For a moment, she stood thus, smoothing the silk down the front of her body, imagining how she would look garbed in the riches of Lady Maris of Langumont. Then, the twist of her mouth deepening, she carefully refolded the garment and replaced it in the trunk.
Now Verna dug carefully through the piles of clothing to the very bottom of the trunk and rummaged gingerly there. Holding a candle close to the shadowy depths, she peered into the depths of the fabric, mindful of dripping wax, and at last extracted the object of her search.
It was a headdress, woven of cloth of gold that often confined Lady Maris’s thick locks during the summer months. Verna examined the snood closely in the candlelight and was pleased to find several strands of rich brown hair trapped in the intricacies of the headdress. With a small sound of satisfaction, she folded the cloth carefully and pushed it up into her sleeve.
Maris had an audience as she peeled the dressing off Raymond of Vermille’s shoulder. Her father’s squires watched closely, hoping for a sign of the gore they’d been told they’d see. Unfortunately for them—and quite happily for Sir Raymond—the green pus that had oozed from his wound a mere two days earlier was gone, and the swelling had decreased greatly.
“See you, Sir Raymond,” she began for what seemed the hundredth time, but in this case, with the intent of teaching the young boys as well, “it is no great feat to keep soil from an open cut and ’tis much easier on the skin, so it heals nicely. If you keep mashing dirt and wool and lice from your tunic into the wound, it swells greatly as the humors grow.” She was finishing with a clean wrap around his shoulder.
“My thanks, my lady,” Raymond told her, winking at the squires.
“I saw that,” she remonstrated, pulling the binding tighter. At his exaggerated grunt of pain, she released it slightly. “If you do not listen to me, Sir Raymond, and cease your jesting, you’ll soon be without your sword arm.” Then she smiled and patted his good shoulder, “But if you listen to my commands, you’ll be wielding a lance in a week’s time.”
“Thank you my lady,” he said again, this time seriously.
She urged him off the stool on which he’d perched. “On the next you ride with Papa, I will send some of my green salve with you to put on a cut such as this until you are home for me to treat.”
She gathered up the rest of her medicines, packing some dried leaves and berries into a pouch to carry in her basket. “Off with you before cook puts you to work,” she said, shooing the young boys out of the herbary.
Outside, the air was just as brittle as it had been early that morning. The sun was so bright that Maris found herself blinded at the change from the darker chamber, and walked full-faced into a warm body.
“Do you not watch where you are going?” came a deep, amused voice. “Lady Maris?”
“Sir Dirick,” she was beginning to make out shapes now. She looked up where his face would be and her eyes immediately watered from the brightness of the sun. Blinking the tears back, she looked back down and saw his scuffed brown boots in the compressed snow of the bailey. “I’m sorry, it was so dark in the herbary and the sun is so magnificently bright, I could not see for a moment. I trust your confession was well-received?”
He grinned. “Aye, my lady, and well-deserved, also.”
“And did you manage to obtain absolution for all your great sins?” she teased.
This time he laughed. “Aye, but for that I had to work a bit harder.”
“Indeed. I hadn’t expected to see you emerge from the chapel so quickly,” she returned, now able to look up at the face that blocked the sun. “Father Abraham is not known for his simple penances—and with a confession such as yours, I should think you’d be saying paternosters until Judgment Day and selling your fine Nick to pay for all your pardons.”
“Nay, lady, my penance is much heavier than you could think.” His eyes twinkled like the brilliant snow, “Father Abraham bade me accompany a headstrong lady healer on her visits to keep her from getting trampled under the hooves of any more horses.” Before she could react, he relieved her arm of the herb-filled basket and asked, “And since I myself have nearly been flattened by a lady healer, ’tis fitting that I take up my penance now. Where are you off to, Lady Maris?”
“Do you not have aught to do but dog along my footsteps?” she asked, yet unable to keep back a smile. “Does not Papa have work for you?”
