A Whisper of Rosemary (29 page)

Before she could speak, the young boy said, “Here is your chamber. Your maid and trunks will be brought to you, my lady. When you wish to go to the hall for dinner, you have only to send for me or another of the pages and we will happily guide you within.” And then, with a little bow, he was gone.

~*~

Some time later, Maris smoothed the cloth of gold fabric of her wimple and swallowed hard. She hadn’t realized she’d feel so nervous before seeing the king—and her trepidation was heightened by the fact that she’d barely received the trunks in her chambers when Henry summoned her to his presence.

She could hardly believe the king had found time to see her so soon upon her arrival, and Maris couldn’t help but fear the reason for it.

The page who brought the message from His Majesty was not the one who’d escorted her only an hour earlier. He was slightly older than his predecessor—mayhap nine or ten years—and he wore his dignity about him like a bishop.

Despite her nervousness, Maris bade him wait in the hallway whilst she and Agnes tried frantically to make her presentable enough to appear in the royal presence. She had no time for the benefit of a bath to wash the dirt from travel, nor the opportunity to press the wrinkles from her gowns. As it was, apprehension spurred Maris to leave the chambers with her hair still merely braided and her traveling shoes still upon her feet.

Now, waiting just on the other side of the door leading to Henry’s court chamber, she regretted her haste. The wimple covered her simple braid, but the toes of her shoes were stained and worn and peeped from beneath the skirts of her best gown. The gown itself would do (although the brief glimpses Maris had seen of other ladies of the court told her that it was seriously out of fashion), for the fabric was a brilliant gold that shimmered as she moved, with long sleeves that opened nearly to the ground at her wrists. A dark red overtunic, complementing the garnets that she wore in a heavy necklet, fitted over the gown and displayed the talents of the seamstresses at Langumont, who’d labored over its gold and green embroidery for days. The gown had been intended for her betrothal ceremony and, in spite of its out-of-date style, was certainly fit for meeting her king.

Maris was just beginning to fidget nervously when the doors opened and yet another page gestured for her to enter. Standing regally, although her heart was pounding, Maris followed him into the room, praying that her knees would not give away.

Henry stood directly to her left near a large, gilt chair. He was a handsome man, she thought to herself, with his reddish hair and muscular build. Maris drew near, noting that the chamber was empty of people other than the king and the page who’d summoned her.

“
My liege,” she murmured, sweeping into a full curtsey before him with her forehead nearly to the ground. Her skirts pooled around her and she covertly adjusted them to cover her shoes.

“
Maris of Langumont.” The king’s voice was booming but kind. She could almost hear a smile in its timbre as he continued, “Rise, child, I’ve long waited to meet the daughter of the fine Merle of Langumont.”

Though he was a mere four years her elder, somehow it was appropriate that the stunning, powerful man before her call her ‘child.’ “Thank you, your grace,” Maris told him as she pulled lightly to her feet. “I’ve long wished to meet you as well, sire,” she said, emboldened by the warmth in his blue eyes.

“
We were aggrieved to hear of your father’s demise,” Henry told her in his regal voice. “’Twas unfortunate that one of my most loyal vassals should die in an attempt to retrieve his kidnapped daughter. And in such a tragic manner.”

“
Aye, your grace.” Maris’s voice was shamefully unsteady. “My father was well loved and ’tis a tragedy that he should be felled by a wild arrow during my rescue, most especially since I had already made my escape.”

“
Ah, yes,” Henry nodded. “Most unfortunate, my dear Maris. Yet, I understand you were quite enterprising to have made your own escape.” Before she could respond, he beckoned to the shadows. “Well, Dirick, now you have seen that indeed the lady lives. Are you well satisfied?”

Maris froze. Her disbelief turned to mortification and annoyance as the figure stepping from a dark corner metamorphosed into the familiar person of Dirick de Arlande. The blood drained from her face and she felt a pounding in her temple take its place. Clenching her fists into the folds of her skirt, she turned to the king.

“
With respect, my lord,” she said, keeping her eyes from the man who drew near the throne, “you harbor a traitor in these chambers.”

“
Traitor?” Henry’s fine red eyebrows rose in question. “Treason is a very serious charge, my lady. Are you certain?”

“
Aye, your majesty.” Maris darted an angry glance at Dirick, then returned her attention to the king. “’Tis this man who plotted with my captor after lulling my father into complacence during his stay at Langumont.”

The barest hint of a smile playing about his lips, Henry turned. “Dirick, what say you to these accusations?”

“
My liege.” Dirick’s voice was easy, but laced with a hint of annoyance. “You are as well aware as I that I was at Breakston at your behest and became accidentally entangled in this nightmare.”

Maris gasped at such a bald faced lie. Whirling to face him, she countered, “Sir Dirick, how then do you explain your stay at Langumont if it were not to plot against myself and my father?”

“
It may come as an enlightenment to you, Lady Maris, but the entire kingdom does not revolve about you in its every working,” Sir Dirick said, again in that mellow, smooth voice that made her want to shriek in frustration. “I hope you are not too overset to learn that I had other reasons for availing myself of your father’s hospitality than aught in regard to your fair person.”

“
And what was I to think, then, when you were one of the gawkers at whose feet I was cast by my abductors? You, who made no move to assist me, even to the extent of breaking into my chamber—”

“
Lady Maris, I do not believe this conversation need continue here.” Dirick’s mellow voice carried a hint of warning.

She drew herself up, suddenly aware that she stood shrieking like a harpy in the king’s chambers. Her cheeks warmed. “Well said, Sir Dirick,” she lowered her eyes as mortification swept over her. “
I
have no wish to continue this conversation at any other time,” she muttered to herself.

