Allegra sat in the bed next to him. She had dismissed her maid Maella after the woman brushed out her mistress’s long hair and braided it in its customary plait. Curls framed her face as her wide gaze fastened on her husband. He sensed her tension, and not understanding the reason for it, reached to take her cold fingers.
“’Tis glad I am to be home,” he told her, bringing them to his mouth for a soft kiss. “And back in my own chamber this night, at least.”
“And I too,” she murmured, pulling her hand away as she reached over to pull the draperies about the bed.
“Maris is grown to a beautiful lady,” he said, staring at the velvet draperies as she drew them together. “’Tis well past time for her to be wed.”
Allegra froze. “My lord?”
“Aye. She will be wed within the year. ’Tis not safe for her otherwise.”
“My lord, you—but my lord, you may not find a worthy man in the year.”
“Aye, yet I have found one. One that is worthy of my Maris’s hand, worthy to have Langumont.” He scratched his belly and looked at her slim form with interest. It had been a long while since he’d bedded his wife, and though she wasn’t the most receptive woman he’d coupled with, she was his wife, and she was there.
“Who is it?” she asked, her voice thin and tight.
“’Tis the son of a dear friend.” He struggled under the blankets to twist and show her the ugly wound in his side.
Allegra gasped and covered her face at the sight of the red, swollen gash, reminding Merle yet again how fortunate he was to have a daughter so well versed in healing. Otherwise, he’d have to allow the leeches to attend to his hurts, for his wife could not. “He is a dear friend who caused this not to be my last wound.”
“But, my lord, I beg you—do not make the decision to betrothe Maris in haste,” she said, reaching to touch the grey‑speckled hair on his scarred chest. “Mayhaps there is another—”
“Nay. Lady, know you this—Maris will wed with Victor d’Arcy on Midsummer’s Eve. He is well suited for her. He will arrive in short order to sign the betrothal agreement.”
“So soon?”
“Aye. She will marry Victor. For her own well‑being.”
Allegra twisted her fingers into the heavy fur that covered their bed. “But my lord, surely there are others—”
“Woman, do you not hear me?” Merle was irritated. “She will marry Victor d’Arcy and that is the end of it.”
“Aye, my lord.” Her voice was choked and her attention was turned away, fixed on the inside of the curtains by her.
Merle thought of one other thing, “Allegra. Do you not let Maris bathe Raymond Vermille any longer. He looks at her too admiringly, and it would not be good to inflate his infatuation. Send Maella or Verna to take care of him.”
“Aye.”
Weary of waiting, and in no mood to coax, he closed his hand softly over her breast and drew her close. “Come, woman, it has been nigh too long.”
Chapter Three
Bon de Savrille opened his swollen eyes slowly. Too much wine and wenching to celebrate Christ’s Mass—and the eve of. And the day following.
His head pounded and the daylight streaming into the inn’s room was too bright. Verna the Bountiful, as he’d come to think of her, stirred next to him. He swatted her hard enough to force a squeal as she started awake. She rolled over leisurely and gave him a long, deep kiss.
His hand grasped her large breast and squeezed until she sighed a moan of pleasured pain, then he nipped at the tight peak of flesh. Verna purred as Bon’s large hand swept over her belly and down between her legs. She closed work‑roughened fingers over his erection and proceeded to torment him until he threw her flat so he could drive fiercely into her body.
Rough nails scored his back and the pain and smell of blood only served to heighten his pleasure. The pounding in his head receded and passion ruled him now. Verna was quite the best lay he’d had for years. It was good fortune that had led him to her on the threshold of Merle Lareux’s keep.
In the afterglow of their angry, violent mating, he lay staring at the low, dark ceiling. He’d watched from a distance as Merle Lareux returned to his home, seen how the people greeted him—and, especially, how his daughter, Maris, attached herself to his side. ’Twas obvious that the man adored her—and that made Bon’s scheme all the more brilliant. Allegra, his stupid sister, would not dare chance driving a wedge between her husband and daughter. Not if she wanted to continue as Lady of Langumont Keep.
