Now came the difficult part: a wedding gift for her betrothed.
The men-at-arms wandered along the streets in Maris’s wake as she perused stall after stall, vendor after vendor, and was able to find nothing she deemed suitable for Dirick.
At last they came to the market section that housed the jewelers and the goldsmiths. Wandering up and down the narrow aisles between stalls, Maris felt a growing sense of frustration as nothing seemed appropriate for her soon-to-be husband. And why this task of finding a gift should plague her, she didn’t know…but it did.
Finally, she paused at a goldsmith that specialized in fashioning brooches and pins for the cloaks and mantles worn by men and women alike. The thought came to her of a sudden.
“How quickly could you create a pin with my lord’s standard upon it?” she asked the smith.
The man frowned and ventured, “In six days, mayhap, my lady.”
She shook her head. “Half again as much if you can deliver it to me by Sunday morn.”
Obviously unwilling to the let opportunity pass him by, the smith considered briefly, then agreed. Maris dug out her leather pouch to give him an initial payment. When she pulled two silver coins from its depths, her dagger tumbled out onto the ground.
The smith stooped to retrieve it for her and made a little sound of delight. “Ah! Such a lovely piece. I’ve not seen this work for many a year, my lady!”
Instantly, her attention left the coins and focused on him. “You know of this work?”
“Aye. ’Tis the skill of Frederick of Gladwythe.”
“Where might one find this Frederick?” she asked, knowing that Dirick would demand the same information if he were present.
The smith shrugged. “My lady, I’ve not seen the man for five or six summers. He may be dead for all I know, as I’ve not seen any of his work for that long. He was not a young man.”
Maris dug an extra coin from her purse. “If you recall anything more about him, or where he might be found, do you send word to me, Maris of Langumont, or my betrothed husband, Dirick of Ludingdon. ’Tis a matter of life and death.”
He accepted the third coin with alacrity. “Aye, my lady. That I will do. And I will see that your husband’s pin is delivered to you by Sunday matins.”
“I thank you, good sir.” She bid him a good day and returned to Raymond and her other companions with a new bounce in her step. On their wedding day, she would have two presents for her husband.
Because the streets were so crowded, the party did not mount their horses. They were ambling along, the urgency of the trip now gone, when a loud noise behind them drew their attention.
A heavy cart was speeding down the narrow street in their direction, bouncing pell-mell behind two heavy horses. Screams and shouts rang through the air, and passersby jumped out of the way.
The cart narrowly missed the stall where Maris’s goldsmith was and trundled along without pause. As the crowd surged and ebbed, frantic to escape the runaway cart, Maris became separated from her party.
“Lady!” Raymond shouted when he saw the horses running straight at her.
She tried to duck out of the way, but the cart changed direction, following her as she dodged off the street. It rumbled along in her wake, tearing stalls from their moorings and knocking displays from their tables, gaining proximity as she stumbled down an alley.
Her lungs hurt and her leg ached where she tripped against the side of a stall, but Maris did not stop. The cart came closer, the noise barreling behind her like the rush of a huge wave, and she knew she would not come out of this alive.
Suddenly, as the alley opened onto a wide street, she spied the stone enclosure of a public well. Heading for it, she said a quick prayer. Maris grabbed the heavy wooden framework that supported a large bucket and jumped up and out of the way of the cart.
The cart stormed by, leaving dust in its wake, then disappeared down a side street.
Raymond ran up, his face tight with fear, exclaiming, “Lady, lady, are you all right?”
Shaken, Maris clambered down from her perch on the side of the well. Though she knew her eyes were huge, belaying her fright, she spoke calmly, “Aye, I am unhurt but for my leg.” She looked down at her torn, dirty gown, and knew that her hair, which had come unveiled during the chase, hung in sagging braids and straggles down her back. Discreetly, she lifted her skirt to examine her bloody, bruised leg.
Rufus, one of the other men-at-arms, brought Hickory to her and assisted Maris into the saddle. Her leg pained her and her head felt light, but she was determined to ride back to Westminster on her own accord.
They were nearly to the castle when they were met by a small company of men carrying the standard of Dirick of Ludingdon. Dirick himself rode at the forefront, and drew up his reins at the approach of the men from Langumont and its mistress.
“Ho!” he called, separating from his men to ride up to Maris’s side. His eyes widened at her disheveled appearance. “Maris! What has befallen you?”
She brushed a grimy hand over her face. “Naught but a near miss by a cart. ’Twas a runaway that got loose in the marketplace and I fell while trying to evade it.”
His lips tightened. “You did not tell me you were going to London. I would have been your escort had I known.”
Maris bristled even as she felt Raymond stiffen beside her. “My men are more than an adequate escort for me, my lord, and I will visit the market when I will, with or without your permission.”
Dirick’s face became empty of emotion. He reached over and took the reins from her hands, then led Hickory and her mistress away from the group of men. It wasn’t until he looked down at her that she realized she’d never seen him that cold and angry.
“I did not demand that you ask my permission to visit the market, Maris,” he said in a carefully emotionless voice. “However, you will never again speak to me in that manner in the presence of my men or your men. I was concerned only for your safety, as you are still unwed and a desirable match for any man—and from the look of your clothing, I can see that I was right to think so.”
