A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series)

by Colleen Gleason

  Three months later

  “’Tis only his right that the king requires my presence at court,” Maris told her mother wearily.

  “But your papa has been gone for a mere three moons,” Allegra wailed, her ever present handkerchief fluttering to the face that seemed much more weary and old since her husband’s death. “Can his majesty not leave us in peace until we have finished mourning?”

  Maris shook her head in frustration as she pulled a bolt of finely woven linen from a trunk. In a terrible twist of fate, her father had been slain by a loose arrow as his men prepared to besiege Breakston—at a time after she’d already made her escape.

  The irony and horror that she’d already been safe when her Papa was killed had sat like a heavy black stone in her belly for months.

  “Mama, I must go to the king to pledge mine own fealty to him as heir to Langumont. ’T has been more than time enough since Papa’s passing in King Henry’s eyes, and it’s my duty as his vassal.”

  “I’ll not go,” Allegra told her.

  “Aye, Mama, you’ll not. ’Tis I who must pledge to my lord. You’ll stay here.” Maris didn’t think that her frail mother would last the journey to London. In the last few moons, her grey streaked hair had become almost pure white and the lines that creased her face bespoke of a great weariness and worry.

  “Aye. An’ I’ll offer a score rosaries a day for your papa’s soul.” The words came out in a moan.

  “Agnes, this green linen I’ll have for an over tunic,” Maris announced, turning from her mother with relief. She handed the cloth to the woman who’d become an invaluable support since her return to Langumont and the death of its lord.

  Taking the bolt, the maid added it to a growing pile of other fine cloths. If the Lady of Langumont was to be summoned to court, she’d be dressed in all the finery and fashion that her position warranted. The seamstresses had been working night and day since the missive from Henry arrived two days earlier, and still Maris delved into the stores of imported fabrics held in Langumont’s storage chambers. Most of her gowns would be made whilst she was at court to be certain that they were of the latest fashion, she thought to bring her own fabrics rather than pay the higher price most certainly demanded in London Town.

  As Agnes took the cloth, a corner fell and something clattered to the floor. “Peste!” Maris exclaimed in surprise, reaching under the stool for the object. It was a dagger—one she’d never seen before—and she examined it with interest.

  Allegra, brought from her trance of woe by her daughter’s unladylike language, sat upright when she saw the small weapon. “I’d forgotten. . . .” she murmured, reaching to take the ornate dagger from Maris.

  “How did this come to be in a trunk of cloth?” Maris hadn’t taken her eyes from the delicate but lethal dagger, replete with filigree and carved roses on its handle.

  “It was your papa’s,” Allegra said dreamily, turning the wicked looking knife around in her hands.

  “Papa’s?” Maris couldn’t imagine her father owning something so feminine and delicate.

  “Nay, ’twas a gift of his to me,” her mother explained.

  “I’ll take it with me,” Maris said, knowing she might very well be in need of protection. The small weapon would be easily hidden and transported, yet would do very nicely slipping betwixt the ribs of a thief or other danger. She suspected that court could be more dangerous than a battlefield…with its dark, dank hallways and ears that listen betwixt the walls.

  She leaned over and pressed a light kiss to her mother’s worn face. “God willing, I’ll see his majesty and return to your side before two moons,” she told Allegra.

  ~*~

  London!

  Maris straightened in her saddle, straining to take in every detail of the bustling city. The streets were narrow, beaten paths, lined with buildings and strewn with refuse. Hawkers selling their wares crowded between the people on foot and darted out from under the hooves of well reined mounts.

  It was even louder than she’d expected, and much dirtier. But, to Maris’s innocent eyes, there was beauty in the variety of people that filled the streets. Since she rode Hickory, she had no concern of treading in the garbage that was everywhere. Instead, she gawked like the country girl she was as Raymond of Vermille led the entourage from Langumont to the king’s palace.

  When he rode up beside her, she beamed upon him in a smile rare since her father’s death. “’Tis wondrous loud,” Maris commented. “And it seems as if it will never stop moving.”

  “Aye, my lady, loud and filthy,” Sir Raymond responded. “And unsafe, Lady Maris. You’ll not venture out without several guards.” His words were the merest tentative, for he well knew that she was used to coming and going as she pleased. “I’ve sent Sir Garrek with the news of your arrival to his majesty. ’Twill be some days before the king will see you.”

  “Aye. Then I shall have time to settle and learn my way of the court. I hope to have chambers within and near the other ladies.” Maris’s attention was drawn to a vendor dressed in unusual garb: dusty, draping clothing and a headdress of cloth wound around his head and face. He reminded her of Good Venny, for he had the same dark skin and her mentor had worn similar clothing. The man’s wares did not interest her, but the small furry creature that perched on his shoulder caused her to rein in Hickory for a closer look. “Sir Raymond, look you at that creature!”

  The knight paused beside his mistress, “Aye, my lady. ’Tis called a monkey and comes from afar, mayhap from Jerusalem itself.”