Satisfaction settled over him as his thoughts wandered on to the pleasure of having the young and beautiful Maris in his bed. He’d watched her follow the old lady into the village two days earlier. She’d spent the better part of the afternoon in a tiny, filthy hut ministering to some peasants. They would be good partners—she the figurehead, the beloved chatelaine, the healer, and he, the great lord, the meter of justice.
And in bed….His cock shifted with enthusiasm as he imagined her face slack with passion, her hazel eyes smoky with pleasure.
Verna felt him stir against her, and she lazily turned to look over her shoulder at him. “My lord, you are randy this morn,” she murmured, pressing her buttocks into his erection.
He said nothing, but when his hand felt between her legs, he found her ready for him as well. Bon thrust into her from behind, catching her off guard. She writhed with pleasure, and he pounded himself inside Maris of Langumont over and over until he filled her with his seed.
“Soon, my lady,” he promised softly, knowing he must ride from the gates of Langumont Keep this day. But he would return. “Soon.”
Merle Lareux sat opposite a stranger knight, listening to his story. The man, called Dirick de Arlande, had arrived at the keep early that morning. He’d requested a private audience with him in the name of the king, and Merle had no choice but to take the time to meet with him.
He was glad he’d done so.
Merle examined the figure standing confidently before him. The knight’s black and blue standard, which he did not recognize, was a sword and shield on the backdrop of a roaring yellow flame, and the young man’s figure was imposing yet unthreatening.
Merle felt himself being studied in return by a pair of cool grey eyes, and he sensed impatience and restlessness from the man. And, he thought, something else. Sorrow or grief.
“To account for my words,” Dirick concluded his explanation, gesturing to the thick parchment packet he’d just handed to his host, “I bring a missive from his majesty.”
Merle turned the parchment over in his hands, noting the red wax seal of his sovereign. The man before him was no mere royal messenger. Breaking the seal and unfolding the creased missive, he perused the king’s words carefully.
“The king speaks highly of you, Sir Dirick,” he said, refolding the parchment. Something niggled at the back of his mind, and it took a moment before he realized what it was. And then…ah. “You are Dirick of Derkland—Harold’s son? You are using a different name.”
“Aye.”
“You must be aware that I came upon your father’s death‑scene.” Merle tightened his fingers on the parchment, remembering the depravity pervading the glen where he’d found Harold’s mutilated body. It was like nothing he’d ever seen, even on the worst battlefield. A maniac had been there…and even as Merle attempted to see if there were any survivors, he felt the weight of evil suffocating the small, still glen. His eyes burned with tears a hardened man such as he would be loathe to shed. “I’m sorry that your father is dead, and in such a manner. It was unconscionable. Whoever did such a deed is surely already in hell.”
“Thank you,” Dirick replied, his gray eyes still somber with grief.
“The king writes that you are in search your father’s murderer,” Merle continued, gesturing with the parchment. “I would be happy to be of assistance in any way I can.” His offer was sincere, although he did not have any urge to relive the experience of coming upon that bloody scene.
Dirick nodded briefly, and now there was an element of rage flickering behind the grief. “Although it must be difficult for you, my lord, I should like to know every detail of what you found.”
“Of course,” Merle replied. “And it can be no more difficult for me to recount it than for you to hear of it. Again, I am sorry…and even more so for having to tell you what I will.”
He closed his eyes briefly to pull the scene back into his memory, and then began to describe how he’d come upon Derkland. “We traveled along the border of Maitland and the king’s forest— my man-at-arms, Raymond, my squires, and several other arms‑bearing men rode with me. ’Twas late in the day, near twilight, and we were weary, seeking Maitland Keep for the night. As we rode, a shrill, horrible cry met my ears. It was the cry of a horse in pain. My mount reacted as if he himself was in danger; but once given his head, he thrashed through the brush to the glen.” Merle swallowed as he remembered the heavy stench of blood that filled his nostrils before he even saw the horror there.
