Then a face bent over his.
It was a woman’s face, aged and covered with the fine, soft hair of the elderly.
“Ah, milord, you’ve come back to this world at last.” The voice was gentle and its accompanying smile the same. “Ye gave me quite a scare, lord, for how was I to explain how a dead knight came to be in me home?” Old eyes sparked with humor, but Dirick was too weak to acknowledge it with more than a grunt. “Drink this.” She firmly shoved a crude wooden mug of something warm and heavenly-smelling at his mouth and he accepted it gratefully.
She held the cup long enough for him to take several sips, then eased it back.
“My horse,” he was able to ask now that his mouth was moistened.
The woman nodded. “Aye. He’s well-tended. He’s had more to eat than ye have in the day past.”
“A day?” Dirick croaked, struggling to a seated position on his low pallet.
“Aye. Ye came to me yestereve, lord, an’ ’twas a struggle to get ye in here when ye chose me doorway to collapse in.” Again, the eyes glinted with humor. “But I coulden leave ye there, now could I? ’Twould get to be horrible cold in here for me auld bones if the door weren’t shut.”
“Maris.” Hell. He’d surely lost her by now if he’d been bloody sleeping for a day.
“Ah, aye, ye called for her last evenin’, lord. There weren’t no one with ye, that I could see.” The head tilted to one side as she looked down upon him. “But she weren’t with ye, were she, lord? Ye were after her, for what I know not, but the leaves will tell me. Here ye, drink all of this now as yer sittin’ up.” She pushed the mug into his face and brought his hand up to hold it.
Dirick drank the rest of the brew, thankful that the room had righted itself. The old woman, who wore a long, heavy gown that dragged the floor, took his empty cup and peered into its depths. “Ah, aye, I’ll look at these in a moment.”
He watched as she trundled over to the fire and stirred something in a large pot. She ladled its contents into a bowl modeled in the same crude fashion as the mug and brought it to him, accompanied by a piece of hard bread and a wooden spoon. Dirick smelled rabbit stew, and his mouth began to water when the food came into his presence.
Knowing that he was in need of sustenance before continuing his search for Maris, he would have eaten eagerly even if the food were barely palatable. However, the stew tasted just as delicious as it smelled, and he was so engrossed that he barely noticed that the old woman. She was clucking over his empty tea mug, peering with a tallow candle into its depths.
“Ahh, aye….Ye’ve some grief of late, milord . . .’tis sad I am to see it.” She glanced up at him, then back at the mug. “Yer Papa, ’twas, aye?”
Dirick swallowed a chunk of rabbit meat and stared at the woman. How could she have known? “Aye.”
Her white head shook sadly. “Much blood, I see ’t…an’ much evil ’round, too…spreadin’ ’round this land. ’Tis a madman’s hand is in ’t, I warrant.”
“I’ll find him,” Dirick told her fiercely, no longer shocked that she seemed to understand what she could not know.
She nodded. “Aye, Godspeed to ye in that task. I pray ye’ll find it afore more bloodshed.”
The woman turned her attention back to the herb leaves plastered over the bottom of the mug. “An’ what of this Maris ye was callin’ fer?” The woman spoke more to herself than to Dirick as she frowned into the mug. “Ahh…mmm….The lady’s bound fer some hardship herself, ’though it don’t ’pear that ye’ll be the one to bring it to her.” She slanted a knowing look at him.
“Hardship?” Dirick asked. “She’s hurt? Lost?” He struggled to pull himself from the bed, hardly daring to credit the fact that he was not only believing the words from the old crone’s mouth, but asking for direction as well.
“Sit yerself, if ye please, milord…yer jarrin’ the tea leaves an’ I cannot read them,” grumbled the woman. “She ’pears to have no evil ’bout her now. Fact is, I see naught but calm amongst her in th’leaves. Fer now. She’ll soon have a bad time, milord, but ’tis naught ye, nor any man, can shield her from. An’ ye won’ be seein’ her to prevent it, so don’ be harin’ yerself off when yer so weak ye can barely move yerself. It’s all over and done with, lord, an’ ye won’ be seein’ ’er,” she repeated, waving her hand as if to dismiss him into the bed. “Mmmm…an’ I see that she’ll soon be safe in the company of many armed men…so ye’ve naught to worry yerself ’bout, milord.”
“I—will I not see her again?” he asked. Something hollow settled in his fully belly, and then he dismissed the thought. Even if he should care to see Maris of Langumont again, how would the old crone know of the future? How did she even know of the present?
The woman frowned at the mug, angling the tallow candle over its depths. “Pah!” she spat suddenly.
“What see you?” Dirick demanded.