  The other men at arms drew themselves near Maris and Raymond, causing a large blockage of the street. “My lady,” Sir Raymond said, attempting to pull her attention from the creature that held her fascination, “let us go on to the castle. We can return to the market when you wish, and, I vow, you’ll see more than a mere monkey.”

  Maris nodded in agreement. She could gawk and stare at the sights of London Town at another time. Now, alas, she must heed Sir Raymond and proceed onward.

  The party gained entrance within the bailey walls of Westminster, and Sir Raymond helped Maris alight from her mount. Inside the castle, of which the great hall had been built by William the Conquerer himself, the steward greeted the Lady of Langumont and directed her to the chambers she would inhabit near the other wards of the king.

  “Ward of the king,” Maris muttered to herself, her full lips flattening into a frown. ’Twas the first time she’d realized the reality of her new position, and its implications shook her composure.

  She followed a page through the intricate hallways of the castle, suddenly aware of how different her life could become. The king’s ward was his to do with as he wished, to marry to whomever he desired a political alliance with, or give as a reward to a faithful vassal. He could even, Maris realized, require that she remain a permanent member of the royal court until such time as he chose to bestow her person—nay, her lands—upon some greedy lord that was not of her choosing.

  Yet….Her heart’s pounding slowed its breakneck pace. She was already betrothed, she was safe from that—was she not? If her papa had signed the betrothal contract, it would be no easy task for even the King of England to go against the Church and annul a betrothal agreement, even though no betrothal vows had been spoken.

  Since Papa’s death, neither Victor nor Michael d’Arcy had come to Langumont nor sent any messages. Maris, enveloped with grief over her loss, and further distracted by the failing health of her mother, had hardly given it any thought. In fact, she’d considered it a boon of good fortune not to have to face her betrothed and her father. But now, she wondered on it.

  Had the d’Arcys left the Langumont women alone to their grief? Had they needed to return to their own lands, and would return after some time had passed?

  It mattered not to Maris, just so long as she didn’t see Victor d’Arcy. In an ironic sort of way, it was a good position in which she found herself: she was betrothed and thus not free to any other single man, b
ut not yet wed. And her future husband was not there to order her about.

  The page stopped at a large oaken door, drawing Maris from her unpleasant labyrinth of thoughts. She realized she had no idea how they’d come through the twisting halls of the castle to these chambers and turned questioningly to the page.

  Before she could speak, the young boy said, “Here is your chamber. Your maid and trunks will be brought to you, my lady. When you wish to go to the hall for dinner, you have only to send for me or another of the pages and we will happily guide you within.” And then, with a little bow, he was gone.

  ~*~

  Some time later, Maris smoothed the cloth of gold fabric of her wimple and swallowed hard. She hadn’t realized she’d feel so nervous before seeing the king—and her trepidation was heightened by the fact that she’d barely received the trunks in her chambers when Henry summoned her to his presence.

  She could hardly believe the king had found time to see her so soon upon her arrival, and Maris couldn’t help but fear the reason for it.

  The page who brought the message from His Majesty was not the one who’d escorted her only an hour earlier. He was slightly older than his predecessor—mayhap nine or ten years—and he wore his dignity about him like a bishop.

  Despite her nervousness, Maris bade him wait in the hallway whilst she and Agnes tried frantically to make her presentable enough to appear in the royal presence. She had no time for the benefit of a bath to wash the dirt from travel, nor the opportunity to press the wrinkles from her gowns. As it was, apprehension spurred Maris to leave the chambers with her hair still merely braided and her traveling shoes still upon her feet.

  Now, waiting just on the other side of the door leading to Henry’s court chamber, she regretted her haste. The wimple covered her simple braid, but the toes of her shoes were stained and worn and peeped from beneath the skirts of her best gown. The gown itself would do (although the brief glimpses Maris had seen of other ladies of the court told her that it was seriously out of fashion), for the fabric was a brilliant gold that shimmered as she moved, with long sleeves that opened nearly to the ground at her wrists. A dark red overtunic, complementing the garnets that she wore in a heavy necklet, fitted over the gown and displayed the talents of the seamstresses at Langumont, who’d labored over its gold and green embroidery for days. The gown had been intended for her betrothal ceremony and, in spite of its out-of-date style, was certainly fit for meeting her king.

  Maris was just beginning to fidget nervously when the doors opened and yet another page gestured for her to enter. Standing regally, although her heart was pounding, Maris followed him into the room, praying that her knees would not give away.

  Henry stood directly to her left near a large, gilt chair. He was a handsome man, she thought to herself, with his reddish hair and muscular build. Maris drew near, noting that the chamber was empty of people other than the king and the page who’d summoned her.

  “My liege,” she murmured, sweeping into a full curtsey before him with her forehead nearly to the ground. Her skirts pooled around her and she covertly adjusted them to cover her shoes.

  “Maris of Langumont.” The king’s voice was booming but kind. She could almost hear a smile in its timbre as he continued, “Rise, child, I’ve long waited to meet the daughter of the fine Merle of Langumont.”

