A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3) Page 7

“Thank you,” Dirick replied, his gray eyes still somber with grief.

“The king writes that you are in search your father’s murderer,” Merle continued, gesturing with the parchment. “I would be happy to be of assistance in any way I can.” His offer was sincere, although he did not have any urge to relive the experience of coming upon that bloody scene.

Dirick nodded briefly, and now there was an element of rage flickering behind the grief. “Although it must be difficult for you, my lord, I should like to know every detail of what you found.”

“Of course,” Merle replied. “And it can be no more difficult for me to recount it than for you to hear of it. Again, I am sorry…and even more so for having to tell you what I will.”

He closed his eyes briefly to pull the scene back into his memory, and then began to describe how he’d come upon Derkland. “We traveled along the border of Maitland and the king’s forest— my man-at-arms, Raymond, my squires, and several other arms bearing men rode with me. ’Twas late in the day, near twilight, and we were weary, seeking Maitland Keep for the night. As we rode, a shrill, horrible cry met my ears. It was the cry of a horse in pain. My mount reacted as if he himself was in danger; but once given his head, he thrashed through the brush to the glen.” Merle swallowed as he remembered the heavy stench of blood that filled his nostrils before he even saw the horror there.

As if sensing his host needed a moment to collect himself, Dirick took a drink from his wine. “There were no survivors?” he asked after he swallowed.

“Nay. We put the horse out of her misery—she had three broken legs and was tied to a tree. I’ve never seen such carnage. And such torture.” Merle’s jaw tightened. “’Twas a waste and a travesty.”

“My father?”

Merle took a deep breath, recalling the last time he’d seen Lord Harold hale and hearty. “I would it had not been anyone, but particularly your father. I had met him on two occasions, and he was a very fine man. We talked of betrothing your elder brother to my Maris, but alas, it was not to be. Maris and Bernard did not suit. However, your father did favor the match.”

He sipped to moisten his parched throat and continued his description of the scene. “Your father was dead from stab wounds, yet the bastard had slit his throat as well. Very little blood drenched the ground, so it appeared clear he was dead when his throat was cut. And then…” He rubbed his temples with a forefinger and thumb. “I saw the imprint of a horse’s hoof in the back of your father’s neck. The force appeared to have snapped his spine, and was so strong that it drove his severed neck into the ground. And,” Merle swallowed hard, for this was the worst part. “His face was pulled back to face the sky.”

“By the hand of God,” Dirick murmured.

Merle looked over and saw that his guest’s handsome face had turned dark and stony, and he wished yet again that he had never come upon such a sight. But there was more. “Your father was not alone. He was arranged opposite another man, their hands joined at the wrist.”

“By God, I will find the monster.” His vow was soft and hard. “For my father to die unshriven…in such an unspeakable manner….”

“Nay, he was not unshriven, lad,” Merle told him. “A priest was in my party and gave last rites to your father and his companions.”

“Praise God for that, at the least,” Dirick said quietly. “Is there aught else, anything that will help in my quest?”

Merle was silent for a moment. “I can think of nothing. The men were divested of any coin and weapons they might have carried and some horses were missing…yet, I believe it was no mere robbery.”

“Nay. Slaughter is more like. God help the man who did this.”

“I questioned the nearby villages for news of a roaming party of bandits, but either they were too frightened to tell me, or they saw no one. That is all I can tell you, I am sorry.”

Dirick nodded, and at that moment, there was a knock on the door of Merle’s private chamber.

“Aye, enter,” he called.

The door opened and a page entered, bearing a folded parchment. “My lord, this arrived by messenger. He was told not to await your reply.”

“Thank you,” Merle took the missive, and, glancing at the seal, smiled in satisfaction. “Ah, good.” The paper crackled as he opened it to read.

Dirick was torn between banishing the images of his father’s murder from his mind and mulling over them in hopes of finding some answer in the details, somehow. As Lord Merle closed the document, Dirick returned his attention from taking in the details of the small, wood furnished room. “Good news is always well come,” he said with a nod toward the letter.

“Aye, indeed. ’Tis a message from the man with whom I hope to betrothe Maris,” the man explained. “He and his father Lord d’Arcy should arrive within a se’ennight.”

“Hope to betrothe?” he repeated, wondering what it was about the woman that kept his brother, and, obviously, numerous other suitors, from laying claim to her many lands through her hand. Dirick was curious in spite of himself. Mayhap she was impossibly ugly—still, few men would turn away the chance to hold as many lands as the Lord of Langumont regardless of what the woman looked like. Or perhaps she was yet still too young. Although it wasn’t uncommon for a girl of eight or nine to be betrothed and then wed when she was fifteen or sixteen.

