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.
Victor smiled with cold satisfaction as he kneaded her breast through three layers of wool, pinching and fondling her thoroughly. “’Tis well that you are not used to this kind of touch, else there might be other things you will learn.” He pressed an almost tender kiss to her bruised lips.
Maris twisted away. “Release me,” she said again, trying to slip free.
“You are soon to be my wife,” he said, his voice hard, his hands tightening over her breast and around her wrists. “And I am determined that we shall suit well, my lady. In fact, I shall ensure that we will suit.”
This last was said conversationally as his fingers found and teased the nipple that had stiffened with cold. He pinched it enough to bring a gasp from her throat. Bending his knee, he pressed his groin into her thigh as he forced her mouth open once again with his teeth. A low moan escaped from him as he ground his throbbing erection into the joint between her torso and thigh.
He pulled back and looked down at her. Still holding her wrists, he used his other hand to comb through her loosened braid. “Beautiful,” he breathed with satisfaction. “When we are at court, you shall cover this with naught but a net of jewels.” With a sudden twist of the wrist, he grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked hard enough to bend her head back so that she looked into his face.
Victor met her wide eyes. “You angered me, my lady. You angered me with your sharp tongue, and your disregard for your person—tearing across the fields as you did. Take care not to anger me in the future, Maris, and we shall do well together.”
With that, he turned and clomped away through the snow. Gathering up the reins of his mount, he swung himself into the saddle, and, without a backward glance, urged the horse into a loping canter back toward the keep.
Shaken and numb, Maris stiffly gathered up her cloak. As she draped it around her trembling shoulders, she tried to hold back the tears. The Lady of Langumont would not cry. Turning to look about, she saw Hickory and whistled for her mare.
A heavy weight settled over her as she climbed into the saddle, her trembling hands fumbling with the reins. He would be her betrothed two days hence. As her wedded husband, he owned her—owned her—and could do as he wished. He could beat her, rape her, even kill her if he chose. Maris had met and cared for a young woman just a little more than a year ago, Lady Joanna, who had been beaten nearly to her death by her husband.
With a fearful, shuddering sigh, she urged Hickory into a slow trot. Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she held onto the reins so tightly that her nails bit into the palm of her hand.
Never in her life had Maris been subjected to violent anger such as Victor’s. Her father had never raised a hand to either her or Allegra—though the rage in his voice threatened to bring the timbers of the roof down upon them at times. Her heart was slowing its crazy pace, and now Maris began to get over her fright and become angry.
Much of the anger was directed at herself, for though she might be impulsive and headstrong, Maris knew that she owned faults enough to make a man mad.
She was furious with herself partly because she’d chosen to enrage a man before knowing his temper and disposition…but she was mostly disappointed in herself for submitting to his actions without fighting back more violently. She’d been stunned at Victor’s anger and the humiliating form it had taken…and had not had the presence of mind to bite the hand that held her chin, or raise her knee into his pulsing groin.
The memory of that hard length pressing into her thigh caused bitterness to well up into her throat, and she gagged, swallowing it back. How could she allow him to touch her again? How ever would she submit to his husbandly demands?
Michael d’Arcy stifled a belch and wiped his hand over his mouth, his gaze scanning the hall. ’Twas empty of all but a few serfs preparing for the evening meal, and he took this moment to savor the knowledge that it would all soon be his…his and his son’s.
Merle had agreed to the betrothal contract only that morning, and would make the anticipated announcement at dinner that evening. They would sign the contract after a ceremony two days hence, and all would be his.
Taking another gulp of ale, Michael fought to keep a complacent smile from curving his face as he contemplated the power that Langumont would bring him. His own lands weren’t nearly enough to give him leverage with the king, but with Langumont, Edena and Damona behind him, even Henry must listen to him.
At that moment, a movement near the stairwell caught his eye, and Lady Allegra walked into view. As always, his body responded to the mere sight of her and he shifted languorously in Merle’s chair. Jesù, but the woman had him by the stones.
He’d never forgotten her over the years, for she’d warmed his bed and tended to his needs better than any whore, noblewoman, or even his own wife. He supposed he loved her, for even now, after eighteen years, he could not get enough of her body. Just this morrow, they’d met in the far corner of the stables as Victor and Maris saddled their mounts for a ride…and Michael had had a pleasant ride of his own.
He wasn’t able to keep the self-satisfied smirk from his lips now, but hid it behind the goblet of ale.
Since their arrival at Langumont, he’d not had any of the raging aches in his head, and that, too, was cause for satisfaction. Those aches frightened him with their intensity, and with the black memories and images that came with them. He sought ways to expel the fury that clawed inside him when those spells incapacitated him, but it was becoming more and more difficult to do so as time passed.