“Aye, lady, ’twas he who sent me to find you—and ensure that you are back to the keep for this evening’s meal. He says you have missed too many suppers as of late. Now, again, where are we off to?”
“To visit the cooper,” she told him automatically. Her father had sent a strange knight to be her chaperone? A chaperone in Langumont?
“Ah, the cooper.” Dirick sobered, “Have you heard any news?”
“Nay. Widow Maggie—the village healer—would have sent to me if there were cause for concern. Yet, I still wish to see how the babes fare, and see that the smith’s daughter is still wet-nursing them.”
They trudged along the well-packed snow through the gate of the bailey, over the drawbridge and into Langumont Village. Dirick watched in amazement as Maris greeted every person they encountered, by name and in their simple English language. She even ventured into the smoky, dark houses to see to a child with the ague, or show a woman how to make a draught for pain. Well-accustomed to accepting the hospitality of the peasants that dwelled on his father’s lands, Dirick was still quite surprised at the ease with which Lady Maris did the same.
He plodded along in her wake as a mere fixture to the lord’s daughter. This was the first he’d seen of Langumont Village in the light of day, and he took note of its condition with a watchful eye.
There was one main throughway that led up to the iron portcullis of the bailey of Langumont Keep, and ran through the length of the generous village. Small structures of roughly-hewn logs lined the road. The homes of the villagers were topped with thick thatching, and curls of smoke drifted up from crude chimneys. Most structures had at least one small window that was covered with well-greased linen to keep the wind out while letting the light in. All of the doors seemed sturdy enough that they wouldn’t blow open in even the fiercest wind.
Dirick noted a smithy, a weaver, a baker, a prosperous-looking silversmith, the inn he’d lodged in two nights earlier, and various other merchants and workshops. He picked out a butcher and a shoemaker, and his nose eventually pointed out the mart where the fishermen brought their wares from the nearby Langumont Bay. Outside of the village, he knew, were acres and acres of farmland—some belonging to the villagers, but a good portion belonging to Merle Lareux. Those fields were worked in turn by the villeins to produce the barrels and barrels of food that fed the lord’s household and its guests.
As he noted the prosperity of the village, Dirick could not help a twinge of envy. Such would never be his, he knew.
He was destined to a life of travel and war, with no lands or title of his own. Though he was well-regarded by the king—even so well thought of as to be Henry’s confidante and advisor—the most he could expect or even aspire to was the fortune of marrying an unimportant heiress with a single fief. He would pay fealty to a liege lord with a great many lands, such as Merle of Langumont…or, mayhap, even Dirick himself might be awarded the position of castellan at a small fief such as Cleonis or Firmain.
As a youngest son, such was his fate—and ’twould only be altered should Bernard die without issue. And even in his deepest heart, in his most private thoughts, Dirick did not wish for that to come to pass.
He had ever known that this would be his destiny…and never before had he questioned it. Dirick turned a covert glance onto the woman who walked next to him, suddenly forced to subdue a pang of regret. The man who was to wed her was fortunate indeed, and not merely because of the lands he would obtain.
Dirick returned his thoughts to the scenery and peasants as they continued through the village. At last they reached a structure near the s
outh side of the village. A man whom Dirick assumed was the cooper greeted them at the door, his face full of hope.
But as soon as he saw the scene within, Dirick knew the man’s hope was truly misplaced.
Chapter Three
Propelled by dismay and anger, Maris brushed past Dirick, pushing her way into the hut. Contrary to her previous commands, the windows had been resheathed, and old smoke clung to the air. Two babies squalled in the corner, and the woman was eerily silent.
“Uncover the windows,” Maris snapped, moving quickly to the bedside of the patient. Widow Maggie, who had been tending to the mother with a damp cloth on her forehead, stepped away, looking abashed at her lady’s entrance.
“But, my lady, the leech said—”
“Leech?” she exclaimed, turning on Maggie. “What said the leech?”
Quailing at his lady’s anger, Thomas nevertheless spoke haltingly. “The leech said the humors need darkness and heat from the fire. He said Mary’s blood must be let to rid her of the poison that draws her life.”