“Maris is rather unusual,” Merle said with an indulgent smile. “She is seventeen summers, and to date I haven’t found a suitable man for her. But ’tis nearly done—just the papers need to be signed upon Victor d’Arcy’s arrival.”

“Unusual?” Was she ugly, or deformed in some way…or, perhaps, mad? No wonder Bernard had not “suited” with the woman. His wife Joanna was lovely in both form and character, and they had been wed only a bit longer than a year.

Merle dismissed Dirick’s question about Lady Maris, saying instead, “You will join us at the high table for dinner this night?”

“Aye. Yet, my lord, I must ask that outside of this chamber, I’m merely Dirick de Arlande—lately come from France. I’m not a man of the king, but I am an itinerant knight in search of work. I have another mission for his majesty that involves the fief of Breakston. Neither of us wish for Baron de Savrille to know of my identity before I arrive there.”

Merle nodded. “The king is watching Bon de Savrille? I’ve long suspected he might have other allegiances. He was to provide men and to be at my side in Wales. He showed himself for a mere three days, kept to himself, and eventually left his men to return to Breakston. He left word that he had problems at home that called him back. Methinks the man is merely a coward, yet, I wouldn’t be surprised were he to turn up as a supporter of the Welsh uprisings.”

“With your permission, I won’t leave immediately for Breakston. I intend to be sure he’s in residence before I make the journey, and ’twould do me some good to be nearby if you remember anything else about my father.”

“Aye, of course—stay as long as you like. Shall I put some work your way to help your tale and keep your mind and body occupied?”

Dirick smiled. “Aye, thank you, my lord. I’ll sit at table with you this evening and be most pleased to make the acquaintance of your daughter.” Dirick imagined telling Bernard of his meal with the lady who had rejected his suit.

That could be most interesting, and entertaining as well.

Early that morning when she heard that a man had arrived to see her father, Maris made her escape from the keep. Wishing to put off meeting her betrothed, she grabbed two apples and a hunk of cheese and went out to the village. There were several people she should visit, including Thomas the cooper and his wife, and she wanted to gather the last of the bruisewort leaves from her garden. It was her intention to be scarce for the entire day.

And so it was nearing dusk when she finally returned to the keep. Managing to avoid her father, mother, and probable suitor, she sneaked up the huge stone steps that led to the women’s quarters above the great hall. Verna was awaiting Maris in the chamber, ready to help her dress for dinner.

“’Tis late, my lady. My lord will soon be voicing his displeasure if you miss a third evening meal,” Verna commented as she helped Maris out of her work tunic.

“Aye.” Maris’s teeth chattered as she stood in the chill room clothed only in her shift. “I couldn’t find a reason to miss this meal as I have the last two. Nay, I think the gold bliaut, Verna.”

Her maid dutifully pulled the gold colored undertunic from her lady’s wardrobe. It was shot through with gilt thread, making the tight fitting garment look like the ocean under a sunny sky. Verna laced it tightly up the sides, then turned back to the trunks.

“The green tunic, my lady?” she asked, pulling out an overgarment trimmed with gold thread.

“Aye.” Maris would dress her finest for a man she should detest who sat below, waiting to slather all over her hand and her lands. Despite her curiosity, knowing that Verna would certainly have heard the gossip about the man whom her father had chosen for her, Maris deigned to ask anything about him.

She would learn aught soon enough.

Verna pulled the long, loose fitting tunic over Maris’s head. There were no sides to the tunic, merely a hole for her head with a deep neckline to show off the golden bliaut underneath. A gold girdle wrought in the shape of loose flowers and leaves cinched the tunic at her waist.

Maris was strangely nervous at the thought of descending the stairs to dinner. She knew that her father’s mind had been made up, and the man she was to marry awaited her below. As much as she might abhor the idea of marriage, Maris had come to realize that it was for the good of Langumont that she must wed …and that it would do her little benefit to anger her father by rebuffing her intended betrothed.

There was no time to redo her hair, so Verna left it in the heavy plait that hung down her back. Flyaway wisps of rich, chestnut brown had sprung from the braid, framing her face. Verna tucked them under the sheer, gold shot wimple that was draped over her mistress’s head and neck. A thin-filigreed headdress held the wimple in place, and Maris was dressed for dinner.