As if sensing his host needed a moment to collect himself, Dirick took a drink from his wine. “There were no survivors?” he asked after he swallowed.
“Nay. We put the horse out of her misery—she had three broken legs and was tied to a tree. I’ve never seen such carnage. And such torture.” Merle’s jaw tightened. “’Twas a waste and a travesty.”
“My father?”
Merle took a deep breath, recalling the last time he’d seen Lord Harold hale and hearty. “I would it had not been anyone, but particularly your father. I had met him on two occasions, and he was a very fine man. We talked of betrothing your elder brother to my Maris, but alas, it was not to be. Maris and Bernard did not suit. However, your father did favor the match.”
He sipped to moisten his parched throat and continued his description of the scene. “Your father was dead from stab wounds, yet the bastard had slit his throat as well. Very little blood drenched the ground, so it appeared clear he was dead when his throat was cut. And then…” He rubbed his temples with a forefinger and thumb. “I saw the imprint of a horse’s hoof in the back of your father’s neck. The force appeared to have snapped his spine, and was so strong that it drove his severed neck into the ground. And,” Merle swallowed hard, for this was the worst part. “His face was pulled back to face the sky.”
“By the hand of God,” Dirick murmured.
Merle looked over and saw that his guest’s handsome face had turned dark and stony, and he wished yet again that he had never come upon such a sight. But there was more. “Your father was not alone. He was arranged opposite another man, their hands joined at the wrist.”
“By God, I will find the monster.” His vow was soft and hard. “For my father to die unshriven…in such an unspeakable manner….”
“Nay, he was not unshriven, lad,” Merle told him. “A priest was in my party and gave last rites to your father and his companions.”
“Praise God for that, at the least,” Dirick said quietly. “Is there aught else, anything that will help in my quest?”
Merle was silent for a moment. “I can think of nothing. The men were divested of any coin and weapons they might have carried and some horses were missing…yet, I believe it was no mere robbery.”
“Nay. Slaughter is more like. God help the man who did this.”
“I questioned the nearby villages for news of a roaming party of bandits, but either they were too frightened to tell me, or they saw no one. That is all I can tell you, I am sorry.”
Dirick nodded, and at that moment, there was a knock on the door of Merle’s private chamber.
“Aye, enter,” he called.
The door opened and a page entered, bearing a folded parchment. “My lord, this arrived by messenger. He was told not to await your reply.”
“Thank you,” Merle took the missive, and, glancing at the seal, smiled in satisfaction. “Ah, good.” The paper crackled as he opened it to read.
Dirick was torn between banishing the images of his father’s murder from his mind and mulling over them in hopes of finding some answer in the details, somehow. As Lord Merle closed the document, Dirick returned his attention from taking in the details of the small, wood‑furnished room. “Good news is always well come,” he said with a nod toward the letter.
“Aye, indeed. ’Tis a message from the man with whom I hope to betrothe Maris,” the man explained. “He and his father Lord d’Arcy should arrive within a se’ennight.”
“Hope to betrothe?” he repeated, wondering what it was about the woman that kept his brother, and, obviously, numerous other suitors, from laying claim to her many lands through her hand. Dirick was curious in spite of himself. Mayhap she was impossibly ugly—still, few men would turn away the chance to hold as many lands as the Lord of Langumont regardless of what the woman looked like. Or perhaps she was yet still too young. Although it wasn’t uncommon for a girl of eight or nine to be betrothed and then wed when she was fifteen or sixteen.
“Maris is rather unusual,” Merle said with an indulgent smile. “She is seventeen summers, and to date I haven’t found a suitable man for her. But ’tis nearly done—just the papers need to be signed upon Victor d’Arcy’s arrival.”
“Unusual?” Was she ugly, or deformed in some way…or, perhaps, mad? No wonder Bernard had not “suited” with the woman. His wife Joanna was lovely in both form and character, and they had been wed only a bit longer than a year.
