright moon and stars, but clearly showed well built houses and a relatively clean center square. When he’d passed some men at arms at the edge of the village, they’d taken notice of him—a single rider on a good mount—but did not attempt to stop him from entering the town. Although they were sharp eyed enough to notice a stranger, they did not deem a single knight to be a threat.

It was true...Dirick beheld was only a threat to those who slayed his father.

Maris ran the last bit to the portcullis of the bailey, her long braid bouncing along her shoulder as she hurried into the safety of the keep.

That man was a mule’s behind! And a very large one at that.

Had he dared lay a hand on her, she would have called the guards down on him so quickly, he wouldn’t know what happened.

Suddenly, now that she was safely inside the bailey and able to think more clearly, a wave of unease settled over her. She’d only been challenged because she looked like a wench—in a simple cloak, without a wimple, her face dirty and her hair straggling about, trudging the village streets at night…indeed, what else was a man to think?

He’d thought exactly what anyone would have thought: only whores walk the streets at night.

She wondered who he was. Dressed so richly, riding a horse of that sort…surely he wasn’t a guest of her father’s. Nay, of course not. He would have approached the keep, rather than ride through the village. And—Maris turned to look back at the lowered portcullis—no one approached at this time of night, so he must be seeking a place at the inn.

Whoever he was, she doubted she’d see him again. And even if she did, the man would never recognize her as the weary, bedraggled woman on the road.

Maris let herself into the great hall and was surprised to find her father seated in his chair by a blazing fire. The serf who tended the fire during the night slept curled on his pallet in the corner, near enough to tell if the flames lowered.

“Papa!” she exclaimed softly, aware of the pallets for the men-at-arms that lay just on the other side of a screen of blankets. “What are you doing, still awake? You should be resting,” she lectured. Nevertheless, she was relieved and delighted to see him.

“Daughter,” he looked up from a chessboard. “I’d begun to worry about you, but Father Abraham’s servant sent to me that the birthing was difficult.”

Maris lowered herself into her mother’s chair and gratefully took the chunk of bread her father offered her. “Aye—’twas two babes. Two boys. They are well and squalling, and overjoyed to be in this world.”

“’Tis good work you do, Maris. You are good to the people here, and I’m proud of you.”

She felt herself swell with pride at her father’s words, and tears glinted at the corners of her eyes when she saw the smile on his face. “Thank you Papa. You know that I love Langumont, and its people, above all—save you, of course.”

Merle shifted in his heavy chair. “Maris, I nearly didn’t live to see you again,” he said, returning his gaze to her. “I was sorely injured, and were it not for the grace of God and the assistance of another man, I should have been left on the field to die. ’Tis why my return was so delayed.”

“But Papa, why did you not send word? I would have come—”

He smiled, patting her hand. “I know you would have, daughter, and I couldn’t have had a better one to nurse me back to health than you. I didn’t send word because I didn’t wish to worry your mother.” He sighed and released her hand to stroke his beard. “As I lay there, determined to live, I realized that had I perished, I should have left you and your mother alone and unprotected. And Langumont unprotected.”

Unease crept over her. What was he trying to say “We wouldn’t be unprotected, Papa. Sir Raymond is here, and….” She trailed off and folded her hands in her lap, looking at herb stained skin and scratched fingers. The hands of a maidservant, not a great lady.

“’Tis time you were wed, Maris,” he told her quietly, but with a firmness in his voice that brooked no disobedience.

Her gaze snapped up to him as horror shot through her. “But I do not wish to wed, Papa!”

“I know that,” he responded, his words steady, “but wed you will, Maris. And by Christ’s Mass next.”

“Nay!” The denial sprang from her lips in a whisper.

He appeared not to hear her. “I’ve sifted through the many suitors that have inquired for your hand—”

“You misspeak yourself, Papa, they inquire not for my hand but for my lands. Nothing more than that,” Maris said wryly, swallowing back the heavy lump in her throat. “Would that you had heirs other than me, that I could choose my husband.”

He gave a short laugh. “If you were to choose your husband, that occasion would never happen!”

“But Papa—”

Merle’s bushy eyebrows furrowed and he raised a silencing hand. “You’re the heiress to Langumont, Maris. Lady of Firmain and Cleonis. You cannot disown your heritage, and your husband must be worthy of you.” He leaned toward her, his blue eyes serious. “I have made certain that you are lady of the lands in your own right. ’Tis writ, and I would not wish to see you lose that power. You will rule in your own right, just as our queen yet does—but a husband is needed to ensure that you remain able to do so.”