“Ahh, nay, ’tis only that I dripped a bit of wax onto the leaves.” She waved the offending candle in disgust, nearly splattering Dirick himself with hot tallow. “I s’spect ye’ll see the lady again, milord, but not fer many moons an’ ’t may not be to yer likin’ when ye do. But if ye go easy with the lady, mayhap…mayhap ye’ll win her.”
Win her? Even if he desired to try, the likes of a third son could not win a powerful heiress such as Maris of Langumont.
Dirick snorted and shoved the tattered blanket from his thighs. Go easy with her? He dropped his bare feet to the dirt floor. He had every intention of throttling the life from the wench at the next he saw her…which, if he could stand enough to mount Nick, would be very shortly.
“Milord,” chirped the woman in surprise, “ye cannot be well enough betimes to be up an’ about!”
“Good woman,” Dirick said, dismissing her concern as he groped for the boots resting near his pallet, “I am much thankful for your kindness, but I must be on my way. I must see to Lady Maris and get her to safety.” He stood, pausing to see if his legs would hold him and if the world had stopped, and then started toward the doorway with a fair amount of stability.
He stopped short, realizing that he had little to thank her with. “Good woman, I’ve only this to leave you with for my gratitude.” He dug into the small leather pouch that always hung from his tunic. There was only the cloth-wrapped dagger—the clue to his father’s murderer—and a very few small coins. Pinching one from the bottom of the pouch, he pressed it into her hand, promising, “I’ll send to you with more as soon as I’m able. I give you many thanks, woman, for caring for me. I’ll see that ’tis not forgotten.”
The woman took the coin, admonishing, “Milord, ye needn’t be in any such hurry. Ye’ll not see the lady in the murderous mood yer in…and ’tis just as well, else ye’d be prone to do or say as ye shouldn’t!”
“Again, good woman, I thank you, and I thank you even for your dire predictions,” Dirick said, flashing a brief grin, “but I’ll be on my way.”
Tsking to herself, the woman followed in his unsteady footsteps to the doorway, and leaned against the wall as he let himself into the cold air.
“Have a care, milord,” she called as he mounted upon Nick. “An’ most especially, be yourself ware of the dagger!”
Though it had been nearly a full day since Dirick collapsed at the old woman’s hut, it wasn’t difficult to pick the trail left by a tired horse carrying two women. Since there’d been no snow, and the winds were low, he was able to see faint hoof prints and, more than once, the sweep of a skirt in the powdery white. Thank God women were prone to stop more often than a man for relief.
It was not long before he came upon an abbey. He rode to the entrance gate, hailing for entry. A robed sister accompanied a male serf to the gate and invited him inside.
“Sister, I seek a noble woman and her maidservant with only a single horse between them,” Dirick told her, declining to dismount until he learned if Maris was within.
The nun bowed her head. “You must speak with the Mother Abbess
, my lord, an’ you seek information about any of our guests. Please come within.”
Gritting his teeth, Dirick slid from Nick and handed the reins to the serf. He forced himself to retain a grip on his patience as he followed the calm sister. She trudged so slowly he was tempted to take her arm and yank her along in his wake, but that would certainly not endear him to the Abbess.
In fact, once in front of the stern-looking woman—whose disposition reminded him more than a little of his father’s hawk-faced mother—he managed to state his query in a calm, unhurried manner. He felt the Abbess’s look keenly upon him. She did not appear to be fooled by his seeming nonchalance.
“A lady such like you describe did just leave our gates early this morrow,” the woman told him. “A party of traveling monks and their escort did pledge to see the lady safely to her lands, as they rode in that direction.”
Dirick felt a keen sense of disappointment. Maris was in good hands to be returned to Langumont and he no longer had reason to be involved. As it was, Lord Merle’s lands lay in the opposite direction as Westminster, and ’twas well past time for Dirick to report to Henry on his findings about Bon de Savrille.
Alas, he’d not see Maris of Langumont again. It was only as he was drifting off to sleep on a pallet in the abbey that he remembered that the old crone had predicted just that.
Nearly a sevennight after she’d been abducted from Langumont, Maris and her escort rode up to the gates of the imposing keep.
“Hail, guard!” she called, urging her mount to the raised portcullis and separating herself from the rest of the travelers. “Do you raise the gate for me!”
She heard the shout of surprise from the watchman and the sudden scrambling to comply with her wishes. The portcullis rose quickly and easily as the drawbridge came down, and Maris, not waiting for the monks behind her, eagerly cantered across the slanted bridge.
“My lady! My lady!” The greetings and men-at-arms surrounded her so that her horse could go no further.
“We thought you dead, my lady!” cried one of the knights she recognized from her father’s retinue.
