Dirick reined in abruptly at the huge iron gates looming above him.
“Who goes there?” called a voice from above.
“Dirick de Arlande, begging for succor,” he called back, tilting his head to see.
There was a long moment, then the voice returned, “From whence come you, Sir de Arlande?”
“I am originally come from Paris and most recently, Dover,” he replied. “I have traveled for days, looking for work. I am quite skilled in arms.”
Again, there was a long pause. Then, “You are French?”
“Aye. I hail from near Brest,” Dirick replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Most often, unless there were unusual circumstances, questions such as these were saved for after a lone knight was allowed entrance.
At long last, the portcullis began to creak and shake violently as the gate was raised. Dirick urged Nick forward, uncertain that the ailing gate was in good enough repair to ensure his safe passage. Once inside the bailey, he was greeted by a stocky, pock marked man that held himself in high importance.
“You are well come to Breakston, Sir de Arlande,” he said. A man hovered in the background until he was urged forward, “Take this man’s mount, Severn.”
Dirick relinquished Nick with some hesitation, yet the man seemed to know what he was doing and led the destrier away with little effort. “Many thanks for allowing me entrance,” he told the first man.
“I am Sir Robert, castellan of Breakston. My lord, Bon de Savrille, awaits your presence within.” That was it. No smile, no friendly greeting—just a barely disguised order that Dirick draw himself within.
He grimaced inwardly and followed Robert across the small, cluttered bailey, feeling even more certain that Henry was right. At the very least, de Savrille had allowed his fief to fall into disrepair—which meant lower revenues and taxes for the king.
Dirick noted that the keep was in need of some repair, but it was by no means falling down about him. There weren’t many serfs, nor were there many men at arms about. It was a much quieter, sullen place than his home and that of Langumont.
Sir Robert led the way across the smoky hall strewn with rushes so old and rotted that they ground away under their mailed feet. Several dogs greeted them, sniffing at their heels until Sir Robert lifted a foot to kick them away. Then they slunk off to a spot under one of the tables. Smoke hovered much too low in the air, along with the stench of old grease and rotting food. Breathing carefully through his nose, Dirick hoped that he would not be a guest of Breakston overlong.
Bon de Savrille, Dirick assumed, was the stocky, bearded man sitting in a heavy chair near the fire. The blaze, at the least, was in marvelous condition. De Savrille’s dark eyes bored into him as he approached, slitted with mistrust. Immediately, Dirick allowed his features to relax and slip into a vacant expression.
“My Lord de Savrille,” he greeted upon reaching the warmth of the fire. He made a fine bow, and upon the upsweep, was gracious enough to add, “Many thanks to you for a spot to sleep for the night.”
“Aye,” Bon returned, sipping from a goblet.
Dirick inclined his head to the other man at the fire, a shorter, well freckled one with a shock of red hair. His paunch was nearly the size of Lord de Savrille’s, and his eyes not nearly as sharp. But there was a hint of suspicion within his countenance as well. “My lord,” he greeted the other man, uncertain of his title.
“Meet Edwin Baegot,” Bon explained carelessly.
“Well met, sieur,” Dirick replied, then settled himself easily on a roughly hewn stool near Bon de Savrille.
“Agnes!” barked Bon, “Bring this man some food and more ale for me!”
A shadow moved from a nearby corner, transforming into a skittish, gown draped woman, and hurried out of the room. As Dirick’s eyes followed her, he noticed that the great hall was nearly empty of men-at-arms, serfs, and any other form of life with the exception of the mangy dogs that had followed them into the room. Feeling the weight of Edwin’s suspicious gaze on him, Dirick kept his face blank despite the fact that his mind was racing. At the very least, Henry must find another vassal for Breakston.
Edwin asked about his journey and Dirick filled the silence with superficial babble about the roads and the holes in them, along with comments about the weather.
“Ah, at last you have returned you worthless creature!” Bon greeted Agnes, who nearly stumbled over one of the dogs. “Clumsy bitch,” he muttered as she carefully poured a healthy portion of ale into his goblet, spilling nary a drop in the process.
When she turned to offer Dirick a piece of hard bread and pale yellow cheese, he noticed the long purple scar that marred an otherwise pretty face. Her hair normally would cover it, but it swung out of the way as she stepped forward. “Thank’ee milady.”
“Lady?” scoffed Bon, nearly spewing ale in Dirick’s face. “If ye take a liking to her, she’ll spread her legs fast enough to knock you over. Lady, indeed!”
Agnes ducked her head and her hair obscured her face once again. She turned away to her corner, drawing the folds of her gown so that she did not stumble again. Dirick turned to his food, stifling any outward signs of compassion for the woman.
Ale dribbling into his neatly cropped beard, Bon slugged a hand across his mouth and asked, “How fares the Earl of Chantresse? Is it true that his daughter was to marry Enrique du Mathilde?”