Michael pushed such minor nuisances away as he saw Allegra passing nearby. He wanted her again. “My lady,” he called, raising his goblet, “come you and serve me.”
It was an interesting group that was assembled at the high table that evening: an evening of utmost importance to all involved.
Lady Allegra’s face, to anyone who passed even the most cursory glance over her, was drawn and tight. Her eyes were ringed with the purple of sleepless nights, and her usually-neat coiffure was loose, leaving several straggling strands of hair about her face.
Lord Michael, seated next to Allegra, looked obsessively pleased with himself. He was particularly attentive to the woman beside him—but she seemed oblivious to everything and spent most of the meal staring into nothing with a haunted look in her eyes.
Sir Vic
tor could barely keep his burning gaze from his soon-to-be-betrothed. There was a proprietary air of complacency about him as well.
Maris was subdued. She concentrated on her meal, accepting the choice tidbits of capon and goose from Victor without comment.
When the meal was nearly finished—just before the final, sweet course was brought from the kitchens—Lord Merle stood, stepping carefully to stand behind the long bench on which he and his guests were seated. He called for attention, although gossip had spread throughout the keep and all had been waiting for the announcement of their lady’s betrothal.
“Two days hence,” he began jovially, with a full cup of ale in his hand, “we shall celebrate a most auspicious event. It has taken many years for this decision to be made, and tonight I wish to make known to you the betrothed husband of my daughter, Maris of Langumont.”
Beaming behind his silver beard, Merle helped his daughter to her feet as the room erupted in loud cheers—at the prospect of a day of celebration as much as the announcement of a wedding.
“Two days hence,” he repeated, smiling down at his daughter—who managed a tremulous curving of the lips in response, “the castellans from Cleonis, Firmain, Shawdon, Edena, and Damona, shall arrive to once again pledge their fealty to me, and to my heir, Lady Maris. At that time, they shall also witness the betrothal covenant of my daughter to Lord Victor d’Arcy of Gladwythe.”
The room erupted with joy, and Lady Allegra slid to the floor in a dead faint.
Chapter Eight
Dirick was seated comfortably in the corner of Breakston Hall that was the darkest and most unobtrusive, but close enough to the roaring fire that warmth emanated to his very toes. It was after the evening meal—if one could call the fare that had been set before him food—and there were fewer people than usual in the hall.
His mail hauberk, one that was of such quality that it would certainly be remarked upon as to how an itinerant mercenary knight had come to own it, had one taken a close look at it, lay draped over his crossed knees. He sat in rushes that were so old that he dared not contemplate what might be living among them, polishing the mail, and silently observing the lord of the hall.
There wasn’t much to observe.
Dirick had been at Breakston for nearly three days, and he’d come to the conclusion that de Savrille and his comrade Edwin Baegot were merely sloppy, stupid men who had no business calling themselves knights, let alone land-owning lords.
There was, he intended to remind his sovereign, no law against having a lack of common sense…and although Henry Plantagenet had good reason to feel slighted that Bon had not graced his presence, Dirick intended to inform the king that it was no great insult. In fact, he planned to leave on the morrow to make a full report to his king, along with the recommendation that Bon de Savrille be disseissened from Breakston. There could not be another fief in all of Henry’s kingdom that was in such disrepair.
And then, God willing, Dirick would be free to follow the lead on the other task he’d set himself to.
“My lord, Berkle has returned. He has news of great import,” proclaimed Sir Robert as he burst into the hall.
Even from his shadowy corner, Dirick could see Bon’s head snap up from his ever-present goblet of ale. “Send him in immediately,” was the reply.
Curiosity and instinct had Dirick melting into the shadows, attempting to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
Moments later, a tall, thin man dressed in a heavy black cloak was ushered into the hall. He hurried over to Bon and Edwin, and muttered something that, try though he might, Dirick could not understand. He caught the words “betrothal” and “two days hence” before Bon erupted from his huge chair with a roar.
“The bitch!” he snarled. “How dare that cock-licking whore ignore me!” He flung the tankard of ale across the chamber. It splattered all over before it hit the stone wall with a loud clang. “I will have her! I will have her if—”
Bon suddenly stilled as if he realized there were other ears in the room. He glanced over his shoulder at Dirick.
But Dirick had prepared himself for such an eventuality. He was propped in a far corner, head back against the wall, jaw relaxed…certain that even Bon could hear the snores that rose from an obviously drunken man-at-arms.
Yet Dirick watched through slitted eyes as, red-faced with rage, Bon sat back down on his stool and gestured Edwin and Berkle to pull their seats closer. And then he began to give orders in a low, urgent voice.