“Nay.” Maris clenched her fingers to keep from screaming in frustration. Maggie knew that as far as Maris was concerned, leeches should be banned from the village of Langumont. But there were many in the village who believed in the ways of the leeches.
Offering a swift prayer to the heavens, Maris threw back the blankets to reveal the pitiful figure of Mary, seeing immediately that it was too late. There was too much blood, and it still flowed freely, bright red and fresh. “Good Venny says leeches have little use—and oft cause more damage! God’s teeth, what have you done?” This last she managed to keep to a hiss of despair, knowing that the cooper had acted in fear and ignorance.
“‘Twas Thomas, my lady,” Maggie whispered. “She bled the night through, and he didn’t know what to do. We didn’t wish to spoil your Christ’s Mass celebration now that the lord has returned. The leech promised to save her.”
Maris looked at the terrified cooper and swallowed her anger as well as she could. He could not have known—leeches were famous for promising the moon if they were paid enough. She noticed that Dirick, who’d followed her inside, had moved quickly to tear the heavy, cloying blankets from the windows. Oiled cloth covered the openings, and he made a slit in the top of one near the fire so that the smoke would wend its way out of the hut.
Grateful for his help, she transferred her gaze to the seven black slugs that sucked away the lifeblood of her patient. “Remove the leeches,” she told Maggie shortly, then turned to Thomas. “Leeches do not come into Langumont Village. I do not know how he came, but if you see this man again, you will send for me immediately.”
“Aye, lady,” he whispered. “My lady, my Mary…will she…?”
Maris spared a look at the grey-faced woman, and her fears were confirmed. She hadn’t stirred since her arrival. Blood soaked the bed beneath her as the leeches drew even more from her arms and legs. “I will do all I can, but likely ’twill not be enough.”
The babies were screaming in the corner. “Where is the smith’s daughter?” Maris asked, gritting her teeth at the sound.
“She went home this morrow,” Thomas told her, his hands wringing in front of him. “The leech thought Mary would suckle the babes this night.”
“Fetch her,” she said tightly. “She is not to leave until I say.”
Thomas scurried for the door as Maggie pulled the last reluctant leech from the woman’s flesh. Again, Maris noted out of the corner of her eye that Dirick had moved silently to where the babes lay. Suddenly, silence reigned and she breathed a deep sigh.
She worked quickly to mix a paste from dried yarrow to press over the open wounds from the slugs, and ordered Maggie about to steep a decoction of peppermint and clove to dribble down the woman’s throat.
Maris lost track of time. She vaguely remembered Thomas returning with Bernice, the smith’s daughter, and hardly took note of when Dirick stepped over to assist her or Maggie. The silence that hovered as she worked became monotonous and hung like death over the small, bleak house.
Time blurred. Maggie brewed a draught from herbs meant to ease the pain, and Maris helped her choke it down Mary’s parched throat. The woman breathed ever so slowly. Her hands remained cold and clammy while her face suffused with heat. Soft groans of pain emitted from her dried and cracked lips. The other women bathed her and found too much blood still coming from between her legs.
At last, she had no choice. “Sir Dirick,” Maris said as she turned to him, brushing the hair from her eyes. He looked down at her, comprehension in his face. “Go you to seek Father Abraham.”
Thomas’s eyes widened, then his stare dropped to the dirt floor of the hut. “My lady,” he whispered, moving to the bed to grasp his wife’s lax hand.
Maris didn’t know what time it was when Mary finally stopped breathing. With a muffled exclamation, she fell on the bed next to her patient, frantically feeling her chest for the beat of a heart, then put her cheek near Mary’s mouth in hopes of feeling the soft, labored breath that had kept the woman alive. Nothing. She looked slowly up at Maggie, struggling to keep her tears in check.
Dirick arrived with the priest moments later. Maris stood wearily and stepped back from the bed to allow Father Abraham to shrive the woman. She leaned against the wall, passing a grimy hand over her cheek, and her gaze was caught by Dirick’s. His face was grim and his eyes soft as they looked at her with admiration and regret.
