A Whisper of Rosemary (21 page)

Shoving away from the crude table, he ambled through the moldering rushes. One of the other mercenary knights who was in Bon’s employ hailed him to a chess table, and Dirick gratefully accepted. They’d just arranged their pieces when a great commotion erupted in the bailey.

Bon leapt to his feet from the bench on which he’d partaken of the midday meal. Dirick could see the glitter of excitement in his dark eyes, even from the corner where he sat. Excusing himself from the chess game, he stood slowly and unobtrusively made his way to stand near the high table. A group of men led by Berkle burst through the large oaken door carrying what looked like a long, rolled tapestry. As Dirick watched in amazement, a dozen of the men-at-arms gathered around. The serfs hovered in the background, staring with wide eyes.

With a quick flick of the wrist, Berkle yanked the tapestry roll, dropping it to the floor. It unrolled and a person—a woman—tumbled out, landing in the putrid rushes in a swirl of white gown and long, dark hair. Her hands were tied behind her back and she lay in the midst of her thick hair and the rushes, wincing as one of the dogs loped up to sniff at her. She wore a light chemise that had ruched up past the knees when she landed in her ignominious heap.

The gathered men reacted loudly with hoots and whistles, but the woman didn’t move. “
Silence,
” shouted Bon angrily at his men. “You shall show respect to my bride.” The jeers and laughter quieted momentarily.

Her long hair hid her face, but when Bon leaned forward to brush it back, thus revealing a pert nose and sensual lips, Dirick froze.

It was Maris of Langumont.

Stunned, Dirick barely refrained from leaping forward to shield her from the men that gathered around. The moment that he paused, and thus remained anonymous, likely saved his life. There was naught he could do at this moment. ’Twas best to stop, watch, and listen before acting.

As Dirick struggled to master his horror—while at the same time, praising God that he had decided to stay longer at Breakston—Bon solicitiously helped Maris to her feet and sliced through the rope that bound her wrists.

“
You are well come to my home, my lady,” he made a short bow.

Maris stood as straight as her stiff, trembling legs would allow. She was frightened and exhausted, her heart thumping so loudly she was sure it echoed throughout the hall. The trembling of her limbs made it nearly impossible to maintain what little composure she could draw to her defense. The chemise she wore was of the lightest linen and did not afford much protection from either cold or prying eyes, so she was thankful for her long hair.

“
Why have you brought me here?” she asked in a hoarse voice. She recognized him immediately from his visit to Langumont.

As of yet, she had not turned her attention from Bon de Savrille, and had not looked closely at the crowd of gawking men. Instead, though she was overwhelmed by fear, she forced herself to hold the dark gaze of the bearded man standing before her.

“
My lady, I have brought you here to do you the honor of making you mistress of Breakston,” Bon de Savrille told her as he reached for her hand.

But he froze, pushing back a thick lock of hair to look at what must be a large, purplish bruise on her left cheek.

He whirled on Berkle, the man who’d been the leader of the group who’d abducted her. “You have allowed my wife to be ill used!” de Savrille screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. “You were not to harm a hair on her head were my very words to you, you low lying, cat sucking whoreson!
Throw him in the dungeon
,” he screamed at a nearby guard.

A violently protesting Berkle was dragged from the hall, and immediately after issuing that command, a calmer Lord de Savrille returned his attention to Maris. He made a surprisingly subservient bow. “I pray you will accept my apologies, my lady, for your abuse at the hands of my loyal knights.” He leered at Maris, leaning forward to capture one of her hands in his and raising it to his mouth for a damp kiss.

Maris had been struggling to focus, to make sense of her predicament at the same time as keeping her composure.

Just as her thoughts began to separate and to clear, her gaze swept the group of men surrounding her. They rested on a face that was familiar, but out of place…and as the realization that Sir Dirick de Arlande stood in the crowd with her enemy, the world went blank.

She slid to the floor in the first swoon of her life.

~*~

“
My lord!” exclaimed Ernest of the hillock as he was ushered to the dais in the great hall. Merle, along with his guests and wife, was breaking his fast after attending mass that morning.

“
My lord Merle,” began Gustave, who approached with the horrified serf, “Ernest begs an audience.”

Ernest fairly trod upon the seneschal in his excitement to reach his lord’s table. Executing a brief, but respectful bow, he stammered in his guttural English that he’d found not only the body of Lady Maris’s maidservant, Verna, but also his lady’s brilliant blue cloak crumpled in the snow.

“
What say you?” Merle bellowed, standing in his alarm. His words, too, were in English, and thus the meaning was lost upon the other nobility at the high table.

“
Aye, my lord, ’twas a fright to me, my lord, whenst I came upon the bloodied, ravaged body of Verna of Langumont. Her’s not breathing or moving and sure as I stand, the wench is dead. And my lady Maris,” his eyes grew round, “’twas nawt sign of her’n but for her cloak, ’round the bend from mine own home.”

“
Gustave, send for the guards of last eve,” Merle roared in French to the hovering seneschal.

“
My lord, what is it?” cried Allegra, standing with a horror-stricken look on her face. Victor and Michael d’Arcy had stopped eating as well.

“
Know you where Maris is this morn?” asked Merle fiercely of his meal companions. “Have ye seen her yet this morrow?”