Merle dismissed Dirick’s question about Lady Maris, saying instead, “You will join us at the high table for dinner this night?”
“Aye. Yet, my lord, I must ask that outside of this chamber, I’m merely Dirick de Arlande—lately come from France. I’m not a man of the king, but I am an itinerant knight in search of work. I have another mission for his majesty that involves the fief of Breakston. Neither of us wish for Baron de Savrille to know of my identity before I arrive there.”
Merle nodded. “The king is watching Bon de Savrille? I’ve long suspected he might have other allegiances. He was to provide men and to be at my side in Wales. He showed himself for a mere three days, kept to himself, and eventually left his men to return to Breakston. He left word that he had problems at home that called him back. Methinks the man is merely a coward, yet, I wouldn’t be surprised were he to turn up as a supporter of the Welsh uprisings.”
“With your permission, I won’t leave immediately for Breakston. I intend to be sure he’s in residence before I make the journey, and ’twould do me some good to be nearby if you remember anything else about my father.”
“Aye, of course—stay as long as you like. Shall I put some work your way to help your tale and keep your mind and body occupied?”
Dirick smiled. “Aye, thank you, my lord. I’ll sit at table with you this evening and be most pleased to make the acquaintance of your daughter.” Dirick imagined telling Bernard of his meal with the lady who had rejected his suit.
That could be most interesting, and entertaining as well.
Early that morning when she heard that a man had arrived to see her father, Maris made her escape from the keep. Wishing to put off meeting her betrothed, she grabbed two apples and a hunk of cheese and went out to the village. There were several people she should visit, including Thomas the cooper and his wife, and she wanted to gather the last of the bruisewort leaves from her garden. It was her intention to be scarce for the entire day.
And so it was nearing dusk when she finally returned to the keep. Managing to avoid her father, mother, and probable suitor, she sneaked up the huge stone steps that led to the women’s quarters above the great hall. Verna was awaiting Maris in the chamber, ready to help her dress for dinner.
“’Tis late, my lady. My lord will soon be voicing his displeasure if you miss a third evening meal,” Verna commented as she helped Maris out of her work tunic.
“Aye.” Maris’s teeth chattered as she stood in the chill room clothed only in her shift. “I couldn’t find a reason t
o miss this meal as I have the last two. Nay, I think the gold bliaut, Verna.”
Her maid dutifully pulled the gold‑colored undertunic from her lady’s wardrobe. It was shot through with gilt thread, making the tight‑fitting garment look like the ocean under a sunny sky. Verna laced it tightly up the sides, then turned back to the trunks.
“The green tunic, my lady?” she asked, pulling out an overgarment trimmed with gold thread.
“Aye.” Maris would dress her finest for a man she should detest who sat below, waiting to slather all over her hand and her lands. Despite her curiosity, knowing that Verna would certainly have heard the gossip about the man whom her father had chosen for her, Maris deigned to ask anything about him.
She would learn aught soon enough.
Verna pulled the long, loose‑fitting tunic over Maris’s head. There were no sides to the tunic, merely a hole for her head with a deep neckline to show off the golden bliaut underneath. A gold girdle wrought in the shape of loose flowers and leaves cinched the tunic at her waist.
Maris was strangely nervous at the thought of descending the stairs to dinner. She knew that her father’s mind had been made up, and the man she was to marry awaited her below. As much as she might abhor the idea of marriage, Maris had come to realize that it was for the good of Langumont that she must wed …and that it would do her little benefit to anger her father by rebuffing her intended betrothed.
There was no time to redo her hair, so Verna left it in the heavy plait that hung down her back. Flyaway wisps of rich, chestnut brown had sprung from the braid, framing her face. Verna tucked them under the sheer, gold‑shot wimple that was draped over her mistress’s head and neck. A thin-filigreed headdress held the wimple in place, and Maris was dressed for dinner.
She inched her way along the hall and toward the steps that would bring her to her father’s table for dinner. Reluctantly, she started down the stairs, enjoying her vantage point of the hall.
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