As she rested her head back, she felt a folded cloth being inserted between her head and the rough stone wall. The vapor from the tub swirled about her face and she could feel the fear and tension of the last few days easing away as tiny rivulets of sweat trickled down her cheeks. She was safe at last. She sighed and closed her eyes.
They popped open as an image of the agonized face of Dirick de Arlande intruded into her thoughts.
She firmly turned her mind toward the thought of seeing her father again, refusing to let the face of the man who’d betrayed her encroach upon her peace. Nor did she allow herself to think long and hard about the fact that she’d saved his life when Bon de Savrille would have slain him. Maris might despise the man, mistrust and dislike him, but she would not have his death on her hands.
Dirick’s face, and the fury in his voice as he’d cursed her “witch,” would not be banished, however. Maris shivered, remembering the glint of anger in his grey eyes as she’d yanked free of his grip and swept past him to the steps. She’d felt something akin to remorse as she left him behind, knowing the pain her herb was capable of inflicting. He’d always appeared so large and strong that it disturbed her to see him laid low. An odd thought, she allowed. For should she not have been glad to see such a threatening man laid weak and slow?
He’d been grey with fatigue and breathing heavily against the agony in his middle. Thick hair clung to the sweat on his face and neck, and Maris remembered how his hand, though gripping her ankle tightly, trembled with the effort. She could not dismiss the memory of the lines of pain that radiated from his eyes and mouth. His lips had been thin and taut…not at all like the full, soft ones that had closed upon her mouth in the stables.
For a moment, she was back there, his arms around her and that mouth devouring hers. She remembered the feel of his fingers grasping handfuls of her hair, pushing up through her scalp…the warmth of his hard body in the chill of the early morning…and the spiraling pleasure curling up into her belly.
Maris jerked her thoughts from their pathway so violently that her body moved in the tub, splashing water onto the floor and startling the servant who sat silently in the corner. Must she call her confessor back so soon?
Pulling upright in the tub, she gestured for the maid to attend her. As the sure fingers of the servant massaged her scalp, spreading a rose scented soap in her damp hair, Maris allowed her eyes to ease shut again.
Lulled by the fingertips stroking her head, she found herself back in Dirick’s arms. His eyes were a silvery grey flecked with black and blue, and fringed with dark lashes, half closed with desire, his soft, smooth lips moving closer to hers…she could not block the image from her mind.
Instead, she focused on the expression of loathing in his face. The fury and disgust. And the abject pain and misery.
When the maid gently pushed, Maris bent her head so that the soap could be rinsed into the tub in front of her. The water trickled down her neck and the sides of her face, spilling into the water.
All at once, fear struck. Had she given too much of the broom? Mayhap he’d not survived, as she’d promised. Mayhap she’d risked overmuch in using the potent plant…and even now, Dirick and other innocents could be lying in their death pools.
She shuddered, pushing the thought away. Nay, she’d taken care so as not to make the dose too strong. But the look of agony…and the hatred in his eyes….
Maris swallowed deeply as she was made to stand in the shallow tub. Careful hands soaped her body as she struggled to dismiss the fears and regrets that plagued her mind now that it was not occupied with thoughts of escape.
Nay, she decided firmly, she’d not worry over it. Her papa may not have arrived in time, and she could not give pause to regret. What she’d done, she’d done. She’d escaped Breakston and would return home to her family.
Banishing the lingering thoughts of Sir Dirick, Maris stepped from the tub and allowed the maid to towel her dry. The fire still roared in the grate, keeping her warm until a borrowed night shift was slipped over her head. The maid braided the long dark hair then helped Maris climb into the high bed.
Just as she began to slip into sleep, a menacing thought prodded her wide awake. Returning home to Langumont meant returning home to her betrothed.
For an instant—a brief one—Maris contemplated returning to Breakston and accepting Lord Bon’s offer of marriage. At the least, he was malleable and would do her bidding. Sir Victor was naught but a rough bully.
But, nay, she’d return to Langumont and find some way to dissuade her father from finalizing the betrothal.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dirick’s head swam.
He closed his eyes, then reopened them carefully. Aye, the room was still shifting, tilting to one side.
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.”
<
br /> 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 FIFTEEN
A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series) Page 20