With that, he turned and rejoined the party of men-at-arms, leaving Maris to follow him.
“Sir Raymond,” Dirick said, trying to force his anger to subside, “ride with me if you please. The rest of you, see that my lady returns to Westminster without acquiring anymore dirt on her face.”
Raymond approached him with a set look on his freckled countenance. Dirick shielded his hand against the beaming sun so that he could look him full in the eye. “Do you not look at me with such fury, man. I did meant no insult to you—’tis only that I wish to be told of my wife’s whereabouts in the future.” He raised his hand to stop the other man from speaking. “Nay, ’tis not your task to inform me. ’Tis a courtesy I request of my wife. Verily, Raymond, I can think of no other man that I’d want to escort my lady, with the exception of myself, than you. Truly.”
The other man seemed to accept his apology. “My lord, I thank you for your trust in me. I’ve served Langumont for greater than a score winters, and I will continue to serve my lady Maris until such time as she does not wish me around.”
Dirick nodded, recognizing that the man, while not combative, was also clearly delineating his loyalty—to Maris over that of Dirick. Such impertinence could have annoyed him further, but Dirick knew better. The safety of Maris was of paramount importance to both of them, and therefore, their intentions would be thus be aligned. “Verily, Raymond, and as you serve her, you serve me as well. And I must tell you that I am not so greatly pleased that you should take your service so seriously that you would rid her of an unwanted husband—”
“Lord Dirick,” the other man interrupted, a shameful look shadowing his face, “I meant naught—”
“Nay, do you not apologize. You meant only to protect your lady as any man should, particularly from the likes of Victor d’Arcy. However, as I am now her betrothed, I would take it as a personal affront should you attempt to rid h
er of my presence.” He allowed a bit of humor to light his eyes, even as he kept his voice commanding.
Raymond smiled with obvious relief. “Thank you, my lord, and you can be certain I shall take your words to heart as I know full well you can beat me at swordplay.”
“Not without much effort and a little luck,” he told him, remembering their mock battle at Langumont. “Now, tell me what passed this day in the market.”
Raymond sobered. “’Twas not a runaway, my lord, I should stake my honor on it.”
Dirick drew up in his saddle. “What say you, man?”
“It was no accident, my lord. The cart did not slow, and the horses did not act as though they were crazed…it seemed as though the driver urged them on. And,” he looked behind as if to see how far back was Maris, “it followed her when she ran down an alleyway.” He described how she had escaped from the cart.
Dirick swore, cold fear rushing over him. Someone had tried to kill Maris. She had nearly died. The blood drained from his head, rushing to throb at the ends of his limbs. “You did not see the driver to recognize him?”
Raymond shook his head. “Nay, my lord, he wore a helm pulled low and a mantle about his face. There were no markings on his clothing or on the cart.”
Taking a deep breath, Dirick looked up at the sky and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. Then he looked at Raymond. “I will investigate, and I would welcome any assistance you might give me. In the mean while, do you double your guard about her, especially when I am not near, and let us not tell her of our suspicions as yet. She will only argue or disregard them.”
With a grim smile, Raymond nodded.
Chapter Twenty
Two days.
Maris had two days until she was to wed Dirick of Ludingdon.
The thought had driven her from the chamber, where she badgered the seamstresses who worked diligently on her gown, into the courtyard near the queen’s apartments. She was alone with her thoughts and sank onto a stone bench in the corner of the square garden.
An oak tree spread shady limbs over her perch, and a small forsythia bush burst with sprays of yellow flowers. Maris idly watched as a bee nipped into a blossom, then out, skipping over the expanse of the tree, buzzing happily all the while.
Dirick had not been far from her mind in the last days, though she’d only seen him briefly when they met upon the road from London. She’d angered and embarrassed him in front of his men and her men, yet he’d done naught but give her a brief, pointed warning.
She sighed and broke a twig from the forsythia. Fingering the soft, tender blossoms, she closed her eyes. In two days’ time, she’d belong to him…and though she’d fought the idea of marriage long enough, somehow she’d come to accept—nay, she must be truthful if only to herself—come to welcome that she would be Dirick’s wife.
A pleasant shiver spiraled down to her belly, fluttering and heating her insides. Her mouth became dry at the thought of his lips, his hands and that great, muscular body against hers, touching her, joining with her. The heat she’d come to associate with Dirick pooled in her middle, surging to her womanly place, causing her breasts to tingle, and she drew a deep breath.
She suddenly became aware that she was not alone.
Her eyes flew open and she saw a page standing there, just off to the side, as if waiting for her to acknowledge him. He held a silver goblet encrusted with rubies and sapphires, and when her attention rested upon him, he gave a short bow, proffering the cup.
“My lady Maris, I am sent by your husband with this gift to quench your thirst.”
Her face heated at the possibility that Dirick was nearby and had seen her mooning over him. When she looked about, however, she saw that no one else was in the vicinity, and she returned her gaze to the page. “Is he not to join me?” She tried to submerge the pang of disappointment.