Dirick idly scraped a bit of mold off the last bite of cheese, aware that de Savrille was likely attempting to confirm his guest’s story of being French. The fact that he felt the need to do so was quite interesting. “Aye, my lord, they were wed Midsummer last. ’Twas said that the daughter, Elisabet, was near dragged to the altar and that her papa said her ayes.” He gave a short bark of laughter, certain that Bon would find the story amusing.
“God willing ’twill not be such a trial on my wedding day,” Bon mused behind the hand that wiped again at his beard. The words were soft and not meant for his ears, but Dirick discerned the comment with little trouble.
“’Tis fair unlikely to happen any different here,” muttered Edwin more loudly.
Bon shot him a glare, but that didn’t suppress Dirick’s ingenuous question. “Is there to be a wedding here then?” He made it a point to not look around the quiet hall.
“Aye, if the wench’ll have me,” Bon replied. He and Edwin exchanged pointed looks followed by deep guffaws of laughter.
“And the lucky wench? Does she bring a great dowry, then?” Mayhap de Savrille needed more funds to set the place to rights and meant to get it from his wife.
Bon’s eyes narrowed to slits as if he suddenly realized that the turn of the conversation was not to his liking. “’Tis a love match,” he snapped.
This set Edwin to coughing. He began to choke on his ale and was forced to spit onto the floor. The dogs rushed forward with enthusiasm, then slunk away when they realized it was only ale.
Bon glared at his amused companion and stood abruptly. “There is a place for your pallet there. You will join us in a hunt on the morrow, Sir Dirick.”
With that, he turned and, barked at the lump in the corner. “Agnes! Come!”
Dirick watched them leave, then, under Edwin’s sharp stare, gathered his belongings and trudged to the corner indicated by de Savrille. There were no more than five other men snoring in what he took to be the knights’ quarters, and as he shook out his blanket, a small furry creature darted from between them. Rats.
His stomach turned and he almost cursed his sovereign for sending him to spy on what seemed to be no more than two bumbling idiots who lived amongst rats. But he stopped himself in time, for cursing his God given sovereign, his brother the monk would warn, would result in either hanging for treason if done aloud, or damnation if done in private.
Instead, Dirick eased his travel worn body onto the only clean surface in the entire keep and closed his eyes.
~*~
Maris sat primly in her saddle, golden skirts fl
uttering lightly. The brilliant blue cloak that Dirick de Arlande had so admired covered her from shoulder to toe, and much of Hickory’s rump as well. Maris’s chestnut hair was modestly covered by a heavy golden wrap, edged in mink, and her hands wrapped in the folds of the rabbit lined cloak.
She looked every inch the proper, controlled lady of the manor.
Inwardly, she was seething.
“Are you certain that you do not yet tire, milady?” asked Sir Victor for perhaps the dozenth time since they’d left Langumont Keep’s portcullis behind.
“Nay,” she replied, for the dozenth time, from between clenched teeth. In sooth, she was wearier from holding Hickory back from the spirited canter—or even full gallop—that the mare, as well as her mistress, desired.
Maris slanted a glance to the man who rode comfortably next to her. He sat tall and straight in the saddle, loosely holding the reins, allowing his gaze to cast about over the villagers and the town buildings.
Victor’s straight cap of hair, as pale as the wheat grown in Langumont’s fields, barely shifted as he was jounced along in his saddle. He was not an unhandsome man, she admitted to herself—in fact, he was not at all hard on the eyes. He seemed to have an even temper, although he tended, like her mother, to protect her as if she were a child. It was Victor who had suggested the ride, and Maris, anticipating a great race across the northwest field toward the forest, had agreed with alacrity. Alas, when she’d given Hickory her head and they moved into a canter just outside the wall of the keep, her companion had actually reached over and reined her mare into a trot.
It had taken every ounce of control that she possessed not to loosen a torment of fury upon him. Instead, Maris, thinking of her father’s wishes, swallowed her angry words at his presumption and meekly settled into a trot. Mayhaps, she thought as they wound their way carefully down the main street of the village, he did not know of any woman as comfortable on a horse as she.
“Good day, Mistress Beth,” she called in English to the smith’s wife with a wave.
“Good day, milady,” the other woman responded with a bright smile. She had her youngest child by the hand, and nudged the toddler to wave also to the grand lady who rode past.
“You are much too familiar with the peasants, my lady,” murmured Victor with distaste. “And why on earth would you learn to speak their coarse language?”
Maris stared at him in shock. “And how else would I communicate with them if I did not speak their language?” she sputtered.
Victor turned to her in surprise, “As I—and all other nobility—do: through an interpreter. ’Twould be in your interest when you go to court that you forget your knowledge of English…else you will make of yourself, and me, a laughing stock.”
Maris turned an annoyed glare upon him. “Then my papa must not be nobility in your eyes, as he is the same one who encouraged me to learn the language. He himself does better than I!”
Victor flushed ever so slightly; in fact, it may have been just a stinging wind that caused his cheeks to pinken, and looked taken aback. “My lady, I—”
“’Tis in my best interest, Sir Victor, to rely on no one but myself as to what is spoken to me. Interpreters have been known to twist words into their own. Even the king and his queen read and write their own words, speak the language of their people as well as their own.”