They each in turn shook their heads. Allegra’s eyes had grown wide and her face pale as the snow beyond.

The guards from the watch of the night before rushed into the hall, startled out of their sleep, half dressed and with mussed hair.

“
My lord,” bowed the captain of the night watch. “What is amiss?”

“
Did my daughter leave in the company of her maidservant during your watch?” Merle fired the question before the man rose from his bow.

“
Aye, my lord, she said on as she were called to the side of Ernest of the hillock,” explained the captain. “He was gravely injured.” His eyes swiveled to Ernest and realization washed over his face. He looked back at his lord, “She is gone missing?”

“
Aye,” said Merle. Then, his voice rising in supplication, he bellowed, “Has no one seen my daughter?”

Silence greeted him.

“
Á Langumont
!” he cried, standing and nearly toppling the large table in his haste. “We must search while the trail of her abductors is fresh!
Á moi
!”

“
My lord husband,” Allegra’s voice wavered, barely heard above the roar of men calling to arms. “My lord!”

“
I shall return her to you safely, fear not,” Merle told his wife, worry creasing his face even as he gave orders to his men.

“
But my lord, I—I believe I may know whence she has been taken.” Allegra plucked at the sleeve of his tunic. “’Tis my—my brother—my half brother, Bon de Savrille.”

She was hardly able to choke out the words. Merle froze and turned, giving her his full attention as she stammered a wary description of his visit, including his threat to have Maris to wive.

~*~

Maris regained consciousness as she was carried up a long staircase.

Having never swooned before, she felt a momentary pang of shame that she’d succumbed to such a feminine weakness…and then dismissed the misbegotten feeling immediately in light of her predicament.

Strangely, her blind fear had ebbed with her faint, and now she was able to think more calmly.

The buffoon who carried her none too gently up the stairs misjudged a corner, and one of her hands—still ice cold—slammed into the heavy stone wall. She could not hold back a moan of pain, but, mercifully, no one was behind to notice that her eyes had flown open at the shock. She determined to feign unconsciousness long enough to gain her bearings and make some sense of her situation. Assess the situation, her father told his pages and squires during their long training in the art of war, before developing a strategy.

It was, however, more difficult than she’d anticipated to fake an extended faint…especially when she was dumped unceremoniously onto a bed of some sort. Through slitted eyes, she recognized that the clumsy oaf who’d carried her jerkily up the stairs was none other than her intended husband—at the least, it was
his
intention that he be her husband.

“
Agnes!” he bellowed suddenly, and Maris nearly jumped at the loud noise.

Then there was a rustling sound, followed by a voice, squeaky with fear. “Aye, my lord.”

“
See to my betrothed,” ordered Bon in a rough voice. “She is weak after her long journey. I would that she were bathed and dressed and prepared to sup with me at the evening meal.” There was a short silence, then, “And see to it that she is cared for as befits her station. Do you not forget she is to be my wife.”

Maris held her breath as she felt his presence near her face. A large hand took hers and raised it to dry lips and a brush of prickly moustache. “Until later, my lady,” he murmured. She felt the air stir as he whirled and left the room, bellowing for hot tubs of water for her bath.

She was to be his wife. Maris held back a shudder at the thought. Not bloody likely!

She listened carefully, eyes still closed, as Agnes bustled about the room. She heard calm, efficient orders were given to the servants who brought sloshing buckets of water, along with linens and other rustling items, into the chamber.

As she lay in repose, listening, her mind whirled, uncontained.

The biggest shock of all was no longer her abduction—for Bon de Savrille’s purpose was clear—but that Dirick de Arlande was here.
In the home of her captor
.

The pit of her stomach—mostly empty, for the fare on her unexpected journey had been little more than hard bread and old cheese—twisted in fear and anger. Had he merely wooed her, and her father, too, in order to plot her kidnapping for Bon de Savrille?

Many things made sense now, she thought, trying to keep her lips from twisting bitterly. His destrier was much too fine and expensive to belong to a mere mercenary knight…and his knowledge about Henry’s court had been so pat that she’d wondered how a traveling knight from France knew such detail. And Papa—and she—had taken him at his word, invited him into their home, and treated him as an honored guest all the while he plotted to snatch her for his master!

Maris swallowed, holding back tears. And he’d even kissed her, making her feel as if—

Nay.
She would not think on that.

At the last, there was silence. Maris heard the door close, and the unmistakable sound of a bar sliding into place across it. She was just about to open her eyes when the barest of sounds told her that someone was still in the room.

“
My lady, you may open your eyes,” came a quiet voice. “All have gone save myself. But be yourself ware, my lord has stationed a guard outside your chamber.”

Maris’s eyes snapped open in surprise. They rested on a woman, similar in age to herself, with thick honey colored hair and a long purple scar that ran from the corner of one eye to the edge of her jaw. It was old enough to be healed, but it had done so by misshapening her eyelid.

Agnes tilted her head shyly. “’Tis oft I have feigned the same faint, my lady. I knew you were aware.” She drew near the bed as Maris’s gaze traveled the chamber for the first time.

It was larger than she’d expected, and while not as luxurious as her own chamber at Langumont, the bed was fairly comfortable and there were tapestries—threadbare though they were—over the slitted windows to keep out the drafts. The fire, at least, was enthusiastic, although the rest of the chamber left little to on which to comment.