The page shook his head. “Nay, lady. The lord said only that ’tis a gift to you, his bride, and that he looks to the day you shall become one.”
Maris took the goblet, admiring its weight. “Thank you, and you may thank my lord for his thoughtfulness as well.”
The page bowed, turned, and walked sedately from the courtyard, leaving Maris alone with the bees.
Ruby wine glistened in its silver cup, and she took a sip before resting it on the bench beside her. Mayhap Dirick, too, was willing to put their differences behind them as their wedding day drew near. It would be more than she could hope that he would welcome their marriage for more than the riches and lands she would bring him.
Another sigh escaped her lips. She could not deny it any longer: she loved him.
Though he caused her ire to rise at their every meeting, he was never far from her thoughts…and the memory of his touch lived in her dreams.
The soft rustle of someone’s approach brought Maris’s attention from the goblet beside her. Without looking up, she knew it was Dirick.
“My lady.” He greeted her solemnly, almost warily.
She raised her face to him and was immediately ensnared in his piercing grey-blue gaze. “My lord. I did not think you would join me.”
He looked at her, tilting his head to one side as if surprised as her reaction. “The ladies told me you’d come for some air. I thought to sit with you for a time, as I’ve been otherwise occupied with the king for the last days.”
Her heart leapt. He had sent her a gift, and then he’d sought her out. “Please have a seat.”
“Our betrothal contracts have been finished,” he began, sinking onto the bench next to her.
A sense of disappointment settled in her middle. He’d not come to be with her for any other reason than to talk of their contract, and of the lands she would bring him. “Verily they meet your approval,” she replied coolly, refusing to look at him or his gift, “and that of the king.”
She felt him nod next to her. “Aye. They are more than fair, and follow the wishes of your father.”
“My father?”
“In the missive he sent to the king, he repudiated your betrothal with Victor. He also named you as his heir, though you are not of his blood, and—”
“What?” Maris turned to him, shock numbing her. “What did you say?”
“You did not know?” Dirick’s face showed his concern.
“That I am not of my father’s blood? Nay! Nay, I did not!” She felt lightheaded, lost, paralyzed. “How can that be?”
He reached for her hand, and the warmth of his fingers over her suddenly icy ones was welcome. “I am sorry that this is a surprise. Your father stated that he married your mother though he knew she was with child, but because he was unable to father a child, he chose to accept her babe as his heir. ’Twas the agreement he made with King Stephen.” The breeze ruffled his hair, tossing a wave onto his forehead as he gazed at her.
“Who is my father?”
He stroked her hand. “I do not know that, my lady. He did not say in the missive.”
“Jesù,” she breathed. “And that is why he and my mother never had another child.” Tears dampened her eyes and an empty, bereft feeling settled with her heart. “He was my father, though I am not of his loins. I do not care that another man sired me.”
Dirick nodded. “Merle was a fine man and had I not my own father whom to admire, I’d be proud to be of his blood.” He pressed her index finger to his lips. “The contracts are ready to be signed.” He hesitated, then said, “I will have them brought to you, should you wish, before I place my seal upon them. If there is aught that you do not like, I will try to change it to your liking.”
Maris could only stare at him. He asked for her agreement before he signed the contracts? What man would do that? “My lord, I do not know what to say.” Indeed, her tongue stuck in her throat, her mind both shocked and delighted at the realization that he should care for her opinion. “I—I…I thank you, Dirick, for your consideration. If you believe they are fair, and if they allow me to retain mine own lands should you pre-decease me, I shall not con
test them.”
“Henry showed me the missive from your father, and his wishes were just that. Your dowry is generous and shall also be returned to you should I die, and even if we produce an heir, those lands shall revert to you upon my death. Our heir should accede to Ludingdon and Fairhill, unless ’tis a girl, and then, if you wish, she shall have Langumont.”
“’Tis more than fair.” She could barely form the words as she suddenly had an image of the babe they would produce. Her throat was dry, and she reached for the wine. “Thank you, my lord, for this beautiful gift,” she raised the cup to him, then to her mouth to drink.
The goblet never made it to her lips, as a sudden force sent it spinning to the ground. Maris shrank back from him in surprise as much from his action as the fierce look on his face.
“I did not give you such a gift.” His grey eyes had darkened ominously, turning into steel in his ferocity. “How did you come by that thought?”
She could not speak for a moment, so unexpected was his reaction. Then, sanity reigned, and she replied, “But only moments before you came to me, a page delivered it, saying ’twas a gift from you.”
“Did you drink of it?” He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her near him as he searched her eyes. “Maris, did you?”
Maris pulled sharply away. “Aye, but no more than a small sip. What ails you, Dirick?”
“It could have been poisoned. It most likely was poisoned!”
“Why should anyone poison me?” She could not contain her shock.
“For the same reason they should try to run you down in the market place. I do not know.” His face sagged into serious concern. “Maris, you must have a care! Someone here does not want you to live. Promise me, promise me, that you will go nowhere without me or Raymond until we leave this place.”
Maris nodded, the lump in her throat lodging any words she may have wished to speak inside. Why should anyone wish to kill her?
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