“My lady, ’tis horrible bad!” another man called, grabbing the bridle of her horse.
Maris slid from the saddle unassisted, smiling with relief, and patting the shoulders of the men she recognized. “But I am here and now all is well,” she told them, looking toward the keep. Verily her mama had been informed of her arrival, but there was no sign of anyone coming to greet her except the men in the bailey.
“Nay, nay, my lady!” Bern of Tristoff, the captain of the men-at-arms, urged her forward. “Nay, my lady, all is not well. You must see to your mama, as she is distraught and will not rise from her bed.”
“Aye, Bern, I’ll see her and she will regain her life, for I am safely returned.” She smiled gaily, so glad to be returned home…but none of the men and serfs seemed to share in the joy of her homecoming. “Send to me a messenger and I’ll see to Mama.”
She hurried toward the keep, noting that it seemed oddly quiet for the normal bustle of Langumont. She’d need to send a messenger to find Papa and relay the news that she was returned; their paths must have missed each other as he was on his way to find her. But first, she’d kiss her mama and show her that all was well.
“Lady Maris!” Bern dogged her heels, an urgent frown creasing her face. “Lady Maris, ‘tis the lord!”
“Aye, I must send to him that I am returned—”
“My lady!” The frustration in his voice was not to be ignored and he was at last gratified by his lady’s full attention. “Lady Maris, ’tis because of Lord Merle that the lady rises not!”
“Papa? He is here?” Maris’s heart leapt for joy. “I’ll not need the messenger, then.”
“My lady, the lord—he is dead.”
Part II
Chapter Fourteen
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.
“My lord,” Merren’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Draw near me now and I’ll show you the scene.”
All thoughts of Maris driven from his mind, Dirick urged Nick abreast of the messenger’s mount. “The bodies are here?”
“Aye, lord, there.” Merren pointed to two lumps that were covered with a smattering of snow.
They approached the bodies of Sir Harris of Bristol and his squire, the news of whose deaths had interrupted the king’s audience with Maris. When Henry learned that they had been found in a state similar to that of Harold of Derkland, he’d sent Dirick posthaste to the scene of the murders.
Now, Dirick dismounted, commanding Nick to stay, and gingerly moved toward the larger body. The new snow that covered the man was not heavy enough to obliterate the splashes of blood that colored the old, crusty snow. Nor was the posture of the man, and that of his squire, to be mistaken.
It was just as it had been described in the earlier events: both men were face-down, sprawled on the ground, with their arms bent awkwardly above their heads, each hand meeting that of the other man. It looked as though they’d fallen from some great height while clasping each other’s wrists. Sir Harris’s neck was broken, and his throat slit so that his head flipped back eerily onto his shoulders, blank eyes gaping up into the falling snow.
“Try this, my lady.” Agnes knelt at Maris’s feet, holding a finely-crafted leather slipper.
Mari
s slid a foot into the embroidered shoe, then the other into a second. “’Tis a good fit,” she mused. “I was not so certain in light of the haste in its making, but Lady Madelyne assured me the shoemaker would meet my needs.”
“Aye, and the seamstress as well,” nodded her maid as she stood to survey her mistress. “The gown becomes you, lady.”
“At the least it is more stylish,” Maris replied with a shrug. Yet, she was more pleased than her words indicated.
Upon Lady Madelyne’s suggestion, she’d retained a tailor and his seamstresses to create a gown from the store of material she’d brought from Langumont. Now, only two days after her arrival, she was dressed more like the other ladies clustering about the queen in her chambers.
The undertunic and bliaut were cut to fit more closely than her old gowns, making her feel a bit self-conscious about how well they molded to her hips and breasts. The girdle of gold links wrapped thrice about her waist, and its ends dangled nearly to the floor. And the sleeves of her pine-hued bliaut were so long and wide that Agnes had tied knots in the ends of them so that Maris would not tread upon the yellow and orange embroidery that decorated their cuffs.
A heavy necklet of rubies and one large emerald sat about her neck, and three rings adorned her hands. Though Maris never wore such amounts of jewelry at Langumont, Allegra had warned that she must decorate herself so at court, else the strength and wealth of her title be questioned. Agnes had plaited her long red-brown hair into four braids and stuffed them into heavy gold hair-cases, then covered her head with a fine gold veil.
A knock came at the door and the maid opened it to find Lady Madelyne, along with her cousin by marriage, Lady Judith of Kentworth.
“You look lovely,” Madelyne said, her moonstone eyes lighting with approval. “I cannot believe how quickly the seamstresses worked.” Her hand rested on a subtly-rounded belly that rose beneath her own gowns, hardly noticeable in the voluminous folds of her skirt.
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