“Lady Maris—”
She would not let him finish. Her temper had snapped and her father’s wishes thrown to the birds for the now. “And I am Lady of Langumont,” she drew herself up in the saddle to her full, diminutive height. “I care not what the ladies—or even the men—at court think of me. And I particularly should not care if you are a laughing stock because I choose to communicate with my people. And,” she leaned out of her saddle toward the now silent Victor to drive her point home, “you, sir, presume overmuch, as a betrothal has neither been announced nor signed!” She sat back and drew a deep breath, ready to do more battle.
“Ah, but my lady, ’tis where you err.” Victor’s voice was silky…too silky, and a surprise shiver sang along her spine. “Even as we trot along at such a sedate pace, our fathers are finalizing the betrothal arrangements. The agreement is to be announced at dinner, and we shall seal the contract two days hence.”
As Victor’s words sank in and Maris realized that her betrothal was truly going to happen, she gave in to the urge to run away.
With a swift movement she’d perfected years ago, she gathered her skirts and brought her right leg over the saddle so that she was straddling the mare in a most unladylike but practical fashion. All in one instant, she gave a sharp kick and loosed the reins. Hickory shot forward. She heard Victor’s shout of surprise behind her, and, looking over her shoulder, saw that he’d started after them.
Containing a cry of joy at the freedom of tearing across a pristine field of white snow, she urged Hickory on, fully enjoying the risk she took of angering her soon to be betrothed. ’Twould be worth the inevitable lecture, she thought, grinning into Hickory’s mane.
They easily cleared the stone fence that marked the end of the Lord of Langumont’s grain field, heading straight for the dense forest. Maris’s head covering jounced loose and landed on a low bush. Her long braid flew free, the end bouncing off Hickory’s rump with the rhythm of the mare’s strides.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Victor, bent over his mount’s neck, racing across the field. With a mental sigh of capitulation, she slowed Hickory just as they reached the beginnings of the forest. Turning about, Maris watched as Victor roared up beside her, nearly trampling them both. Either he was overcome with rage and did not care if he injured her, or he did not handle his mount as well as a he should.
Before she had a thought to speak, he grabbed the reins from her hand and drew Hickory’s head around toward the rear of his stallion so that he and Maris were very close and facing each other. His eyes were nearly black and his mouth compressed in a firm line. “Are you a madwoman?” were his first words. “Am I to wed a madwoman?”
“Nay, I—”
“Silence!” he thundered so furiously that she reconsidered finishing her sentence. His eyes closed into slits, and, still holding tightly to her reins, he slid off his horse, landing in snow to his mid calf. Looping his own reins over an arm, he reached up and grabbed her wrist. “Let me help you down, milady,” he said in a voice that brooked no disobedience, nearly yanking her off the saddle. She came down gracefully, landing in the circle of his arms.
Dropping the reins, he yanked her closer, and the other hand reached up to close tightly over her chin. The expression on his face was dark and determined, and for the first time, Maris had a sense of real trepidation and she reflexively stepped back, twisting her face away.
“Oh, nay,” he whispered, jerking her close, his fingers tightening on her arm. “Do you not step away from me, wife.”
“I am not your—”
Her words were stifled as he crushed his mouth to hers. At her involuntary gasp, his hand went to the back of her head, his fingers curling roughly into her hair, dragging down on it to hold her steady. He held her immobile as his lips and tongue brutally invaded her mouth. The hand on her wrist loosened to move around her waist and pull her close to his hips while the fingers of his other hand pressed into the back of her skull.
Maris fought the nausea that rose in her throat at his angry onslaught. Her eyes closed and she pushed against him fiercely. She should have known better than to anger him thus.
At last he pulled away from her mouth, breathing heavily, and looked down at her with eyes glazed with desire. “Aye, you’ll be a fine wife,” he breathed frost into her face, “once you have learned that I am to be obeyed in all things.” As she stood frozen, he reached up to fumble with the ties of her cloak.
“What—”
“I told you to remain silent.” His hand shot up to pinch her chin, and he gave it a vicious twist. “I would learn what other treasures I win along with the lands of
Langumont.” Before she could protest, her cloak fell to the snow in a pool of blue. With horror, she realized what he was about. Surely he did not mean to disrobe her…here.
“Nay,” she cried, clutching her overtunic to her neck.
He grabbed her wrists, forcing them behind her back, and settled his hand into a vee beneath her chin, holding her by the throat. Maris felt the rough bark of a tree behind her, rasping over her hands, as he forced his mouth onto hers. As the kiss deepened, his hand slipped from her chin to cover one of her breasts. She jolted in shock, pulling her mouth away with a desperate twist.
“Release me,” she demanded, her voice unsteady with shock. To her horror, she felt the warm trickle of a tear down her cheek.
Victor ignored her command, pressing his hips into hers. She felt the rise of his desire, hard and threatening against her thigh and Maris struggled to keep her breath steady. Surely he wouldn’t…here. Surely. Those thoughts were the only things that kept her from going mad with desperation.
A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series) Page 13