  Though he was a mere four years her elder, somehow it was appropriate that the stunning, powerful man before her call her ‘child.’ “Thank you, your grace,” Maris told him as she pulled lightly to her feet. “I’ve long wished to meet you as well, sire,” she said, emboldened by the warmth in his blue eyes.

  “We were aggrieved to hear of your father’s demise,” Henry told her in his regal voice. “’Twas unfortunate that one of my most loyal vassals should die in an attempt to retrieve his kidnapped daughter. And in such a tragic manner.”

  “Aye, your grace.” Maris’s voice was shamefully unsteady. “My father was well loved and ’tis a tragedy that he should be felled by a wild arrow during my rescue, most especially since I had already made my escape.”

  “Ah, yes,” Henry nodded. “Most unfortunate, my dear Maris. Yet, I understand you were quite enterprising to have made your own escape.” Before she could respond, he beckoned to the shadows. “Well, Dirick, now you have seen that indeed the lady lives. Are you well satisfied?”

  Maris froze. Her disbelief turned to mortification and annoyance as the figure stepping from a dark corner metamorphosed into the familiar person of Dirick de Arlande. The blood drained from her face and she felt a pounding in her temple take its place. Clenching her fists into the folds of her skirt, she turned to the king.

  “With respect, my lord,” she said, keeping her eyes from the man who drew near the throne, “you harbor a traitor in these chambers.”

  “Traitor?” Henry’s fine red eyebrows rose in question. “Treason is a very serious charge, my lady. Are you certain?”

  “Aye, your majesty.” Maris darted an angry glance at Dirick, then returned her attention to the king. “’Tis this man who plotted with my captor after lulling my father into complacence during his stay at Langumont.”

  The barest hint of a smile playing about his lips, Henry turned. “Dirick, what say you to these accusations?”

  “My liege.” Dirick’s voice was easy, but laced with a hint of annoyance. “You are as well aware as I that I was at Breakston at your behest and became accidentally entangled in this nightmare.”

  Maris gasped at such a bald faced lie. Whirling to face him, she countered, “Sir Dirick, how then do you explain your stay at Langumont if it were not to plot against myself and my father?”

  “It may come as an enlightenment to you, Lady Maris, but the entire kingdom does not revolve about you in its every working,” Sir Dirick said, again in that mellow, smooth voice that made her want to shriek in frustration. “I hope you are not too overset to learn that I had other reasons for availing myself of your father’s hospitality than aught in regard to your fair person.”

  “And what was I to think, then, when you were one of the gawkers at whose feet I was cast by my abductors? You, who made no move to assist me, even to the extent of breaking into my chamber—”

  “Lady Maris, I do not believe this conversation need continue here.” Dirick’s mellow voice carried a hint of warning.

  She drew herself up, suddenly aware that she stood shrieking like a harpy in the king’s chambers. Her cheeks warmed. “Well said, Sir Dirick,” she lowered her eyes as mortification swept over her. “I have no wish to continue this conversation at any other time,” she muttered to herself.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady?” asked Henry, the trace of a smile still lingering.

  “It was of no import, my liege,” she said with a small curtsey.

  Henry glanced at Dirick, who stood next to him, then turned his regal gaze back onto Maris. “About this charge of treason, my lady. You do realize that the sentence for this crime is hanging?”

  She swallowed, refusing to look at the dark haired man who stared at her mockingly. “Your grace, I—I may have misspoke myself and—and may not have fully considered the situation. I withdraw my accusation—for the time being,” she added with spirit, still keeping her gaze averted from Dirick.

  The king nodded. “Aye, then. I think that a wise decision.” He stroked his beard with thick fingers as if deep in thought. “You’ll pledge your fealty to me three days hence, Maris of Langumont.”

  The king might have continued speaking had there not been an urgent knocking upon the chamber door. The sole page left in their presence hurried to answer it, and Henry looked on curiously.

  “Your majesty.” A royal messenger entered and swept toward the king, his bow fluid and elegant.

  “Rise, Merren. What brings you in such haste?”

  “’Tis terrible news. But mayhap I am interrupting?” The lanky messenger glanced at Maris, giving an expectant pause.

  Henry nodded then turned t
o Maris. “My lady, you may return to your chambers. I will expect to see you at supper this eventide. In fact, you shall find your place as my guest this night.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she managed to stammer, stunned by his invitation and disappointed that she would not hear what terrible news the messenger brought. Picking up her skirts, she turned, avoiding making any eye contact with Dirick, who now leaned casually against the throne chair. It was not lost on her that she, and not Sir Dirick, had been asked to leave the king’s chambers.

  Nervous worry and indignation accompanied her movements as Maris made a curtsey to the king. Nevertheless, she walked unhurriedly to the chamber door, acting for all the world as if she had not conducted herself the complete fool in front of her liege lord.

  When Maris felt rather than heard the heavy door close behind her, she released her breath in a forceful whoosh of relief.

  “Lady Maris?”

  A voice from behind startled Maris. She whirled, embarrassed at being observed in such an informal state. A woman, mayhap a few years older than she, stood near one of the torches that lit the hall. She had an aura of ease and peacefulness about her, and the smile she bestowed on Madelyne was warm and friendly.