“
I beg your pardon, my lady?” asked Henry, the trace of a smile still lingering.

“
It was of no import, my liege,” she said with a small curtsey.

Henry glanced at Dirick, who stood next to him, then turned his regal gaze back onto Maris. “About this charge of treason, my lady. You do realize that the sentence for this crime is hanging?”

She swallowed, refusing to look at the dark haired man who stared at her mockingly. “Your grace, I—I may have misspoke myself and—and may not have fully considered the situation. I withdraw my accusation—for the time being,” she added with spirit, still keeping her gaze averted from Dirick.

The king nodded. “Aye, then. I think that a wise decision.” He stroked his beard with thick fingers as if deep in thought. “You’ll pledge your fealty to me three days hence, Maris of Langumont.”

The king might have continued speaking had there not been an urgent knocking upon the chamber door. The sole page left in their presence hurried to answer it, and Henry looked on curiously.

“
Your majesty.” A royal messenger entered and swept toward the king, his bow fluid and elegant.

“
Rise, Merren. What brings you in such haste?”

“’
Tis terrible news. But mayhap I am interrupting?” The lanky messenger glanced at Maris, giving an expectant pause.

Henry nodded then turned to Maris. “My lady, you may return to your chambers. I will expect to see you at supper this eventide. In fact, you shall find your place as my guest this night.”

“
Thank you, my lord,” she managed to stammer, stunned by his invitation and disappointed that she would not hear what terrible news the messenger brought. Picking up her skirts, she turned, avoiding making any eye contact with Dirick, who now leaned casually against the throne chair. It was not lost on her that she, and not Sir Dirick, had been asked to leave the king’s chambers.

Nervous worry and indignation accompanied her movements as Maris made a curtsey to the king. Nevertheless, she walked unhurriedly to the chamber door, acting for all the world as if she had not conducted herself the complete fool in front of her liege lord.

When Maris felt rather than heard the heavy door close behind her, she released her breath in a forceful whoosh of relief.

“
Lady Maris?”

A voice from behind startled Maris. She whirled, embarrassed at being observed in such an informal state. A woman, mayhap a few years older than she, stood near one of the torches that lit the hall. She had an aura of ease and peacefulness about her, and the smile she bestowed on Madelyne was warm and friendly.

“
Yes?” Maris recovered and looked imperiously at her. How could the woman know her name? She’d arrived at court less than two hours ago and had gone nowhere but to her chamber. Was she trying to be friendly, or was she looking for gossip to spread among the court?

“
I am Lady Madelyne of Mal Verne. My husband, Lord Gavin, is a confidant of the king and I am visiting briefly as lady in waiting to Queen Eleanor. Her highness bade me bring you to her upon your dismissal by the king.” She gestured toward one of the hallways leading from the entrance to the royal chambers.

“
Queen Eleanor?” Somehow, the thought of meeting that great lady was far more imposing than meeting her husband. “What would the queen wish of me?” Maris found herself falling into step alongside the other woman. “I’ve only just arrived at Westminster this day.”

Madelyne gave a dainty shrug, her gray eyes like luminous moonstones. “I am not privy to her majesty’s intentions, but had I to make a guess, I’d expect she should like to determine if you’ll do in her court. Come, now, she awaits—and her highness is not known for her patience.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The harsh wind of April whipped violently, stinging Dirick’s cheeks and nose. He pulled the fur lining of his cloak closer, burying his mouth in its warmth. Merren, the royal messenger, rode just ahead of him, setting the urgent pace.

If he had no need for haste, Dirick would have waited a day or two for the spring weather to change to something more comfortable. He’d still be at court and partaking of a warm, filling meal in the Great Hall. Course upon course of food prepared for the purpose of impressing the king would be served to his court. Jesters and troubadours would take their turn at entertaining the ladies and lords who gathered at the king’s pleasure—including the lately arrived Maris of Langumont.

Even in the frigid winter air, the thought of that woman made his blood boil.. She had more brash than a stallion in heat, and more feminine guile than Queen Eleanor. The manner in which Maris had turned those wide golden brown eyes toward his sovereign and blithely declared Dirick a traitor…and then, mere moments later, simpering that it had been an error….God’s nails, was the daft woman out to see him hanged or merely thrown in a dungeon for life?

Over the last months since returning from his adventure in Breakston, Dirick had come and gone from the royal court while investigating the murder of his father and the other similar victims. It had been most fortunate that he’d been not only at Westminster, but actually with Henry when news of Maris’s arrival was brought to the royal chamber. Dirick had already apprised his liege of the events that took place at Langumont and at Breakston. The only part he’d declined to share was the description of Maris’s last revenge upon him.

Henry had been in an energetic, jovial humor today and had called for Maris to attend him immediately. To Dirick’s surprise, he’d invited him to stay for the audience. It might have been more prudent for him to have announced his presence immediately, but the perverse woman had such a contrary effect on him that he wanted the advantage of surprise.

She was still the beauty his mind had conjured and conjured again over the past several moons. Even travel weary and worn as she must have been, and dressed in fashions that the court had not seen since King Stephen, Maris of Langumont would have outshone any other lady at court had one been there to see her. Mayhap the exception would be Queen Eleanor…but Maris would indeed cause all to look twice or thrice at her, even in the presence of the queen.

Aye, the woman was beautiful…and spirited…and resourceful...and, aye, intelligent—though most men would not consider that an asset. She was also a drain on his patience and overly spirited, as well as tart-tongued and sharp. It occurred to Dirick, just then, how many times he’d privately vowed to strangle Maris of Langumont and he gave a little laugh.