She shook her head, turning away, feeling as though she’d failed miserably—and in front of him. Had she or Maggie been aware of Mary’s condition before the leech was brought in, perhaps she could have prevented the bleeding that most assuredly cost her her life. The struggle to give birth to two large boys, and the subsequent loss of blood was simply exacerbated by the bloodletting.
What does it matter now? she thought, wiping away a tear that suddenly appeared. She had done what she could and the woman had died.
Good Venny told her that when God called someone there was naught she could do to prevent that person from going. There would be many times when she would succeed, but she could not work against God’s will.
“’Twill be a hard lesson to learn, Maris,” he’d told her somberly. “You may learn it early, you may take years to learn it. But you must never question your gift of the ability to heal. You are blessed to be chosen, to save God’s people when ill befalls them. Use your gift, but do not seek to play God.”
She wished he were here now.
Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, and she blinked them back before Sir Dirick saw them. Plucking at Maggie’s sleeve, she whispered, so as not to disturb the prayers of the priest, “I must go.”
With that, she slipped quickly from the hut.
Dirick found her not far from the cooper’s hovel, leaning against a tree, staring at the ground. He approached without speaking, knowing that the sound of his boots crunching through the icy snow would announce his presence.
Standing to the side, he took a moment to observe the woman, allowing his gaze the leisure of absorbing every detail. The hood of her brilliant blue cloak had fallen back, leaving her head bare and thick strands of rich brown hair fluttering in the breeze. Her nose and cheeks were red, whether from the chill or from weeping, he did not know. She stood motionless, like a tree herself, her chest rising and falling under the heavy cape.
Dirick felt something warm seep through his limbs, warming him even in the coldness. He’d never seen a woman act so decisively, so magnificently in the face of such strife and danger. She’d worked so hard to save the dying woman, and he had been able to do naught but stand back and watch. Doubtless she’d known from the instant she stepped foot within that the woman would perish, but Maris had worked urgently to save her.
Even now, he could see the results of her efforts in a rusty streak of blood across her cheek, and the disheveled look of her hair and shiny dampness of her face. He had never seen a noblewoman look so unkempt…so work-roughened…and
yet, so noble.
It was no wonder her father adored her.
Maris turned suddenly, surprising him in his study of her. Her eyes were red-rimmed and faintly bloodshot, and the tip of her nose quite scarlet. She looked at him with a mixture of resignation and embarrassment, and Dirick struggled to find something to say. Words of comfort usually sprang easily to his lips when he was faced with consoling a woman whose gown had been stained, or one whose feelings had been hurt by another…and all at once, those moments seemed as superficial as the veneer of ice over snow when faced with a woman such as Maris of Langumont.
“You have a great gift,” he spoke finally, his words rough, rumbling from a throat tight with emotion.
She sighed. “’Twas not enough of a gift this day, I fear.”
She stepped away from the tree and started toward him. A tremulous smile quirked her mouth, and a small dimple echoed it in her chin. “I have yet to learn, as my mentor tried to teach me, that despite many lives saved, there are others that I cannot turn from God’s will.” Her face saddened and her eyes took on a faint sheen. She blinked quickly and brusquely turned to pick up her pouch of medicinals, starting off toward the keep’s walls.
Feeling clumsy and inarticulate, Dirick was moved to action. He took Maris’s arm and gently propelled her so that she looked up at him. For a moment, he stilled, looking down into her beautiful face, streaked with tears and blood, her chin quivering as she valiantly tried to hold back her emotions. Her eyes seemed to beg for him to speak, and he groped mentally for something that would cause the pain to melt away.
“’Tis amazing to me, Lady Maris, that we men should spend our lives seeking war, when you should work so hard to save a simple life. The wars are fought for lands and riches, yet you would spend all of the day slaving to save the life of a simple peasant. It shames me, and at the same time, I’m filled with admiration for you.”
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