The day after her betrothal was announced, Lord Merle was in his receiving room, going over the accounts with Gustave, Langumont’s seneschal.
It was a large chamber on the same floor as the women’s solar, but much smaller than that woman’s chamber. It was, however, comfortably furnished, with two heavy chairs, a table for the scribe, and several stools. A large abacus graced the table, along with sheets of vellum, writing utensils, and wax candles for sealing documents. Bright tapestries hung on the walls and candles lit every corner of the room.
Merle looked up from the table where he and Gustave were perusing the account books when Maris walked in. He couldn’t help but note how very elegant and ladylike she looked in a pale blue overtunic that trailed behind her. Her eyes were wide and dark in her set face, and immediately he knew that this would not be a pleasant conversation.
“Gustave, please excuse us. I believe my daughter would like words with me.”
Ever since the evening before, when he’d stood and announced that she would marry Victor d’Arcy, Merle had been expecting this moment. In fact, he’d been surprised it had taken nearly a whole day for his daughter to approach him. After all, he’d finalized the contract and made the announcement without warning her in advance.
She’d taken it stoically the night before, he admitted to himself.
“How fares your mama this morrow?” he asked, gesturing for the person he loved the most in the world to sit on a cushioned chair next to him.
Maris’s pretty face creased in a frown. “She has been awake since last evening, but she mumbles and raves on about things I do not understand. She speaks of a ‘great sin,’ and of ‘damnation,’ and in great despair of ‘halting this mistake’. She will not explain to me. Her body is fine, ’tis her mind that worries me.”
“I do not understand this,” Merle stroked his beard as he was wont to do when confronted with such a problem. “My lady has never been as energetic and strong as you, daughter, yet she has not been prone to such fainting spells either.”
“Perhaps she is with child?” Maris suggested, then shook her head before Merle was able to react. “Nay, Papa, for you have just returned home. I do not understand it myself.”
“But that is not why you have cornered me in my chambers, is it, my sweeting?” Merle asked. “Methinks you have come to share with me your displeasure for the announcement I so rudely surprised you with last eve.” His gaze was soft, but his words were firm. “I shall tell you now, daughter, that I will brook no arguments from you in this.”
“’Twas not as much of a surprise as you may have anticipated, my lord,” she told him primly. “You did make a warning to me when Victor and his father arrived.”
“Aye, that is true. I confess, I expected more of an argument from you on this. Have you then come to terms with my decision?”
“Lord Victor made it very clear to me that I was soon to belong to him,” Maris told him without trying to hide the bitterness in her voice. “As we rode through the village, first he deplored my knowledge of English, telling me I will be a laughing stock when he takes me to court…and then he attacked me.” Tears welled in her eyes and she wiped them away with sharp movements.
Merle stilled, shocked at the presumption of the young man, and yet, at the same time, he knew how provoking his daughter could be. “He attacked you for no reason?”
Maris had the grace to drop her eyes from his steely gaze. “N-nay, Papa. I could not bear to listen to his pompous words and hold Hickor
y to a mere trot, so I let her go and we raced across the north field. We stopped at the wood, and he caught up to us there. He was not in good humor.” Her face had gone pale.
“Did he strike you? I see no bruises,” Merle asked, more disturbed at the expression of revulsion on her face than her words.
“Nay. He did not strike me.”
“’Tis a man’s right to strike his wife,” Merle reminded her, though his concern was heightened. “Although I do not believe it is seemly for a stronger one to exert his power over a weaker one in such a way.”
He sighed. “Mayhaps I have not done right by you, Maris, in keeping you not only from court and those who live there, but also in protecting you from the harshness of this world. You’ve not been raised to expect anger or violence from your hoydenish ways…yet outside of Langumont, many would be appalled at your actions, and your disregard for propriety.”
“Papa—” Maris’s eyes filled with tears.
He stopped her by drawing her into a tight embrace. “Maris, love, you must know that it is above all important to me to provide for you, and ensure that you are cared for. I know that you do not wish to marry, but you must know that I love you, above all things on this earth, and that it is only the recent reminder of my mortality that has prompted me to finalize your betrothal. I know that I will not always be here to protect you, sweeting, and that is the only reason that I would send you away to wive with any man. Lord Victor will care for you, and for Langumont.”
“But Papa.” Her voice was choked with tears. “He hurt me, Papa, and I fear what he will do when we are wed.”
Merle turned cold and he set her away from him. “Did he violate you?” Rage began to build from his core.
He well remembered the broken, bruised Joanna of Swerthmore, whom Maris had helped with her healing salves. The girl was now wed to Bernard of Derkland, but her first marriage had been one of violence and fear.
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